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geraskeferbingo · 3 years

Text

Could be ghosts or monsters

My fourth fill for @geraskeferbingo, the sequel to Don't know what's out there, is up!

Prompt: Magical accident

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Geralt/Yennefer; pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Geralt and Yennefer want nothing to do with Jaskier, the annoying college student who’s written a book based on their life story. But when Geralt finds himself trapped inside a cursed house, the magic-immune Jaskier might be the only one who can help get him out.

You can read the first few scenes below the cut or find the whole fic on AO3!

“We could kill him.”

Geralt looks across the booth at his partner in exasperation. “We’re not killing him.”

Yennefer stirs some cream into her tea, gazing into it with a faintly judgemental expression. “We could just kill him a bit.”

“And how would we do that?”

“You tell me. You’re the expert in killing things.”

The waitress at the University Diner, whose nametag reads Mabel walks up at just that moment. She blinks at Yennefer with heavily lined eyes. “Anything else I can get you folks?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Yennefer says. “We’re just waiting for a friend.”

Mabel looks relieved for the excuse to scurry away.

“He’s not a thing,” Geralt says. “He’s a college student.”

“He’s a pest.” She takes a sip of her tea and wrinkles her nose delicately. “There are upwards of ten thousand students in this city. No one’s going to miss one.”

“Yennefer.” Geralt takes a sip of his own coffee and pushes the mug away. He’d be better off eating the menu. “We promised him if he came to meet us, we wouldn’t hurt him.”

“You promised.”

“It’s going to be a lot harder for you to hurt him, since he’s immune to chaos.”

She makes a disgruntled noise.

As if on cue, the front door to the diner opens with a bang and Geralt twists around in his seat to see Jaskier, also known as J.A. Pankratz, bestselling author of Will of the Witcher come striding in. He’s wearing a violently yellow, flowered button-up shirt that’s had several buttons undone since they saw him at the book signing an hour before.

“Huh,” Yennefer says. “He actually came.”

Jaskier catches sight of them and waves, hurrying over to slide into the booth next to Geralt. Even though the booth is plenty large, his knee bumps against Geralt’s thigh. “Oh, good, you found the place! Have you had the coffee yet? It’s really good.”

The last bit of respect Geralt has for this man shrivels up and dies. “It’s two blocks from the bookstore. Wasn’t hard to find.”

Jaskier bobs his head in a nod, eyes flickering back and forth between Geralt and Yennefer. “So, how have you two been?”

“In the hour since you saw us at the bookstore?” Yennefer asks. “Or the two years since we saved your life and you repaid us by writing this drivel?”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to the copy of Will of the Witcher sitting on the orange vinyl tabletop. “Drivel is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“No, I think it might be an understatement,” Yennefer says. “Slander is another word. Or maybe just soulless, unimaginative nonsense.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “Well, Yennefer, tell me what you really think.” He turns to Geralt. “What about you? Give me your honest review. Three words or less.”

Geralt looks him dead in the eye. “It’s all bullshit.”

“Ah, well, thanks for your honesty, I suppose.”

Mabel approaches and Jaskier orders a coffee and a short stack of blueberry pancakes with a side of sausage, clearly relieved by the interruption. Yennefer and Geralt stick with their drinks.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yennefer demands. “Writing a story based on our lives?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, it’s not really based on your lives, is it? I barely know either of you. The little bit I did know was a jumping off point for the characters of Gerald and Gwendolyn.”

“There are enough similarities.”

“Are there?” Instead of looking contrite, Jaskier visibly brightens. “Oh, good, then my read on the two of you was right. Tell me, was the djinn section even remotely accurate? Every source I could find on djinns told a completely different story, so I wasn’t sure.”

“Not particularly,” Geralt says, then wonders why he’s playing along. “Djinns don’t usually manifest a physical form.”

“Oh.” Jaskier deflates a bit.

Geralt takes pity on him and adds, “You got the homicidal rage right.”

Yennefer shoots him a dirty look from across the table.

Reminding himself why they’re here, Geralt taps the cover of Will of the Witcher. “This needs to go away.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “Go away?”

“People had practically forgotten that witchers existed, before you wrote this book,” Geralt tells him. “That’s what’s allowed me to live in relative peace for the last few centuries. Now, people are talking about us again. Nothing good ever comes of humans being interested in witchers.”

“But they still think you’re a myth,” Jaskier says. “Trust me, no one is reading this book and taking it as historical fact.”

“Still don’t like it.”

“I can’t make it go away, Geralt. The first run sold out in a matter of weeks and the second is flying off the shelves. It got a four star review in The Redanian Times, which would be a five star review anywhere else. There might be a movie. What do you want me to do, issue a retraction? Say that these fictional characters don’t actually exist and none of the things they go through happened?”

Yennefer leans across the table, gaze flinty. “We could make you go away.”

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at her. “I’m immune to chaos, remember?”

“You’re not immune to me making the ceiling collapse on you.”

Jaskier looks up at the fluorescent lights above them, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I came in peace, remember?”

At a look from Geralt, Yennefer sits back. “Why is Gerald the main character and not Gwendolyn?”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Oh, is that what you’re upset about?”

“I’m upset about many, many things, but the fact that Gwendolyn only appears in flashbacks is one of them. And she’s being replaced by a character who’s obviously supposed to be you.”

Jaskier puts a hand to his chest in clear offense. “Aria isn’t supposed to be me. I’m not a twenty-six year old Nilfgaardian grad student. Or a woman, for that matter. And she’s not replacing Gwendolyn. Gerald’s relationships with the two of them show the conflict between his attempts to hang onto his identity as a witcher and the push for him to assimilate into modern—”

“If you’re going to write about me, don’t sideline my character and then replace her with a cookie cutter love interest,” Yennefer says through gritted teeth.

“Aria is not a cookie cutter love interest, she’s— oh, thank you.” Jaskier smiles brilliantly at Mabel when she brings him his coffee, then promptly pours half the pitcher of cream into the mug, filling it to the brim. No wonder he likes the coffee here; he’s never actually tasted it.

“Anyway, Geralt’s easier to read than you are, and I met him twice,” Jaskier says, dumping three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. The cup overflows, coffee dribbling down the sides. “I wrote the first scene with the vampires in the nightclub after the last time we met. I’m hoping Gwendolyn will play a bigger role in the sequel. I just need some inspiration.”

“A sequel?” Geralt demands.

Jaskier bends his head to slurp up the excess coffee. “There’s going to be a trilogy. I’m working on the second book now, but I’ll admit, I’m a bit stuck.”

“A shame,” Yennefer deadpans.

“It is a shame, since the fans are clamoring for more,” Jaskier says. “I’ll admit, I never expected it to blow up like this. I wrote the book in a couple of months, showed it to one of my professors who knew a guy who knew a guy, and next thing I knew, I was on three bestseller lists.”

Mabel brings Jaskier his pancakes. Instead of eating them with a fork and a knife, he dumps most of the container of maple syrup over them and rolls the sausage up inside a pancake like a burrito and shoves half of it into his mouth. It’s almost fascinating to witness.

“Look,” he says, licking a drop of maple syrup off his wrist. “I can emphasize the wholly fictitious nature of witchers and mages in my next few interviews. But I’m not going to stop writing this series.”

“Aren’t you?” Yennefer asks in a dangerously sweet voice.

“Would you?” Jaskier smiles at her, either not noticing the ice beneath her pleasant veneer, or choosing to ignore it. Both are mistakes. “You know, if I got to know the two of you better, maybe I could make sure it’s less obvious that Gerald and Gwendolyn are based on the two of you. Add some character details that are nothing like you two. I could make Gerald chattier or give Gwendolyn a love of bright colors—”

“Careful,” Geralt warns, watching Yennefer’s nostrils flare.

“I’m just saying, we could make this mutually beneficial,” Jaskier says, dragging his pancake and sausage concoction through the puddle of syrup on his plate. “The writer’s block has been hitting me hard ever since I came back to school. I could use the inspiration. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as stories about witchers go. There’s an interesting one about a witcher adopting the last princess of Cintra through the Law of Surprise, but that almost sounds too wild for real life, right?”

Geralt goes still, his eyes meeting Yennefer’s across the table. Of course Jaskier would have dug up the stories of him and Ciri. Eight hundred years has obscured the details and their names are lost to time, but if Jaskier ends up deciding that the story of the witcher who claimed the Law of Surprise and ended up bound to a princess by destiny is sequel-fodder, that might change. Geralt can see the same realization in Yennefer’s eyes: it’s one thing for Jaskier to be writing about them, but Ciri? They can’t let that happen.

Yennefer fixes Jaskier with an icy expression. “You’re not going to publish that sequel.”

“We already covered this—”

“You may be immune to chaos, but you’re not immune to an air conditioner dropping from a window right as you walk under it. You’re not immune to me finding out where you live and burning your home down around your ears. You’re not immune to blades or bludgeons.”

There’s a tense silence. Next to Geralt, the scent of Jaskier’s fear spikes. Geralt shoots Yennefer a sharp look across the table. Jasker might be an idiot and a pest, but he’s only twenty-one. Geralt has no intention of hurting him and he knows that Yennefer doesn’t either. But it doesn’t feel good to scare him either. Geralt reminds himself of Eskel, Lambert, Aiden, Coën, Vesemir, Ciri. All the people whose lives could be completely upended if people start talking about witchers too much and happen to notice their neighbors with the slit-pupiled eyes and too-sharp teeth.

“I think it’s time for us to go.” He rises to his feet. There’s nothing else to say to Jaskier and he wants to get away from the sour stench of fear as soon as possible.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Yennefer says. “Let’s hope we don’t have to have this talk again, Jaskier.”

The boy says nothing as they leave, sitting there with his plate filled with maple syrup and mug of too-creamy coffee and watching them go with wide blue eyes.

***

“You’re back late,” Priscilla says as Jaskier lets himself into their apartment. “More books to sign than you expected?”

“I stopped by the diner with my agent afterwards,” Jaskier says with brightness that he doesn’t feel, busying himself with hanging up his jacket so she doesn’t see his expression.

He’s spent two years imagining running into Geralt and Yennefer again. His fantasies were always considerably sexier than what just happened. He thought they’d be flattered to learn that he had written a book about them. He certainly wasn’t expecting Yennefer’s fury or her threats.

“And you didn’t bring me pancakes?” Priscilla demands, outraged.

Jaskier grimaces. “Want to go there for brunch in the morning? I’ll buy you all the pancakes you want.”

“That would work,” Priscilla says.

He finally looks over at her to see her sitting on the ground, leaning against the couch they picked up off a curb last spring, laptop balanced on her knees and binders and textbooks fanned out on the floor around her. For such a small person, she takes up an extraordinary amount of space; their eight hundred square foot apartment hardly seems to contain her. It’s a new place, a vast upgrade over the shithole they shared with Shani during their sophomore and junior years. Jaskier tries not to think about Yennefer’s threat to burn it down.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks. “Your publishers on your back again about the sequel?”

“They sure are.” Jaskier grimaces. His agent is getting increasingly worried about the lack of a first draft, which he’s supposed to be sending to her by the beginning of the year, in less than three months. Will of the Witcher may have been a critical and commercial success, but he’s still a first-time author. If he doesn’t produce a first draft, there’s no guarantee that his publisher won’t drop him.

The problem is, the words that came so easily to Jaskier when he wrote the first book in only a couple of months seem to have entirely dried up. Every time he sits down to write, he ends up just staring at his computer screen, wondering how he ever managed to write the first book. Maybe he was possessed by a particularly creative demon. Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe his naysayers are right and he’s a fraud.

“It will happen,” Priscilla says. “You just need to give yourself time.”

“Time isn’t the problem, Pris. Inspiration is.”

“Then go out to the bar, find a beautiful person, make some bad life choices, and find some inspiration.”

Jaskier snorts. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It always works for me.”

“Well, we all know in ten year’s time, your voice is going to be on every radio station on the Continent, and I’ll just be that guy who wrote a book once.”

Priscilla gives him a dark look. “Don’t be self-deprecating. Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

Jaskier salutes her and crosses to the tiny kitchen to get a beer out of the fridge. “Only arrogance from here on out, I promise. Now, what are you working on?”

Later, he dreams of the night Anders tried to kill him. It’s a dream he used to have all the time, though the nightmare has become less frequent with time. He dreams about being tied down, pleading uselessly as Anders advances on him with the knife. He dreams about the cold press of the blade at his throat, the knowledge that he’s about to die and there’s nothing he can do to save himself. He dreams about Geralt and Yennefer appearing like avenging angels.

But instead of burying Anders alive and saving him, Yennefer looks down at Jaskier with a cold expression. Jaskier can only scream as the ground surges up to swallow him, just like it swallowed Anders. He sinks down into the darkness, roots wrapping around him and soil pressing into his face, choking him.

He awakes with a jolt of blind panic in the dark, shaking and sweating. It takes a long time for him to fall back asleep.

***

“Yenn, where’s my phone?”

Sitting on the back porch with her morning tea and a book, Yennefer sighs. “When’s the last time you used it?”

“Think I used the flashlight app in an endrega nest a few days ago.”

“If you’ve left another phone in a monster nest, our provider is probably going to start asking questions. You know, for a man who can spot drowner tracks from fifty paces, you lose your phone a lot.”

“Those things have nothing to do with each other.”

Yennefer puts down her book and pads into the kitchen to find her partner checking the cabinets. “Use your witcher senses, darling.”

He scowls at her over his shoulder. “Feel like you’re mocking me.”

“You only feel like I’m mocking you? You’re not certain? My, I’m losing my touch.”

Grumbling, Geralt turns back to search for his phone.

“Do you have another contract already?” Yennefer asks, taking in the gear on the kitchen table. Geralt just cleared out an endrega nest outside of Gors Velen three days ago; he doesn’t normally get jobs this close together. No one knows about witchers anymore, but Geralt has built a reputation as a special investigator, the person you call when your loved one is missing or killed in a bizarre fashion and the police are stumped (as they often are, even when monsters aren’t involved.) Still, he averages only a job a month.

Geralt nods. “Four missing kids outside Rinde. Went to a party that got busted by cops and they ran into the woods to get away. Haven’t been seen since. It’s the third group of people to vanish in the area recently. There was a young couple whose car broke down on the side of the road last week. When the tow truck showed up, they were gone. A pair of hunters went missing too. But no one has seen or heard anything.”

Yennefer doesn’t like the sound of that. The less Geralt knows about a contract, the more likely something will go wrong. “Should I come with you?”

“You hate coming with me on contracts.”

“But you don’t know what you’re facing.”

“I didn’t know what I was facing half the time in the old days.” He smiles wryly. “Anywhere, aren’t you meeting Sabrina today?”

“That was the plan. We’re going to have lunch in Ard Carraigh.”

“Go meet Sabrina. I’ll be fine.” Geralt opens the fridge. “There it is!”

“What is your phone doing in the fridge?”

“Must have been holding it when I got the milk out earlier.”

Yennefer sighs at the back of his head, both exasperated and hopelessly fond. “Come here.”

Geralt turns to her, lips curled into a soft smile, and she pulls him into a kiss. “Guess I really am getting old,” he murmurs.

“Well, we knew that.”

He kisses her again. “See, I’ll have my phone with me. I’ll be fine.”

“And I’ll keep mine with me. Call me if you need anything.”

“After all these years, you still worry about me, Yenn?”

“Someone has to.” She pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Just be careful.”

“Of course,” Geralt says. “Always am, aren’t I?”

***

Read the rest on AO3!

#geraskefer bingo #bingo fill #geraskefer #rating: m

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geraskeferbingo · 3 years

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Hello, love!! 💕💕 If it's no trouble, can i have number 29 of the 5 word whump prompts please?? You can choose the ship, i trust you!! 💕💕

in the morning, i'll be with you

thanks so much for this prompt love!! surprisingly it fit with a geraskefer bingo prompt so who am I to say no :D

29. “Stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself!”

for @geraskeferbingo prompt: argument || geraskefer, 1.3k, T, hurt/comfort, character injury

For one more day, the sun rises.

Jaskier looks out of the window. Lets the first rays fall on his eyes, blind him, deliberately as though, in a failed attempt to return to the much desired darkness. Something closer to sleep, at least. At least, he won't have to sit in this damned chair for days on end in stoic vigil, waiting, waiting, and he's tired of waiting. This craved darkness. He thinks, at least then he doesn't have to lay eyes on Geralt once more.

Not before he's fully awake.

He does. Of course he does and for once, there are no violet eyes to bear his agony, to share it, in a way. Sometimes when he looks at them he suspects her agony is screaming louder than his and he longs for it to cease, for him to take the burden, all of it, just for her not to hurt.

But she's not here now. Either way, after all the blood and chaos and despair, she deserves some rest.

If he feels the constant breeze of her form passing beside him, he doesn't think about it.

Once more, he turns to stare at Geralt. There, as though it's the only movement he's capable of, he stares. He wants to scream.

He did. When Geralt was lying on the ground drowning in a puddle of blood, his blood, stumbling between life and death. Jaskier had seen him like that again, of course he had. From the hollow of her gaze, he knew Yennefer had seen him too. And yet, this time, oh, this time they could both sense the soft stroking of death as it passed past them and, as though competing in a lost fight with the foolish hope of success, he screamed. Clung on Geralt, a grip on his soul to stay in its place while Yennefer was whispering broken enchantments beside him, saving what was slipping through their hands.

She did. And he knew then, Destiny's turn had still to wrap them in its claws. And yet, oh, how familar it all felt.

Like a caress by the strings of future.

He wants to scream. He doesn't. He doesn't want to wake Geralt, he needs to sleep, finally. Although, by the rapid shaking of his chest and the fever burning him like a fire, he thinks, at the moment, sleep is a dangerous escape.

And, as if hearing the howling of his thoughts, Geralt opens his eyes.

All the poets of the world would be unable to describe with words the aching relief that overwhelms Jaskier the moment he looks into amber, seeing them alive, shining with fever and the veil of nightmares unknown to him. The relief, and the horror all the same.

Geralt turns, looks at him, or at least seems like he does. "Jaskier," he says, whines, and Jaskier shivers, as though hearing his name pouring from these lips for the first time. His voice is rough, barely audible. Still enough.

Jaskier smiles, feels his eyes burning. "Hey, there." Geralt is not actually here, he knows. He knows by the way his eyes dart around the room for a threat that doesn't exist, by the way Geralt looks at him and and the darkness of the world shadows his gaze. Still. Jaskier stands, takes the cup of water from the nightstand and gently, as though afraid to break the glass of Geralt's lethargy, he brings it to the witcher's lips. Geralt hesitates on the first sip, and he puts a hand on his, shaking as he holds the cup. "Slowly," he says and Geralt drinks greedily, "you'll choke."

His own voice sounds hollow on his tongue, falsely tender, concealing a grief that can only get out in cries. Geralt lowers the cup on the nightstand.

And, again, he looks around. The moment his look meets him, Jaskier freezes. Geralt frowns as if in thought, then tilts his head. "Yen?"

A pause, and Jaskier huffs a strained laugh, shakes his head. He thinks some stray tears are starting to fall. "She's alright, don't fret." He hates how Geralt frowns deeper, hates the doubt, as though it's his own. "She needed some air, that's all."

Geralt stares at him and somehow, he feels guilty, as though uttering the worst truth of the world. It seems that he did. Geralt grunts. "You're lying."

"No, I–" Jaskier swallows, looks at him. Searching for something he's afraid is not there, not now. He snorts, voice coming out coward. "Geralt, I wouldn't lie about this."

For a second, he thinks he's lying to himself. What iff he goes out and finds Yennefer collapsed from exhaustion. What if it's not exhaustion? What if they found them again?

Geralt making to rise to his feet wakes him from his momentary panic and he pushes him back. "You're injured, you can't move!"

Amber eyes pierce him like daggers, glazed over with fear, worse, anger. "I know you're lying, Jaskier, I see it in your eyes."

"You're delirious."

"I have to see her!" and Geralt rises again, Jaskier watching in horror as the bandages on his abdomen stain with blood, and he pushes him back again, making him growl as he searches the room, frantically, trapped in a neverending nightmare and the tears are now scrotching hot, and Jaskier can smell the blood as Geralt thrashes weakly into his arms.

"Geralt, stop, please," he glances at the bandages again, crimson red, and back at Geralt, "you're hurting yourself, please–"

A bruising grip on his forearm. "Where is she?" Geralt's voice is weaker now, almost pleading, and he looks at Jaskier drowning in despair. "Is she dead? Why are you crying?" More tears, flooding and Geralt's grip tightens, his eyes widen even more. "Speak!"

"Fuck, Geralt!" Jaskier pushes him one last time on the pillow with more force than he would admit, and steps back. "You've been in the verge of dying for three days and you ask me why I am crying?" He laughs, sharply, and it feels like the only reasonable thing to do. When did he start shouting? "Yennefer is alright, as much as she can be, and you're fucking bleeding! Please, please stay down," he shakes his head, vision blurry with tears, "we're alright, I promise."

Silence.

Jaskier blinks the tears away, looks at Geralt, into his eyes, suddenly half-closed, suddenly clear. His chest moves slowly and somehow, it's comforting. As Jaskier parts his lips, a sob chokes his throat, and his voice sounds small, exhausted. "Geralt?"

Geralt breathes evenly now, stares at him. With confusion, pain. Warmth. His lips curve in something close to a smile. "Jaskier... You're here."

As though with a snap, Jaskier lets out a silent laugh. Steps closer, on the bed, lowers himself beside him again. "Yes, dear." His hand cups Geralt's face and the witcher leans into the touch. "I'm here."

A figure standing on the door.

Geralt frowns slightly, barely awake. He raises a hand on Jaskier's cheek, trailed by rivers. "Why are you crying?"

"Just happy," Jaskier says and it sounds more like a whimper. He catches Geralt's hand on his face, sees as the witcher lets his eyes drop. "That's all. Hush now, love."

The mattress dips on the other side and violet eyes study him in a tired softness he wants to kiss away. A delicate hand, tangled into Geralt's hair, and she leans down, places a kiss on his forehead. "We're going to be alright, Geralt."

Geralt hums, a familiar warmth nuzzling at his side. Barely a moment after, he's asleep.

Jaskier thinks it's going to be a restful sleep. As Yennefer lies down, finally, after what feels like centuries, as he feels her hand finding its way inside his, he knows it will be.

He discerns a faint smile on her lips. Yennefer breathes shakily.

The sun has risen, but it's only time for them to bask in comforting darkness, and he lowers his head on Geralt's shoulder with a sigh. And stays there.

#geraskefer bingo #bingo fill #geraskefer #rating: t

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geraskeferbingo · 3 years

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you asked for prompts my love so i bring u aus! coffee shop au, tattoo artist/florist, saying college au, TEACHERS AU! ALL THE AUS!!!

THANK YOU, SWEET FRIEND <3 I decided to go for teacher au this time around and i also realized that it could totally fit as one of my @geraskeferbingo slots so here is my "slice of life" fill!

starts off like a pinprick

about 1k, generalish (mentioned past!yenralt, jaskier doing a smidge of pining), warnings: fire alarm mention, but that's it. otherwise it's just some nice fluff about teacher!jask and dad!geralt

also on ao3

Jaskier loves teaching. He knows this. The thing he hates is when he has to do something that isn’t actually teaching the kids. Unfortunately, considering the rest of the staff usually had families and obligations and tenure, he was usually the one that got dragged into chaperoning weekend field trips. Probably the worst of them all, if he’s being completely honest.

Still, he has to show up bright and early, half-asleep as he climbs onto the bus and counts twenty-two heads before telling the driver to start driving. When they get to the museum, he sips his coffee and stands at the door of the bus, counting kids as they step off the bus. When he confirms he has twenty-two teenagers in front of him, Jaskier turns to the museum tour guide - a young thing with a lot of hope in her eyes - and is about to ask her to begin when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. “Carter, don’t you dare,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee.

The boy in question freezes and gives Jaskier a sheepish look before sliding his hands into his pockets.

Jaskier turns back to the tour guide and nods, gesturing for her to start. He follows the group as she leads them, staying close to the back as he sips his coffee, still warm and steaming in his hands. The winter has continued to be a nuisance to him, much preferring the bright warmth of spring, but he has to pretend like he’s a functioning human.

The tour guide mentions that another school is also there for a field trip, and Jaskier briefly notes to do roll call once they’re back on the bus to make sure he’s taking home the correct twenty-two teenagers. He wishes the museum trip was a lot more exciting, but considering he had been stuck with this particular gig for a few years now, he had heard everything the tour guide had to say about the art and then some.

Of course, just as Jaskier is about to start sleep-walking through the field trip, the fire alarm goes off. He jumps, looking around quickly. “Alright, kids, we do this at school all the time,” he calls out, turning to try and keep track of his twenty-two high schoolers. “You know what to do, meet me on the bus,” he shouts, sure that his words are getting lost in the alarm sounds but hoping that the students have enough sense to know where they’re supposed to go.

Jaskier finds himself jostled by the crowds of children trying to exit the building. He feels a warm hand wrap around his and he lets out a soft, surprised squeak. Jaskier glances down, heart stuttering when his eyes follow the line of the warm, calloused hand up a thick, tattooed arm, towards a scarred, strong, stoic face with long white hair.

Oh.

He finds himself following this stranger, forgetting that he has a group of teenagers he’s supposed to be chaperoning or watching because this gorgeous stranger is holding his hand and guiding him out of the building. They’re outside of the building before the stranger turns to Jaskier and freezes, his amber eyes wide.

“Uh…” he says, and Jaskier gives him a weak smile. They’re still holding hands, but Jaskier doesn’t want to pull away first because he quite likes the way it feels. He has definitely been single for way too long. The stranger glances down at their hands and looks up at Jaskier again, looking like he’s trying to think of something to say. “You … are not my daughter,” is what he finally settles onn and Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek.

Of course this man has a daughter. Probably has a loving wife at home too.

“No, very decidedly not daughter shaped,” he says, shrugging.

The stranger hums and lets go of Jaskier’s hand; he hates that he misses it. He really needs to go on a date, he thinks, if holding a stranger’s hand is making him ache for physical touch. “My apologies. I was meant to be chaperoning her field trip,” he says, looking around the crowd of teenagers and museum goers.

“Oh, yeah, me too. I mean, not my daughter’s because I don’t have one, but y’know, a field trip,” Jaskier rambles, fidgeting with his cup of coffee.

He turns towards Jaskier with a sly smile, and Jaskier feels his cheeks pinken. “Are you part of the Kaer Morhen faculty?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Uh, no, no, Lettenhove Academy.”

“Ah, that explains it,” the stranger says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Jeans that are, Jaskier notes, look far too delicious on this man. “I knew I’d recognize you if you did.”

Jaskier thinks that if he had been walking, he would have tripped and fallen. “Oh, well, um…” he starts, not sure what to say to that.

“Dad, there you are!” a cheerful voice shouts, causing the stranger to turn. Jaskier sees a blonde girl, hair pulled into a low bun, jogging over to them. “Who’s this?” she asks, an eyebrow raised at Jaskier.

“Uh.” The stranger glances at Jaskier, who gives the girl his most charming grin.

“Mr. Pankratz of Lettenhove Academy,” he says, holding his hand out to her.

The girl’s eyes light up, shaking his hand. “That’s so cool! I’m trying to convince my dad to let me apply, but he’s a Kaer Morhen alumni, so he’s being stubborn,” she says, nudging the stranger with her elbow.

Jaskier chuckles, shrugging. “Well, if you ever want a tour, you’re welcome to use my name as a reference,” he says, winking at her.

“Cirilla,” the stranger hums, his tone warning but fond.

She waves him off and squeezes the stranger’s arm. “Mom’s pissed that you wandered off.”

The stranger scoffs. “I’ll go calm her down,” he says, giving Jaskier a nod before wandering off.

Jaskier tries not to watch after him, because he is not going to pine after a married man. He refuses. Except clearly he doesn’t do a good job of it because Cirilla is giving him a knowing smile.

“I have divorced parents.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice and Jaskier blushes. “Anyways, the name’s Cirilla, last name Rivia, and I’ll call you about that tour,” she chirps, bright and cheery before practically skipping away.

Jaskier thinks maybe these field trips aren’t so bad after all.

#geraskefer bingo #bingo fill #geraskier #rating: g

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geraskeferbingo · 3 years

Text

My (just on time) first entry for @geraskeferbingo!

Main prompts: 24h To Live, Argument

Additional prompts: Dialogue Light, Torture/Interrogation

CW: Torture/interrogation, near-death experiences

He had known it would come.

Rience would get bored of him eventually-that had been his plan, at least-but he had come to accept, after a lot of rather dramatic introspection and unedifying snot, that they wouldn't actually let him live once it happened.

Rience had paused thoughtfully, peering up at him through narrowed eyes as he screamed. The rope wound around his wrists had chafed them to blood lines, and sparks skittered along his veins as the mage withdrew his magic.

"You really don't know, do you?" he'd murmured. His voice, as always, was soft and lilting in the worst kind of way. Sibilant. Silk over oil.

"It's a shame, really. It's always nice to work with someone so responsive."

Jaskier had smiled thinly.

"I see I've been performing well. Pity my foil has been so quiet, while I've had to be so strident."

"Ah, you misunderstand me. I'm not waiting for the right moment of tension, of drama..." Rience drawled.

"I've been waiting for the moment that will cause you the most pain."

At that moment, they had hauled him down, cringing from their meaty fingers, and dragged him back into his cell.

As the day wore on, Rience had come to stand by the bars in a swirl of robes.

Setting his face in a defiant moue, Jaskier looked up at him, stopping short at the triumphant grin on the sorcerer's waxy face.

"Ah, what's got you in such a good mood?"

"The girl and the witcher have been spotted in Brokilon. Our forces will be with them presently."

He had bounced on the balls of his feet, enjoying the moment as Jaskier's face had crumpled.

Hours had passed since then, and he'd long since exhausted his tears.

He would hang for crimes against the health of Nilfgaard. His nobility had saved him from the normal punishment for treason in the kingdom-breaking on the wheel before disembowelment and beheading-so he supposed he should be grateful. A fever was already welling anyway.

In what turned out to be the wee hours of the morning, before the gloaming had even begun, they dragged him from his cell, cut his hair and beard and pulled him into finery.

He took a moment just to feel the fluid of the fabric under his raw fingertips, and smiled as the blue light shone into his new cell.

A real meal, of pottage and stewed fruit, filled his stomach until it clenched. The cell door opened, and after a desultory prayer from a terse and frightened-looking priest, two Nilfaardians entered.

The world went silent. This was what it meant to die, really. No heroics. No blood, necessarily. Just the quiet of the morning and the distant closing of a book.

One guard gripped his upper arm, the strong fingers just calloused enough to let him imagine Geralt at his side. The other worked pale violet chaos into a swirl in one hand.

No chance of escape, even if it had occurred to him.

As they walked him forward, he became distantly aware of the two of them bickering.

"-I still say we should-"

"-as close to the scaffold as possible-"

"-cutting it too fine-"

"-what do you suggest, then?"

As he turned to savour the last bit of gossip in his earthly life, he noticed the one on his left tilt his head. The woman on his other side flicked out a hand full of flames, and the man pushed him forward roughly-

And he stumbled forward into a courtyard. The air was warm, and the honeysuckles drooped over the lintel of a grand red brick house, and Geralt caught him as his knees buckled.

Yennefer crouched in front of him, gently brushing his hair from his forehead and touching the hot skin, and he fell gratefully into the milky light of dawn.

#geraskefer bingo #bingo fill #geraskefer #rating: unrated

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geraskeferbingo · 3 years

Text

the way it ends

for @geraskeferbingo prompt: too good to be true || geraskefer, pov jaskier, 1.5k, T, angst, hallucinations, implied/referenced torture

ao3

When Jaskier wakes, a faint light seeps inside the room from the corridor.

He squints as it reaches his eyes, blinds him. He doesn't remember how long it has been since he last saw light, since he last had the barest hint of hope blooming inside him. Probably long enough, if he thought about the aching of his heart. Probably too long.

There are two figures standing on the door. Insinctively, he recoils. He has grown used to it, it's always two figues, one to carry him and one to strike down if he dares to resist. As if he has any chance resisting. As if he hasn't accepted that he wouldn't get out of this place alive. He laughs to himself as the figues continue standing there. He has played with death, countless times, and he has lost. He has nothing to wait for now. No rescue, no miracle, no ray of light. Only the final blow.

And yet, the light doesn't fade.

The figures approach, and it's not an armor they're wearing, at least not the one he expects. No, there's something gentle in their form, something painfully familiar and he lets out a breath and curls to himself more, afraid, afraid to hope, afraid to believe. They had played with his mind so many times, this can't be different. This can't be real.

He is afraid to believe, to hope, he.

He knows, if he does, if he's proved wrong, he won't be able to bear it. There's already a suffocating weight on his chest, like someone stepping on him and never going away. If he's proved wrong, the weight will suffocate him, push him down, harder still. And he has barely any breaths to spare.

And yet, and yet.

Achingly familiar. The silhouettes, the wild curls, the imposing posture. The scent, lilac, gooseberries, and he thinks he will faint. And that sweet, rough, whispering voice that reaches his ears. "Jaskier."

It can't be. It can't be a dream. It's too real, too bright. He's too weak to hold back, even if succumbing will end him. So he lets out a gasp, and sits up, and cries, not in the way he does when they hit him, break him, and throw him in the corner, but in the way he did, once, moments before he fell into the arms of his lovers. "Geralt!"

And then, oh, then. Then strong arms are around him, and violet eyes are piercing him, and he's too lost to realize and they're too drenched in light for him to see them properly, but he knows, by the way he fits into Geralt's arms, by the way a sharp, honey dripping voice says, "It's alright, Jaskier," and Yennefer looks at him like it's the most natural thing in the world, coming for him, loving him.

And he clings, and sobs and shakes, this can't be a dream, this can't be a dream, too good, too desperate to be a dream. "I missed you," he says between sobs and chokes and Geralt smiles at him. He closes his eyes, feels Yennefer's hands on him searching, finding, the hurt, the wounds, and even though she searches there are wounds that are still bleeding open and will not close, not ever. His own hope is a wound, his love and longing, and the stabs that their eyes mark on his skin, these are wounds too. And yet, oh how sweet is their blood, how welcomed their bleeding.

Yennefer searches, and heals, and yet he feels no pain, not anymore. And if he was able to think, if he was able to see past the white veil that covers them both as though refusing to render his hope requited, he would know, it can't be. It can't be that he, half-dead, stumbling precaiously on the land of the living, feels no pain, absurdly healed, as though by his own relief, by his own hesitant joy.

He's tired of being hesitant, being afraid. He's tired of leaving evrything behind, leving his own self behind in order to go through whatever this torture would bring forth next time. Exhausted. There, into their arms, drowning in the sea of their eyes, murmuring the song of their voices, there he knows he can rest.

He hears his own mind laughing at him.

"You're here," he whispers and this voice that hadn't come out in speech but screams all this time, now feels foreign on his tongue. Should his voice feel foreign? Geralt smiles again, smiles too much, too wide. "You came."

Yennefer's eyes glint, too bright, too big. "Of course we came for you," and her voice rings in his ears, makes him wince and, again, he recoils. Why, why, why. Yennefer tilts her head and suddenly, her voice sounds distant, cold. "Did you think we'd live you alone?"

Alone.

Jaskier's mind is twirling. Alone, alone, alone.

Yennefer's eyes are glowing now, and Geralt is laughing and his hands are holding him too tight, suffocating and he can't breathe and they fade, the light brighter and brighter and that veil, oh, covering them still, and they look at him and laugh and laugh and laugh and he screams.

He hears a voice and he knows that voice, he knows it's not Geralt or Yennefer's, it's the voice of that mage, the one he had seen the few times his eyes were open. And yet it comes out of Geralt's mouth, outworldy, terrrifying. "You're alone, Jaskier. No one is coming for you."

He weeps and cries and pleads, "No, no, no, please, come back," and he runs and stumbles and crawls into the light and yet still drowning into the darkness, the one that pulls him back, sucks him to the bottom, "NO, don't leave me, I didn't say anything, please, I love you, please," and the figures are on the door again, drenched in light, laughing and he drowns and chokes and slips into the void, that same voice wailing into his ears, no one is coming, alone, alone, no one, you're alone, you're alone, alone, alone, alone.

And then, falling in agony, he screams one last time, and sinks into darkness.

When Jaskier woke, the room was dark.

He opened his eyes but he didn't need to squint, for there was no light. Only the bricks, and the despair, and that glooming pain that towered over him, invaded his body, his mind, made him shake and tremble.

He looked around the room as though he didn't know where he was, as though he could ever forget. He couldn't. Even after death, he knew, he would remember, for death was the only certain ending for him in this place. For the barest of seconds, he deemed the irony poetic. He would remember his torture, but the faces of his lovers were already blurry in his mind, covered by this light and this veil that never let him get close to them. He had. He had felt them. He had heard them. They had come for him, of course they would. That's what Yennefer said.

But now he was alone.

And as the realization settled in his mind, he whimpered and wrapped his arms around himself, broken fingers clawing on tattered shirt. No one would come. The wall was cold and damp behind him. A dream, a dream, everything, a dream once more. He gasped, tears welling in his eyes, and fell, crawled, until he reached the corner. There, between two walls, he could at least pretend someone was holding him. If he closed his eyes hard enough.

He shouldn't cry. He had no reason to, he knew this would happen. And water wasn't spare at the moment.

He should've known. Too good, too desperate to be true.

He shouldn't cry. And yet, defeated, drained, devoured by his own hope, he rested his head on the wall, pulled his knees to his chest, and closed his eyes. And let his tears fall. Let the sobs wrack his body, even though the barest move sent a wave of pain through him, made him numb.

Alone. No one would come. He couldn't blame them, they couldn't have known. He wasn't angry. He would die. He thought, dehydration would make for a quicker death. He thought he had to cry more. He knew he would die, he wanted to, for this suffering to end.

But, oh, what he wouldn't give to die in the arms of his loved ones.

He would give his life. It's all he had left anyway.

The door of the cell opened with a bang and two figues stood tall, but he didn't jump. He was used to it. Instead, as if by instinct, he recoiled. Hid his head inside his knees, and waited. He had found a game, to deceive himself. The hands that would grip him and send him on the ground writhing, he would pretend they were Geralt's. The voice that would lull him to nightmares and illusions, he would pretend it was Yennefer's.

The pain was sweeter then, he had discovered. And how sweet, how morbid, to endure the pain for one's love. At least then, he remembered he loved them.

At least then, he wasn't alone.

#geraskefer bingo #bingo fill #geraskefer #rating: t

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