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aramblingjay · 11 months

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After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing #apparently the trailer inspired me and now i’m doing a bunch of geraskier writing?

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dapandapod · 1 year

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Half awake thoughts about transmasc Jask.

Because

Maybe he leaves Lettenhove in skirts and long hair, with a chaperone he has had since childhood.

And one evening he breaks down crying to her, finally daring to express his feelings about being a man. And she holds him and soothes him and lets him know he is safe with her.

And after that, she starts investigating how to help. She finds fashion that is more androgynous, she cuts his hair short, she speak of him as her young lord when he says he feels good enough to do all of this in public.

His parents send him angry letters, which she takes from his hands and burns when his tears start falling.

When Jaskier finds his first true friend, she is there, supporting him.

Eventually, in his second year of school, they meet Valdo. The man is an absolute arse and a delight, because as much as they seem to hate each other, he challenges Jaskier to evolve, to get better, surer in his identity and his way of performing. Not once does he question Jaskier being a man, not once does he mention the occasional dress, but his lack of fashion sense, poor taste in ale and lovers, his playing.

But it isn’t until he meets the mage from Aretusa, the one who bespells the sorceresses' bodies when they graduate, that he starts to enjoy singing properly.

Jaskier pays the mage every penny he has to have his body changed to fit who he is, and only later does he learn his maid added what coin she had.

This is when singing becomes his life. He performs at the local taverns to earn his keep, to keep his hand maid protected, and she smiles, and cups his cheek, and calls him her Julian.

And when he leaves Oxenfurt to become a traveling bard, he always sends money home to her, returns to her as often as he can to support her as she supported him.

And to slander Valdo, because that bitch is still bitching.

And when he finally meets Geralt and they become comfortable enough to be friends, to talk about things, Geralt points at Jaskier’s chest and wonders who hurt him.

“These scars are not from hurting, my friend, but from healing.”

And then they fall in love and live happily ever after. Yes.

#trans!jaskier #the witcher #jaskier the bard #her little julek #yes i am getting emotional over this #valdo the best frenemy #headcanon #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #dapanda writes #ish #close enough

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avixenk · 7 months

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I'm not going to write this because I'm uncomfortable hearing, seeing, reading, thinking, and (most likely) writing cheating plots but have this Jaskier/Geralt hurt/no comfort idea I thought of

Probably to definitely ooc but before meeting Yennefer, Geralt and Jaskier had become a couple. Geralt presented Jaskier with a ring with a wolf head surrounded by green gems. It was an engagement ring, they're engaged.

When they meet Yennefer Geralt has sex with her and Jaskier believes (and prays and hopes) that Yennefer just did something to him and it's her fault. Geralt wouldn't do that in his right state of mind!

But then Geralt acts like they did when they first started traveling together. There's no more looks, no more hidden smiles, no kisses, no sex. Every lovely thing he used to do for and to Jaskier gone in a day. But that's fine! Jaskier still loves him, still continues to buy him his favorite things, defend him, etc to show him that he still loves him. He's still here, he still believes in him, he has hope.

And they keep meeting Yennefer. And they keep having sex. Jaskier lives in denial though. Because Geralt was the one to propose! There's no way he would cheat!

And then the mountain.

He goes to the coast, stands on top a seaside cliff, throws the engagement ring into the ocean, and sits and cries and thinks himself a moron.

And when he eventually returns to Oxenfurt he has to heartbrokenly tell the blacksmith that they can stop making and/or sell the engagement item he wanted to give to Geralt.

Chapter two or next installment: it's not even until Yennefer and Geralt get rid of the djinn's wish years later that he realizes he cheated on Jaskier. Remembers that they were engaged. He goes to Oxenfurt to apologize and hopes Jaskier will come back. He's a professor now. Geralt stands in his classroom doorway and shittyly apologizes. Jaskier doesn't look him in the eyes, just below, and says I don't forgive you, thank you for the shitty apology "but I don't ever want to see you again."

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivera #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #cheating plot #witcher fanfiction

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samstree · 1 year

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moonlight and love songs (never out of date)

After discovering Geralt has never been courted before, Jaskier tries to fix the situation. (4.1k ☆ also on AO3)

“It’s unacceptable!”

“Jaskier…”

“But it is! Everyone should be courted once in a while, given flowers, taken on dates and everything. Doted on. The doting is quite important. It’s a full experience! An integral part of the human experience, I might add. You, of all people, shouldn’t be left out.”

Jaskier keeps on chewing his food, his chin bulging like a grumpy squirrel. If it weren’t for the tight frown on his face, he almost looks adorable like this.

Geralt simply picks at the carrots in his bowl, trying to push them to one side. The kitchen must have forgotten again. “As you said. Human experience.” He shrugs.

The squawk Jaskier lets out is so sharp it draws attention from the table next to them.

“You know perfectly well what I meant! You being a witcher has nothing to do with it!”

“Why are you so worked up anyway? So what I’ve never been…wooed?” Geralt sighs. “It just never happened. I don’t even care.”

Jaskier’s frown becomes a pout. Something shifts in his eyes as he continues staring at Geralt, his food ignored. He has that look again, like he’s seeing right through Geralt.

Geralt recognizes that look.

So he looks down to avoid it. He always avoids that look.

The tavern is loud enough during the rush hours, with all the students coming from their classes. A couple is sitting at the table next to them—they must be new lovers. They haven’t been able to keep their hands off of each other for the whole evening.

Oxenfurt is like this in the fall. The first breeze of cold air brings new students, and with them, new love. It’s very inconvenient that Geralt only stays here during the fall. He cannot escape the smell of lust and love anywhere.

Geralt glances at the couple, just for a moment.

“It’s unfair, is all,” Jaskier says, finally. He looks at the table next to them, and back at Geralt, his eyes softened. “You’ve been alive for too long to have never been courted, my friend. You had more lovers than I could count. Beautiful lovers, powerful lovers, sorceresses and queens alike.”

“Queen,” Geralt corrects. “Just the one”.

“Yes, yes, no need to keep bragging, but…” Jaskier trails off. “Did they never do things like this for you? Not even flowers?”

There is a small bouquet on the next table, resting next to the lovers’ linked hands.

“They knew what they wanted, and so did I,” Geralt answers. “It’d be a pointless dance.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it makes sense, in a sad way. Except, no, it doesn’t. It’s not pointless. Courting is about—it’s about getting to know each other. It’s a marvelous dance, actually. It’s about being cared for. It’s about laying down all your defenses, showing your heart and knowing the other person will show theirs in return.” Jaskier worries his bottom lip. “I miss it now. Teaching is good, but I’ve scarcely had time to meet anyone who isn’t a student or a professor. I miss that…spark, you know? That fluttering of your stomach, the nervousness, the thrill, all of it. It’s a shame you’ve never known it, and I’ve also nearly forgotten what it’s like.”

A pang of loss hits Geralt, but before he can speak, Jaskier looks up suddenly, his eyes shining with mischief.

Geralt recognizes this look too. It means Jaskier is about to have the worst idea. “No,” so he says preemptively. “Jaskier, no.”

“I just had the best idea!” Jaskier proclaims. “I shall be the one to court you!”

“Jaskier…”

“Hear me out, it’d be good for both of us!” Jaskier squirms in his seat, giddy and eager. “What is a date or two between friends? I’ll get to stretch my romantic muscles, and you’ll finally get the whole package!”

Geralt knows he’ll regret asking, but he does. “Package?”

“The Jaskier package, of course!” Jaskier stretches his arms, his grin bright as day. “The charms of the most famous lover. It’s the reason the world falls for me, darling, don’t you know? You must have seen a trick or two, being with me for so long. It’s a complete package! You should fully prepare yourself for it. Bathe on the day and everything!”

Jaskier looks like an excited puppy, sans a wagging tail.

Geralt is about to say no again. “It’s not that—”

“Please?” Jaskier’s voice quiets. “I just…I want to do this for you. The fall will end soon, and you’ll be leaving for home in no time. I’ll miss you terribly until next spring. This way, I can show you a good time before you go. Oxenfurt is too beautiful in the fall to pass up the chance. It’d be a real shame. Please, Geralt, do it for me?”

Do it for me.

Jaskier thinks Geralt will do anything as long as he asks in that soft tone of his. It’s a tragedy how true that is.

“Damn you,” Geralt finds himself saying. “Fine, then.”

The smile on Jaskier’s face is a sweet, private thing, one that is reserved for few in the world. Geralt’s slow witcher heart flutters for a beat, but he can’t even bring himself to regret anything.

“Good.” Jaskier rubs his hands. “It’s a date!”

The maid brings their desserts, and as usual, Jaskier splits his and puts half on Geralt’s plate. He devours the other half of the sweet pastry and waits for Geralt to finish his extra share.

☆

Geralt adjusts the collar of his tunic, trying to smooth down the creases. It’s an old shirt, the fabric worn and faded, but it will have to make do.

The date is tonight.

“Fuck.”

The buttons are too tight around his neck, but it’s the only way he can look something resembling decent, and he wants to look decent for Jaskier.

Against his better judgment, no less. Geralt is taking this way too seriously. It’s only a date. He’s lived a century and watched humans perform this particular ritual for just as long. It’s nothing new. His stomach shouldn’t be tumbling with anticipation like this. He’s not even being courted for real.

And yet.

The shirt stretches uncomfortably when Geralt observes himself in the mirror. It’s not a bad look; he even put time into braiding his hair into a half updo.

Geralt tugs at the hem one last time when a knock comes from the door.

Finally. For someone who’s been teasing about tonight, Jaskier is surprisingly absent for the whole day, but when the door opens, it’s only a page boy.

“Sir witcher,” he says, “you have a gentleman caller.”

Confused, Geralt follows the boy through the hallway and down the stairs. He makes another turn, and lets out a quiet oh.

There Jaskier is, standing at the bottom of the stairs, his body turned away. The setting sun casts a soft hue on his hair, lining his silhouette with gold. His doublet is a plain one, the design simple and reserved. An earring dangles from his left ear, catching a spark in the sun. It’s a simple tear-shaped pearl.

Years ago, Geralt found a pearl at the coast and gave it to Jaskier as a simple gift. He assumed Jaskier had played with it and eventually exchanged it for money.

Geralt has to catch his breath for a moment, his hand resting on the rail.

The floor creaks when he takes another step, and Jaskier turns around. His eyes cast upward to find Geralt, and suddenly the sunset dims in comparison.

Geralt descends the stairs like this, while Jaskier watches in awe. He should feel uncomfortable being observed like this, with full attention, scrutinized, even. But not with Jaskier.

Jaskier only sees him.

“Oh my,” Jaskier breathes, “you look lovely today.”

He reaches out when Geralt stands on the last step, and catches Geralt’s hand. With the height difference between them, Jaskier presses a kiss on the back of his fingers.

“Um…” Geralt says, intelligently, “thank you?”

Jaskier chuckles. “You do. I love the way you did your hair.”

“My best friend taught me to braid it,” Geralt answers, and catches the quick thrumming of Jaskier’s heartbeat. “I like your earring too.”

“Really? It was also my best friend.” Jaskier touches the silver-adorned pearl. “A gift from him. I think he’s forgotten by this point, but it’s my favorite.”

“He’s got taste.”

“And he’s too smug for his own good.” It is only now that Geralt notices the small bundle of flowers Jaskier is holding. It’s too late into the fall, so they must be from Oxenfurt’s greenhouse. The bouquet is fresh and colorful, tied together with a ribbon. “Never mind him. Tonight is about you, and this—” Jaskier puts the bouquet in Geralt’s hand. “—is a gift for you.”

Geralt takes a subtle sniff and finds the scent pleasant on his sensitive nose. “My gentleman caller,” he muses, bravery rising in his chest. “Did you pick them out yourself?”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“You must have gone through a lot of trouble.” Geralt raises his brow. “What is your intention with me?”

“My beloved witcher,” Jaskier smiles, his blue eyes flowing with romance. “I have the full intention of courting you tonight, if you’ll have me.”

The buttons around Geralt’s neck are truly too tight. He has to loosen one of them just to get air into his lungs. He looks down in a panic, as if the bouquet has become the most interesting thing in the world.

“I…” The flowers are too nice, too delicate next to his scarred hands. “Jaskier, I…”

“Hey, Geralt. Look at me.” Gentle fingers tip his chin so Geralt looks into Jaskier’s eyes and his genuine concern. “You are in safe hands, alright? If you truly don’t want to do this, just tell me at any point. A pretend date is supposed to be fun for both of us. I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable. If you want to call it off now, we can just have a normal dinner instead.”

Oh, but Geralt is not strong enough to say no to Jaskier when he’s kind like this.

“No.” he shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Good. I want you to feel good. The whole Jaskier package, remember?” Jaskier winks like it’s a private joke between them, an intimate secret. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“You can’t,” Geralt answers perhaps too quickly, because he cannot imagine a world where Jaskier can ever disappoint him, and it hits too close to home. He clears his throat, trying to shake the gravity of it. “Because, you see, I have nothing to compare it to.”

“How reassuring.” Jaskier turns to the sunset and loops his arm around Geralt’s elbow, guiding him down the last stair. “Just relax and let me woo you thoroughly tonight. Just tonight, and don’t you worry a thing. It’s only pretending.”

“Right.”

The sinking feeling in Geralt’s chest is strange, but he follows Jaskier out of the door. Their arms are linked together, and Geralt holds the flowers very close to his chest.

☆

The astronomy room sits on the top floor of the Oxenfurt Observatory, its round dome made of glass. By the time they make the climb, stars are appearing at the edge of the dark blue sky, the orange hue of the sunset fading into the horizon.

The metal spiral staircase is steep. When Jaskier reaches the top, he turns around to take Geralt’s hand, just to help him walk up the last few steps.

It’s ridiculous. Geralt is a witcher who has hiked through the most dangerous terrains, and Jaskier is already out of breath from climbing a building.

He takes Jaskier’s hand anyway.

Jaskier holds Geralt steadily, his cheeks flushed from the exertion, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, he links their fingers together to lead Geralt to the edge of the room where the glass panes stretch from the floor to the center of the roof.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, facing the view. “It’s the highest point of Oxenfurt. You can see Novigrad from here on a clear day.”

The town sits below them. The evening market gathers with its bustling, now made merrier with Saovine so near, but the glass muffles out all the noises. Houses spread into the distance, warmth radiating from their windows. The Pontar hides behind them, its waves catching the new moon’s silver light.

They could be the only two people in the world, standing on top of it together.

Geralt turns to Jaskier, tugging at his hand. “It’s breathtaking.”

“Don’t be cheeky, witcher. I’m the one courting you,” Jaskier says. “I should be the one showering you with compliments.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier walks to the other side of the room to find a lit candle, using the flame to light up more. A picnic is already set up near the giant telescope, a few blankets put on the dais to make for somewhere to sit. There is a basket too, with two wine bottles sticking out.

Geralt sits on the blankets and carefully puts down his bouquet. Jaskier uncorks the wine and pours two glasses.

“Here you go.”

The smell of summer hits Geralt’s nose. “Oh,” he lets out an amazed hum, remembering the midsummer festival at Beauclair last year. It is the same wine.

Jaskier grins proudly. “I know it’s your favorite.”

“I never said.” Geralt steals a sip, and another.

“You didn’t need to. You have this…look, when you are contented with something but not daring to show it, lest it disappears the next second.” Jaskier nurses his wine, observing Geralt. “Did I tell you about this orange tabby I had when I was a child? The poor thing was left on the street, all wet and shivering when I found him in the rain. He had the same look whenever I gave him treats. Could never shake it for years.”

Geralt would be offended if the wine wasn’t so good. He closes his eyes for a second, sweetness lingering in his throat.

“So I’m another charity case you took in?” he teases.

“No,” Jaskier looks down, seemingly not sure what to do with his hands. “It’s just a nice look on you, is all. I just wish you’d let yourself enjoy things without the fear of losing them. They are not going anywhere.”

“And neither are you.”

It comes out of Geralt’s lips naturally, as a fact, a truth, unchallenged by any century-long doubt he may still harbor. Jaskier stays, and he will always stay. It’s as simple as that. Sometimes, Geralt is still overwhelmed by the thought.

“And neither am I,” Jaskier says softly, his cheeks pink and eyes warm.

The sky has darkened over, and the candles burn brightly around them. Geralt lets out an exhale and just holds Jaskier’s gaze for a moment.

“So what’s next?” he asks, finally.

“Next?”

“Next in the Jaskier package,” Geralt reminds him. “You promised a full experience.”

“Right!” Jaskier’s eyes light up. He puts down the glass to reveal the dinner in the basket. “Never claim my fame as a lover is false, my dear. The night has only just started. It’s the most important rule of courting, you see. The way to someone’s heart is through their stomach. And I swear to you—” He puts a hand over his heart. “—no carrots in there.”

Geralt rumbles out a laugh. “My gallant knight.”

“You know how it is.” Jaskier winks. “Anything for you.”

☆

The picnic dinner is a simple affair, with bread, cheese and various cold cuts. It’s nothing luxurious, as one might expect from Jaskier, but Geralt enjoys every second of it.

For one, Jaskier is getting pleasantly tipsy, his face flushed and his smiles bubbly. The wine isn’t nearly strong enough for a witcher, but the dizzy feeling of being wine drunk creeps up. It’s easy to feel drunk by proximity when Jaskier is like this, so Geralt lets out his laughs easily.

In the end, it’s not unlike any other night of their life together. Jaskier takes out the dessert from the basket, two strawberry cream cakes. He splits half of his and gives it to Geralt.

They drink, and talk, and Jaskier leans over to wipe the cream on the corner of Geralt’s lips. By the time they leave the observatory from the same staircase, Jaskier has entered his tactile phase of being drunk, giggly and half-leaning into Geralt’s side.

“They are dancing, Geralt,” Jaskier says, watching the people gathered at the marketplace. A bard is playing the lute, a sweet, romantic song—he’s not as good as Jaskier though. “Let’s dance too.”

Geralt chuckles. “Is this part of it?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand. “May I have the next dance, my beloved witcher?”

The next thing Geralt knows, he’s being led into the dancing crowd and held close in Jaskier’s arms, their feet moving together. The night is crisp with the autumn wind, but Jaskier is warm, and his scent is content.

“You are a terrible dancer,” Geralt says, after Jaskier messes up the steps a second time. “And a terrible flirt.”

“I am only guilty of the latter.” Jaskier preens. “You are just too easy to flirt with.”

“Am I now?”

Jaskier simply tucks a strand of stray hair behind Geralt’s ear, his fingers lingering, resting on the nape of Geralt’s neck. “Not in a bad way,” he answers. “I just…really enjoyed courting you tonight, every moment of it. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. And I’m proud of you too, Geralt, for putting up with all of my nonsense.”

Geralt swallows. “Your nonsense wasn’t…unpleasant.”

“My, my, a high praise.”

“It’s just…”

Jaskier pauses for a moment, pulling away ever so slightly, worry creeping onto his brow. “What is it? You can tell me. Did I do something to upset you?”

Geralt shakes his head before Jaskier could finish, his hand rubbing small circles in Jaskier’s back to reassure him. “Nothing like that, bard. I only wonder, how is this different?”

“How is what different?” Now Jaskier looks more puzzled.

“How is today any different from any other day?” Geralt asks. “Courting, not courting.”

The crease between Jaskier’s eyebrows relaxes. “Well, today I do everything I can to make you happy.”

“And how is that any different?” Geralt asks again.

Because Jaskier has been doing it for years. He’s been taking care of Geralt every day, singing songs for him, brightening the day for him. He’s been sharing half of his dessert with Geralt since their first month of traveling together, just because he noticed Geralt’s secret sweet tooth.

He knows Geralt, his quiet joy, his small secrets. Every day, he does everything he can to make Geralt happy.

“Huh,” Jaskier muses. “I guess it’s not. Not really.”

Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and closes his eyes, his breath shuddering.

One song ends, and another begins. Every line of the lyrics sings of love, but for the first time, Geralt feels like he’s holding it right between his arms.

☆

They walk the winding hallway of Oxenfurt’s faculty quarters in silence, Geralt’s pinky finger hooked with Jaskier’s, their arms swaying together.

“This is you,” Jaskier says at the door, letting go first. “I bid you goodnight here, my beloved witcher.”

Geralt looks at the door, and back at Jaskier. “We both live here, Jask.”

“You oaf.” Jaskier nudges him gently. “If we were truly courting, this is where I’d be leaving you. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, see you home safely and politely leave. I shouldn’t assume you’d invite me in.”

All they need to do is push open the door, and the spell is broken. It’ll just be them, witcher and bard, no more than best friends.

“How does it end?” Geralt grasps at something, anything. “The Jaskier experience. What is your final move?”

Something inscrutable flashes across Jaskier’s eyes. “Do you truly want to find out?”

“It’s what you promised.” Geralt takes a step closer. “The whole package.”

“If you insist.” Jaskier smiles, taking a step closer, mirroring Geralt’s movement. Their faces are only a hand’s breadth away, the faint scent of alcohol lingering on Jaskier’s skin. “If tonight were real, I’d want to find some excuses to touch you. Like this.”

Jaskier reaches behind Geralt’s head to untie his braid, loosening his hair and brushing absently, his fingers feather-light, sending a shiver down to Geralt’s core.

“And?” Geralt says, his voice deep.

“And I’d lean into you, but not too close. I’d wait for you to reciprocate.”

Their bodies are near pressed together, and Geralt takes Jaskier’s waist to close the distance. His heart picks up, nearly as fast as a human’s, and he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat like a hummingbird’s wings, quickening in return.

“I would,” Geralt whispers. “What next?”

“I…I’d look at you, just like this.” Jaskier’s gaze is so intense, so full of want, Geralt nearly shies away from it. It takes everything in him to let Jaskier observe him like this. “I’d tell you I had a lovely time tonight.”

“Did you?”

“I had a lovely time, Geralt,” Jaskier replies seriously. “It’s always lovely when it’s you.”

“You too, Jaskier. I’d tell you the same.”

Jaskier lets out a smile, his breath fanning over Geralt’s skin. “Now, I would look down.” He looks down at Geralt’s lips, his lashes cast low. “And I…”

Geralt’s throat bobs, his eyes also falling to Jaskier’s soft lips. “And you…”

“I…” Jaskier breathes, “I’d wait for you to kiss me.”

So Geralt kisses him.

He cups Jaskier’s cheek to pull him in. It’s a chaste thing, a barely-there kiss pressed on Jaskier’s mouth, and it’s over in a second. Geralt pulls away to find Jaskier’s eyes wide and unblinking.

“Um, yes.” Jaskier stammers, his face growing impossibly red. “Well done, Geralt. You are getting it. If we were courting, this is where we would kiss. You really are a fast learner—”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt says carefully, his thumb trailing down to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “It’s not a part of it. It’s not pretending. It’s me. Just me. I’m kissing you.”

Their second kiss draws out sweetly, with Geralt’s hand pressed into the small of Jaskier’s back, dipping him backward. A small moan escapes Jaskier’s throat, and his fingers thread into Geralt’s hair.

“Wait—” Jaskier breaks the kiss, his chest heaving. He has no right to be this affected by two simple kisses, and yet his breaths are coming out fast, his lips red and eyes shining. “Geralt, wait. It’s not that I’m unhappy about this. I’m so gloriously happy, but…” he hesitates, “why?”

Geralt shrugs. “Why not?”

Jaskier stares, his expression going from confusion to determination. He leans forward to kiss Geralt on the corner of his mouth. “We have so much to talk about.”

Geralt kisses him back. “We do.”

“We could mess this up.”

Jaskier’s lips trail down to Geralt’s neck.

“We could,” Geralt croaks, tipping his head back to give Jaskier easier access.

“Knowing us, we will,” Jaskier says breathlessly between kisses. “We could ruin our friendship if not careful, and I could lose you, after.”

Geralt sobers up at that, pulling away to lock eyes with Jaskier. He looks at Jaskier and sees a flash of doubt in those blue eyes. It’s the same doubt that used to reside in the darkest part of his mind—being left. Being alone.

Not anymore.

“Never,” Geralt promises. It’s a more solemn vow than any he’s taken. “Jaskier, you will not lose me. Not because of this. Never because of this.”

Jaskier lets out a choked sound before catching Geralt’s hand and pressing it to his heartbeat. “Well then,” he says, “We should go inside. It’s time we moved things along.”

“Yes,” Geralt agrees. “It’s time, don’t you think?”

Jaskier pushes open the door, their hands still linked together. He stops, suddenly. “But you see, it was the first time you were courted. It still seems unfair to me. You can’t be won over by just one night.”

Geralt brings Jaskier’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. “What can I say? I’ve been wooed thoroughly.”

“Still, you deserve much more,” Jaskier insists.

Taking a moment, Geralt lets a smile spread across his face. “There’s always tomorrow, and every day after.

“Every day after,” Jaskier repeats, smiling in return. “I like that idea.”

Geralt can’t complain if the outlook for the future is being wooed by Jaskier every day. He shall just fall in love every day in return.

The door shuts behind them, and they let tomorrow begin.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #fluff #getting together #once again i write out of pettiness

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thedreamlessnights · 1 year

Text

Accismus - pt. 4

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: Arriving in Novigrad proves to be another adventure as you meet Geralt's friends and family and investigate leads on another djinn.

Warnings: Mentions of previous burnings at the stake, blood and corpses, lots of pining, sexual innuendos and references, graphic descriptions of injuries.

Word Count: 9.3k

A/N: It's finally here, and only took... several months 😬 Seriously, though, I'm so sorry for the wait. I've been dealing with so many things it would take an essay to list them out. I hope the content makes up for it! Thank you all so much for your patience and comments, they've kept me so incredibly inspired, and I can't wait for you all to see the rest of the story. Without further ado, enjoy chapter four!

A glimmering light against the darkness you’ve known of late, the Free City of Novigrad has undoubtedly come back to life.

The sight of it takes you aback; the flourishing businesses, open gates, large crowds chattering about this and that. Even with Temeria reinstated, Velen still suffers greatly from the price of the war, still carries the burden of it all. You’d expected it to be the same here. Why should it be any different?

But with Radovid gone, there are no pyres. No burning books or flocks of witch hunters stalking the streets, nothing but minor conflicts as you and Geralt pass by: a business spat, drunk soldiers wandering the street, a brief argument between lovers. Had you not been explicitly told of it, you’d never have known that mages and nonhumans once burned here.

Something about that puts you at unease; a complete return to normalcy. It’s as if it never happened, as if that level of suffering and hatred could simply be washed away. But you know better.

People might pretend that all is normal once more, but beneath the blood and bodies that have been clumsily disposed of, those roots still grow. And if they’re ignored, they’ll take hold once more. Maybe not today, maybe not even ten years from now, but they will.

It’s a knowledge that fills you with an unshakeable sense of dread.

As the two of you roam the city with Roach and Mead on foot, merchants sing out their various spiels and various taverns rumble with conversation.

You don’t know this place, but lingering in the back of your mind is the strange sensation that you’ve been here before. And perhaps, in a way, you do know it - through Oxenfurt.

They smell the same: mud, the reek of piss, the stink of the sea. The stench of beer that hangs on the patrol’s breath. But, just like Oxenfurt, if you walk through the right spot you get the honeyed scent of flowers growing on the vine, the heavenly aroma of baking bread, fragrant meat roasting on the fire.

The sweetness of fresh air that seems to slip through your fingers.

You really do miss it - Oxenfurt, that is. The memories are muddled and tarnished with pain, but somewhere between them, you still ache.

The lectures, poring over the pages in fascination. Hours spent taking in how every internal system works together, creating movement and balance and life. So complex. So involuntary.

Most of all, though, even more than the lectures, you miss the hope you’d had then: hope that things would all fall into place one day. That it would all turn out right in the end.

You don’t think that way anymore. That optimism has been washed away now, so strange and foreign you barely recognize it. All you can seem to think now is how everything is bound to go wrong. Even now, you’re anxiously mulling over upcoming situations.

With every step closer to The Chameleon, that unease continues to grow. Whoever is in there - will they hate you? Will they see what you’ve been expecting Geralt to see all this time, what he’s refused to accept despite your insistence?

You close your eyes for a brief moment and shake your head. It won’t help. But every second here feels like a lifetime. Five minutes and you already want to leave this place.

When Geralt finally stalls in front of a building, your heart skips a beat. This must be The Chameleon, then. Even just standing outside, it’s obvious that this place is nicer than The Swift Oak.

It’s well maintained, newly painted, and - by the number of people filtering in and out - it must also be popular. Whether that’s from Dandelion’s reputation or earned through fair business, you don’t know. It could be either way.

You feel sick to your stomach.

When you and Geralt are done hitching your horses to the posts in front of the tavern, he turns to you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Gotta warn you…” he says, expression apologetic. “Dandelion can be-”

“Geralt!” booms a nearby voice, cutting off his words. “That really you, ye bugger?”

The two of you turn to see a dwarf with a neatly trimmed beard and mohawk standing at the tavern’s entrance. There’s a grin on his face, an axe slung across his back, and - with a start, you realize you know exactly who he is: even though you’ve only seen him in Gwent cards.

“Greetings, Zoltan,” Geralt replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is Dandelion here?”

“Right inside, the rascal,” Zoltan replies, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. “He’ll be delighted to see you.” He pauses, giving you a brief look over. “And… who’s this?”

You quickly introduce yourself, and Zoltan chuckles.

“Ah, Geralt. Always getting around.”

Your cheeks immediately burn, and you pointedly turn your gaze away from him.

Geralt, suddenly looking incredibly awkward, simply glances at you and nods to the door. “We should head in before it gets dark,” he says.

He isn’t going to correct Zoltan?

“Ah - before ye go,” Zoltan says quickly, “ought to tell ye that your sorceress was here.”

Your entire body goes stiff, and Geralt straightens a little. He’s never talked very much about Yennefer, and - well, your curiosity has been piqued.

“Yen was here?” Geralt asks.

“Aye, a few days back,” Zoltan confirms, shifting uneasily. “Askin’ about your whereabouts, whether or not we’d seen you of late. Told her, ‘no, havenae seen our pal Geralt in ages,’ and she argued a right amount with Dandelion. Set off in a storm, told us she’d be back later.”

Oh, Gods.

“They argued, huh?” Geralt asks dryly, not looking surprised in the least. “What about?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Zoltan replies, scratching at his beard. “Wasnae truly interested, and, well… you know what she’s like, Geralt. Somethin’ about magic, some sort o’ danger, can’t tell you all the details... Dandelion pried, she cursed him, left in a storm. Said she’d be back later.”

“She say how soon?” Geralt asks.

“Nah. Course not.”

“Great,” Geralt says dully. “Knowing Yen, that could mean either a few days or a few months. Thanks, Zoltan. Better get inside.”

“Aye, good to see you again, old pal,” Zoltan grins, shaking Geralt’s hand. “And it’s nice to meet you,” he adds, giving you a nod. “I expect I’ll see you two around.”

He heads off into the crowd, and Geralt makes for the door.

The minute the two of you step inside, you’re overwhelmed. The tavern is warm and lively, flowing with music and mead and chatter. The aroma of cooking food wafts through the door, and your stomach growls hungrily.

Geralt gives you an amused look, raising a brow. The two of you had eaten not long back, but it seems it hadn’t been enough to tide you over. Before you can respond, the sound of another voice cuts through the noise.

“Geralt! I knew you’d come!”

A man with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes has woven through the crowd, beaming as he looks at Geralt. His clothing is finely-made, purple fabric with detailed embroidery that glistens under the light, and a hat with a egret feather on top. The finery makes you feel incredibly out of place in your wrinkled, dirty clothes.

“Dandelion!” Geralt fondly squeezes the bard’s shoulder. “Good to see you.”

This is Dandelion? This well-dressed, bright-eyed, charming man? You’d pictured him older, nothing but tawdry. A senile old man well past his peak with a predatory glint in his eyes and a beer-filled gut. You’d been very wrong - after all, how could a man like that ever be friends with Geralt?

“How are you, old friend?” Dandelion asks with a warm smile. “It’s been ages, truly! You must be hungry - ah, Rosa! A bowl of soup for the witcher, if you please!”

“Make it two,” Geralt corrects, and Rosa, a young woman with thick black hair and rosy cheeks, gives a nod. Then Geralt turns back to Dandelion. “How’d you know I would come?”

“Oh, you know Yennefer,” Dandelion replies, dismissively batting the question away with his hand. “Shows up one day asking where you are, then comes back a week or so later with you in tow.”

He stops, seeming to finally see you, and a brief quizzicality crosses his face. “Hold on. You aren’t here with Yennefer, are you?”

As he’s speaking, Rosa returns, handing you and Geralt each a bowl of soup. You start scarfing it down like it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten, and - it honestly might be.

“Nope,” Geralt responds, starting on his soup too. “Was hoping you knew where she’s gone off to.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Dandelion says. “She burst into the inn, asking where you were, and when we told her we hadn’t seen you in ages, she went pale. Kept muttering something about a curse, but wouldn’t tell me anything else. When I asked her what she needed you for, she called me a pest, Geralt, a pest! Can you believe that? Then she stormed off, claiming she’d be back later.”

Geralt’s brows pinch, and he shifts, setting down his now-empty bowl. “Can’t be good if she’s worried.”

“Like I said, she wouldn’t tell me a thing about it,” Dandelion says, rather petulantly. Then he looks over at you. “Oh, where are my manners! Who’s this?”

Once again you introduce yourself, and Dandelion heartily shakes your hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Long story,” Geralt says exhaustedly.

“A long story?” Dandelion’s brows rise, and a sly smile paints his lips. “What sort? Action-riddled? Romantic? Oh, I know - a long, twisting contract that led the two of you together!”

Your cheeks go hot, and you set your spoon down next to your empty bowl. This must have been what Geralt was trying to warn you about earlier.

“Dandelion,” Geralt chides. “Anything else I should know?”

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion acquiesces. “And no, that’s all - if you don’t count The Chameleon’s booming business, and Oxenfurt University’s recent reopening.”

“Oxenfurt’s open again?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Geralt and Dandelion both look at you with varying levels of curiosity.

“It is, yes!” Dandelion says proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “Students and lecturers have been flooding back into the city. They’ve even asked me to give a guest lecture! Why do you ask? Are you interested in attending the classes?”

You don’t know what to say. “I…”

“Ex-student,” Geralt fills in for you, and you give him a tight smile.

“Really?” Dandelion asks. “Well, in that case, you’d better register quickly. The classes are filling up faster than lecturers could ever hope to teach.”

“Thank you, but I’m not interested in returning,” you inform him.

“Is that so?” he asks. You can tell you’ve piqued his interest, and you wince with regret as he continues on. “Oxenfurt is where I got my master’s degree in the seven liberal arts, did you know that?”

You didn’t know he had a master’s in the seven liberal arts. “Well, I-”

“Oh, what am I saying?” He props his hands on his hips. “I haven’t even introduced myself! I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove - though most know me as Dandelion. You may have heard my ballads?” He gazes at you expectantly.

“I have,” you confirm, pointedly avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“Splendid! Tell me, which is your favorite?”

“Dandelion,” Geralt cuts in, “stop the bragging.”

“But-”

“We’ve had a long day. Need a room.”

Dandelion hesitates, and his smile falters. “Oh, alright,” he relents. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the gritty details from you later,” he adds quietly. “Two rooms, coming right up!”

You let out a small noise. Geralt clears his throat.

Dandelion pauses, looking between the two of you with widening eyes. “Oh, I see,” he says, grinning coyly. “One room.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt says warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion sighs, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here. Take the first room upstairs on the left, it’s open. And, Geralt? Try not to make too much noise. We’ve been trying to get the walls soundproofed, but it’s costing a small fortune, and guests are still complaining from the last time you and Yennefer were here.”

Your face feels like it’s caught on fire. You bite your lip until it stings and pretend you’re admiring the decorations on the walls.

“Uh-huh,” Geralt says, tone flat. “Be sure to do just that.”

He places a warm hand on the small of your back to guide you away from the conversation, and you shiver a little under his touch.

“Much appreciated,” Dandelion says with a wink. “Do enjoy yourselves, though - oh, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you!”

Geralt moves his hand from your back and heads toward the stairs, and you give a polite nod to the troubadour. “It was nice to meet you, Dandelion,” you tell him.

“Likewise!” he says brightly. Then he lowers his voice. “And tomorrow, I’ll get all those details from you, alright?”

“Heard that,” Geralt calls.

Dandelion pulls a face. “You won’t let me have anything,” he whines.

You let out a soft laugh and follow after Geralt, legs getting heavier and heavier as the two of you head up the stairs. When he unlocks the room, your heart sinks in disappointment. One bed again. You’d been hoping to sleep on a mattress tonight.

Geralt sets his things down on the bed and sighs, taking a seat.

“Listen… sorry about all of that,” he says, pinching his nose. “Once Dandelion finds out why we’re here, we’ll get stuck answering questions. For hours, most like. Figured it was better to wait.”

“It’s fine.” You set your things on the floor and start unpacking, and Geralt watches you as you pull out the bedroll you’d purchased earlier. His brows immediately pinch.

“Plenty of room on the bed,” he says.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Just…”

You hesitate for a moment. Explaining this means you’re going to have to confess that you’d spied on him when he was asleep, and you don’t want him to paint you as some sort of creep.

Geralt patiently waits for you to continue, and you let out a frustrated puff of breath.

“I know you slept on the floor last time,” you say quickly, “and I know this whole thing must be extremely uncomfortable for you, especially sleeping in the same bed as me. You’re with Yennefer, and it’s only fair that this time I’m-”

“Hey. Hang on,” Geralt cuts in, sending your rambling to a crashing halt. There’s a pause before he shakes his head, then pats the bed next to him. “Come up here.”

You stare at him for confirmation, and he raises his brows expectantly. Turning your eyes toward the floor, you get up and take a seat.

“Slept on the floor last time because the mattress was too soft,” Geralt says gently. “This one’s a lot harder. That one? Felt like I was sinking into a cloud. Been on the path so long, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t have anything to do with you. As for Yen…” He trails off, shaking his head again. “We... Shit. Don’t know how to say this. Didn’t leave off on the best of terms.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Listen, don’t worry about any of that,” Geralt says quickly. “Won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

He has a sternness in his tone like he’s expecting you to argue, but you don’t have any desire to.

“If you insist, master witcher,” you reply.

“Mhm. I insist,” he responds, and you move your things off the floor. He seems to relax as you sit next to him. Then he grabs his things and starts getting ready for bed.

Right, sleep. The thing you’ve been avoiding since last night. In the partial silence that’s disturbed only by Geralt’s breathing, you’re keenly aware of the door at your back, and your heart starts racing like a drum. As you try to get settled in, your hands start shaking.

Geralt immediately turns toward you, fixing you with that piercing look he commonly wears. “You okay?” he asks. “Pulse just shot up.”

Your mouth is dry when you speak, and your words come out as a hoarse stammer. “Could we… switch sides?” You look pointedly at the bed, and his gaze softens with understanding.

“Sure. Happen to like that side better anyway.”

Despite your fear, his words still pull a weak smile from you. Then you quickly trade sides with him, heart slowing as you settle in and tug off your boots.

This room has a privacy sheet, which makes things so much easier with your situation. You change into your nightclothes behind it, clean your teeth, then tuck yourself under the sheets, too tired to do anything else.

As you lay down, you realize Geralt is lost in thought, watching you. Still sitting up, hands propped loosely over his thighs. You give him a questioning look, and he stirs and blinks hard, rubbing the back of his neck.

“The … man you killed,” he murmurs - very hesitantly. “Did-”

“Geralt, I can’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I can’t talk about it.”

He nods. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pried.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t angry that he did - you’re angry you can’t seem to tell him.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply after a moment. “I’m not upset.” Then, when he’s silent, you add, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight,” he says.

You turn over and close your eyes.

Oxenfurt is so very warm in the summer.

Granted, Velen hadn’t been much better, but it was wet heat, and you’d been used to it - swampy and muggy, boiling you alive. Redania, even along the coast of the sea, is dry.

Too dry. The hot air sears your lungs as you run, legs aching and feet burning like mad. Your shoes have been falling apart for months now, but you haven’t had the coin to replace them. In the midst of everything, your foot hits a stone, and you trip.

The books you’d been carrying go flying. Your hands throw themselves out to brace your fall, scraping raw against the stone, but they’re still too late.

The impact knocks the wind straight out of you.

Your right knee jams into the ground in a blinding flash of pain, and you gasp airlessly, wondering if you’re going to die here until, finally, you can breathe again.

Not without pain.

Gingerly, you push yourself up into an upright position and look around, trying to compose your rattled mind. Your body aches like the Abyss.

Shit.

The notes in your books are scattered everywhere, and you’re already late to class. Your hands are stinging and bleeding, and your knee shoots with pain every time you move it.

But you can’t miss this lecture.

Shakily, you get to your feet, limping around to gather your notes, wincing with pain every time you move. Damned campus. Damned shoes, now broken worse than ever.

As you gather everything into your arms again, a lark flies overhead singing a sweet, cheerful song. You stare at her wistfully for a moment, wishing you shared her freedom, then painfully limp along.

The university always smells of dust and old books, and your footsteps echo in the hall. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the smell of smoke. When you finally make it to class, everyone’s eyes turn to you.

“Late once again,” Professor von Gratz remarks. “Do not make it a habit.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, ducking your head and hobbling to your seat. If he notices your injuries, he says nothing.

You don’t bother telling him that work held you back, or that someone’s cart toppled over and forced you to take a longer path on your route, or that you tripped. You don’t bother, because you’ve learned they simply don’t care.

Instead, with hands shaking in pain, you sit and organize your books. Just as you’re opening up your notes, the lark from earlier flies in from the open window and lands directly on your desk.

Her song, which had been so sweet not long ago, is shrill and piercing, deafening this close to you - and no doubt interrupting the lecture. You cast your eyes to the front of the room, worried that you’ll be scolded again, but you find that the professor isn’t there.

No one is. The room around you is empty.

Your gaze must sweep the room twenty times before you can finally accept it, because that’s impossible, this isn’t possible. But your eyes don’t lie. The room is empty.

Perhaps you’d somehow injured your head in the fall? Perhaps you’re in the wrong classroom? Surely they couldn’t have all left without you noticing. Could they?

Whatever the answer is, you’ve got to get out of this place.

Gods, your hands are burning. Not stinging like earlier, not even throbbing, but burning. They’d been scraped in the fall but, this… this is not right.

Blisters are swelling on your palms and fingers, blisters oozing with blood that grow and grow and burn like nothing you’ve ever felt and finally burst, splattering blood on your face.

Your eyes snap closed and hot bile rushes to your mouth. Gods. You firmly swallow it down, taking a moment to compose yourself. You’ve had worse than this.

With a shaky inhale, you open your eyes again. Breathe. Just breathe.

Still, the bleeding won’t stop. Blood is everywhere - all over your clothes, your skin. When you reach for your things, it gets all over them too. Your books, notes, the desk. All covered in blood. The brooch your parents sent you, a gift for your hard work, is soon doused in it.

Oh, gods, you have to get out of here. Get someone to help you. Where is everyone?

As you helplessly try to gather everything, the lark flies over and firmly pecks at your hand. You hiss in pain but refuse to let go of your books. She pecks again.

“But I need these!” you say.

Giving a chirp, she hops closer and pecks at your hand, over and over this time until it draws more blood. You’re forced to leave everything but the brooch, which you store safely in your pocket.

Then you follow her out the door.

On the other side, the air is biting. Wind howls in your ears, swirls in your hair, numbs your cheeks. Rain beats down against your scalp and shoulders, and you can’t stop shivering.

Your knee doesn’t hurt anymore. Neither do your hands. The lark perches on your shoulder. The bleeding has stopped. You can’t make sense of any of this.

In front of you lies the mouth of a cave. A deep, dark opening that seems to swallow you even now, where you stand. Your knees seem ready to give out at any moment.

In a flutter of feathers, the lark takes flight again, resuming her song as she circles around the cave’s entrance.

She wants you to follow, you realize.

But there’s something here, something in the ground that threatens to sink you, something in your gut so dark you can’t stomach it. Evil. Evil that bleeds into your bones, makes your hair stand up, fills your mouth with the taste of metal.

“I won’t go in there,” you say. Your voice is shaky, but your resolve is firm. “I won’t.”

The lark lets out a dejected chirp and swoops inside. You realize something, then. You realize that if you don’t follow her in, you’ll be all alone. And even at the mouth of this horrific place, you can’t stand to be alone.

So you follow.

As soon as you step inside, you find a torch in your hand. The warm, glowing light offers solace, and so does the lark’s song - echoing all around. Still, the evil remains underneath, coating the walls, coating the mud on your feet. The lark is so much faster than you are.

“Wait, slow down,” you plead, trying to keep up. Gnarled roots and broken stones threaten to trip you, and you find yourself stumbling more than walking. The lark’s song is still present, but you’re falling more and more behind.

Then, all at once, the singing stops. It’s just… gone. No echoes. No more feathers fluttering with the beat of her wings. Nothing. You stand there, holding your breath, waiting, praying that you’ll hear her again. But after a terrible moment of silence, your torch goes out.

You’re left in complete darkness.

Ice floods your veins. Pure, chilling terror that sinks into your chest, your stomach, your legs. Your heart thunders against your ribs, and your breathing is deafening in your ears. The hair on the back of your neck and arms stands up.

Trying your best not to panic - panicking won’t help - you turn around, blindly stretch your hands out in front of you, and start moving. Slow, careful steps. No light to guide you, no sound aside from your heart and your breath. Shaking with fear.

Then something warm closes around your arm.

Your body reacts in pure, unadulterated instinct, jolting and shoving, trying to get away from the pinned grip that’s now pressing on you, out, out, out.

For a moment, you’re lashing out in fear, and then… then you finally see a warm pair of honey-gold eyes above you and white hair and-

“Easy,” comes Geralt’s gravelly, sleep-touched voice. “Easy. It’s me.”

You freeze for a moment before letting out a sigh of relief, going limp. It’s him, you’re safe, just another dream. You’ve never had that dream before.

Trembling, you bury your face in your hands. “Geralt,” you say shakily.

He hesitantly touches you again, soothingly running his hand over your arm, and you have to fight back a sob at the gentle act of comfort.

“I - I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Pretty fierce claws you’ve got there, though.”

Despite the humor lacing his tone, horror washes over you. Did you scratch him? You pull your hands from your eyes and look him over, searching for evidence of an injury, and it presents in a scratch against his right arm. There’s a clear imprint of long pink lines dug into the skin, even drawing blood in places.

“It’ll be gone in five minutes,” Geralt says calmly. “My fault. You were having a nightmare - tried to wake you up without thinking. Should’ve gone about it differently.”

“I hurt you.”

The words are raw and pained. After everything you’ve already put him through, you’d not only woken him up but also scratched him. Drew blood.

“Doesn’t hurt at all, actually,” he says. “Remind me to tell you later about how Dandelion and I once had to share a bed. Snored like a log, kicked the shit out of me all night long. Pretty sure I broke a rib.”

The words are clearly meant for comfort, but they don’t make you feel any better. You gently run your fingers over the wound and Geralt doesn’t even wince. It doesn’t change the fact that you still feel awful.

“I should bandage it up.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it’ll be gone in five minutes. Maybe even less. Witchers heal fast.”

“I know, but I-”

You stop mid-sentence, freezing in place.

As you’re only realizing now, Geralt is shirtless. Shirtless and scarred everywhere. Your eyes trail over his torso, taking all of it in - the raised pink lines, rosy strokes against his porcelain skin. You’ve never seen this many scars in your life.

Most are long claw marks, scattered along his torso. There’s a deep imprint of a bite mark where his shoulder meets his neck. His chest has a star-shaped wound on the right side, and there are three diagonal, round imprints stretching across his ribs.

He’s lean, too, lean and broad and just as muscular as you’d imagined, if not more, and - oh, gods, you’re staring again.

“You - you’re shirtless,” you say dumbly. You wince at your own words. Why? Why had you just said that? Why does this man make every ounce of intelligence bleed out of you?

Geralt looks faintly smug at your shock; a cat-like smile paints itself on his lips, but only for a moment.

“Yeah,” he finally replies, eyes fixed on you. “Shirtless. You asking me to put a shirt on?”

“A shirt?” you say faintly. “No - I mean… I…”

He smiles again. It’s quickly replaced by something with more intensity, something still laced with humor and curiosity, but.. different. There’s something suggestive, something warm about his gaze that makes you feel like the floor’s going to fall out from under you.

You shoot him a glare. “Be quiet and sit still,” you snap. “I need to bandage your arm.” Your cheeks scald from within, and you fiercely ignore his eyes on you.

Geralt lets out an amused hum from deep in his chest but doesn’t protest further.

You grab some bandages from your pack and return to him, then carefully dab on the celandine salve he’d insisted you take with you this morning. You still despise doing any healing, but this is small enough that it doesn’t do more than lightly tug at your heartstrings.

“There,” you proclaim when it’s done. “I’m sorry. Again.”

He takes two fingers and places them under your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking him in the eyes. Or at least, you would be - were you not stubbornly keeping your gaze down toward the bed.

“Told you, you’ve got to stop saying that,” he says, voice low. His tone is soothing but it only makes you restless, drives you insane.

You finally look at him and narrow your eyes, heart pounding like mad, and you know he can hear it. “You’re too patient with me.”

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Think so?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wrong. Too harsh on yourself.”

He’s so close to you now that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, the warmth that his hands share: rough, callused hands that so gently cradle your chin. He still smells of grass and oud and the sweet earthiness of the outdoors, and his lips look so very soft and inviting and… gods, you’ve wanted him since you first saw him. You can’t pretend anything else anymore.

Geralt must notice the way you’re looking at him, because something in his gaze shifts - sharpens. His eyes go even warmer than before, and his lips part, and are… are you imagining that he’s leaning toward you? On pure instinct, you tilt your chin up a little further and -

Suddenly wide-eyed, Geralt tenses and looks at the door, clearly hearing something you can’t. Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash from downstairs.

“Shit,” Geralt remarks under his breath and, to your dismay, he quickly drops his hand from your chin. Then he gets up to pull on a shirt - which is also much to your dismay.

“If that’s who I think it is…” he says, not bothering to finish the phrase.

Yennefer, you think glumly. Without another word, you follow him down the stairs. Clearly, there’s some kind of argument happening; voices are flowing up from the first floor.

“Look, I’m sorry about the fuckin’ glass, alright?” comes a voice that is most certainly not Yennefer. “I’ll pay for it, blah blah blah. Whatever you want.”

“Lambert?” Geralt calls, moving partway down the stairs. “Huh. Can’t go anywhere without getting into an argument.”

His words are teasing, and the fondness in them doesn’t pass you by. Another friend? But Lambert turns, and you’re immediately stricken - because he’s clearly another witcher.

Two swords, thick armor, and, as your wish forces you to follow Geralt further down the stairs, you see the tell-tale glowing yellow of the stranger’s eyes. Just like Geralt’s, only not as warm.

Something in this Lambert’s gaze makes you wary, and you find yourself shadowing Geralt, hiding yourself behind his frame as much as you can. Luckily, you seem to escape unnoticed, because Lambert just crosses his arms over his chest and grins at the sight of Geralt.

“Look who it is,” he drawls. “Wondered if I’d see you here, pretty boy.”

“What brings you here?” Geralt asks, lightly clapping him on the shoulder. “Keira with you?”

“No,” Lambert answers tightly. Something pulls at his face before it vanishes, melting into a scowl as he looks around. “Eskel is, though,” he adds. “He’ll be here soon.”

Geralt’s brows raise. “Eskel’s here, too?”

“Ran into each other on a contract,” Lambert says. “Sort of like me and you with that ekimmara, only this time it was a noonwraith and - well, long story. He’s hitching up his horse. I needed a fuckin’ drink.”

“Geralt, he just broke my best glass!” Dandelion fusses, in the midst of sweeping up the mess a few feet away. You hadn’t noticed him there with Geralt in front of your view.

“And I told you I’d pay for it,” Lambert replies. “Fuck’s sake.”

Dandelion’s eyes narrow. “How many times must I repeat that it was priceless? If you hadn’t waltzed in and served yourself at an ungodly hour, this all could have been avoided. That glass was my prize from last year’s poetry tourney - I can’t simply go and replace it!”

“Boo fuckin’ hoo,” Lambert mutters under his breath.

Dandelion’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth, but anything he’s about to say is swiftly interrupted.

“Geralt, is that you?” chimes another voice. This one is lighter, and with an accent you don’t quite recognize. “Welcome back!”

The source of the sound is a blonde trobairitz with sparkling blue eyes. She gives Geralt a warm smile and pulls him into a brief hug.

How many friends does Geralt have? How many of them are here?

You don’t like to be envious, but seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know and care for him - and knowing that there must be many, many more out there - it makes your chest ache with a fierce longing. You’ve never had this many friends, not in your whole life.

“Priscilla!” Dandelion exclaims, immediately abandoning his sweeping and leaping to his feet. He gently grips her shoulder, and his gaze clings to her every feature as he beams at her. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you! But… what happened? You weren’t due to be back for another week!”

“The competition was canceled, love,” Priscilla says, giving a small frown. “No one would tell me why, but - if the rumors are to be believed - someone gambled away the prize money. All of us were sent away before it started.”

Outrage crosses Dandelion’s features. “They had you go all that way only to send you back? And over some gambling fiasco, at that? That’s… that’s entirely unacceptable!”

“And I’m sure you’ll be writing a very strongly-worded letter of protest,” Priscilla replies brightly. You find yourself immediately endeared to her.

“Of course I will, my dear!” Dandelion says, hopping over the seemingly forgotten pile of glass on the floor. “This world has no respect for artists, I tell you!”

He scurries away, presumably to grab some paper. Priscilla just shakes her head with a fond smile and takes a seat at the bar.

“So,” she says calmly, framing her hands on the sides of her chair. “Tell me, what have I missed?”

Geralt, in his usual laconic manner, begins to brief Priscilla on what he knows about Dandelion and Yennefer - omitting you and the djinn, of course . You still haven’t been noticed, and the discomfort of the situation is growing more and more. You and Geralt can only delay telling them for so long.

As your mind starts to drift, you take notice of the fact that Lambert has skulked away to the other side of the bar and poured himself a drink. He nurses his Redanian lager with a distant gaze, and you can’t help but think that he looks the way you feel: awkward, out of place, and incredibly lonely.

He must sense your gaze on him, because he looks up at you and narrows his eyes. You immediately look away.

“…got in some kind of fight with Yen,” Geralt is saying. “Haven’t seen her, though.”

“And why are you here?” Priscilla asks. “I imagine you’ve not come just to visit me and Dandelion?”

Guilt pulls at Geralt’s expression. “Yeah. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Long story.”

Priscilla raises her brows and perks up - just the way Dandelion had last night - and you want to laugh at the clear similarities between the two. You wonder if Dandelion will remember to ask you about the ‘gritty details,’ as he’d put it.

“Not you, too,” Geralt sighs.

Priscilla lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t write about anything you don’t want me to. Unless, of course, it’s terribly exciting.”

It isn’t, you think. Not the way that the other ballads about Geralt are exciting.

Before Geralt can answer, the door opens, and all of you turn. Another witcher, you realize in excitement. This must be Eskel.

He’s tall, broad, and stocky, with scars that run down the right side of his face and a leathery red jacket rolled up to his elbows. Two swords. Yellow eyes. He grins when he sees Geralt, and the expression melts any initial intimidation he might have given off.

“Hey, Wolf,” he greets, coming closer and shaking Geralt’s hand. His voice is warm, deep, and assuasive. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Eskel,” Geralt replies. “Nasty wound you’ve got there. That from the noonwraith?”

You hadn’t noticed it at first, but there’s a deep cut in Eskel’s neck, trickling partially-dried blood down onto his shirt.

“Yeah,” Eskel says, leaning against a table. “It’ll heal. Got some Swallow with me. What brings you here?”

“Long story,” Geralt replies. “Listen - I know it’s unlikely, but… either of you happen to hear anything about a djinn lately?”

Lambert snorts. “What the hell is the deal with you and djinns?” he asks. “Oh, wait! Let me guess: you finally got tired of being Yennefer’s lapdog, and now you want to beg another djinn to please take back your wish.”

“Cut it out, Lambert, ” Eskel says. “Besides - they already undid that wish.”

Your chest wrenches. Geralt and Yennefer undid the djinn’s wish?

“Mhm,” Geralt says tightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Remember telling you that pretty explicitly, in fact. You drunk already?”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “I forgot, alright? Forgive me if I don’t remember every intimate little detail of your life. Shit, don’t tell me you’re here to redo it?”

“Got nothing to do with Yen,” Geralt insists. “Just need a djinn.”

“A djinn?” Dandelion has returned, paper in hand, and both he and Priscilla are gazing at Geralt with newfound interest - as if they’re already drafting up titles for a ballad in their minds. The bard grins widely and takes a seat on a nearby chair. “What’s this about a djinn?”

Geralt sighs, and you immediately feel awful for him. You know that it’ll be embarrassing for him to tell them the truth, and, well, he shouldn’t have to. You’re the one who made that idiotic wish - it’s only fair that you're the one who has to tell them.

Without thinking, you step out from behind Geralt and, despite trembling, speak as clearly as you can. “I’ll explain. It’s my fault, anyway.”

Poorly chosen words, because Geralt gives you a chiding look, and you can hear his voice in your mind: Gotta stop blaming yourself.

Too late. At the sound of your voice, everyone’s gaze immediately shifts to you, and all the blood quickly drains from your face.

“There you are!” Dandelion exclaims. “I wondered when you’d be joining us!”

“Been here the whole fuckin’ time,” Lambert points out, pouring himself another drink. “Hiding behind Geralt.”

You ignore them both, swallowing hard and taking collected, even breaths as you try to ground yourself.

“Geralt is asking about a djinn for… well - because of me,” you continue. Gods, this isn’t coming out right, but you have no choice but to go on. “Not long ago, I came across a djinn, and for my third wish, I asked for protection to be with me always. It… sent him.”

You pause for a moment, taking in the various combinations of expressions on people’s faces, which generally seems to be a mix of shock and delight - aside from Eskel, who simply looks shocked.

In their stunned silence, you hesitantly continue on. “It took the always part literally, so… now we can’t be more than a few steps apart, and we need another djinn to undo it.”

There are about ten seconds of sheer, ear-ringing silence before Lambert slams his mug down on the bar. “You’re shitting me,” he says.

The room explodes.

Dandelion starts firing off questions like his life depends on it, trailing off mid-sentence to jot down ideas. Eskel shakes his head with a grin and takes a seat, pouring himself a drink. Lambert snorts out a joke about ‘Geralt, always having shit like this happen.’

Priscilla lets out a shocked laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth - then reaches over to borrow some paper from Dandelion. Geralt, meanwhile, crosses his arms and sighs loudly, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

His expression softens as he drops his hand and looks at you. “Hey. Not your fault. Gonna drill that into you sooner or later.”

You give him a weak smile, still shaking.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Dandelion croons, waltzing up to the two of you. “I’ve been searching for an idea for my next ballad for months now, and the day after you show up-”

“You’re not gonna write about this, Dandelion,” Geralt says. “Promise me.”

“You must be joking!” Dandelion exclaims. “This will be my best ballad yet! Two unsuspecting citizens, bound by fate-”

“Fate?” you exclaim. “What does fate have to do with it?”

Dandelion raises a brow. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you didn’t specify Geralt for your wish?”

“No,” you say firmly. “I didn’t picture anyone at all. If anything, I just thought I’d have some kind of invisible protection.”

“Then that settles it!” he replies brightly. “The djinn decided - out of every being, every number of things in this vast universe that could apply to your wish - he would send none other than Geralt of Rivia as your protection. Not only that, but he entwined the two of you closely together, unable to be apart. What is that, if not fate?”

“A djinn having a bit of fun,” you reply bitterly. “You can’t think I was destined to find that djinn?”

“Of course!”

You don’t respond. You can’t, because your throat locks up.

If you were destined to find that djinn, then all of the horrible things that have happened to you over the course of your life were destined as well. It’s an awful thought.

Were your parents doomed to die a terrible death from the moment they first took a breath? It’s ridiculous to think so. Your parents were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire of a newly emerging disease.

But the more you think about it, the more doubt slowly starts to trickle into your mind.

Your parents were born poor and died poor, and no amount of work they did ever could have changed that. As is common for the poor, they were financially trapped, stuck in the place they were born - a place that would soon become riddled with disease.

If their circumstances guaranteed that they were in that godforsaken town when the plague hit, then… is that destiny? Was fate setting up a long string of events, using the price of their blood to drag you back to Velen? Velen, where you’d built a shitty little life for yourself that got ripped apart again and again? Velen, where you’d finally come across that djinn?

Was it fate that put the words of that wish in your mouth, or was it your own stupidity?

“You see?” Dandelion says, seeing the expression on your face. “It’s fate, through and through. And, it will be making an excellent ballad. Tell me-”

“Dandelion,” Geralt interjects. “No ballads. Not happening.”

Dandelion sets his paper down with a scowl, crossing his arms. “Geralt, you are a cruel, obdurate man. You’re denying me the best ballad I’ll ever write.”

“That hurts, Dandelion,” comes Geralt’s response. “No more ballads? Don’t know how I’ll survive.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Dandelion sighs, fixing his gaze on you. “Please, try to talk some sense into him. He’ll have to see the light sooner or later.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Sorry, but something tells me that if anyone was going to change his mind, it’d be you.”

Dandelion grips your shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says, a bit slyly. “I see the way he looks at you.”

Your heart skips a beat. Surely Geralt must have heard that? When you turn to look at him for confirmation, he meets your eyes head-on, but… the look on his face is something new. Discomfort, you realize.

Your stomach faintly sinks, but Geralt simply clears his throat and speaks.

“Now that that’s dealt with,” he says, “Any of you happen to know where I might find a djinn?”

There’s a long beat. Then Priscilla speaks.

“I can’t say whether it’s true for certain,” she starts, “but during my recent travels, I heard many talk of a djinn in the Blue Mountains, left by a mage who wished to tame it. He was killed before he could manage it.”

The Blue Mountains. A journey like that would take… you don’t even know how long. Weeks, at the very least.

“Know anything else?” Geralt asks. “Got any specific locations, the name of the mage?”

“They said it was held in a cave near the borders of Kaedwen and Aedirn,” she answers. “But I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Geralt’s brows pinch. “That border goes on for miles. Lots of caves near there. Long way to travel for a rumor, too.”

“It is. And I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she replies. “Unfortunately, most of this information came from a plastered troubadour on the street who was using it to compose a ballad. Though, there were others who all said the same thing, and the details were consistent enough that it just might be true. Not that anyone seemed in much of a rush to go get the djinn, mind you.”

Geralt’s shoulders slump a little, and you ache with sympathy for him. None of what she’d just said is exactly reassuring.

“Gotta see if I can find out anything else about that,” he says. “Appreciate you telling me.”

She nods and gives a weak smile, and Geralt’s gaze briefly skims over the rest of the crowd.

Eskel shakes his head. “Sorry, Wolf,” he says. “Haven’t heard anything.”

Geralt shrugs. “Knew it wasn’t likely. Got something to go on, at least.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Lambert snorts, working on his second lager. “Wouldn’t want to be you.”

“Fuck off, Lambert,” Geralt replies, sighing deeply. “C’mon, better see if there are any books about that djinn,” he tells you.

You follow him without a word.

“Nice to, er, meet you!” Priscilla calls.

You give her a smile and wave before you leave, but your stomach coils with fear. What if you two don’t find another djinn? What if you’re stuck like this forever? How long will it take for Geralt to lose his seemingly endless patience with you?

“Don’t mind Lambert,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “He can be a prick. Nothing personal.”

“It’s fine.” You don’t particularly feel like talking at the moment.

His pace slows into a halt. “Don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it,” he tells you.

“I know. It’s really fine, Geralt. I wasn’t thinking about him.”

He gives a nod and starts walking again, and you follow alongside him. “Gonna tell me what you were thinking about?” he asks.

You consider it for a long, vulnerable moment. “Alright, Witcher. But only if you tell me what you were thinking just now, too.”

His brows rise. “Huh. Guess that’s fair.” He rolls his shoulders, hesitating before he answers. “Was wondering about Yen - where she is. That curse she mentioned.”

“You’re worried about her,” you say.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Pretty powerful on her own. Can’t think of why she’d need my help. Doesn’t sound good.”

“Maybe she just wanted an outside perspective,” you offer. “Another pair of eyes to catch something she hadn’t seen.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, though he doesn’t sound fully convinced. “Your turn.”

You let out a puff of air, digging your nails into the skin. “I was worrying about the djinn,”you confess. “About what would happen if we don’t find another one.”

He doesn’t seem at all phased by this. “Wouldn’t worry about that just yet,” he says. “Haven’t even started looking, really.”

“How many djinns have you come across?”

“Two,” he answers. “Think you already know about the first. Helped Yen find the other one.”

“Was it hard to find?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t say it was easy, exactly. Yen had me searching shipwrecks at the bottom of the ocean for clues. Turned out, the owner died before the djinn fulfilled his three wishes. Ended up having to fight it, make a deal. Wasn’t impossible, though.”

You resist the urge to point out that Yennefer is an extremely powerful sorceress and you aren’t, and instead ask the question you’ve really been wanting to know the answer to. “And you used that djinn to undo the first djinn’s wish?”

He huffs. “Thought you might have caught that. Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his expression sombers. “Yen… she was never sure if what we were feeling was real. Could never trust it. Wanted to know for sure.”

A lost emotion pulls at your chest; grief, perhaps.

“It wasn’t real, then?”

There’s a long pause before he answers.

“It was.”

You understand instantly.

Your heart squeezes painfully at the memory of Hanna, an old friend. No longer, but that’s not what’s important. She’d been in love with the farmer’s boy, and you’d bet Antoni down the road that they’d marry before spring.

You’d lost that bet.

They’d quarreled most days. Rarely was there a day of stillness between them. Still, the look in their eyes had been love, real love - and you’d known that look anywhere, and you’d thought…

“Explain it to me,” you’d asked her one night. “Don’t you love him?”

“Of course!” she’d said, wringing her hands. “But love doesn’t make it right.”

“No? Then what does?”

She’d gone all starry-eyed then, suddenly looking as if she was a thousand years away. “I think… I think it’s peace,” she’d finally answered. “I couldn’t come home to him like that, spend hours arguing, because all it did was drive me insane. I wanted us to be happy, but we weren’t. And love doesn’t change that.”

And just like that, you understood.

There’s no mention of Priscilla’s djinn in any of the Novigrad bookshops - or anywhere else, as a matter of fact.

Geralt spends hours trekking through places, perusing titles and chasing down leads. Each time he sets a book down or a trail goes cold, his expression is nothing short of grim.

You browse through a book or two, but nothing pulls at your interest enough to keep you from your thoughts, which return again and again to that dream - and what happened after. You’re restless in this city, hoping for and dreading an end to all this searching.

Eventually, when the sun has gone low in the sky, Geralt gives up and takes you back to The Chameleon, where Eskel and Lambert have headed off on another contract, but Dandelion, Priscilla, and Zoltan are chatting at a table.

“There you two are!” Dandelion exclaims. “Come now, have a seat! We were just discussing the new Gwent faction.”

“Never understood it, myself,” Zoltan remarks, leaning back in his seat. “The faction’s shite.”

Geralt pulls a chair out for you, and you take a seat - cheeks going hot.

“Gonna grab us some dinner,” he says. “Want anything specific?”

You shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He gives a nod and walks away, and you hear him ordering - just close enough to be in bounds of the wish.

You shift in your seat, suddenly very uncomfortable at the attention directed on you.

“Do you play Gwent?” Priscilla asks.

“A little,” you reply.

Dandelion grins. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

Priscilla shoots him a stern look. “Ignore him. What do you think about the Skellige deck?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t know,” you admit. “I’ve never played with it or against it.”

“Geralt has a deck,” Dandelion exclaims. “Surely he can pull it out, play a few rounds with you.”

Your heart drops. “Oh, I don’t-”

“Don’t worry,” Priscilla says. “It’s a difficult deck to play against - no one will blame you for losing a round.”

“I don’t have a deck anymore,” you explain. “I can’t play.”

Dandelion leans forward, eyes gleaming. “That wouldn’t have to do with the djinn, would it?”

“Ah, shut your trap, bard,” Zoltan says.

“I’m only asking!” Dandelion retorts. “Anyway, I’m sure you could borrow the Skellige deck, and play against one of us! I doubt Geralt would mind.”

“Would mind what?” Geralt asks behind you, having returned with your dinner. He sets the two plates on the table and takes a seat next to you.

With the lacking space between the seating, his thigh presses against yours, and you quickly stuff a bite of food into your mouth - an attempt to distract yourself from the heat radiating off of him. Heat that’s slowly transferring to you.

“Oh good, you’re back!” Dandelion says. “You wouldn’t mind lending your companion here your Skellige deck, would you? Just for a few rounds, of course.”

“Sure. Wouldn’t mind.” Geralt starts on his food, brows pinching as he observes you. “Who’re you playing against?”

“No one,” you say quickly. “I’m alright, really, I don’t need to play-”

“Why?” Dandelion interjects, giving you a sly smile. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

Unfortunately, if there’s one thing you happen to be competitive about, it’s Gwent.

“Not by skill, no,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “But I have no idea if the deck is any good.”

“Aye, but a shitty deck doesnae matter when the whole faction is shite,” Zoltan says.

“Hey,” Geralt says, sounding a little wounded. “Happened to win the Toussaint Gwent championship with that deck.”

You let out a deep sigh from your nose and shake your head, setting down your fork. “Fine. I’ll play.”

Dandelion beams and pulls out his deck, and Zoltan snorts in amusement, crossing his arms.

“Hang on. Gotta go get the deck first,” Geralt says. “Might as well finish your food.”

You never get the chance.

Just as he’s spoken, Geralt goes wide-eyed and stares at the door, the way a cat does when it’s heard something you haven’t. The way he had earlier, when Lambert breaking the glass had interrupted the kiss.

A cold wind blows through the room. It chills you deep and down to the very bone, as if ice is seeping through your veins and freezing every inch of you from the inside out. A sharp, deep floral scent accompanies it, fuzzing your mind over with intoxication.

The door bursts open and silence washes over the room as two women enter rather gracefully - one with ashen hair and a scar on her left cheek, and the other, well… you know who the other is. You’ve read Dandelion’s ballads.

Raven hair and violet eyes - this can be none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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merlot-and-chardonnay · 4 months

Text

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 9

Chapter 8

--------------flashback: Red Keep----------------

You lay in the bathtub, steam rising from the water which did little to calm your nerves.

It was little more then several hours ago when you finally received confirmation of what you suspected.

You were with child. Daemon's child.

Now you needed to plan your next move. You couldn't stay here, that much was certain. You heard of physicians in Volantis that could make this inconvience go away and you could return and resume your post as the princess' personal Bard. Or you could go back to the Continent, find an herbalist in Velen; it was closer and it was a place you were more familiar with.

No, you think to yourself. This wasn't an inconvience, at least it wasn't to you. Even if this would ultimately cost you your standing with Rhaenyra and the royal family, you could always return home, back to people who would care and support you regardless of the situation you were in.

Or...what if you decided to go to Dragonstone instead and tell Daemon? Would he take responsibility? Would he try to persuade the king to have his current marriage annulled, or at the very most, would Daemon take you as his second wife in accordance with Valyrian tradition?

Even if he did, your biggest concern would be how this life inside you would potentially be treated. Having been conceived out of wedlock, this child would likely be treated as a bastard.

No, you think once more, this wasn't an option either. This place...King's Landing, you knew, was little more than a den of brooding vipers that would strike at any given opportunity, especially if they found out who the father of this child was. This was no place to raise your baby.

You needed to leave. You needed to return to your homeland.

The sooner the better.

You get out of the tub and dry yourself off. After putting on some clothes, you quickly pack your bags and get your other belongings together. Some stuff you were going to have to leave behind, others you'll have to sell in order to afford passage on whatever ship is heading to Novigrad or Oxenfurt, but you'll make your peace with it.

You hear a knock at the door, startling you and causing you to jump.

You go to answer it, seeing the one face you didn't want to be seeing anytime soon. You stare at Otto Hightower, glaring at him.

"If you come to pull me out by the hair again, I will scream," you sneer, "you planning to threaten me again? Accusing me of spying like you did in the small council chamber?"

Otto looked into your room to see you belongings were packed, "going somewhere, lady Bardess?" he asks, "planning a long journey? Maybe to Volantis?"

Your eyes widen, knowing exactly what he was talking about, "How did...?" "You think I haven't been paying attention to your behavior the last several weeks?" Otto asks, "you think I don't know the signs? I was married before, I know these things."

You sigh, crossing your arms, "I guess you already know who the father is then?" Otto nods, making you feel sick (though not enough to empty your stomach again, much as you would actually like to on Otto at this moment).

The look on Otto's face said all about what he knew about your dalliance with the Rogue Prince.

"What could you possibly want from me?" you ask.

"I can give you a way out of this," Otto tells you, making step back from him, "You expect me to drink the moon tea from you again?" you scoff.

"You are an unmarried woman who is with child," Otto scoffs back, "the prince's child no less. And one that will become a bastard should you carry on with this pregnancy. Would you truly be so cruel as to put it through such a fate?"

"It could be worse," you sneer, "maybe this child will become a bastard, but at least it will be well loved and surrounded by people who will care for them." "What people?" Otto scoffs again, "the White Wolf? You former lover?"

You frowned, wondering how the lord Hand knew this, "I looked into what that...witch said concerning you," Otto explains, "I knew you Continental women had a penchant for odd tastes and unrestrained appetites...but to willing sully yourself with a cutthroat, a butcher who's body was twisted by unnatural magics? Even someone such as you, who would whore yourself to prince to curry more favor with the royal family, I never would've imagined was capable of such depravity."

"Funny...I was going to say the exact same thing," you lightly laugh, "I've seen the way your daughter has been dressing lately since the Queen has passed. All those secret meetings she's been having with the king? I know the Lady Alicent well enough to know she doesn't exactly think for herself. And since the good and 'pure' princess couldn't have possibly thought up such a plan, the only other person I can of that has put such unholy thoughts in her head is her father. You hoping to curry more favor with the king, Otto? That he'll make your daughter the new queen and give you greater influence on him and this realm?"

"You forget yourself and to whom you speak," Otto warns. "The truth makes you uncomfortable doesn't it?" You continue, "I wonder how high a pedestal you must be on to accuse ME of depravity, Lord Hand. I have my flaws, I won't deny that. I've done things I'm not proud of...but I would never go so far as to pimp out my own daughter so as to further consolidate more power for my house."

Otto's glare narrows as leans down at you in a threatening way, "you are treading a very thin line right now," he warns. "Oh, what are you going to do? Tell the king? Kiss his ass while you're at it?" you mock, refusing to back down, "go on, Lord Hand, go tattle to the king, tell him about my depraved appetites. And tell him who the father of this child is as well. His Grace may listen to you on royal matters, but he loves his family, maybe just enough to have this child legitimized. And if this same child turns out to be a son...I imagine it would give Prince Daemon the upper hand to claim the Iron throne. Are you really willing to take that chance? However much you despise me, I know you despise the prince even more."

You and Otto were at a standoff, you waiting in anticipation to see if the man would call your bluff. This continued for what seemed like forever, until Otto stood back. "Yeah, that's what I thought," you say, a sense of victory within you.

"Don't worry, Lord Hand," you continue, "No one will ever know about this. I'll leave on the first ship out of here to Oxenfurt. Tell the king and the princess whatever you wish as to why I left, I don't care. Not anymore. Just know you'll never hear from me again."

Otto had a certain look on his face, like he was thinking. You hold your breath, anticipating what he was going to say.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sack of gold, handing it to you, "I believe this will suffice for the next passage," he says.

You push the sack away, "I'm not accepting any kind of charity from you," you tell you. "This is not charity," Otto assures, placing the gold in your hand, "this is to insure that you will keep you word. That you will leave and never come back, and no one in King's Landing will ever hear from you again."

You nod and grab what you could from your room.

Before you left, you turn to Otto, "you know, there is one thing Daemon was right about," you say, "you really are a cunt."

You turn and leave before Otto even had a chance to retaliate.

-------------end of flashback: Kaer Morhen-------------

"Oh my gosh, aren't you the cutest baby ever," Jaskier coos as he holds Aemma in his arms, "cutest niece I should say. I can hardly believe it. Heh, I'm an uncle. Uncle Jaskier, I like the sound of that. What do you think, Aemma? You like the sound of that? Uncle Jaskier."

Aemma just looked at Jaskier the way babies do. "I think she does," Jaskier says, "My, she does have the most violet eyes I've ever seen on a baby. Father must be part elf, it's the only explanation."

"It isn't," Geralt says. "Yeah, (y/n)'s made it clear at least dozen times," Eskel quips in from the other side of the main hall, "and that's without even disclosing who the father even is."

"Odd," Jaskier says, looking at your daughter, "all these traits and I can't even pick out which ones belong to her mother. Ooh, wait...she's got her nose. I think she has her ears too, which coincidentally look like my ears too."

"They look better on (y/n)," Geralt mutters. "Oh, ha ha, very funny," Jaskier deadpans, "you know, Geralt, I think it's rather interesting that everything you couldn't stand about me, you always seem to like about my sister. I wonder why? What's she got that I don't?"

"Don't answer that!" Coen says to Lambert, who was about to make a rather crude answer.

Jaskier frowned then grimaced when he finally figured out what the witcher was going to say, then he looks to Geralt, "so you and (y/n)...?" "Hmmm," was Geralt's only response. "And you're perfectly okay taking care of another man's baby?" "Oi, baby's daddy ain't in the picture," Lambert points out, "far as anyone in this keep is concerned, Geralt here IS Aemma's father." "Whatever happened to finding out who the father was?" Geralt asks.

"Don't care anymore," Coen answers with a shrug, "she's one of us, that's all that matters. We've come to accept that."

"Man was probably a piece of shit anyway," Lambert adds, "why else would (y/n) leave him?"

"Where is (y/n), anyway?" Eskel asks.

"Down in the village with Ciri, running errands," Geralt answer, "Ciri wanted to get out of Kaer Morhen after being cooped up in here most of winter, and (y/n) wanted some fresh air."

"That's right, the snow is thawing now," Coen says, "We'll be able to get back on the Path soon."

"About fucking time," Lambert groans, "it'll be nice to get out of this ice box for the first time in months."

--------------meanwhile-------------------

"You're in luck," the herbalist said handing you the herbs you were looking for, "this is the last of it. Next time I'll have these won't be until the snow thaws completely."

"This will do," you nod. "Strange," the woman says, "usually my clientele who come for these certain herbs are witchers." "I'm running errands for them," you tell her, "they've been taking care of me in my time of need and I thought I could return the favor.

"You've been wintering with the wolves?" the herbalist sounded surprised, "you are quite a brave young woman to have ventured this far into their terrain. But they are good lads. Which reminds me."

She hands you a special package, "A gift for Vesemir. Tell him, ol' Jenny sends her regards."

The look on her face suggested she and the old witcher had a thing between them, "I'll be sure to relay the message," you say, accepting the package.

You walk outside to go find Ciri, whom you'd given coin to buy her a little something at the pastry shop while you picked up the herbs.

You check your pouch to see there were a few extra coins left. Perhaps you could find the local tailor for some new clothes, for you, Ciri, and Aemma too.

While heading in that direction, you pass the pub and hear several locals talking.

"Didn't you hear about these strange happenings in the West?" one man asks. "What happenings?" the other asks, downing what was left of his mug.

"Is this about Nilfgaard?" the third man asks.

"Thought so too," the first man speaks, "but this was something different altogether. People be saying there is a dragon that was spotted near the border between Kaedwen and Redania. Burned through the forests and anything that stood in its way. Gods help us."

"Sounds like you've had way too much vodka," the second man scoffs.

"I'm serious," the first man scoffs, "Me cousin saw it flying the sky. A giant, red dragon, slender as a serpent. Some even swear they saw a man astride it on a saddle like a stallion."

The moment you heard those words, your eyes widen, your heart starting to race.

HE'S here? you internally scream.

On the Continent?

No, you shake your head, it couldn't be. That's not possible, there's no way he could've found out.

You made sure he would never find out.

"If it's any consolation," the first man says, "a unit of Scoia'tel was caught in the onslaught. Fucking elves probably thought they could take on the dragon. What a crock."

"Good riddance," the third man raises his mugs, "Shows those pointy hatemongers not to mess with the natural order of things."

You turn and go find Ciri, panicking as you did so.

You were so wrapped in your own paranoid thoughts, you didn't see Ciri as you ran into her.

"(y/n)?" she looks up to you, concerned as she saw the way your breaths were becoming shallow. "Huh? Oh, Ciri, there you are," you say, pulling her in with hopes it would calm you down.

"Are you okay, you look like you saw a ghost," she says, pointing the pale look on your face.

"I uh, I'm fine," you tell her, turning a bit to take in some deep breaths, "uh, did you get anything at the shop?"

"A couple apple turnovers," Ciri says, "I got one for you."

"Thanks," you say, "Look, I think we should head back to the keep. Come on."

You and Ciri walk into the woods back to Kaer Morhen.

You were about to forget what was said back in the village, when you hear an eerie and vaguely high pitch screech reverberate across the woods.

Your heart stops at this moment.

"What...what was that?" Ciri asks, becoming just as concerned, "Was it a wyvren? Or a forktail?"

"...neither," you say the moment you heard those same screeches once more.

You feel your heart get caught in your throat as your breath becomes shallow once again.

"(y/n)?" Ciri sees your state, starting to panic, "What...what's going on? What is it?"

A large, slender creature swoops in over the trees, making both of you flinch. "What was that?!" Ciri exclaims.

"Run," was all you could say. "What?" "Run, Ciri! We need to run!" you shout, getting her running as fast as the both of you could back to the heart of the mountains, back to Kaer Morhen.

You jump over a giant root, but end up tripping, your foot getting caught in the same root.

Ciri turns to see you had fallen.

"(y/n)!" she runs back to you.

"Ciri, no!" you shout back, "go without me! Get back to Kaer Morhen!"

"I'm not leaving without you, I promised Geralt I'd protect you!" Ciri insists, trying to pull your foot out.

It was too late.

The red monster swooped in again, landing a mere yard or two from where you lay. The force of the landing caused Ciri to be pushed back.

The young girl looked up and saw exactly what it was. Her eyes widen when she realized this was the red dragon she had dreamed of.

And if this was the same dragon, then that means...

Right on cue, an armored man in the dragonesque helmet dismounted the beast as you struggle to get your foot out.

The man removes his helmet to reveal his long, silver blonde hair.

In this moment, it felt like time had stopped, and not in a good way.

Your worse fears have been realized.

"Daemon..."

Chapter 10

Masterlist

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt #witcher geralt #ciri #lambert #eskel #daemon #daemon targeryen x reader #geralt x reader #hotd #the witcher #otto hightower

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some-october-in-the-future · 11 months

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Geraskier Fic Rec May 2023

Hello lovely people! I've decided to start my fic rec lists with some Witcher fic focusing on Geralt/Jaskier (Geraskier). I started reading Geraskier fic about three years ago and I'll probably never get tired of this pairing. The below list are some of my favorite fics I've stumbled upon throughout my time in the fandom - I hope you enjoy them! If there are any you think should be added (or you just have good recs) please feel free to send them my way, I'm always looking for new fic! And if you decide to read any of these, please heed the tags on ao3; some deal with topics not everyone wants to read about.

(The first two are probably my favorite Geraskier fics ever)

(if you like any of these let me know let's geek out together)

A Blessing, A Curse by aileenrose, E, 12.6k

"For a while, Jaskier doesn’t know he’s cursed. It feels like free will, going back down that mountain, just as dangerous down as the way up, and alone this time, too. The descent is fast, maybe even reckless, but Jaskier’s feeling numb and out-of-sorts anyways, Geralt’s words simmering in his mind, and at the time it doesn’t feel like he’s being pulled on by anything but his own desire to get away."

Based off a post that Geralt's words on the mountain are granted by the djinn.

one foot in sea by theundiagnosable, E, 23.5k

“Well, that’s a separate issue entirely, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, clearly enthused by being taken on. “I’m opposed to marriage on principle. Would you like to know why?”

“No,” says Geralt.

“I’ll tell you why,” says Jaskier.

to render it transparent by theundiagnosable, E, 24k

Geralt wakes up warm, peaceful, and utterly content, which is how he knows that something is severely wrong.

another dawn by alittlebitmaybe, T, 8k

“Well, we’ll have all the time in the world to make it official, right after we check out this—what was it?”

Geralt side eyes him. “Abandoned cottage. Disappearances. Strange sightings.”

“Right, yes, after we deal with this mysterious hut deep in the woods. No problem. Days and weeks and years aplenty after that."

all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) by xdandelionxbloomx, M, 7.5k

Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.

Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.

Shadowplay by sospes, M, 26.5k

Geralt returns to Oxenfurt on a bright May morning to find flowers laid outside Jaskier's rooms and a fresh grave in the cemetery.

Except, as Geralt is about to learn, in Jaskier's world things are never quite what they seem.

Bad Moon Rising by sharkhette, Not Rated, 9k

Jaskier had never expected it would be Geralt trying to kill him. Sure, the witcher liked to threaten as much, but they both knew he'd never make good on it. They were friends, whatever Geralt said.

But friends didn't try to rip each other's throats out with their teeth.

Or, Geralt returns from a hunt acting strange.

Valley of Plenty by aileenrose, E, 40.6k

Geralt's brother has died, and now he is raising a child on his own. The last thing he needs is an annoying sous-chef who won't leave him alone.

Or, a variously loose and faithful adaptation of the classic rom-com No Reservations.

The god of scraped knees. by spqr, M, 8k

Jaskier’s been pretending to be human for so long now that he hardly remembers what it feels like to be a sorcerer. He doesn’t want to remember what it feels like to be a sorcerer. But people still murmur his name with reverence in certain dim halls; Dandelion, Dandelion, destroyer of worlds.

Lessons in Losing by didoandis, E, 11k

“We met five years ago or thereabouts,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. “You came up to me in a tavern near Posada, decided I would be good song material, and we’ve travelled together, off and on, ever since.”

“Huh,” Jaskier says.

“You remember?” Geralt tries to keep the note of hope out of his voice, and doubts he’s been successful.

“Not in the slightest,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “But I must admit it sounds like something I’d do.”

When Jaskier forgets their life together, Geralt learns an unexpected lesson.

#fic rec #can you tell that I enjoy temporary character death lol #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher fic rec #fanfic rec #fanfiction rec #ao3 rec #the witcher a03 #geraskier fic rec #geralt/jaskier fic rec #the witcher fic rec #fanfic #geraskier fic #geralt/jaskier fic #text #my fic recs #my recs

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restless-witch · 5 months

Text

nothing in the world is mine, but my love, mine

hey hey I did a one-shot for once, I've posted it on Ao3 here but I know some of y'all like to read fic on tumblr so it's below the cut

Comments and likes always appreciated <3

He clocks the bard as either noble or a romantic the moment he sees the gloves on his hands. They're subtle, as far as the custom goes, a dark olive colored kidskin with a simple flower button wrapped around his wrist and covering only his thumb. The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the path together, though out of utility. a quick soulmates AU where soulmates have matching marks on the sides of their hands // title shamelessly stolen from Mitski's "My Love Mine All Mine"

Rated: T for swearing

Fandom: The WItcher TV

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier), background Yennralt (Yennefer of Vengerber/Geralt of Rivia)

Language: English

It's not satisfying when the bards confirms both to be true on their way to investigate the devil but when they're being kicked by Toruviel, he thinks that if the bard was a full gloved wearing hack then they'd both be dead.

Which also isn't satisfying.

The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the Path together, though out of utility.

Apparently the most dressed down the witcher ever gets is a pair of fingerless gloves worn even to sleep. Something about improving his grip and tendon injuries- Geralt tenses up when he can sense Jaskier wants to ask if witchers even have marks. Jaskier can feel how fragile their friendship is. He doesn't press the issue.

He hopes that puts a mark in his favor.

By the end of the season, Geralt determines the bard has no less than seven pairs of gloves- yet only two of them are permitted to actually get dirtied. Two suede pairs to match the colors of his "lover's eyes" (unoriginally brown and blue), three pairs for wearing in town, and a scant two pairs for all his bathing, cooking, and laundry.

It's utterly ridiculous.

Before they part at Ban Glan for the winter, he tells the bard to get more sensible gloves before spring on the Path.

He's at Ard Carraig before he realizes he planned for the bard to join him again.

When he returns to Oxenfurt, the two pairs of gloves he has for washing are nearly worn to shreds- he throws them down on the table at the Wishful Warbler with a grin when Shani asks about his travels. He's going on real adventures with his-maybe-friend-Geralt and getting dirty and everything. He spends the winter as a research assistant to Professor Berlyn and learning to make stacks of washing gloves.

His friends, who largely only own a pair or two or have entirely dispensed with the custom, are overrun with gloves of varying quality. Priscilla generously accepts a stack whose thumbs must all be split open to accommodate even her dainty digit.

He manages to barter for a pair of amber saffron dyed kidskin gloves- painstakingly transcribing Metz's treatises on celestial calendars small enough for Valdo Marx to use them as crib notes.

It's worth it.

It's a true lark to set them along with his brown and blue gloves and he whistles when they meet up in the spring and he waggles them in Geralt's face and thinks Geralt is about to strangle him- before the ludacris stack of washing gloves topples out of his bag onto the witcher's lap and he can't help but bark a laugh into Jaskier's delighted face.

He knows the bard is, at least, serious about walking the Path when he drops the stack of gloves on Geralt's lap. It's a bit of a child's attempt at adulthood, he admits to himself because he knows it would crush the bard to know twenty years of life does not make a man.

Still, it dampens his concerns of noble nonsense a bit to see where the calluses from needlework have made his fingertips even more knobby alongside the ones from his lute. For all the work Jaskier puts into his hands- carefully filing down his calluses and nails when they crack and rubbing ointments in before he beds down- Geralt can see it's a dedication to practicality and not vanity.

The bard is unconcerned by the healing scars where broken strings have cut into the flesh or the uneven tan marks across the backs of his hands where the different gloves have sat.

Jaskier wonders, just a teensy bit, if Geralt's glove wearing excuse isn't a little... weak.

Always needing his full grip strength?

It's a lighthearted solstice evening where he's helping Geralt in the bath when the witcher turns his head to the side, immediately stands up and storms over to the next room (nearly cock out and everything if Jaskier hadn't thought to throw the bath sheet at him) and throws an unwanted suitor off the serving girl.

There's suds dripping out of Geralt's hair all over the floor that he knows he'll wipe up later with the very gloves he's wearing now and Jaskier thinks he is maybe falling in love, for real this time.

A handful of times, he catches the bard cooing over marks in taverns. He wonders if it's a bit- some flirtation over how a lass or lad with such lovely signs could possibly take up with a scoundrel like him.

It's not the most rakish bit he could suspect of the bard- though he notices the bard never takes off his gloves in return. He wears them even in the cities and hamlets where the custom is less common or replaced with simple patches of dyed skin.

It makes him seem damn right virginal to keep them on all the time.

Perhaps the bard's mark is something obscene- it's not unheard of. If that were true though, he suspects the bard would leverage it into some pickup line about his prowess in bed.

Perhaps the bard has no marks- a person blessedly free of obligation or destiny.

He thinks it would be a kinder fate for Jaskier to be free of those kinds of concerns.

Jaskier knows his fastidiousness with wearing gloves is a little unusual for the current fashion but he commits to the bit.

He thinks it's more romantic to have them revealed and thinks his are especially gorgeous; a simple sun on his right hand and a moon on his left, a small comet arcing over each and a few lines he thinks are wind or perhaps clouds. He's seen more ornate or filigreed marks- even the occasional mark with a splash of color- but his marks are so curiously endearing.

When he links his bare hands together he sees a miniature of the universe and hopes that one day, he may hold his soulmate's marks against his own and feel the world between their hands.

He'll admit he's kept the privilege of the reveal to himself; but he'll be a little selfish if it means he can know to watch their delight when he reveals a world in his hands- a world to share.

He's not sure where his soulmate will fit in this life he's made in Oxenfurt and on the Path, but he never could have predicted the love that's already sprung up in his life already.

It's a very late night, or a very very early morning, when Geralt asks Yennefer about her marks- the marks erased when she became a mage.

"Never had one," she says, teasingly tracing the edge of his gloves, "I never needed fate to find love."

In the dark, between a sigh and a moan, his gloves are cast away.

When the sun has properly risen and midday creeps closer, she holds hands between her own.

"Rather provincial, aren't they?" She brings the tender pale flesh of his palm to her mouth and bites playfully, "I'd expect nothing less of a Rivian."

"Not quite a Rivian," he says and gently wriggles his fingers against her jaw, smiling as she can't help laugh and let the marks out of her teeth, "are they to your liking?"

Her answer comes as a carafe of apple juice.

It's a hard day: starting with Geralt stumbling through a portal smelling of lilac and gooseberries and ending with Jaskier dragging a nearly-drowned Geralt out of a waterhag's shack.

Two baths were called- a rare luxury in a rickety town- for Jaskier knew a shared bath would end up with at least one of them more disgusting at the end. Geralt is, Melitele be praised, uninjured besides a black eye that blooms stark against the lingering potion-pale pallor he'd had earlier.

The two strip and Jaskier climbs into his bath: Geralt casts a look at the door and cocks his head and throws his pus-soaked gloves straight into the chamberpot.

They soak, side by side, and chatter tiredly and Jaskier thinks nothing of it when Geralt offers to perk up his water and he sees the moon and comet and dappled lines on Geralt's right hand as he casts Igni into the bath.

The smell of lilac and gooseberries and fucking are starting to sweat out of Geralt's hair and the memories of the wedding feast cut through him, unbidden, and Jaskier should have won another master's degree in performance for the way he blames the jump in his heart on the scalding water.

The curling misery he later blames on the thought of ridding the swamp stench from his boots.

Jaskier learns to knit gloves sometime around when Geralt forces himself to admit the bard is past boyhood. It's a rather domestic skill for Jaskier to learn in adulthood, though he claims they're easier to make and repair on the Path: which isn't a lie exactly and the bard does earn them a few coins fiddling with the needles in town and selling the gloves.

The knitted gloves seem to be his preference now- less prone to tearing as they wear and able to go longer without laundering. It's the threads of anxiety beneath it that give Geralt pause, he's been presuming Jaskier was unmarked entirely and wore the gloves for attention, but the longer he guards the little span of flesh the more Geralt thinks a tragedy must lie beneath the scraps of fabric.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with had rejected him- though Geralt thought that unlikely given how firmly Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side despite him trying to outrun the bard for a year. Whoever shared his marks didn't stand a chance against Jaskier's persistence. Against his smile.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with was already dead. Geralt didn't believe in the machinations of destiny or soulmarks, but that too twisted at him. Jaskier was a scoundrel, yes, but didn't deserve that so early in life. At the very least, it would explain why the bard wasn't concerned to muck with his fate by sharing his time with a witcher.

At the very least, he counts their time together as a blessing now, even if it's stolen from another.

Jaskier thinks it's finally time to come clean about his marks- their marks really. Not all marks are about just two people, he knows that, and Yennefer isn't the worst person to share a life with.

Honestly, he already does- Geralt's adverse to destiny but Yennefer would be sensible working out some kind of custody schedule if they didn't want to invite him in. He shares his life with Geralt, which is more than many soulmates get. He's not even sure he wants more of their lives shared, but the longer he keeps the marks hidden- the more the omission feels like a lie.

The more he knows he's lying to Geralt.

He figures it's an even shot Geralt that he'll never see him again or he'll be invited to winter at the Kaer.

It turns out he didn't even need the marks to drive Geralt away, being himself was enough.

"See you around Geralt."

A week after the dust settles and the Deathless Mother has been banished from their plane, Geralt notices Jaskier's gloves stretch from wrist to fingertip and when Jaskier is pulled into what is rapidly becoming Yennefer's lab, he can hear a sympathetic pained groan from Yennefer as Jaskier's fingers are rebroken.

Geralt knocked against the open door of Jaskier's room: Jaskier kicked another log into the fire-

Geralt should have thought of that.

"Come in," Jaskier said and settled back into the chair before his diary. Geralt saw a page with very few words and many drops of ink smeared across it.

Geralt took the poker and rearranged the wood of the fire to burn more evenly, "Yenn says you haven't been caring for your burns," he coaxed the fire into a more even burn and pressed it further back into the hearth.

There was a long silence, "I can't open the jar," Jaskier admitted.

"You know anyone here would help you, Jask-" he dragged a hand through his hair, had he really fucked it up that badly?

Jaskier's silence said what it needed to.

"I'm sorry I didn't make that clear, Jaskier," he said and saw Jaskier's gaze drop lower, to the page in front of him, "may I help you now?"

"I would like it if you opened the jar," Jaskier said, "I don't want to trouble you any further. And thank you for the fire-"

"It's not trouble, I should-" Geralt huffed a sigh, "I should have thought of it sooner. Thought of you sooner- please, let me help you."

Geralt could have heard a pin drop on the opposite side of Kaer Morhen as he waited for Jaskier to say something- anything.

He opened the jar of ointment and held on to it, even when Jaskier put a trembling hand out to grasp it, waiting for Jaskier to permit him to tend to the burns. Jaskier gave him a worn look.

Jaskier carefully took his gloves off- his fingers still wracked with the persistent tremors that made the single button at the wrists take an achingly long time to unfasten.

"The draughts help," Jaskier said softly, "but they will take time to subside."

They do not speak of the lute calluses that have started to thin and peel off entirely.

The gloves came off Jaskier's hand- revealing two palms and thumbs soiled by burns. There, amongst the gnarled scars, laid the burst remains of a sun and a moon.

Metz's treatise on the formation of the celestial spheres says the bursting of a sun creates a black hole: swallowing whole planets into its gravitational pull.

Geralt thought, perhaps, he should have considered his own marks when he wondered of Jaskier's for how often their hands touched.

"Don't-" Jaskier started, he took a deep breath and looked at the marks and not at Geralt, "please just the ointment, Geralt," he held out a hand again to take the pot from Geralt.

Geralt took the little pot of ointment, preciously carried in his saddlebags from Cidaris to Gulet to Kaer Morhen, and tugged off his own gloves as well. He carefully scooped out some of the ointment, the smell of dusk campion faint and familiar, and he warmed it between his palms.

He gently dragged his palms over Jaskier's before nimbly working the oil and medicine into his skin, taking care to rub into the creases between his fingers and the bumps of his remaining cuticles.

Yennefer says the draughts will help the nerves return and the ointment will smooth the burns.

Geralt was careful to be methodical and detached as he covered the marks with beeswax and the scent of campion. He cannot help but imagine the pain that forced Jaskier's sun and moon to bubble and split so wide; the layered burns that distort the comets into slashes of lightning.

He cannot help but wonder why Jaskier didn't leave him to rot.

He cannot help but wonder why soul marks are counted as a blessing when his sun and moon remain clear and smooth while Jaskier's have ruptured into glowing black holes. He must not be an expert, there must be a gap in his knowledge, for he'd once counted Jaskier's dismissal as a blessing.

"Easy there, Geralt," Jaskier said kindly, "there's no reason for all that."

Of course Jaskier could interpret the bite of Geralt's lip and the furrowing of his brow.

Geralt held Jaskier's hands between his own, their suns and moons nearly meeting where the burns didn't warp them, "I'd given up on seeing this," Jaskier said fondly, "our own little world in our hands." He traced Geralt's comet down to the bowl of the moon, "Thank you Geralt, you did a very good job."

"I'm sorry," Geralt managed, "I didn't know."

"I didn't really want you to, would you have received it well?" Jaskier said pointedly, then his voice softened, "it was bad enough I wormed my way beside you- this- Geralt,” he gently squeezed their hands, “This is more than I dreamed of.”

"You should want more," Geralt said, "You should ask for more. I'm sorry-"

"I've said the same of you," Jaskier laughed softly, a rare sound of late, "I've said the same of you many times. Perhaps we can work on this together."

#actual fic nothing in the world is mine but my love mine #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witch writes

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fangirleaconmigo · 1 year

Text

I wrote my first full Geraskefer (Geralt x Yen x Jaskier poly) fic! It's a..."it's not really unrequited, Jaskier is just a dumdum" fic. It has a POV chapter for each character.

It is below AND on Ao3 (5k words)

I wrote it as part of a fandom event with @witcherficwriters for @demeter918

Jaskier

When Jaskier fell in love with Geralt, it hit him hard and fast--like an arrow straight to the heart. Yen was different. Falling for her had worked like a poison, like droplets in his wine, building up in his body unnoticed, year after year until he was weak and unsteady.

That was the truth of the matter. But it all sounded so cliche.

Bollocks.

His metaphors needed work.

Jaskier leaned against a large oak tree and picked at his lute. Every few notes, he stopped to scratch lyrics on his parchment.

He needed something that rhymed with venom.

Jaskier was in a forest, by himself, half drunk. His heart ached in the empty place where his friends used to be. Once upon a time, this had all been easier. Simpler. He had known his role and had played it well.

In the first several decades of his relationship with Geralt, Jaskier was the one who picked up the pieces. The witcher and the witch were always at each other’s throats, always scratching each other’s eyes out. When the fights were over and the dust had settled, Jaskier was always there with a pint and a friendly ear.

Then, after Voleth Meir, things changed. It had felt so odd, drifting away from Geralt, and being there for Yennefer during that cold, brutal phase when Geralt wanted nothing to do with her. Jaskier was the only one left in Kaer Morhen who provided her with any warmth. He was the only one who she could turn to.

If you asked an average member of the public to describe the famous troubadour Jaskier, you would be hard pressed to find someone who would use the terms reliable or constant. And yet? That was what he had been for them--his witcher and his witch. Jaskier had always been their port in the storm.

And while it had certainly troubled him over the years to see his friends hurting, he found comfort in helping. And, if he were honest, he may possibly have felt a tiny bit smug. A little, itty bit superior. While they fought, he patiently counseled. While they scratched and hissed, he embraced and listened.

The childish, fickle poet got to play the hero.

It had taken the sting out of the unrequited yearning.

But then the worst thing possible happened. Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg made up. And not just temporarily.

They grew.

They matured.

Parenting Ciri together eventually brought them closer than ever. And about six months ago, Geralt and Yen had purchased a lovely home by the sea.

THE SEA.

Jaskier’s face screwed up like he’d sucked a lemon. He spat on the ground next to him.

What rhymed with betrayal?

He had always understood that he was the friend, not the lover. It was true that both Geralt and Yen had kissed him at different points in their sordid histories. Each moment was burned into his memories for good. He was convinced that on his deathbed, the phantom caress of their lips would carry him back to the soil.

But every kiss, every touch that strayed from the bounds of friendship, had always felt furtive. Stolen. They had never spoken of it, and Geralt and Yen had always returned to one another.

Up until about six months ago, he thought he was fine with that.

But this new home by the sea changed everything. It was physical, conclusive evidence that they would be settling down together. Making a life. A future. Without him.

After about a month, the dinner invitations began to arrive for him at Oxenfurt. He would sit at his desk in silence and stare at the curled up parchment, picturing sitting around the table with Yen and Geralt. His heart ached with yearning for them. But he would only get as far as imagining what it would feel like to see their clothing hanging together, to sit on the furniture they picked out as a couple, and to witness their contented smiles, before he grew sullen and resentful.

Dinner.

Dinner in the home he was not a part of.

But he couldn’t say no. There was no rational reason to say no to generous invitations from cherished friends. So he decided to pretend he hadn’t received the invitations. He fled Oxenfurt for some conveniently timed walkabouts. They, however, knew he liked to hang around Posada, so an invitation had arrived for him there. So, Jaskier took off again. And again. And again. That was how he’d arrived where he was, on the outskirts of bum fuck nowhere, drunken and writing shitty ballads.

He tried to play another stanza, but the notes slipped from underneath his fingers, and dropped like bricks, making a discordant sound.

It was twilight. He looked at the empty wine flask at his knee. Shit. He may as well stop for the evening and stagger to an inn. Maybe the solution was to get more drunk. Yes Jaskier, he said to himself, that was a wise choice indeed.

“Master Jaskier!” A messenger boy popped out from the bushes.

Jaskier shrieked in surprise. The messenger boy was startled by his outburst, and shrieked in return. He was young, barely out of adolescence, wearing a hat pulled down to his prominent ears.

Jaskier clasped his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” He shouted, affronted. “You rogue! You snot nosed, uhhhh,” his brain was foggy, so his voice trailed off, not able to come up with any better insult than uhhhh.

“I apologize sir!” the messenger pleaded, “but I’ve been tracking you for ages. You’re a tough man to catch.”

Jaskier swore under his breath. He thought he’d lost the little bugger. What happened to standards? What happened to work ethic? The messengers were rapidly gaining both, and it troubled him. You could barely escape a legal summons anymore, nor messages from your dearest friends.

“I have another message from Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg and Sir Geralt of Rivia.” He held out a cream colored square of paper. It was a lush envelope this time, affixed with a black and white seal.

Geralt and Yen had designed their own seal to affix to the envelopes and parchments that they sent as a couple.

It was so very...

Jaskier eyed his lute, instead of the messenger boy. He just needed a word that rhymed with cloying.

The boy waved the envelope impatiently in front of his nose. The slight scent of lilac and gooseberries wafted towards him. Scent was a funny thing. A funny and powerful thing. This particular scent brought very specific memories roaring back to life. It brought back Kaer Morhen, in the wreckage of Voleth Meir, when his arms cradled the petite frame of one raven haired sorceress as she quietly pretended not to cry.

Suddenly, Jaskier felt like a complete ass.

He swiped the envelope, and sent the boy away with free advice to never ever fall in love. He sat back hard against the rock and opened the envelope, reading it against the dying of the light.

Yennefer

It was raining.

Yennefer had not planned for rain.

She straightened the silverware again and smoothed out the napkin. Damnit. She was turning into Tissaia.

“Why is he avoiding us?” she demanded. “We’ve sent him ten invitations by now. He’s gotten at least one, there’s no way he hasn’t.”

Yennefer couldn’t bring herself to speak her real fear aloud. Does he not want us? No. Of course he wants Geralt. Is it me? Does he not want me? A warm hand covered her own. She raised her eyes.

“He’ll be here,” Geralt assured her.

They sat together, on either side of a table for four. There was one more place setting immaculately staged in front of the empty chair. Geralt and Yen sat in silence, listening to the rain tap on the roof.

“It is so rude not of him not to answer. He should at least say yes or no.”

“He’s an ass,” hummed Geralt. “But he’ll be here.”

Yennefer nodded. He would be here. He would. He would come and she would show him the house that they bought and decorated with care and love, and she would feed him the food that she and Geralt had made with their own hands. She would tell him about the town, how lovely and vibrant it was and how well he would fit in. And when he had seen everything this particular life had to offer him, they would make him a proposition. They would extend him an invitation.

“And what if he does come?” Yennefer blurted out. “What if he does come, and when we make our offer, he thinks we’re some kind of degenerates? What if he laughs, what if he--”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier?” He laughed. “He’s the worst degenerate I have ever met.”

Yennefer swatted his arm softly. “Well, we aren’t. Not really.”

Geralt leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek. “You’re nervous. Don’t be nervous. And don’t read his thoughts when he gets here. He hates that. If the answer is no, then it’s no.”

Yennefer leaned into his kiss and sighed. The fireplace crackled. The wind ripped through the branches of the olive tree by the window, and it sent leaves flicking against the window. She turned and pressed her lips softly into his. Her eyes closed and she inhaled his warmth, his scent.

Her dear witcher. Her Geralt. Finally they were getting the chance to rest together. To build a life. She let out a trembling breath as she pulled away and opened her eyes. She gazed at him fondly.

“This is all your fault, Geralt. I blame you entirely.”

Geralt grimaced and gave her The Look.

“It is,” she insisted. “If you hadn’t brought that beastly little man into my life, if you hadn’t introduced us, if you hadn’t made him marginally more tolerable by your association with him, I would never have taken him more seriously than I ever should have.”

“Yen.” Geralt leaned towards her, looking patient and understanding.

“He’s a bastard and I don’t even care,” she protested. “And what is more, I never should have.”

“Yen,” Geralt said again, like he was comforting a cranky child.

It made her feel like a cranky child and her voice grew louder. “And I don’t! I don’t care! I haven’t. And what’s more, I don’t even care if he comes tonight. If he knocked right now, I don’t know if I’d even answer it, I’d leave him outside to drown, and catch cold, and it would serve him right--”

Her tirade was suddenly muffled by the sound of a bang on the door.

Yennefer and Geralt leapt to their feet, rattling the dishes. They stood, facing each other in the candlelight, the moment hanging in the air. Geralt smiled in that way that said I told you so. Yennefer grinned back at him.

The sorceress tore open the door.

There he was, ragged and sopping wet, dripping water onto her landing. The sight of his face after so long was overwhelming.

“Hello?” he said, though he said it like a question. “You summoned a bard?” He laughed weakly.

“Well it’s about time. Come in,” Yen said. “You look like a wet alley cat, and you smell like it too.”

Jaskier stepped inside, water dripping onto the rug. He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to have gotten even more blue, if that were possible. They stared at one another for a tense moment. This was normally the moment in which he would either compliment or insult her lavishly.

But he didn’t. He smiled tentatively and he seemed, well, Yennefer wasn’t sure how he seemed. Apprehensive? Nervous? She began to reach out with her mind out of habit. Geralt preferred for her to read his mind rather than to be forced to speak his, so she’d gotten into the habit.

But she felt Geralt’s urgent hand on the small of her back and she yanked her mind back like she had touched a hot stove.

Jaskier opened his arms, and with a voice that sounded cheerful and forced, said “Well. Don’t just stand there, rejoice! The famous bard Jaskier graces your humble home.”

“Yes, and you look ridiculous.” Yennefer touched the sad soaking feather drooping from his hat. “I think it’s dead, bard.” She tugged on the top of his boots. “And what the fuck are you doing wearing these in this downpour? Are they rainwater collection devices?”

Jaskier yanked her into an embrace. It was cold and wet and jarring. It also made her heart leap with joy and her eyes prickle with tears. Geralt wrapped his arms around the two of them, and didn’t let them go until he heard Jaskier’s teeth begin to chatter.

Geralt

Sometimes, when Geralt found himself in awkward social situations, he pretended that he was on a hunt. He would gather data with his senses instead of worrying about what he would say next.

This was one of those moments. Instead of letting the uncertain tension in the room seep into him, he looked around and gathered data.

Geralt sat in his own dining room, at a teak table he had made with his own hands. The table settings had been done by a servant girl called Fiona who came over for a few hours on odd days. She had folded the napkins into birds. They were lined up like little soldiers, ready to absorb the detritus of dinner.

Yen sat to his right. She had on one of those soft gowns that she often wore around the house. It was a crushed velvet green that made her look like she glowed from within. Whenever she wore it, he had to be careful how he touched her if he wanted to get anything productive done that day. The fabric was warm and flimsy and it drove him insane the way it slid under his fingers. It was a vulnerable, gossamer barrier between his desire and her bare body that felt like it could be removed with just one tug. Whenever she wore it, it was all he could do to keep the wolf in check and his hands to himself.

“I can’t believe you like these old things,” she would sniff.

But she knew. She loved to provoke him, then trap him between her thighs. He loved that too.

He inhaled, and she smelled as she always did. The scent of lilac and gooseberries had grown to become the scent of home, calming him on contact. Beneath that scent was her beauty potions. She had spent twice as long on her face and hair that morning, though he’d known better than to call attention to it. It was her armor. Her arsenal. It was all in preparation for this; this battle with her fear of being rejected.

That was another thing he wasn’t allowed to speak, but he knew it to be true. Geralt always assumed rejection was imminent, so he was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t receive it. But Yen had more pride than he did. In some ways, she was more vulnerable, though if he said that aloud he’d lose his nuts. He understood though. He looked at her softly, as she faced off with his oldest, dearest friend, her fingers clenching her knees under the table.

Geralt had been trying to avoid really looking at Jaskier, but now he did. He had to gather data, after all.

His gaze settled on Jaskier, and he tried to empty his mind.

The bard had been soaked to the bone, so Yen had offered him a fresh change of dry clothes. It was perfectly logical. But now Jaskier sat directly across from Geralt, wearing the witcher’s clothes.

The fireplace was directly behind the bard, which was a problem. Geralt’s tunic hung half off one of his shoulders, so the loose fabric was made transparent by the back lighting. The shape of Jaskier’s strong shoulders and the thick pelt he called chest hair was entirely too visible for the witcher’s comfort. The light from behind made his half wet hair look like a bedraggled halo, which, unfortunately, Geralt also found very charming. But most distracting of all was the scent. Jaskier had dried himself, but the subtle scent of fresh rain clung to his skin, mixing with the scent of Geralt.

It provoked a territorial instinct in the witcher that he was trying to tamp down on. This was a delicate situation, and he didn’t need to add flame to the fire. But it was no use. When he looked at Jaskier in his clothes, a voice within him growled.

Mine. Fucking Mine.

Back in the day, Geralt had never gotten enough of Jaskier to sate him. They’d kissed and groped in the cover of darkness, but things had been so chaotic then.

Everything then had been about Ciri. About survival. They were on the run from every power hungry bastard on the continent. There had been nothing left for what he wanted. When the dust cleared, he and Yen had made their way back to each other first. They were both focused on Ciri, after all. They had built their bridges. But he hadn’t meant to leave Jaskier behind.

Geralt looked at his friend now, and all he could think about was all the things he had never gotten to do. He’d kissed him. But had he kissed him properly? Tenderly? Like he meant it? Had he even paid attention? And what about all the places on Jaskier’s body that he had yet to touch or see in the beauty of daylight?

“Don’t you think, Geralt?” Yen asked, voice sounding tense.

Geralt startled. “What, dear?”

Shit. What had he missed?

Yen smiled, tight lipped. “Don’t you think this is a lovely area, Geralt? A great place to live? Doesn’t it have a thriving artistic community with plenty of bards and craftsmen and artists around?”

Geralt smiled too. “Yes. Yes. Definitely.” He wanted Jaskier to want to live here, and it seemed like just the thing to say. “Lots of bards.”

But Jaskier looked pained. “Other bards, you say?”

“No.” Geralt blurted out. “No. None. No other bards anywhere.”

Yennefer sighed. There was an awkward pause and he could see the gears turning. She was changing tactics. “How about a tour of the house?”

Again, Jaskier smiled but looked pained. Geralt felt like they were torturing the man, but he wasn’t sure how. He understood Yen’s impulse towards mind reading sometimes. “Yes,” Geralt answered. “A tour.”

“No! No thank you!” Jaskier said, a little too loudly. “I can see it from here!”

Yen and Geralt had already pushed away their plates and begun to stand. They plopped back down again.

Jaskier coughed and fiddled with his napkin. The little bird had long since unfolded into a shapeless mass, yet his napkin was still clean. Geralt looked at his plate. He and Yen had eaten their entire meals, but Jaskier hadn’t taken a bite.

“What’s the matter?” Geralt leaned forward and instinctively put his hand on the table, reaching towards his friend. Jaskier glanced at it and his face fell.

“I saw the room. When I was changing.”

“Your room?” asked Yen, her voice tight. “You don’t like it.”

Jaskier looked down at his napkin again, as he pinched and twisted it. “I do, it’s lovely. I saw that you put a lithograph up for each of my favorite bawdy houses in each of my favorite cities.” He smiled, and his eyes looked like they were growing wet. “And you put dried buttercups and music sheets.” He finally looked up at them. “It is so thoughtful and kind. You are the best friends anyone could hope to have.”

Yen leaned forward now too. She held Jaskier’s hand until his fingers stopped fluttering. Their eyes met. “Then what is wrong?”

Jaskier looked at Geralt and then back at Yen. “I wish the two of you weren’t so fucking kind. Because that means I must be honest with you.”

“Honest?” Geralt asked. “About what?”

Jaskier slipped his hand free of Yen and sat back in his chair. She returned her hands to her lap, so Geralt reached under the table and laced his fingers together with hers. They were clammy and nervous.

Jaskier looked at the ceiling. “I’m a selfish cunt.” He looked back at them, more confident now. “Alright?”

“Yes,” Yen agreed. “We know that.”

Jaskier continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “I am not worthy of your friendship. Because,” He drew in a slow breath, then released it, “I want more.”

“More?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier swallowed. “Geralt, I have all of these feelings. I tried to deny them. I tried to change them. I don’t want to feel this way.” He was speaking so fast now, Geralt was having trouble keeping up. “But I do. So I am not going to be able to come and stay here just yet, in this beautiful room, not until I can calm this beast in my heart, and can accept the love of your friendship without wanting more. It’s why I avoided your invitations. Instead of answering honestly, I avoided you, and now I must decline your hospitality for the foreseeable future. Because,” he tapped the table a few times, “I am a selfish cunt.”

There was a moment of silence between them, though the fire crackled away noisily.

Yen cleared her throat. “You want more? From who? Which one of us are you talking about? Me, or Geralt?”

Jaskier’s shoulders drooped. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

There was a longer moment of silence. It was a delicate, brittle silence, as they all sat, trying to grasp for their next words. Geralt finally broke the silence.

“Why don’t we take that tour of the house.” He slipped his hands around Yen’s waist. “Let’s show him the bedroom.”

Jaskier squeaked a protest. “Geralt, you weren’t listening, please don’t do this to me--”

But Yennefer was up in a flash, tugging him by the hand.

Jaskier

Jaskier allowed himself to be pulled along because he didn’t want to fight with Yen. But when he stepped into the bedroom, his heart sank, exactly as he was expecting it to.

It was a lovely room. It reflected the elegance and taste of Yen, but it was unfussy in a way that felt like Geralt. The bed was large enough to accommodate a small army. They must have had it made special so they could be as acrobatic as Yen wanted to be.

Jaskier swallowed down the lump in his throat. They could both be so kind, and yet so cruel. He’d said he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to see where they carried on without him.

“Jaskier.”

Yen was still holding his hand. He focused on her, and immediately regretted it. He felt vulnerable. His eyes were prickling, his throat constricting. And despite his emotional turmoil, he still felt that old attraction to her.

How could he not?

Look at her.

Those incomparable, violet, doe eyes. The softness of her hands. The shameless grace of her low swooping neckline which, from his higher perspective, revealed most of her lovely breasts. They’d been in his mouth once, on his lips.

He cleared his throat and corrected his wandering gaze. “Yes?”

She stepped close. Too close. He became aware of his quickening pulse. He glanced nervously at Geralt. Geralt sat on the bed, leaning back on his hands. He didn’t seem concerned that the love of his life was a bit too close to his best friend.

Yen cradled his face, forcing him to look at her once more.

“Yes?” he repeated doubtfully, his voice cracking like an adolescent.

Yen pushed up onto her toes and gently tugged him down, just as she pressed her lips to his. They were pliant and petal soft, and before he could think, he moaned and clasped her slight waist, clenching her tight.

Yen, lovely Yen, pressed into his lips with her tongue. There was no mistaking this kiss for anything friendly.

Panic came roaring back, and Jaskier dropped her waist and stumbled backwards, covering his mouth. He was too ashamed to look at Geralt. “Geralt,” he croaked. “No. I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

His back hit the wall. Yen was looking at him like she did sometimes. Like she thought he was a fool, but she was resigned to it. She shook her head as though regretting all of her life choices. “Geralt?” she asked.

Geralt stood up from the bed, almost lazily. He stretched, giving Jaskier a moment to admire him too. He wore a tunic much like the one Jaskier had on. When he stretched, he revealed a sliver of belly. He’d been eating better, and he looked thicker than Jaskier remembered. He looked absolutely divine.

While Jaskier was busy admiring him, the witcher took three long steps towards him. The witcher was so large and broad, but he moved so gracefully that it made Jaskier’s head spin.

Jaskier tensed. He wasn’t sure why. What would Geralt do to him? He lifted his arms in defeat.

But Geralt was not angry. He did not push him, or anything else Jaskier feared. Instead, the witcher looped his arms around Jaskier’s waist and spun him.

Jaskier felt the room spin and his body drop. Geralt was dipping him.

He managed to relax and let himself be thrown backwards into Geralt’s arms. Then Geralt leaned down and their foreheads touched, their lips were so close together.

Jaskier smiled tentatively and touched Geralt’s cheek.

Then, Geralt kissed him, fiery and passionate. It was just like some romance novel. Jaskier let himself go. He sunk into Geralt’s arms and pressed into his kiss. Some part of Jaskier’s mind was vaguely aware that Yen was watching them.

When Geralt returned him to his feet, Jaskier was dizzy. He was giggling like a schoolgirl, and he was dizzy.

“Do you understand now, bard?” teased Geralt.

Jaskier touched his own lips and looked from Geralt to Yen. “Oh.”

It was all he could say. He was a poet, damnit. A poet.

Oh.

Yen giggled too. She did that so rarely. It was a fucking gorgeous sound. A girlish, carefree sound that she so rarely made. “Moron,” she said, as she threw herself into his arms.

Jaskier nodded, in a daze, stroking the small of her back and pressing a kiss to her hair. “I think I get it,” he said, his voice rough.

“There are three pillows on the bed, Jaskier,” said Geralt. He pointed at the bed. And yes, it was true. “There are three hooks by the door,” Geralt continued, “for robes and things--” his voice trailed off.

“We made you a room,” said Yen, voice muffled by being pressed into Jaskier’s chest, “just so you could have your own space if you want it. But we want you to live in this one, with us.”

Geralt draped his arms around them, encircling both of them. “You only need to use your room when you want privacy or need a break.” He kissed the top of Yen’s head. Then he kissed Jaskier’s temple.

Jaskier was never speechless. He always had something to say. But he could not quite believe that life would give him this blessing. After everything they had been through. After the pain, and torture, after the imprisonment, the loss.

He was really going to get to have this.

“Well,” Yen asked. “What do you say, bard? Cat got your tongue?”

Jaskier let his head drop onto Geralt’s impossibly round, impossibly solid shoulder. ‘I accept,” he said. “I accept.”

-----

Jaskier had, of course, had sex with multiple people at once. When he could afford to, or he was on someone else’s dime, he paid for multiple people to attend to him at the brothels. There were also those nights when he had several fans who wanted him after a performance, and weren’t averse to sharing. He loved the attention, that was no secret.

But this.

This was something new.

He had never made love to two people at once, not people that he would lay down his life for. And while he was aware that some people had more than two individuals in their relationships, he supposed it hadn’t occurred to him that Yen and Geralt might be like that, and for him of all people.

He was nervous at first. But when he saw that touching Geralt made Yen smile, and that touching Yen made Geralt’s eyes darken with lust, he relaxed.

When Geralt and Yen asked him what he wanted, he was in such shock that he fell back into old habits. He grasped Yen’s thighs and ate her out like she was his last meal, though he had never done that with Geralt fucking him from behind. It was unspeakably sexy. It also made him feel important that two people like Geralt and Yen wanted him like that.

They learned how to move together, they touched one another, kissed one another, and rolled around together on the bed big enough for an army.

When they lay in the afterglow, Jaskier asked if he’d died and gone to heaven. It was truly difficult to fathom that he could have both. Choosing anything was the bane of his existence and it seemed too good to be true that it would not be required of him.

Geralt assured him that when Yen began to use his legs to warm her feet, he would change his tune.

“That’s the main reason you’re here, bard,” Geralt had said. “I was tired of being the foot warmer.”

That night, Jaskier fell asleep with a contented sigh on his lips.

He was with Yen. He was with Geralt. He was home. Home at the house on the sea.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #geraskefer #descarada writes #geralt x yennefer x jaskier

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thedemonofcat · 1 year

Text

It is not meant to be mean, but Geralt has always been dismissive of Jaskier's career. He believed that since it is so simple to make music, anyone could do it.

Following the mountain, meeting Ciri and finding Yennefer to teach Ciri magic. In her recommendation to Ciri that she should get a tutor for when she becomes a queen, Yennefer suggests Jaskier. She is confident that he is the only professor that she can rely on not to sell them out.

While Geralt is hesitant to do so, he says that he thinks it would be best if Jaskier stayed far away from them while Nifflgaard is hunting them.

Yennefer convinces Geralt that Jaskier will probably be safer with them than away from them.

Eventually, Geralt agrees to the plan and ends up in Oxenfurt in order to fetch Jaskier from there. Instead of apologizing for what he said on the mountain, Geralt just tells Jaskier to come back to Kear Morhen with him. Jaskier is unwilling to do so, and Geralt just thinks that Jaskier is being a stubborn idiot by refusing to do so.

As a result, both men agree to a deal that is made between them. For a week, Geralt will sit in on Jaskier's classes and if he can pass a test by the end of the week, then Jaskier won't have any problems returning to Kear Morhen. However, if Geralt fails, he will have no choice but to leave Jaskier alone, for good. (This time, for ever).

At the very beginning, Geralt is truly of the opinion that passing Jaskier classes is going to be an easy task. Only to be shocked when he finds out that he does not understand what Jaskier is saying in the classes he is taking. As opposed to Jaskier who tends to ramble on from one topic to another on the path. His lectures are always on the same topic, but he presents them in such a technical and advanced manner. That Geralt almost thinks that Jaskier is a textbook come to life.

As Geralt was not willing to lose Jaskier once again, he only started to study hard in order to be able to win the deal.

Elsewhere Jaskier is also trying to decide on how hard he should go on Geralt. A part of him wants to be needed again by Geralt in a way. The problem is that Jaskier is also hesitant to open himself up again after the first heartbreak that he had to endure from Geralt.

#the witcher netflix #joey batey #geralt of rivia #jaskier the witcher #the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #fic ideas #geraskier #jaskier #gerskier #headcanon #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #anya cholatra #yennefer of vengerberg

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freetheworms · 2 years

Note

Perhaps "I love you" as a promise for the prompts? 💚

hiiiii wren <3

a million thank yous for sending this and also your patience because it took me soooo long to write this lmao (life is insane, what else is new!!!) but finally it's done! idk what it is exactly but here! for you!!

(Geraskier, 1.2k words, warning for MCD i guess? reincarnation tho don’t worry)

**********

Geralt names all his horses Roach.

It is strange, he knows. He’s been told, even, that it’s too boring, too impersonal, too cold, and yet still he does not change.

“Don’t you think it’s a disservice to the love of the last Roach? To name them all the same?” Jaskier had said after that third winter; the first time Geralt had spotted the bard from the back of a new young mare with the same old name.

(Well. Truthfully, the first thing Jaskier had said upon introduction to the new steed was, “Geralt, not to alarm you, but you do know this is an entirely different horse, right?” but Geralt doesn’t feel much like laughing just now.)

Geralt had merely grunted in lieu of an answer, and blessedly, Jaskier had shrugged and prattled on about some colleague or other that had wronged him over his winter at Oxenfurt. He hadn’t yet learned to push his fingers into the cracks of Geralt’s armour.

Good. Better Jaskier not ask about the why.

Because the why is something even Geralt himself doesn’t quite know how to name.

The why is the way his mother left him all those years ago; doomed him to a life of loneliness and loss that doesn’t follow him, but begs him to ride along the soft curve of it’s back. The way he accepts time and time again because at least it’s something to hold onto.

The why is his brothers lost. The family he was never meant to have, but now mourns in the dark of the night when no one can see him. The men that did not return to the keep one winter or another, no word, no warning, no goodbye. The children they were, are, could never be, will never stop being.

The why is Geralt, just a few years on the path, holding axii to that first mare’s coat, gritting his teeth against the flood of emotions he’s been told he no longer has. It’s the way his shoulders shake as her heavy head lolls in his lap, no pain left in her, but neither any life. The way that suddenly, he’s never felt more alone.

The why is the way Renfri had looked at him, all dark eyes, pleading for something Geralt couldn’t give her, let alone himself. The way he’d watched that look bleed out across his trousers, the cobblestone, sink into his skin. The way he’d refused to play the game and yet somehow lost anyway.

The why is Jaskier.

The why is having known, the moment he’d met him, that this would be a pain to end all pain. That this was going to crush him beyond all recognition, and worse still, leave him standing. Whole and wholly emptier than ever before.

The why is something about pain and loss and having no control over either. Something about a life so long you’re afraid to live it, for fear of the holes it tears in your soul to leave love behind. Something about the lies we allow ourselves in order to keep living.

***

“Geralt, darling?” Jaskier asks now, so many years later, “Why do you name all your horses Roach?” His eyes are just as blue as ever, though his lashes now are silver as they catch the midmorning light.

Geralt’s grip on his bard’s frail hand tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now. He wants to run. He wants to hold tighter. He wants to fall apart right here in this chair and let his love put him back together again. He wants to lie.

But he owes Jaskier this.

And so he takes a deep breath, and he says, “I have spent my whole life losing. I couldn’t bear to lose her too.”

(“I can’t lose you,” he doesn’t say. He thinks maybe Jaskier hears it anyway.)

“Oh, my dearest,” Jaskier sighs, a small smile on his lips. His voice is like rain after a long drought. “You have spent your whole life loving.”

Geralt thinks about that for a long moment. “I suppose you could say I have,” he says at last. “Love, and loss. One and the same when you live a life like mine.”

“Ours,” Jaskier corrects.

“A life like ours,” Geralt concedes, strokes a thumb across the back of Jaskier’s weathered hand.

Ours.

“And what a life it has been,” Jaskier breathes. He sounds tired, nostalgic, alive. “A life by your side. I wouldn’t change it for the world, my love. Would you?”

He’s thought about it. Really, he has. He’s spent countless nights by the light of the fire, watching Jaskier breathe, pondering this inevitable loss; wondering whether he’d be better off having never loved at all.

(There’s a poem in there somewhere, he thinks, but poetry has always belonged to his bard, and so he leaves that thread alone.)

“I wouldn’t,” he says finally, and he’s almost surprised to find that he means it, even after all of this pain. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

Jaskier beams at him then, like Geralt himself has hung the moon. “See, I always knew you loved me under all those—” he gestures with the fingers of the hand Geralt isn’t holding like a lifeline. The movement is slow and stilted. “—lovely muscles,” he finishes with an exaggerated wink that deepens the crows feet around his eyes.

It’s a joke, Geralt knows, but he has to be sure. “You do know though, don’t you? That I—“

“I do,” Jaskier interrupts. “Oh Geralt, my love, of course I do. My only regret is that I’ll hate to leave you.”

Gently, Geralt raises Jaskier’s hand to his lips and kisses it softly, willing it to convey all the things he could never say out loud.

(I hate it too. Please don’t go. Take me with you.)

The silence stretches out between them, and Jaskier’s eyes slip closed. His heartbeat is faint now, even to witcher’s ears, and Geralt steadfastly does not go to pieces. He holds Jaskier’s hand a little tighter.

Not yet, not yet, not yet, he silently pleads. He is still pleading when Jaskier cracks his eyes open and says, so quietly that were he human, Geralt isn’t sure he’d have heard it, “Before I go, will you promise me one thing, my love?”

“Anything.”

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand as tight as he dares and looks, for all the world, as if, of every word he’s ever written or uttered, this may well be the most important. “Will you promise to find me? In my next life.”

“That, and every life after,” Geralt says, because he knows this is his last chance to say it. “High and low, my lark, I will search for you. I will love you, always and forever.”

The rapture that washes over Jaskier then is so palpable that Geralt himself feels awash with it, despite everything. “I love you,” Jaskier says, and it’s almost an echo. “In this life, and the next.”

And then, with a sigh of relief, and Geralt’s hand firm in his, Jaskier is still.

***

Geralt names all his horses Roach.

It is strange, he knows. But when he once again meets a travelling bard with bright blue eyes and a flower for a name, all those years after he made a quiet promise, he finally knows how to answer his question.

The why is knowing that goodbye is not always the end. That no matter how many times they say it, the love is never lost. That the love of the last does not cheapen the love of the extant, no matter the name.

The why is Jaskier. Always and forever. In this life, and the next.

#geraskier #gracie writes #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #witcher fanfic #twn #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #ive been meaning to write a fic about geralt naming all his horses roach for MONTHS now #and ive also been thinking in circles about this prompt so. i figured why not combine!

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fandom-junk-drawer · 1 year

Text

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Hospitals

Geralt is no stranger to hospitals. He ends up visiting them somewhat often. Sometimes it's because Geralt gets swept up in Jaskier's hijinks, and Yennefer refuses to heal whatever injury he obtained that requires immediate medical attention. She wonders how Geralt can just let Jaskier convince him that doing something, like trying to slide on the hardwood floor in socks (ending with a broken ankle), would be a fun game.

But he mostly ends up at a hospital because being a Witcher is a high-risk occupation. Between the toxicity from his potions, and the aggressive nature of the monsters he hunts, injuries and illness are a given. Sometimes Jaskier is with him, and he can call Yennefer. But if he is alone, or if Yennefer can't get to him, he ends up taking a trip to the hospital.

Yennefer and Jaskier drove to the hospital to see Geralt. A Czernobog had almost gutted him before it died. Geralt was tired from the long fight, and gotten too close when he was trying to see if the monster was dead. Now he was in one of the few Witcher-friendly hospitals in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier did not like hospitals. They were scary places. People died in them. The thought of him ever having to go to one for an injury or illness scared the sh*t out of him.

But he had no problem happily walking into one to visit an injured friend. Visiting was fun, especially after he found out about all the hot nurses, the piano in the lobby, free cafeteria food, and the Visitors Pass thing.

The hospital required that everyone visiting a patient stop a the registration desk to obtain an ID verified Visitor's Pass. It was a little bit of a pain, waiting for their ID to be verified, but the hospital was very protective of their Witcher patients.

The first time they went to get a pass, Jaskier had just stuck it on his shirt and followed Yennefer as a nurse led them to the ICU. There, they had to have the barcode on their pass sticker scanned by a staff mameber before the doors would open. After that, once Jaskier had been assured by the attending physician that Geralt was going to be alright, he started having fun with the placement of his Visitor's Pass.

The placement started out realtively tame, with Jaskier sticking it on his forehead. Yennefer had rolled her eyes, and muttered that his mouth would be a better place for it. Geralt had been unconscious, so the day had been largely uneventful, with Yennefer and Jaskier taking turns sitting with Geralt and making trips to the cafeteria for food.

The next pass had been stuck to his chest. Jaskier then gleefully lifted the hem of his shirt up to his neck so the nurse at the scanning station could scan his pass, commenting that he would completely understand if it took her a few moments of searching to find it in all his chest hair.

The nurse with the scanner had tried to remain professional, but Jaskier had given her that playful, sweet smile, and she couldn't help but take her time getting the handheld scanner ready. She'd looked, respectfully, as she took her time scanning the barcode.

Jaskier had made the most satisfying squeal as Yennefer had reached over and ripped the pass off his chest before he could get his shirt back down.

The nurse had giggled and opened the doors for them.

Geralt had been awake, if a little loopy. He was on heavy pain medication and lightly sedated so he wouldn't try to get up. Jaskier and Yennefer entertained themselves by taking a few selfies with him and sending them to Madeleine and Geralt's brothers. Geralt lay there like a stoned lump, looking like he could see forever, while Yennefer and Jaskier were leaning in on either side of him, making faces, licking his face, or sticking a finger in his mouth or nostril.

Word got around that there was a hot guy flashing his tits in the ICU, and when Yennefer and Jaskier had returned from their trip to the cafeteria, there had been a sudden issue with the scanner that had taken three nurses with three different scanners, making multiple attempts to scan the pass before the problem was finally resloved.

Yennefer got permission from the hospital to do short healing sessions on Geralt. The faster she could get Geralt out of the hospital, the better. When they arrived that morining, Jaskier had decided he was going to really get creative with his Visitor's Pass. He'd kept it in his hand as they'd walked away from the Registration desk. Yennefer started whisper yelling fiercely at him after he shut her out of his head.

Jaskier! No! Don't you dare! Don't you f***ing dare, Julian! JULIAN-!

Jaskier gave her a feral grin

Hoe, don't do it!

He proceeded to stick the pass to the a** of his close-fitting jeans.

OhH mY GaWWwD!

The nurses at the scanner had been fighting for their lives when he'd turned around, grabbed his knees and looked over his shoulder while they scanned the sticker on his a**.

Yennefer was just grateful he hadn't decided to stick it on his bare a**cheek. He had some self-control after all.

Healing magic required concentration, so Yennefer kicked Jaskier out, sending him to the lobby to call Vesemir and give him an update on how Geralt was doing.

She knew he would be gone for a few minutes, between calling Vesemir, getting her a coffee, and showing his a** to the nurses.

He was gone for over an hour. Yennefer finally went to look for him. All sorts of worrisome thoughts on what he might be up to paraded through her head.

She found the little s*d in the lobby, playing the piano, surrounded by an adoring crowd. Well, at least he wasn't harrassing the nurses. Yennefer had collected him and began ushering him back to Geralt's room, keeping a firm grip on his hand so he couldn't wander off.

She made a quick stop at the cafeteria for a cup of coffee that wasn't the temperature of swamp water. Then she impatiently waited for Jaskier outside the Men's Restroom. She heard a quiet, muffled oath, an almost manic giggle, the sounds of someone 'Flight of the Bumblebee' washing their hands, and then Jaskier was hurriedly walking out while whispering

"Go, go, go! I just dropped a massive sh*t! It's gotta weigh at least half a stone! It was bigger round than a...well, anyway, it got stuck and the f***ing toilet's flooding the bathroom!"

"You what???"

Jaskier showed Yennefer his phone as they strode quickly down the hall.

"You took a picutre of it?!"

"H*ll yeah, I did! It's f***ing epic! I need photographic evidence!"

"It's f***ing massive!"

"I know, right?!"

Maybe she was just feeding off Jaskier's energy, or maybe she was just releasing pent up tension from the last few days, but Yennefer started grinning, then began giggling. She snorted and covered her mouth to hold in the laugh that was trying to escape. "For f**k's sake, you destroyed that bathroom!"

"Shhhhh! Keep walking!" Jaskier hissed back, face split in a pumpkin grin as he grabbed Yennefer's hand and hustled her down the hall. They set the world speed record for the nonchalant walk when they heard a shocked and horrified "Aww, F**k!" as they went around the corner. When they got back to Geralt's room, it took them 10 minutes before they could stop giggling. Jaskier had to text the photo to Lambert, and that triggered another giggle fit.

The attending physician came into see Geralt, and announced that he was out of danger and could be moved out of ICU. Geralt was taken off the heavy duty pain medication and the sedative.

After a day of rest and solid food, Geralt was looking more like himself. Especially after Jaskier had tried spoonfeeding him.

Jaskier *airplane nosies*: "Here comes the airplane!"

Geralt: *scary face*

Yennefer: *slaps back of Jaskier's head* "Can you stop?" *snatches spoon out of his hands* "You're doing it wrong anyway! You have to fly the spoon like this! Here comes the airplane!" *more realistic airplane noises*

"Oh, wow, you are so much better at that than I am! Must be all that practice you have from flying on your broomstick!"

"Ok Mr. Half Stone Sh*t! How did you practice for passing that massive turd without tearing your ar*ehole? Hmm????"

Jaskier opened his mouth to give what would surely be an explanation that nobody wanted to hear. Yennefer yanked her Pass off her shirt and slapped it over his mouth.

Jaskier *indignant bard noises*

Geralt had started laughing, holding his still sore belly, while Yennefer smiled smugly at the bard.

The nurses started getting Geralt out of bed to get some light exercise. The Witcher was not happy about being so weak that he needed help walking from two fragile humans and a walker. Luckily Jaskier was there to make That Old Man You Want to F**k jokes and to take pictures of Geralt's a** hanging out of the back of his hospital gown and make comments about how flabby it was starting to look.

Yennefer discovered that there was an ongoning battle among the nurses at the start of every shift for who was going to get "Hot Witcher in Room 205" duty. Of course Jaskier had to tease Geralt about it.

The nurses were very patient with their grumpy charge. He often refused to get up, or do what they asked him to do. The nurses tried to get him to get up to shower, or walk, or go for physical therapy, but the Witcher put up a fight. Sometimes Yennefer or Jaskier tried to convince him to cooperate, but Geralt could be incredibly stubborn.

So the hospital staff sent in the gray-haired nurse they called 'Meemaw'. She was a small woman, with a warm, motherly air about her. She was the nurse they called in to handle the most stubborn, high-strung, and combative patients. Meemaw was a small, plump woman, all soft edges and smiles,and soft hands.

She spoke to Geralt in a manner that deceptively suggested she'd just been pulled out of the maternity ward nursery. She may have been soft and motherly, but she also clearly let Geralt know that she was not to be trifled with, and would be having none of his bullsh*t. Like every other Witcher she'd been put in charge of, Geralt very abruptly found himself doing whatever it was that Meemaw asked him to do.

She'd even tamed Jaskier. He'd made one joke, and Meemaw had given him a look. He'd stupidly winked cheekily and tried to use his charms on her, and Meemaw had wasted no time putting him in his place with a tone of voice that had his inner child combing it's hair, tucking in it's shirt, sitting up straight, and tidying it's room. He'd meekly apologized and shut his mouth. After that, Jaskier was a perfect gentleman whenever Meemaw was around.

Yennefer got permission from the hospital to bring Wee Roach in to see Geralt. The Witcher had perked up immediately as soon as he'd heard the sound of her custom made trainers on the floor. She spent half the day in Geralt's arms, being fed apple slices and having her rainbow dyed mane braided.

Geralt was much more motivated and cooperative after the visit, and he improved quickly, working hard so he could go home and be with his tiny fat pony.

The nurses all came to say goodbye the day he was being released. Geralt took picutres with them and gave out a round of hugs before he was wheeled out to Van Roach. Jaskier had disappeared somewhere between the photo session and Geralt being brought outside. Yennefer helped Geralt into the van and was just getting ready to go back inside to look for him, when the bard came walking out, fast. Yennefer heard his voice shouting in her head as he power walked toward her

"Get in the van, get in the van!"

Yennefer didn't even have to ask why. She knew. He would probably show her the picture he'd undoubtedly taken of it later.

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