#pre-slash geraskier

[magdelanesingerin]

Lucky

Jaskier is lucky. He knows he is.

He’s alive. It could have been worse. Geralt got him out after only a couple of days, cutting a bloody swath through Nilfgaardian prison guards and leaving his interrogator in twitching pieces on the floor before he swooped Jaskier up in his arms and carried him to safety, cradled gingerly to his chest. He can remember feeling a detached sort of shame at the uncontrollable, shaking whine that forced its way out on every exhale until he finally passed out.  

He’s lucky. He’s alive. It could have been so much worse. 

The thought drifts across his fuzzy mind along with voices in the room, the sound of them floating through the murky, dim air as he slips in and out of a dazed, pained confusion. 

“Just heal him, Yen!” 

Ahh, that rough, low voice, so familiar, but muted now as Geralt hisses quietly and fervently in anger that sounds more like desperation.

“I told you. I. Can’t,” the equally hushed and furious reply. The cadence of their arguments is one Jaskier knows well, the building frustration and exasperation bouncing and building between them until it explodes, and they’re finally driven away from each other again. “I used too much power portalling us in and out of the prison, and that fucking mage took more effort than I planned for. I have either enough power to try to heal him —probably badly, since this is nowhere near my specialty– or to take you both safely to Oxenfurt so a qualified healer can stabilize him. Not both.”

“These are complex injuries, Wolf.” A serious, gruff voice that Jaskier doesn’t know. “These aren’t clean, simple breaks. That bone is shattered. I haven’t treated injuries like this in decades, not since there were trainees here.” 

Oh, this must be the mysterious and venerable Vesemir. Not exactly the way he planned on meeting Geralt’s father figure. In every one of Jaskier’s imaginings of this moment, he had definitely been conscious, and not covered in a crust of blood and shameful human filth. Wonderful. 

“He’s not like us,” Vesemir continued, “if she encourages the bones to heal without setting them correctly, he might never use his fingers again. It will take weeks for the pieces to fuse, months to heal completely. He needs a human physician.”

“Months!?” Geralt sounds incredulous, and Jaskier would laugh, or try to, if he could open his mouth without screaming. Bless his wonderful witcher, he has no idea of how human bodies work. 

Vesemir heaves a deep, weary sigh and Yen cuts in again, her voice tight with impatience and something unfamiliar that Jaskier can’t quite place. Fear? Guilt? Neither of those are things he’s used to hearing from Yennefer. “Yes. He’s human . And not a young man anymore,” she says flatly. 

His half-lidded eyes struggle to take in the details of the room around him; he can see the shapes of the people standing over him but can’t quite understand any of it. The breath hisses through his tightly clenched teeth as he clings to control, sounding impossibly loud. 

“An injury like this would take you a week, maybe two to heal with a couple doses of Swallow, and your body would rebuild ligaments and nerves rapidly. His won’t ,” she says, and the whole room can hear the words “you moron” tacked on to the end of her sentence. “He’ll need special care, and not just for a day–for weeks. someone who knows enough about the human hand to be able to piece this mess back together,” she finishes with a tone of frustrated disgust. But Jaskier barely notices, is too distracted by sudden focused awareness on his body brought on by her words… 

He twitches and clenches his eyes shut, trying not to imagine the sharp, twisted grin of the interrogator, the flare of pain when the man moved his attentions from one ruined finger to the next. The acrid smell of burning somewhere in the room. The breathless ache in his chest as whimpers crawled out of his body unbidden and unstoppable on every pained exhale. His head swims and he can feel his heart pounding at the memory that rises up to swallow him. 

Waves of trembling wash over him, tightening muscles in shivering surges that seem unstoppable. He must be in shock. Isn’t shock supposed to dull pain, though? If this is the pain dulled, he thinks hysterically as he tries to force his body to calm, how much worse will it be when he comes out of it? It would be easier if he could just fall fully unconscious.

“Shani. I can take him to Shani. She’s a physician and…Jaskier’s friend. She’s in Oxenfurt.”

“Can you trust her?” Vesemir asks sharply.

“Yes.”

The conversation keeps swirling around him and Jaskier loses track for a little while. Yennefer and Geralt seem to be arguing about going to Oxenfurt, and something about Ciri, but he can’t quite focus enough to take it in. He feels a chill of formless, shameful guilt anyway. He’s causing problems again. Putting them in danger again. 

And then there’s a broad hand over his forehead, smoothing his hair back gently, and Geralt’s voice, cracked and miserable, close enough to feel the warm air of this breath.

“It’s my fault. They took him to get to me. To Ciri. I should have been there sooner.” 

Jaskier usually loves when Geralt touches him like this, offering softness and comfort. It’s uncommon enough to be precious. 

Right now, the touch is too much, though, overwhelming in a way that shocks him, and he flinches away from Geralt’s palm before he can stop himself, eyelids fluttering open enough to see the wince and flash of hurt on his friend’s face as he draws his hand away.  

Geralt’s hand forms a shape in the air over his head and Jaskier feels a wave of warmth and relief wash through his body as his clenching muscles relax. “Sleep, and feel no pain, Jask.”

continue on Ao3

#the witcher #Jaskier whump #whump the bard #post-torture #injury recovery #protective Geralt #my fic #pre-slash geraskier

[dapandapod]

Hii! For mermay prompts, how about depth for geraskier (ofc)

WHY YES OF COURSE FRANKSTER! and uh, I made you choose between prince and amnesia, because both of those popped into my head at the prompt. Prince was chosen and here we are! Hope you enjoy! <3

(also feel free to prompt me, here or on tumblr, i am on a writing spree and olsdfkj sorry for posting like 4 times in a day)

Send me a pairing and a word and I will make you some words? ❤️

On Ao3 here

Jaskier has been gone for too long. Geralt has been pacing their room for hours.

Yes, he did promise to stay put for a couple days, to wait for Jaskier’s… whatever he is doing. Or who.

The shoddy fisher village is gray, cold, everything covered in a thin layer of salt the spray of the waves offer in its violent rage.

Wind is whipping around the little wooden houses– sheds, really. It’s been three days since Jaskier left. Three days, and he was supposed to be back this morning.

Is this how it feels to be left behind when Geralt himself leaves for a contract?

Possibly, because no matter how much Jaskier had told him to stay put, to wait, to just fucking trust him damnit, Geralt is fretting.

Finally he gives in.

Leaving the room the kind elderly lady is lending them, Geralt stalks outside. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

The people here are not afraid of him, but seem to keep a distance from the bard. Everything about this place seems grey, but still it seems like the ever colorful Jaskier returns here, over and over again.

He starts with the aldermans house. They don’t have a tavern, the little gathering of houses far too small for such luxuries.

“The bard? You should check by the docks, or the boat house. He usually is out with the boat this time a year.”

He..what? Boat?

What the fuck is Jaskier doing?!

Geralt leaves without saying good bye, and the bard would have scolded Geralt for his bad manners, but he isn’t fucking here, is he?!

The boat house is, predictably, just down by the water. There is a long dock leading into the water, two smaller fishing boats tied to it.

An elderly man and someone who looks like his son sits by the house, mending nets.They look up when he approaches, shielding their eyes against the setting sun.

“Have you seen a bard around here? Jaskier? Brown hair, blue eyes, a lute and the worst fashion sense known to man?”

The elderly man presses his lips to a thin line and ducks his head. His son studies the witcher for a long moment, sizing him up, before responding.

“Aye,” he says, “What is it to you, witcher?”

“He’s my friend.” Geralt manages, working hard around a word that feels so inadequate. “And he is missing.”

“No more, lad,” the elderly man mutters, “Bad luck, it is.”

Geral frowns, trying not to let his impatience get the better of him.

“I’ll make it worth your while. Six crowns.”

“Florens.” The son corrects. “Ten. And I’ll take you to where we left him.”

-

The elderly fisherman refuses to come. Speaking of ill omens and bad luck, of not talking to the sea. The son takes him anyway, the sea getting oddly misty as they go further out with the boat.

“Coin is sparse out here, but my niece is sick. I’d rather leave the sea altogether than see her hurt,” the son says, rowing the boat towards a previously hidden little rock formation, barely an island. “Da doesn’t want to speak of it, speak of evil and it shall come, he says. We don’t need more sirens, he says.”

Geralt eyes him, then the sky. He can’t hear any flapping of wings, nor splashing of their tails. The water is calm, but the mist lays thick and hides both sight and sound.

The little boat touches the edge of the rock with a soft sound when they arrive.

“This is where I let him off every year,” the son says. “And pick him up after a few days. Know nothing but that.”

The florens trade hands, and when Geralt gets off, he pushes back into the water.

“I’ll be back in an hour. It’s probably superstition, but I don’t much like this place.”

-

Inspecting the area, Geralt finds it bare of both bards and life. He climbs around it, eventually finding an expensive looking chest with a solid lock on it.

It looks strange out here, oddly devoid of the wear and tear one would expect wood around the shore. Geralt picks the lock with ease, and when opens the lid, it doesn’t make a sound.

Inside it is a very familiar lute, and neatly folded clothes. Geralt’s heart sinks, but he has a trace now, something. He rummages around, finding everything Jaskier had brought but his jewellery. Even his underclothes is here.

Geralt closes it again, locks it carefully.

There should be traces here, anything to lead him to where Jaskier is.

The scent is old, barely there and hidden by the salty smell of the sea. Geralt will never complain about Jaskier’s perfume ever again.

It leads him to the other side of the little island, across the rocks on a path that looks surprisingly smooth and well walked.

Geralt stops when water starts lapping at his feet.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Either Jaskier has been hiding something from him, or something very bad has happened. And either truth still means Jaskier is missing, and that he went into the water. And from the sound of it, has been coming to the water for years.

Geralt trails back to the chest, takes off his boots and heavy armor. Takes off everything but his trousers, and two silver daggers.

The stone is smooth under his feet, and quickly gets slippery as it continues out into the water.

It’s cold, his skin pebbles when he gets as deep as his knees. Then the rock abruptly ends. Geralt breathes deep, and dives. Cat and killer whale would have been useful, but he didn’t know he would have to go swimming when they got out here.

Geralt has almost swum around the entire island when he notices the formations. Runes carved into stone, worn smooth by time and water.

With another deep breath, he follows it down, down, down, and what little sunlight was left quickly disappears down here.

There is an opening a bit further down. And eyes. Many eyes.

Geralt realizes too late that he is surrounded, and there are clawed fingers and webbed hands pulling him deeper still, and into the opening.

His lungs are burning for air, and he is quickly disoriented, his elbows scraping against stone and harsh hands making him unable to reach for his knives.

Suddenly, they breach the surface, and Geralt pants harshly as he is dragged onwards and thrown onto a slimy rock. Broken shells of crabs and clams are spread out, and bones of fishes of all sizes lie spread among them.

Now free from his attacker, Geralt reaches for the dagger and turns to face them, but a beautiful face filled with fangs hisses at him as they retreat backwards, and another set of hands grip him hard.

Geralt can’t entirely make out if it is siren or mer people or something completely else, but more hands grip him, wrestling the knife from his hand.

“Walk!” one hisses, “You were looking, and you found us. Walk!”

Her voice is almost human, but her tongue is unused to his language. They shove him forward, deeper into the cave. It gets darker and darker, until suddenly Geralt realizes the walls are glowing.

Aluminescent is probably the right word for it. Algae covers the walks, swirling lines make patterns he feels like he has seen somewhere before.

It takes him until the now narrow walkway opens up into a bigger space that Geralt realizes where he recognizes it from. The embroidery of Jaskier’s clothes.

When Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier across the room, the bard’s jaw is slack with surprise when he sees him

“Geralt,” he says, but oh.

Oh.

Jaskier doesn’t have a tail, but his skin is glimmering with the same pattern as the walls. He is sitting in the middle of the open space, on a rock slanting out to a deep, clear pool. It almost looks like a throne room.

Around his feet are merpeople of different shapes and sizes.

The guards shoves him back when Geralt attempts to take a step forward, and Geralt bares his teeth to them.

“Stop it,” Jaskier says, voice commanding.

The guards, now that Geralt sees them, look like a strange hybrid of fish and man. Claws and fins and webbed fingers and hissing breaths, but they keep their distance, as they are told.

Jaskier is still wearing his rings and his necklace, but little else. On his brow is a circlet, thin and adorned with shells and crowned with a mother of pearls.

“I told you to wait,” Jaskier says, tilting his head.

“You didn’t come back. It’s been three days,” Geralt says, feeling foolish without not really knowing why.

“Has it? I’m sorry, time passes strangely down here.”

They just look at each other for a long while, for once the bard too seems at a loss for words.

“You don’t look like them,” Geralt says finally, indicating at the more fish-like guards behind him.

“I don’t,” Jaskier agrees, “Many mer these days are closer to sirens, but those close to the royal family are more humanoid.”

Jaskier gives a crooked smile when he sees Geralt wracks his brain.

“I told you I was a noble, didn’t I?”

“You said viscount.” Geralt suddenly remembers. “Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenove.”

“Ah yes, well. That is some of the truth, yes. Don’t give me that look, Geralt, I didn’t lie to you. I just happen to be a prince too.”

Geralt blinks, and Jaskier looks back at him, sitting proudly despite the light frown.

“Mer prince? Is that why you don’t have a tail?” Geralt asks carefully, and the guard next to him rolls his eyes so hard his head moves with it.

“I do have a tail, my friend. When I choose to. The perks of royalty, wouldn’t you say?” he says with a smirk, “Now, as happy as I am to see you here, and for you to meet my family, this is… not ideal. I wish… It doesn’t matter. You are here now. Ligeia, let him through. I think it is time he is given the tour.”

“But my prince-” Ligeia says with her weird, hissing voice, but Jaskier waves her off.

“I have spent more time with him than you are old. Let him come to me.”

Geralt is let through, and Jaskier offers his hand. It is not something they usually do, not while awake, but Geralt accepts it anyway.

Jaskier is cool to the touch, but his hands feel the same. Same callouses, same scar just over his thumb from a stupid accident with a branch.

He is led towards the other side of the rock, into the clear pool.

“Not the way I wanted to show you, but I’m glad you are here,” Jaskier whispers, like a confession. Hand in hand, they dive.

-

When they return to the outside world, the stars are out. When Geralt worries about how they will get back, Jaskier waves him off.

“They always kind of know when I need to go back. I think that is a part of why they don’t trust me.”

Yeah, that makes sense. Splashing of ores breaks the serene silence around them, and the son stares at them a bit wide eyed.

The ride back is more tense than last time, despite Jaskier’s chattering.

When they get back to their room, Geralt realizes they are still holding hands.

“Well, my prince,” he says teasingly, “I think we have some talking to do.”

#the witcher #geraskier #but kind of inspired by all the canons #jaskier is missing #geralt of rivia #jaskier #mermay #prince!jaskier #mer!jaskier #dapanda writes #pre slash #the witcher 3 #a little bit at least #the witcher fic

[toapoet]

nobody can bully geralt’s bard except for geralt

#not that geralt would incite violence on anyone w/o them doing it first #but i imagine this is how it is #when someone else does it Geralt just like #gathers up jaskier in his arms and pushes one side of jask’s head against his chest #and covers his other ear with his hand #and glares at them and tells them to ‘leave/fuck off he’s just a bard’ #this is like pre-slash #specifically #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #the witcher #twn #toapoet

[ikeepwatchinghelicopters]

Random thought: Early in his days of travelling with Geralt, Jaskier decides it would really be great to have more stamina, put on some muscles and learn self-defense. He also decides that he'll achieve this by training in secret and then surprising Geralt with how amazing he is. So, any time Geralt is away for a hunt, Jaskier goes through his awesome, foolproof, guranteed-success training routine that he made up. I imagine it consists of some basic stuff like push-ups and sit-ups, but also of some obscure things which don't really do much, but Jaskier feels cool doing them. He also secretly buys himself a dagger and includes it in his secret training.

One time, Geralt comes back early from a hunt and finds Jaskier randomly slashing at the air with a dagger that's more decorative than useful and taunting an imaginery opponent. Geralt is very confused, so he just goes: "What the fuck?" Jaskier is irritated that he ruined his secret plan. Then he gets even more irritted once he explains the plan and instead of Geralt being impressed, he points out that most of what Jaskier was doing was totally useless (especially when it came to the dagger). Jaskier starts feeling very foolish and embarrassed and on a whim, Geralt offers to teach Jaskier how to use the dagger (it definitely wasn't because he hates the smell of Jaskier's sadness and shame, and it definitely, definitely wasn't because he's become very protective of the bard). He even gifts him one of his daggers, and Jaskier basically glows in happiness, until Geralt throws away the dagger Jaskier bought. The bard naturally protests that it was a moronic thing to do and that the dagger was very pretty and that he paid a lot of coin for it. Geralt stands by his opinion that it was nothing but a waste of space.

Once they start the dagger lessons, Jaskier also feels much regret over ever agreeing to them, because Geralt is a very strict teacher. Jaskier does learn how to properly use a dagger in the end, though.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #at least i think of it as geraskier #it's more of a pre-slash really #feel free to adopt the idea and write a fic #fic idea #random cliché thought #i love me some young clueless dumb bard

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

If you still want prompts, how about someone saying 8 to Jaskier? <3

Here's some Geraskier! Can be read as gen or pre-slash.

8. “Put your head on my shoulder.”

Geralt grits his teeth as he hauls Jaskier back to their camp, the bard a limp weight in his arms. Jaskier appears to be awake, but in shock; his wide eyes stare blindly upwards. His doublet has a tear in it, the gash left by the grave hag’s tongue traveling from the center of his breastbone to his left shoulder. It will probably scar, which is the least the idiot deserves after strolling up to a grave hag to “get a closer look.”

“Geralt, I can’t see,” Jaskier says again, his unseeing eyes darting about frantically. “I can’t see.”

“I know.” Geralt is more gentle than he would like to be as he deposits the bard on his bedroll. “That’s because you didn’t fucking stay back when I told you to.”

“I thought it was dead! It was on the ground!”

“It was injured, not dead. That made it even more fucking dangerous.”

“Is it permanent? Oh gods, Geralt, I can’t lose my sight! That hag’s hideous maw can’t be the last thing I ever see! Why couldn’t it have been a comelier monster, like a succubus or a—”

Of course that’s the first thing he thinks about. “It’s the venom from the grave hag’s tongue. It almost always wears off in an hour or two.”

“Almost always?” If possible, Jaskier’s voice gets even pitchier.

Geralt thinks about lying, but the bard needs to realize how easily carelessness could get him hurt or killed. He thought Jaskier learned that after nearly getting his throat cut by elves a month ago and then nearly getting carried off by a wyvern a week after that. Not to mention all the times Geralt's had to haul him away from an angry father or husband. “Occasionally, the blindness is permanent. It’s rare, but it happens. Mostly to the sick and the elderly.”

“How sick? Because I was feeling a bit sniffly this morning.” Jaskier’s heart rate is getting faster, his breathing growing quick and raspy. “And how elderly?”

“Jaskier, you’re eighteen.”

“Almost nineteen!” His voice rises to practically a wail. “And I like to think I have an old soul.”

“You have an almost-nineteen-year-old soul,” Geralt says with his last scrap of patience. “I told you, you’ll be fine in an hour or two.”

“I’ll most likely be fine in an hour or two! What happens if I’m not? You won’t leave me here, will you? Geralt, you probably haven’t noticed, but I have no fucking idea how to survive on my own.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to hear him. “I can’t light a fire! The last time I tried to set a snare for a rabbit, I got caught in it. I get sick at the sight of blood, so I can’t hunt! Please don’t leave me here on my own.”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Geralt has tried to lose Jaskier a couple of times, but quickly realized that abandoning the bard in the wilderness was practically a death sentence for the lad. He’s been tempted to reconsider a couple of times, but he doesn’t actually want Jaskier dead in a ditch.

“Gods, I’ll have to return to Lettenhove, won’t I?” Jaskier’s blank gaze is fixed somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder. “Cordelia is never going to let me live this down. She told me I wouldn’t last a year on the road and I didn’t even last a season.”

Geralt goes to his saddlebag to get supplies to clean and stitch the wound. When he comes back, Jaskier is enumerating all the things that he’ll never lay eyes on again. It’s hard to tell what he’ll miss more: sunsets or tits. As Geralt dabs the dried blood and venom from the wound, Jaskier seems to settle on tits.

“And yes, I know I’ll still be able to feel them, Geralt, but it’s really an altogether different—”

Geralt can hear the hitch in the bard’s breathing that tells him that Jaskier is perilously close to hyperventilating. Fuck. He puts aside the supplies—the wound has stopped bleeding, stitches aren’t a necessity—and pulls Jaskier into his arms. Jaskier makes a startled noise, but comes willingly.

“Put your head on my shoulder,” he says.

“What?” Jaskier squeaks.

“Just do it.” When the bard complies, settling his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder almost tentatively, like he thinks it’s some kind of trick, Geralt adds, “Listen to my breathing. Match it with yours.”

Jaskier’s quick, panting breaths slow down, bringing his hammering heart rate down a notch.

“Just concentrate on breathing.” Geralt keeps his voice low and soothing, like he would if it were Roach startled by an unexpected noise or a rabbit in her path. “You’re going to be fine.”

“What if it is permanent?” Jaskier whispers.

“It won’t be.” With the arm that isn’t holding Jaskier against him, Geralt cups the back of the bard’s head, stroking slowly with his thumb. “But if it is, we’ll figure something out. You’ll still be able to play the lute and sing. Still be able to talk.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky laugh. “You say that like you think it’s a good thing.”

“Hm.” Since the bard can’t see him, Geralt lets himself smile. “Better than listening to you shriek about tits.”

“I don’t shriek.”

“You sound like a grave hag in heat when you get worked up.”

“Thank you for that horrifying mental image. Really, today hadn’t been trying enough.”

“Your own fault.”

“And here I thought you were being nice to me for once.”

“Saved you from the grave hag, didn’t I?”

“Not in time to save my eyes.”

“Your eyes will be fine, Jaskier.”

“So you say.” But the anxiety is slowly seeping out of Jaskier’s scent as he curls closer to Geralt. Geralt will probably regret letting him get this touchy feely, but that’s a problem for later, once the bard can see again and his heartbeat is back to normal.

“You’ll be able to see again by sunset,” Geralt tells him. “But I don’t think you have any chance of seeing tits tonight, not with the shit job you did flirting with the alderman’s niece.”

“Shit job? Geralt, she was charmed!”

“Have you ever met a woman before, Jaskier? One that you’re not paying to put up with you?”

Jaskier is so indignant that he spends a good part of the next hour telling Geralt about the people of various genders who have been won over by his charm and good looks. He doesn’t even seem to notice when his sight comes back.

(And Geralt doesn’t notice that he’s still holding Jaskier until the bard pulls away.)

***

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

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

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

[thestalwartheart]

Dropping in briefly to say if you're into The Witcher/TWN I wrote a short geraskier thing set post S2. It's technically pre-relationship but whack those slash goggles on babyyyyy.

#i also have a witcher sideblog waitingforjaskier #ignoring the hcav news btw #…just ignoring it

[fontegagrilledcheese]

Dumbasses in Quarantine

This is my Bog Exchange fic! I finally finished! This is for the lovely @herostag I hope they like it!

Special thanks to Dani and Doug for beating my grammar with a stick. Ily <3

This is 2.9K words of idiots being idiots during the plague. Just pure fluff, no CW here. Modern Au.

1. Geralt had finally had enough of Jaskier complaining about all the takeout they had been consuming since everything had gone on lockdown, so here he was, watching a pot of noodles cook while Jaskier was in the living room weeding his island in Animal Crossing for the third time that week. He stirs the spaghetti around before grabbing a second pot and the jar of pasta sauce that he had bought at some point in the last few years. Geralt pours the sauce into the pot, throws some Italian seasoning in and hmms at the consistency before ladling some pasta water into the sauce to thin it out slightly. “Dinner’s almost ready” Geralt softly calls to Jaskier before going back to his noodles, fishing one out to check the doneness. Geralt bites into it and makes a face at the sweetness as Jaskier walks into the kitchen.

 “Everything all right there?” Jaskier inquires, coming over to look into the pots on the stove. 

“Hmmm, I think so. Taste this?” Geralt fishes another noodle out to hand over to Jaskier, who eats it with a hum. 

“That doesn’t taste right,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “But I don't know enough about cooking to dispute it.” 

Geralt hums again, “Think it will be fine?” 

Jaskier just shrugs and goes to set the table, leaving Geralt to finish putting the meal together. Geralt tilts his head at the pots on the stove before pulling out his phone to text  Eskel ‘is pasta supposed to be sweet when cooking?’

While waiting for a reply, Geralt drains the noodles and dumps them into the sauce to stir them in before his phone rings with a call from Eskel. 

“You tried a noodle and it tasted sweet?”

“Yeah, is it supposed to be like that?”

There is a moment of silence where Lambert can be heard laughing in the background before Eskel replies, “Are you sure you put salt in the water?”

“Yeah, poured a bunch of salt in there like you said to.”

Eskel hums, “Are you sure it wasn't sugar? Did you make sure to taste it first?”

The silence on Geralt's side is telling, and Lambert can be heard dying in the background. 

“Thanks Eskel,” Geralt says before hanging up and staring down at the pot of sugared spaghetti. 

“Hey Jask, how do you feel about getting takeout again?”

Jaskier sighs, “What happened?”

Geralt blushes “I… I may have put sugar in the water instead of salt…”

“Oh… but the sauce?” 

“I put some of the pasta water in the sauce to thin it.”

Jaskier starts giggling, “G-Geralt... noooo.”

Geralt sighs, wearily turning off the stove. “So takeout?” 

“Yeah, takeout is fine. Whatever you feel like.”

Geralt hums and pulls up the delivery app, “Sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier sidles up to him, giving him a half hug, “Thanks for trying.” He leans fully into him so he can see Geralt's phone as they order.

2. A while into quarantine, Jaskier decided he needed some greenery in his life, since he couldn’t leave the house. This led Jaskier to order himself a cute little cactus from a local nursery for the next time they order a grocery pick up. Talking Geralt into stopping by the shop on the way back from the store proved easier than Jaskier had anticipated. Geralt had begrudgingly agreed after hours of Jaskier’s pouting and puppy eyes wearing him down. 

Jaskier dances around the apartment with his new treasure before placing it on the sunny windowsill in their living room. Geralt rolls his eyes but smiles at his roommates' antics, “You do know how to take care of it don’t you?”

Jaksier pouts at him, “It’s a cactus, how hard can it be! I just water it every so often and bam, beautiful thriving mini Geralt!”

Geralt huffs at him, grabbing a controller for their gaming console, “You promised I could destroy you at Mortal Combat if we picked up the plant.”

“Yes, yes Geralt I’m coming, just let me water my precious child.”

Weeks later, Little Geralt starts looking a bit droopy, causing Jaskier to water him, but unfortunately Jaskier does not account for his ADHD and lack of calendar filling out, and proceeds to water the poor cactus every day for the next two weeks, water logging and eventually killing poor Little Geralt.

Once Jaskier realizes, he cries to Geralt only a little and has a funeral for the cactus as he throws it away, being the absolute most dramatic about it as possible. Geralt just rolls his eyes at the antics and adds a new plant to the order list to pick up the next time they have their outing to go get groceries.

Jaskier gives Geralt the biggest hug when he realises they’re heading to the plant store and talks excitedly about how determined he is to to not kill Little Geralt the Second; Geralt just rolls his eyes half heartedly but helps Jaskier set up a calendar to keep track of when he’s watered the cactus. This works for about a month before Jaskier gets busy and forgets about his little plant, frying on the windowsill, until Geralt notices about three months later.

“Hey Jask, your cactus is looking a bit… shriveled.”

Jaskier rushes into the living room “NO!” He yells as he slides to a stop on his knees before the  dried up little plant “Noooooooo, Little Geralt the Second, nooooo!” he shakes his fists at the ceiling.

Geralt pats his shoulder comfortingly, “At least it lived longer this time.”

Jaskier shakes his head with a sigh. “I’m a terrible plant parent.”

Geralt hmms consolingly, “We can get you another. I’ll try to help you keep better track of it this time.” 

Jaskier nods, “Thanks Geralt,” and picks up his dead plant to go throw it out. 

Geralt just hmms and pulls up the pick-up list on his phone to add a new little cactus.

Three months later, Little Geralt the Third is thriving in its place on the windowsill, happily soaking up the sun on a bright spring day as a breeze comes through the window. Jaskier dances around the living room, vacuuming and dusting as Geralt cleans the kitchen of the previous night’s actually decent attempt at cooking. Jaskier sings along to ABBA, twirling with his duster mic when disaster strikes poor Little Geralt the Third. Jaskier swirls too close to the window and pops his hip at just the wrong time and the plant wobbles before being pushed off the edge and falls three stories down to the concrete sidewalk down below. Jaskier freezes at the crashing sound and turns to look out the window, staring down at his poor, broken plant.

“Nooooooo, Geralt!” Jaskier yells, and Geralt comes running in from the kitchen, startled by Jaskier’s cry. 

“Jask?!” 

Jaskier just points down at the sidewalk, falling to his knees “Geralt, I killed him! I killed our son! To ABBA!” 

Jaskier sprawls out on the floor dramatically, mourning the fate of poor Little Geralt the Third, who had been thriving wonderfully before going splat on the pavement. 

Geralt sits down next to his dramatic roommate and pats his leg, “That one was actually doing pretty well. Maybe we could get another and just find a better place for it to sit?”

Jaskier sniffles and looks through his lashes at Geralt, “Really?” 

Geralt nods before being tackled to the ground in a tight hug. 

“Thanks Geralt.” Jaskier whispers, nuzzling into his friend.

3. Geralt stood staring into the mirror at the red roots growing into his perfect silver platinum hair. He pouts at it, looking at his hair and then back down at his phone at the pictures of his past beautiful silver hair. 

“I can do it, how hard can it be?” he grumbles, glaring back at his roots. He nods to himself before searching different bleaches, toners, and silver dyes that are available at their local beauty shop.

A week and two trips to the store later, Geralt is once again standing in the bathroom and glaring at his roots in the mirror. “How hard can it be...”

Five hours later, Jaskier comes home from the park to Geralt sitting on the couch in a hoodie with the hood on and scrunched up around his face, pouting.

“So how did it go?” he asks.

Geralt grunts in response.

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” comes Jaskier’s exasperated reply, reaching for the hood over the back of the couch.

Geralt growls and catches his hand, yanking and pulling Jaskier over the couch and partially into his lap.

Jaskier laughs and reaches up again with both hands, trying to use one as a distraction. Geralt growls again and tackles him to the floor to pin him, where they tussle around before Jaskier gets an upper hand and pulls the hood off. Geralt freezes as Jaskier stares at him with wide eyes and a growing smile.

 “Don’t,” he growls.

Jaskier’s grin turns into giggles, then into full on laughter. “Geralt! Your hair!” 

Geralt sits back with a pout, still sitting on Jaskier. “I know, it's horrible.”

“It's bright purple! What did you do!?”

Geralt flushes, “I forgot to set a timer and left the toner in too long. It should wash out and wear off in a few weeks,” he grumbles.

Jaskier continues to giggle. “Well at least it's not permanent, and you bleached the roots pretty well.”

Geralt sighs and nods before laying down on Jaskier for a consolation cuddle. “Yeah, at least there's that.”

4. Geralt’s birthday was coming up and Jaskier was determined to celebrate it, even if they couldn’t go on their customary birthday bar crawl that they had gone on for both of their birthdays since they had been roommates in college. Jaskier wanted to go the extra mile for his bestest friend in the whole world and decided that he was going to make Geralt a homemade cake, icing drizzle and all. Jaskier had scoured the internet for weeks trying to find a cake he thought geralt would like and that he thought he could make with his limited baking abilities. He finally found the perfect recipe for a simple strawberry pound cake that he only had to buy a minimal amount of extra ingredients for. 

The day of Geralt's birthday, Jaskier sets up in the kitchen and banishes Geralt to the living room to play his new Witcher game while Jaskier makes the cake. 

He starts by setting out everything he needs and getting the beaters set up and his recipe out. He preheats the oven and then gets to work measuring everything out carefully, looking back at his recipe often, so often he doesn’t quite notice that he’s grabbed the salt container instead of the sugar and measures out the three cups the recipe calls for before adding it into the wet ingredients bowl to cream together as stated by the recipe. Jaskier goes about making his cake and mixing it up, carefully pouring it into the disposable cake tin they had bought specially for the event before putting it in the oven and carefully setting a timer on his phone.

He takes a break for a moment to make a cup of tea before cleaning up the mess from the cake and mixing up the simple drizzle icing for the cake.

The timer goes off and Jaskier pokes the cake with a toothpick as he has been directed, frowning at the lopsided cake. 

“Is that how it should look?” he mutters to himself, looking at the clean toothpick. “Guess it’s done.”

He pulls the cake out of the oven and  sets it on the rack to cool, poking little holes in it with the toothpick to help it cool and absorb some of the icing later.

After 30 minutes, he drizzles the icing over the cake, humming happily to himself. 

“Geralt, do you want to do cake now or later?” he calls into the living room. Geralt hmms and stands before replying, “Now.”

Jaskier grins and grabs them plates, forks, and a knife to cut the cake with.

Geralt stands beside him at the counter, smiling softly at the cake Jaskier has made him. 

“Thanks Jask,” he says softly. 

Jaskier grins fully at him. “Happy birthday, Geralt!”

They cut into the cake and serve themselves. Geralt happily eats his, reaching out to get seconds while Jaskier frowns at his slice. “Does this taste right to you?” he takes another bite while Geralt shrugs.

“Tastes fine to me,” he replies, happy to continue eating what his Jaskier has made him. 

Jaskier frowns more and looks at his recipe, “I dunno, doesn’t it taste salty?” 

Geralt hmms in thought before continuing to eat, “Suppose so, but it’s not too bad.”

Jaskier gasps. “Geralt! No Geralt, stop eating that! I must have mixed up the salt and sugar when I was measuring, oh! It's terrible, I’m so sorry, Geralt,” he whines, looking almost at the verge of tears. 

This causes Geralt to pause his gremlin-like cake eating, setting the plate down before pulling his best friend into a tight hug, resting his head against the others. “So maybe you had a booboo with it and it’s a little salty. You know I’m not picky, and it tastes fine and vaguely like strawberries. I’ll eat it anyway, Jask.” he grumbles out.

Jaskier sniffles. “But you deserve a good cake that’s made correctly.”

Geralt hums, “Maybe, but this is something you’ve made for me with all your heart, and I think it tastes alright, and I will keep eating it, because you made it for me and that makes it taste all the sweeter.”

Jaskier sniffles again, squeezing the man in his arms tightly “Oh, you big softy! You don’t have to eat it.” 

“But I want to.”

“Fine.” Jaskier sighs, nuzzling the broad chest he’s pressed against. “Love you”

Geralt smiles softly, pressing a kiss to Jaskiers temple. “Love you too, you disaster.” 

Jaskier gasps and smacks his chest “You!”

Geralt laughs and grabs his cake before dragging Jaskier to the couch. “Come on, I demand my birthday cuddles.”

Jaskier puffs his cheeks but settles against Geralt on the couch, holding the controller for him “If this is my penance.”

5. Usually Jaskier did the laundry while Geralt did dishes. This was because Jaskier had many a delicate piece in his wardrobe and he did not trust Geralt to treat his clothes the right way if he were to do the laundry. Geralt didn’t care much either way who did the dishes and who did the laundry, as long as the chores ended up done in the end. This was how their kitchen, laundry nook, and part of their living room ended up absolutely covered in bubbles.

They had decided to switch up the chore rotation for the week because the dishes weren’t too bad and Jaskier hadn’t worn any of his ‘delicate’ pieces in the past week and a half, meaning there was nothing of his Geralt could mess up. The switching of chores had unforeseen consequences however, in that neither remembers exactly how to do the new chore, as they hadn’t had to in at least a year. Rather than ask the other for help, both Jaskier and Geralt decided to wing it and try their best. 

Jaskier stares down at Geralt, slav squatting, staring at the bubbles that were slowly invading their apartment via the laundry and kitchen. 

“So, I couldn’t remember which dish liquid was the one for the dishwasher and put the red one in, which was apparently the wrong choice…… What did you do to create the bubbles in the washer?” 

Geralt grunts. “That was the dawn dish soap that we hand wash the alcohol glasses with,” he sighs. “I may have put a full cup of laundry detergent in the washing machine”

Jaskier gasps “A full- Geralt! The entire cup!? That’s at least double the amount you’re supposed to use!” 

Geralt pouts. “I couldn’t remember how much,” he grumbles

“You could have asked me!”

This earns Jaskier a raised eyebrow and the stink eye.

“Fair enough,” he giggles. “We should have asked each other when we were confused.”

Geralt nods before standing. “Well I guess we should turn the appliances off before the bubbles get worse… wish me luck”

Jaskier nods and jokingly salutes him. “I’ll remember you dearly.”

Geralt chuckles and shakes his head before wading into the bubbles to stop the dishwasher and washing machine cycles.

A minute later he reappears, covered in bubbles from head to toe, looking like some sort of grumpy snowman. Jaskier laughs at him before Geralt smirks and captures him in a bear hug, causing the man to shriek. “Nooo! Geralt my clothes! Ackkkk!”

Geralt swings him, picking him up slightly. “I think if we let the bubbles settle we can clean up in a little, but we should change first.”

Jaskier pouts “The point of you doing it was so only one of us had to change.”

Geralt gives him a toothy grin, carrying him towards their bedrooms to change. “But you laughed at me, that demands retribution.”

Jaskier just sticks his tongue out at him before being set down in front of his room. “Wanna play Smash while we wait?”

Geralt grins, “What, wanna get wrecked that badly?” he winks to Jaskiers affronted gasp before going in his room to change.

guess I’ll add my tag list huh

@geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @jaskiersvalley @jaskierswolf @dani-dandelino @wherethewordsare @softnerdypeter @thecomfortofoldstorries @dapandapod @lindianaj0nes @kuripon​ @elliestormfound @veritasrose

Hope y’all enjoyed it >///<

#bog exchange #the witcher #geraskier #Geralt #Jaskier #and they were roommates #modern au #pre slash #best friends #could be established relationship #lowkey aro jaskier #ADHD jaskier #himbo geralt #cheese writes #this is so long omfg #i can't believe i wrote so many words #cheesy productions #hope hero likes it #cuddly boys #maybe they're both aro #idk #but they are best friends #no touch starved boys here

[witchersgoldenbard]

Jaskier doesn’t hate high school and he doesn’t hate being a teenager, as blasphemous as that might sound. It sucks sometimes, yeah, but you also get to lie down in the grass with your best friends and hold their hands while they insult you affectionately, and share their cherry wine after school.

He doesn’t see adults doing that.

-- in which the writer is not at all projecting on their high school au, what are you talking about?????

#nat rambles #high school au #i'm back on my bullshit being fucking soft about them and i shall never shut up about this #this first chapter thingy has just hit 5900 words and i am about halfway through all the things i want to put in it so hhh it'll be up soon #i say chapter but pls take that term very loosely #it'll also be pre-slash obviously bc slow burn but they're all idiots and i feel so warm and happy when i write them #also this up there ^^ #though you can also lie in the grass in the park and hold your friends' hands when you're 22 because apparently i am an adult #with adhd who rambles in their tumblr tags gods i need help anyway byeee #geraskier #jaskier #renfri #yennefer #@glasmotte i miss our after school chaos dates of cherry wine chocolate and ice cream

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Subtext, by Calvin Klein

happy birthday @stinastar!!! I know it’s not the prompt you wanted, but I’ll write that too. :) Thank you so much for being awesome and so so sweet!

Legally Blonde au - modern - fluffy pre-getting together

depending on the comments I get on this, I might post a second part

tw: Geralt’s tragic backstory (foster care mention)

---

Geralt approached Jaskier slowly and kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “What’s up-” he noticed the bunny ears poking up from Jaskier’s fluffy brown hair and added “-doc?”

The young law student looked up at Geralt through teary black lashes and let out another soft sniffle, his lips wobbling unattractively. Geralt hurried to drape his zip-up hoodie over Jaskier’s bare shoulders and take a seat on the wooden bench beside him. 

The worried teacher’s assistant rubbed his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms through the material, trying to warm him up a little better. “Why are you dressed as a Playboy bunny, sitting on a bench in the middle of the night in this terrible New England weather?”

“I made a terrible mistake in coming here.”

“What?”

Geralt had never heard Jaskier sound so utterly defeated. Usually the student was bright and bubbly, congenial to a fault even when he made mistakes or answered incorrectly during class discussions. The charming brunette seemed to pull bucket after bucket from a nearly endless well of positivity; until now, apparently. 

As he sat beside Geralt on the worn wooden bench, wearing the tight pink leotard and little wrist cuffs, practically glowing in the yellow-tinged lamplight, he seemed too ethereal to be real. Even as he shivered and sniffled, Jaskier looked too gorgeous to be human. Seeing him in such a distressed state was a little unnerving, like bumping into an old teacher outside of school or accidentally seeing your neighbors kissing through a window. It felt wrong. 

“I followed the love of my life to this stupid fucking university and now he’s going to marry some fancy, well-bred blonde woman like his parents wanted and I’m going to flunk out of these classes with nothing to show for my time here and my parents are going to-”

“Hey,” Geralt interrupted, taking one hand from his pocket to place on Jaskier’s trembling knee. “It’s going to be okay. Breathe, Jaskier.”

“Right. Breathing. Yeah.”

“Are you… okay?” 

Jaskier looked at him again and Geralt flinched away from the obvious hurt in his watery blue eyes. Of course he’s not okay, he’s sobbing alone on a cold bench in the middle of Halloween night. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I’m not good with words but- Wait... are you saying you came to school because of a man?” 

“Y-Yeah. You could put it that way, I guess.”

Geralt yanked his hand away from the younger man’s knee and scooted backwards, away from the man he’d just been admiring. “Oh my god, that has to be the absolute stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You came all the way to Oxenfurt University’s prestigious and award-winning Law School to hunt down a husband?!”

Jaskier looks taken aback. Startled and bewildered and sad, like a much smaller child rather than an adult man with a degree and a half. “Are you mad at me!?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Geralt laughed humorlessly. He shook his head, swiping one hand over his face on his way to tuck in a stray strand of white hair. “I worked two jobs to get myself through college. I was doing full-time classes and pulling sixty hour weeks at the bar and the grocery store; I don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep since I graduated high school. I certainly don’t know the meaning of the word vacation anymore... and you came here to follow some- some guy that you liked?”

“We’d been together for three years before he suddenly dropped me to pursue a degree in fucking bitter looking women, to be completely fair. And I managed to get a good enough LSAT score to qualify for admittance, so it’s not like I’m totally incompetent.”

“No,” Geralt nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I guess that’s true.”

“No guessing involved,” Jaskier spat, tired and angry and flustered. “It is the truth, plain and simple. I deserve to be here and I will be successful.”

“Hmm.” 

“Well why are you here, then, Mr. Grouchy T.A.?”

“I grew up in foster care and let me tell you, from experience, that the system is shit. If I had been forced to remain a foster child for any longer than I was, I probably would have become a match-happy little delinquent like my youngest brother, Lambert. Luckily my third foster parent, Vesemir, adopted me legally and made me his son. He already had one adopted son, my older brother, Eskel, and after me there was Lambert.”

Jaskier took a moment to contemplate Geralt’s story, pulling the sweatshirt closer around his shoulders and burrowing down into the neckline in a way that sent butterflies swirling through Geralt’s stomach rather unexpectedly. Then the younger man smiled at him, pearly teeth glinting in the light of the streetlamp. “That’s… that’s a little sad and a little sweet. It makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“The sadness and the sweetness,” Jaskier repeated, grinning a little more shyly than before. Geralt wasn’t sure, since it was so dark and he was so skeptical, but it almost looked like Jaskier was blushing. “Like you. Sweet, kind, caring, but a little melancholy. Anyway, I should be getting back to my dorm. I need to study.”

“I want my sweatshirt back,” Geralt said, standing and offering Jaskier a hand up. He wobbled to his feet, still wearing a pair of dangerously high black stilettos. Geralt knew this outfit would haunt his dreams for the next few weeks and cursed Hugh Heffner’s lingering spirit. 

“If you’re lucky,” Jaskier replied, and click-click-clicked his way into the darkness. 

Geralt honestly wasn’t sure he’d mind if Jaskier decided to keep it… maybe someday he’d wear it to class. And didn’t the thought of that send something odd and new and terrifying swirling in Geralt’s gut.

---

“Where are we going, exactly?” Geralt asked, eyeing the giddy brunette before him. Jaskier batted his long eyelashes at the grumpy T.A. and gave his sweetest pout.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Well then don’t stop now!” 

The excitable young law student laced his fingers with Geralt’s and pulled him through the large glass doors and into the mall. When at last his eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the shopping center he asked: “What is this place?”

Jaskier grinned, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “A department store.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and took his own deep breath, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “What is that smell?”

“Love,” Jaskier replied.

“What!?”

“Love,” the student repeated, pointing at a sign with his free hand. It was large and pink and read LOVE, BY CHANEL in black block-letters. “There’s Love in the air.”

“Terrible joke, really,” Geralt teased. “But really, Jaskier, why are we here? You have plenty of clothes for court; I know because I’ve been in your closet and seen them firsthand.”

“We’re not here for me,” Jaskier elbowed his mentor and study partner gently in the side. Their hands were still interlaced in a way that made Geralt’s heart thunder dangerously against his ribs; love really was in the air, it seemed. Jaskier continued breezily, unaware of the older man’s roiling internal conflict. “I’m taking you shopping so that you have the proper outfit to wear when accepting Stregobor’s partnership offer.”

They had reached the men’s business section and the brunette released Geralt’s hand in order to dig through the racks of clothing. He was elbow deep in Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, hunting for jackets in Geralt’s size. “Jaskier, I can’t afford this kind of-”

“Hush,” Jaskier replied, waving his hand dismissively in his direction, letting it go limp at the wrist. “It’s a gift. No! Not a gift, a repayment.”

“I didn’t give you anything…” 

Jaskier looked up from the selection of suits he’d been inspecting and shot Geralt a dangerous glare. “You most certainly did give me something, Geralt Roger Eric du-Haute Bellegarde! You looked past my bubbliness and my pink blazer and my previous degree and treated me like a person. You supported me and encouraged me without asking for anything in return so this is what I’m giving you.”

Geralt took a step towards him and sneezed. “What is that smell?”

An attendant appeared as if from thin air, a little glass bottle clutched in her hand. “It’s Subtext, by Calvin Klein!”

“It’s not really my thing,” Geralt frowned, closing the distance between himeslf and Jaskier as he made his apologies, “But thank you, regardless.”

“Let me know if you gentlemen need anything!”

Geralt stepped close enough to feel the heat of Jaskier’s body, still not brave enough to initiate touch. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jaskier grinned again. 

Geralt considered the feelings that were stirring in his heart, driving through his veins, branching out through his mind so that all he could focus on was Jaskier... 

It might be a problem, he thought, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. But it can be dealt with another time. 

#legally blonde #legally blonde au #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #happy birthday stina #pre slash #legally blonde the musical #geraskier fluff #preslash #pre getting tgoether #getting together #bouncey's endless au collection

[buffskierights]

Jaskier says a lot of words.

Geralt knows this intimately, has known this for almost ten years at this point— he doesn’t think he can be blamed for not always listening closely to all of the words, he doesn’t think Jaskier even expects him to be listening all of the time for how frequently Geralt’s caught him repeating the same stories with little self-awareness of doing it, but when he does listen it’s always when it’s important. Or something unusual.

One could argue that means Geralt does, in fact, listen to Jaskier. But he could argue just as well that deliberately letting the words go in one ear and out the other, with only a vague awareness of them to listen for something important, isn’t listening at all. It’s as much listening as keeping an ear out for your daughter is while playing a game of Gwent with your brother, or letting the comforting crackling of a fire wash over you when sitting quietly and nursing an ale in the dead of winter.

All that being said, Geralt is letting the soothing timbre of the troubadour’s tenor wash over him as Roach plods along beneath him, occasionally glancing over to ensure Jaskier is still beside him. It’s a rather nice day: only partly cloudy, the sky clear and blue behind the cover, with a gentle breeze rustling the trees that like the road. Jaskier’s ranting about something or other, and is looking a bit red in the face and is wearing that overly dramatic expression that is usually followed by something almost unbearably stupid coming out of his mouth so Geralt decides to “tune in”, so to speak.

“—and I’m telling you Geralt, I’ve never felt so disrespect in my life! Between the concealed ring, the hidden portraits, and the stashed gown... well, she did everything in her power to stop me from knowing about her husband but then had me over deliberately when the lord of the house arrived home to make him more attentive of her needs. But all it did was result in my mad midnight dash to the inn with hell in a hand bakset on my tail! Honestly, I know you tease me for having poor taste but—“

“Wait,” Geralt stops him and Jaskier stutters over his next few words until his attention is fully on the witcher, “Repeat that last thing you said.”

“I know you tease me for having poor taste?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow curiously.

“No, just before that.”

He frowns as he tries to remember, “all it did was result in my mad midnight dash back to the inn with hell in a hand bakset on—“

“Stop!”

“What?”

“Say that word.”

“Which word?” Jaskier’s starting to sound frustrated.

“Basket.”

“Bakset?”

“Jaskier, it’s bas-ket.”

Jaskier huffs, “That’s what I’m saying! Bak-set!”

Geralt’s not sure if he should laugh or scream, his lips twitching and a pressure at the back of his throat. “Jaskier,” he chokes out. It’s definitely laughter, “Can you not say ‘basket’?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Geralt! I’m very clearly saying bakset. We are talking about the same thing, are we not? A woven vessel for carrying things?” At Geralt’s nod the bard continues, “Then I haven’t the faintest clue what it is you’re talking about! Bakset! Bakset! Bakset!”

Geralt can’t stand it anymore, throwing his head back to howl with laughter that briefly startles Roach, causing her to prance for a moment before settling again. It’s a full-body laugh, one he doesn’t experience often— although, when he does, it seems to always be with Jaskier —and it makes his stomach cramp and cheeks ache but he can’t stop.

Jaskier makes an indignant noise but he’s laughing soon enough, too; neither of them able to stay upset with one another for long.

#the witcher #fic rec #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my writing #fanfiction #geraskier #pre slash #gen #inspired by letterkenny #humor #crack

[thearcher18]

so....erm i wrote my first witcher fic. not my best work but i literally wrote this in one hour and i just wanted to.

title: talk me down

fandom: the witcher

relationship: geralt of rivia & jaskier, geralt/jaskier

words: 1k

tags: hurt/comfort, pre-slash

also on ao3

They had been traveling for six days when the farmer sought them out. There was a pack of werewolves terrorizing the village and had already killed several people. The village, which was in middle of nowhere, was small, consisting of not more than a hundred people. So it was stupid of the farmer to not have mention a seventeen year old girl looking to avenge her family.

After Geralt had left Jaskier, who had been complaining as usual —seriously, Geralt, you should know there is no point in telling me to stay— and had only given up when Geralt mentioned that they didn't exactly had enough coins for a decent meal tonight. Jaskier had given a reluctant nod —I forgot. of course you deserve a good meal after saving the day— he'd said.

The girl, Lorelei, had been excellent at hiding. Apparently, she started following him right after he left the inn. The forest, in which the werewolves lived was quite deep, the smell of blood was fresh. Geralt could sense that the wolves were close and they knew he was here so he sheaths his sword— the potion he'd drank earlier heightened his senses, his eyes sharp and blood pounding in his ears. Adrenaline flowing rapidly in his veins.

Suddenly, just behind him, he heard the rustling of leaves; a brief smell of meadows and horses, carefully concealed so the witcher in his normal form wouldn't have sense it— a human.

Geralt tried to get her to leave. That it was dangerous but she was determined and vengeful and the fire in her eyes reminded him so much of Renfri that he felt his breath stutter but Geralt didn't have enough time to convince her when suddenly the werewolves revealed themselves— big and vicious creatures. One was an alpha and the other three were betas, all powerful. Geralt had dealt with bigger packs before but today he had to somehow protect the girl.

The werewolves attacked, either side of him— snarling and hungry for his blood. All four of them pounced on him at the same time. He killed the first beta in just two minutes; that turned the other three werewolves more vicious and angry. The alpha aimed for his neck but Geralt quickly moved but his claws dug in his sides. Geralt roared and managed to severe another beta's head.

He was too late in noticing Lorelei running towards the only beta left and before he could even try to fend off the alpha, the beta tackled her to the ground and riped her throat out.

“No!” Geralt roared but it had been too late. He severed the alpha's head and succeeded in cutting the beta in half with vicious slash.

But it didn't matter now.

Geralt moved towards the girl's body but she was already dead— eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Shit.” Guilt was heavy on his soul.

He pulled out a scarf from his belt— the scarf Jaskier had gifted him. He tried to picture his beaming smile, his bright eyes. But he didn't deserve him, did he? He was a monster. Geralt laid the scarf on her torn neck, the blood instantly soaking it.

You killed Renfri. And you didn't save the girl. Both their blood is on your hands. You are a monster. Everyone had always been right about you.

The potion had already worn off; making him weak in the knees and the injuries he sustained were long forgotten as he picked the girl up and made his way towards the village. Geralt doesn't know how he had reached it— only one thought running through his head;

You couldn't save her.

Thankfully, the farmer was just there as he laid the girl's body down. “I—” he began but the farmer cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Since her family was eaten by those bloody wolves, she had been a lost cause.” The farmer rambled on how they all had seen it coming but Geralt didn't listen— instead, he continues walking towards the inn.

Walking away from the sour stench of the girl's blood.

“Witcher! Your coin!” The farmer yells but Geralt didn't deserve that anymore.

“Keep it.” Geralt says, gruffly and he doesn't know how says it but he does and pretends that his hands aren't trembling.

Thankfully, the inn wasn't far and the bard was standing there in front, probably about to complain but as soon as their eyes met, Jaskier stops. Geralt doesn't know what he looks like. But whatever Jaskier sees is enough to make him understand. He is grateful but what would the bard do when he finally knows that he couldn't save the girl? That he had been too slow, too weak.

Jaskier doesn't ask anything. Doesn't speak at all. He just leads Geralt in the inn towards their room where he's already had a hot bath set up.

Geralt realizes that his body isn't responding to his mind. He's almost motionless— a puppet in Jaskier's hands as he helps him out of the armour and pulls him towards the tub. There are firm, lute calloused hands cleaning him up, cleaning his wounds— strong gentle fingers massaging his scalp but Geralt refuses to relax.

Geralt knows he hadn't felt like this since Renfri, and he knows that circumstances were different, that he had killed Renfri but he hadn't killed Lorelei— but he couldn't save her. And it was almost the same thing.

Jaskier is pulling him up and helping him get in his clothes and suddenly he wants Jaskier to stay away from him. He wants him to leave and never come back because how long is it going to be when it's Jaskier that he couldn't save? His sweet, lovely, wonderful Jaskier. And even the thought of it makes him sick and he jerks back from Jaskier's gentle hands.

“What—”

Geralt ignores the hurt look in Jaskier's cornflower blue eyes— regret builds inside him but he keeps his resolve.

“You should leave.” Geralt snarls, hoping he doesn't have to stand from where he's seated at the edge of their bed— and Jaskier's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, damnit.

“Geralt, what—”

“You don't understand! I couldn't save her!”

Jaskier's eyes soften but he still doesn't budge, still standing in front of him. “I know.”

And Geralt wants to yell, wants to roar that why haven't you left!, wants him to stop looking at him with kindness and wonder as if he's some kind of a hero— because he isn't. He's a monster, the Butcher of Blaviken—

Suddenly his vicious thoughts are cut off by firm, gentle hands that cup his face. “Geralt, it wasn't your fault.”

Geralt tries to shake off his hands, wants to stop looking at his bright blue eyes. But Jaskier's hands don't move. “I could have stopped her before—”

“No, you didn't know, darling. She made a choice. I saw her earlier, she had that wild look in her eyes and she wouldn't have stopped.” Jaskier rest his forehead against his and says firmly, “It wasn't your fault.”

And there is something in Geralt that just breaks. Witcher don't cry, but he is shaking and Jaskier's there, pulling him in— and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's chest.

He knows that this probably won't be the end of this conversation. That he is going to get awful nightmares just like has of Renfri's. That the guilt isn't just going to fade away. That he would sometimes look at his hands and find them red with blood— with Renfri and Lorelei's blood.

But he also knows that Jaskier will be there for all of it. Wrapping him in his arms and making Geralt feel the most safe and secure he's ever felt in his life. His bright laughter, his careful understanding, his beautiful singing will probably get him out of any dark corner his mind will lead him to.

And then maybe, maybe he would understand that some things just weren't his fault.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #the witcher fic rec #Geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fic rec #hurt/comfort #pre slash

[221bb]

Words: 2834 Chapters: 1/1

Geralt hears ‘Burn Butcher, Burn’ for the first time, from Jaskier’s lips. It goes about as hearbreaking as you might think.

#the witcher #the witcher season 2 #the witcher: fic #Geraskier - pre-slash #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #burn butcher burn

[kirk-spock-in-the-impala]

For the ask game how about "tis but a scratch"

Thanks, Nonnie!

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

“’Tis but a scratch!”  Jaskier protested, trying to shake off Geralt’s firm hold on his wrist. 

“It’ll be a good deal more than that if I leave you to your own devices.”  Geralt said sharply, marching straight out of the tavern, pulling Jaskier behind him.

“It was just a little squabble over a lady’s affections!” Jaskier said, giving up on getting Geralt to release his grip and just going along with the tugging.  He knew that was a fight he wouldn’t win.

“He shoved you into the wall.” Geralt said flatly.

“Well, yes, but I had it handled!”  Jaskier said indignantly.  “I don’t need a babysitter!”

Geralt stopped suddenly and turned to face Jaskier.  His jaw worked as he clenched his teeth, eyes firmly fixed on the ground.  He never let go of Jaskier’s wrist, but his hold gentled, fingers rubbing over the pulse point in a way Jaskier was sure was subconscious.  

Jaskier felt his indignation slip away as he watched Geralt’s expression shift into something close to shame.  

“Hey,” Jaskier said, ducking down to catch Geralt’s gaze.  “What’s this really about? You’ve never interfered before when one of my lovers turned out to have a jealous husband. Or wife. You’ve always said I deserved the comeuppance.” 

Geralt’s lips flattened and he refused to meet Jaskier’s gaze, speaking to the dirt at their feet instead.

“I just got you back.”  Geralt finally said, voice tight, as if the words were dragged out against their will.  Jaskier did not need him to mention the mountain, or their subsequent hard-won reconciliation, to know what Geralt was thinking about.  “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Jaskier felt the last tight anger in his heart from Gearlt’s words on that mountaintop ease, replaced by warm fondness.  He stepped closer, placing gentle fingers on Geralt’s jaw and guiding his eyes up.

“You won’t.”  Jaskier said firmly.  

When Geralt finally met his gaze, Jaskier let a smile tug at his lips, tilting his head to the side. “And I’ll even lay off the married people if it will ease your mind.”

Geralt nodded slightly, a faint flush tinging his cheeks.  

“Fair enough.  No more married people for me and no more dragging me out of taverns like an unruly child for you.”  Jaskier said.  “Fair?”

Geralt sighed, but his expression eased and he finally let go of Jaskier’s wrist.  “Fair.”

“Good, now let’s go have a drink.”  Jaskier said cheerfully, hooking his arm through Geralt’s. “I hear the tavern on the other side of town does a lovely mead!”

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

I hope you weren’t wedded to the idea of five sentences because I don’t think I can keep anything to five sentences.  Enjoy?

#kirk-spock-in-the-impala writes #prompt games #anon asks #geraskier #if you squint #pre slash really #the witcher

[dsudis]

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: The Witcher (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: pre-Geralt z Rivii| Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel (The Witcher), Original Characters Additional Tags: Neurodivergent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lack of Social Skills, First Friendship with a Human, raised by wolves, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Roach Is Dead Long Live Roach, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, he just doesn't understand them, learning experiences, Polyamory, everyone is poly because witchers, Everyone Is Poly Because Jaskier, Misunderstandings, Skincare, Knitting, Talking, eventually, Slow Burn, So Slow We Don't Actually Get There In This Story Summary:

Jaskier called him my friend, which Geralt thought he had probably said before, but it didn't sound like a hollow turn of phrase today. It sounded like Jaskier might actually mean that literally.

That couldn't be right, but Geralt wasn't about to ask Jaskier whether he meant any of that.

------

I... almost wrote Geralt/Jaskier! It wound up being pre-slash, because... well. They are starting from zero, and it turns out that needs its own story.

#the witcher #fic #geraskier #almost #pre-slash #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt was raised by wolves

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Geraskier, number 8, for the domestic ask meme?

I got a little carried away kind of lost the thread of this prompt, but here's 2K of pre-slash Geraskier!

8. going clothes shopping and trying on outfits for an event they’ll be attending together

“They’re just clothes, Jaskier,” Geralt says irritably, watching Jaskier retrieve the remains of his knapsack from the ichor-filled pond. The knapsack is shredded, brightly colored bits of clothes bobbing in the water.

“Just clothes?” Jaskier holds up his yellow doublet, which is splattered with black ichor, in dismay. “Geralt, this is every outfit I own! It’s all ruined!”

“Would you have preferred it to have gotten you?” Geralt jerks his chin at the dead kikimore, which is collapsed on the bank of the pond in a heap of limbs. It had been going for Jaskier when Geralt had thrown the knapsack at it to distract it. Kikimores don’t see well; he’d hoped the scent of Jaskier on the clothes would convince the beast it had snatched up an edible bard rather than a sack of cloth. The distraction had earned Geralt a precious few seconds to fetch his swords before the kikimore realized the deception and lunged for Jaskier again.

“Oh no,” Jaskier moans, pulling a sopping wet garment from the knapsack. Geralt can’t tell what color it used to be. “Fuck.”

“It’s just—”

“If you say it’s just a doublet, Geralt, I’m going to make you eat it.” Jaskier goes to bury his face in the ruined doublet then seems to think better of it. “This was the outfit I had custom-made for Prince Radovid’s birthday celebration next week.”

“You have other clothes.”

“This is the only one of my outfits not destroyed.” Jaskier spreads out his arms to show Geralt his light blue outfit. “This is two seasons out of date, Geralt! There’s a reason I only wear it when we’re in backwaters. Do you see these ruffles? Ruffles are considered terribly gauche nowadays. I can’t wear this to a prince’s birthday banquet! I’ll be laughed out of Redania, if not off the entire Continent.”

“You wouldn’t have worn anything to the banquet if you’d gotten torn apart by a kikimore,” Geralt can’t pretend to give a fuck about some ruined clothes, not when it could have been bits of his bard floating in the ichor-black water. Fripperies can be replaced, unlike Jaskier. “Anyway, there’s time to have something else made.”

“With what coin?” Jaskier demands, waving the ruined doublet around. “I spent most of my savings on this! I don’t have the funds to afford anything fine enough to wear to a banquet at the royal palace, especially not if it’s going to be a rush job.”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, then is distracted by movement in the pond behind Jaskier. Fuck, how did he miss not one, but multiple kikimores? “Jaskier, get away from the water.”

“It’s no use,” Jaskier moans. “It’s all soaked anyway, what’s a little more water?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt lurches forward, dragging Jaskier back just as an adolescent kikimore comes bursting out of the water. After that, there’s no time to worry about clothes.

***

Geralt comes trudging into the room he’s sharing with Jaskier in Tretogor and is greeted by a sigh. Jaskier sits at the table, wearing his sole surviving breeches and one of Geralt’s own shirts, which hangs off his shoulders. Geralt’s interest would be piqued by the sight, if Jaskier didn’t carry such an air of misery as he hunches over a roll of parchment, quill in hand. As Geralt puts down his things, Jaskier sighs again.

“What’s the matter?” Geralt asks. Jaskier’s been sulking nonstop since his clothes were destroyed by the kikimore.

“I’m just figuring out how to phrase this letter informing Prince Radovid that I won’t be able to play at his birthday banquet in a way that won’t get me blackballed or beheaded.”

Geralt turns to him, dismayed. “You’re not playing at the banquet?” Normally, that would be something of a relief; he’s been dreading accompanying Jaskier to the party, which sounds like his worst nightmare. But he knows Jaskier was looking forward to this and it’s not like the bard to back out of a night of wine, women, and music.

“I’m going to tell him that I’m ill and hope that he doesn’t feel snubbed,” Jaskier says. “He has a week to procure my replacement, which should be plenty of time for a prince.”

“But you’re not sick. You’re fine.”

“I have nothing to wear, Geralt!” Jaskier looks up at him in exasperation. “You’ve never lived at court, so you don’t get it. Appearances are everything. For Radovid to have to replace the bard for his birthday feast at the last minute is an inconvenience. For him to have an unfashionable bard show up will just be embarrassing for him. People will wonder why the heir to the Redanian throne can’t get a better, more well-dressed bard. Radovid is not the kind of man you want to embarrass. He could ruin me. He will ruin me, if he feels I've disrespected him.”

Geralt doesn’t understand how the fuck Radovid would be embarrassed by Jaskier wearing ruffles, especially not so embarrassed that it could have repercussions for Jaskier. But there’s real distress in Jaskier’s eyes, not the affected horror he puts on so often. It would be easy to dismiss Jaskier as being dramatic, but it’s true that he understands court life better than Geralt ever could.

“Come on,” Geralt finds himself saying. “Put down your quill. We’re going out.”

Jaskier sighs. “My friend, as much as I would love to drink away my sorrows right now, I don’t think it’s going to help. Plus, I should save the little coin I have.”

“We’re not drinking away any sorrows.” Geralt grabs Jaskier by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Geralt, you can’t just manhandle me,” Jaskier says, but he lets Geralt haul him out the door nonetheless.

***

“A tailor?” Jaskier blinks up at the shop in front of them.

“I’m no expert, but I think that’s where you get new clothes made,” Geralt says dryly. “Unless you’d prefer the armorer down the road.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “No, I don’t think wearing armor to the banquet will solve anything.”

“You’d be in less danger of getting stabbed.”

“That’s only happened once, you fiend,” Jaskier says. “And I’ve already told you, I can’t afford new clothes right now, especially not a rush job. I’ll have to make due with what I have until I return to Lettenhove for the winter.”

“Hm. Good thing I’m buying then.” At Jaskier’s wide-eyed look, Geralt feels a little sheepish. “I made some money selling the kikimores to an alchemist. Plus, I have the money from the leshen and katakan contracts. Should have enough to get you an outfit for the party, plus one or two everyday outfits, depending on how much we have to pay for the rush.”

“I’ll be able to pay you back,” Jaskier says, voice a bit wobbly. “Once I get paid for the banquet.”

“Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have let us make camp next to a kikimore-infested pond. This is the least I can do.”

As expected, Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and clings for a long moment. Geralt endures the embrace the best he can, not enjoying the honeysuckle scent of Jaskier’s hair or the warm body pressed against his in the least.

“We going to go in, or are you going to wait until the banquet has come and gone?” Geralt finally asks.

Jaskier doesn’t let go of him. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, you know that?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that. “You need better friends.”

“Not possible,” Jaskier says, but he lets go of Geralt and they head into the tailor’s shop.

The tailor is a friendly young woman who makes sympathetic noises when she hears about Jaskier’s close call with the kikimore—Jaskier really plays up how close he came to being the creature’s dinner—and offers to waive the rush fee. Jaskier chats with her as he selects two lengths of fabric, one in a deep red, the other a vibrant yellow. Jaskier seems perfectly pleased with both of his choices, but he doesn’t quite have that sparkle in his eye that he often gets when he gets a new outfit.

“Don’t you like them?” Geralt asks in an undertone when the tailor goes into the back to fetch her apprentice.

“Oh, it’s perfectly lovely,” Jaskier says. “And it’s very kind of her to waive the rush fee.”

“But?”

Jaskier laughs a little sadly. “It’s just, the outfit I was going to wear to the banquet was gorgeous, Geralt. I adored it. And there just isn’t any fabric here that pops like it did.” He looks down at the length of red fabric and sighs. “But it’s no matter. Both of these will suit perfectly well.”

Geralt is never going to be able to tell his brothers about this, he knows. They’ll never let him live it down.

***

After paying the first tailor for what will be Jaskier’s everyday outfits, they make their way to a second tailor’s shop, where the proprietor tells them flatly that he’s far too busy to put together an outfit in less than a week, no matter how much they pay him. Jaskier looks a little deflated as they make their way to the third shop, where the tailor spends the entire time they’re there staring at Geralt in open disgust. Despite the way he oohs and aahs over a length of lavender silk, Jaskier refuses to give the man his business  and leaves in a huff. 

“I think the red outfit will do nicely for the banquet,” Jaskier says as they make their way down the street. “Really, Geralt, there’s no need for all this—”

Geralt steers him into a fourth tailor’s shop before he can protest further. He can tell as soon as Jaskier lights up at the sight of the rows of fabric that they’ve found the right place.

Except, the elderly tailor, while as sympathetic as the first tailor, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, lad,” he says. “But I’m working on two other last-minute orders for the prince’s banquet this week. I just don’t have the time to take on another, not without working my apprentices round-the-clock.”

“Ah.” Jaskier’s shoulders sag. “Understandable.”

“That being said.” The tailor taps his chin. “I do keep a selection of outfits that weren’t paid for in the back for just this sort of occasion. There might be something there that will suit you?”

Jaskier smiles, but doesn’t look hopeful. “It might be worth a look. Thank you!” As the man shuffles away, he adds to Geralt in an undertone, “I know a handful of tailors who do this, and the outfits are never very good. I don’t know if it’s that people who don’t pay their tailor always have poor taste or if it’s that the outfits just weren’t up to snuff in the first place, but— Ah, you’re back!”

The tailor returns, pushing a rack laden with clothes. He looks between Jaskier and the rack, clucking his tongue. “Oh, this one isn’t right for your skin tone. And this one will be too short in the arms and legs and I don’t know if I have any more of this fabric. Bah, I don’t know why I still have this one. No one wears ruffles anymore.”

“No one indeed,” Geralt deadpans. He stands still so Jaskier can elbow him in the side, because he admittedly deserves it. 

“What about this one, my boy?” The tailor asks, holding up a doublet for inspection.

It’s the ugliest thing that Geralt has ever seen, a horrible, peacock feather-patterned doublet in swirling shades of green and blue. But Jaskier sucks in a delighted breath.

“Geralt!” He seizes Jaskier by the arm. “Melitele’s supple bottom, it’s perfect! Isn’t it perfect, Geralt?”

Geralt wonders if the Jaskier hit his head during the kikimore attack, but he nods. “It’s very… you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier barely seems to hear him; he only has eyes for the monstrosity in front of him. Geralt watches in bemusement as Jaskier tries on the outfit, making appreciative noises about the fabric, which the tailor claims to be the finest Nazairi silk money can buy. The outfit is a bit long in the arms and legs and loose in the waist, but the tailor assures Jaskier that he can find the time to make such minor alterations by the end of the day.

“It’s almost like it was made for you,” the tailor tells Jaskier warmly.

Jaskier turns to Geralt, eyes shining. “What do you think?”

Geralt thinks that the outfit looks like a flock of peacocks got chewed up by a basilisk and spat back out. But Jaskier is glowing, looking as excited as he did as the first time they stopped by a tavern and were greeted by a chorus of, “Toss A Coin.” He looks like a man who just fell in love at first sight. Geralt doesn’t want to say or do anything to wipe that expression off his face.

“It looks good,” he says and to his surprise, he’s not even lying.

Somehow, Jaskier’s smile grows even brighter.

“And here.” The tailor steps forward, holding up a black outfit with a pattern of silver stars. “If you need an outfit as well, Sir Witcher, I think this one will suit you quite nicely.”

As Jaskier makes a noise of pure glee, Geralt realizes that resistance is futile. Eskel and Lambert truly can never know about this.

***

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

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

[lemondropsssss]

The first week back in Oxenfurt is mainly paperwork. Contract agreements with the University, submitting course-plans for review, submitting and re-submitting lesson plans, and rather unfortunately, a letter home. Claiming the title of Viscount at the gates has repercussions and likely word has already been sent to Lettenhove of his arrival. So he sends the least offensive missive he can to his father and hopes he doesn’t wake up one day to the wrong end of a sword and his father’s intense glare.

The letter he receives back isn’t what he’s expecting. 

Julian, 

I am glad to hear you’re well. I admit to worrying on occasion that you’d died along the road somewhere and I would never know. Mother and Father died of the sweating sickness five years ago now. She asked for you at the end, but we couldn’t find you to bring you home. I snuck in a bard to sing your songs, so she could hear of your adventures. She liked the one about the selkie the best.

Adina and Jessa are grown, and have both married. Their husbands are good men, I made sure of it. Adina is expecting her second child. They were both so young when you left, and Father didn’t allow us to speak of you. But when the twins cried out at night I would sneak into their nursery and tell them your stories so they’d know some part of you. 

The Viscountcy is yours to claim, though I predict some challenges in governing from Oxenfurt. I have been overseeing Lettenhove since Father’s passing, and admit that I enjoy the work. It’s nice to feel needed. And to give our people a proper liege lord, one who won’t just ignore their claims as Father did while increasing taxes to supplement his and Mother’s lifestyle. Our people are healing, and they need their lord at home with them. 

I have an arrangement that I suspect will suit both our needs. Claim the title of Viscount, and give your written word that I am your proxy here in Lettenhove. You may continue to teach, while I run the estate. You will have use of the Oxenfurt townhouse, and will receive a monthly stipend. Please consider this offer. I care deeply for our home and the people of Lettenhove, as I know you do. Please see that this is best for everyone.

I love you, Julek. 

Your sister, 

Marta

Jaskier reads the letter five times in total. His father is dead. And that’s- well he can’t say he exactly mourns for him. But his mother asked for him, and that knowledge breaks his heart. Where was he five years ago? Could he have seen her again? Held her hand as the light left her eyes? And the twins. Closing his eyes he can see them as toddlers. They were barely walking when he left, and now they’re married with children of their own. He remembers holding them both in his arms, fourteen-years-old, and feeling such love. The way they’d looked asleep in their cribs when he said goodbye. The way their baby soft hair had felt under his fingers. He can almost hear their laughter, and tears slip past his closed eyes. 

Marta. His dear Marta. Who he’d sneak sweets to under the dinner table. Who never hurt any creature, no matter how small or scaly or slimy. Marta with her big brown eyes and soft smile. Who would climb into his bed at night when she was afraid and he’d tell her stories until the monsters went away and she fell asleep in his arms. And oh, knowing that she’d done the same for the twins breaks his heart all over again. 

Jaskier sinks to the floor slowly, barely aware of his movements, letter clutched to his chest. And he cries. 

He cries for his mother, and the last breath of air she took. He cries for his little sisters, who had only stories to know him by. He cries for the birthdays he missed, and the skinned knees he couldn’t kiss better, and the way they must have looked on their wedding days. He cries for the nieces or nephews he doesn’t know, and for the one on the way. He cries for his father, and the things he never got to say to him. He cries for Marta, and the loneliness she must feel in that big old castle by herself. He cries for leaving her alone to watch their parents die. He cries for every moment he missed of his sisters' lives. Every moment he couldn’t protect them. Every moment he wasn’t there. 

And this isn’t like losing Geralt, but the pain hits him in the same spot. It drives like glass into his skin, into his center, until all he is is shattered. He is pieces of lives missed and letters unsent and things undone. 

He cries for the family he abandoned, and the man who abandoned him. 

.

The townhouse hasn’t seen much use since he was younger and his parents would take them to the city for summers. Jaskier doesn’t mind. The first thing he does is send most of the paintings and sculptures to Marta; they’re too ostentatious for him, and she can do what she likes with the remnants of their parent’s luxe style choices. He has a crew from the Giving Door come to the house and collect any furniture they want to go to their second-hand shop. Good riddance to it all.

He furnishes the house in more earthy and jewel tones. Plush sofas, soft beds, and the biggest tub he can reasonably fit in the bathroom. Jaskier makes the house everything it wasn’t before; soft, warm, inviting, happy. 

Jaskier hires a housekeeper named Beatrice who calls him hun and won’t answer to anything other than Auntie or Bea. Bea moves into the servant’s level with a very old, very small white dog Arthur who takes up residence on a pillow in the front window and hardly moves. He is absolutely smitten with them both.

When he comes back late from the University, Bea has a warm dinner waiting for him. If she’s gone to bed, she leaves out tea and a covered plate of meat cheese and bread for him. It’s being taken care of in a way Jaskier isn’t entirely used to, but not opposed to. 

In fact, he finds he quite likes the calm of routine. His students are eager to learn, and after the first two months hardly ask him about the White Wolf anymore. Jaskier’s grateful. It isn’t easy to explain to a room full of young people who admire you that the man you immortalized in song wished you gone for two decades before you noticed. Not that it’s easy to explain to anyone, really. 

And that’s how it goes for eighteen months. Jaskier teaches, he comes home, he sleeps, and he does it again. It’s nice to reconnect with his University peers, and Oxenfurt is a revolving door of old faces. Some though, are more well received than others. 

Jaskier is teaching when it happens. It’s his high poetry class, only five students. A knock at the door, and the pinched face of a University messenger pokes around the door.

“Professor Julian?” All the class is looking between them. “There was someone at the gate for you.” His stomach drops. “He wouldn’t wait, insisted I bring them to you.” Jaskier’s mouth is suddenly very dry. It takes two attempts to get his mouth moving. 

“Right, yes, thank you. Uh,” He looks back at his expectant class, “Right, you all... do something with a poem, class dismissed.” 

Jaskier knows exactly what’s waiting for him. Only one person would be so insistent to see him they’d terrify a messenger so.

Said messenger is very relieved when Jaskier appears on the other side of the door. He offers him a quick bow and bolts back down the corridor, leaving Jaskier alone with his guests.

.

@caspertheassholeghost @innocentcinnamonpun @queenofmymanyfandoms 

y’all asked to be tagged in part 2 so here ya go 

part 1 can be found here and here

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fan #the witcherfanfic #witcher fic #my fic #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #jaskier the bard #geraltxjaskier #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #currently pre slash #but we're getting there