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wherethewordsare · 3 years

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Right Where You Left Me

Real quick. Two things. Thank you @kuripon for being just an absolute gem and beta reading this for me. I’m sorry for all of my yelling. You’re an actual factual life saver.

SECONDLY!! Some Content Warnings upfront: Post Mountain, Post Torture, Near Death Experiences, Descriptions of Injury (though not graphic.) and some mild drugging. Just... Jaskier Wump ahead. Happy ending though, I swear.

Jaskier felt it in his bones, the way his body was starting to give out. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. They had been zealous in his interrogations, all of them. He huddled in the corner of his cell and took a deep breath, wincing at how it pressed against his broken ribs. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking him, not mentally at least. Bodily however, he knew he didn’t have much left to give.

They had pulled him off the road to Oxenfurt as he was returning from the dragon hunt. Though he was still broken-hearted and angry, he still wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to be responsible for one more heap of shit shoveled in Geralt’s life, maybe it was because despite the way his heart broke, he would still remain loyal to that bastard.

He coughed, his body shaking, and he knew that the next time they came to collect him for the information he would not give, they would only find his body but Jaskier would be well far away from this hell. At least he thought so.

Large hands gripped him and hauled him up and when his feet did not find purchase on their own, he was scooped up and carried. He might have heard a small huff and a hum that sounded familiar but he had been hearing that everywhere recently. His eyes had been swollen shut for the past day and what he could see was merely a blurry collection of lines.

Jaskier ached and he was so tired and there was a sickening feeling like the world had turned the wrong way for a moment. Still the guard held him, silent as he was carried. Jaskier was determined not to go out without at least a few biting remarks but his mind was so muddled and his throat had been screamed raw weeks ago.

“You’ll never find him,” he wheezed, choking on the words as the figure laid him down on-

Jaskier knew he must have finally snapped. The surface under him was soft and there was a blanket, warm and clean being pulled over him.

“He’s worse than I’d have imagined,” said a voice he couldn’t quite place, a woman’s voice that made something old and familiar turn in his gut.

“He’ll make it. Jaskier’s always been a stubborn shit,” came another voice, gruff and also familiar. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries and he didn’t have time to really think about it before he was slipping into darkness.

Jaskier woke slowly, his mind fighting back against the hazy sleep that kept pulling him down time and time again as he slowly realized his body was healing. It still hurt, but the pain wasn’t as deep. There was something warm pressed against his face, gently rubbing against his cheeks and forehead and a soft humming. He wanted to turn into the presence and cling to the comfort that washed over him.

The cloth pulled away from his face and he knew the whimpering he had heard was his own as he tried to chase the feeling again. A large warm hand cupped his cheek, calloused fingers grazing against his jaw. He could weep with how good it felt after months upon months of that dungeon and those guards and their mages.

“Can you hear me, Jask?” someone murmured only inches from him. Jaskier could feel the tips of his hair brush against his neck. “Jask, you have to wake up.” His voice sounded tight and wounded. “I’m-” Geralt made a hurt noise as a thumb brushed his temple.

“Hmm, G-rlt?” He turned his face into the palm that held him, sighing as though it had been the balm to all his aches. The hollow pang of loss in his chest flared again as he slowly gained his bearings. Oh, this wasn’t a dream but a nightmare. Geralt, the Geralt he knew wouldn’t touch him like this, wouldn’t be this soft. The Geralt he knew, the one that had thrown those words at him on the mountain, wouldn’t care about him now, not like this.

Tears came unbidden. He had been so careful not to let the guards of Nilfgaard see him break but some tricks were far too cruel not to hit their mark. He tried to pull away from the hand, fighting every fiber of himself that wanted it to be real, needed it to mean he was safe. He sobbed as his heart finally cracked open.

“Jaskier, no. No no, you’re-” Firm hands lifted him up gently by the shoulders and he felt his head rest against a broad chest as he was being cradled. The feeling turned his stomach and he struggled to pull away.

“You might need to axii him,” came another male voice from somewhere beyond Jaskier’s senses and the chest under his head expanded with a sigh.

“I don’t want to make it feel like I tricked him, I need him to believe it’s real,” Geralt said from above him, those calloused fingers now sliding into his hair.

“Geralt, he’s not with it yet. Just let him sleep a little longer,” said the voice. This one he didn’t recognize.

Jaskier tried to thrash, to pull away. He wanted to fight this but he had no more fight in him to give. The man above him sighed again, almost sadly and Jaskier felt a twinge of magic against his scalp. By his cheek, a round metal piece seemed to hum for a moment and then there was darkness again.

The next time Jaskier woke, he was alone in a large room, cocooned in a pile of furs and pillows. The room was bright and outside the window, a craggy landscape stretched as far as he could see. It smelled of pine and clean air and the very tail end of summer.

“You’re awake, bard.” A man walked in, carrying a tray with what looked like a bowl and two cups, steam rising from all of them.

“Where am I?” Jaskier croaked, wincing at how his words scraped against his throat. He knew he wouldn’t be singing again any time soon.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, home of the witcher keep and the school of the wolf,” he gave a smile that tugged at the scars that ran along the one side of his face though he had let his hair fall in a way that looked like it was meant to hide them.

“You’re a witcher?” Jaskier found himself leaning away slightly, not trusting his own eyes.

“Last time I checked, yes. Eskel. It’s good to finally meet Geralt’s bard,” Eskel set the tray down on the edge of the bed and backed away to give Jaskier room. He sat in a dusty arm chair in the corner, fishing a book from his pocket.

“I’m not Geralt’s anything,” Jaskier said automatically. It had been what he had told Nilfgaard, again and again and again, even as they continued to break his bones and burn his skin and invade his mind. “Geralt isn’t anything to me,” he added, swallowing around the taste of ash in his mouth.

“Eat, then we’ll talk,” Eskel only gave him a small smile and turned back to his book.

Jaskier looked down at the tray. One cup remained and the bowl, a broth with onions and small bits of root vegetable floating in it. Jaskier immediately recognized it as the same soup Geralt had made when he had caught a fever a few years back. He picked up the tea, foregoing the broth for the moment, not ready to swallow those memories just yet.

It occurred to him that all of this may have been some kind of trick. He had never met Geralt’s brothers in arms, he had never been to Kaer Morhen. Maybe they thought he had and they were waiting for him to mess up. But there was nothing to mess up any further.

Eskel lifted the other cup of tea that Jaskier hadn’t seen him take, sipping slowly as he disappeared into his book. “Broth too, bard.” It felt like a gentle chide, though he glanced up with an easy smile.

“Are all witchers this bossy?” Jaskier grumbled as he lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping. It turned out to be nothing like the broth Geralt had made him, this was so much better. The moment the liquid touched his lips, he realized he was famished. He made only a small attempt to go slow at first before simply tilting the bowl back to drink it down. It burned his throat but it warmed his limbs with a deep kind of comfort.

When the bowl was empty, Jaskier leaned back against the headboard, cup of tea in hand. He let the quiet stretch between them for a few moments, Eskel still in his book, Jaskiser in his thoughts.

“Now, let’s start with the easy stuff,” Eskel set his book aside but made no move to stand or come near Jaskier. “We heard Nilfgaard had you about six months back. We finally managed to get you out four weeks ago. You were not in good shape but you’re doing better now.”

It had just frosted when he was taken from the road, Jaskier thinks. Now it looked to be the end of summer. He had been captive for almost a year. He took a sip of his tea and nodded.

“So this isn’t a trick?” He said flatly, curling his toes to test his minimal strength. They ached with the rest of him.

“No. We understand that you’re going to take some time to trust that, but we’re not going to rush you. Anything you want to know, we’ll answer to the best of our ability and you are, of course, welcome to stay here,” Eskel looked down then, scuffing his boots along the floor boards. He seemed to be trying to word his next statement carefully.

“You’re asking that I choose to stay peacefully. I’m not a captive, but leaving isn’t a good option,” Jaskier bit out. The tea and broth and rest had rekindled a fire in his gut that Nilfgaard hadn’t quite managed to bank and he felt like he was burning with it.

“Just for now, till we know it’s going to be safe for you,” Eskel shot back. He rubbed his hands on his thighs.

“Safe for Geralt and his child surprise you mean. I’ve seen your hidden fortress and am now a liability,” He knew it to be true but it didn’t take the sting out any more.

“Jaskier, that’s not fair. Geralt-” Eskel clicked his mouth shut quickly.

“Oh no, no no, go on. Tell me what that asshole said, hmm? Did he mention that he threw me aside? Is that why you’re worried I’ll turn him in so quickly? They had me for three seasons and the most I gave them was trouble,” Jaskier shook, suddenly exhausted. He found that he struggled to keep his eyes opened and he looked back down at the bowl of soup. “At least you had the decency not to axii me this time,” he spat.

Darkness took him again, but before it did he heard another voice from the door, “I’m sorry, Jask.”

He was alone the next time he came to, though he hadn’t been moved to any kind of dungeon which was a relief. His chest tightened at the thought of going from being the prisoner of an army to the prisoner of someone he had once considered his friend.

He stood slowly, letting his weight shift gently onto the balls of his feet as he made to get up. He nearly collapsed again, grunting at the way his muscles refused to hold him. He scolded himself for not having seen it coming. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood, let alone walked under his own volition.

Jaskier took a deep breath as he let his fingers pry gently along his healing body. He found that the worse of the damage had been healed though he still ached and he was certain he would have to rebuild his strength again. It would take time, time that he probably had now that he was a resident of circumstance in Kaer Morhen. All those years he had wished of coming here and how he longed to be anywhere else.

He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. He had just wanted to go home and forget the war and the witcher and the mountain.

The tap on the door made him jump but when he looked up, Geralt was standing there. He was without his armor, his hair pulled back, and his arms crossed over his chest. Geralt frowned at him, his brows knitted together.

“Jaskier,” he started then stopped again, his jaw clicking shut as he shifted. He didn’t budge from the door, only looked out the window as he took a deep breath.

“I won’t fight. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. I-” It was Jaskier’s turn to look away. He hadn’t had much time to consider just how he might have made it out of a heavily guarded Nilfgaardian fort alive but with Geralt standing there looking all the world like a man put out by one underfoot bard, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. “You didn’t have to come rescue me. I would have-” he swallowed around his next words. I would have still protected you with my last breath, Geralt. “Thank you, anyway.”

Geralt rubbed his face and took a hesitant step forward before retreating back to the door again. “Jaskier, why?” There was something wrong with Geralt’s voice, like it had been rubbed and frayed.

“Why? Why am I staying? Because I don’t really have much choice, do I? Apparently I’m not done healing, and now I know where you and your child surprise are hiding, I’m a liability, aren’t I?” He let his hands fall into his lap in defeat.

“I don’t want you to stay,” Geralt said quickly, his hands coming up in surrender. He looked up for a moment and shook his head before he opened his mouth again.

Jaskier felt like his heart had finally snapped. “Right, well. Now that we have that settled, I’ll just give myself enough time to get up to snuff and then I will be on my way, shall I? Should have known you didn’t want me here.” He sounded wounded, even to his own ears. “Don’t understand why you went through all that trouble to rescue me if,” Jaskier tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears there to not fall. They did anyway.

“I didn’t mean to shovel more shit, Geralt. I don’t know why you didn’t just let me die in there doing the one thing I’ve always tried to do,” he looked at Geralt then, wincing, “try to make your life a little easier.”

“I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to,” Geralt said softly. He took a hesitant step forward as though Jaskier had the strength to cause any real damage to anyone other than himself. “You didn’t give me up, even after the way I… after the hunt,” Geralt rubbed his face. “I just don’t understand why you did it, why you wouldn’t tell them even as they…” His words trailed off and they both seemed surprised to find that he had knelt down beside Jaskier, his hands wrapping around one of Jaskier’s. “Why did you do that, Jaskier?”

“You’re a fucking fool,” Jaskier spat. “Because I love you. Because I’ve loved you for nearly twenty years and even after you tore my heart out, I couldn’t bring myself to give you over,” Jaskier cried. He could feel Geralt fighting down a flinch where their fingers met and a small part of him was pleased. He was shaking, his mouth impossibly dry as he pressed his free hand to his eyes. “Geralt, how did I get here?”

Geralt moved to sit beside him on the bed, not letting go of his hand, his eyes never quite meeting Jaskier’s. He was getting his words together, Jaskier knew and he gave him the time.

“We had heard they had a travel companion of a witcher. There are… very few of those who exist, let alone one Nilfgaard would be interested in. When we sprang Yennefer, she confirmed that she had heard you had been taken prisoner too,” Geralt gave a small smile then. “She had heard that you would just sing to them, all of your songs instead of giving them information.” He sounded almost proud as he said it, but then his face fell.

Jaskier sat in stunned silence, trying to pay attention to Geralt’s words as he seemed to hyperfocus on the warmth of his hands around his own. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, trying to make sense of what was happening. Either his confession was going to be left unacknowledged or Geralt was working up to let him down easily for once. He had to beat him to the punch for once.

“I’ll get my strength back and then I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. I’ll lay low, maybe head to Creyden or somewhere out of the way.” He clasped his hands together, pressing where his skin was still warm from Geralt’s touch. Twenty years of wanting stuck in his throat. Then he thought of the mountain and swallowed them down again. He had always been good at that.

“You don’t have to leave here, Jaskier. You’ll be safe,” Geralt said, tilting his head down slightly to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“I’d be in the way,” Jaskier reasoned.

“You…” Geralt sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “No, Jask, you wouldn’t. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped here. Just… Give me some time?” Geralt winced as he looked back at Jaskier.

“What am I doing here, Geralt? I don’t want to be kept around just to absolve you of some guilt you’re carrying,” Jaskier asked again.

Geralt made a low noise, somewhere between wounded and relieved. “I shouldn’t have yelled, it’s true, and it’s my fault they took you in the first place. But I brought you here, because this is where I wanted you, where I thought I could keep you safe.” His jaw worked for a moment as he chose his next words carefully, though he seemed stuck.

“I don’t get it. Help me understand, Geralt. I didn’t even think you cared,” Jaskier frowned, his fingers fidgeting.

Geralt looked up at him and his eyes had gone soft around the edges. “I’m a fucking fool.” His hand came up and cupped Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears Jaskier could no longer hold back. He couldn’t help but lean into the touch, his stomach swooping. “I love you, I’ve loved you for… far longer than I was willing to admit.”

Jaskier gave a soft laugh, trying to cover his sob. “What the fuck do you witchers put in your soup?”

Geralt went still for a moment before he snorted, ducking his head. “It’s the onion.”

Jaskier gasped as he pulled away from Geralt dramatically. He only just managed not to start cackling. “I knew this was a trap! The Geralt I knew would never-” a pillow hit him in the face, knocking him back. He grinned madly from where he had landed only for it to be lost into a yawn. He hadn’t realized how taxing the conversation had been.

Geralt stood, leaning over to adjust Jaskier’s bedding. “Rest, bard. You’ve still got healing to do and we have a lot to talk about.” He hesitated for a moment before leaning down, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jaskier let himself settle into the bed again as he watched Geralt leave the room. He felt it in his bones, the way his body melted into the furs around him. He’d be on his feet in no time and he was free to follow them wherever they took him, though he knew he’d still happily follow Geralt anywhere he went.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jaskier wump #injury #rescue #hurt/comfort #cw: main character near death #cw: trauma #cw: injury #cw: drugging #cw: post torture #cw: near death #use of axii #i'm sure i'm missing some tags here #and am open to suggestions #long fic #jay writes

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

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Thicker Than Water (Part 8)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, (here)

Ao3 link HERE

Please note, this is pretty heavy, it deals with a lot of common insecutiries for adults with ADHD and Jaskier blames himself for a lot of things, but it’s not triggering in the traditional sense. Much of this fic has been about the ways Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria and other ADHD symptoms can cause self-destructive actions, this focuses on other insecurities, common blames, and then the self-isolation that can come from guilt, even unfounded guilt.

Please remember, in this fic’s world Geralt and Jaskier actually do have a loving and pretty healthy friendship, albeit with communication issues. People fight some times, these are just ways in which RSD can mess with healthy relationships.

OTHER TW: Mentioned child abuse.

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Yennefer and Ciri asked Jaskier to come down for supper that evening. Between lunch and dinner he’d napped, evidently passing out wasn’t the same as actual good-quality rest and his body was demanding it’s due. Evening came around, though and Yen took his elbow to help him stand.

They walked at a slow pace down the hall, Jaskier’s body not up for much more. Ciri stuck behind them, but the pace was embarassingly painstaking.

“Ciri,” Yennefer said. “This is a lot for Jaskier, and will take some time, why don’t you go see if they need help in the kitchen?”

Ciri gave one more concerned look at Jaskier, then bounded off.

Yennefer steered Jaskier to an alcove in the stone of the hallway. He was embarrassed to find himself out of breath.

“What are you going to do?” She asked him. She wasn’t asking about his lungs.

“Eat supper I suppose.”

“I mean about Geralt.”

He knew she meant Geralt, and sighed. “I don't know, Ciri says I'm angry and I am...”

“But?”

“That day on the mountain I didn’t give him space,” Jaskier said, feeling a lump grow in his throat, blocking off his already small air supply.

“I never know when to give people space, I never have, I've been working on it my whole life and I still don't understand.” His chest ached. With emotion, with pneumonia, with tiredness. With shame.

“I’ve always been different, you know?” He looked up at Yennefer. He was taller than her but she sat regally, and he was hunched over, conserving his air.

“In stories being different is usually a good thing, you get cool powers and people love you, but life isn’t like that. And being different is...it’s so much worse when you’re a kid.”

“I know,” Yennefer said. Those purple eyes...she knew. She understood, probably better than anyone. There were parts of her story that Jaskier didn’t have, wasn’t entitled to, but she understood.

“I cant do things I'm not interested in, not don’t want to, can’t. Even if I am interested, they don't always get done,” Jaskier whispered, like he was confessing to a priest, not a barely-friendly witch in a cold hallway.

“I’m nothing but a ball of loose ends, tangled up and bouncing around, running into people and making them as tangled as I am,” Jaskier said. It came out half-sobbed, which upset his breathing and he began to wheeze, then cough.

“If I’m not interested in something, if nothing lights up my mind, I get so sad and tired it’s like this horrible weight.” Jaskier kept talking, feeling the emotions fighting to get out. “Being around people helps, I can get things done, be more normal. And interesting people, oh they’re the best, of course. They keep that awful sad, tired feeling away because they’re always interesting.”

He looked down at his knees, wrapped in their battered trousers.

“But I need to be around them so much,” he whispered. “And I’m too much for anyone to want around long.”

He leaned his head against the cold stone of the alcove wall, staring blankly and watching as his field of vision blurred with tears.

“I’m dramatic,” he said.

“You’re a bard.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Dad called me a pansy, among worse things. He tried to beat it out of me. I just, I seem to feel more than other people. Happy is more happy, but sadness, fear, rejection, they’re all so much worse. I overreact and it makes me hard to deal with.”

He felt a tear roll down and get caught in the scruff on his chin. “I need people though, and I need people to like me. Crowds come and go I just needed one person to like me so I forced it to be Geralt.”

Jaskier was crying in ernest now, full tears falling and shoulders shaking, clogging up his breathing so his cries mingled painfully with coughs. Yennefer reached out and pulled at his shoulder, bringing him up from his hunched over position.

“I’m angry at him even though it was my fault,” he said, wretchedly.

“I followed him and took advantage of the fact that he doesn’t talk because he wont tell me to go away. I took advantage of his patience like that so someone could keep me around and I let myself believe that he actually wanted me around, that just one person could bear being around me. And being with him left me time to go seek out other interests, go ahead or stay behind, I never got bored and it was perfect for me and probably hell for him.”

Jaskier sniffled, looking away and studying the wall because he couldn’t bear to see the condemnation that would surely be on Yennefer’s face.

“And I fell in love with him. Which was stupid because I've been using him this entire time,” he whispered.

“I used him for music and money, then I used him to bandage my self esteem and its all my fault.”

Jaskier finally managed to look at Yennefer and saw that she was actually rolling her eyes.

“It’s not your fault, he was on a horse, you were walking, he could have left you behind anywhere.”

“He’s too kind to leave me to die on my own.”

“What about towns?” Yennefer asked. “What about the djinn?”

“The djinn was my fault.”

“The djinn was his fault,” Yennefer said, stubbornly.

“The djinn was my fault, I thought he was joking. He’d do that, you know? I’d ask him what he was doing and he’d say ‘cooking a unicorn’ or ‘hunting a gabledegook’ so I just thought he was joking again because I thought surely a djinn was only a story. Even if they weren’t there was no reason Geralt would want one. I made horrible wishes, they could have ruined lives, can you imagine?”

“I can.”

Of course she could. It had been stupid of him to say that, Yennefer knew better than anyone how a careless wish, or even a not so careless one, could turn out.

“I have to ask,” Jaskier said, since Yennefer didn’t seem in the mood to turn him into a salamander. “Did geralt wish for you to love him?”

“He wished for me to be bound to him the sex was just...adrenaline, magic, wanting another outsider, a little bit of the djinn. I won’t do it again.” She said, fervently.

“You don’t have to promise that, I have no claim to him,” Jaskier said.

“No one has claim to anyone,” Yennefer snapped. “But you love him. Anyway, I wasn’t telling you, I don’t want him. I don’t want sex with him I want his destiny, our destiny, nothing more.”

“I love him very much,” Jaskier said, after she settled from her outburst.

“Have you ever told him?”

Never, he might think he owes me something.”

“I think you think he’s more self sacrificing than he is. He wouldn't date you out of obligation, he’s not that sort of man.”

Jaskier tilted his head back against the stone. “But he feels guilty, for everything, all the time. What if he did it as an apology.”

“Geralt wouldn't do you the disservice of a pity relationship.”

“We had a pity friendship.”

“You didn't.”

“We did.”

Yennefer peered at him with those strange eyes. “You love him though.”

“I do.”

“I don’t think its a lost cause.”

“I do.”

Yennefer shifted, pulling her hair over one shoulder. “When I asked earlier, I meant what do you want to do after this? Do you even want to see Geralt?”

“Oh gods I rambled and --”

“Shut up, you needed it off your chest.”

Jaskier sighed. “I always want to see Geralt, but I don't think I should be around him. He needs more space than most people and I need less. I do want an apology, I don't want him to grovel, I don’t want him to beg for me back in his life because that's a choice I want him to make on his own. I don’t even need him to tell me through speech because I know that can be hard. He could write a letter.I just...”

“And if you got an apology?”

“I intend to apologize first. I’ll apologize, maybe he’ll apologize, and that way we can at least be friendly, if not friends. And then in the spring I’ll leave, take a different path and it won’t matter anymore.”

I won’t be able to hurt him anymore, Jaskier thought, darkly.

“Nilfgaard wants you,” Yennefer warned.

“I know,” Jaskier sighed. “I may have to fake my death or... oh!” He looked up at Yen, smiling even as he wanted to cough.

“You can wipe my memory!”

Yennefer actually recoiled.

Jaskier’s excitement had set off the coughing and he felt it tear through his throat and squeeze at his ribs until the fit eased.

“I’m not wiping your memory,” Yennefer said, severely.

“Why not? Yen, it’s the perfect solution, and Nilfgaard couldn’t get anything out of me.”

“And Geralt get’s his damned wish,” Yennefer snarled.

Jaskier looked down. “I know he didn’t mean it, he’s a good man, he wouldn’t wish anyone gone in that way, but yes, that wish would be granted and I’d never bother him again.”

“Geralt has a habit of making stupid wishes that he doesn’t actually want granted,” Yennefer snapped.

“You’re supposed to be on his side,” Jaskier said, smiling wetly. “It’s my fault, remember?”

“I don’t think even Geralt’s on Geralt’s side,” Yennefer said. “I won’t take your memories. You wouldn’t remember anything.”

Jaskier deflated. “I guess I’m as good as dead if I can’t remember songs or how to play the lute.”

Yennefer shifted uncomfortably.

“I would forget how to play, wouldn’t I?”

“Well...” she said. “No. You would remember anything you’d learn, knowledge isn’t memories, you know? You’d even know your songs, just not why you knew them or that you’d written them.”

“If you won’t do it, is there a mage who will? I’d only need to get to a city, how much do you think a spell like that would cost?”

Yennefer groaned. “No, bard, I’ll do it. If it’s what you still want, if you’re sure at the end of winter, yes, I’ll take your memories. It’s better than some quack doing it, or worse, turning you in to Nilfgaard but...I don’t like it.”

Jaskier was surprised to see her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I won’t take that choice from you,” she said, blinking hard. “But I hope it’s not the one you make.” She sniffed, she tried to make it seem disdainful but it was definitely tearful.

“Anyway,” she said. “What about Ciri? She adore’s you, if you didn’t remember her it would break her heart.”

Jaskier waved a hand. “I”m only a storyteller,” he said, wishing bitterly that it wasn’t true. “She has a whole marvelous family full of stories they can tell her.”

“Didn’t you hear her, she doesn’t feel like this is a family,” Yennefer said, sharply.

“We’ll fix that.”

“So that you can abandon her, you mean?”

Jaskier grimaced. “It’ll be safer for her. Even if I traveled with Geralt, there’s no guarantee Nilfgaard wouldn’t take me, wouldn’t read my mind and put her in danger.” He looked Yennefer right in the eyes. “I won’t let myself hurt her.”

Yennefer hung her head. “We’ll discuss it at the end of winter,” she said. “Do you still feel up to dinner?”

Jaskier thought about it. He felt lighter, in a way, unburdening himself of the guilt he’d been carrying was better, but he was exhausted, and his chest felt raw.

“I think I’d rather eat in my rooms,” he said sheepishly.

He ate dinner alone, wishing he wasn’t but he was practicing giving people space, and he felt proud of himself for it. He only had to continue it, apologize, and get through the winter.

Then he’d never remember he had problems to begin with.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They will get there. Please read the note at the top, these are all very common ADHD insecurities and relationship problems. Remember, Geralt is not the villain. He needs to apologize, and he’s trying, but the villain is the insecurity.

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @samukai @charlies-dragon @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @morte-mistrata @mewithanie @sharondnovels @stinastar @ionlylikemycat @annafortoday @its-the-quenchiest-stuff @kkiyomizu @so--many-fandoms @endless-whump @ineffable-monster-romancer @tookarma @seraphim-miryam @sweetiepieplum @nerdy-numinuos @ravenclaw-dirt

#the witcher #angst #not much comfort yet #yennefer is a very good friend #geraskier #not yet tho #ADHD! Jaskier #rejection sensitive dysphoria #Autistic! Geralt #who is not the bad guy here #insecurity and lack of communication is the bad guy #Geralt is mentioned to be occasionally nonverbal

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trekkiepirate · 3 years

Text

Master of All

My Witcher Secret Santa gift for @motionalocean! @thewitchersecretsanta

Crossposted to AO3 HERE

nearly 9.2K of BAMF!Jaskier and Geralt being progressively more smitten. 5 Times Jaskier Is Good At Things Geralt Didn't Expect And The 1 Thing He Knew Jaskier Was Good At. PG-13 for bad words, canon-typical violence, and the +1 Under cut because it’s hella long.

1. Pickpocketing

“Well,” Jaskier huffed, “I sincerely hope you missed one of those ghouls and they come back and eat this whole rotten village. Starting with that alderman. No, starting with his appalling son who has the AUDACITY to claim he was a better singer than me. My gods, Geralt, I don’t even think I’ll complain of the lack of a roof and a bed this evening. Sleeping under the stars with my very dear friend-“

“-not friends,” Geralt huffed.

The interruption entirely ignored by Jaskier. “-who is twice, thrice, no no no ten, a hundred, a THOUSAND times the man that they could ever dream of being. Asking a man-“

“-not a man,” Geralt said, expecting, correctly, Jaskier would ignore this comment too.

Jaskier, instead, whirled and looked at Geralt like he had punched him. Actually, he looked more upset than when Geralt has, in fact, punched him. “Of course you’re a man.” Jaskier tilted his head. “Well, I cannot say for certain as I have not yet seen you… in a state of undress. Though not that the having of a penis makes one a man. It’s more about your own identity-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, sliding two now-skinned hares onto sticks over the fire.

“You’re a man because that’s who you tell the world you are.”

“I don’t.”

It seemed only every other sentence was going to get through Jaskier’s tirades as he stopped speaking.

For a few blissful seconds. “Geralt,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, voice exasperated as if he were a teacher who expected better of his pupil. “Geralt,” he said again, “you are the best man I have ever met. Smarter than any scholar, kinder than any priest, more noble than any titled twat.”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier seemed so sincere. “We’ve just met.”

“Right, well, we’ve actually been traveling together for four months, but I imagine time feels different when you’re basically immortal, so we’ll let that slide.”

A frown twisted Geralt’s face. “You’re young. You can’t have met that many people.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and put on what he called his Viscount voice. Though why he’d pretend to be a Viscount was beyond Geralt. “I studied for years at the most prestigious and widely attended university on the Continent. I have met plenty of people, Geralt. And you are still the best one I know.”

Geralt hmmed. “Your good opinion won’t buy us a roof and a bed.”

A grin like a succubus, pretty and dangerous, spread over Jaskier’s face. He reached into his trousers and produced a bag of coins. “It might do.”

The same bag of coins that the alderman had refused to give Geralt after he cleared a nest of ghouls from a field. He’d taken three crowns and told Geralt that it couldn’t be worth the whole bag if it only took him an hour.

As it was, most of that hour was building the bomb he’d need to destroy the nest. The ghouls had been sated by feeding on villagers who’d tried to kill them and were slow.

“Where-” Geralt shook his head, he knew the answer to that one. “How?”

Jaskier tossed the bag in the air and caught it. He continued doing so as he spoke. “Remember when I gestured around his, frankly gaudy and most certainly fake, prized vase?”

Geralt stared at the boy. “You distracted him by making him think you might break his vase and then stole his coin out of his pocket.”

“Exactly! Really it’s his fault for so blatantly putting the coin away while looking down his nose at you.” Jaskier grinned bright and extracted one coin from the bag before handing it to Geralt.

“Thief’s fee?” Geralt nodded at the coin.

Jaskier’s smile got even more mischievous. He balanced the coin on his thumb, then flicked it.

It hit Geralt in the chest and fell into his lap.

“Well, tossing a coin is the chorus of the song anyway,” he winked, then spun around, grabbing a cooked hare and blowing on it before taking a large bite. “They’ll see,” he said as he chewed, “my song will become a hit! ‘Toss a Coin’ will be sung the entire length and breadth of the Continent and men like that will be the pariahs, the outcasts. Anyone who denigrates a witcher will be spit upon in the streets. See how they like that!” Jaskier’s next bite was near savage, tearing the meat from the bone. But the next moment, he grinned over the fire at Geralt. “And until it does become a hit and you are lauded as the hero you are, and don’t say you’re not a hero, I see your mouth opening and you can very well shut it again for all the credence I’m going to give you saying you’re not a hero.” He gestured wildly with his hare, grease dripping slowly down his hand and forearm, on display since he’d rolled up the sleeves as his chemise on such a warm night.

Geralt found his next breath a little harder to take as he stared at the bare forearm. He hmmed and took up his own meal.

“So until that day, I will gladly make sure you are properly paid for your work,” he waggled the fingers of his left hand at Geralt. “One way or another.”

“Don’t get caught,” Geralt said. “I won’t break you out of any jail cell you land in.”

Jaskier laughed. “That is a bald-faced lie. You did the exact thing two towns ago and that wasn’t even me risking my freedom and safety for you to be given all you deserve.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, then quickly back to his hare when he found the expression on Jaskier’s face too… too much like something warm settling in his stomach. He ate the rest of the hare as fast as he could.

No one had ever said Geralt deserved anything. Not anything nice, anyway. But Jaskier seemed to think that Geralt was a kind of hero in a tale and wanted him to be treated as such.

Fool’s errand, he thought. Jaskier was young and didn’t know how the world worked outside of the high walls of a university. He’d learn. Until then…

“Fine.”

Having gone back to eating, Jaskier was silent for a moment as if trying to recall where the conversation was picking up from. “What’s fine? Oh! Me stealing when people refuse to pay you your just wage. Of course it’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty head for a moment; I’ve never been caught yet.” He waggled his fingers in Geralt’s direction. “Dexterity is name of the game when one spends one’s life dedicated to possibly the most delicate and finnicky instrument known to man.” He looked down at his gifted elven lute like it was his flesh and blood child, so loving and soft.

When he raised his head and looked at Geralt, his adoring expression didn’t change in the least.

Geralt cleared his throat and threw the hareless stick onto the fire. ‘Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

A few more large bites and Jaskier did as he was told, snuggling into his bedroll. Which Geralt had bought him when Jaskier proved that no amount of silence or disinterest would keep him from staying at Geralt’s side, praising every deed in song. He picked up the bag of coin and wandered over to Roach to tuck it safely in her saddlebag.

The horse nickered softly and seemed to throw her head repeatedly in Jaskier’s direction.

“Don’t get attached,” Geralt scolded.

Roach tilted her head in Jaskier’s direction and kept it there.

Geralt sighed and whispered into the still night air. “Thank you, Jaskier.” He patted Roach, now seemingly satisfied, and made his way to his own bedroll, set a bit behind Jaskier’s so the bard was close to the warm fire and that anything that leapt at them from the woods would have to get through Geralt before it could get to Jaskier.

He laid there, thinking about how quickly making sure the boy warm and safe had become a priority.

2. Knowing Who The Nobles Are Everywhere They Go

“Nope,” Jaskier plucked the sun-faded paper from Geralt’s hand, ignoring Geralt’s exasperated expression. “Oh no, no, no, no. Nope, you will not be taking this. Well, you will not be taking this contract with Duke Hereward. He’s an absolute bastard and will quite surely stiff you of your deserved coin. No, we’d best find where,” he squinted at the ink, “Meadwood Farms is and go straight to the farmers themselves. Hereward will weasel his weasely way out of giving you anything. I’d gladly steal anything he might have of worth-“

Geralt glanced around, hoping no one who worked for the Duke was listening, as Jaskier did not seem to understand what the word ‘discretion’ meant.

“-alas the double-edged sword of fame means if something were to go mysteriously but deservedly missing after we took our leave, I’d find my lovely new position as a professor at Oxenfurt suddenly taken from me.” He smiled at Geralt. “I need something to do during the winter while you hide away in your Witchery mountains to do… mountainous Witchery things.”

Suppressing the urge to smile, Geralt nodded towards the inn. “I’m sure someone will know who owns the farm in there.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm and began to drag him (well, steer him as if Geralt had truly not wanted to be led, there was no way the boy, barely into his twenties, could move him) towards the inn. “Good people of Ellander!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt nearly rolled his eyes.

“Your prayers to the Great Meletile have been answered,” Jaskier continued. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, has come to aid you with your monster problems. Merely point us to Meadwood Farms and you shall soon see why Geralt is the hero of the Continent.”

Geralt was strangely glad his body no longer had the ability to blush. Jaskier’s absolute faith in Geralt was steadfast and it made something heavy and warm settle in Geralt’s chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to feel this way, to be so… cared about.

A pretty-eyed maiden made her way over to them. She smiled brightly at Jaskier. “I work at the farm. I’d be ever so glad to lead you… and the witcher there.”

The eye rolling couldn’t be controlled this time, as Jaskier immediately brightened under her attentions. “Well lead on, good miss. I presume it’s miss?”

“It is,” she giggled.

Geralt was rather glad they barely paid any heed to him as they flirted their way across town to the countryside. “What is it?” Geralt eventually asked.

Both Jaskier and the young woman, Elzbet apparently, startled as if they’d forgotten Geralt was still there. They probably had.

“The monster,” Geralt clarification. “What is it?”

Elzbet shrugged. “I didn’t see it. I do not know. Master Prospero was the one who saw it. He’s in the big house.”

Jaskier grinned. “Yes, yes, Geralt head up to see Master Prospero. Elzbet has promised to show me a most charming little corner of the barn. Apparently, there’s an owl’s nest there.”

Geralt would turn over every coin he received for the contract if there was actually an owl’s nest anywhere in the barn. All Jaskier was likely to see was up the girl’s skirts. Stomping away with a little more force than he probably needed to use, Geralt found the farm owner and got the information he needed.

It was a nest of nekkars and Geralt has cleared them all out by that night. The reward scraped together by the workers was only a third of what Hereward had promised, but it was given in gratitude and with open hands. Prospero himself was so grateful, he offered Geralt and Jaskier a room in his home for the night, as well as their dinner that night and breakfast the next morning.

Jaskier spent most of the night trying to find a suitably dirty rhyme he approved of for owl.

“Howl. Or yowl, which I will make you do if you do not put that candle out.” Geralt said at last.

“Oh you,” Jaskier tsked as he quickly scribbled down a few more lines. “You know what that Witchery magic does to me.” He winked.

Geralt buried his head further into the pillow. “Didn’t get enough with your farm girl?”

Jaskier gasped, affronted. “Excuse you, Elzbet is more than a farm girl, she is the love of my life.” He sighed dreamily. “I might stay, you know. With her.”

“Better her than me,” Geralt grumbled.

“I know you don’t truly mean those words or I’d be heartbroken beyond repair to hear you say that,” Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet and pinched out the candle flame between his licked fingers. “But what if I did? Stay?”

Geralt huffed. “You’d make a piss poor farmer.”

Jaskier laughed lightly. “Probably true.” He sighed. “Would you miss me?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said in lieu of an actual answer. “If you’re to be a farmer, you must get used to early mornings.”

Humming thoughtfully, Jaskier settled down, the line of his back just an inch away from Geralt’s in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

In the morning, Jaskier packed and took his place at Geralt’s side. He tried out lyrics and chords and by the time he and Geralt made camp that night, Jaskier had a new ballad. It was about love between a wanderer and a maiden, whom he loved but left to follow the open road he had long ago promised his heart to, his truest love.

Though he never actually sang the word road, Geralt realized as he watched Jaskier sing it a week later in a tavern. The song itself was called Walking The Path.

3. Gwent

“Dammit,” Geralt growled as he threw down his remaining card. A clear weather was useless when there were no weather cards in effect. The score was tied, but his opponent played with a Nilfgaardian deck and therefore won all ties.

The smarmy git was smiling at him like a smarmy git. “Fair is fair,” he held out a hand, “I’ll be taking your unique card now.”

It was lying next to the card the other man had anted up in the center of the table, but clearly humiliation was part of his winnings.

Geralt picked up the card and dropped it into the other man’s hand. “Here.”

“Better luck next time,” the bastard called out and he gestured another player to take Geralt’s place.

He still had all the coin he’d won, the cards had been the only prizes in that last round, so Geralt went over to the bar and ordered two ales and a glass of wine.

By the time he was picking up the second mug of ale, Jaskier had finished his set and bounded over, downing the wine in one go as always and ordering himself another.

“What’s this face? Is my singing truly that bad? Please know, if you say anything about pie, I will be forced to waste this lovely wine on your rude head.” Geralt grunted. “Singing was fine. Lost my game is all.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “You were winning when I last checked in on you.” He looked at his glass. “Do you need some coin? I got a fair amount tonight, people around here are very anti-Nilfgaard and my lovely little ditty went a treat. You must have heard the cheers.”

Geralt nodded. He had. In between games, he’d kept his eye on Jaskier. The djinn incident was two weeks ago, but this was Jaskier’s first performance since he almost lost his voice. And life.

The bard had been nervous and Geralt hadn’t even started playing gwent until the anxious scent faded into his usual confident burst of sundried linen and mint. The crowd was just as adoring, just as loud as always. Jaskier’s voice hadn’t suffered any permanent damage and Geralt was relieved. After all, his unthinking words had been the reason Geralt had almost lost… that Jaskier had almost lost his voice.

“Not coin,” Geralt said at last, draining his mug. “Lost my best card though. Drew an unlucky hand and couldn’t seem to bring it back around. Ended in a draw, but the bastard played as Nilfgaard so he took the tie.”

Jaskier frowned. “No chance to get it back?”

Geralt shrugged. “He plays here a lot, apparently. Has rules about only one match per opponent.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.”

Putting down his half full glass, Jaskier nodded. “Right, well then.” He turned and headed towards the tables set up for cards.

“Jaskier?” Geralt blinked at the space the bard had occupied a second ago. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier was already standing in front of the bastard.

Geralt couldn’t remember his name, wasn’t even sure he’d been told who he’d been playing against.

Jaskier’s relaxed ease was gone, instead his shoulders hunched up, making him look for all the world like an angry cat about to take a chunk out of the next person who tried to pet it. “Valdo Marx,” Jaskier hissed out like the very letters of the name offended him.

Huh. Geralt looked at the man who’d defeated him.

Valdo looked up with a beatific smile. “Julian, is that you? I did think I heard your particular brand of empty words and trite notes in that boyish tenor of yours.”

Now no longer just upset about the card, Geralt’s fingers twitched towards his sword. Sure, he’d not exactly complimented Jaskier’s songs recently, but his insult was born of trying to offend the man into shutting up so Geralt could find the damnable djinn and get some fucking sleep.

Which, looking back, was a useless attempt as Jaskier had been drunk and Drunk Jaskier was even more prone to rambling than Sober Jaskier.

“Normally, I’d be quite glad to just punch you in the nose,” Jaskier smirked, “again.”

Taking a closer look, Geralt did notice that Valdo’s nose was slightly crooked. As if broken a few too many times.

“But if seems you have some pretentious rule about not allowing people to win their losings back from you like an honourable gentleman would.” Jaskier crossed his arms. “So I’ll play you for Geralt’s card.”

Valdo blinked blankly. “Geralt?”

Jaskier clucked his tongue as he sat down. “My goodness, you are out of touch. Everyone on the Continent knows I sing of Geralt of Rivia, heroic Witcher of legend and my very best friend in the whole world.”

Geralt didn’t bother to object.

“Then again, you rarely get to leave Cidaris, don’t you?” Jaskier produced his gwent deck and began to shuffle it. “I often wonder how you’d do in a town you didn’t grow up in? But then your father’s money wouldn’t be there to buy you a court position now would it? Has he bought you a title yet?”

Though Jaskier couldn’t see it, perhaps because Jaskier couldn’t see it, Geralt grinned broadly at that.

Valdo grinned back nastily, revealing he had a missing canine tooth as well. “If he did, at least one of us would use their title to make a difference to their homeland. Tell me, Julian,” he laid out his deck and dealt himself a hand, “when did you last visit Lettenhove? Or do you still think wandering amongst the common folk singing dirty songs in dirty taverns is the proper way a viscount should behave? Whatever would your mother day?”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s grip on his own hand tighten, just slightly. “Just play, Marx.”

Huh. Apparently Jaskier wasn’t making the whole viscount thing up.

“Oh now now,” Valdo laid down his hand, “we haven’t set terms yet. You want the Witcher’s card, right? This one,” he picked it up and flipped it along the back of his hand. “But what will you bet? I never play for anything as gauche as coin. Some of us get wages, not a handful of coins in a dusty lute case. Actually,” Valdo leaned forward, “that’s what we’ll play for. Your pretty lute. See if you can perform in royal courts without your maaaagical little instrument.”

“No.”

Jaskier and Valdo both snapped their attention to Geralt.

“No,” he repeated. Jaskier’s lute was his livelihood, his most precious possession. Geralt wanted his card back, but not at that price. Jaskier was a clever player, Geralt knew, but Valdo’s deck was evil, full of spies and scorch cards. “Not the lute. Choose something else.”

Valdo shook his head. “Don’t think I will,” he turned back to Jaskier. “You bet your lute or I walk away and your witcher never sees his card again.”

Geralt put a hand out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder and urge him up to their room, but Jaskier just nodded. “It’s a bet. Play, Marx.”

Worry came over Geralt and he found himself pacing behind Jaskier, trying not to look at his cards because then he’d know if Jaskier had a good hand and if he didn’t…

If Jaskier lost his lute, he’d be crushed. Geralt would buy him another; he’d have to. But to lose the lute Filavandrel had given him… Jaskier always said it brought him luck, sounded sweeter than all others, even when slightly out of tune.

“It will always remind me of the day my life changed forever,” he’d smile at it, then at Geralt.

Geralt still hadn’t worked out whether he meant the day he wrote the song that made him famous or the day he learned the world was much more complicated than his human-written studies might have led him to believe.

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s hand dwindled to two cards.

Valdo still had half a dozen.

It was the last hand; both had won a turn and this would decide the winner.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Geralt closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to meditate or at least clear his mind. He still had his winnings from the other matches he’d played tonight. He had no idea how much a lute cost, but he’s fairly sure he’d be able to cover it. Did this town even have a shop that might carry one? It was only just inside the borders of Cidaris, not a particularly large village now that Geralt thought about it.

“You,” he heard a hiss, “cheated.”

Jaskier was smiling. “I did no such thing. I merely used your same tactics against you.” He held out a hand. “The card. Unless you’d like to try and win it back?”

Valdo spit out some words in Elder as he threw the card at Jaskier and stomped out like a petulant child.

Geralt was rusty and only caught every few words. Something about Jaskier’s bedroom habits and something else about being a pathetic, he thinks the word was supposed to mean hound or something like that. One phrase that Geralt did catch, as he’d heard it assigned to him once or twice before translated to ‘unlovable’.

Jaskier sat frozen through the tirade and when Geralt rounded the table, he found Jaskier’s eyes to be far more full of wrath and pain than it ought to for someone who had just won a game against a rival.

His face schooled into a triumphant grin, though there was still a sheen of sadness in his eyes. “Your card, Geralt.”

Geralt took it gently, sliding out his deck into order to tuck it away. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, if I lost I was thinking of just stabbing him and making a run for it,” Jaskier waved a hand.

“It’s not that important,” Geralt insisted, ten minutes later as they readied for bed. “It wasn’t worth risking your lute. If you’d lost it. It’s more precious to you than everything, else you’ve said so yourself.”

Jaskier looked up from folding his doublet and smiled, not his cheeky performance grins but a small, genuine thing. “Not everything. Now,” he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, “may I see the card I won from Marx in what is going to be immortalized into an incredibly epic song as soon as I come up with a rhyme for ‘thrice broken nose’?”

Geralt took it out and handed it over.

It was a fairly new card for the Northern Kingdoms deck. An ashen haired little girl pouted in a frilly pink dress, clearly displeased at being painted.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra,” Jaskier read. He handed back the card but his hand hovered, as if he might reach out for Geralt’s shoulder or even his cheek. “Yes, this is something worth taking a risk for, no question. …15 points and all,” he said after a moment, when he realized Geralt wasn’t responded. “Course I missed the opportunity of stabbing Marx, but I’ve no doubt the chance will arise again someday.” He laid down and stared at the ceiling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, finding his words dry up when those beautiful (when did he start thinking of Jaskier’s eyes as beautiful?) blue eyes blinked up at him. “I… th- you played well.”

A pleased and nearly shy look came over Jaskier’s face. “I know how much you enjoy it. Just wanted to be sure I’d be a worthy opponent for you, dearest witcher.” He stared at Geralt a moment longer, as if looking for something in his face. He shook his head slightly as if coming out of a dream. “Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier turned and faced the wall.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed as he laid down, facing the opposite wall. “Goodnight. Jaskier.”

4. Sailing

Geralt surveyed the people sitting around the table and frowned to notice one missing. “Where’s Jaskier?”

“Went fishing,” Eskel said off hand, jumping right back into his conversation with Coën.

“He what?”

Lambert looked up from his gwent match with Ciri, “He took my boat and went fishing. Said he wouldn’t be much help in a hunt, but this way he wouldn’t be and I quote, ‘useless’ and he could be a ‘worthy winter companion’.”

Geralt winced. He’d apologized for his harsh words on the mountain and Jaskier had forgiven him. But it seems some of the hurt from that day still lingered.

“Where did he go?”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look.

“I don’t know his coordinates,” Lambert answered.

“Dammit!” Geralt barely kept himself from hitting the table; he didn’t want to scare Ciri, who had put her cards down and was watching the scene with interest. “You know what’s out there. Drowners and bears and I’m not sure we entirely destroyed that harpy nest from last winter and-“

“And he assured us he could handle it,” Eskel said.

Geralt growled. “He’s human! He could get hurt.”

Coën piped up at last. “Jaskier went north from the lakeside hut.” When all eyes turned to him, Coën shrugged, “He wanted to know where the good fishing spots are. I told him.”

Spinning on his heel, Geralt headed for the door to the keep, grabbing a silver sword from a rack of them on the way. He had a location and a direction. He could pick up Jaskier’s scent from there.

Geralt hadn’t bothered to grab a coat and the winter winds bit through his leather and linen clothes almost immediately. It didn’t matter. Jaskier had been alone in the wilds for who knows how long and even without the monsters and the beasts, there were dangers. The bard could overbalance and tumble into the icy waters. What if he hadn’t thought to grab warmer clothes? Geralt picked up speed, wishing he’d thought to bring Roach. Wishing he’d thought about anything other than running to get to Jaskier and…

And he wasn’t sure what would happen after. He just… needed to know that Jaskier was all right. That he was safe. He hadn’t been safe, Geralt sighed to himself as he ran, after Geralt had snapped at him.

Geralt was sure it was just another spat; that he’d arrive back at camp and Jaskier would be there very pointedly writing a song about a heartless cad who was mean to his very best friend in the whole wide world. Jaskier had a good half dozen songs like it already, this would be one more.

Only he wasn’t there. Geralt arrived to find Roach eating the last of the apples Jaskier had packed just for her and giving Geralt a very judgmental look. “Leave off,” he growled at her as he packed up what was left and led her down the mountain. “We’ll pick him up in town and you two can whisper about how mean I am.”

But Jaskier wasn’t in town either. Nor could anyone say which way he went. Geralt cursed then like he cursed now, seeing the roof of the hut by the lake and yet no sign of Jaskier.

Bad things happened when Jaskier went off alone. Geralt shook his head to rid himself of the image of Jaskier, strung up by his hands, those beautiful talented livelihood-making hands threatened and Jaskier said nothing, gave no secrets away. Some because he didn’t know and some because he…

Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier didn’t break, except he does. The man is brave, he’s stupid and criminally loud, but he is also the most loyal man Geralt has ever known. Steel dressed in silk.

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s scent. It’s his soap and sweat and Geralt knows it like he knows his own.

Jaskier has the only boat and Geralt doesn’t fancy a swim, so he sticks to the shoreline, eyes casting about for any signs of danger or Jaskier.

Geralt very specifically tries to avoid thinking about danger AND Jaskier, which means that is all his brain will show him. Images of Jaskier surrounded by drowners, of a boat floating listlessly because the man at the rudder had been torn to pieces by harpies, a bear raising its blood-covered maw with a scrap of bright fabric caught in its teeth.

The last thing he’s thinking is that he will come upon Jaskier peacefully hauling a net of fish into the boat, adding the larger ones to a bucket next to him. So of course, that’s how the story goes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called, eyes as round and surprised as the fish wriggling its last throes in his hands. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Jaskier dropped the net thoughtlessly onto the boat’s hull and with a series of quick and efficient movements, had the boat floating over to where Geralt stood on the shore. The bard hopped over the side and hurried to Geralt, hands twitching as if he wanted to check the witcher over for any injuries. “Geralt?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

A frown coming to rest on his face, Jaskier put his hands on his slim hips. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking? You’re going to catch your death without a coat, yes I know,” he said as Geralt opened his mouth, “witchers can’t catch colds, immune systems, mutagens, blah blah,” he went back to the boat and finished sorting the fish, “blah. What could possibly have happened that you hurried all the way from Kaer Morhen without so much as a single piece of armour or a cloak?” He turned, suddenly serious. “Is everyone all right? Is Ciri all right? She’s not ill, is she? Did she take a tumble on the training course?”

Touched by how much Jaskier cares about Ciri, despite having known her a relatively short time, Geralt shook his head. “She’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Then what in the name of Meletile, Freya and any other four gods you would care to name are you doing here?”

Geralt wished he’d spent less time thinking about the past and more time thinking about the future as he ran. He’s starting to get used to that feeling in general. “You weren’t there.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, then softened. “Surely someone told you I’d gone fishing? I let everyone know. I didn’t,” he smiled sardonically, “think you’d even notice.”

“Why?”

Head tilted like a puppy, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Why did I go fishing or why did I think you wouldn’t notice? I went fishing because everyone does something at Kaer Morhen. I don’t,” he sighed, “have anything but music to offer and I’m well aware of your opinions on that. I assume your fellow witchers share them and also your witcher hearing, hence my lute case gathers dust. I do, however, know how to sail a boat, catch some fish, and cook said fish. So I thought I would make myself useful. As for you not noticing, well, I’m hardly your first priority here and,” he quickly added, “I understand completely. I shouldn’t be. Ciri comes first, always, of course. Hell, I wasn’t your first priority when we traveled together. Roach was. Speaking of, where is she? You couldn’t have tied her up too far away now.” Jaskier looked at the tree line as if a large mare would suddenly appear.

“I… didn’t bring her,” Geralt said, shame slowly rising in him at Jaskier’s words. Geralt couldn’t refute any of them. He hadn’t noticed the lack of music, assuming Jaskier still played in his room. As for when they travelled together, it hurt deep in Geralt’s gut that Jaskier thought he wasn’t a priority to Geralt. His words were often harsh, but Geralt made sure Jaskier had enough food and hunted more to ensure that he would. He bought Jaskier a warmer, if less stylish, cloak that had seen the bard through most of his twenties.

Jaskier had hefted a bucket of fish in his arms and just stared blankly at Geralt. “You… didn’t bring Roach? You, what, walked all the way here?”

Geralt’s eye twitched. “I ran.”

“For Meletile’s sake, why?”

“There’s…” Geralt cleared his throat, “drowners around. Sometimes. And bears. There might be some harpies left over from a nest we destroyed last winter.”

Jaskier settled the bucket back into the boat. “Were you… worried about me?”

Geralt nodded. Words were awkward and he wished to use as few as possible.

A look not unlike something like wonder crossed Jaskier’s face. “Oh. I… oh. I’m,” he spread his arms as if presenting himself, “fine. As you see. I… guess we should head back.” He gestured towards the boat. “I’ve a decently sized haul. I can make use of this for a while.” Jaskier stood in the shallow water, “Climb on in, and I’ll take us back.”

Geralt didn’t move.

“Oh,” Jaskier looked abashed. “Unless you’d prefer to steer?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “You can steer.”

He could. As Geralt had seen, Jaskier clearly knew his way not only around fishery, but sailing.

Jaskier nodded again to the boat and Geralt stepped in, settling at the bow.

Proving him right, Jaskier shoved them into the water and hauled himself over the side, quickly settling at the rudder and turning them around to head back towards Kaer Morhen.

Geralt cast a glance into the bucket of fish, seeing a few other smaller ones surrounding it. Several fish stared unblinkingly at Geralt as he stared back.

Jaskier hummed then cut himself off when he realized he was doing so, with a nervous glance at Geralt.

He wanted to say something. Tell Jaskier the humming was fine with him. That he should get out his lute and play for them. That Geralt wanted to hear his music, his voice. That the fillingless pie comment all those years ago hadn’t been a slight to Jaskier’s singing but the content of his songs, so many full of dirty humour or exaggerated lies.

All he could manage was “You sail good.”

Staring just as wide-eyed and unblinking as the fish, Jaskier slowly said, “Thank… you… I, uh,” he looked back at the water, “grew up on the coast. Been sailing since I was strong enough to move a rudder. Fishing even longer.”

“Why didn’t you fish that day? You could have caught your own.” Geralt winced as his words were said. Jaskier wasn’t focusing on that day with the djinn. He’d need to be specific.

But Jaskier was already answering, “I was heartbroken and near blind drunk,” he laughed, light and slightly forced. “I’d have fallen in as soon as I bent over to grab the net, hence why I was hoping you would share your haul.” He pursed his lips. “Rather wish I hadn’t, looking back.”

Geralt found himself stuck for words again. They came easy with his brothers in arms. Even with Ciri, he found himself managing to find words of comfort or encouragement when it seemed she needed them.

But Jaskier had always made things complicated for Geralt, since the day they’d met. He could annoy Geralt like nobody and nothing else; Jaskier got himself into trouble on a fairly regular basis, was fussy about his clothes and hair, and could talk the hind legs off a donkey while never saying a blessed thing of worth.

But damn if Geralt didn’t want him there, in all his messy and loud glory. He wanted Jaskier safe and, as recent events had shown, Jaskier was safest at Geralt’s side, because Geralt would move heaven and earth, call upon any help and damn the cost, to keep Jaskier so.

Geralt was in love with Jaskier. The revelation felt both sudden and slow at once. Like he’d been falling in love so quietly and steadily, there was no way to point to the day or hour that he’d actually fallen.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier, lost in daydreams, started. “What’s the matter now?”

“I,” Geralt scrambled for something to say. Should he tell Jaskier he loved him? No, that was absurd. Jaskier, for all his lingering stares and the near constant scent of lust that used to surround him, didn’t love Geralt as more than a friend, if that. Lust was not love, Geralt knew that well. He was with him for the songs and the safety. Sure, Jaskier cared for Geralt, he said it often enough, but he didn’t love him. Like how Geralt was realizing he loved Jaskier.

Who was staring at him expectantly.

At least this time, Geralt kept his annoyed at himself ‘fuck’ inside his head. “I was thinking of all the times we could have taken the river, instead of the roads.” He found words, though he wasn’t sure they were the right ones. “If I’d known you could sail. We could have… sailed. Before now.”

Jaskier dropped his eyes to the bottom of the boat, then turned away as if needing to check where he was going, as if he hadn’t been steering blind for the past several minutes, instinctive. “Ah. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you. Though we weren’t often by the,” a slight hesitation, “the coast.”

“You’re doing very well.” Geralt twitched his lips into as big a smile as he could manage and still felt it came up short.

But Jaskier’s visible cheek rose in a smile. “Thank you, Geralt.”

5. Sword Fighting

A whirl of light green and silver flashed from Geralt’s side, a movement near dancelike in its fluidity, accompanied by a whisper that sounded almost like counting.

Geralt turned just in time to see the bandit’s surprised face before his cleaved straight through torso fell, leaving the remains of his trunk and his lower body to fall to the ground a couple seconds after his head and shoulders had.

Jaskier stood behind the now deceased bandit, blood splattered all over his outfit and his face, still twisted into a mask of wrath. The sword in his hand was red with blood, silver glinting through the drops.

Geralt thinks it’s possible he has never been so turned on in his whole life and he’s going to have a good long talk with himself about why that might be later on.

The moment passed and Jaskier lowered the sword, wiping it on the deserter’s trousers. “Oh blast, sorry about that Geralt, I’ll clean all the blood off properly once we get back to camp. No worries. I know it’s silver for monsters,” he sneered at the dead man and then at the others who had foolishly decided to try to rob a witcher and his companion, “but I rather think it’s still apt. I’ll pay for the repair at the next blacksmith we come across if I damaged it too much.” He held the blade at eye level and examined it. “I think it’s mostly all right and Geralt are you okay? They didn’t manage to knock you in the head, did they? You’ve been staring at me for the past few minutes.”

Geralt was trying to sear the image of Jaskier looking over the blade as if, as if he KNOWS what to look for in a damaged sword. A sword he had used to kill a man creeping up on Geralt. A sword he had welded with deadly and graceful precision. Geralt’s own sword.

A very, very long talk. Possibly in the cold stream they’d just come from before they’d been ambushed.

Jaskier leaned past Geralt to sheathe the sword into its place across the witcher’s back and the spicy smell of anger had dissipated completely into Jaskier’s usual chamomile and honey concern scent. Underlaid by the copper of the blood.

It took a good deal of self-discipline for Geralt to not outright whine when Jaskier laid a warm hand on his cheek, tilting his head to check for injuries.

“Your pupils are very round, darling,�� Jaskier said, the endearment he used so often sounded like music to Geralt. “Are you injured? I could grab you a potion if you are. Or maybe you’re just tired.” Jaskier dropped his hand and turned back to where they had laid down their belongings when the first men broke through the cover of the trees, using speed and surprise over strategy.

Geralt was sure he’d had them all until… until Jaskier killed the man who had managed to sneak up on him. Who would have put a sword through Geralt if not for Jaskier’s quick action and Geralt circled back to the image of Jaskier, bloody and snarling like a feral animal as he cut the man down with no hesitation.

A very, very long talk in a very, very cold stream.

Jaskier whistled and Roach came from her hiding spot in the trees. He patted her neck and dug through her saddlebags. “Geralt, are you out of Swallow? We have the spirit and the celandine but I think we might need to head towards the coast so you can cut down some drowners for their brains.” He smiled brightly. “Maybe they’ll be a contract for them as well. And a tavern that appreciates fine music. We could have a va- a very nice day. Or two.” Jaskier ducked his head and pink bloomed in his cheeks.

Geralt found his hand lifting of its own accord and landing on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard turned expectantly, then frowned when after a moment Geralt didn’t say or do anything else. “Geralt?” His voice was soft, the scent of his concern drew stronger. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay? You seem stunned or something. Are you sure you didn’t take a hit to the head?”

“Sword,” Geralt said at last.

“He speaks,” Jaskier smiled briefly. “He speaks nonsense, but he speaks. What about a sword? I already told you I’d take care of any repairs needed after my impromptu maneuver. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage done. It wasn’t even that difficult. You have very good moves, dear.”

Geralt blinked as he realized where he’d seen the move Jaskier had performed. It was one he’d been taught at the School of The Wolf. Jaskier used one of Geralt’s own moves. One of his Witcher moves. To save his life. “That was… that was a witcher move. How did you…” he couldn’t even finish his question.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve followed you for over two decades, Geralt. On and off, sure, but still. I’ve seen you fight nearly every creature you could come across. Including bastards like those,” he nonchalantly tossed his head towards the dead men on the ground, his fringe flicking back into his eyes boyishly. “I memorized the moves you use. Granted, I’ve mostly practiced on training dummies and sparring partners, but I’ve run across my fair share of evil and desperate men before.”

“That… wasn’t your first kill?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier tilted his head and scrunched up his nose as he calculated. “Maybe my… dozenth? Or so. Now I tried not to pick up a sword unless necessary but that gutless bastard,” he spit at the man’s bisected body, “was in your blind spot. You probably would have managed to parry, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” Jaskier smiled. “Good thing too, now that we know you’re out of Swallow. Here,” he held out a canteen of water, “drink this. Get your strength back.”

Geralt took the canteen and drank slowly to give himself time to readjust his worldview on Jaskier. “Did you… count? When you were…”

Jaskier nodded. “Oh yes. Your movements are so like a dancer’s that I memorized them to a beat.” He smirked. “I’ll make a ballad out of them some day. I’m still in the habit of the counting, but eventually I’ll stop needing that, I suppose.”

“Right,” Geralt said, nodding as if he wasn’t imaging Jaskier, in plain shirt and tight trousers, sparring with Geralt on the grounds of Kaer Morhen. A blink and it was a different kind of sparring. In a bedroom. “Huh.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he dug back through the saddlebag, “there’s some White Raffard’s if push comes to shove. Makes sense after that last nest of nekkars. Frightful creatures by the way, possibly my least favourite of them all. Though you’re low on White Honey as well, so hopefully we can find a herbalist and stock up a bit before you have to do any major fighting. ”I’m glad now that I all but raided Oxenfurt’s gardens before I joined you for Spring. Got plenty of honeysuckle in my bag and I’m sure we can find some white myrtle with no problem this time of year. Where’s your alcohest, dear? I’m sure Lambert didn’t let you leave Kaer Morhen without every type of spirit known to man.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, unable to take it anymore. “We need to get back to camp.”

Jaskier whirled around and looked at Geralt then up at the sky, the sun slowly descending in the late afternoon light. “Oh you’re right. Best head back now before we lose the light. Pity we had to have that fight after the nice splash we’d had in that stream. Do you think there’s time to wash again before we head back?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Let’s do that first, getting clean again. That’s a very, very good idea.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, “I didn’t expect that answer from Mr Uses Monster Guts As Shampoo.”

“We’re going to need to get very clean,” Geralt said, “because as soon as we get back to camp I am going to fuck you.”

Jaskier froze. “Whaaaat did you just say? Geralt, I think I misheard you.”

Geralt shrugged. “Or you can fuck me. After seeing you fight like that, I’m letting you choose how we do it.”

“Seeing me fight.” Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find which of the many words he had at his disposal he wished to use.

“Or I could just suck you off, if you’d prefer that instead.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Geralt… Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde and I have never been more grateful for the night Vesemir got drunk and shared stories of your youth, I need you to be very, very serious about that offer.” Jaskier licked his lips. “Because I would very much like to take you up on it and if… if it’s just for the night, I don’t rightly think we should risk our… ye gods, you’ve never even called me your friend and here you are offering sex as if… is this just because you feel obligated? I’m sure you would have moved just in time but I couldn’t risk letting that man hurt you and-“

Geralt reached out and pulled Jaskier close, which shut the bard up. A trick Geralt was wishing he’d let himself try before. “I am very serious. If you want it to be for the night, it’s just for the night. It could be a more… formal arrangement if you’d prefer that.”

Jaskier dropped his head to Geralt’s shoulder and breathed out heavily. “I died, didn’t I? I misjudged the distance and the bandit killed me and this is heaven. I didn’t think I’d go to heaven. Huh.”

“Not dead,” Geralt said, lifting a hand to thread through Jaskier’s hair. “Not letting you die. Ever. Especially now that I know how well you fight. You’re living just as long as I am. Don’t know how. I’ll ask Yen, maybe she’ll know of some-“

“Okay,” Jaskier took a step back. “Now, now you’re just being… you want to ask Yennefer, a very very scary witch that you sleep with on the regular-“

Geralt shrugged. “Going to have to stop that now that I have you.”

A high-pitched whine issued from Jaskier’s throat. “I’m going to need you to stop saying things like that if you don’t mean them… how I… ho- expe- think you mean them.”

“I mean them how you think I mean them,” Geralt said. “Most likely. I mean that I would very much like to take you back to our camp and check at least a few things off the mental list of sexual acts we’ve both been compiling right now.”

Jaskier squeaked, “Both?”

Geralt nodded. “I would very much like to do so tomorrow night and for as many nights as you want me. And to extend your allotment of nights somehow. Yennefer has been searching arcane magic things for decades, surely she’s found some anti-ageing or immortality spell by this point. She wouldn’t have needed it, but I’m sure she would have made note of any.”

“Sure she can’t make me younger before she does that?’ Jaskier asked, relying on humour to help him deal with the inrush of information he was being given.

Tilting his head, Geralt looked Jaskier over very thoroughly, noting with some satisfaction what effect his assessing stare had on the state of Jaskier’s trousers. “I like you as you are now. Not the whelp that followed me when It was stupid and dangerous. You’re a grown man now. You’ve filled out. I like how you look.”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Pardon me if this all seems very sudden.”

“Not sudden,” Geralt said. “I’ve liked how you looked for years.”

“You never said anything.”

Geralt smirked slightly. “I know you’ve lusted for me. I can smell arousal. You never said anything either.”

Jaskier flailed again. “You didn’t consider me your friend, so forgive me for assuming ‘Hey Geralt, you’re the most bloody gorgeous person I’ve ever seen in my whole life would you like to bed me and then marry me’ wouldn’t go down very well.”

“I thought,” Geralt started, “you only wanted to follow me for the songs. For the fame and coin it earns you. It’s why you started following me.”

Struck speechless, Jaskier just stared.

Geralt continued. “I’ve thought of you as my friend, but I didn’t think you thought of me as yours. Until you saved me. Until you learned how I fight in case you ever needed to save me. Until you knew what my potions do and which ones they are. All the little things you’ve done for me throughout the years make sense now. I know friendship. That’s not friendship; it’s love.”

“I have loved you since,” Jaskier waved a hand theatrically, “since you told the elves to let me go. Since you let me stay with you even though you could have outrun me easily on Roach. You hunted enough for two and laid our bedrolls close so I wouldn’t freeze on cold nights and especially after the mountain, you’ve barely let me out of your sight and… oh my gods, I am thick, aren’t I? I am so thick! I am Mr. Thick Thick Thickety Thickface from Thicktown, Thickania. You don’t talk, you do. That was your way of… of… saying how you feel. Isn’t it?”

Geralt hummed and nodded.

Jaskier’s smile could have outshone the lovely sunset happening somewhere behind them. “You love me. Geralt, you… love me. Like I love you. Oh my gods, are you sure I’m not dead? Or having the most wonderful dream? This is real,” he took a step closer and reached out cautiously to pull Geralt into his arms. “This is real, right?”

“It’s real,” Geralt nodded again.

A laugh bubbled out of Jaskier, eliciting a smaller but no less sincere one from Geralt. “If I wasn’t covered in blood, I would be kissing you alre-“

Geralt leaned in and pressed their lips together, relishing the happy gasp Jaskier made against his mouth. “Hmm, I’m bloody too.”

Jaskier kissed Geralt, a small peck and then another. “Where was that stream again?”

Geralt pulled back and took Jaskier’s hand, guiding him in the dimming light. “I won’t be bedding you and then marrying you,” he said.

Confusion scrunched up Jaskier’s face before he realized what he had said before. “Oh bollocks, I didn’t mean that- necessarily- I don’t- where would we find a priest or priestess any- I wasn’t suggesting-”

“We have to have some courting time before we should even think about marrying,” Geralt continued. “it’s only proper.”

“Right,” Jaskier nodded so fast, it was a miracle his head didn’t fly away. “Right, right, right, right. Of course, of course, of course. Proper… proper courting. Geralt?” he asked as they arrived at the stream. “I love you. I just… can I say that now? Because I’ve wanted to say it so many times and I’ve been biting it back for years and I just… I just love you.”

Geralt smiled. “I love you too.”

Wow,” Geralt said, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s how you manage to get away with those abysmal pickup lines. I mean… wow.” His heart was racing so fast it almost sounded human after the passionate, athletic and frankly innovative sex they’d just had. "I always did think it would be good."

He didn’t need to turn to see Jaskier’s smug smile, but he did anyway.

Jaskier’s grin was wide and stretched his cheeks even higher than normal. He tossed his sweaty fringe out of his face and kissed Geralt, deeply, slowly, perfectly. “You’re welcome.”

#the witcher netflic #my fanfic #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #bamfjaskier

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officerjennie · 3 years

Note

23 with all the Witcher characters you'll write

Anon.

-squishes your face-

Anon I love you. I wish you nothing but the absolute best life anyone could ever imagine, because you have given me such a gift.

Characters included here: Jaskier, Aiden, Lambert, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir (let’s be real, he’s just there for the snacks. Catch him filling his pockets with nuts and pastries to horde in his office). Prompt: orgy

(edit most of the way through writing this: HOW THE FUCK DID I WRITE SOMETHING FOR THE PROMPT ORGY AND INCLUDE NO SEX, I JUST-)

Despite popular believe, Jaskier had the best ideas.

The entirety of his previous afternoon had been spent with preparations for the event. It had only taken a little bit of bribing to convince Vesemir that this wasn’t going to end horrifically or with some destruction or another, and really only another bottle of (very expensive) wine as the cherry on top to be given permission to use the mess hall in Kaer Morhen as the location. Though honestly, there wasn’t anywhere else that would have suited the party - so Jaskier was very glad no more bribing was in order there.

If he was honest, convincing everyone to take part in it was the easy part. One really didn’t know the definition of ‘sexually repressed’ until one met a horny witcher who was trying to deny himself the lusts of the skin and Jaskier could count on his first three fingers some witchers that suited that bill to the T.

The fact that he knew exactly five made that rather sad, but he digressed.

With some rather flirtatious invitations, Jaskier had secured participation, but that was only phase one of his plans. After that was making it an actual party, an event, because there was no way in all of the fresh hells that he would let this be even close to mediocre.

So, the table settings began.

At the end of the evening he found himself spinning in glee, hands clapped in front of his face, fingers touching his lips as he admired his handiwork. All done by himself - the boys could all thank him later for his hard work, since he’d wanted it to all be a surprise for the lot of them, and he had honestly outdone himself.

He hoped no one asked how he got the flowers during this time of year. Some secrets were better left untouched.

It was close to dark, the outside colors bringing in brilliant oranges and purples, when Jaskier set off to round everyone up. Geralt was the first person he found - a given, really. He’d spent enough time traveling around with him that he knew exactly where he’d be, the exact position he’d be in on his bed as he sharpened his sword (because his daggers would have been the first he sharpened, and it was too late in the evening for him to be starting on the task), no doubt trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking forward to anything or affected by the thought of such an event.

His rather tight pants gave him away, though. With a very firm kiss to his delicious lips and a swipe of his eager tongue, Jaskier let Geralt know it was ready. He tugged him up off the bed and patted his arse and sent him on his way, determined to find everyone else before he went down himself and got far too distracted.

The grumbling he heard from his witcher just made him smile more.

It took a little longer to locate Eskel, but Jaskier had figured it easier to find him than the others. Surprisingly he hadn’t been out visiting Lil’ Bleater, the little lady having already been put up snug in her bed, bleating out so cutely when she saw Jaskier that he had to spent a few minutes giving her some love before he went on his way. As he did, he couldn’t help but think about how witchers just...really did love to imprint on animals. Geralt with his precious Roach, Eskel with his classy lady. He wondered what sort of animal Vesemir might relate to, or Lambert?

Wait, no, he didn’t want to know that second one. He blinked in horror and set that thought firmly to a forgotten corner of his mind to grow dust.

Instead of finding Eskel with his adorable little lady, Jaskier ended up running into him in the kitchen. It had been the smell of some wondrous pastries that had clued him in, drawing him in like the hungry sweets demon he was, his fingers already itching to snatch some up and run away with his booty.

Not that he really needed to steal one. It was just more fun that way.

Sure enough, his nose had not lied to him. Eskel was pulling out some of his own handmade and famously delicious apple pastries out of the oven just as Jaskier peeked his head in, and his mouth watered just at the sight. Also, dare he say it, but Eskel was very cute with flour dusted on his spikey, scary shirt.

“Are those for little ol’ me?”

Eskel didn’t startle at his voice but Jaskier didn’t expect him to, used to the terrifyingly good hearing that came with all of the other witcher mutations. “You did say snacks, right? Figured these might do.”

“Oh! Oh, Eskel,” Jaskier felt his eyes tearing up, skipping into the kitchen and just stopping himself from flinging his arms around his now officially second favorite witcher. He skidded to a stop right in front of him, wringing his hands with emotion to keep from burning himself or Eskel (or accidentally impaling himself on said scary spikey shirt). “You really didn’t have to, I had the snacks all set up and planned out, but I’m ever so touched you did! Oh, these will make the perfect addition.”

“They have to cool first, Jask.” Eskel had a very knowing twinkle in his eye as he stepped around the bard, going to place the flat pan on a rack he had set up on the table. “I’ll bring them down when they’re ready, then you can have one.”

Jaskier pouted, eyeing the pastries and wondering if it was worth burning both his fingers and his tongue on them. Which, yes, it was, but he’d rather not disappoint the pastry chef. So he deflated with a deep sigh, content in knowing that he’d get some later - and that Eskel very much did not forget about his plans.

Vesemir was next on his list, and it only took one single stop by his office to remind him. All Jaskier had to do was knock on his door and wait patiently for Vesemir to say he could come in, then he poked his head in to see if he’d be joining them.

“I’ll be there.”

That’s all the answer Jaskier got, and he considered it good enough. With him checked off the list, there was only two left, and they would thankfully be easy to locate this evening. They weren’t usually - well, Lambert by himself was. But any time Aiden was joining them for the winter Lambert was made scarce, always off doing something with his dear friend, and that something was usually mischief.

Aiden was a wonderful and a horrid influence on Lambert, and everyone adored him for it. Most of the time.

Luckily, Jaskier already knew where they were. He’d heard their training all the way in the keep and made his way to the training grounds, stopping by Geralt’s room to steal one of his coats on his way, not willing to face the cold with his own considering Geralt’s were much warmer (even if much less fashionable - had the man never heard of color?).

As it happened, they’d just recently stopped their training session - luck considering how long they’d go some evenings. Both of them had abandoned their shirts at some point, maybe even right at the start of their training, though Jaskier wasn’t sure how either of them could stand it when the snow in some places came up to his shins.

Stupid sexy witchers. It was entirely unfair. Both the cold resistant part and the sexy part.

“Hey, little songbird.” Aiden stretched his arm back and rested it against his shoulder, dangling his sword behind him and watching as Jaskier’s eyes followed the movement. “S’time already?”

With his mouth suddenly quite dry, and what with his feet suddenly not knowing how to walk in snow, Jaskier had to stumble out some sort of an answer. Not that he could really hear it, he was paying too much attention to how Aiden flexed his arm just so - damn stupid sexy witchers.

Lambert laughed at him without a single ounce of pity, and if Jaskier’s brain wasn’t currently melting he would have pointed out that the same damn tricks worked on him if Aiden wanted them to. At least Aiden took some pity on him after that, heading back to the keep and shooting him a wicked grin as he brushed past him.

Even with all the snow, it was suddenly a bit too warm for the coat he’d nabbed.

But that - that was everyone. Jaskier shook himself, a wide grin blooming on his face, the cold air biting at his cheeks and nose. Everyone was headed to the mess hall, the snack tables and punch were all ready. Eskel had been kind enough to make some of his apple pastries which would be a big hit. And! Jaskier had procured enough lubricant that they wouldn’t all be regretting it come the morning.

He rubbed his hands together as he turned around, hurrying back to get to the mess hall himself. This, without a single doubt, was his best idea yet - and hands down a night that he would always remember.

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Text

Tinderbox pt 22

Thanking my wonderful beta, @ly--canthrope !

Series masterlist here

“Breathe, just breathe,” Marshall murmured to Rosie as she dropped the phone on the floor. She barely registered the clatter it made. Salami meowed in distaste for the sound.

He gathered her into his arms, silently fuming at this new twist.

How had Dylan - or whoever was behind this - got a hold of her number? She didn’t do much on social media. Could he have bribed someone to get it? If so, who?

“He’ll be watching….” Rosie sobbed out, clutching at Marshall and sliding her fingers through his hair. “What am I meant to do with that? What?”

He held her as she keened into his chest. Really, it amazed Marshall that Rosie had been so strong for so, so long. That she hadn’t caved until now. Plenty of lesser people would have run to the hills.

He held her through the storm as the tears came and soaked his t-shirt; he held her when the tears dried up and she was so tired that she dozed a little.

When she finally slept, he tucked her in. Salami followed him to the kitchen area where he gave the cat a treat, and then dug out his phone to call Commissioner Harper. Yeah, it was almost eleven p.m, but the man hardly slept since his wife had died five years back.

“Harper.”

“It’s Marshall. Sorry it’s late, but-”

Harper choked off a laugh. “Ten years on the job, and now you start apologising for calling me in the evening?”

Marshall smiled. “Okay.”

“What is it?”

Leaving nothing out, Marshall reiterated the evening’s events. Harper listened, without once interrupting.

“Now can we put a patrol car on her?”

Silence, but Marshall heard the strike of a lighter. Harper usually only smoked when he was thinking.

“You really feel that he’s dangerous?”

“I do. There’s no way this can end well.”

“Of course there fucking isn’t,” Harper sighed. “I’ll put in for it, okay? That’s all I can give you. Bastard hasn’t actually hurt anyone.”

“Yet,” Marshall bit off, his chest tight with anxiety. The sort he hadn’t felt since Faye was a baby, when he wanted to protect her from the greedy, dark world they lived in.

“Yet,” Harper echoed.

Salami wound around Marshall’s legs as he hung up the phone. Unable to sleep, he made himself a cup of peppermint tea and turned the lights down low. He chose a paperback at random from Rosie’s shelves and settled in at the foot of the futon.

After two chapters, his eyes started to droop, and he glanced over to see Rosie curled up under the covers. He brushed his teeth, washed out his mug, and switched off the last lamp, sliding in beside Rosie and tugging her close. She mumbled in her sleep, and he tucked his face into the curve where her shoulder met her neck. “I swear on my life, I will never let him hurt you,” he muttered, his heart clenching just thinking the words.

Then he dropped into sleep as Salami jumped up on the bed, circled a few times, and curled up by his knees. purring rhythmically.

*****

“Rachael will sit in the deli in the morning, and then, I’ll take the afternoon shift.”

Rosie shoved her arms into a sweater. “Rachael?”

“Chopped cheese.”

Rosie smiled after poking her head through the neck of the pale yellow sweater. “Can’t believe we were so close all this time. She’s so nice to me. I love it when she comes in.” Her brow furrowed. “Did you two, ever, ah…”

“Nope.” Marshall crossed the room and tucked the label of the sweater in at the back of her neck. “Never.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Rosie smiled as she tugged on her socks. “She looks so sharp in her blazer, though.”

Marshall kissed the top of her head as he checked his messages. “Lucky for you, I prefer a ponytail through a deli ballcap.”

She swatted at him playfully, feeling brighter this morning. Yesterday she’d cried it all out, her heart aching, stomach burning at the simple unfairness of it all. Why now? Why now, just when everything was coming together for her?

“Did your sister text about the flight times?”

“Oh, she did.” That thought buoyed Rosie up. “She’ll be here in a few days. I’d love her to meet you. And Faye, if you think it isn’t too soon.”

He smiled, and the warmth reached his eyes, the blue of them deep in the half-shadow of the kitchen area. “Rosie, I love you. I’m all in. It isn’t too soon.”

Oh, her heart turned over, and she grabbed him, tunnelling her fingers into that gorgeous tumble of hair, pulling him close for a kiss that started off sweet and turned more passionate. She licked into his mouth, tasting coffee and the sweet edge of breakfast cereal, and then Marshall’s phone chirped, and he frowned against her lips.

“Sorry. Might be Harper. I asked him if he could spare a patrol car for you.”

“Well, that makes it more real. What did he say?”

Marshall swiped the screen open and read the message. “Thank fuck. Okay. By tonight it’ll be done, for seventy two hours. That’s all he can spare, but it’s more than I’d hoped for.” He blew out a breath. “He came through. I just…. I can’t lose you, Rosie. I can’t. I can say, in a way I’ve never been sure of anything, if I lose you, it’ll destroy me.”

“You won’t. You won’t, Walt.” Rosie cupped his face and kissed him, long and slow, drinking him in. “Now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting this thing between us go, not without a fight. Besides,” she teased as Salami wound around Marshall’s leg, “Imagine how long it would take to find another guy that this cat approved of?”

Tagging: @amber20221 @hopelessromanticspoonie @just-the-hiddles @peakygroupie @alyxkbrl @iloveyouyen @ohjules @speakerforthedead0-blog @dr-kayleigh-dh @littlefreya @dancingwendigo @constip8merm8 @henrythickcavill @onlyhenrys @penwieldingdreamer @andahugaroundtheneck @geralt-of-baevia @princess-of-riviaa @cavillhavoc @trippedmetaldetector @captain-rogers-beard @rayofdawnworld @pinkzsugar @promptandpros @mary-ann84 @screamingrennergasm @agniavateira @ayamenimthiriel @radaofrivia @thethirstyarchive @raspberrydreamclouds @omgkatinka @stxphmxlls @katiebriggs004-blog @our-chaoticwhispers @linki-locks11 @asylummara @the-jer-bear @boiled-onionrings @chamomilebottom @ravenpuff02

Please ask to be added or released from the tags!

#night hunter fic #walter marshall fic #henry cavill fic

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dhwty-writes · 3 years

Text

Nightmares

This is part 4 of my fic for @heyabooboo for the @thewitchersecretsanta.

Welcome to the the longest (and angstiest) chapter of this fic! Compared to the others that are found in this fandom, this is fairly mild, but please heed the tags. And have fun reading!

Summary: Having braved the nightmare of figuring out the meaning of a near incomprehensible poem, one should think that the nightmares of the netherworld come to an end. Alas, Destiny is not as kind. Retracing their steps, Jaskier is taken to the darkest chapters of his and Geralt's lives.

Moodboard by the amazing @petrificustotaluss

Warnings: canon typical violence, we see Geralt and Jaskier’s shitty childhood in here, and the trial of the grasses, but nothing too explicit. Rated T

Read on AO3

It was, admittedly, a bit strange, to say the least, to keep walking backwards with his eyes affixed on the horizon. He extended his arms to get a better balance, still he tripped and stumbled over rocks and tree stumps and thin air. It probably would've been easier with just a glance over his shoulder. But-

'No,' he decided. 'I mustn't lose my goal from sight.' If he was entirely honest, that was probably the most difficult part.

Many people assume that in a netherworld without a physical body they cannot be troubled by such trivial things such as the paltry ache of keeping your eyes open without blinking. That is untrue.

There are some aspects of humanity that are so ingrained into the core of their very being that they cannot imagine a world without it. Boogers, for example, and armpit hair, or sweat. Or the pressing urge to blink.

And no matter how much Jaskier tried to fight it, there was just no hope of escaping the burn.

He blinked.

The scenery in front of him had changed. "What the fuck?" he murmured quietly as he took in the familiar countryside.

It was late in autumn it seemed; most of the trees had already shrugged off their colourful cloaks of withered leaves, though the first snow was yet to come. In front of him, a beautiful keep rose up at the horizon. The walls of limestone were pristine as ever, the red shingles glistening after a recent rain shower, bright banners flapping in the wind. The whole image looked as if plucked from a nightmarish fairy tale. "Huh," he muttered to himself. "Didn't expect I'd end up here of all places." Self-consciously he tugged at the cuffs of his blue silk doublet. Hadn't he been naked?

He decided not to think about that too much and instead be grateful for the armour that would protect him from piecing stares and cutting comments. He had no time for it either, for within the blink of an eye his vision shifted again and he stood within the empty courtyard.

'Strange.' There should be guards. Servants. The Count or Countess perhaps. Instead, there was nothing but eerie quiet and wisps of fog curling around his feet. It was almost enough for him to feel concern rising within hi-

"Julian Alfred Pankratz!" Jaskier froze on instinct, the booming voice bearing down on him like whip lashes.

‘Fuck.’ Twenty years. Twenty years since he had last returned home, and still— His heart was beating frantically in his chest, as if it wanted to jump right out of it. Given his previous experiences in this place, he didn't consider this impossible. 'Shit,' he cursed silently. 'It just had to be Lettenhove, hadn't it?'

He screwed his eyes shut, to drown out the litany of his father, the words nearly indistinguishable through the thick haze clouding his mind, though still drawing closer.

When he finally opened them again and had managed to blink away the bright lights distorting his vision, he realised he wasn't outside anymore. Instead, he was standing in front of a nondescript double door he knew like the back of his hand and had hoped to never see again.

It stood the slightest bit ajar, just so that he could peer inside. There was his father behind his desk, Lord Lettenhove intimidating as always. And- Jaskier frowned.

A little boy standing in front of him, with a mop of brown hair and a silken doublet that looked much like the one Jaskier was wearing. His mouth formed a silent 'O.' He couldn't see the boy's face, nor betrayed his body a single thing, yet he knew that he was crying.

'This isn't real,' he understood. 'This is a memory.'

"Father, please-" the boy begged, but his voice broke and shoulders gave the slightest tremble, the only hint of the terror that stole his and Jaskier's voices alike. 'For the fearless no success,' he reminded himself. 'Well, I'm fucking terrified. I'm getting out of here.'

He wanted to close his eyes so that this strange world would bring him to another place. But they didn't. No matter how adamantly he ordered them to shut, his eyelids didn't budge. 'Poor boy,' a voice in the back of his mind said. 'Poor me. I can't leave like this.'

"Well, Sir?" his father asked coldly. "Don't you have anything to say in your defence?"

Jaskier screwed his eyes shut, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He cursed quietly: "Get it together, Jaskier!" He hadn't dealt with stage fright for nearly thirty years to succumb to fear now. So, he squared his shoulders and passed through the oaken wood of the door.

"Actually, your lordship," he spoke up, "I do."

Lord Lettenhove whirled around and gasped. "You!" he spit out and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Where have you been? Your mother is worried sick."

"She isn't," he said casually and strolled over to his child self. "She never is. Besides, she's been dead for a decade." He went down on one knee to get on eye level with him. "Hello there," he greeted him with a smile he hoped to be reassuring. "It certainly has been a while."

Julian raised his gaze, his eyes puffy and red with tears, the fear lingering even now. For a moment he couldn't help but stare in bewilderment. 'Was it really that bad?' He hadn't even remembered.

"Who are you?" Julian asked.

"A scoundrel," their father huffed indignantly, "and a coward."

Jaskier's smile grew even wider. "He's right," he confessed. "I am you, little one. Just without- this." He waved his hand around vaguely.

Julian's eyes widened even further, his gaze flicking around nervously. Finally, it settled on the lute case. "Are you a bard?" he whispered secretively.

"A failure," their father commented, "a disgrace upon our name."

He ignored him. "Oh no, little one. I am no mere bard. I am an adventurer, a poet, a minstrel. I am all that you dream to be and more. I am Jaskier, the most renowned troubadour of the Continent. But most importantly, I am alive. I am real. And you, my lord," slowly he rose to his feet and turned to their father, "are nothing."

"Excuse you?" he gasped. "You will take that back, young man."

"No," he answered calmly. "I don't think I will. I was taught to always tell the truth, so tell the truth I shall. And that truth is that you, father, are not deserving of any obedience or respect a son owes his parents. And least of all love."

Lord Lettenhove sneered. "You are no son of mine," he spat out and for a moment those words were enough to make Jaskier tense up. He could well remember when he had heard them—and seen his family—the last time. He could still taste the despair on his tongue, the tears running down his cheeks, the overwhelming urge to beg-

"No," he interrupted the spiral of hopelessness that threatened to drag him away. 'I have reimagined my memories hundreds of times. I can do it again.' He straightened his back and raised his chin. "No, Alfred, I am not. You wish you had a son like me."

"I do not-"

Jaskier scoffed and turned his back to him. He had spent far too much time listening to his father in his life already, he did not plan on doing it any longer. "Hey, Julian," he said instead, "do you want to hear a poem? How about a limerick?"

The Count de Lettenhove gasped indignantly: "Julian, how- Such verses are beneath us."

"And they are above your intellect," he retorted with a wink at Julian. "Let's see, I think I've got a good one:

There once was a Countlet named Alfred,

Whose aim was to cause fright and dread.

He thought himself smart

For he despised the arts,

Alas, he was dumber than bread."

Julian's eyes gleamed and he snickered. Well. He considered that a good start. "Another?" he challenged and the boy nodded eagerly. "How about this?

There once was a Redanian Countess

Who was famed for her martial prowess.

She boasted she taught

Her son to wield a sword,

But was beaten by a pigeon at chess.”

Giggling, Julian almost didn't look scared anymore. "A last one, yeah?" Jaskier proposed and he nodded eagerly. "This one I know from a friend. Ready?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Alright." He cleared his throat and said with as much dignity and gravitas as possible: "Lambert, Lambert, what a prick."

By now Julian was laughing openly, nearly doubling over with the force of it. 'There,' Jaskier thought with a satisfied smile, 'that's better.'

He blinked.

The road that led through the early-summer forest was empty except for a cart disappearing in the distance. Jaskier frowned and turned around. What on earth had led him here? As far as he could remember it, he had never seen that place before. Plus, there was no-one around.

Maybe he was just supposed to follow the road. With a shrug Jaskier decided that was as good a guess as any and began walking. He hadn't gotten far when he heard the prattling of tiny feet behind him. "Ma?" a young boy shouted. "Ma!"

Jaskier wanted to keep on walking. He didn’t know this boy, so this hardly concerned him. He rally tried to keep on walking. Really. But something made him turn around. Maybe the fear in the boy's cry: "Ma!" Probably the sob when he yelled: "Visenna!"

The boy couldn't be any older than seven years at most, probably he was younger still, and there were tears glistening in the corner of his eyes. "Ma?" he asked again.

"Sorry, buddy," Jaskier said. "No-one around but me."

"But- She said- She told me to get water," he stammered. "She was thirsty."

"Oh." His heart sank. What was he even supposed to tell him? That she was surely coming back? That was a lie, no mother left her child in the woods with the intention of coming back. He had seen it often enough in the past. Mostly it was because of hunger, or sickness, sometimes just good old poverty as well. Some of the children were believed to be cursed, or changelings, or whatever other thing humans came up with to keep hurting each other.

This child, however, did not seem to fit any of the categories. He looked almost disturbingly boring. He was well-fed and properly clothed as well, a healthy blush on his cheeks. Jaskier had no idea what had led the mother to abandon him out here. "I'm sorry," was the best he managed. The boy's lower lip wobbled dangerously. 'Please don't start crying,' Jaskier begged whichever higher power was listening. He was shit with children; he couldn't handle a crying one. "What's your name?" he asked, trying to prevent the inevitable.

"Geralt," the boy answered with a frail voice.

"Oh," Jaskier said again. 'Oh, fuck,' he thought. No wonder he didn't recognise the memory—it was taking place over half a century before he was even born. "Geralt," he repeated stupidly. Geralt as a child. Geralt before the trials. Geralt who had, presumably, just been abandoned before heading to Kaer Morhen. Geralt who was just about to cry.

'Shit.' He had to do something. And fast. "Well, Geralt, I'm glad that I stumbled upon you here. I couldn't imagine braving the way through this wilderness on my own."

The boy frowned—an expression that looked much cuter on this Geralt than on the one Jaskier was acquainted with. "I know you," he decided after a few moments.

"Yes," he agreed. "You will. Come, I tell you a story while we walk."

He started walking into the direction the cart had left. Boy-Geralt hurried to catch up with him and slipped his hand in his. "You look funny," he remarked.

Jaskier snorted. "It's called fashion, thank you very much." He regarded him with a fond, wry smile. "I'm glad not everything about you changes once you grow up."

"Are you a prince?" Geralt asked as if Jaskier hadn't said anything at all. 'The selective deafness isn't new either, I see.'

"Not quite," he answered honestly. "I am a Viscount, but that's unimportant. You will know me as a bard and the most annoying creature in existence."

"A bard?" he asked excitedly, skipping along next to him. "I will know a bard? Will you sing songs of me? Will we be friends?"

"All of that and more," he chuckled. "Although you won't always be grateful for it."

"I can't imagine that." They walked barely two paces in silence before Geralt asked: "Will I be a knight? Will I slay a dragon? Is that why I will know you?"

"No," Jaskier answered as kindly as he could. "You will save a dragon. As a witcher."

"A witcher?" Geralt's eyes went wide in horror. "No, that can't be! Witchers are scary!"

"Well, you can be very scary," he agreed. "But most of the time you aren't. You see, there was this one time when we were travelling and you found a dog. It was old, and had a broken leg and had been left to die in the woods. But instead of killing it, you set its bone, heaved it onto your horse's back and found a place for it to stay. You weren't with me then, but a few years later I visited the same town and it was still there, hale and hearty."

He glanced down at the boy to check if he had the boy’s attention. Of course, he had; Geralt was practically hanging on his lips. "Oh, or that other time when you were hired to slay a troll and we chose to remigrate him instead. Sounds easy enough, right?"

Geralt nodded.

"Well, it wasn't. You see, while trolls are certainly smarter than... drowners, let's say, they are not terribly intelligent. We tried talking to him, wasted half a night while doing so—because we couldn't remigrate him during the day, since you were supposed to kill him—until we managed to explain to him that he should get up and follow us. It worked until we reached another bridge where he had lived previously, as it seemed. He decided he might just as well live there again, and then we had to remigrate him again." Jaskier laughed at the memory. "I think we repeated that four times at least. And didn't even get paid in the end, can you believe that?"

"Another," Geralt begged eagerly. "Please, tell another one.

"Alright," Jaskier agreed. And so, he did what he did best: singing Geralt of Rivia's praises. He talked until his throat was raw, and kept on talking after that. Only when the sun set and Geralt fell almost asleep on his feet, did they seek out a place to rest.

They found a nice dry spot next to a stream, just like Geralt would teach him almost a century from now. Jaskier dug a pit to start a campfire, as Geralt collected firewood, and dug out some dried rations from his pack, that had miraculously appeared along the way. Once they were both sated, he laid his bedroll out for the boy and took the first watch. Well, the only watch, more like it.

He leaned against a log they had dragged onto the clearing together, plucking idly at his lute strings to accompany an old lullaby he half-remembered his nursemaid singing. Satisfied, he watched as the boy fell asleep and only then, finally, did exhaustion wash over him. He felt so drained, from walking for what felt like weeks without a break. He'd just set his lute down and rest his eyes for a little bit and—

He blinked.

"Get out!" the innkeeper barked and Jaskier sprung to his feet. "Get out, you useless bastard! And don't bother coming back in."

"Fuck," he cursed quietly as he lunged to catch the man—boy, really—that was about to land face-first in the mud. Too late. The Oxenfurt graduate was already eating dirt. And not moving. Well, that was concerning. "Are you alright?" Jaskier asked.

"Ow," the boy groaned, still without so much as lifting his head.

He flopped down next to his younger self with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Bruised ego hurts like shit. But no broken bones at least, eh?"

"This time."

He winced. He'd forgotten how shitty it had been before he had become famous. "You need to get up," he told him without too much empathy. Whining would get them nowhere. "You'll ruin your doublet else, and we both know that you don't have the coin for a new one. No-one likes a dirty bard." Besides, they had to greet a witcher in the very same get-up not quite two months from now.

"I hate you," Julian-Jaskier grumbled as he got himself into a sitting position.

"You hate the world and think that's the same as hating yourself and everyone around you," he corrected him. "There's a difference." He had also forgotten his dramatics of his teenage years, it seemed. Not that he was keen to remember them.

The bardlet rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance. "What do you want? I really had a shitty day and don't need a visit from... what even is this? Future me?"

"Something like that," Jaskier grumbled. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled to be here either."

"Then go away."

"Can't," he explained. "Not until I help you... or something."

"Help me?" He snorted. "How are you supposed to help me?"

The thing was, Jaskier wasn't quite sure either. There really was no helping him; he had no money to give and besides, that wouldn't make much of a difference either. It never had, not until he stole the lute from the drunk disgrace of a bard in a month, at least. Wait a minute-

"A lute!" he exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"I have a lute, I can give it to you," Jaskier babbled excitedly and scrambled to his feet.

"And how's that going to help me?" Julian-Jaskier asked sceptically.

"Performances, you idiot! No-one wants to listen to just a bard; everyone loves bards with lutes. It's right— shit." He grabbed his lutestrap to find— nothing.

"What?" he scoffed. "Lost it or something?"

"What? Lost it?" He laughed nervously. "No, that's ridiculous. I just, um—" He started patting down his breeches, as if he might have hidden it there. "—misplaced it, that's it." He turned on the spot, searching the ground. He had just put it down when Geralt had gotten tired and— "Fuck!"

"You lost it?"

"I lost it."

Julian-Jaskier laughed. Actually laughed. "What?" he asked when he saw Jaskier's resentful glare. "Don't tell me you've stopped looking on the bright side of life."

"How is this the bright side?!"

"Oh, I don't know," he flashed him a wide grin. "I actually consider you losing the lute you wanted to gift—"

"Lend!"

"—yourself rather funny."

"Ughh!" Jaskier exclaimed and pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. "You are a brat." He had no time for that. He needed to go back to Geralt and get the lute. He blinked. Nothing happened. He blinked again. And again, and again, and again, and again. Nothing. "Fuck!"

Julian-Jaskier grinned even wider. "You do realise the comedic potential in this scene, right?"

"I don't care about the comedic potential! I just want my fucking lute!" He turned away from the annoyance—really, how Geralt had allowed him to travel with him was beyond him. Oh right. He hadn't—and stared at the sky. "Hey!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "You there, looking at all of this! Coram Agh Tera? Wade? Well, whatever your name is, you wanker, take me back to the previous one! I need my lute!"

Nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, there was the barely stifled snorting laughter of Julian-Jaskier in the background, but he decided to ignore that, so it was basically nothing. "Come on, mate! I just forgot my lute! How am I supposed to help this one without a lute?"

Still no answer.

"You know, I don't really think this is going to work," Julian-Jaskier quipped.

"Shut the fuck up, you midget. I know that!"

He sighed and finally got to his feet, grimacing as he took in the ruined fabric of his breeches. "I'm sure there's another way to help me besides conjuring up your lute from thin air."

"Well, probably," Jaskier hissed, "but in any case, I'd really like my lute back. It's my lute, alright, I'm attached to it. I get it three months from now and I want it back! Right now! Right here in my hands!"

The weight was sudden and entirely unexpected, so Jaskier actually stumbled a bit. Flabbergasted, he stared down at Filavandrel's lute in his hands. "Oh," he said simply. "I suppose that works."

Julian-Jaskier looked very stupid when surprised. 'Gods, I hope I don't look like that,' Jaskier prayed. Given that his looks had barely changed since that day, however, he didn't have all too high hopes. "How did you do that?" the bardlet asked.

"I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "I just wished really hard to have a lute."

"Brilliant." His eyes gleamed. "Do you think I can do that, too?"

"No," he answered simply and thrust the lute into his hands. "Just go and do your fucking performance. I have places to be."

"Alright, alright!" Julian-Jaskier agreed and took off running towards the tavern.

'I should really do something about the dirt,' Jaskier thought as he took in the mud-caked seam of his pants.

He blinked.

The dirt was gone.

Julian-Jaskier looked down at himself and grinned. "Thank you!" he shouted back over the pristine shoulder of his doublet and vanished inside.

He blinked.

His surroundings melted away once more and rebuilt themselves in a town square. Jaskier frowned, trying to remember if it looked familiar. He didn't think so, though it was hard to tell. After the first hundred or so, they all started to blur together.

What was strange, though, were the people. There were quite a lot of them and he didn't recognise any of them. 'Weird,' he thought. Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure he had even seen their clothes before. It reminded him of the garb his parents and grandparents used to wear when he'd been a child. It had to be one of Geralt's memories, then.

The faint ringing of swords filled the air as terror gripped him. "Oh no," Jaskier whispered hoarsely as his surroundings shifted again in a nauseating whirl.

He blinked.

Even before he saw the woman's corpse he knew exactly where—or rather when—he was. Geralt had never told him of this story, not really, at least. But he had heard rumours, and then, after meeting the witcher, had gathered as many stories as he could to find, to get to the truth at the core of it.

"Incredible," an old, bearded man said as he knelt at her side. "Marilka," he said and stumbled to his feet. "Marilka? Marilka! Get me a cart. We'll take her to the tower for an autopsy."

Jaskier felt the overwhelming urge to punch Stregobor in the face. He probably could have. He probably should have. But before he had a chance, there was a bloodied blade at the mage's throat. "If you touch a single hair on her head," Geralt growled, "yours will be on the ground next." It was Geralt, quite obviously so. Still, he looked different. Younger, in a way. Much less guarded than the man he knew, with a wild look in his eyes Jaskier had never seen before.

"Have you gone mad?" Stregobor asked. "Her mutation, it influences people. That's how she got these men to follow her." His eyes narrowed just a bit. "She got to you, too, didn't she?"

"Do not," Geralt snarled, "touch her."

"Witcher," the mage answered in the most condescending voice imaginable and, oh, Jaskier definitely would punch him now, "you butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken."

"You're a beast," a man called from the crowd.

"You endangered the girl," a woman added and Jaskier decided that all of them could bugger off, thank you very much.

"I think this is quite enough," he said calmly as he stepped forward, shifting in front of Geralt as time came to a halt. "Lower your sword, dear. Please."

The witcher stared down at him in confusion. "What-" He blinked a few times and his gaze cleared. "Jaskier," he whispered.

"The very same," he said and bowed with a flourish. "The sword, love." He squeezed his hand lightly and watched with relief as Geralt did as he was told. "Let me take care of this mess for you."

The witcher nodded and the world started spinning again. "Good people of Blaviken," he began and opened his arms. The familiar weight of his lute appeared much faster than the first time. "You can count yourselves lucky, for on this day you are in the presence of not only the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, but also the master bard Jaskier. Truly, you are in for the performance of a lifeti-"

"Jaskier," Geralt hissed quietly.

"Yes, dear?"

"This is not really the place for a performance." He pointed at the corpses and the townspeople who stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. Ughh. Right. And then there was also-

"Who do you even think you are?" puffed Stregobor.

"Jaskier, the bard, and I don't like repeating myself," he quipped. "So, I suggest you shut the fuck up, old man." Immediately, his mouth snapped shut. Still, Jaskier wasn't finished: "You are a bumbling idiot who keeps babbling about some mutation nonsense. It's not her fault that you have the charisma of a wooden spoon and lack any kind of imagination. Really, it is not that hard to believe that a woman could inspire people. You are a pitiful creature."

The people around him still stared in open-mouthed bewilderment. "Close your mouth, dear, I'm not done, yet," he told Geralt and tipped his jaw up. He really should do something about all the bodies.

Jaskier frowned, concentrating hard. Shrouds appeared from thin air and covered the corpses and the blood vanished from Geralt's face. "Jaskier," the witcher growled, annoyed. Alright, maybe he had overdone it with the flower crown, but this was a dream world; when would he ever get such a chance again? "Focus."

Right. Not his strong suit, but he had a performance to deliver. And that was very much his strong suit. Gently, he plucked at the lute strings, the notes almost manifesting before he did so. "When a humble bard," he began; the song came as easy to him as breathing.

The audience didn't seem too enthusiastic. It took him until the end of the first refrain to realise why. "Oh," he said, his lute making a dissonant twang. "I suppose I'm just about two decades early with this, aren't I?" Of course. How could he have been so stupid? 'Well, only one way to change that.'

"Toss a coin to your Witcher," he sang loudly, "Oh, valley of plenty

Oh, valley of plenty, oh

Toss a coin to your Witcher

Oh, valley of plenty!"

He blinked.

The wind tugged at him to the tune of a camp being set up. Jaskier knew where he was even before he opened his eyes. "Ah," he breathed, taking in the silhouette of Geralt sitting on the rock. And his own self approaching him. "Shit." He winced in sympathy for his heartbroken, aching self. Well, not heartbroken yet, but soon to be.

He wasn't surprised, to be honest. Not really. But fuck was he afraid of it. With all the other scenes he'd had at least a semblance of an idea of how to fix them. But this? He couldn't really change himself, could he now?

In the end, it had all worked out just fine, of course. Geralt and he had found each other again and after a bit of awkwardness and a muttered apology by Geralt they had continued travelling with each other again. While his witcher definitely wasn't a man of words, Jaskier could see his remorse just fine. He was fluent in all of Geralt's silences, and the plethora of gifts and smiles he got was better than any spoken apology in the world.

Still. It hurt.

Geralt shifted a bit, hearing his footsteps. Jaskier had to do something, and fast. "That's not really going to cut it," he muttered. His blubbering, yearning self wasn't going to be of any more assistance now than the last time. "Sorry, mate, but you have to go." With an ever so quiet pop the other Jaskier vanished.

It earned him a gruff Geralt grunt. "Jaskier," the witcher said without even turning around. "What do you want?"

'Alright, so we're doing this,' he thought and did his best to steel himself. "Nothing but a chat, old friend," he tried to say as casually as possible and sat down next to him. "Just like the good old days, hm?"

"Hmm."

"Funny. I thought you'd say that," he replied in a feeble attempt at comedy.

Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn't manage to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth quite fast enough. "Jaskier."

"Not helping?"

"Hmm."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, didn't think so."

He waited with bated breath for his witcher to say something, but apparently, he considered their conversation done. 'Looks like I have to talk myself out of this mess,' he thought. 'Like always.'

Time to put his money where his mouth was: "Look," he said and wet his lip with his tongue. "I know how it feels when people die. It's always hard. And it doesn't get any easier the more it happens."

"Your point, bard?"

He closed his eyes. He still didn't have any fucking clue on how to solve this. Only one way to go, then: "I have a proposition for you I already know the answer to. But—" He took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm his violently beating heart. "It's all been a bit much, lately, yeah? All these... djinns and children of surprise and dragons. So, why don't we get away for a while? We could head to the coast."

Geralt snorted. "Never took you for the maritime type."

"Well, I'm not," Jaskier answered, glad for the tension to lift, if only a little. "I get horribly seasick, you see? But that's not the point."

"Then what is?" They were going for the fond annoyance, apparently. It certainly was an improvement to last time.

It also loosened Jaskier's tongue; he could barely keep himself from babbling and that really wouldn't make it better. "Life's too short to spend it being unhappy. You should do what pleases you while you can."

"Composing your next song?" And there it was. The moment he'd inevitably fuck up.

"No, I just, uh-" He let his head drop. "I'd say I'm just trying to figure out what pleases me, but that's a lie. I figured that out a long time ago."

"Sleeping with other people's spouses is not really a life goal, Jaskier."

"Oh, ha ha," he retorted. "Very funny. But that's not— That's not what I'm talking about."

"What, we still haven't reached the fucking point?" he asked with the slightest hint of a smirk.

"No, I— Gosh, this is harder than I thought. It's you, Geralt. You're what pleases me."

The witcher turned to him with incredibly wide eyes despite the frown. As if he was surprised. As if he couldn't fathom why Jaskier would say that.

He shrugged. "It's true. I'm never as happy as I am at your side. Just spending time with you. You're the most important person in this world to me. In any world, really. I couldn't— I cannot bear losing you. Maybe it's selfish, but I just— I just want to have you for myself for a bit. Not share you with those who are hellbent on killing you. Not share you with anyone."

"Hmm." Geralt tilted his head to the side, a curious look Jaskier couldn't quite decipher in his eyes. In all the years of their acquaintance he had never, ever looked at him like that.

"Just— let me show you?" he begged. "Please? I know it's not what-"

But Geralt didn't let him finish. "Alright," he interrupted him. "Tomorrow."

He blinked.

Geralt stood a few feet away with Borch and Yennefer. "The sorceress will never regain her womb," he caught the last remnants of their conversation. "And though you didn't want to lose her, you will."

"He already has," Yennefer answered with a frail voice and stormed away. Jaskier scrambled to his feet when she passed him, catching Geralt's longing gaze.

'Shit,' he thought. This would be heartbreak all over again. 'It always was going to be.'

Geralt looked down at Borch. "Hmm," he said and trudged over to Jaskier. "The coast, you said?"

"Y-yeah," he stammered.

"Hm." He shouldered past him and grumbled: "They better have some good fucking ale there." After a few steps he realised that Jaskier wasn't following him and turned around. "You coming?" he asked with an outstretched hand.

"I am," he replied and scrambled to catch up with him. "In my experience, they also have excellent vodka," Jaskier joked and grasped Geralt's hand tightly.

He blinked.

It was a clear day on the cliffside. The ocean stretched out to the horizon in all its deep, dark blue glory, its waves crashing gently on the rocky shore. "Oh," Jaskier simply said.

"Hmm," Geralt replied and draped an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

'This is so much better than being here alone,' he thought. "It's beautiful," he said.

"It's nice," Geralt said. From the witcher that was probably as poetic as it got. And, oh, that curious look in Geralt's eyes looked even better with a smile accompanying it.

A warm feeling filled his chest. 'I really could get used to this,' he thought. "There's another thing, Geralt," he blurted suddenly. "I lo-"

He blinked.

The world turned upside down. He cursed himself for being so fucking stupid. Because, of course, he had not only ruined the probably single-most romantic scene to confess his feelings for Geralt, the worst also, apparently, was still ahead of him.

Jaskier had never been to Kaer Morhen before. Geralt hadn't even trusted him enough to betray so much as the smallest detail of its location. Still, there could be no doubt as to where he had ended up this time. Not with the vials and jars and jugs full of dubiously coloured liquids. Not with the witcher and mage looming over the scene, whose presence Jaskier barely registered.

All he saw were the wide, terrified, hazel eyes of the boy straining against the shackles tying him to the table. "No," Geralt begged, "please, Vesemir, I can't."

"Yes, you can," the old witcher answered. "It'll be over before you know it."

"No," Jaskier whispered, his eyes widening in horror. "No, I won't let that—"

He blinked.

Vesemir was gone, though Jaskier thought he might hear the distant sound of retching. The mage was still there, mumbling quietly in Elder.

"No!" he shouted again and leapt forward to push him back, to get him to stop, to- His hands passed right through him. As if he wasn't even there. As if he was a ghost. "No, stop, I won't-!"

He blinked.

The pain hit him completely unprepared, punching the air from his lungs. Wheezing, Jaskier staggered on his feet. He felt himself reminded of his first meeting with Geralt. Only that this time it didn't stop.

He could feel the burn of the toxins in his veins as his blood rushed, his body twisting, fighting, transforming. The boy on the table strained against his shackles, his mouth open with a silent plea he could not utter.

Jaskier could, though. Blinding pain ripped through his body as his knees gave out beneath him. A horrible scream erupted from his mouth, agony consuming any semblance of humanity.

After what seemed an eternity the pain ebbed off again; the burning fire in his body still pulsing, threatening to come back.

"No," Jaskier whispered, his vision still clouded from agony, but Geralt was still there. Had to still be there. "I won't let you suffer."

White hot pain surged again. "No!" he commanded, cried, sobbed. "No... Please—!" He screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until his throat was sore, raw, burning. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he could no more and Geralt and he were coughing up blood.

The pain flared and Jaskier's voice gave out. 'I can't do this any longer.' He didn't- He couldn't- He couldn't talk. 'But I don't need words to imagine.'

With a trembling hand he reached out, strained until his fingertips grazed over Geralt's arm— And collapsed. Jaskier sobbed, and thrashed, and curled himself up into a little ball, suddenly wishing for the same chains Geralt wore. That way he had at least something to hold onto. Jaskier had nothing.

Nothing but pain.

An agonised whine sounded from above him. Jaskier whimpered. He wanted to reach out, wanted to soothe him, wanted to— But he couldn't. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he barely could think as the world flickered around him. He wasn’t strong enough.

He sobbed. ‘No,’ he thought. 'No, it can’t end here, I can’t wake up yet, I need to stay— I need it to make it stop for him. I need to, I have to, I must.'

He braced himself. The world flickered again. A soft sound of music floated down to him, a chant in Elder. For the next onslaught he was ready. As ready as one could be. He breathed in, let the pain fill him until it almost became too much. 'No,' he decided. Then again, more forceful: 'No! This is not who you are.' The pain twisted and churned in his gut, like liquid fire, but he would take it. He would take it all, if need be.

'You are human.' A second voice joined the first in its chant. He ignored them both. His eyes shut as tightly as he could, Jaskier imagined, flickering reality be damned. An incredible feeling rushed through him. Like flying. Suddenly, it was almost easy. He didn't imagine the pain away, that was far beyond his capabilities. But he could imagine it differently instead. He could imagine rightful anger, or heartfelt grief; and even a tiny sliver of hope.

'You are kind.' He could imagine laughter and tears, embraces and kisses and smiles. He could imagine songs and poems and jokes. Friendship and love and family. He could imagine dragons, knights and mages, queens, kings, and children of surprise. He could imagine bards and horses, elves, selkiemores, djinns.

'You are worthy of all good things in life and more.' He couldn't imagine the pain away. That was far beyond his capabilities. But he could imagine so much else that the pain became insignificant.

He didn't know when it stopped, or why. Jaskier opened his eyes and looked at his hands. He tilted his head to the side. Something had changed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something was different. He hadn’t even noticed how transparent he had been before. But he wasn’t anymore. He looked just as real as his surroundings.

Jaskier looked up to meet Geralt's eyes, glaring gold in the dark. "Thank you," he whispered.

He nodded shakily and rose up on his knees.

He blinked.

A voice behind them spoke up: "Again."

Jaskier stood on his trembling legs. "No," he commanded. "Enough."

The mage attempted to step forward. Jaskier glared at him and the man stopped, frozen with one foot in the air. "No," he repeated, "you have no power here. You are a memory, a dream, a fantasy. And I do not want to continue this dream!" With every word the air around them began vibrating, as the feeling filled him again. It felt like floating.

"Get lost!" he yelled. The door flung open, frozen air coasting in. "You are not welcome here."

He took a step forward and the mage stepped back, his form flickering. "You never were, and never will be. Get lost"

"Who do you think you are?" the mage scoffed. "With what magic do you think you can best me?"

Jaskier laughed hoarsely. "I am Geralt's friend," he declared. The ground shook with every step he took. "I am no mage, no witcher, no Child of Elder Blood. Just a bard with a lute. Just a man with an imagination.” The calm feeling within him dissipated, a storm brewing within his stomach. Not like liquid fire, but like frozen lightning. The air around him thrummed, wind swirling through the laboratory. “And I told you to get. LOST!"

"No," the mage wheezed, "you can't-" His body flickered again. And flickered. And blinked out of existence.

"How dare you?" the Count de Lettenhove boomed, looming up dangerously before him. "My own-"

"GET LOST!" Jaskier yelled. He vanished and his mother appeared in his stead. "Get lost, get lost, get lost, get lost, get lost!" With every word he said another ghost appeared in the chamber. Stregobor, Yennefer, Renfri, his brother, his sister, Queen Calanthe, Visenna. Faces he knew like the back of his hand and others he had never seen before blurred together before his eyes in a nauseating whirlwind of impressions.

He sobbed and thrashed and laughed as he banished each and every one of them to whatever circle of hell they had crawled forth from. Floating, flying, his mind clawing at the edges of the reality he rewrote. The castle around him trembled and shook like his knees, stones and memories collapsing, falling, vanishing before crushing them. He was at the eye of the storm, clouds of wind and darkness swirling around him, interspersed with lighting. It hurt, it burned, it stung, but he did not stop. Could not stop. Would not stop.

Until it was over.

Jaskier hadn’t even noticed it. He probably never would have noticed if not for the boy tugging at his hand. "It's pretty."

"What is?" Jaskier mumbled weakly. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. It took him a while to process the beautiful winter landscape that stretched out before him. It looked like it had been plucked straight from a storybook. It had everything it needed: a lake, covered with a thick layer of ice, an orchard adorned with icicles, a hill to go sledding. Picture-perfect.

Well. A storybook where the snow was green, the trees purple and the sky orange, eternally stuck in sunset with no sun to be seen.

Still. It looked beautiful. Serene, even. Even more magnificent than he had imagined. "Thank you," he answered, his voice much quieter than the enthusiastic child's on his other side. "I'm Jaskier," the boy said.

The boy on his right smiled widely and extended his hand: "Geralt."

"That's a nice name." Child-Jaskier shook it excitedly. "I can already tell that we're going to be the best of friends."

"That would be nice," Geralt answered.

"What do I do now?" Jaskier and Jaskier asked.

"Hmm." Geralt frowned, apparently thinking hard. "Do you know how to build a snowman?"

"I do," they replied.

"I never built a snowman."

"Come," child-Jaskier said and tugged on his hand. "I'll show you."

Jaskier watched the two boys slip down the hill on their butts. He watched them run to the lake, watched them build a green snowman. He was relieved, he realised. Relieved, to see them happy. Still, the question remained: 'What do I do now?'

"Man," a bored voice next to him made him whip around. The dandelion yawned. Made a yawning sound. Whatever. "I already told you what to do."

"You!" he raised an accusatory finger. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know, man," it sighed heavily. "This is your dreamworld."

"Fuck," he muttered. "Can't you at least help me figure out the rest of the poem?"

"I already did. Just follow the instructions. Follow—"

“—your heartbeat to the horizon, then take the second turn right after the battle field, I know,” he grumbled. “Have I reached the horizon yet?”

“I don’t know,” it responded. “Have you?”

“Probably not,” he sighed. “Will you come with me while I continue?”

“Can you imagine that?”

He smiled and began walking again. “I guess I can.” They journeyed in silence for a while. But try as he might, the horizon didn’t seem to come any closer. Jaskier groaned loudly; he really should have guessed that there was another mystery to that. "Hey, you!" he shouted at the sky. "Coram Agh Tera, can you hear me? Wasn't I done with the nightmares?"

No response.

Well, almost none. "He really is an idiot," Valdo-larkspur mocked. "The sky talks as little as the trees."

Jaskier chuckled and raised his finger. "For the record, I knew you'd say that."

"Alright, braggart, don't flatter yourself," Jaskier-larkspur joined in.

"That, too," Jaskier said but the two of them didn't hear him, already too engrossed in a discussion about some trivial nonsense.

'Alright, focus, Jaskier,' he told himself again. He had been forcing the brain fog from his mind entirely too often in the near past; it was getting harder and harder every time. And the noise of two bickering idiots behind him didn't make it any easier. On the contrary, with all the distractions he could already feel the fidgety-ness approaching.

'Ughh.' He'd never figure it out at this rate.

What Jaskier didn't see, of course, was that he already had done so a rather long time ago. But like I said, mortals are, first and foremost, fundamentally blind. Their imagination reaches only as far as the horizon, even that of a poet as accomplished as Jaskier.

In hindsight, his blindness was truly a blessing. If he had discovered that there was absolutely no need for him to brave the latter stages of his nightmares, his rage might have been sufficient to shake him from his slumber. And then where would we have been?

So, he had no choice but to figure out the mystery that was no mystery at all all over again.

"Could you two shut up?" he snarled at the larkspurs. "If you're not going to help me, you can at least be quiet!"

"Well, someone got off on the wrong foot," Valdo-larkspur quipped.

"Yeah," Jaskier-larkspur agreed. "And for the record, we did help you. We gave you instructions. It's not our fault if you're too much of a fool to follow them."

Jaskier frowned. "Fool?" he breathed. 'And when they’re gone the fools remain,

A garden grows with no sustain.'

"Hey!" the buttercup complained. "You shouldn't be so mean to him. He's doing his best."

"Oh, yeah?" the larkspurs taunted. "His best isn't very good then, huh?"

"Man, just leave him alone," the dandelion joined in and before he knew it, the four of them were arguing viciously.

Jaskier paid them no mind. He glanced around warily, trying to parse out whatever 'no sustain' meant. It couldn't be anywhere around the lake, then, nor the lilac forest. The blue mountains were an option, but he didn't think it likely.

'Come descend into the sky.'

He tipped his head up to the sky above. 'It's empty,' he realised. No sun. No clouds. No nothing. But descend into the sky? He couldn't imagine that. Could he?

A faint smile spread on his face.

'How to find my mighty throne?

The answer’s plain: you don’t.'

"So, it was that simple, huh?" he said to no-one in particular as he stretched out a hand to touch the invisible barrier of the horizon, still impossibly far away. “The second turn to the right, is it?” he murmured and turned into the direction of the blue mountains, keeping one hand still on the skyline.

"Well, would you look at that," a gruff voice said as the lark landed on his shoulder, "the weirdo actually knows how to follow instructions."

"You again," he deadpanned. "How did you get here?"

"I flew. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jaskier echoed stupidly.

"So," the lark said and picked at the feathers under its wing, "have you figured it out yet?"

He huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. "It's really quite easy, isn't it?"

"You tell me."

"Why," Jaskier said and closed his eyes, "you flip the world upside down. Obviously."

"Obviously," the lark replied stupidly.

Jaskier opened his eyes and as the sky stretched out beneath him. It was an easy thing for him to take a step. And another one. And then, let himself drift into that bright realm of uncertainty.

And so, he did.

He had already gotten quite far down into the sky when suddenly his descent was cut short. "The fuck?" he muttered. He took a few experimental steps to the left and right, eyeing the fog curling around his ankles warily. But try as he might, he couldn't descend any further. "Are we there yet?" he called up to the flowers that were still waiting on the surface.

"Almost," the lark replied, gliding down to him. "Just open the door."

"What door?" He could see nothing but orange sky. He turned into the direction he had come from and marched forward. He hit the door face-first. "Fuck!" he cursed, holding his nose that should be bleeding by all rights.

"You found it!" The flowers cheered from the ground. It was weird, seeing them hang from the ceiling like this. Or the ground. Whatever. This was already weird enough without wondering about semantics.

Besides, he had more important stuff to do. Like opening an invisible door.

"Shit," he cursed, blindly scrabbling at the solid surface that had materialised out of thin air. "Is there a handle or something? A knob? Or— ah, fuck!" He turned the knob and immediately stumbled through, falling a solid foot before landing in soft powder snow.

Jaskier groaned and turned onto his back, staring at the solid wooden door hovering in the air above a wintery garden. "Sure," he muttered and got to his feet with a resigned shrug. "Why not?" He started dusting off his clothes. "I'm already talking to birds and flowers, why not a door in a fucking—"

"Jaskier?"

#my writing #For You I'll Always Wait #FYIAW #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher secret santa #renfri #stregobor #vesemir

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

Play With Fire - part 13

Warnings! Pure smut, lots of dirty talk. I think kinda made a bit of a dom/sub dynamic? Idk. Either way, Geralt’s in charge and they’re both Living For It.

Masterlist!

Also! I wrote another prison fic, based on a comment one reader left on AO3, and the first chapter is actually already up, right here! For now it’s only on AO3, but lmk if you want it on tumblr as well!

***

Jaskier desperately tries to move his hips, tries to rut against Geralt, who’s still pinning him down.

Geralt sighs softly, nipping at Jaskier’s jaw, at his ear. “Tell me, boy, how far would you have gone to make me jealous? Would you have flirted with him? Would you have climbed in his lap? Would you have sucked his cock while looking me in the eye?”

Jaskier whimpers, still desperately searching out friction, finding none.

“Answer me, boy. Would you have let him fuck you? Just to make me jealous?”

“Yes,” Jaskier whispers, hands clawing at Geralt’s shirt, breath leaving him in shallow pants.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir. I would’ve let...” he whimpers as Geralt presses a thigh between his legs, lets him rut against it, but only slightly, still keeping his hips pinned against the door. “I would’ve let him come in me. I would’ve spread myself open for you, would’ve showed it off.” He whines as Geralt yanks his shirt aside, bites into the tender skin of his shoulder. “Fuck. I would’ve let you fuck his come out of me.”

“Hmm, maybe I should let you. Maybe I should let you play the perfect little slut, maybe I should absolutely ruin you after. Is that what you want, boy? To be used?”

Jaskier nods desperately, frantically. “Please, please, sir, just- fuck. Use me, however you please, I don’t care.”

Geralt pulls back, looking into nearly-black eyes, their breaths intertwining between them. “However I please?” Jaskier nods again, trying to kiss Geralt, disappointed sound leaving him when Geralt moves his head back further. “So if I wanted I could tie you up, fuck your pretty little mouth as much as I want, but forbid you from touching yourself?”

He can feel Jaskier’s already wild heartbeat speed up even more against his chest, can see desperation forming in those eyes. He nods anyways. “Yes, sir.”

“But I could also fuck your hole nice and loose until you’re writhing underneath me, begging for release, correct?”

Jaskier nods again, still desperately trying to fuck himself against Geralt’s thigh, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “Yes, sir.”

“I bet you’d look really pretty, begging me to let you come.” He grins, tightening his hands around Jaskier’s throat again ever so slightly, drinking in his tiny gasps and whimpers. “Do you think that’d be punishment enough, boy? Or do you need a spanking?”

He grabs a handful of Jaskier’s ass, squeezing harshly, basking in the moan Jaskier chokes out.

“Bet that would be a real sinful sight, boy, you bent over the foot of the bed, ass red, cock heavy between your legs - bet you would get off on it, too.” He takes a step back, all points of contact between his and Jaskier’s body gone, and he smiles in satisfaction when Jaskier stays exactly where he is, still pressed against the door. “Hmm. So you’ve decided to be a good boy after all. Guess the spanking’s for another time, then.” He ignores the slight disappointment in those blue eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. Undress, then get on the bed.”

“How would you like me on the bed, sir?”

Geralt cocks his head, slowly removing the gun from his waistband, walking to the bedside table, putting the weapon down, all the while holding eyecontact with Jaskier - weighing his options.

“On your knees and shoulders.”

Jaskier clearly can’t help himself - a wicked smile curving around his lips, as he nods, already tugging his shirt over his head. “Yes, sir.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, slowly, deliberately taking his clothes off, folding them neatly, laying them on one of the chairs on the other side of the room - Jaskier’s impatience almost palpable in the air. He rummages through his bag, pulling out the bottle of lube, tossing it onto the bed next to Jaskier, who’s already in position, on his knees, shoulders pressed into the mattress, cheek on the sheets as he looks at Geralt through heavy-lidded eyes.

Geralt climbs on the bed behind him, humming appreciatively at the sight in front of him. He takes Jaskier’s hard cock in his hand, giving it a few experimental strokes, smearing precome down the shaft. Jaskier gasps softly, pushing his hips back, whining when Geralt sends a harsh slap across his ass. “Don’t move.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier gasps out, hands fisting the sheets next to his head.

Geralt sighs softly, rubbing his palm over the reddened skin, massaging one ass cheek, pulling it to the side a bit. “God, you’re such a perfect little slut, laid out for me like this. What do you think, boy, do you need to be stretched or can you take my cock like this?”

Jaskier wiggles his hips a bit, clearly having trouble to stop himself from moving. “Please stretch me first, sir.”

“Hmm. Fine, then. But if you come before I can fuck you, I’ll spank you so hard you can’t sit for a week, understood?”

Jaskier nods shakily, his cock twitching slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Geralt hums appreciatively, opening the bottle of lube, pouring some at the top of Jaskier’s ass, letting it run down the cleft, over his hole, basking in Jaskier’s soft whimpers at the sensation as he pours a generous amount into his own hand.

He pushes his other hand down on Jaskier’s back, forcing him to arch, exposing his ass even further, before he slips a finger into his tight hole.

He curses under his breath, his self-control already crumbling, as he imagines how perfect Jaskier’s ass would be around his cock, how perfectly it would clench for him.

He stills, taking deep breaths, steadying himself, before he adds another finger, meeting a little more resistance, but still sliding in easily.

“Been fucked a lot, boy? You’re already so nice and loose, so ready to take a cock up that perfect little ass of yours.”

Jaskier smiles over his shoulder, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know what you would count as ‘a lot’, sir, but none have been as big as you.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, slowly moving his fingers in and out, curling them down a bit, in search of that perfect spot. “Flattery will get you nowhere, boy.”

Jaskier gasps softly as Geralt adds a third finger, spreading them a bit, scissoring them in and out of his hole. “Not flattery-” he almost chokes on his words when Geralt curls his fingers, and he knows he’s finally found Jaskier’s prostate, pushing against it more. “Just- just a fact. Oh fuck.”

“Hmm. That feel good?” he asks, pushing against that sweet spot again, seeing Jaskier shiver beneath him, drinking in every little gasp and moan. “Think you could take another finger? Or do you like it when it hurts a little bit? Do you like it when you have to stretch around my cock?”

“I- please. Please just fuck me, please.”

Geralt clenches his jaw, leaning forward, ignoring the indignant whimper Jaskier lets out when he removes his hand from his ass, grabbing a fistful of his hair instead, tipping his head back uncomfortably.

“Please what?”

“Please, sir, please,” Jaskier pants, “please, I need you to fuck me, I just- please.”

“Hmm.” He sits up straight again, taking the bottle of lube and pouring some into his hand, spreading it over his painfully hard cock. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

“Fuck’s sake, Geralt, please just-” His sentence is cut off by a choked moan as Geralt starts pressing in, groaning at the slight resistance his cock meets.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he manages to grit through his teeth, when he’s fully seated, hips flush against Jaskier’s. He leans forward again, grabbing the younger man by the back of his neck. “Don’t come unless I tell you to.”

He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to respond, as he pulls halfway out, before slamming back in, groaning at the way Jaskier clenches around him slightly, at the way he moans into the sheets obscenely.

He sets a slow but harsh pace, slamming into Jaskier every time, the sound of skin on skin loud in the motel room, mingling with Jaskier’s gasps and moans, his soft begs of “please, please more, faster, please, I need you to fuck me harder”.

He bends forward again, slowly increasing his pace, Jaskier’s moans increasing in volume, getting higher in pitch, the words losing their meaning as he becomes a panting mess beneath him. He takes the skin of Jaskier’s shoulder between his teeth, biting down hard enough to hurt, but not enough to break skin, earning him a sharp cry from the younger man.

“Do you think that little shit at the front desk can hear us? I bet so, bet he’s sitting there with his own cock in his hand, imagining it was him fucking into you instead of me. Bet you would like it, too, if he was.”

Jaskier shakes his head frantically. “No, no, I‘m yours. Yours alone.”

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbles into the skin of Jaskier’s back. “Mine alone. I like the sound of that.”

“Please, please, I’m so close, so close, please just let me come.”

Geralt snarls, taking Jaskier’s hands, pinning them behind his back before hoisting them both upright, fucking into Jaskier with renewed fervor. “No, not until I tell you to.”

Jaskier cries out in frustration and pleasure at the new angle, and Geralt knows he’s hitting his prostate with every harsh thrust.

“Please, please, please, please, please,” Jaskier pants, voice dropping to a whisper, repeating the word like a prayer, as he gasps softly, trying to stave his orgasm off. “Please, I can’t hold on much longer.”

“You will not come unless I tell you to, boy,” Geralt growls in his ear, and Jaskier cries out, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Please.”

“Not yet.”

And as much as he would love to continue torturing Jaskier just a little bit longer, he can’t deny that he’s on the brink of coming, as well. Would he come, and forbid Jaskier to? Would he be so cruel? Surely Jaskier wouldn’t manage, right?

Though, he can’t deny that he is very curious to see how long the younger man can hold his orgasm back, but he decides that’s something to find out another time.

He can feel the tight coil in his belly snapping, can feel his balls tightening, pleasure washing over him, shooting up his spine. “Come for me, Jaskier,” he growls, and Jaskier cries out in relief and pleasure, his come painting white stripes over the sheets and his own stomach.

Geralt rides out his own high, giving a few more thusts for good measure, until his oversensitive cock can’t take it anymore, and he has to pull out. He suddenly gets a new idea, as he feels Jaskier shuddering against him, having collapsed against his shoulder.

He closes an arm tight around Jaskier’s chest, his other hand wiping away the come that’s running down Jaskier’s thigh, that’s smeared across his stomach, before rubbing it up and down the younger man’s sensitive and limp cock.

Jaskier shudders against him, hand meekly pushing against his arm.

“What do you think, boy?” He whispers into Jaskier’s ear. “Think you got it in you to come again?”

Jaskier shakes his head lightly, but his hips buck into Geralt’s hand anyways, his cock slowly filling out again. “No - so sensitive, I can’t.”

“Really? You were so desperate to finish just now, I’m doing you a favour by allowing you to come again.” He stills for a second. “Just say the word, and I’ll stop,” he whispers into the younger man’s ear. He waits, waits for Jaskier to say ‘cactus’, waits for the sign that this is too much, that he needs to stop.

But Jaskier shakes his head, one hand tightening around Geralt’s arm, the other coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling at it - Geralt groans at the sensation.

“Please,” Jaskier whispers out, slightly bucking into Geralt’s hand.

He hums, nosing Jaskier’s jawline as he starts pulling him off in earnest again, holding him against his chest as he trembles and whimpers at the overstimulation.

It isn’t long before he chokes out a “Geralt,” and comes with a strangled cry, muscles going limp quickly afterwards.

Geralt softly lays both of them down on their sides, pressing soft kisses up Jaskier’s spine. “God, you’re perfect.”

Jaskier laughs breathily, voice tired, words half-slurred. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Geralt laughs, smacking Jaskier’s ass lightly, before pressing a kiss to his love’s cheek, watching as blue eyes drift closed. “Goodnight, dear.”

Jaskier gives him one, last lazy smile. “Goodnight, love,” he manages to mutter out before falling asleep, Geralt following soon after.

***

Tag list babey! (If you want to be added - or removed - just send me a DM, or an ask, or put it in the comments, whatever suits you):

@just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard, @dandelionslute, @weakforjaskier, @the-blondey, @shipwrecked-nawtali, @bygodstillam, @rum-cream, @random-nerd-3, @allthethingshappening, @agentlewomanandascholar, @tschulijulesjulie, @noobtiedoo, @foddle-the-fiddler, @thenameislion-dandelion, @skai6, @kerfufflezz, @hysteria347, @pensandknittingneedles, @freak-fee-blog, @whenrainbowsend, @flustratedcas, @negatjazzy, @bridgehampton, @lookinforsomeabsinth, @dandelion-and-the-wolf, @sweetieplum, @aimlessunicorn

#play with fire #part 13 #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #prison au #bonnie and clyde kinda au #modern au #smut #lots of it

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

Everything I Am, All That You Are (3/4)

Geraskier Soulmate AU, Modern with Magic, Post-Break Up, Getting Back Together

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Yennefer pays half-hearted attention to what is happening on stage. In truth, the main purpose of her coming here was reviving some old acquaintances, making new connections, and reminding certain people of favours owed. She’s managed to do most of that already. Now, she’s waiting for a performance that won't take place for some time yet.

Discretely, she takes her phone out of her purse. There are no new text messages but she pauses, as always, when she sees her home screen wallpaper. It’s a photo of Ciri – with her face turned away from the camera, which is good for safety reasons – hugging Roach, the brown dog smiling happily. Yennefer smiles indulgently.

Sometimes, she still finds it hard to believe that there’s a child in her life that she can call her own. For decades, that seemed unachievable, although she tried to make it come true with all her tenacity. But in the end, the role of a mother was thrust upon her in a way she thought was highly unlikely. Madly enough, it was Jaskier who believed it possible from the start.

“You’re going to be a mum!”Jaskier announces with the brightest of smiles.

She stills in shock, watching Jaskier for any signs of magic-induced madness. The statement has come literally out of nowhere. They are in a restaurant in Cintra, enjoying a late-night dinner with passable wine while Geralt’s disappeared to sulk somewhere after the banquet at the royal palace. Yennefer wasn’t there herself but after she read Jaskier’s text message saying “lmaooo you won’t believe how badly the party went, Geralt fucked up big time”, she was intrigued enough to join Jaskier outside the palace.

“You are aware that I can’t give birth, aren’t you?” Yennefer asks.

She explained to him once, briefly, how sorceresses are made. Jaskier, being as proficient as he is at understanding people’s nature, gleaned a lot more truth from the information that she was willing to reveal. He now knows what she’s truly looking for when she travels all over the world.

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, his enthusiasm not dwindling, “But you won’t have to do that to be a mum. Not with Geralt’s Child Surprise!”

Jaskier says so with such conviction that Yennefer worries for his sanity for a minute. In the end, she decides it’s just one of those times when Jaskier is in the mood for considering ridiculous ideas with complete seriousness.

“Is that another “vision” that this bird brain of yours has conjured up?”

Jaskier pouts dramatically. “You don’t get it. I am a visionary!” He leans back against his chair, looking away with his eyes glazed over. “Just imagine: a prince, or a princess, with a witcher father and a witch mother. The stuff of legends that every bard dreams of writing songs about!”

Yennefer snorts. It’s all such a naive fantasy; knowing Geralt, only a disaster would make him claim the child, and even if he did, he wouldn’t think her a good mother material. The thought of raising a kid together is laughable but undeniably pleasing, and Yennefer chooses to indulge. Admittedly, the wine is also starting to get to her head.

“So, there’s a sorceress, a witcher and their royal child,” she says, “but where’s the bard?”

“What do you mean, where’s the bard?” Jaskier frowns at her as if she was missing something painfully obvious. “The bard does what bards always do: tells the story.”

Now it’s her turn to be confused. “He should be in the picture,” she replies, “Who would sing the child to sleep? Geralt can’t sing for shit and I don’t know any lullabies.”

One moment, Jaskier’s eyes are glistening with tears. The next, Jaskier is sitting in her lap, his arms wound around her as he babbles, “Oh Yenna! My dear, dear witch! Yenna, you –”

She shoves him off with a grimace. “You keep calling me that.”

“Keep calling you what?” Jaskier asks as he returns to his seat.

“Yenna. You keep calling me Yenna, and Geralt keeps saying “Yen”.”

The wine is definitely starting to get to her head; she can’t help pondering it.

The White Wolf and Jaskier the Bard have been travelling together for nine years now. Yennefer has been joining them on their adventures, on and off, for half of that time. Jaskier’s written many, many songs about it, making the three of them rather famous, to the point of paparazzi following them around sometimes.

Not that Yennefer minds fame and recognition. She’s partial to the advantages they grant, although it does get tiring – how everyone sees her as the powerful Yennefer of Vengeberg, the Violet Star. Everyone wants to know her but only for who she knows, not for who she is.

Yet, Geralt and Jaskier call her names she has never been called before.

Jaskier’s hands twitch on the table nervously. “Well, I suppose Geralt harbours, an uhm...” He clears his throat. “Special kind of fondness towards you.” Yennefer rolls her eyes at Jaskier’s obliviousness to who actually holds Geralt’s fondness. “But I, well...” he goes on, “I call you as if you were... my sister.”

“Your sister,” she repeats flatly.

She has never been a sister to anyone. Her birth siblings couldn’t mean less to her – they all pretended she didn’t exist, back when she was still a hunchback, hidden away in one of the rooms of their house like a dirty secret. She has no idea if they’re even alive; they don’t matter to her.

Jaskier, though. He shrugs a little and flashes her a shy smile before looking away, turning his attention away to the few other guests in the restaurant. She watches him – the way his whole body shifts anxiously – and well, she must be a bit drunk at this point, judging by how warm she feels. The alcohol makes her indulge even further.

“Is there any special way your siblings call you?” she asks

“They used to call me Julek, before... well. Before.”

Jaskier doesn’t talk about his birth family much. Yennefer only knows that they are rich and that Jaskier hasn’t been back home in years but it’s enough to understand his pained expression.

“Julek,” Yennefer says, considering him. The sound of the name is a bit ridiculous and she smiles. “I think it suits you.”

With these words, for the first time ever, she’s managed to shut Jaskier up.

To this day, Yennefer is a bit annoyed that Jaskier was right while she was wrong but in this matter, she accepts her defeat.

Another speech has ended. While everyone applauds, she leans in towards Geralt.

“You owe me a lot, by the way,” Yennefer whispers to him, “for my help.”

Geralt chuckles. “I’m sure you have many ideas about how I can repay you.”

The words could be very flirty but Geralt doesn’t say them that way. He only glances at her with a small conspirational grin, which she returns. Geralt is so charming when there’s that mischievous sparkle in his eyes and not for the first time, Yennefer thinks to herself that had things have been different, she would’ve loved this man madly.

Yet, the loss of that possibility doesn’t sting. She loves being free from unwanted magical bonds too much.

“Oh yes,” she replies, “my first idea is this: don’t leave this place without Julek.”

“That’s the plan.”

“So you actually do have a plan?”

“Yeah,” Geralt answers and brushes their hands together.

Yennefer takes comfort in the gesture. With a smile, she focuses on the stage again – Jaskier is performing soon.

Read the rest on AO3

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #soulmate au

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thewitcherssongbird · 4 years

Text

Heartbeat

Chapter 2

****

Guys... there's a chapter twooooooo! I really wanted to finish and post it on Tuesday but then I forgot and then I had to write a stupidly huge test today so all in all I'm really proud of myself for doing it today :D

****

Jaskier wakes up with a pounding headache. He lifts his head from the pillows, squinting in the near noon sunlight, disoriented, and rolls over to find a jug on the nightstand, a piece of paper propped against it.

Hunting kikimora

Back before sunset

He sits up and peers into the jug. Water. After a few gulps of the blissfully cool water his headache begins to fade and he readies himself for the day, a day of peace and no brooding Geralt to distract him with his silent observation or just general… presence. A day of productivity.

His vision swims as he stands up but he quickly regains control of himself. Memories trickle back into his mind like a stream in drought, little by little. He muddles through his lost memories as he dresses and starts working but soon he sets the pieces of the night aside and makes use of his solitude.

He can’t remember much, a vague picture of sitting on the staircase. A foggy conversation. He hopes he didn’t say anything he shouldn’t have and focuses on his work instead. The sun makes its arc through the sky as Jaskier alternates between humming and working out the final chords on his lute and scratching violently on the paper.

The sun is shining low and warm, gentle shadows fall over the words on the paper;

Love me or hate me, choose and liberate me from this hell

Of wondering, do you know I love you? Pray tell

Lovely Lady, release me from your spell

Pale white woman will you wish me well

When you send me on my way, when I have to say farewell?

The song is complete. He is particularly proud of it, as one can only be about one’s work of art. He takes his chance to test the song on the melancholy afternoon crowd at the tavern, not wanting Geralt actually hearing it for fear that he might become suspicious about the apparent “maiden” the song was about, because the maiden in question has hair silver as moonlight and eyes golden as sunlight, she’s a quiet creature and prefers action over words, she is fierce as a wolf and Geralt was no idiot and he would certainly realize that the maiden was no maiden at all.

He knows very well that Geralt wasn’t born yesterday and if he heard the song he’d be balls deep in trouble because then Geralt would know. Jaskier is already ashamed of his indulgence enough as it is.

Geralt would know that the little bard who calls himself his friend is head over heels in love with him and lusting after him just like everyone else apparently. He’d be just another drop in the ocean that was Geralt’s admirers. What made Jaskier special was… absolutely nothing at this point.

Jaskier can imagine his reaction, he’d scoff, amused at the romantic minstrel whose fallen in love with the Witcher who is, ironically, famous for being incapable of love or any other feeling for that matter. He wouldn’t even deign him the honor of a proper laugh, he’d just walk away and leave him to his shame.

But Jaskier could never help himself. He couldn’t help it when he fell in love with the White Wolf, his travel companion, his friend. He couldn’t help himself when the lyrics of the song came to him, he couldn’t help but write it, compose it and he won’t be able to help pouring his heart out to Geralt when he asks about it.

At some point he will ask about it and deep down Jaskier knows. He’s is sure Geralt can hear the way his breath catches when he looks at him sometimes or when their eyes lock, the way his heart beats faster. For gods’ sake he can probably smell it on him. Jaskier know the day will come when Geralt asks, but still he lets himself tear down his bridges one by one and dig his grave a little deeper. He’s burning those bridges for momentary warmth, but still he doesn’t admit it even to himself and something foolish inside him pretends that he won’t be left cold and stranded in the end.

But for now he will be content to travel at his side and compose songs about the great Geralt of Rivia and suffer in silence. He will be content to love from afar until Geralt sends him away. It’s pathetic really, but it makes for a good song.

Something deflates in his chest when he thinks about it.

He sings it one last time, for practice he tells himself, before heading to the tavern to sing it to the sad saps who drink in the afternoons. They always like someone to share their sorrows with and Jaskier finds that the heartbroken are the most generous with their money. They don’t have much to live for after all.

****

Jaskier sings a few songs before he finally tests the new song on the crowd. They eat it up and he gets a few pitying glances from the women. He sits down at the bar, ordering himself a drink. The serving girl starts conversation while she cleans her cups.

“So,” she starts, she must be near Jaskier age. She’s pretty but her tone tells Jaskier she’s fishing for conversation to quell her boredom and not a bed fellow, she’s pretty enough to have one. “Who is this maiden after whom you’re pining?”

“Oh she’s a girl from a little village near Kaer Morhen. I come across her every once in a while, she travels a lot.” A lie so painfully close to the truth.

“Doesn’t she know you love her?” the woman asks, genuinely curious.

“I suspect she might.”

“That sounds like a tragic thing, doesn’t it,” she comments.

“Yes,” Jaskier says mournfully, “very tragic indeed. She’s either aware and indulging me tagging along with her every once in a while or she’s completely unaware of my infatuation. Either way she has no fondness for me. I suppose she just tolerates me.” Jaskier swirls the liquid in his cup, staring the little whirlpool.

“Well,” the girl says cheerfully, “maybe you’ll find your soulmate.”

“I think she is my soulmate,” Jaskier sighs before continuing, “but I am not hers.” The girl frowns.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but perhaps she’s a bit oblivious. You shouldn’t give up hope without trying.”

Jaskier smiles at the kind woman. “Thank you,” he says sincerely even though he won’t be doing that at all. She gives him a comforting touch before she hurries off to listen to another poor sod’s story and he realizes that he’s qualifies as a poor sod. He finishes his drink and picks up his lute, determined to change the mood.

When Geralt finally trudges through the door, the first of the regular evening crowd are already singing along cheerfully or chattering away with each other and Jaskier is proud to have them all participating, the warm feeling fades quickly when he spots the Witcher.

Geralt is filthy and wet, Jaskier stops mid-song. Something shifts like the last piece of a puzzle finally locking into place and suddenly Jaskier remembers.

Geralt you’re so handsome

And

Not just women

And

Why do you get to be pretty and muscly and gorgeous…

And ooooh fuck.

Geralt scans the crowded tavern for Jaskier, he finds him in less than a seond and locks eyes with him. Jaskier swallows.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, hoping he doesn’t sound hysteric. “It’s almost sundown I was starting to worry. Look at you, you’re soaking, you might catch a cold.” Geralt hums, stripping off his satchel of potions and Witcher necessities. “Are you alright? What you need is a warm bath.” Jaskier starts fussing over him like he always does, but this time using proximity to hide his expression from Geralt’s all-knowing sight because he said that.

“What I need is my money and a drink,” Geralt says, grudgingly tolerating Jaskier patting him down, looking for injuries. He looks tired. Jaskier sees a few wide eyes all belonging to people ranging from middle aged to elderly. They are expecting something, expecting Geralt to break his hands, decapitate him, something. Because the last time Geralt visited this town he probably would have.

Jaskier finishes his fretting, Geralt lets him and waits until he finishes, it’s a routine and by now and Geralt has learned by now to just let Jaskier finish before he collects his payment from one of the staring men. The man doesn’t demand proof, just says his thanks and hands over the bag of coin. Geralt nods to him. Old acquaintances then.

Jaskier buys a flask of liquor to take with him to the inn for Geralt to drink while he bathes. The same girl he’d talked to hands it to him. She looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back to Jaskier. She says nothing but she knows and he trusts the girl to keep her mouth shut but the fact that she had put the pieces together so quickly has Jaskier wondering how obvious he’s being. Maybe he wouldn’t have all that much time left before Geralt puts the pieces of it all together himself.

For gods’ sake he probably already has because Jaskier called him handsome and told him it’s a shame he didn’t sleep with men. Didn’t sleep with him. But then Geralt told him he does and gods didn’t that just make it worse? Geralt didn’t want him.

His heart drops into his stomach.

***

Geralt is quiet, taking gulps of alcohol every once in a while as Jaskier washes his arms and chest. Jaskier takes quiet pleasure in getting to touch Geralt, after all it’s probably as much as he’ll ever get to touch him. Once again, Jaskier is painfully aware that he’s digging his grave deeper by indulging in bathing Geralt and once again he can’t bring himself to stop.

He waits for Geralt to say something, sure that he wants to. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

“Geralt,” he starts as he moves the Witcher to wash his back.

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something about your meditating?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier takes that as a yes.

“Can you hear me? When I talk to you while you’re meditating?”

“No,” Geralt says simply and Jaskier assumes it’s the end of it. “I can sense when there is a threat nearby. All my senses shut down save for the base instincts that wake me up when I’m in danger.”

“Interesting,” Jaskier comments. Geralt is quiet for a minute, Jaskier tips his head back and pours a jug of warm water over his hair before lathering soap into the dirty strands.

“Do you talk to me?” He asks then.

Jaskier debates his answer. “Sometimes.” He’s fucked anyway, deeper graves don’t hurt when you’re already dead.

“Why?” Geralt’s voice is flat, a product of years of succumbing to people’s assumptions of his absence if emotions.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier answers truthfully, “I hate the quiet. Sometimes it feels like you’re not really there anymore and I don’t like that. I suppose it’ my way of holding on to you.”

Geralt hums and the sound is not quite as… empty as usual.

He knows.

***

After his bath Geralt disappears to the tavern to inquire about the location of the drowner nest. Jaskier takes off his boots and jerkin and climbs otherwise fully clothed into the bed but waits until Geralt returns before he even tries to sleep, he’s gotten used to Geralt’s steady presence when he falls asleep. Geralt would wake him up just to reprimand him for sleeping with an unlocked door anyway. Jaskier picks up his lute, he hums some of his favorite songs.

Inevitably he ends up quietly singing his latest song and of course Geralt enters when he’s in the middle of it.

“Lovely Lady, release me from your spell

Pale w-“

Jaskier stops and puts the lute down somewhat abrubtly and snuggles into the blankets, ready to close his eyes and pray Geralt leaves him be, but Geralt speaks before he can fall asleep.

“Who is the lady you sing of?” Geralt while he removes his layers.

“What lady?” Jaskier’s heart is beating rapidly and he’s sure Geralt can hear it. This is it.

“The lady in your song?” Geralt stops undressing, he’s rid of his armor, only his dark blue undershirt still covers his chest from view.

“What song,” Jaskier says stupidly.

Geralt cocks his head. “The one you were singing.” Obviously, he doesn’t need to add.

“You heard that?”

Geralt taps his ear, “Witcher hearing.” Just Jaskier’s luck. Geralt still waits for an answer.

“Why do you ask?” he deflects instead.

Geralt shrugs “You’ve never talked about her.” Some useless part of Jaskier’s brain decides that the fact that Geralt actually listens when he talks is very noteworthy but it’s not enough to distract him from his inevitable heartbreak. He’s putting the pieces together now.

Oh gods, Jaskier can see the air around the witcher changing. He can see in Geralt’s eyes the moment something tips over the edge.

“You would have wouldn’t you?” It tenses between them as Geralt’s tone changes from casual interest to a curiosity that is slightly… unhinged. Jaskier is reminded of a cat playing with its terrified dinner. The tilt of his head is predatory.

Is he rubbing salt into the wound. How cruel of him.

“You’ve been travelling with me for months.” He stalks closer to Jaskier, his shadow falls over Jaskier, blocking out the candlelight. “You haven’t met any woman.” He braces his arms on the mattress, leaning over Jaskier. “You don’t invent your muses, you never have.” There’s something in his feline eyes that confirms that he can hear Jaskier’s rapid pulse, smell his terror. “Who is she.” His tone is quietly demanding and lethal. Deathly calm before the storm.

“Why?” Jaskier is playing with fire. He’ll get burned either way. “That’s none of your business.”

The storm hits. Geralt growls, pupils thinning, and throws his hands up, he turns faster than lightning, pacing up and down the small room. “What is it?” he demands. “Your heart. Your heart speeds up and your breath catches when you see me but you’re not afraid. No you’re never afraid and when you are,” he stops, staring at him in snake like stillness, ”it’s- there’s nothing to be afraid of and then suddenly I can smell terror. And there’s something else. I’ve never seen it before and it’s bloody annoying! What is it?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t he know?

Suddenly he calms and looks away. “You’re afraid of me now.” A statement. False.

“No.” Jaskier isn’t afraid, not of him.

Geralt scoffs. “I can smell it, I’m a Witcher for heaven’s sake and they don’t let me forget it.” The words hang between them, waiting for Jaskier to prove him otherwise.

He doesn’t even know.

Jaskier doesn’t know where the bravery comes from or if it’s just capitulation, surrender. “I’m not afraid of you.” He shrugs off the blanket and crawls to sit at the edge of the bed nearest to Geralt. He waits for Geralt, knowing how this conversation ends.

“And why not? Maybe you should be.” Geralt walks to the fireplace, his back toward Jaskier and presses his brow to the wall above it. “You,” he begins slowly, “you are a puzzle, a paradox. You defy everything you’re supposed to be, I don’t understand.” Geralt turns and there is something close to pure anguish tormenting his features. Jaskiers heart clenches in his chest.

He doesn’t understand. Of course. Of course Geralt would know, notice and still not understand, wouldn’t see blatant adoration if it was staring him in the face. Of course he’d have to go and make this so much worse for Jaskier.

Geralt never even realized that Jaskier was in love with him. Didn’t even know what it was. He didn’t know how to love and gods and how to be loved, and it made Jaskier angry. Angry that Geralt was so oblivious, so emotionless and conforming to everything people said about him, letting their rumors mold the truth. Angry that Geralt had never let himself feel, learn and understand the human part of himself.

Angry at the world for hurting the witcher who had believed he had no choice but to take the pain.

“Really?” Jaskier’s tone is low and frustrated, angry tears pooling in his eyes. “You really didn’t know?” he demands. Geralt says nothing, staring into the flames again. He shouldn’t be angry at Geralt. He isn’t.

“If I did, I wouldn’t ask would I?” Sarcasm drips from his tongue. Jaskier scoffs.

Geralt strides across the room to lean over Jaskier, grabbing him by the front of the thin shirt he was wearing. He pins him with a fiery gaze that should have made Jaskier cower under the blanket but instead, bright blue meet gold, ice meets fire. Ironic how Jaskier had always been warm to Geralt’s cold.

The tension between them is charged with something that feels like lightning before thunder.

Geralt’s eyes are glowing embers in the dim light of the candle.

*******

Ahhh I did it, I'm stupid proud of myself. Please leave kudos and comments :))))

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #jaskier #idiots in love #witcher netflix #the witcher netflix #heartbeat

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lostinquotation · 4 years

Text

Genasi / The Witcher (Part Two)

Summary: After the King and Queen of Sasheira refused to sign a treaty with Nilfgaard, an assassin is put on the Queen and her unborn child. While the King remains in Sasheira to fight, Queen Y/N, a gifted air Genasi, is forced into hiding with a man who is rumored to be able to kill anything, Geralt of Rivia.

Author’s note: Hey guys! Sorry for the long delay! This chapter went under a lot of rewrites, so I hope you like it! Please like, reblog, follow, and comment! It means the world :) Thank you to everyone who liked and commented last time, it legit made me so happy!!

Part One

Warnings: Angst and a sliver of gore? idk

Word count: 2k (unedited)

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A million different thoughts crossed your mind during the first few hours of travel, though the ever-present feeling of dread never went away. You imagined your city being burned to the ground, the women and children being ripped from their homes. Your husband losing his life in battle, him being captured and tortured. The thought of your son not making it… You cursed at yourself for even entertaining these ideas but the more you tried to repress them, the more you imagined them happening.

You tried your best not to cry, but a few tears still managed to escape. You would silently wipe them away, and continue to hold your head high as you stared at the scenery in front of you. You weren’t sure if Geralt noticed, but even if he did, it was the least of your concerns. Your country was at war, of course you were upset.

****

Nightfall quickly came, making the two of you set up a small camp a little ways away from a pond. Geralt built a fire while you went to collect water for you two to drink. By the time you were back, a fire was made and Geralt was already pulling out a small knife.

“I’m going to get some food. Stay here,” he spoke and you nodded, watching him leave. You sat next to the fire and stared at the bright flames, letting the heat warm your cheeks. You weren’t sure how much time passed when the Witcher returned, but he brought back what looked like a rabbit.

He sat a foot or two away from you, taking the already bloody knife and began to skin the animal. You made a face and he noticed.

“You can’t be picky out here,” he said, stabbing a stick into the body.

“I didn’t say anything!” Your eyes narrowed as you defended yourself.

“You made a face.”

“The sight of a bloody rabbit corpse isn’t exactly pleasant,” you sassed. You were not in the mood for passive remarks. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything else and placed the rabbit across the fire. Once fully cooked, you both took a leg to enjoy. You took a bit, the texture of the flavorless skin nearly made you gag.

“Do we happen to have some oil?” You asked and he gave you a look. “No?” You sighed when he shook his head in response, his annoyance radiating from his body. He seemed to also not be in the mood for passive remarks, which you could empathize with as the day was far from enjoyable.

You were about to go for another bite but stopped yourself, eyes connecting to the slimy skin. The rabbit was disgusting, so disgusting your first instinct was to want to tell Vario about it, maybe even trick him into eating it. You asked for oil… There was none, of course. You thought about how Vario would’ve made fun of you for asking such a ridiculous question. How you would’ve been able to see him laugh—

Your chest tightened as tears pricked the back of your eyes, daring to fall, and as you swallowed the lump in your throat, you bit into the rabbit. You breathed deeply, allowing your muscles to relax and mind to calm down. Geralt didn’t say a word.

After eating, you walked over to a resting Roach and grabbed a small blanket that was in your bag, placed it on the ground, and laid on it, wrapping the ends around your body like a cocoon. Geralt smirked, amused at the sight.

“Laugh all you want, I’m warm,” you muttered loud enough for him to hear, voice taut.

“I didn’t say anything,” he shrugged.

“You made a face,” you mocked his words from earlier, earning a grunt in response.

The fire naturally went out, leaving the two of you in the dark with nothing but insect noise in the background. Despite being in complete darkness, you were able to make out every tree, leaf, and bush without hassle. Dark vision, a common trait among Genasi.

Geralt rested against a tree, intending on staying awake to keep watch. You frowned and sat up from your makeshift bed.

“I can take first watch,” you suggested. You spoke again before Geralt could protest, “I’m not going to fall asleep for a while, trust me.” Your words hinted at something deeper, sadder. “I’ll wake you when I start to get tired.” Geralt knew this wasn’t up for negotiation so he did as told and rested.

****

A couple of hours passed and your eyes began to fall heavy, signaling it was finally time for sleep. You crawled over to the sleeping man, eyes examining his sleeping state. It was weird to see him like this, peaceful. His eyebrows relaxed, jaw unclenched. You almost felt bad for waking him but knew you had to get sleep as well.

“Geralt,” your voice was just above a soft whisper. He didn’t move, so you touched his arm and spoke again. “Geralt,” your voice was a little louder but still gentle as to not startle him. He stirred slightly, head moving to the side. “Geralt,” you whispered one last time before his eyes fluttered open. His golden irises fell onto you and for a split second he almost seemed confused but it was covered by a low hum.

“My turn,” his voice was gruff, deeper than usual.

“Your turn,” you gave a small smile and climbed back into your cocoon. Geralt stood from where he was and began to stretch, but you paid no attention to him. With one hand holding your stomach and the other under your head, you were asleep in seconds.

Your wake up call was a lot less pleasant than the one you gave him. You awoke to him calling your name, tossing your items back into the bag, the water-full, metal jugs clanking together loudly.

Your body startled awake, eyes shooting open. “Gods,” you clutched your chest, sending him a glare, “that’s how you wake someone up?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He asked and you laid back down with a groan, pinching the bridge of your nose while mumbling curses at him under your breath. “Come on, we gotta get moving. Left-overs for breakfast.”

“Okay, give me a second,” you slowly rose again, stretching out your arms and back. Geralt sighed loudly. “Oh, I’m sorry, are my sore muscles a burden to you?” You snapped.

“Not at all,” you could tell he bit his tongue to keep from saying what he originally wanted to say, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, you aggressively placed your folded blanket back in your bag. After being hoisted up onto Roach, the Witcher situated himself as well and the journey continued.

****

The days went along those lines for some time: eat, sleep, travel, and repeat. The days got better for you as you grew more comfortable with Geralt. You noticed you were initiating small-talk with him, you even attempted a joke or two. Whether or not the conversations were deep or the jokes were good was beside the point. You were trying and for you, that’s all that mattered. Though Geralt claimed that your attempts were pointless and incredibly annoying, you both knew deep down he didn’t actually mind. The bickering helped pass by the time.

The nights, however, were a different story. You found yourself in tears and a constant state of panic at night, whispering prayers for your Kingdom and husband. The nightmares were relentless at times, causing you to wake up in a pool of your own sweat. The first night you ever had a nightmare, you nearly killed Geralt.

Geralt was on watch when it happened, with you sleeping a few feet from him. You stirred in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing and relaxing with soft whispers escaping passed your lips. Your breathing increased in pace and grew deeper, and gusts of wind began to sweep through the forest.

Geralt looked around confused and looked to your shaking frame, instantly knowing the cause of the sudden wind storm. The power of the wind increased, lifting small rocks and sticks off the ground and carrying them away. He slowly approached you against the force of the wind as your cries becoming louder and louder. A nearby tree branch was lifted off the ground, slammed into a tree trunk, and cracked in half.

“Y/N!” The Witcher called over the powerful blows, reaching to shake you awake. “Y/N!” He yelled again, shaking your body vigorously. You screamed awake, eyes shooting open, arms reacting, blasting Geralt across the ground and into the hot ashes from the fire. He howled in pain, jumping out of the intense heat as fast as he could. The wind stopped, the rocks and sticks falling back to the ground. He grunted, holding his freshly red and pink, scorched hand in his unharmed one.

“Geralt… Oh my Gods, Geralt!” You cried, running towards him and collapsing to the ground in front of him. “Let me see, let me see,” you reached for his hand.

He pulled it from you, “it’s fine.”

“You just fell into two thousand degree ashes,” you reached for his injured hand a second time, “even for a Witcher, that’s fatal. Gods, essea squaess!” You gently turned his hand over, earning a small flinch from him, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. You grimaced in disgust but ignored it, instead looked around for animal life. “I need a mouse... Or a bird or-or a squirrel or something.”

“Why?” He asked, eyes glued to his swollen red hand, knowing he’s going to have a new scar added to his collection.

“I’m not the best at healing, but I can do it-”

“That’s not necessary, I can heal just fine on my own,” he told you, but you didn’t listen.

“Geralt,” you looked up at him pleading eyes, “please let me do this for you.” He opened his mouth for a second before closing it again and nodded with a sigh. You gave him a small smile before getting up and walking around in search of a small animal. You came across a chipmunk and as the critter ran away, you levitated it off the ground and grabbed it in your hands. Its small body squirmed in your grip but it didn’t phase you.

“Why the rodent?” He asked as you sat down in front of him again.

“I’m not a natural-born healer, so I need to take a life in order to give life, or in this case... new skin,” you mumbled the last part and he let out a weak breath, the ends of his lips tugging upwards slightly. “It keeps the balance.” You put your hand on his burned one and he flinched, uttering every obscenity he knew under his breath.

You slowly closed your eyes and murmured a few words in Elder and slowly the squirming sensation in your hand subsided and you felt Geralt’s hand grow stiff and smooth. After a few more seconds, you opened your eyes again and released your grip on both the dead animal and his somewhat healed hand. It was still slightly pink, but it looked a whole lot better. It would be fully healed in less than a day thanks to his naturally enhanced healing finishing the job.

You frowned, still feeling bad for what you did. “It’s not perfect. As I said, I’m not a healer but… It’s better than nothing-”

“Thank you,” he stated, sounding genuine.

“I’m sorry it even happened,” you said quietly, eyes falling to the ground. “Truly, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he stood and offered his unharmed hand, “you should rest.”

In a way, the two of you bonded that night. Your mutual respect for each other grew stronger, along with the sense of security. Both parties knew that the other had their back. That the pair of you would make a good team.

*************************************************

Author’s Note: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Hopefully it doesn’t seem too fast paced... Pacing is always so hard for me to write haha so please let me know! Thanks guys :) Also, I apologize if I wrote the healing part wrong... Magic in this universe is kind of confusing to me so hopefully I got it right lmao OH and please let me know if you want to be tagged!

@ayamenimthiriel

@bunniotomia

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagines #the witcher imagines #fanfiction

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