#if jaskier even lOOKS too warm

[schleiereule-94]

A Bard and a Witcher – Part 2

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier x aFab!Reader

Summary: The morning after an eventful evening spent with Geralt and Jaskier you start exactly where you stopped the night before.

Warning(s): SMUT MINORS DNI, porn w/o much plot, fingering, penetrative sex (lots of it), unprotected p in v, threesome, dirty talk (both degrading and some praise, cursing), rough sex, size kink, belly bulge, oral (m receiving), she is not talking much but enjoys being used. A very slight hint of feelings.

Author’s Note: Not beta read and not an english native, so be kind if you find mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 here

You fell asleep quickly after the two men had tucked you under the covers. Your body feeling limp and warm, you happily drifted off into dreamland. You only wake up hours later, when a sunray hits your forehead. You squint your eyes open, still feeling dozy and at first you don’t know exactly where you are. A bulky figure lays in front of you, blocking out most of the sun. Yellow eyes watch you intently. And they immediately bring back the memories from last night. You also register a body pressed into you from behind and an arm around your waist. Jaskier’s breath is deep and regular at your neck, he is still asleep. 

When the witcher realises you are awake a small smile lightens up his features. He extends his arm to put a string of hair that has fallen into your face behind your ear and rest his hand gently on your cheek. It is warm and big, extending from your jaw up to your temple. “Morning darling. How are you feeling?” he asks quietly. He is very close and even though his eyes and gestures are very soft and relaxed you are still intimidated. “I’m…, I’m great actually”. You sound sleepy and your voice is hoarse. From taking too much cock down your throat probably, your brain provides a reason. The thought makes you grin and a slight shiver of excitation runs down your body. The witcher is still looking at you. “You are very pretty” he states softly and his hand travels from your face down to your shoulders. He slowly slides down your arm, taking the blanket off your upper body and leaving behind a trace of goosebumps. You hum under his gaze and get more awake by the second. As he uncovers your bare breasts you try to cover yourself up by reflex, but he catches your hands and decisively puts them back down. “Relax”. You feel your cheeks redden a bit, but you loosen up. The witcher leans in closer, your faces just centimetres apart. You feel his breath on your skin and shudder slightly. You feel like you are laying next to a big wild wolf. He’s tranquil for now, but you know he could devour you any second. “What is your name”, he asks while interlacing his fingers in some strands of your hair. “Y/n”, you say, mouth dry and hypnotised by the yellow eyes examining your face. You feel like he sees directly into your soul. 

Geralt leans forward over your head and inhales deeply in your hair. “Mhh you smell as delicious as you taste sweet girl”. His eyes have a faint animalistic glint to them when he turns them back to you. You don’t know what to say. He looks so perfect, the sun lighting up his white hair. Mesmerized, and before you think more about it, you grab a strand and let it slide through your fingers. It feels like silk. Geralt looks amused. “I’ve never met a man like you”, you tell him without looking into his eyes. His broad chest is lightly covered in hair, adorned with his witcher medallion. You feel the urge to touch him, feel his heart beating to make sure he is real. He looks more like an angel in the morning sun, even though you are very aware that he is everything but. “They say that witchers can’t feel anything. That you don’t have emotions.” You shyly look back up into his face, looking for an answer. “Do you believe them?” he asks. You hesitate. “I don’t know.” You lean forward and rest your hand on Geralt’s hot chest feeling it rise and fall. He lets you caress him, watching your hand wander up to his collarbone and down his muscular arms. You trace a vein on his bicep. “I want to find out” you whisper. 

Geralt puts his hand under your chin, lifting you head up. For a moment you are trapped in his gaze, but you free yourself by closing the short distance and kissing his perfect lips. He tastes of wood and danger, deep and bittersweet. His teeth brush your lower lip and his tongue licks into your mouth, slowly but determined. Suddenly you don’t feel relaxed and cosy anymore, but restless and turned on. His hand comes up behind your head to hold you onto the deepening kiss. He has you breathless in no time and you moan softly into Gerald’s mouth. 

As you pull back to catch your breath, Jaskier, woken up from the stirring next to him, nuzzles his head into your neck. “Good morning sweetheart” he hums into your ear. “Can I get a good morning kiss too?”  You smile and turn your head to kiss the bards much finer lips. He tastes like wine and smoke, light and fun. You can feel his naked body pressed into your curves and his morning hard-on on your lower back. You grind your hips back into him. “Morning bard. Had sweet dreams about me?” you tease him. Jaskier chuckles. “You really want to start over where we stopped yesterday, hm”. His hand wanders from your hip where he had placed it, upwards to grab one of your boobs. “Mh so warm and cosy” he mutters. He looks over to Geralt who is still laying on his side silently watching the two of you. “Mind if I interrupt your make-out session?” Geralt makes an assertive gesture with his head. “Go ahead.” His voice has dropped, and heat is radiating from his body, you feel like bathing in it. “You look at me”, he orders you and takes your chin between two of his fingers. Naturally, you nod your head at the commanding tone.

All your senses are absorbed by Gerald’s yellow eyes and Jaskier’s talented fingers massaging and lightly twisting your sensitive nipples. You feel them hardening under his touch and start to pant, your mouth agape. The tingly feeling of arousal travels down your body and directly into your core. You feel wetness starting to pool between your legs and you wiggle your hips again into Jaskier’s cock, hot and flush against your lower back. The bard starts to move downwards, head nested at your neck, kissing and licking stripes up to your ear that make you shiver. Geralt’s eyes are fixed on the goosebumps appearing all over your skin. Jaskier pushes against your butt, and you angle your pelvis back so the head of his hot cock enters between your legs. With a light thrust Jaskier slips between your thighs that are slick from sweat and your excitation. “Mh look at you, all wet for us again” he licks at a very sensitive spot behind your ear making you shudder and your breath hitch. You close your eyes, but Gerald makes you open them again quickly. “I said, look at me” he growls, while yanking the blanket off your body completely. The cold air hits your sensitive skin and you suddenly feel very exposed. Jaskier is lazily thrusting between your thighs, holding your breasts in both hands. You can hear him panting and purring sweet praises into your ear. “Such a beautiful girl, could play with you all morning, baby.” He pinches your nipples and the pain shoots directly between your legs. You need friction, but Jaskier’s thrusts are just missing the one spot where you need it most. You clench your thighs together, which makes the bard hiss, but it is not really helping you. You look up at Gerald. “Please” you beg him. “Please what sweetheart? Do you need help?” The witcher has not moved from his sideways position from where he is studying your every move, all expressions, all your sounds. “Yes, please sir, I need to be touched”. “Where do you need to be touched, little lady?” He puts his big hot hand square on your lower belly, slowly travelling over your navel down towards the spot between your legs where the head of Jaskier’s red and swollen cock appears rhythmically. “Yes, down, please” you breath weakly. The witcher extends his long middle finger, caressing over the little curly hairs covering your vulva. He is agonizingly slow, enjoying the pained and eager expressions crossing your face. Finally, he enters between your folds, rubbing lightly over your most sensitive spot. “Here? Do you need to be touched here?” “Yes, ah yes sir” you moan between your teeth. Geralt looks deeply into your eyes as he starts drawing little circles on your clit. Your breath hitches, your chest rising and falling fast. The combination of Jaskier’s hot dick pulsating between your legs, fingers playing with your nipples and Gerald’s warm hand on your lower belly, massaging just the right spot between your clenched thighs, all under his watchful gaze, turns you on immensely. You start bucking your hips into Gerald’s hand, needing more friction, more pressure. 

“Let me have her”, Jaskier pants and grabs at your hipbone, dragging your ass backwards and changing the angle between your bodies. And with one quick thrust he is in you. The feeling of fullness is so sudden that you cry out loud. The bard pulls out almost completely just to slam back into you. Your moans mix with the slapping sound of naked bodies meeting with force. Geralt’s hand is still there on your clit, pressing down and drawing ever faster circles. The pressure on your bladder makes you feel like peeing. “I am, I am going to come” you announce just moments before your belly convulses and you clench your eyes close, seeing stars. You hear Jaskier gasp as he fucks you through your orgasm, hitting this sweet spot deep inside you with perfect accuracy. You moan and let the fire rip though you.

Two fingers on your jaw bring you back down to earth. Jaskier’s hand digs into your hips and your body is shaken every time he enters your soaked pussy. Gerald is staring at you, his own arousal now clearly visible in his face, lips tight and pupils blown. “Open your mouth” he commands and you follow obediently. With his middle finger he spreads your own juices on your lower lip before entering your mouth. “Now suck”. You do as your told, without taking your eyes away from his, seeing his gaze darken as you lick around his fingertip.

Your body is still rocked back and forth as Jaskier is chasing his own release. “Hold her still” he asks of his friend. Gerald withdraws his finger from your mouth with a plop to grip your hips in a stronghold as his friend starts pounding for good. You close your eyes and just give yourself to the feeling of being opened up again and again until you hear Jaskier start to breath irregularly and feel him twitch inside you. You try to grind your hips deeper into him, but Gerald’s grip on you makes any movement impossible. Every single one of his fingers will leave a bruise in your flesh. He is staring at your trembling breasts with heat in his eyes. Jaskier enters you one, two, three more times before he stalls, pelvis flush with your ass, and with a guttural grunt you feel his balls empty themselves. It feels so dirty and arousing at the same time, you moan loudly. After a few moments Jaskier collapses next to you, his now half-hard dick slipping out of you with an almost obscene squelching sound. You hiss from the loss as semen runs down your thigh. 

You are aware how Geralt is looking at you, his gaze burning your skin. “You like this, hm, getting fucked by this bard? Getting pounded properly?” “Yes”, you mutter, “like to be fucked by good dick.” You grin at him. “I can take some more.” “Is that right? You haven’t had enough yet?” In an instant Geralt is on top of you, weighing you down heavily and taking the air out of your lungs. You try to touch his bare chest but he pins both your hands down at your sides before licking a strip from your throat up to your ear. You can feel his huge bulge and try to buck your hips up into him. Fuck, you want him so badly. Geralt moves his mouth down to your breasts and takes one of your pesky nipples between his teeth. You cry out, the sensation almost too much. The witcher brings up a knee between your legs. His thigh presses into your mound as he grinds into you. The juices coming out of you soak through his thin clothing. “Dirty little whore hasn’t even dried up and already wants to fuck again” Geralt mutters, sending shivers down your spine. He sits up onto his knees and looks over you. The wild wolf is ready to devour you now. 

Geralt kneels between your legs, clearly enjoying the view of you squirming under him. With one of his long fingers he catches a stream of Jaskiers semen slowly dripping out of your cunt. He looks at it closely, then holds it in front of your face. “Taste”. You stick out your tongue to lick the glistening white from his finger. It tastes salty and tangy. “Good girl” the witcher growls and finally moves to undo his pants. As he shoves them down his thighs his erect member springs free, big and prodding. Precum has gathered on the tip and long veins run along it. You want to trace them with your tongue. Your mouth feels dry and your stomach flutters from anticipation. Geralt lowers himself down and very slowly drags his member through your wet folds. “Mh please, Geralt” you try to entice him. But he just lubes up his dick and sits up again. He starts pumping himself lazily with one hand while eyeing you from above. You are so turned on, your skin feels like it is set on fire and it takes all your resolve to not grab at the witcher to try to pull him down towards him.

Jaskier, who had been recovering on the other side of the bed has turned his attention to the action again. “Get behind her” the witcher says over your head in his direction. A naked Jaskier climbs behind you, his hair still moist from sweat, with a grin on his face. Your head comes to rest on his chest as he sits against the bedframe. The bard immediately takes both of your breasts into his hands. Grabbing from below he brings them up to squeeze them together. “Such fantastic tits, m’lady” he whispers into your ear and kisses your neck. You cannot respond as your mind is caught up in watching Gerlat slowly fucking into his big hand while his dick somehow grows even larger and redder. Your pussy clenches in anticipation. “Please” you try your best puppy eyes on him, “I need to feel you inside. Need to be stretched and used. I need you to use me”. Your begging seems strike a cord in the witcher. Gerald leaps down onto both of you, grips your ankles and puts them up onto his shoulders, your lower back now elevated and just Jaskier holding you in place. Geralt’s pulsating member prods at your entrance. “I will show you what a perfect toy you are, whore” the witcher growls and finally, finally enters you. He still doesn’t slam, but it’s forcible enough for you to feel an almost painful stretch. Your mind goes blank, and you only realize that you have been crying out as you gasp for air. 

You are pressed into the bards torso as Geralt truly starts pounding into you. You hear him grunting and his face has lost any semblance of being human. He more than ever looks like a wild, furious animal. He grabs one of your wrists and pushes your palm onto your lower belly. “Do you feel me filling you up? Hmm, feel how I fill you all the way to your gut” “Yes sir, I can feel you” you answer weakly. Geralt grunts and presses your hand down hard onto where your belly bulges as he slides in and out of you. You wine from the extra stimulation, your head is spinning ever faster. You feel Jaskier’s hardening cock against your backside while the witcher is over you fucking the air out of your lungs. Jaskier snakes his hand down your body and finds your clit. Your whines become ever louder as the searing heat starts building in you. You come within seconds, crying out loudly. Your stomach visibly clenches, your whole body shakes as the fire spreads from your lower belly into every corner of your being. You feel your pussy flooding and it washing over Geralts cock and drip down over your ass. Sweat makes your body glide against the one below you as you are rocked up and down by Geralts thrusts. Jaskier is desperately rutting up into you while holding you tight against his frame. You see stars and your ears are ringing when you feel first Jaskier and then Geralt finding their releases. Hot cum shoots both into and onto you. Jaskier moans into your ear and you can feel Gerald’s cock twitching inside you as he empties himself into you. The aftershock spasms in your lower belly make you moan his name for what feels like an eternity. 

Your back is wet and sticky, but you couldn’t care less. Jaskier holds you in a tight but soft embrace while your breath and heart rate are coming down to normal. Geralt has collapsed forward above you, but is holding himself up on his arms, head down and white hair spreading around your midsection. His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. Nobody moves, only heavy breathing can be heard for a while. You never want to move again.

Geralt lifts his head to look into your eyes asking a silent question. You smile weakly back at him. Yes, you are ok. In fact you are great. Just perfect. Afterglow spasms of the hardest orgasm of your life are still running through your body. You clench down onto Geralt and he glides out of you. You hiss at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Geralt cups your face and leans forward to kiss your forehead. “Well done little lady”. You heart and body are warm and a big wide, drunken smile is plastered over your face. 

Jaskier stirs below you and you slide down his right side. “I guess these bedsheets are ruined anyway” the bard states as he starts to dry his chest and belly off all the fluids that made their way between your bodies using the blanket. It takes another 5min of you colleting yourself before you sit up onto the bedside. A half-clothed Geralt helps you up on shaky legs to walk you to the fire where the men had put a pot of water to heat. They help you clean yourself with a hot towel. You smile at them. It is nice being cared for so gently. Geralt caresses your hair and cheeks. His sweet gesture at odds with the intimidating armour and sword he is putting on. “Thank you” he says finally after he made sure you were string enough to stand on your own again. “We have to leave now, heading up north. But we might come back in a few weeks.” You grasp his strong arm. “I will make sure to get word of your arrival” you say leaning your head into Geralt’s big palm. Jaskier, hugs you from behind. “We wouldn’t want to miss you!” He places a big hearty kiss on your cheek. “I might compose a song about you!” With this he lifts up the packed bags and makes his way downstairs to saddle the horses. 

Geralt still kneels before you. His thumb caresses over your lips as he gets up. He places a kiss on your hair. As he turns around to leave you hold his arm back. “You know, I think they are wrong.” Geralt turns his head with a questioning face. “I think witchers do have feelings. At least one does.” Geralt nods slowly, turns around and leaves with what you think might be a little smile.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x jaskier #geralt x jaskier x reader #jaskier x reader #the witcher #geralt the witcher #geralt x you #the witcher smut #jaskier the witcher #henry cavil x reader #netflix the witcher #geraskier #geralt #geralt x jaskier x you #henry cavill #henry cavill smut

[inexplicifics]

🧡 geraskier for the kiss game 🥰

When he’s still coming down from his potions, everything is too loud, too bright, too scratchy, too bitter. Usually, Geralt pushes through that - he’s been trained to do so, as every witcher is - and sometimes the routine of cleaning his armor and swords, making sure his trophy is bundled up in oilcloth, and bandaging any injuries he may have taken - in whatever order seems best at the time - is enough that he can almost forget that the light is like daggers in his brain and his tunic feels like it weighs as much as full plate.

Or rather, that is what Geralt used to do, before Jaskier.

These days, when he gets back to camp, still black-eyed and corpse-pale, stained with the ichor of his kills, Jaskier is waiting. There’s a bucket of water beside the fire so Geralt doesn’t need to use an Igni to warm it, and clean cloths stacked next to it, and a White Honey in case even Geralt’s twice-Grassed strength is not enough to bear the potions he has had to take.

And Jaskier is waiting, setting his lute down as soon as he sees Geralt approaching and bouncing to his feet to help Geralt out of his armor, murmuring under his breath at the mess and the recalcitrant buckles but never raising his voice enough for it to hurt Geralt’s too-sensitive ears. He lets Geralt clean his armor, because Geralt is particular about it, but Jaskier has learned to stitch up a wound and to apply poultices, and it’s his clever hands that wipe the ichor and blood from Geralt’s skin with soft cloths soaked in warm water, gently enough that it doesn’t scratch at all.

And when everything has been tended, Jaskier coaxes Geralt down onto their shared bedroll, where he can rest his head on Jaskier’s chest and listen to the bard’s heartbeat and the low murmuring of Jaskier’s constant chatter - still kept almost too quiet for any but witcher ears to hear - while Jaskier strokes his hair in long, gentle passes.

The fire is still too bright, but Geralt can look away from it. Speech would still be too loud, but Geralt can focus on the steady quick beat of Jaskier’s heart, and tune out everything else. Cloth would still be too rough, but Jaskier’s skin is soft, his surprisingly abundant hair also astonishingly fluffy. Geralt has gotten into the habit of rubbing his fingers over it, just gently, and focusing on that tiny tickling sensation instead of anything else.

He loses time, like that. He has no idea how long it takes him to purge the potions from his system; how long until his eyes are yellow once again, his skin a slightly less unnatural white. But however long it takes, Jaskier is there holding him, ever-moving hands steady on Geralt’s hair and shoulders, ever-babbling tongue made softer for Geralt’s sake.

Is it any wonder, then, that when Geralt feels like the world is bearable again, the first thing that he does is push himself up just far enough to kiss those singing lips?

(Or here on AO3!)

#questions answered #ask meme #heart asks #geraskier #snippet

[samstree]

Jaskier hates sweet things, and Geralt loves them. It’s why they work well together.

“It’s why we work well together!” Jaskier exclaims, pushing his dessert plate towards Geralt. He’s only taken one spoonful of the cherry pie, made a face and declared it too sweet for his taste. “I hate sweets, and you love them—don’t try to deny me, dear. I’ve seen the way you look at the pastry stands when no one is watching.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s cherry pie is long gone, and his mouth waters at the sight of Jaskier’s piece. “It’s yours. You paid for it.”

“Actually, my performance paid for both of our dinners.” Jaskier winks. “But as you can see, it’s become a burden for me, as I cannot stand anything with so much as a layer of frosting.”

Geralt is not, and that is more than enough. “I don’t need a second dessert, Jask,” he says. “Witchers can live on very little food.”

“But you’d be doing me a favor.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes. “Please? My gorgeous witcher, my brave champion, my most generous lover—”

“Fine,” Geralt interrupts, taking up his spoon. “Don’t finish the thought.”

Jaskier giggles, sitting back to watch Geralt eat. “It’s a saying even. They say a couple only works if one likes the food the other hates. This way, if it comes up on the dinner table, one can finish it for the other.”

It’s a cheeky saying, one that is definitely just been invented by Jaskier himself.

The pie is good though. The cherries add a hint of tartness to the cream frosting. Geralt chews slowly, letting the sweetness pop in his mouth. He closes his eyes with the last bite, and only opens them slowly afterward.

“Is it good?”

Jaskier watches Geralt with a quiet smile, his hand reaching forward on the table, his palm facing up. Geralt takes it and squeezes gently.

“It’s…sweet,” he answers, belly full and content.

It seems to satisfy Jaskier enough to press a tiny kiss on Geralt’s scarred knuckles.

“See?” Jaskier preens. “We work well together.”

☆ 

For some reason, Jaskier keeps buying sweets for himself.

The two lemon cakes are freshly baked, wrapped in paper and drizzled with honey, the warm aroma wafting through the busy marketplace. It reminds Geralt of a snowy day at Kaer Morhen, with the fireplace burning bright.

Jaskier holds them to his nose and takes a sniff, only to shove them into Geralt’s hands.

“Too sweet,” Jaskier says, pouting. “Finish them for me?”

Geralt sighs. “You can just not buy them.”

“Thought I wanted one, and now I don’t.” Jaskier shrugs. “Anyway, it’s good you’re here, so you can take care of them for me, dear. Meet me later?”

With that, Jaskier disappears into the crowd, leaving Geralt with the two cakes. They do look good, so he takes a bite, and then another.

He wouldn’t normally spend coin on luxuries such as fancy cakes, and whatever food he does purchase would be rationed carefully. Being on the road with a human calls for caution, as Jaskier is not nearly as sturdy as a witcher when it comes to on-and-off meals. Geralt always saves extra for him.

Which makes sweets the only indulgence he has. It’s okay. Jaskier hates sweet things so much he’d never eat them anyway.

The honey is sticky on Geralt’s fingers. He makes sure to lick the last of it clean.

☆   

Lettenhove bustles with the laughter of children. Every year they come back, there seem to be a dozen more of them. The extended family welcomes them with warm hugs, with Jaskier’s parents giving the tightest one.

Jaskier looks exhausted from traveling, but as soon as his nieces and nephews hug him on the leg, he seems to melt into a puddle all over again. The children drag him off to play games in the courtyard, and he can never say no to that.

Geralt can only shake his head and head straight to the kitchen. Jaskier skipped lunch to get here sooner, and the kids will soon run him ragged, so naturally, Geralt needs to fetch him something solid for later.

He encounters more cousins and uncles on the way, who all pat him on the back warmly. It’s still unreal to think the Pankratzes have just accepted Geralt as a member of the family. Even years later, it still takes a moment to wrap his head around the fact.

The smell of freshly baked biscuits comes from the kitchen, rich with caramel and butter.

“Oh, Geralt!” Mira, Jaskier’s older sister exclaims when she finds him in the doorway, her eyes as blue as Jaskier’s, full of a big smile. “How was your travel? Good weather, I hope?”

“Good,” Geralt nods. “The road was easy. Jaskier was missing you, so we didn’t rest today.”

“Well, we missed him too, and you, of course.” Mira always manages to soften Geralt, putting him at ease. “You both must be so hungry. All that witchering must be hard, you look much thinner, Geralt. I’m sure it’s the same with Julian. It’s good timing! The biscuits are just done. I made his favorite, made it extra sweet with caramel just for our Julian.”

Geralt blinks, confused. “For who?”

“Who else has the biggest sweet tooth in Lettenhove? Of course it’s my baby brother, your Jaskier.” Mira turns to put the biscuits into a plate, amused by fond memories. “He used to sneak into the kitchen at night just for the candied fruits we keep for the holidays. It’s embarrassing how long he kept it up, even right before we sent him off to university.”

In the distance, Geralt can hear Jaskier’s voice, playing with the children and laughing loudly.

Geralt takes the plate from Mira, and stares for a moment.

☆  

The biscuits, as it turns out, are decimated instantly by the children.

Only crumbs are left on the plate by the time Jaskier walks up behind the kids, his cheeks flushed and hair a mess.

“How’s the family treating you, dear?” Jaskier asks, equal parts amused and sympathetic. “Not overwhelmed by them? I have to apologize if you are. The Pankcratzes are an overwhelming people. It just can’t be helped, as you see.” He spread his arms dramatically, gesturing to the kids running around behind him, with biscuit crumbs on their chins. “But we do try to overwhelm you with love!”

“Yes,” Geralt muses quietly, a familiar mushy feeling spreading through his chest. “That you do, Jaskier.”

Geralt isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but it must be worrying enough. Jaskier steps closer with a serious face.

“What is it?” A frown creeps up on Jaskier’s brow. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Geralt holds the empty plate tightly, shaking his head. “Mira knew this would happen and saved a few biscuits in the kitchen. They are made extra sweet, with caramel.”

Something flickers in Jaskier’s eyes. It’s subtle, barely there, a flash of excitement that appears out of instinct but is suppressed quickly.

It’s something Geralt should have seen long ago.

Jaskier, he realizes, is a sweet tooth.

Has been this whole time.

“It sounds lovely.” Jaskier nudges Geralt on the elbow. “Do you want to go and try it? Go then! Mira must be dying to feed you after seeing you’ve gotten thin, and—oh, Geralt, what are you doing?”

Within a heartbeat, Geralt has taken Jaskier into his arm, kissing him passionately. It’s awkward with him still holding the plate, and Jaskier’s youngest niece, Issy, makes a disgusted noise, but Geralt can’t find it in his heart to care.

He kisses Jaskier until the bard has to pull away with a flustered smile, his hands holding onto Geralt’s shoulder for balance. Jaskier’s cheeks have gone wonderfully red, his eyes shining with love.

“What, um,” Jaskier clears his throat. “What was that for? Not that I’d ever complain.”

Geralt stares into those cornflower blue eyes he’s known for years, and finds a new way to fall in love all over again. “I got a little…” he answers, exhaling deeply, “overwhelmed.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “In a good way?”

“Very.” Geralt kisses Jaskier’s nose one last time before letting him go. “Do you want to come with me? Try Mira’s biscuits. Just this once. Maybe you’ll like it.”

“But I don’t—”

“Please?” Geralt looks at Jaskier pleadingly. He knows Jaskier won’t say no to that look. “For me?”

Jaskier beams, his grin spreading impossibly wide, looking stupidly happy.

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees chirpily, taking Geralt’s arm. “You know I’d do anything for you, but you are being unreasonably amiable today. What’s gotten into you?”

Geralt lets Jaskier wraps himself around his side as they return to the kitchen, the rich scent of caramel filling his lungs once again. It seeps into his core, indistinguishable from the ever-growing affection he feels for Jaskier.

“Just,” Geralt says finally, voice hushed like it’s a secret, “I find you sweet, is all. The sweetest.”

Luckily, Geralt loves sweet things.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #fluff #established relationship #my spirit is hardened and yet my fic is soft #it's a problem really

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Modern au - Vesemir royally screws up by driving Aiden away.

“Aiden.”

“I’m sorry Lambert. Please believe me I am so fucking sorry, but I can’t keep on like this and I’m not going to be the boyfriend who makes you choose between me or your family.”

“So your making the choice for me. Real fucking nice.”

Aiden gave him a sad, teary smile as he threw his duffel bag into the trunk of his beat up, third hand car, “Your family’s everything to you, Pup. Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t regret cutting ties with any of them.”

“You’re family too!”

“It’s been made pretty clear time and again that I’m not and never will be as far as certain people are concerned. I love you Lambert, but there’s only so many times I can take being made to feel like some lowlife criminal every time I interact with your dad.”

Lambert felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth when he realised that he couldn’t even argue that. As he had when he and Lambert had first started dating, Aiden had been upfront about the shit he’d been involved with when he was younger and new to trying to fend for himself after ageing out of the system when the conversation at their first meeting had turned towards questions about his family and childhood. Ever since, Vesemir had taken every opportunity to weaponise it against the younger man - despite the fact that Aiden’s life could very well have been that of any of his own sons had fate played out differently. Lambert, Geralt and Eskel had been some of the lucky ones in the Care Kid Lottery. Aiden, not so much.

Every time, Lambert had asked him to give Vesemir another chance, promising it would be different this time (it had taken him awhile to warm up to Jaskier too, and he was a god damn ray of sunshine) and every time, Vesemir had made him a liar.

Aiden moved his arms awkwardly, looking like he was trying to decide if going in for a hug would be a wise idea until a couple of tears finally fell. He wiped them away hastily as he stepped back, opening the driver’s side door, “Goodbye, Lambert. I wish you every happiness.”

Lambert could only stand and stare as his every happiness drove away down the dirt track.

He heard the front door creak open followed by multiple pairs of footsteps, because of course they couldn’t even let him get his heart stomped on in private – they’d probably all had their noses pressed to the kitchen window. Jaskier was stood shoulder to shoulder with Geralt, looking like he was making a huge effort not to start crying himself while his brother was grim faced. Eskel strode towards him, giving him the same heartbroken look as he had when Lambert was newly seven and had casually informed them he’d never gotten birthday presents before.

“Shit, Lambert.”

He went to pull him into a hug which Lambert immediately ducked away from, “Don’t Esk. Just...fucking don’t .” He pleaded, voice breaking as he stomped back towards the house, jabbing a finger at Vesemir with a snarl as he did so. The old man had yet to react to anything that had just transpired, despite being the cause.

“I am never going to forgive you for this.”

Vesemir sat hunched over in his customary chair by the fireside, elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the tumbler of vodka he’d been nursing as his little granddaughter, Ciri, busied herself making popcorn garlands at the table. It had been over a month and he’d yet to hear anything directly from Lambert no matter how many times he tried to call or how many texts he sent, with any necessary replies being sent to him through either one of his brothers or Jaskier.

He turned when he heard someone clearing their throat pointedly.

Speak of the devil.

Jaskier stood slightly awkwardly, eyes darting between the man and the girl, “Ciri, why don’t you go see how your uncle and dad are doing untangling those lights?” It was flimsy at best but Ciri didn’t seem to notice as she darted off, too caught up in the excitement of Christmas preparations.

Vesemir held the bottle out to Jaskier in a silent offering as he took the chair opposite, “He said he’ll come, but only for Ciri.”

Vesemir sighed through his nose. That was about what he’d expected, “How is he?”

Jaskier bit his lip, “No change really. He still misses him and I...”

Vesemir raised a bushy eyebrow expectantly as he waited for Jaskier to carry on.

“I don’t think that’s going to stop any time soon.”

Vesemir shook his head, “Why does that boy have to be so stubborn? I tried my damn hardest to stop them all from heading down that path and then he goes and throws himself head first.”

“Sir?”

Vesemir downed the rest of his drink, “Do you know how many people see those in the system as easy targets for criminal activity? They purposefully prey on kids who are lonely, desperate for acceptance.”

“Kids like Aiden?”

Vesemir looked up sharply, Jaskier looked for all the world like he hadn’t intended for that to slip out. He took a deep breath before continuing, “With respect, while I think it’s incredibly sweet you’re still looking out for them, Lambert’s a grown man now and Aiden’s had no issues with the law for the last decade or so.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s good enough for my son!”

Jaskier held up a finger as he started tapping away on his phone, “I remember you thinking the same about me at one point.”

“And what made me change my mind about you?”

“I think the fact that I wasn’t Yennefer turned things in my favour in the end. I don’t know if it’ll change anything but, perhaps you should look at this. Please.”

Lambert took the proffered phone. It was a candid picture of Aiden and Lambert, sometime late in the summer from the looks of it. They were stood in each others arms, smiling softly and looking absolutely besotted, their heads so close together their foreheads were touching and seemingly oblivious to everything else happening around them. Was this how they’d been when he wasn’t around?Vesemir felt his chest clench as he recognised the look in the picture, it was one that had passed between himself and Luka too many times to count before...

Good God, what had he done?

Vesemir knocked smartly on the black painted door for the third time. The apartment building was nicer than he’d expected and he instantly felt shame at his assumption that Aiden would be living in some rat infested hovel. He heard the click of a lock and inwardly winced at the sight that greeted him. Aiden eyes were sunken and puffy, as if he’d been crying himself to sleep before falling victim to insomnia, his clothes were dishevelled and Vesemir found himself wondering when the last time was he’d eaten a proper meal. Nevertheless, he drew his shoulders back and met Vesemir’s eye, even if he did have a death grip on the door knob.

“Jaskier gave me your address. Can we please talk?”

Christmas Eve came around far too quickly as far as Lambert was concerned. He couldn’t deny he was looking forward to seeing his niece and brothers but the thought of long periods of time with Vesemir right now was already mentally exhausting him. He grit his teeth as he threw the last of his things into his overnight bag, it would be fine. It was just two days, and if he needed a distraction God knew Geralt wouldn’t be able to assemble and find correct batteries for all of Ciri’s new toys single handed. It was just two days. He could do this.

Lambert sent up a prayer of thanks that Vesemir wasn’t there when he arrived in the late afternoon, Geralt informing him that he’d just gone out to grab some last minute things and had instructed them to make a start on preparing dinner.

Dark had well and truly fallen, the food was almost ready and Geralt was half threatening Ciri, Jaskier and Eskel with coal in their stockings if they sang ‘grandma got run over by a reindeer ‘ one more time (Lambert might have been partly responsible for that and had zero regrets) when the tell tale beams of car headlights flashed through the kitchen window followed by Vesemir elbowing his way through the door, a neatly wrapped present under each arm.

“Seriously dad?” Geralt sighed, “Ciri’s going to be getting enough from Santa tomorrow without you adding to it.”

“Why should Santa get to spoil my granddaughter? Lambert, there’s one more back in the car. Run and grab it please.”

Lambert rolled his eyes but conceded at Geralt’s ‘Don’t start’ look.

“Happy Christmas, Pup.”

The smallest breath of wind could’ve knocked him over at that moment. Aiden was leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed as he smiled shakily at Lambert, “Vesemir came to see me and we talked. Really talked. He apologised and promised I’m welcome here from now on. If you want me here, that is.”

Lambert all but ran to him before sweeping him up in his arms and into a desperate kiss which Aiden eagerly returned, clinging to him.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you too, you have no idea how happy I am right now. Mainly because Vesemir was my ride so, kinda would have made for a very awkward Christmas if you’d said no.”

Lambert yanked Aiden’s hood down over his eyes with a laugh, “Dork.”

Jaskier had let out a whoop of delight when Lambert led Aiden into the house, followed by Lambert and Vesemir sharing a brief bear hug in silent apology and the start of forgiveness and when they weren’t eating, Aiden’s hand was firmly wrapped in his.It was perfect.

“Aiden?” Ciri piped up from opposite him, all wide eyed innocence, “Do you know grandma got run over by a reindeer?”

Aiden quickly took in the smothered laugh from Eskel, Geralt’s eyes turned heavenward, and flashed Lambert that impish grin he loved so much, “You know Ciri, I’m not sure I do. Remind me, how does it go?”

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #aiden/lambert #aiden x lambert #lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert x aiden #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

23 for any combination of geraskefer please? 💖

23. Cold feet warming each other up under the blanket

Geralt is nearly back to camp, holding a werewolf’s severed head in each hand, when Jaskier’s shriek cuts through the stillness of the night. Dropping the heads to the ground, Geralt starts to draw his sword, only pausing when Jaskier shrieks again and he notices that the sound is entirely lacking in fear.

“How are your feet so fucking cold?” the bard whines. “Ye gods, is your icy heart spreading to other parts of your body now?”

There’s only one person who brings out such dramatics in Jaskier. Jaskier was alone at camp when Geralt left to hunt the werewolves, but Yennefer must have portaled in to join him at some point. Too pleased to be truly annoyed by the shrieking—though he can't count how many times he's told Jaskier not to start screaming unless there's actual danger—Geralt retrieves the dropped heads.

“Yes, that’s exactly it.” Yennefer’s voice is quieter, but still audible to Geralt’s witcher hearing. “It has nothing to do with the fact that it’s almost winter.”

“Stop pressing them against me!”

“You’re warm.”

“Yes, and I’d like to stay that way, thank you. Is this your plan to finally do me in? Will Geralt return to find me blue-lipped and silent, frozen to a block of ice?”

“He should be so lucky.”

With a snort, Geralt resumes his trudge towards camp.

“I offer you the warmth of my body,” Jaskier says with the gravity of Lebioda facing his final martyrdom. “And in return, I’m treated like… ack, Yennefer, are you well? I don’t think feet are supposed to get that cold.”

“And I don’t think anyone is supposed to get so annoying, and yet here you are.”

“It’s an art that I take—Yennefer, your hands are worse! How are your hands worse? What sorcery is this?”

“I don’t know what you’re whining about.” Yennefer sounds smug. “I’m comfortable.”

“Dreadful, horrible, blood-sucking…”

Geralt clears the trees and finds the two of them curled together on Geralt and Jaskier’s pushed-together bedrolls, cocooned in enough blankets to keep a small village warm, even though the night is mild for being past Saovine. Despite his protests, Jaskier has Yennefer wrapped up in his arms, doing little to hide how pleased he is. From the musky scent in the air, they’ve been busy while Geralt was gone.

“Geralt!” Jaskier looks up at Geralt with beseeching eyes. “Oh, thank the gods, my savior. Yennefer is freezing me to death with her horrid paws. I’m seconds from expiring of hypothermia.”

“Hm. From the way you were shrieking, I thought another werewolf got you.”

“At least werewolves are warm and fuzzy.”

“You’re fuzzy enough for both of us, bardling,” Yennefer grumbles.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

Geralt pats Roach’s neck—she, at least, is being quiet and well-behaved—and starts shucking off his armor. “Now you know how I feel all the times you decide to use me to warm your hands and feet, bard.”

Jaskier gasps. “But you have witcher body heat! Surely, you aren’t selfish enough to keep it to yourself.”

“I’ve been letting you use my body heat for twenty years, Jaskier. Doesn’t mean having your cold fucking feet against my legs feels good.”

Yennefer guffaws. “So you have cold feet and you snore, bardling. What a prize you are.”

“I do not snore!”

“You do,” Geralt and Yennefer say at the same time. To Yennefer, Geralt adds, “First time I shared a bedroll with him, I thought a grave hag had slipped into bed with me during the night when I woke up and felt his feet against my shins.”

“I can see how you could make that mistake,” she says.

Jaskier yowls in protest, wiggling away from her the best he can while wrapped from chin to toes in blankets. “Unhand me, you cold-hearted harpy! You can’t slander me and then use my body to warm the icy depths of your soul, you fiend.”

Shaking his head, Geralt slides onto the bedroll behind Jaskier, slipping under the blankets and putting his arm around Jaskier and Yennefer’s waists, pulling Jaskier flush against him. Jaskier gives a token grumble of protest, then melts back into him.

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes. “Geralt, your witcher warmth saves the day again. Now I may not freeze to death during the night.”

“I’m going to portal you to an iceberg somewhere,” Yennefer says.

“I don’t think I’d notice the difference.”

“You both have fucking cold feet,” Geralt says. “Now go to sleep.”

He’s unsurprised to find four icy feet pressed against his shins and thighs.

“Hers are colder, right, Geralt?” Jaskier asks in a stage whisper.

“Maybe,” Geralt grumbles. “But she doesn’t snore.”

He drifts off to sleep to the familiar sound of Yennefer laughing while their bard squawks in outrage.

Twenty-four touches prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #geraskefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

[dftea]

Like a friend, like a parent, like a blessing

Ciri & Jaskier, hurt/comfort (geraskier/yennskier/OT3 vibes)

As she picks her way through the rubble, the first person Ciri finds is Jaskier.

His bright blue doublet is covered in dark purple splotches, his legs pinned beneath a fallen wooden beam.

Except the purple is blood, isn't it? Blood that should stay within his fragile human body.

Ciri crashes to her knees beside Jaskier's head, and he looks up at her with unfocused eyes.

"Geralt?"

She shakes her head - she hasn't seen him, not since he told her to get out of the way, to lie low. She hasn't seen Yennefer either, can barely see anything through the cloud of dust and debris.

"He'll be here soon," she says, hoping she isn't lying to him, cursing the tremble in her voice.

"Princess," he says fondly, smiling at her with bloody teeth. "I'm glad it's you."

He lifts a hand to caress her cheek, but it is far too weak, leaving a warm and sticky trail on her skin.

"No, no, no - you're going to be fine." She tries to convince herself, convince him, but it's a poor show.

"Tell your father…your mother…"

"Tell them yourself," she says, fiercely, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it with both of her own.

"I love you all very much," he says, so very fond, so very faint.

Which is when Yennefer appears like vengeance personified, swooping in to set one hand on Jaskier's hand and the other on his chest.

"No fucking goodbyes, bard," she says, stern and terrible. (Maybe a little bit terrified, Ciri thinks, but trying her best to hide it).

Jaskier turns to her with a sigh of relief. "Well, thank fuck for that, witch - I am too pretty to die."

"Ciri, Yen!"

Another sigh from Jaskier, because his White Wolf is alive and well enough to shout. Ciri thinks he isn't even hoping for Geralt's aid in his rescue - just knowing he's survived is enough for him.

It is terrifying how deeply Jaskier loves them. How can they bear to carry such responsibility?

Geralt pushes his way through a teetering pile of rubble - and stops dead. But it is only a moment of despair, a fleeting expression of hopelessness, before he's at Jaskier's side.

His hand sweeps back the bard's blood-matted hair, his fingers brushing Yennefer's, his other hand warm on Ciri's shoulder.

"I told you to wait outside," he growls, and Ciri isn't sure if that reprimand is meant for her or Jaskier.

"You know me," Jaskier says, but it's breathless now, faded. He's lost too much blood.

Geralt's eyes meet Yennefer's above Jaskier's head. Wordlessly, he moves to grab hold of the beam across Jaskier's legs and hefts it up and away.

A choked off scream - and then Jaskier's eyes are closed, his body still in the ever-widening pool of blood.

But lilac-scented chaos is pouring through him, knitting him back together as the very ground beneath Yennefer cracks and crumbles as she draws from it.

She pulls back her hands. "I have done all I can," she says, but her look of grim satisfaction says it is enough.

Jaskier will live. He is, after all, too pretty to die. And Ciri has to tell him that she loves him too: like a friend, like a parent, like a blessing. 

#the witcher #the witcher fic #ciri #jaskier #geraskier #yennskier #geraskefer #hurt/comfort #dftea writes

[julek]

Jaskier turns in his bedroll again.

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

“Jask?”

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

The single golden eye looks considering, now.

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

Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.

(It smells like horse).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.8

this turned out longer than expected so most of it, the fanart and the vote are under the read more so people don't have to scroll past this for 5min

✨🌿🌼✨

It was good that Cat Witchers were already considered a bunch of madmen, otherwise Aiden would've started to worry for his sanity as he watched Jaskier's blue eyes light up with joy. “Good, because I have already named them!” Of course he had.

Following the bard on wobbly legs to where the four horses grazed, Aiden almost forgot about all that had happened a couple of hours prior. Then he accidentally kicked his foot against a stray helmet and the clattering sound of metal reminded him of the fresh cuts across his chest and the awful ache in both his shoulders and he couldn't help but to stare at the back of the bard's head, wondering what exactly a protector was.

But then Jaskier turned and smiled at Aiden with such incredible warmth that his heart fluttered inside his chest and he found himself mimicking the smile without the all too familiar voice inside his head telling him, warning him not to and he suddenly understood that despite it all, despite the horrors of having seen what Jaskier could do if angered, despite not knowing and therefore not understanding how or what or why Jaskier was who he was- Aiden wasn't afraid of him. Aiden trusted him. Aiden, who – much like any other witcher – from the very first day of his training had been taught, no, had been drilled to never trust anyone on the path that wasn't one of his own brothers. He knew of the world's cruelty, had learned first hand not to seek comfort and friendship where he wouldn't find it, but Jaskier- Jaskier was different. How long had they been traveling together? A month? A month was a time hardly worth mentioning, passing in the blink of an eye for someone who would possibly live up to three, maybe four hundred years or longer. Sure, Aiden was on the younger side of the Cat school, only having followed the Call of the Path for around sixty or seventy years, but even compared to that a month was nothing. And yet-

“Are you alright, sunshine? Are you in pain? Should you have rested more before getting up? We can take it slow, you know, no pressure.”

Aiden chuckled, “I'm fine, Jask, no need to worry. Simply got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” Not so easily persuaded, the bard gave him a look that was eerily similar to Lambert's 'don't bullshit me' face. Thankfully Aiden knew how to deal with that. “You said you already have names for the horses?” Success. Jaskier's face lit up again and he took hold of Aiden's hand to gently pull the witcher along. “I have! Or at least for three of them, I'm not quite sure what to name the fourth one, but I still want to introduce you to them!”

The horses waited at the sidelines of the camp, heads rising curiously as the two men made their way over to them. Untacked except for their bridles they stood closely together, showing that they had been traveled together long enough to form a bond between them. Jaskier had been right, they were friends, given the way they bumped their heads together. Aiden hadn't owned a horse in some time now, so the prospects of riding again had him smiling, even if he still believed four horses to be excessive. Though, all complains he had went right out the window when they reached the small herd and almost immediately a soft nose bumped against his head, warm breath tickling against his skin. Jaskier laughed warmly and gently nudged the big horse head away from Aiden's face, so the witcher could properly look at it. “That's Sprout,” the bard dutifully introduced Aiden to the tricolored pinto. “I'd say he's the youngest, certainly acts like it, but from what I've seen today the others keep him in check quite well.” Aiden hummed, taking in the gelding's lively eyes. He was the smallest of the four, his mane and tail cut short like it was custom for military mounts. He was pretty, almost too pretty to be ridden by a soldier, not that that was the case anymore, but it still seemed a bit odd.

Next to them one of the two bay horses snorted at him, making Aiden turn towards it. Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly and petted her neck. “This feisty lady is Roachie.”

“You're kidding, right?” One truly had to be a fool these days to not know the name of the White Wolf's horse. Jaskier had written several songs about Roach after all. “Certainly not,” Jaskier grinned. “They share the same color, the same temperament and I think it is time I get a Roach of my own. Can't be the Witchers' Bard without a Roach now, can I?” Aiden hid his face in his hand and giggled like a child. It was so stupid, such a petty thing, but at the same time the most brilliant name Jaskier could've come up with. “Alright then,” he grinned at the bard, “Roachie and Sprout. Who's next?”

“Chicory!” Jaskier said and wiggled his finger in front of a sheer mountain of a horse. A kaedweni draft, if Aiden was correct. It had that distinct gray color that ranged somewhere between a dapple gray and a grulla silver. The soldiers must've obtained it somewhere along the border from a farm and used it as a carrier or cart horse afterwards. The name Jaskier had picked fitted the horse perfectly. “She's a mare too, definitely on the calmer side I'd say, but given her size she'll be able to handle the boys just fine.” Introducing himself to Chicory by softly petting her rosy nose Aiden was reminded of the horse he had learned to ride on. “Our caravans are pulled by draft horses, they're good animals, sturdy too. I always liked them better than other breeds,” Aiden admitted. Jaskier bumped their shoulders together in silent reassurance. The witcher hadn't told him yet what exactly was going on with the Cats, but from what he understood so far the school of the Cat was going through some disagreements concerning the leadership, fractioning it into two or three sides and a handful of witchers that preferred not to intervene and therefore split off with the rest of the Cats for now. Aiden was one of them.

Turning towards the fourth and last horse, the second bay that was almost identical to Roachie except for the missing blaze, Jaskier sighed. “And this is the little fella I couldn't seem to find a name for. He's a bit more careful than the others, needed some convincing before I could give him a treat, but nothing I came up with really fit him.” Aiden hummed in agreement, seeing the shyness Jaskier had spoken of, but also the strong legs and firm muscles underneath the gelding's timid character. Unlike the other three it was almost obvious that he was a military mount. The poor thing was, in a way, so horribly normal that he'd be entirely invisible surrounded by other horses and that thought made Aiden gasp. “He's Horse!” Jaskier slowly turned his head towards the other man and blinked in confusion. “Uh- yes? He's a horse, well done, Aiden.”

“No, listen, Jask. He's Horse, like Geralt's horse is Roach and Lambert's horse is Horse.”

“Lambert's horse-horse? Huh?”

Aiden slapped his hand against his forehead. “No, Lambert named his horse Horse,” he explained, over-pronouncing the name. Now it was the bard's turn to gasp for air. “That poor Horse!” The two men blinked at each other once, twice before bursting into a loud fit of giggles.

After taking their time to get to know their new horses, Jaskier and Aiden tacked them up, going for the simple brown reigns and saddles and avoiding anything that looked too much like the redanian horse armor. They hopefully wouldn't encounter anyone else on their way to Kaer Morhen, but better safe than sorry. For now, Jaskier and Aiden would ride on Roachie and Sprout, securing their packs on Horse and Chicory. The plan was to swap the animals' tasks every few days, the rotation hopefully keeping their spirits up and prevent any sores or strains.

Jaskier's little looting session was thankfully providing them with everything they needed to take care of the horses for weeks, if not two months. Not that they planned on taking so long to search for the Wolves' keep, but you never knew. Aside from that Jaskier had scraped together whatever bits and pieces of armor Aiden could use in the future, some additional food and water skins and miscellaneous items like a bigger cooking pot and a nice set of knifes that would do them good. They stored everything in the horses' saddle bags, keeping just a handful of their belongings in their own packs. Jaskier of course, kept his lute close to him, just like Aiden refused to remove the swords from his back.

For a while the two rode through the underbrush of the forest, leading the horses in a circle to hide any possible tracks, then followed a well used deer trail further east until it came to a natural stop next to a small, rocky stream. Allowing the horses to drink, Jaskier turned in his saddle to find Aiden's eye. “How are you holding up, sunshine?”

Aiden, who's shoulder's had been aching for quite some time now, sighed loudly. “I'll live. Think, I will drink another Swallow and fight through it. We lost a couple of hours because of me, so we should keep riding until night falls.”

“I will ignore the fact that you said it like it was your fault Vizimir's toadies caught up with us and remind you that the sun will not set for at least four or five hours.” Jaskier replied, while Aiden fetched the reddish potion out of his sea sack and proceeded to drown it in one go. The bad rolled his eyes, “I mean it's not like our arrival at Kaer Morhen is expected on a agreed upon day, since we – you know – aren't expected at all. If Vesemir is at the keep at all. As stingy as Geralt is with details, I at least know that his father still hears the Call from time to time. So really, we don't need to hurry.”

Aiden gave him a deadpan look. “Have you forgotten why we're trying to find Kaer Morhen in the first place? We aren't looking for a summer house, Jaskier, we are refugees hoping the grandmaster of the Wolves will hide us from the rest of the continent. If not for you being- well, you, I'd still be chained to that tree right now. So can we just ride on and get enough distance between us and everything that's trying to fucking murder us? Please?”

please like and reblog if you voted

✨🌿🌼✨

I gave up when it came to drawing the saddles, that shit just didn't want to be drawn, so use your imagination to make their tack more realistic pls 🤫

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#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #road to kaer morhen fic #horses #jaskier #aiden #witcher #witcher aiden #jaskier the bard

[annmarcus63]

An ugly, translucent shape opened at the gates of Kaer Morhen. A portal. Mercenaries and a mage, the firefucker.  The witchers defend their home and their cub, but they're too many. Ciri gets badly wounded and Rince is about to drag her through the portal, away from her home, away from her family. Geralt feels terror, they can't take her. The wizards fight with all their might, eliminating them one by one in a matter of second. A defeated Rince mocks them and before fleeing, he reaches into the portal to pull out a person who instantly falls to the ground. 

"This one sang beautifully, witcher. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have found Princess Cirilla. And her blood" the mage's face twisted into a crooked smile as he looked at his blood covered dagger. Blood holds power, especially Ciri’s. But before Rince can escape, Lambert appears out of nowhere, taking him by surprise to cut off his head instantly. 

On the ground there's a shaking figure. 

A pair of frightened eyes looks around. Jaskier. Geralt had not seen the bard for years, he tried not to think about him either. But Ciri is wounded, bleeding and whimpering for Geralt because it hurts too much. The witchers carry the princess inside without looking back, to the shaking man on the ground. Geralt and Eskel heals Ciri as much as they can. She's going to be alright.  

Later, he sees Vesemir, through Ciri's bedroom window, approaching a shrunken figure at the stables and after a few breaths said figure following the aged witcher inside the fortress. 

Jaskier is there the next morning, sitting in the dining hall, shoeless and wearing simple clothes that are too big for him. But he doesn't want to see him, he can't, Ciri almost died because Jaskier was the one who gave the information to Rince. With a shrinking heart, Geralt turns away to find something to occupy his mind while Ciri recovers. 

-

Guilt is eating Jaskier up, even the pain cannot compensate for his heavy conscience. He hides his hands in a pair of thick gloves that rub against his burned skin, but it is worse to have them exposed. He had never been to Kaer Morhen before, but he had never imagined it would be like this. He never imagined he would be an outsider, a traitor. 

He finds a pretty good room, it's small and only has a hole in the wall, so it's not so cold. The wolves are uneasy, uncomfortable with his presence and he totally understands it. Geralt has barely given him a glance. Eskel is kind, he smiles at him whenever they run into each other and even gives him a pair of boots and a cloak.

The day after his arrival he spends the day working on the stables, cleaning and feeding the horses, it's not an easy task due to his damaged hands but he can manage. In the afternoon, Jaskier goes inside and sits down in front of the fire in the hall to warm his freezing bones. Not too close, of course. 

Geralt and Lambert enter speaking in hushed voices, Jaskier makes himself as small as possible so as not to attract attention. He's the prey. They are talking about Ciri, she is apparently well and that is reassuring. And suddenly...

"Shh, It's not safe to talk here." It takes him a few seconds to register what Lamber said.  Jaskier looks up to find two pairs of yellow eyes, predator's eyes, looking down at him with weariness. Something breaks inside him, something essential, it could be his core, his heart at the very least. In a hurried move he stands and leaves the room to find another place to get warm. 

At night the pain is too much to bear. He can't sleep and he's so damn tired so he cries for a while until he decides he’s had enough. He leaves his room barefoot so as not to alert the witchers and a single oil lantern to light the dark corridors of the keep. He wanders around for a while until he finds the lab, surely there must be something here to help ease his pain? he sniffs every jar and bottle whose contents seem familiar when a voice calls "If you smell that one you'll die" Jaskier yelps, turning around. 

Vesemir is at the door 

"I...I...I wasn't doing anything wrong, and maybe that's not the smartest thing to say. I'm sorry, I’ll just...go" 

"...what do you need?" 

"Something for the pain" The witcher approaches a cabinet 

"What kind of pain?" 

Jaskier is biting his lips to decide whether to tell the truth or... "Bard" Vesemir scolds him. 

"...burns" Vesemir stops to turn to look at him, his heavy eyes landing on the gloves on his hands. The witcher resumes his search and in a couple of minutes spent in silence he hands Jaskier a vial full of white stuff.  

"Thank you" Jaskier smiles sincerely. 

"Put shoes on or you'll lose your feet too" 

He cries all the way back to his room. 

The salve helped a little, but he still couldn't sleep. He's so tired and he doesn't want to be here anymore. He wonders if the snow is thick enough to kill him if he leaves in the night. 

It's hard to peel potatoes and Eskel notices upon entering the kitchen. "Are you ok?" says signaling the odd way in which he's holding the knife. Jaskier smiles at Eskel with a nod, afraid that if he speaks he won't be able to stop. The witcher is handsome even with the scar that splits his face. He has a quiet air about him that makes the bard sure that if they had met in different situations they’d surely be good friends. 

"You should go to the springs, the one in the middle will help you heal. Just don't go to the one on the right or you'll be burned alive" Jaskier flinches "Thank you, Eskel. I'll be sure to save you an extra portion of broth." the witcher laughs and pats the bard's shoulder before leaving. Jaskier wants to ask about Ciri but knows he has no right. 

-

Geralt is watching over his cub when he hears a door opening outside followed by unsure steps. Jaskier. He still hasn't decided if having the bard here is a good idea, he doesn't trust him, not quite. Eskel says he is too hard on him, also says he's injured to some extent. Geralt makes sure that Ciri is completely asleep before he follows the bard. He's in the springs. It is too late at night for another witcher to be there too, so Geralt decides that this may be the perfect opportunity to finally talk to him. To question him about his betrayal, even if it pains Geralt to know the answer. But he stands frozen in the entrance, Jaskier's back is turned to him, naked.  Hand marks decorate the bard's back, ugly burns across his arms that have not fully healed. 

Something breaks in Geralt and he is overcome by an unbearable grief and anger towards himself, towards Rince. The witcher watches as Jaskier removes one of the gloves. How had he not noticed the gloves? To reveal a completely burned hand, missing pieces of flesh and blackened areas beyond repair. The bard is weeping quietly, even the touch of the air causes him immense pain. Geralt gulps, wishing he could rewind the time, lift Jaskier off the ground and ask him if he was all right. He wants to turn back time to never shout those cruel words at him on the mountain.  

#geraskier #jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #hey it's me again #with yet another angsty prompt #In this one #Yennefer doesn't save Jaskier from the hands of the firefucker #our baby bard is hurting #as in all my stories #i'm sorry

[bambirex]

Tell It With Your Heart

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 2,504

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️

It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe

Read on Ao3

**

Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.

It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.

It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.

That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.

It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.

When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.

But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.

Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.

"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.

"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.

*

The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.

They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.

Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.

"What about you?"

"Lie down, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.

"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.

"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."

"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"

Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.

It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.

*

"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."

"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.

"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.

They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.

"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.

He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

"What is it? Something for Roach?"

Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.

"It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.

"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."

Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.

He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.

"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."

"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."

*

Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.

He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.

Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.

He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.

"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."

"Did it help you create better?"

"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."

"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.

Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.

He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.

Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.

He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.

"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."

"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."

"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.

"Do you not want it?"

"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."

"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.

Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.

*

The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.

"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"

Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.

"And I'm only thirty-five!"

"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."

"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"

"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."

"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."

His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.

"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.

"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."

Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.

Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.

"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."

"You take care of me as well."

"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."

Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."

Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."

Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.

"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."

He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."

He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.

"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.

"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."

Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.

#geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #my fic #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier

[flowercrown-bard]

Autumn had never been Geralt's favourite season.

Brown leaves, foggy days, hungry monsters.

Cold nights made Geralt dream of going home to Kaer Morhen, where he could embrace his brothers and fall asleep in a pile of furs, laid out in front of a fire.

Despite having winter to look forward to, this year, he found the thought wasn't as comforting as it used to be.

Every time he tried to imagine coming home, he was reminded of the one thing he wouldn't have with him at the Keep.

Flighty as he was, his bard always stayed with him through autumn, warming him in the night and making the short days a little brighter.

Geralt didn't want to think about watching him turn away to head to Oxenfurt, once it got too cold for him on the Path.

Hell, it probably already was too cold.

If Geralt had been less selfish, he would have told Jaskier to go find a court to stay, weeks ago.

Jaskier deserved to sleep in a warm bed and eat food that wasn't cooked with what little seasoning Geralt carried with him.

Kaer Morhen had warm beds, he thought before he could stop himself, and Jaskier would love Vesemir's cooking.

Letting out a low growl, Geralt shook his head to get rid of those thoughts.

"Must you always grunt like that?" Jaskier asked with a fond roll of his eyes, looking up from the golden leaves he had been collecting from the ground.

Next to him, Roach huffed, apparently agreeing with him.

Of course she would betray Geralt like that.

Puffing himself up like a bird, Jaskier put his hands on his hips and turned to Geralt fully with a teasing glint in his eyes.

Quietly, Geralt thought that this was how he wanted to remember him, when the nights grew long and cold.

"Really, this might be our last month together this year and you don't even answer me in full sentences when I tell you I found leaves in the colour of your eyes."

Scrunching up his nose, Jaskier shook his head.

Tentatively, Geralt came closer, plucked the leaves out of Jaskier's hand and took his now free hand in his.

Unfortunately, his mind stopped working as soon as they touched.

"Visit more places with me," he blurted out clumsily, unable to get his thoughts in order, "before it gets too cold to travel."

When Jaskier only stared at him, Geralt swallowed thickly and continued.

"Xin'trea is supposed to be nice this time of year, or Beauclair or the coast or...," his voice dropped to a whisper, "or Kaer Morhen."

"Yes!" Jaskier said before Geralt had time to take the words back, “I would love to stay with you."

Zoning in on the way Jaskier's lips parted in a brilliant smile, Geralt dropped the golden leaves, letting them tumble to the ground, so his hand was free to cup Jaskier's cheek and pull him into a kiss.

#Alphabet game #Geraskier #Geralt #Jaskier #Thank goodness for the elven name for cintra #That x is really giving me trouble #Witcher #My writing

[kell-be-belle]

All That Counts Now

An extremely indulgent ficlet that I wrote with the fervor of a madman even though I have so many other things I should be doing, however, I knew I could not rest until I had gotten it out of my system. So here it is, inspired by @spielzeugkaiser and their Omegaverse!Geraskier AU. The original post can be found here and the particular piece that inspired me can be found here.

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier 

Rating: Teen  

Warnings: A/B/O, mildly suggestive language, mentions of past Mpreg 

****

The fire burned low in the hearth. Combined with a smattering of candles, the room was rife with shadows dancing and writhing over its damp stone walls. The pungent scent of woodsmoke was not enough to cover up the undercurrent of arousal that wafted tantalizing through the air like a beckoning hand. The bear skin rug was plush under Geralt’s bare feet as he crossed to the hearth, to the man standing before it wreathed in the halo of its glow. Jaskier was staring pensively into the flames, arms wrapped tight around his chest. Geralt could see where the sweat glistened at his temples, where it had begun to curl the fine hair at the nape of his neck. The scent of arousal came from him, blooming sweet and milky from his skin with an irresistible decadence. Jaskier’s heat was imminent. By the time the night was through, Geralt had no doubt he would be caught full in the throes of it. 

Jaskier did not flinch as Geralt came up behind him, long since accustomed to sensing him despite the quiet of his movements. He did not look at Geralt either, eyes still trained on the snap and sway of the flames as they consumed the wood with fervor. Geralt moistened his lips, collecting himself before he muttered, “Are you sure about this?” It had been fifteen years since they had last spent a heat together. Just before the dragon hunt, just before Jaskier had vanished without a trace to raise the child they had miraculously conceived.  

With a shuddering breath, Jaskier whispered, “I believe so.” It was not the confidence Geralt had been hoping for, but he was hardly surprised given their history. 

“I’ll be here if you want me, but if you’re not ready for this I understand.” 

Laughing bitterly, Jaskier replied, “It’ll hardly matter in a few hours. I’ll be too incoherent to know what it is I want.” 

Geralt pressed his lips into a thin line, concerned by Jaskier’s callous demeanor. Geralt reached out a hand to touch Jaskier then drew it back, hesitant. Things between them were still tenuous, but the fact that they had even made it this far felt like a testament to the lengths both of them were willing to go in the hopes of rekindling the love they once shared. Jaskier would not have asked him here without serious thought. Emboldened by this, Geralt lifted his hand again and rested it gently on the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder. His skin was warm beneath Geralt’s palm, the fever of his impending heat steadily growing like the heat of the day with the rise of the sun.

“Jaskier,” He whispered, low and tender, “I love you and I want to take care of you, but if this isn’t something you’re ready for then I will do everything in my power to make you as comfortable as possible without invading your boundaries.” 

Jaskier was quiet for a time, his shapely teeth worrying at the skin of his lower lip. And Geralt waited, heart constricted in his chest, for Jaskier to mull over his answer. “I’m afraid.” He said at last, blurted as if he had been struggling to make the admission.

Swallowing hard, Geralt croaked, “What that you’ll…” Geralt couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but Jaskier was not so squeamish. 

“Get pregnant again? No, I think those years are beyond me now.” Which may or may not have been true since Jaskier was somewhat on the cusp in age. “No, no I’m afraid you…” He paused again, his arms tightening in their fold across his chest. His fingers bunching in the soft linen of his sleeves. 

Leaning forward, Geralt pressed a light kiss to the nape of Jaskier’s neck, “Tell me Jaskier. I promise I’ll do whatever I can.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll find me much changed, witcher mine.” He laughed as he said it, but there was clearly no humor behind it. Geralt knew it as a defense mechanism. A reflex of Jaskier’s that was meant to dissolve tension. Upon seeing Geralt’s puzzled expression, Jaskier elaborated, “It’s been some years since last we were intimate. I’ve grown older, I’ve been through… tribulations. I’m afraid that you’ll find my body much changed and that you may not like what you see.” 

Geralt’s heart twisted hot and fierce in his chest, “That doesn’t matter to me, Jaskier,” He asserted, perhaps with more ferocity than was intended judging by the jump of Jaskier’s shoulders. Geralt collected himself with a breath before he continued, “There is nothing I could be less concerned about than how you look. Gods know I’ve changed myself, new aches, new scars-”

“New beard.” Jaskier laughed, a soft, breathy thing that sounded far more genuine than the one from before. “I rather like it, I think it makes you look distinguished.” 

Geralt chuckled, “Doesn’t make me look old?” 

“I think mature is a better word.”

“So it does make me look old, got it. I’ll shave it off first thing tomorrow morning.” 

“You’ll do no such thing.” Declared Jaskier hautighly. And they laughed, heads pressed close together. The knot in Geralt’s chest loosened, relieved to see Jaskier acting more like himself.

Resting his chin in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt spoke, “I love you, no matter what. I’m just happy to be here with you again.” That you let me be here with you, he added to himself. 

Jaskier raised a hand and smoothed the back of his knuckles over Geralt’s cheek, “I’m happy, too, dear heart. We’ve a lot of lost time to make up for.” Indeed they did. 

Stepping closer to the hearth, Jaskier turned to face Geralt. He gathered the hem of his shirt in his grasp, lifting it the barest inch. He looked to Geralt, his eyes wide and searching for something, anything, to serve as encouragement. Geralt took a step towards Jaskier. He laid his hands over Jaskier’s and smiled in a way he hoped conveyed confidence. It seemed to work well enough and together, the two of them lifted Jaskier’s shirt until it was over his head where it then fluttered to the floor behind them.                     

The skin of Jaskier’s body was much the same, but softer around the edges. The sharp angles of his youth smoothed down by time and a comfortable living. It was not unpleasant, not in the slightest, and Geralt could not fathom why Jaskier would care for such a thing. Vain as he was in regards to himself, Jaskier had always looked upon Geralt’s scarred, battle-worn body and assured him he was perfect as he was. Jaskier had traced his fingers against every seam of puckered skin and pressed his lips into every cleft as if they were things to be revered. It was a kindness he should have extended to himself.

Geralt’s eyes traveled down, over the smattering of dark hair over Jaskier’s supple chest as it spread down over his sternum and to his belly and- oh. Oh. Geralt felt his heart twist at the sight. Where Jaskier’s belly had always been firm and lean, now a distinctive paunch sat in the bracket of his hips. The skin around his navel was puckered slightly and following the curve of his lower belly were streaks of pink skin that branched like bolts of lightning. Stretch marks, Geralt thought belatedly, that is what they were called.

Guilt opened up in the pit of Geralt’s like a void. It threatened to pull him into its empty depths, to sink its taloned fingers into his flesh and hold like a wild and desperate animal. The line of hair that had once trailed over Jaskier’s belly and disappeared into the hem braies was gone now. Geralt could remember all the times he had pressed kisses to it. Followed the length of it down, down, down until he could press his mouth hot and damp against Jaskier’s sex. It was a loss, but one that was infinitesimally small and foolish in comparison to what Geralt had truly lost. 

Jaskier shifted his weight from one foot to the other, squirming like a butterfly pinned under Geralt’s scrutiny. “I managed to lose most of the weight after I gave birth, but there was some I just couldn’t seem to rid myself of no matter how I tried.” Jaskier muttered, his voice tight like the words were fighting their way up his throat. “I could have done something about the stretch marks, but, at the time, it had seemed frivolous to spend what coin I had on things like cocoa butter or oils. I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it now.” 

In Geralt’s responding silence, Jaskier’s hands came up to rest on his sagging belly. He laced his fingers tightly together like the ribbons of a corset, holding the soft skin and covering the worst of the stretch marks as if they were something shameful. Something ugly. And that could not have been any further from the truth. 

Wordlessly, Geralt fell to his knees before Jaskier. Whether it was voluntary or simply the forsaking of his strength, Geralt was not really sure, but here he was nonetheless. Jaskier grew still as stone. Like a statue. The kind that sat entangled in rose gardens or perched atop burbling fountains, beautiful and otherworldly. Geralt took Jaskier’s hips between his hands, brushed his thumbs over the edges of his pelvis where the bone sat just under the skin. 

This was the belly that had grown their child. Their son. Housed and nourished him and borne him safely unto the world and into the fierce and loving embrace of his Papa. Only his Papa. And Geralt felt stuck by the overwhelming loss that he had not been there. By the guilt that Jaskier had gone through all of it alone, every joyous and arduous moment. It tore through him raw and merciless and though the pain of it felt unendurable, Geralt knew it was nothing in comparison to Jaskier. Geralt had wandered the continent in ignorance, while Jaskier had carried all the burden in his heart like a stone.

Leaning forward, Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s belly just beside his navel. He tried to imagine what it could have been like had things been different. Had he been there to watch Jaskier’s belly swell, feel the babe as it moved inside him, supported him through every bright day and endless night. But it was too late, too late for all of that now. Nothing more than daydreams and wishful thinking as intangible and immaterial as starlight. It was true, Geralt was here now and he was doing what he could as recompense, but so much had been lost. So much, so much, so much. 

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s hips, held him hard and fierce in his embrace. The crooked angle of his nose pressing into Jaskier’s belly could not have been comfortable, but he made no move to push Geralt away. Jaskier’s scent was still the sweet and milky thing it had been, but underneath it Geralt caught the sharp tang of salt. Geralt had long ago lost his ability to cry, though gods knew he would have if only he could, which left no doubt that it was Jaskier who had begun shedding tears. And that only made Geralt hold him tighter, the blunt ends of his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s hips. 

Jaskier lifted a hand and began to card his fingers through Geralt’s hair with a soft and steady touch. Though his voice was thick with emotion he crooned, “Ssh, it’s alright dear heart. All is well, now. All is well.” And Geralt feels like he should be embarrassed that Jaskier is comforting him when he is not the one that suffered so greatly, yet he cannot bring himself to move even a single inch. 

After a time, Jaskier wriggles his hips a bit, loosening Geralt’s grasp around them. He sinks to his knees so that he can be on the same level as Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes are rimmed with red. His cheeks are damp and sticky with tears. And yet still he smiles when he looks upon Geralt with all the benevolence of a saint. He takes Geralt’s face within the bracket of his palms, presses a chaste kiss to his lips and Geralt can taste the salt of his tears on the tip of his tongue. Jaskier withdraws, but not so much that their foreheads cannot touch, their noses cannot brush. 

“It’s alright,” He whispers once more and whether it’s for Geralt or for them both, he is no longer sure. Again he whispers, “It’s alright, we’re here now and that’s all that counts now.”

#the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #omegaverse #omega!jaskier #alpha!geralt #fanficiton #hurt/comfort #angst #spielzeugkaiser

[all-or-nothing-baby]

LAVENDER MILK AND BLACKBERRY WINE

.

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

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

The witcher watches the bard, whilst trying not to.

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

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

He fails.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[samstree]

A Careless Omission

Jaskier reveals he has a type. Geralt behaves strangely. (Or, the "Jaskier likes a dilf" fic, 2.9k, on ao3)

Jaskier doesn’t try to hide his interest.

His face has been slowly heating up with a blush, his lips worried and bitten with nervousness. It nearly makes him feel like a blushing maiden at the sight of her first crush, stomach fluttering and all. Who can blame him? His eyes have been caught by the barkeep since he sat down at the table.

Distantly, he knows Geralt is able to tell, sitting in front of him across the table. A witcher’s senses are too sharp for Jaskier to hide his intentions for anyone they meet on the road, but there’s no room for self-consciousness. His attention is away, following the other man as he works.

The barkeep is tall and burly, with wide shoulders and long legs, hair slightly wet with sweat from working in the kitchens. A few strands of grey hair pepper his brown curls beautifully, as well as his well-groomed beard. The simple clothing cannot hide the taut muscles underneath. Every time he rolls up the sleeves to show the strong lines of his forearm, Jaskier lets out an audible gasp.

Meeting Jaskier’s eyes, he comes to their table and serves two cups of ale with a bright, warm smile.

A bright, warm smile, and a little girl trailing behind him.

“Aww,” Jaskier whispers to Geralt as the man walks away. “Look at him with his daughter.”

The barkeep has brought his daughter to work. The girl looks no older than six, demanding bedtime stories and tugging at his apron constantly. He has to gently coax her to let him finish work first, all the while leaning down to kiss her on the head.

Jaskier’s breath catches, the hammering of his heart so loud he can practically hear it in his ears.

“Hmm.”

Geralt only gives a noncommittal hum while sipping his ale.

“Here we go.” The barkeep returns to their table with two bowls of soup, his smile still bright despite the late hour and his daughter’s chirping. “How do you find our establishment, kind sirs? Hope you liked the ale?”

Before Jaskier can chat up the guy, Geralt cuts in quickly.

“A bit sour,” he says, seemingly grouchier than usual. “And the place is loud.”

It’s entirely too rude, but before Jaskier can apologize for his friend, the barkeep scratches his head shyly and does it first, which makes him all the lovelier.

“Apologies,” he says sincerely. “My Lucja can be a menace when she’s tired. It’s a shame her bedtime happens to be our rush hour. She’s not bothering you too much, is she?”

“No, no!” Jaskier answers, rather too eagerly. “She’s adorable! I hope she’s not making your job difficult, is all.”

Jaskier’s face becomes even hotter when he takes his bowl, their fingers brushing, lingering. Finally, the barkeep is looking at Jaskier properly. His smile grows, stretching almost to his ears.

They hold each other’s gaze, until Geralt sets down his cup suddenly, much louder than necessary, breaking the moment.

“It can get hard at times, but I don’t mind,” the barkeep answers, eyeing Geralt for a moment before turning his attention back to Jaskier. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, you see. I’d choose raising her on my own every time.”

“Oh? Where is her mother?” Jaskier frowns.

“I do not know where she is, sir, nor Lucja’s real father, for she was left at my doorstep as a babe. I meant to send her to the orphanage, but in the end, I just couldn’t see a little girl without a home. She is as much my daughter as she can be. We are a family, as destiny intended.”

What a sweet, sweet man.

Jaskier holds his chest as the fluttering inside intensifies. He’s nearly melting on the spot “Aww…” he sighs softly. “Such sadness, and such a happy ending. You truly are a kind man, sir…?”

“Andrej.”

“I’m Jaskier.” They shake hands, lingering some more.

“Still, it must get lonely for you, being on your own. Would you ever seek other forms of companionship, Andrej, when the long nights are difficult to pass?”

The hopeful hint hides so well under the concern in Jaskier’s voice. He’d like to think he’s rather smooth in his probing, after all these years.

“Well.” Andrej looks as flushed as Jaskier feels. His eyes lower, before lifting up again, looking at Jaskier from under his lashes. “I try to find company when I can, but none as fine as yourself, Jaskier.”

He drags out Jaskier’s name, patiently, sensually, making his bones hum.

The man leaves Jaskier with a suggestive look, and finds Lucja again. He lifts the girl easily, muttering about how he can finally tuck her in bed now. They disappear upstairs, with the girl draped over Andrej’s shoulder, her cheeks round with happiness.

Jaskier stares at them as they leave, eyes following the man until he cannot see them any longer, and then turns back with a dreamy sigh. He stirs his soup absently, occasionally letting out a goofy smile and a quiet giggle, ears still burning. Thoughts of Andrej fill the whole world, his eyes, his smile, his loving heart.

Jaskier knows he’s quickly, entirely, and head over heels, falling in love.

He lets out another giggle at the thought.

Their interaction replays over and over in Jaskier’s head, making him completely oblivious to his surroundings.

Out of nowhere, Geralt clears his throat.

“Oh, dear!” Jaskier startles, blinking. “Geralt, um… You are… still here.”

Huh, he seems to have completely forgotten about Geralt.

“My, my,” Geralt snorts. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Jaskier has no intention of being mortified. He is no longer capable of that emotion when the stars align and hit him with a spell of love. Still, he gives some attention to his friend.

“Sorry, I was a little… beside myself,” he says, his spirit too high to be ruined by Geralt’s inexplicably bad mood. “You know,” Jaskier whispers, revealing the great secret. “It’s my weakness.”

“Weakness?” Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Yes, a man like Andrej.” Jaskier’s eyes brighten in fondness. “I happen to have no resistance around a good father like him.”

A pause of silence, and Geralt squints harder.

“A good… father,” he states, very, very slowly.

“Of course! Did you not notice? He was so good with his daughter earlier, so gentle and loving. I bet he tells the best bedtime stories, and little Lucja will want for nothing in her life. Oh, I cannot help myself, and I—” Jaskier sighs, once again. The amount of sighing today is a bit excessive, even for a poet. He’s well aware. “I think I’m falling in love.”

Geralt looks like he’s trying to suppress a growl, but ends up with an unpleasant grimace.

And Jaskier takes issue with that. He makes an unhappy noise.

“Oh, stop with that face. I know you want to mock me,” Jaskier admonishes, mouth forming a pout. “But I am not ashamed, I’ll have you know. I see being a good father as one of the most attractive qualities in a man, if not the most attractive! Though I admit, I have a soft spot, especially for him. Did you hear the story? To think Andrej took in an orphan girl under such tragic circumstances, just to give her a home… How can my heart not go out to him?”

Jaskier looks into the distance, lapsing into silence. The soup is no longer hot, and he digs into it slowly, mood still chirpy and stomach still full of warm fuzziness.

For some reason, Geralt keeps staring at Jaskier.

He seems offended, even.

“Hmm,” Geralt deadpans, stressing every word. “You are in love, because he is a good father?”

“Mm-hmm,” Jaskier hums absently.

Geralt stares for another moment, and another, his food and drink forgotten. It’s disconcerting. He simply slurps his soup loudly, filling the silence.

Tentatively, Geralt opens his mouth, and closes it, and then, he does it again a few times more.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. Geralt does the same.

“What?” The bard is running out of patience.

“Nothing,” Geralt answers at the end, rather pointedly, looking directly at Jaskier. “So… Ciri.”

Jaskier blinks at the non sequitur. “Hmm?”

“You do remember her,” Geralt adds, “Ciri?”

Frowning, Jaskier is slightly concerned for Geralt’s sanity. Or his.

“Yes? I’ve not suffered a blow to the head, Geralt. I remember Ciri.”

“Just checking.”

The tiniest pout forms around Geralt’s mouth, a hint of dissatisfaction tugging at his lips like an overgrown child. His eyes are still boring into Jaskier’s face. He pauses for a beat, as if waiting for Jaskier to catch up on something.

Jaskier is even more confused about the weird mood of his witcher. He waits with bated breath for a moment longer, but Geralt is still looking at him expectantly.

Losing patience, Jaskier gestures for him to go on. “Well, what about Ciri?”

Geralt sighs, somehow sounding defeated.

“She wrote to me,” he says, finally dropping the grouchy tone when talking about Ciri. “I got the letter today.”

“Oh.” The mention of Ciri’s letter brings joy to Jaskier’s heart. The girl tends to write to them sporadically during her travels, and Geralt always discusses everything about her with Jaskier. It’s nice to hear from their little witcher-princess, who is actually not so little anymore. “That’s good, Geralt. What did she say?”

Taking a very deep breath, Geralt continues.

“She’s traveling, mostly. Took contracts here and there. Also—” Geralt says carefully, “said she missed me.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier smiles, proudly.

“Yeah, you know. She does… um, miss me, because I—um, you know, I’m her…” Geralt doesn’t finish the sentence, but leaves room for it to be finished. With what, Jaskier isn’t sure.

But Jaskier’s heart twists in sympathy. He misses Ciri dearly too, and it could explain Geralt’s strange behavior today, so he tries something else. “You know, we could visit her,” he suggests. “Write back, see if we can meet up and travel together for a while.”

Geralt’s eyebrows lift, ever so slightly, at those words.

“We can,” he agrees, voice lighter. “And… you remember how she has nightmares. If we travel together, I can stay with her at night until she falls asleep.” He thinks for a second. “Tell her a story or two, chase away the bad dreams, perhaps. It is my duty for her, as she is my… um, Ciri.”

The phrasing is perplexing. She is… all of their Ciri, of course. There’s no telling why Geralt said it like that.

“That’s a shame.” Still, Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of their little girl having nightmares, but then— “Wait, does she still let you tuck her in? She’s turning… twenty this summer, I believe? And now an independently working witcher. Isn’t she too old?”

It seems to dawn on Geralt too.

“Oh.” He blinks. “So she is,” Geralt splutters. “Never mind, then.”

Jaskier can’t blame him. Sometimes, they both forget how fast their little girl grows. She is now a proper grown woman, slaying monsters with better witchering skills and magical powers than anyone could have imagined.

He understands Geralt’s tendency for nostalgia, though. When you find a scared little girl and help her become this confident version of herself over the course of a decade, you’d want to linger in those memories, even though she can easily stand on her own feet now.

“Still, I believe it if you say so,” Jaskier muses. “She’s been through so much before, and past hurt fades slowly. Seeing you could be good for her too.”

Geralt looks down, suddenly stabbing the gooey soup with his spoon as if it’s a particularly difficult fiend. After a moment, he sighs. The excessive sighing seems to be catching on today.

For all of Geralt’s emotional constipation Jaskier has witnessed over the years, today’s grumpy episode is truly a bad one. And then, he thinks more about Geralt’s behavior all day, mentioning Ciri out of nowhere, insisting that she still needs care even though she’s grown. It’s nearly like Geralt is trying to make up for something, or drive a point home.

It’s just that Jaskier has been missing the point all along.

It clicks, all of a sudden.

Oh.

Of course.

How could he be so blind?

“Oh, I see.” He places a hand on Geralt’s arm, exhaling in relief. “Forgive me, Geralt dear, but I see it now.”

“You do?” Hope shines in Geralt’s eyes.

“I do!” Jaskier confirms. “It’s terrible I have not realized earlier. I have been incredibly neglectful of you.”

Eyes wide with hope, Geralt seems to have stopped breathing in anticipation. “Go on,” he prompts.

“It all makes sense. You have been acting weird since we sat down, and with me fussing over Andrej and his daughter…” Jaskier states gently, eyes bright. “Your guilt is acting up again! Am I correct?”

Geralt is frozen like a statue, incredulous.

He must want to deny it, but everything about him says he’s been caught off guard, which means Jaskier must be right on point. He pats himself on the back mentally, proud for having figured out his witcher’s internal struggles. After a few decades, he has become an expert in reading Geralt’s every mood.

Jaskier pulls the chair to the side of the table so they sit closer together, their knees touching. He wraps an arm around Geralt, hands running small circles on his back, a familiar soothing motion for when his witcher’s mind is being unkind to him.

“Um, Jask…”

“You don’t need to deny it, you know.” It’s silly that Geralt still has trouble accepting Jaskier’s help sometimes, so he remains patient. “It’s perfectly reasonable, with Ciri traveling alone, being away from your protection. You still feel responsible for her, as you should. The bond between the two of you is stronger than destiny itself.”

Geralt pinches between his eyes, looking torn. “You don’t need to tell me these things, Jask. That’s… really not what I’m thinking.”

This ridiculous, stubborn man. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Nonsense. You don’t need to hide it from me, Geralt. It’s only me.” Jaskier smiles encouragingly. “I’m always here when you have these doubts. Always. Ciri has to leave you—leave all of us—precisely because you’ve taught her well. You have prepared her in every way you can, and now the world will see what she can do.” He hugs Geralt tighter, knowing his touch is comforting for Geralt in these bouts of self-deprecation. “It’s okay to feel at a loss, but it’s not like she’ll never need you again. You are her father, and nothing will ever change that.”

The words settle quietly, genuinely, and Jaskier feels the tenseness in Geralt’s body fade. He takes pride in himself again, a grin stretching across his face, feeling incredibly achieved.

“Yes,” Geralt whispers, looking directly into Jaskier’s eyes. Their faces are only a hand’s breadth away, his tone intimate and sincere. “I am her father.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier agrees happily. “You are the best father she could ever ask for.”

“Yeah?”

Geralt breathes in, his gaze lowering. They are leaning into each other’s space, with barely any distance in between. Jaskier’s hand is still wrapped around Geralt’s shoulder, and now Geralt has placed a hand on Jaskier’s knee.

For some reason, the fluttering in Jaskier’s stomach returns. The sensation is such a surprise that he nearly falls out of the chair.

“Geralt…”

“Jaskier, look,” Geralt breathes, lips parting, “I—”

Before he could finish a sentence, they are interrupted by someone coming down the stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly in the tavern. Jaskier snaps his attention away in an instant.

Oh, Andrej is back!

Jaskier lets out a delighted squeal, all thoughts replaced by the barkeep’s warm smile.

“Hold that thought, dear,” Jaskier says absently, patting Geralt on the back. “I should be… going.”

“But I—”

Geralt’s eyes are wide, darting between Andrej and Jaskier.

Jaskier stands up, checking on Geralt again. “Hmm? What is it? Do you still need me here?”

He would stay with Geralt, comforting him for the rest of the night if those old insecurities still plague his friend. A good night with a handsome and kind man will always come second when it comes to Geralt, but…

But, but, but…

Jaskier’s heart is already soaring away.

Luckily, the moment of panic in Geralt’s eyes fades into calm acceptance.

“Nothing,” Geralt says, resigned with a quiet smile. “I don’t need you here, Jaskier. You should go.”

His posture goes slack. It must be the relief after all of Jaskier’s words, all the doubt eased, judging from the way Geralt’s face morphs into an emotionless neutrality. Once again, Jaskier mentally pats himself on the back for having cracked the problem.

He beams at the thought, bending down to press a good night kiss on Geralt’s cheek, who lets out a little gasp, leaning into the chaste kiss.

“Don’t wait up!”

Jaskier winks before turning away, not looking back again. When he takes Andrej’s hand, there’s even a spring in his steps.

Oh, Jaskier should be allowed to feel a little smug, just a little bit. He has had the most wonderful night. On top of seeing right through Geralt’s emotional turmoil, he’s also landed himself a fine companion until morning.

The wonderful night can still get a lot better, he thinks.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #they are idiots your honor #but mostly jaskier #he should fundraise for a braincell

[starfirewildheart]

Wolf and the flame

Summary:

again many timeline changes and I'm making the story my bitch.

Word count: 2,694

Chapter 6

Several days had passed since their arrival at Kear Morhen. Naurel was feeling much better between Vesimer’s treatments and Triss’s healing sessions but the tests they ran on her blood only left them with more questions. Something was different about her blood and Triss was positive there was some sort of spell that was keeping her subdued that the sorceress couldn’t seem to break.

Geralt had spoken to Yen at length about his wish and what it meant and how he wasn’t her mate but she disagreed. She felt as drawn to him as Naurel did, though in different ways, and reminded him that there was magic involved. For her, it was more visceral and hungry. The three of them had many discussions and Naurel was still unsure. What if her feelings and Geralt’s feelings for her were forced from the magic Triss felt attached to her? What if once that was gone that Geralt wouldn't feel the same and she had let him push Yennefer away? She couldn’t be responsible for that. Ciri seemed to be getting closer to Yen as well. With Yen’s help, she was slowly starting to learn to control some of the chaos she’d discovered.

She sighed realizing she needed to clear her head for a bit and wandered outside of the keep into the snow. Walking into a clearing from the stone structures she looked out over the mountain. The structure itself was dilapidated but the view was beautiful. She gasped when she felt strong arms close around her waist. Even in the snow, she hadn’t heard his approach. “It’s freezing out here,” he rumbled as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

“It’s beautiful though. It looks so peaceful and pure.” She turned to face him. “Why are you out in the cold?”

“Cold doesn’t bother me like it does humans. I was just practicing a bit,” he turned so she could see the tall posts he’d been on while sword training.

“You know, you should probably teach me to use one of those just in case I have to defend Ciri or myself. I mean I know you are her protector but in case you are fighting a larger beast I could at least maybe defend her from humans,” she explained.

He smiled at her. “I will keep you safe.”

“I know,” she nodded “but you also have to keep Ciri safe, Jaskier out of trouble and countless other random humans safe as well so that makes you stretched a little thin. I just thought I could take some pressure off of you if you didn’t have to worry about me.”

He could see the logic in what she was saying and knowing she could defend herself if he wasn’t around did sound like a good idea. He stepped over to a bag of supplies he’d brought out to practice with and pulled out a short sword that was fairly light before motioning her to him. “Swords are heavier than people realize and they get into trouble when they fight because they choose one that is too heavy. This is a short sword and a perfect weight and length for you,” he handed it to her.

She looked at the blade as he stepped behind her pressing against her back. She let him guide her body with his as he showed her how to properly swing and slash with it. At first, it felt really awkward and unnatural but after several repetitions, it became easier and more fluid. He moved from behind her and sat down on one of the log benches as he watched her. “I feel like an idiot slashing and stabbing at the air,” she laughed. “Are you teasing me or is this real training?”

“It’s real,” he grinned, “and you are doing wonderfully.”

She continued practicing the few moves he’d shown her over and over until she got them perfect. It wasn’t until she heard him say her name that she noticed how low the sun was getting in the sky. “Come inside and get warm. You’ve been practicing for hours.”

“Wow I didn’t even notice how late it was getting,” she said as she shook some of the snow from her hair which seemed frozen to her head. They gathered the training supplies and went inside.

“Careful with that sword girl,” Lambert teased. “You might hurt someone with it.”

“That’s the idea, right?” she grinned and winked at Geralt who was helping her out of her wet cloak and moving her near the fire.

“Only if you know how to use it,” Lambert chuckled.

“You stab them with the pointy end, right?” she smirked. Coen, Geralt, Vesimer, and Eskel laughed.

“Smartass,” he huffed in her direction before tucking into his bowl of stew.

Vesimer motioned them over to his table to join him. Geralt noticed the look of unease he had. “What troubles you?”

“We have exhausted every book and paper that we have here and we can’t find anything on the discrepancies in Naurel’s blood and Triss has had no luck in trying to remove the magic that is plaguing her.”

“And,” Naurel asked after a long pause.

“I think you should go see Nenneke. At the very least she might be able to help with the magic but I suspect she will know more bout what is going on with Naurel’s blood than we have been able to find. She might also be able to help with Ciri.”

“Who is Nenneke?” Naurel asked.

Geralt explained about the priestess and her abilities and agreed seeing her would be wise. They made plans to go the next day. Triss was going to open a portal for them then she had to go back to Aretuza for a while. Yennefer had heard Geralt and Ciri talking about the trip and knew she had to act quickly if she was ever going to regain her powers.

Yennefer waited until Geralt was in a different part of the keep before she approached Naurel and Ciri, who were sitting around the fire in the dining hall talking to Jaskier who was working on a song.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked as he saw Yennefer approach. Something was off about her. He wasn’t a fan of Yen’s any day but today she seemed particularly shifty. Watching as she approached them in almost a run, he stood.

Naurel sensed something wrong as well and moved in front of Ciri. “Get Geralt,” she whispered to the girl. For once Ciri didn’t argue.

Yennefer threw down the vial and opened the portal. “Guess you’ll have to do,” she sighed as she shoved Naurel through the opening and followed behind her, kicking out at Jaskier as he tried to grab her but he ended up tumbling through with them.

“YENNEFER!” Geralt roared as he and several of his brothers ran toward the portal as it faded.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Naurel hit the ground hard and everything in her stomach came up and spilled. She was vaguely aware of voices and hands grabbing her as she was bound to a chair. “Who the fuck are you?” Yennefer demanded. She was not at the hut where the potion was supposed to take her but in some tavern in a grungy little town.

“My identity isn’t important,” the man smirked. “All you need to know is that my plan has worked perfectly. Your selfish desire to regain your power no matter the cost has worked in my favor.”

“What do you have to do with this? The deathless mother is in control of my destiny!”

“The deathless mother is a demon imprisoned by the first withchers. Her only goal is to be set free and she will twist and contort whoever’s mind she needs to so that she gets what she needs. You were the fool who believed what she said, nothing more.” He looked a Yennefer in pity, “Volith Mier would never have given you your chaos back. She only feeds.”

“No!” Yennefer hissed. It couldn’t be true. She had risked everything for this just as she had to try and recover her womb.

“Why would I help you witch? Did you believe that Volith Meir would give you a potion for a portal? Please everyone knows the only way to her hut is with her little poem,” the man sneered as he tied Jaskier to another chair. “I wanted you to bring the girl to me. I don’t care about you losing your chaos,” he laughed. “You’re worthless without magic. I wanted the girl but if you couldn’t bring her then she,” he ran his hand over Naurel’s cheek, “is the next best thing. Geralt will come for her and he will have the girl with him. He won’t trust anyone with her after your betrayal.”

“No,” Yen whispered, tears filling her eyes. What had she done?

“Geralt has no way of knowing where we are so he won’t find us,” Naurel snapped at the man. “Your plan will fail!”

“I promise,” he leaned in next to her face, his breath was horrible, “word of your torture will spread quickly my dear.” He said as he snapped his fingers. Naurel gasped as flames flew from them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jaskier shivered as the flames bit at his chest again. It had been nearly two weeks since their hell had begun and it showed no signs of ending anytime soon. It started out as questions about Geralt and Ciri. Where they were, what they knew about the girl and her abilities, did they know who she was? The longer they were there the less they were questioned. He was just hurting them and it was like the bastard was just getting off on their screams. Jaskier cringed when the fire fucker picked up a hot poker from the fire but he didn’t come for him, he turned to Naurel.

“No,” she shook her head. The burns were the worst. The smell that lingered the pain and discomfort that lasted even after it was over. He held the iron poker just above her skin, teasing her. “I’m going to watch him rip your fucking heart out!” she growled as the poker got closer to her thigh. Trying to control her breathing so she could ride out the pain was a lost cause. She was exhausted, thirsty, starving, covered in filth, and had no idea where she was. She spent all the energy she had glaring at Yennefer who refused to even lift her head and look her in the eyes. Yennefer who, short of being bound and starved like her and Jaskier, was unscathed. She was drawn back to her current situation by the white-hot pain against her skin as she screamed. The smell of her own flesh burning turned her stomach. She must have passed out because she woke to Jaskier calling her name.

“Melitele, I thought I’d lost you,” he sighed when she began to stir.

“Not that easy to get rid of me bard,” she tried to lighten the mood.They had bonded during their captivity offering each other the comfort of words and simply knowing they weren’t alone in all of this. While they couldn’t physically care for each other they would offer the other a distraction of stories or corny jokes to try and take the others mind off the pain. Jaskier was looking worse everyday and as much as he tried to hide it she was sure some of his wounds were infected. They were running out of time but at least they wouldn’t die alone.

“I have been thinking..”

“I knew I smelled something burning,” she teased.

“Oh that’s just wrong,” he frowned. “Anyway… he’s been going nearly a full day before portling back in now. Maybe I can break the chair somehow and use something to cut us free.”

“That sounds like a half-assed plan,” she chuckled weakly. “Don’t do something that will get you killed Jaskier, please. I wouldn’t survive without you here. Besides, we’ve tried breaking the chairs before.”

Before he could say anything Yennefer jerked and her hands came free. She was on her feet. She grabbed a bottle and broke it using the glass to cut them loose before they could even process what had happened. “We have to move now!” she demanded and they all headed for the door.

Naurel and Jaskier helped each other as much as they could and they made a straight shot toward the woods hoping for some sort of cover. As it turned out, luck was not on their side, ever, because several men rode toward them yelling for them to stop.

The men jumped off their horses and tackled Naurel and Jaskier to the ground, Yennefer, uninjured, ran toward the woods. They fought with all they had, Naurel landing several decent blows but a punch to the temple dropped her. Three of the men held her down and started kicking her.

Jaskier had never been a fighter but he swung with everything he had left in an attempt to break free. He managed a small victory shout when he saw blood gushing from one man’s nose but was soon overtaken by the other two. They held his arms behind his back while the bloodied man punched him in the stomach repeatedly. He looked up to see Yennefer coming back toward them with a big stick.

“Jaskier!” Naurel cried out. She heard horses and yelling then saw a sword gleaming through the air dispatching one of the soldier’s head from his body. The other was quickly kicked away from her and then she saw it. Her witcher, his white hair, and leather armor as he fought his way to her.

Jaskier was let go and fell to the ground as the dwarves jumped from a wagon and started attacking the men who were assaulting him. He’d never been so happy to see those tiny, grumpy little bastards before in his life!

Once all of the attackers had been dealt with Geralt knelt to check on Naurel and Jaskier. “I’m so glad to find you alive.”

“How did you find us,” she hugged him tight as he helped her to her feet.

“We have been checking every report of someone being held prisoner or tortured since you were taken. We just heard about a fire mage torturing people in Oxenfurt and came to check it out on our way to Aretuza.” He reached down and helped Jaskier to his feet putting an arm around each of them helping them to the wagon the dwarves had brought.

“Take them to the temple,” he told them.

“Wait no, I’m not letting you leave me Geralt!” Naurel panicked.

“Shhh my love,” he soothed and placed a soft kiss on her lips. “I have to kill a monster then I promise I will be there. Nennenke will be able to heal you and you will be safe there. There is no violence in the temple.”

“But..” she argued.

“Naurel,” he cupped her face in his hands and rested their foreheads together. “Please, my heart, I need to know you are safe.”

“I’m safe with you,” she couldn’t hide her emotions and tears were streaming down her face.

“You can’t go with me to do this. Promise you that I will be there as soon as I can,” he placed a soft kiss on her lips before lowering her to lay back on the straw in the back of the wagon. He covered her and Jaskier with a thick quilt pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s as well. “I will come for you both.”

The dwarves watched the scene play out not used to seeing emotion from Geralt. “Your woman?” Yarpin asked.

Yen chose that moment to move which earned her a sword to the neck. Geralt turned and stared her down. “Mine,” he snarled at her then turned to Yarpin, “She is mine.”

The dwarf nodded and called for his men to mount up as they headed toward the temple.

Geralt glared at Yennefer, not lowering his sword. “Say it,” he demanded.

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[wren-of-the-woods]

your gaze lights the fire

When a close encounter with Rience leaves Jaskier in desperate need of somewhere safe, he goes to the only person he knows will take him in: the prince he swore he’d never see again. Jaskier/Radovid, 5k, rated T. No spoilers for volume 2. Also on AO3!

Jaskier thinks he made his expectations very clear on that wonderful night in the shed with Radovid. 

“If we do this,” he’d said between gasps as Radovid nibbled on his ear, “It can only be for tonight.”

Radovid made a displeased noise against his throat.

“I know,” said Jaskier. “I know, but we can’t. We’re on opposite sides. I can’t give you Ciri, and you can’t see me without endangering her or yourself.”

“I’m already in danger,” said Radovid. He had risen back to be level with Jaskier’s face, and Jaskier could feel the warmth of his breath on his own lips. “We both are.”

“I know,” said Jaskier, “But you know this would make it worse. We can’t do that. I can’t. This can only be tonight.”

“Fine,” Radovid said, “Only tonight.”

That had been that. The night was lovely, even more so than expected, and before dawn Radovid was gone. It was what Jaskier had told him to do. It was what Jaskier said he wanted. 

What a fucking liar he is. 

It isn’t his fault, he likes to think, that he’s turning up on Radovid’s metaphorical doorstep in the middle of the night, drenched by the pouring rain and probably looking rather like a bedraggled rat. He truly had intended to stay away from Radovid, just like he said he would, but when his peaceful evening turns into a nightmare of fire and flame while his magical family is off saving the world, he has little choice but to bolt into the rain and head straight for the only safe haven he can think of. 

“What is your business here?” asks the guard outside the palace. 

“I’m here to see the prince,” says Jaskier. “Radovid. Tell him it’s Jaskier. He’ll know me.”

The guard looks rather doubtful, but shouts the message to someone inside the palace who Jaskier cannot see. He does not let Jaskier step out of the rain as they wait. 

A long, cold few minutes pass as they wait for the messenger’s return. Jaskier is just beginning to consider calling it a loss and fleeing to find some basement or barrel to hide in when the door is flung open, not by a messenger, but by Prince Radovid himself. 

The prince is rather disheveled. He had probably been preparing for bed, if not asleep already. His eyes go wide when he sees Jaskier standing in the mud. 

“Jaskier!” he cries. He goes to step forward, realizes it’s pouring rain, and wisely decides to simply give Jaskier a look that is equal parts bewilderment and concern.

“Can I come in?” asks Jaskier. He tries to make it sound wry, but he thinks it just comes out exhausted. 

“Oh! Yes, of course. Come in.” Radovid steps away from the doorway to let Jaskier in, calling to some servant to bring fresh clothes to Radovid’s room. Jaskier cannot even bring himself to be amused by what the servant must think of this order; he is too busy shivering and trying to keep his feet under him. 

“Follow me,” says Radovid, and Jaskier trails after him without question as they walk through corridors and up stairs. He tries not to drip on the fancy wooden flooring too much. He fails. 

After what feels like ages to Jaskier’s addled mind, but is probably only a few moments, Radovid pushes open a door. Jaskier stumbles into the room without hesitation. He knows it’s stupid not to consider the potential danger, but he’s too entranced by the warm light he can see coming through the doorway to care. 

The room is large and covered in furs. Rich red curtains cover the large windows. In one corner is a four-poster bed, complete with a canopy and curtains. Jaskier realizes belatedly that this is probably Radovid’s bedroom. 

Radovid drags an armchair over to the fire, which has burned down to embers, and gestures for Jaskier to sit. Jaskier feels a little bad for ruining the upholstery with the mud covering his clothing, but not bad enough not to obey. He extends his hands towards the warmth of the coals.

“I’m having a bath sent up,” says Radovid. “It should be here soon.”

“Thank you,” says Jaskier quietly. He should probably be more effusive, but he can’t quite manage it. 

For a moment, awkward silence descends upon the room. 

“Why— what are you doing here?” asks Radovid. He’s obviously been fighting the urge to ask ever since he first saw Jaskier, and Jaskier appreciates that he waited until now. 

Jaskier swallows. He takes a deep breath. He lets it out. 

“I’m asking for asylum, I suppose,” he says. “I’d like to stay here for a few days. I need somewhere safe.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Radovid take a step towards him. “What happened?”

“Rience found me,” he murmurs. “He— well, let’s just say I needed to make a speedy exit.”

Jaskier finally tears his gaze away from the coals, looking up to meet Radovid’s eyes. 

“I can’t give you anything. I can’t give you Ciri. I probably can’t even stay here, because if your spymaster gets wind of my presence I’m fucked, but… Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri are off doing important things who-knows-where, and Rience is after me.”

Jaskier suddenly cannot bear to see the unreadable expression on Radovid’s face, full of feeling. He looks away as he finishes.

“I’m sorry. I know I said we shouldn’t see each other again. I don’t have any incentive to make you let me stay. But I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He glances up at Radovid again. The prince swallows. 

“You don’t need an incentive,” he says quietly. His voice is full of unnamable feeling. Jaskier shudders. 

Radovid takes another step forward. “You’re shivering. I’ll build up the fire—”

“No!” cries Jaskier, rising halfway up out of his chair. 

Radovid stops and looks at Jaskier. His brows are furrowed in what is obviously concern. 

“You’re drenched. You must be freezing. You need to get warm, Jaskier.”

“Not the fire. I—” Jaskier swallows. “The bath will warm me up enough.”

Radovid studies him for a long moment, then nods. “If you’re sure.”

Jaskier lets out a shuddering sigh of relief and sinks back down into the chair. “Thank you.”

For several long moments, there is silence. It is just beginning to become deeply awkward when servants blessedly arrive with water for the bath. 

Radovid quickly moves to direct them through a door that apparently leads to a large bathroom, leaving Jaskier free to sit until they were gone. When everything is ready, he leads Jaskier to the tub, points out the locations of the various soaps and towels, and then politely leaves the room. 

Jaskier makes quick work of removing his clothes and clambering into the tub. The water is so hot that it stings against his chilled skin at first, but as he warms, it becomes heavenly. He is sorely tempted to lounge there until the water goes cold, but he is also acutely aware of the facts that he is filthy and that he is a guest in a place that he is not entirely sure is safe. Reluctantly, he takes the nicest-smelling soap and washes himself. 

By the time he clambers out of the tub, the water is halfway to being mud and he feels worlds better. He dries himself with the fluffiest towel he has ever had the pleasure of encountering and wraps it around his waist when he is done. As much as he would like to have something between himself and the rather chilly air — and the eyes of any servant or friend who might think to visit the prince’s bedchamber, or even the knowing gaze of the prince himself — he is loathe to touch his muddy clothes again if he doesn’t have to. 

He pokes his head back into the bedroom and sees Radovid sitting in the chair Jaskier had occupied earlier, staring at the coals. He looks up the moment Jaskier steps, barefoot, into the room.

“You’re finished?” he asks. 

“Yes.”

“Did you find everything you needed?”

Jaskier hesitates for a moment, then decides there’s no harm in asking. “Um, actually, do you have a robe or something that I could borrow? My clothes are filthy.”

“Oh! Of course.” 

Radovid quickly stands and goes to rifle through what might be the largest closet Jaskier has ever seen. If he weren’t so tired, he might be jealous. Any negative feelings he might have had vanish when Radovid turns and offers him the warmest-looking fur robe Jaskier has ever seen. He shrugs into it without hesitation, keeping the towel around his waist, and sighs happily at the softness of the fabric 

He looks up to see Radovid looking at him with a small smile. The prince turns away hurriedly when he sees Jaskier looking. Jaskier is suddenly very aware of the fact that he is wearing Radovid’s clothes. 

“I can have your clothes washed,” Radovid offers. “They could be done by tomorrow.”

Jaskier hesitates again. It’s a risk, he knows, to agree to this offer; it puts him more deeply in Radovid’s debt, and it would mean running the risk of having what might now be his only clothes lost or recognized as his by a certain spymaster’s agents. But he is already at risk. He wants his clothes to be clean. The earnestness in Radovid’s gaze, the apparently honest desire to help, is very difficult to refuse. 

“All right,” he says. 

Radovid nods, goes to get the clothes, and vanishes into the hall for a moment, presumably in search of a servant. He returns a few minutes later without the clothes and with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours one for himself and hands the other to Jaskier. 

Jaskier takes a small sip of his wine. Radovid does the same. For a moment, there is silence.

“So,” says Jaskier, “What happens now?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” says Radovid. “This is not a situation I’ve encountered before.”

Jaskier smiles halfheartedly. “I thought your time at court wasn’t staid.”

“It isn’t, but this is more adventure than even I am used to.”

“I suppose that’s fair. I don’t imagine there are many other bedraggled bards popping up in your chambers.”

Radovid chuckles a little, then sobers. “I can get you a room. I’m sure we have one empty.”

Jaskier thinks about that for a moment, then grimaces. “That would draw even more attention than I already have. I’d rather keep my presence as a guest unofficial, for now.” He sighs. “Is there a stable or something I can sleep in?”

Radovid balks at that. “You can’t sleep in the cold. You’ve already been wet enough for one evening.”

Jaskier frowns a little, rather taken aback by Radovid’s earnestness. “It would be fine. I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have had to put up with worse,” says Radovid. Jaskier opens his mouth to argue further, but Radovid holds up a hand to silence him. “I’d never forgive myself if you became ill when I could have prevented it. Please, stay.”

Jaskier considers this for a moment. He wouldn’t particularly mind sleeping in Radovid’s room. It would be awkward, certainly, but it’s a very nice room.

“I can sleep on your floor,” he suggests.

Radovid does not look particularly happy with this, either. “I don’t want to make you do that.”

“It’s a very nice floor.” It is: it’s got a thick rug and everything. It is very soft against Jaskier’s bare feet.

“You need the bed more than I do.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to balk. “I’m not making you give up your bed. You’re my host. And also the prince of Redenia. I’d probably be beheaded for treason, or something.”

“No one would know. I can find another room for the night, if you want.”

“I can’t make you do that.” Jaskier is already deep in Radovid’s debt, and besides, there is a deep part of him that does not want to be the reason for the prince’s discomfort. 

They stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse. Even in the palace, the barely-glowing coals mean that the night air is chill against Jaskier’s face. The robe is lovely, but slightly too small to close completely at the front. Goosebumps begin to prickle on his arms.

“You’re cold,” says Radovid softly. “Please. If you won’t take the bed, would you at least let me build up the fire?”

Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to steady his shaky breathing. 

“I— no. Not tonight. I can’t.” 

Despite his best efforts, his voice cracks a little on the last word. He decides to blame his exhaustion, not the intensity of the emotions roiling in his chest, for the mistake.

Jaskier opens his eyes. Radovid looks like he’s going to argue further. Jaskier knows he should stand firm, but he is tired. He is starting to shake a little in the aftermath of the terror and adrenaline of the evening, not to mention his current feelings of uncertainty and hope and other emotions he would rather not name. He is wanting, and he is weak. He takes a leap of faith. 

“We could share the bed,” he says. “I wouldn’t be cold. No one would have to sleep on the floor. It’s a win-win situation.”

Radovid pauses. He studies Jaskier consideringly for a very long moment.

“In the shed,” he says, “You said we could only be together for that night.”

Jaskier swallows. “I did.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“I don’t know.”

Radovid is still studying him intently. Jaskier rubs his thumb along the pads of his fingers. 

“I didn’t intend to come back. I meant to keep my word,” Jaskier murmurs. “Tonight is about necessity.”

“And tomorrow?” 

Jaskier meets his eyes. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

Radovid considers him for another long moment, then nods. “I suppose we will.”

Wordlessly, he gestures at the bed. Jaskier walks over to it and, after only a moment’s hesitation, slides under the covers without removing the robe. He settles on his back, looking up at the red canopy above the bed. The sheets are cool and soft and the furs are softer still. 

He looks up in time to see Radovid taking off his vest and shirt, putting them back in the closet. He keeps his trousers, for which Jaskier is startlingly grateful. After the day he’s had, he is neither physically nor emotionally prepared for anything more than sleep. 

Radovid climbs into the bed beside him, taking the space Jaskier carefully left unoccupied. His caution was hardly necessary, it turns out; this bed is absurdly large. Jaskier supposes it is one of the many benefits of princehood. 

“At the risk of sounding stubborn,” says Radovid quietly, “I really do think we should build up the fire. It’s cold out.”

“And at the risk of sounding repetitive,” Jaskier says, “I would really rather not.”

Radovid is silent. With a sigh, Jaskier rolls over to face him. 

“You want to know why,” he says. 

It isn’t really a question, but Radovid answers it anyway. “I admit to being curious.”

Jaskier sighs deeply, sits up, and starts to climb out of the bed, thinking that he would rather have this conversation standing on the cool floor than here in the strange vulnerability that is found in Radovid’s bed. 

“Wait, where are you going?” says Radovid. He sits up a little, reaches out, and—

Seizes Jaskier’s hand. 

His hand is held firm. The grip on his fingers is tight. He cannot pull away.

His heart pounds. His fingers are warm— burning. He can feel the flames. His breathing speeds up until he’s panting, struggling for air, helpless little whines leaving his throat with each breath without permission. 

He cannot escape. There’s no point in even trying, no point in attempting to avoid the flames he can see coming for him, flickering before his eyes. They are the flames from that very evening that roared as the inn was invaded, burning as he fled helplessly into the twilight, and also those from that horrible night that was over a year ago now, the night that he still wonders if he truly escaped. His ribs hurt— his lungs hurt— he cannot breathe and he cannot escape and he is burning and—

“Jaskier!” shouts a voice that does not belong to Rience.

The grip on his fingers is gone. Instead, there are hands on his shoulder and his cheek. The touch is firm and a little desperate, nothing like the horrid false gentleness of Rience’s caress. Jaskier manages to open eyes he hadn’t realized had been squeezed shut and there in front of him, eyes almost wild with concern, is Radovid. 

Jaskier is sitting on the bed. Radovid is kneeling in front of him. The prince’s hands are still on him. The furs are soft against Jaskier’s knees, but the wood of the headboard is cold and hard and all too familiar against his back. Jaskier jolts forward to get away from it and nearly shoves Radovid in the process. 

Radovid’s other hand goes to Jaskier’s arm, steadying him. Jaskier lets himself slump against Radovid, his forehead landing on the prince’s shoulder. He realizes he is shaking. 

“Shit,” Jaskier says into his the space above his collarbone. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Jaskier?” says Radovid, hesitant. Jaskier can feel him open his mouth, close it, then swallow. “How can I help?”

And Jaskier should not ask it — he swore it was only one night, showing such vulnerability to someone so close to Dijkstra is deeply unwise — but he is too far gone to care. 

“Hold me?” he whispers, and he can feel it when Radovid sucks in a shuddering breath in response.

Radovid shifts closer, moves one of his hands to the space just below Jaskier’s shoulderblades, and uses it to pull him close. Jaskier goes unhesitatingly, letting Radovid guide him until one of the prince’s arms is around his shoulders and the other is rubbing gently up and down his back. Jaskier’s head still rests on Radovid’s shoulder; he inhales deeply, breathing in what must be the scent of the prince’s soap. He can feel Radovid’s chest rising and falling with every breath he takes. Gradually, his own breathing slows to match it.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, after a while. “I— I’m sorry about that.”

Jaskier should be past this, he sometimes thinks. It’s been a year since that terrible night, and he isn’t alone anymore. He has enough powerful friends that, even if Rience did catch him again, he has a decent chance of being rescued before anything bad can happen. Even if he doesn’t, even if he is still in danger, this irrational panic and these fucking flashbacks are not helpful. 

But his heart and mind don’t seem to have got the message, and all he can do is cling tighter to the prince he swore he’d never see again and breathe. 

“Don’t apologize,” says Radovid. 

For a long moment, they stay there in silence. Jaskier breathes. Slowly, his heartbeat begins to return to something resembling normality.

Radovid is the first one to speak. He is hesitant and soft, as though afraid breaking the silence might somehow break Jaskier. Jaskier isn’t quite sure if he feels miffed or grateful.

“Can I ask what happened?” says Radovid.

Jaskier huffs a barely-there laugh into Radovid’s collarbone, still not able to make himself pull away. “I suppose I can answer two of your questions at once, now.”

“What?”

“That happened for the same reason that I don’t want a fire.”

Jaskier can feel Radovid go very, very still. “Oh.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. 

“About a year ago,” he begins, “I met Rience. He was looking for Ciri. Apparently, it’s easier to find a bard singing about heartbreak than it is to find a witcher or a princess on the run. He asked me to tell him where they were. He… was not particularly polite when I refused.” 

“Oh,” says Radovid again, a little shaky. He had made an interested sound when Jaskier mentioned Rience’s name, but his curiosity seems to have given way to sympathetic horror.

“He tortured me,” Jaskier says in a rush, before he can lose his nerve. “Tied me to a chair and beat me and threatened me for hours. Broke my lute, too. At the end, when I still wouldn’t talk, he— uh— he started to burn my hands. My fingers, really. I got rescued before he could do any permanent damage, but he got close.” Jaskier swallows/shudders. “Very close.”

Radovid’s arms tighten around Jaskier until Jaskier isn’t quite sure which of them is clinging to the other. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling tether him to the world around him.

“I don’t do so well with fire, after that,” he murmurs. “Or having my hands grabbed. Or chairs, sometimes.”

“Jaskier,” says Radovid, helpless and pained. Jaskier holds him tighter. 

“I’d rather word of this didn’t get out, by the way,” he says after a long moment. “I don’t particularly want that soot on my reputation.”

“Jaskier, you withstood torture for the sake of the very friend who’d given you reason to write Burn Butcher Burn. That bravery would be the farthest thing from a blemish on your reputation.”

Jaskier could not help a small smile at the earnestness in Radovid’s voice. 

“Perhaps,” he says, “But I find that life is easier if bravery is not a word associated with my name. A foolish bard can get away with much more than a cunning one, sometimes. I think you, of all people, understand that.”

“I do,” says Radovid. Jaskier fancies he can hear the small smile in Radovid’s voice when he adds, “You wear your mask well.”

“So do you.” Jaskier pauses for a moment, then smirks. “Although, I think you’d look damn good no matter what you wore.”

Radovid laughs a little at that. For a while, they are silent. 

“He came back for you tonight,” Radovid says after a long moment, as though he’s only just remembered. “Rience. That’s who you were running from. He found you.”

“He did,” Jaskier says. He thinks he does a good job of keeping his voice steady despite the leftover panic that tries to clamber up his throat.

“Fuck,” says Radovid, and despite the situation, Jaskier manages to be a little amused at having driven the prince to utter the first profanity Jaskier has heard from his lips. “Are you all right?”

“I’m uninjured, I promise,” says Jaskier. He fiddles with the edge of his robe with one hand. “I’m very good at running.”

“He won’t get to you again,” says Radovid. Jaskier is not entirely sure if he’s trying to reassure Jaskier or himself. “One of us will find him — Redenia, or your witcher, or someone else — and we’ll get rid of him. You’ll be safe.”

Jaskier does not know if he believes him. He is grateful anyway. “Thank you.”

He can feel Radovid’s chest fall as he lets out a long sigh. It’s only a little shaky. 

“We should sleep,” Radovid says after another long moment of silence. “You’re exhausted.”

“Probably,” says Jaskier reluctantly. He is loathe to leave his comfortable position in Radovid’s arms, but he knows that Radovid is right. 

Slowly, they untangle themselves from each other. Jaskier climbs back under the covers, taking the same place he occupied before, lying on his back and staring at the canopy. Radovid waits until he is settled before getting into the bed beside him. 

For a long while, there is silence. Jaskier cannot bring himself to close his eyes. His chest still feels too tight, his heart too fast. He knows that Radovid is still awake beside him; his breathing has not slowed. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asks eventually, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“I’m thinking that I wish you could stay,” murmurs Radovid, earnest and soft. 

Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment. If he doesn’t, he suspects he will feel the prickling of tears before long.

“So do I,” he says, and he is past the point of caring that there is far too much honesty in his voice. “But I can’t. Not for long.”

“I know. It’s not safe.”

Jaskier frowns. He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side, so that he can see Radovid’s face. The prince is already on his side, looking directly at Jaskier. His expression is troubled.

“You once made a whole speech about how safe Redenia would be for Ciri,” says Jaskier. It isn’t really a question, but he thinks it will do. 

“Times change. I was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“Dijkstra murdered my brother’s wife and told me I could be next.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “That’d do it.”

Radovid smiles. It is obviously halfhearted. Jaskier reaches across the space between them and rests a hand on Radovid’s where it lies on a pillow.

“Are you safe?” he asks.

“I think so. As safe as I can be.” Radovid pauses. He turns his hand so he can, slowly and with great gentleness, lace his fingers with Jaskier’s. “Safer than you are most of the time, probably.”

Jaskier huffs a small laugh. “Probably. I’m very good at getting into trouble.”

“It makes for good songs.”

Jaskier squeezes Radovid’s hand. Usually, he would say something cocky or make a joke at that, but tonight he has no desire for little lies. “I’m glad you think so.”

Radovid smiles. It is small, but this time it is real. The sight warms Jaskier’s heart. He realizes, suddenly, that he cannot bear the thought of this man being hurt.

He shouldn’t say it. It’s a risk. He should keep his secret, on the off chance that he’s ever able to resume his work as the Sandpiper, and leave the future to its own devices, but he doesn’t know if it will matter. Philippa and Dijkstra probably know all the Sandpiper’s secrets, anyway. And, most importantly, Radovid might need him. 

“If you ever need to get out of here,” he says slowly, “Go to the tavern by the docks at Oxenfurt and tell the owner you need the Sandpiper. She can contact me, and she should know of several safehouses where you can hide. We can make you disappear.”

Radovid looks at him for a long, long moment. 

“You’re incredible,” he says. “Have I mentioned that?”

Jaskier gets a lot of praise. He has a lot of fans. None of it has prepared him for how it feels to be complimented, so genuinely and so unexpectedly, by someone like Radovid.

He swallows. It would probably be wise to stop talking — to keep up the pretense of this interaction being solely the product of necessity — but Jaskier has never been wise.

“Why the fuck aren’t we cuddling right now?” he asks. It startles a laugh out of Radovid. 

“I truly have no idea,” he says, and suddenly they are moving. 

There is a long moment of confused rearranging involving a few near misses when elbows get perilously close to stomachs. At one point, Jaskier tries to get Radovid to rest his head on his chest while Radovid is simultaneously trying to tuck Jaskier up against his side. Eventually Radovid puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to still him.

“You’re the one who almost died tonight,” he says. “Let me hold you.”

Jaskier likes the sound of that, and he cannot argue with the earnestness in Radovid’s voice. He lets himself be rolled over so that his back is to the prince, and the tenderness of Radovid’s hands helps to chase away the ghost of Rience’s touch on his skin. 

Radovid presses up against Jaskier’s back. He tangles his legs with Jaskier’s and, gently, puts his arm over him so his palm rests over Jaskier’s heart. Jaskier can feel his chest rising and falling against his back and the warmth of his breath on the nape of his neck. He has to work to keep from shuddering.

“Is this all right?” Radovid asks, and Jaskier is startled for a moment that Radovid does not realize just how perfect it is.

“Yes,” says Jaskier. He presses back against Radovid to make his point, despite the impossibility of getting any closer to the prince, and puts his hand on Radovid’s arm. Radovid holds him tighter, and when he smiles, Jaskier can feel the movement of his face against the back of his neck.

They lapse into silence, but unlike before, it is not unbearable. Jaskier can hear and feel every breath that Radovid takes, and his touch, somehow both comfortingly familiar and beautifully new, keeps Jaskier grounded in the present. He is not with Rience. He is not in immediate danger. He is not alone. 

Jaskier does not fall asleep yet, but neither does he panic. He is, for once, content to simply be here, to enjoy this moment safe in the arms of the man for whom his feelings run deeper than he would ever have expected. He feels the beginnings of a song stirring in the back of his mind and follows the threads, weaving together a melody. Softly, he begins to hum.

“What song is that?” asks Radovid. His voice is soft, as though he is afraid the moment will break if he speaks too loudly. 

“I’m not sure yet,” murmurs Jaskier, matching his volume. “I’m composing.”

“Oh,” says Radovid. The sound is almost reverent. It makes something achingly warm and tender curl around Jaskier’s heart. 

“I think,” he says slowly, “That the song is about how fire is not always necessary.”

Radovid makes a curious sound against Jaskier’s neck. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not cold anymore,” says Jaskier. “Not with you here.”

“Oh,” says Radovid again, rather wetly. It sounds as though he might be close to tears, and Jaskier can hardly believe that such a lovely man lets Jaskier’s words have this power over him. Radovid presses his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder and clings to him. 

After a moment, Radovid takes a deep breath. Jaskier rather thinks it sounds like he is bracing himself. He listens curiously.

“I thought,” says Radovid slowly, “That you’d had enough of singing unspoken words of love.”

Radovid’s voice is very deliberate when he says the word love. Jaskier knows what Radovid is asking; he knows what word he is being given the opportunity to deny.

“You inspire me, I suppose,” he says. He does not deny it.

“I’m glad,” says Radovid, and the sincerity in his voice almost takes Jaskier’s breath away.

“I don’t think this is about necessity anymore,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that. I’m glad I came here tonight.”

“So am I,” says Radovid. 

Jaskier laughs a little. “Even though I interrupted your peaceful night’s sleep?”

“You could never be an interruption, Jaskier.”

Even Jaskier cannot find the words to respond to that, at first, so he puts his hand on Radovid’s forearm and holds tight, hoping that Radovid can guess at the multitude of tender feelings curled around his heart. 

“Neither could you,” he manages to say after a moment. 

Softly, so tenderly that Jaskier’s spine tingles, Radovid presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier sighs, shuddering a little, and presses into the touch.

“Sleep,” Radovid whispers. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

And, when Jaskier drifts into dreamless slumber in Radovid’s arms, he is warm.

#the witcher #radovid #jaskier #radskier #radovid x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #wren writes #man i cut this really close #because the fic just kept getting LONGER #but it's out before volume 2!!! #behold :D #here be hurt/comfort and feels and excessive amounts of cuddling #it's quite sappy really