#(oh MAN though when geralt DOES come and save him??? and jaskier realizes someone DOES see him as worth saving???)

[contemplativepancakes]

five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose. ~6k. Read on AO3 here!

i.

“Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. 

It’s been a long night, and Geralt would like nothing better than to collapse into bed, but trouble has a habit of following Jaskier like flies to shit. He’s the whole reason Geralt even has a bed for the night, so Geralt sighs and follows the shouting. 

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when he rounds a corner and Jaskier runs head first into him, but honestly, it’s nothing short of expected. What does throw Geralt for a loop, though, is the fact that Jaskier is completely naked, expanses of smooth skin exposed as he sprawls back on the ground in a very undignified manner, clutching his nose. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” he cries, but it comes out garbled. “You broke my nose!”

The man who was chasing after Jaskier comes to a sudden halt, panting in front of them. “He slept with my wife!”

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure it was him?”

The man gapes and gestures at Jaskier’s nakedness. Geralt curses Jaskier for being so obvious; it makes his job much more complicated. 

“Maybe he can give you some tips on how to satisfy her so she doesn’t feel the need to look elsewhere next time,” Geralt suggests, one hand coming up to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“It’s all about the tongue,” Jaskier pipes up in a nasally tone, and Geralt rolls his eyes. 

The man’s eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and back to Geralt before a look of realization crosses his face and it drains of color. “You’re… the butcher of Blaviken?”

“That’s him! So you’d best get back to your chambers if you want to keep all your limbs!” Jaskier crows, but only half of it is intelligible through the hand he’s holding to his nose. 

The man looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his lip and retreats, after one last withering glance at Jaskier. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Will you ever learn?” he asks in exasperation. “I’m not always going to be around to clean up your messes, you know.”

“I’m fairly certain you have a much longer life expectancy than me,” Jaskier lisps, looking up at Geralt with doe eyes. 

Geralt sighs and sticks out a hand to help Jaskier up. 

Jaskier takes it, his fingertips lingering on the soft flesh of Geralt’s forearm, and heaves himself up. His hand stays on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt drags him back to their room. 

“Sit,” he says gruffly, rustling around in his pack for a clean rag. 

He steps over to the wash basin and dips it in before walking back to over Jaskier. He wipes the blood away from Jaskier’s nose gently, but an observer wouldn’t think so from the way Jaskier winces and groans.  

Geralt sighs. “Serves you right.”

“That’s just cruel, Geralt.” Jaskier squirms on the bed, pulling a corner of the blanket over his lap. 

Geralt resolutely focuses on his face. He squints at Jaskier’s nose, which is just the slightest bit crooked. “This is going to hurt,” Geralt warns. “One, two.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt sets his nose back into its proper place, finishing up dabbing the blood away before he packs Jaskier’s nose full of gauze. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

There are tears welling in Jaskier’s eyes from the pain. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says weakly. 

“Maybe you’ll be able to go more than a week without cuckolding another husband this time.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant snort. “Hey, sometimes I just sleep with the husbands themselves. Then I have to watch what I eat, though,” he blathers on, and Geralt is honestly impressed with the lengths of his chatter even when Geralt imagines it must be painful to speak. “Have sex with one wrong person, and all of a sudden everyone and their mother is trying to poison you.”

Geralt’s not sure how to respond. 

Jaskier sighs and turns over in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Try not to drown in your own blood.”

“Always nice to know you care.”

And then, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear, “Good night, Jask.”

ii.

Geralt jerks awake and sits up in his bed roll. The fire is crackling happily, a far cry from the smoldering logs Geralt would have expected. He looks around, and Jaskier is gone. Normally, this would worry him, but if Jaskier took the time to stoke their fire, that probably means he hasn’t been eaten. Most likely. 

The slight chance that something untoward has happened propels Geralt out of the warmth of his blankets. He tugs on his boots and follows the faint scent of Jaskier, a warm mix of wood smoke and contentedness, these days. 

His nose leads him to the river bank, and he hovers right on the edge of the tree line, scouting for any possible dangers. He doesn’t see any, but as he does his sweep, his gaze catches on Jaskier’s bare back and lingers there. There’s a smattering of freckles that Geralt can just barely make out, until they disappear when Jaskier dunks his hair under the water. 

Geralt knows that he should stop just standing here, should either reveal himself or just slink back to their camp and start packing things up, but he finds himself rooted in place as Jaskier rubs a rag over his shoulder blades. 

Geralt is half tempted to offer his help in reaching Jaskier’s back, but he knows how that would probably be received. 

Geralt is transfixed as Jaskier begins to sing, and he sinks down to sit with his back to a tree to listen. Jaskier is always wanting his opinion on his songs, so surely he’d be fine with this, right?

It's not fair, oh, it's not fair how much I love you

It's not fair, 'cause you make me ache, you bastard

And he'll say

Oh, how, oh, how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I'll spend my days so close to you

'Cause if I'm stood here, then I'm stood here

And I'll stand—

Geralt’s jerked out of his trance of listening to Jaskier sing in his honeyed tones by a disturbance in the water, and Geralt focuses in on the ripples that are starting to froth before a drowner emerges, its scaly skin glistening in the morning light. Jaskier screams, and Geralt leaps from his hiding spot, unsheathing his sword. 

Jaskier turns to look at the new disturbance with wide eyes, minutely relaxing when he sees it’s Geralt. Geralt jumps into the water, landing on the drowner’s back. It jerks and bucks, deceptively strong as it tries to toss Geralt off. Geralt hooks his hands around its neck, his sword gripped precariously. 

The drowner gives one last shake, and Geralt goes flying, his sword falling with a splash. There’s a clawed, webbed hand on Geralt’s head, forcing him under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but to no avail. Geralt keeps his mouth tightly shut, and his lungs start to burn as he continues to fight. 

Bright spots start to dance at the edge of his vision, getting darker and fuzzier now, and Geralt knows he’s right on the verge of losing consciousness. He’s unable to stop his gasp for air, but only water finds his lungs. He’s resigned himself to this being the way it ends when suddenly the grip goes lax and he’s able to propel himself to the water’s surface, gasping for breath. 

“Geralt? Geralt?” comes a worried voice, floaty and distant sounding. “Geralt, are you okay?”

There’s a pounding on his back, and water dribbles from his lips. A litany of curses follow and sharp tugs on his arm that lead him back to the bank. 

Geralt coughs and splutters, more water escaping him as he finally registers Jaskier pacing around anxiously... completely naked. Geralt chokes, and Jaskier is there in an instant, a warm hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You’re okay,” he croons with a gentle pat. 

Geralt doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he about died and is seconds away from doing it again via spontaneous combustion at the sight of all Jaskier’s skin on display. Geralt picks a spot on the distance and fixes his gaze on it. 

“Good thing you were around,” Jaskier says finally, and Geralt burns in shame at the thought of why exactly he was there. 

He’s lucky Jaskier isn’t running away in repulsion, like he would be if he knew the truth. 

Jaskier asks him if he’s okay yet again, and Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, goody, you’re well enough for monosyllabic conversation. Back to normal, then.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier laughs, a delightful trilling thing. 

“Oh, here you go,” Jaskier says, handing Geralt back his sword that’s covered in monster guts and ichor. 

Geralt’s eyes do not bug out as the realization hits him. “You… you?”

“Well, it was drowning you! I couldn’t just stand around, now could I?”

“I...suppose not,” Geralt mutters, but in actuality, he can count on one hand the number of times someone’s actually come to his aid while he was fighting a monster. The most he can wish for is someone who won’t recoil as they patch up his wounds later. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting a bit,” Jaskier pauses, “distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. 

“Well, I guess it’s not every day you have a near death experience,” Jaskier muses, “Oh, wait.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to save your sorry ass so often.” Geralt shoves at him and instantly flushes red as his hand touches Jaskier’s bare skin and he registers again that he’s naked. 

“Put on some clothes,” Geralt mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There’s a heavy silence as Geralt waits for Jaskier to say something in response, some sort of rib, but nothing comes, just the soft swish of fabric as he gets dressed. 

Geralt grits his teeth. 

iii.

Geralt trudges down the rocky path, Roach just behind him. The trail from Kaer Morhen is downright treacherous at the best of times and fatal at worst, so Geralt would rather walk than risk Roach making a wrong step and sending them both pitching off a cliff. 

Not that that would be entirely unwelcome, after the winter Geralt has just endured. Eskel and Lambert took great pride in elbowing Geralt and making him the butt of their every joke, saying in glee that they could smell the longing drifting off of him. 

“Is Geralt in loooove?” Lambert had sang, until Geralt shoved him off his chair to shut him up. 

Lambert tumbled to the floor with a clatter of his armor, but he still wore his unbearably smug expression. Eskel had looked at him with soft eyes. “You could have brought them here, you know. I want to know whoever can make you happy.”

“Yeah, we all know how impossible that is for Mr. Melancholy,” Lambert said. 

Geralt shakes his head and puts his focus back on putting one foot in front of the other. The other witchers had endlessly pestered him about his plans for the spring, but Geralt hadn’t wanted to tell them. He likes Jaskier being just for him, and he had waited impatiently for the snow to melt in the pass. He was the first to set out, and he valiantly tried to ignore Lambert’s snickers as he left. 

Geralt is headed to Oxenfurt. He and Jaskier hadn’t made set plans to meet up, because it normally doesn’t take too long for them to accidentally on purpose run into each other, but this year, Geralt doesn’t want to wait. The winter had stretched out into much longer than normal, with biting cold and piles of snow, so Geralt is more than ready to be warm again. 

When the path finally stops twisting and turning, Geralt mounts Roach and picks up their pace a bit. It’s certainly only because he’s eager to sleep in a bed, never mind that he’s been sleeping in one all winter. 

Geralt pulls his hood up against the early spring chill and soldiers on. 

-

When Geralt finally arrives, several days and sleepless nights later, it’s just before dawn. Jaskier has always had a proclivity towards nocturnal behavior, with only Geralt’s need to be up and moving at first light tempering it, so Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier will mind the intrusion. 

Geralt ties Roach to a hitching post, promising to come back and find her a stable once the sun breaks over the horizon, and then he wanders until streets start to look familiar, and Jaskier’s cozy house comes into view. 

Geralt steps up to the door and knocks, and he definitely does not try to tame his hair into some semblance of kempt or get an anxious churning in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Jaskier again. There’s no answer to his knock, so he tries again, but Jaskier still doesn’t materialize. Geralt tries the knob, and to his alarm, it’s unlocked. 

His first thought is one of panic—what if something’s wrong? Jaskier wouldn’t just leave his door unlocked; someone could walk right in and steal his lute. Geralt opens the door quietly and creeps through the dark house. There are no immediate signs that there’s anything amiss. There are only three rooms, and Geralt eases the bedroom door open to peek inside. He’s immediately arrested by Jaskier sprawled out naked on his bed. 

Geralt takes a hurried step back, but not before his eyes dart all over Jaskier’s body. He’s just taking stock of any new injuries Jaskier might have incurred while Geralt wasn’t around to protect him from the wrath of cuckolded husbands, that’s all. Jaskier looks paler and more gaunt than he was when Geralt left him, but Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of winter. 

Geralt retreats slowly, locking the door behind him and resolving to come back when the sun is high in the sky. 

Geralt stumbles onto the street, the early morning light making everything washed out as he scuffs his boots along the ground. He meanders back the way he came, deciding he’ll stable Roach and then see about something for breakfast. He hadn’t felt hungry in his haste to get to Jaskier, but now that his enthusiasm has been tempered, he’s starving. He tries to remember the last time he stopped to eat something more substantial than whatever he could pull out of his pack. Two, three, days ago, maybe? 

Roach comes into view, pawing her hoof against the dirt impatiently. Geratlt huffs a laugh as he walks closer, untying her reins from the hitch and clicking his tongue as he leads her in a direction that he’s getting a big whiff of horse from. 

Geralt leaves Roach at the stables, with his usual stern frown at the stable boy and a chastisement to Roach to be good as she nips at his shirt. 

Roach taken care of, he sets off to look for something to eat, wondering if it’s too soon for Jaskier to be up yet. His eyes flicker shut for a moment as he thinks of the Jaskier’s robe, and how if he goes right now and knocks on his door, he might answer wearing that and nothing else. 

Although, if he does that, even Jaskier might be able to smell the lust rolling off of him. 

Geralt sighs and continues his trudge, until he stops in his tracks and redirects his path. He looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. It’s been long enough. Surely Jaskier is wearing actual clothes by now?

Geralt walks back to Jaskier’s home, the path turning from dirt to cobblestone as he gets closer. There’s a patch of grass peeking between the stones with three orange wildflowers growing in it. Geralt stoops down and picks them without thinking too much about it. 

Geralt carries the flowers loosely in one hand down at his side. When he reaches the steps leading up to Jaskier’s door, he pauses to steel himself, to try to prepare himself for if Jaskier’s whole chest is on display in his robe, but he’s interrupted by an obnoxious throat clearing. 

Geralt whirls around to glare at the person, but he’s arrested by the sight of a man scowling right back at him. “Hope you’re not planning to bother some nice girl, Witcher. Like anyone would ever want you.”

Geralt glances down at the flowers in his hand, and then back to the man, mouth flapping uselessly. He has a point. 

“She’s probably just too scared to tell you to fuck off,” the man sneers, and Geralt’s fingers itch to pull his dagger from his belt, but he restrains himself. 

He surreptitiously looks around for a place to drop the flowers. The man is right; this is a terrible idea. What is he hoping to accomplish with this? Just to make Jaskier smile? He’s an idiot. 

A door slams open, and then, “Well, I have no such qualms. Fuck off.”

Geralt turns around to see Jaskier—and thank fuck he’s wearing clothes this time, but he’s wearing that ridiculous lavender robe, with his leg jutting out right below where it’s knotted together. Geralt desperately averts his eyes, turning back around to frown at the man, but he’s disappeared. 

He looks at Jaskier, then, drinking him in after a winter apart. Jaskier makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “For me?” he asks, holding out his hands for the flowers. 

Geralt hands them over without comment, but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles as he follows Jaskier into the house, Jaskier chattering away about everything Geralt missed. 

And, gods, did he miss a lot. 

iv.

When Geralt bolts awake this time, Jaskier is gone again. Geralt would be concerned that just anyone could sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, but he knows his body has started to become in tune with the sound of Jaskier and it no longer deems it necessary to rip him from his sleep for just Jaskier padding around. 

Still, Geralt wipes the sleep from his eyes and slowly gets up to start disassembling their camp. Jaskier will be back soon, and then they can be on their way. Geralt casts his eyes to the horizon, noting the first rays of morning peeking over it. 

 Geralt ambles over to where he had tethered Roach to a tree and scratches his fingertips over her neck. She headbutts his other hand, impatiently waiting for her breakfast. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Geralt has everything packed up and he’s been leaning against a tree impatiently for three minutes when he starts to get worried. Who knows what could be in these woods? There could be any number of things looking to make a meal out of Jaskier. 

Geralt paces in a circle around their doused fire. On one hand, Jaskier could be doing something like taking a shit somewhere, but on the other hand, he might be hurt. 

Geralt freezes when he hears a faint strangled cry, and his feet are moving even though his mind has barely registered the sound. Geralt crashes through the underbrush, uncaring about how much noise he makes or the thorns that tear against his skin, until he skids to a stop in front of Jaskier. In front of Jaskier, who locks eyes with him while his cock is in his hand and comes with an aborted gasp. 

Heat burns up Geralt’s face. “Sorry, I—” he cuts himself off and flees back the way he came. 

He berates himself as he walks back to their camp. They haven’t been in a town in over three weeks, why was that not what he expected? In all honesty, that’s why he hadn’t gone after Jaskier immediately, but after he heard him shout all of the thoughts of restraint flew out of his brain. The only thing he could focus on was Jaskier needing help. 

Geralt tries not to dwell on the thought of how Jaskier’s cock had looked, flushed and jutting out proudly. Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddle bag and works her over carefully, making sure every hair is going the same way and helping her shed her thick winter coat. 

By the time Jaskier stumbles back, Geralt had thought he had managed to put the incident out of his mind, but the sight of Jaskier proves him wrong. “Ready to go?” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and shuts it with a click of his teeth. “What are we waiting for?”

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach, and doesn’t let himself look back to make sure Jaskier follows. 

v.

Geralt’s eyes crack open as the door to the inn room squeaks. He grunts in displeasure at being disturbed, and then remembers Jaskier is supposed to be with the barmaid and bolts upright. The door is just out of view from the bed, so Geralt eases himself out of bed and picks up the dagger. He creeps to where the wall juts out and then jumps out on the other side, revealing himself. 

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?” Jaskier laughs nervously, and Geralt sheepishly drops the dagger onto the chair as his eyes widen. 

“What is with you and always being naked?” Geralt growls in frustration, trying not to look at the creamy expanse of Jaskier’s skin, marred with freckles instead of scars like Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Just—what is going on?”

“Ah. Right. That. I got…kicked out.”

“Did she have a husband?”

“Um, yes, yes, that’s exactly right. He did not appreciate the soiling of their marital bed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly even as a pang of longing lodges itself right between his ribs. He doesn’t stop to examine it for too long. 

Geralt turns his back and slips back over to the bed. The one bed, because he had thought he would be alone tonight. Geralt sighs. 

There’s a quiet swish of fabric as Jaskier pulls on some clothes. “That was one of my favorite shirts, and now it’ll probably end up burnt or some other ridiculous thing.”

The doublet in question was a gaudy scarlet thing with obnoxious gold threading and beading sewn into it. The light always caught on it just wrong to shine into Geralt’s eyes and give him a headache. “What a pity.”

Jaskier shoves at his shoulder as he clambers into the bed without a second thought. Geralt swallows hard at the dip of the lumpy mattress, at the body what so close to his all of a sudden. Jaskier’s heartbeat thuds, and a peculiar smell drifts off of him that Geralt can’t quite place. 

Geralt turns over so that he’s facing Jaskier. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier buries his face into the pillow. The one pillow, that he tugs away from Geralt. “Nothing,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Hmm. Well.” Geralt pauses and tries to think of a way to respond that won’t have Jaskier calling him an emotionless boulder later. “If you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Jaskier lifts his head up from the pillow to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know that I was speaking to anything other than the wall when I talk to you.”

Geralt yanks the pillow out from under Jaskier and hits him with it. “Shut up.”

+ i.

Jaskier sighs as he unfurls his bedroll. He’s been unleashing heavy sighs about once an hour for the past week, and it’s driving Geralt up the wall. He’s asked Jaskier if everything was all right four separate times now, and Jaskier has brushed him off each time. 

“Jaskier, just tell me what’s the matter,” he begs after Jaskier sighs as he returns with water from the stream. 

Jaskier plops the bucket down right next to the fire, and some splashes out and douses the small smolder Geralt had got started. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls before Jaskier can even react. 

“Fine! You want to know what’s so wrong? It’s you!”

Geralt rears back, blinking rapidly. He wants to make a beeline for Roach and try to get the feeling of Jaskier’s eyes boring into his out of his mind as soon as possible, but he can’t just leave Jaskier high and dry out here all alone. Geralt shakes his head and turns away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier’s hand comes around to clamp onto Geralt’s wrist. Geralt nearly shakes him off, but then Jaskier is saying again, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes cautiously and arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “You know I got kicked out of that room the other night.”

Geralt grunts. “For cuckolding the husband?”

“Well, yes, but not exactly. I lied. There was no husband. Turns out some people aren’t all that impressed when you say the wrong name in the heat of things.”

“Jaskier, what does that have to do with—” 

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Oh.”

Geralt is taken aback. He’s never had this happen with a human before. It’s… hard to imagine that a human could see him as anything other than repulsive, something to be tolerated just to part him from his coin. 

“And now I see that I’ve made a complete and total mess of things. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

As Jaskier’s grip on his wrist loosens, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand instead. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen before he reaches the hand Geralt isn’t holding up to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt turns his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier leans forward to press his lips to Geralt. Their fingers become untangled as they move on, Jaskier’s coming up to twist in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s stroking across Jaskier’s cheek bone. 

When they pull away, Jaskier lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow. It seems like I could have saved my hand some work while we were on the road.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier’s crudeness. 

“Come on, you know that was funny,” Jaskier wheedles into his ear. 

Geralt pushes him aside and crouches down to rebuild their fire. “You’re rarely funny.”

Jaskier claps a hand over his chest and splutters. “Okay, still incredibly rude. Nice to know some things never change, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffs and walks away, going over to feed Roach while Geralt attempts to find some kindling that isn’t damp. 

A smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. 

When the fire is roaring once again, Geralt wanders over to where Jaskier is now sitting against a tree. 

Geralt sits down beside him. “I do think you’re funny sometimes,” he admits. 

“You’ve already wounded my pride, Geralt; it’s too late.”

“And so if I offered you a… hand, you’d turn me down?”

Jaskier jerks his head up and turns to Geralt. “That is not what I said in any way, shape, or form.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it doesn’t happen that night, or the day after that. It’s when they’re finally at an inn that Jaskier pounces on him. Geralt has barely shut the door to their room when Jaskier is on him. “I’ve been so patient,” he whines. 

Geralt raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Geralt, you’re impossible,” Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m asking now.”

Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, and Jaskier groans his eagerness into his mouth. 

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, until Geralt laughs and takes it off himself. When he turns back around after carefully setting all the pieces on a chair, Jaskier is already naked, and finally, Geralt allows himself to look. He drinks it in, notices the tiny scar Jaskier has on his thigh, rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s chest. He moves closer so he can comb his fingers down the hair between Jaskier’s pecs, and he preens at the attention. 

Jaskier reaches down to undo his trousers, and Geralt steps out of them. He takes off his shirt, and sheds his smallclothes, looking back up to see Jaskier staring at him. His soft expression turns into a self satisfied grin as he hums to himself. 

“What?” Geralt asks, already sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Nothing. Okay, fine, just—the carpet matches the drapes, is all.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a mutation. Do you think I would choose for it to be white? What were you expecting?”

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier pauses. “What color did your hair used to be?”

Geralt stops and thinks. “Brown, probably? I don’t remember.”

Jaskier whistles. “That’s terribly sad. Do you think your childhood would make a good ballad? I bet it would.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out. 

“Okay, okay. Insensitive, I apologize.”

Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier winds his arms around his shoulders and keeps him in place. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier distract him. It’s not like his childhood is something he particularly likes to dwell on, especially when there’s something much better for him to focus on in the form of Jaskier’s swelling cock judging against his hip. 

Jaskier presses up close against him, bracketing Geralt against the door and putting his palm flat over Geralt’s heart before he kisses him again. 

Geralt lets the sensation wash over him, the pleasant feelings and the vibration that sends a thrumming through his bones. He walks Jaskier back to the bed and lays him out, crawling on top and straddling him. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Gods, Geralt. You’re beautiful.”

A hot blush rises to Geralt’s face and he turns away, but Jaskier takes his wrist. 

“Don’t mock me,” Geralt mumbles. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, sitting up and taking both of Geralt’s hands in his. “I’m not.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. He looks down at his body, littered with scars, some pink and small and some, long healed, white and wicked looking. “Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs and tugs Geralt in for another kiss, before he maneuvers Geralt so he’s the one laying down. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s body, lingering on each scar until Geralt squirms uncomfortably beneath him. 

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as he makes it to the soft inside of Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt starts squirming for a different reason. A whine comes from the back of Geralt’s throat as Jaskier continues to ignore his cock, throbbing and painful at this point. 

Jaskier finally has pity on him and takes him in hand, making Geralt sigh and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier jacks him quickly, bringing Geralt to the edge faster than he would like to admit before he backs off and moves his hand. He goes back to tracing Geralt’s scars, his fingertips finding the one that cut through the muscle of his leg and healed jagged and rough. 

He hovers over a different one, looking up at Geralt with a question in his eyes. Jaskier’s wheedled most of the stories of his scars out of him, but this one—Geralt huffs. “I tripped over a rock and fell right onto a very pointy root,” he admits. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a grin, and Geralt is about to chastise him for laughing when Jaskier directs his attention back to Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt gasps as warm heat envelops him, and his hand comes down to tangle in Jaskier’s soft hair. Jaskier’s other hand comes up to stroke the part of Geralt’s shaft not in his mouth and scoots further back to trail his fingertips over Geralt’s balls and ghost over his perineum to his hole. 

Geralt shudders at the feeling, and Jaskier pops off of him with a wet sound. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Geralt babbles. 

Jaskier disappears for a moment to rummage through his pack, and Geralt tries to slow his pulse. His heart is practically trying to thud out of his chest compared to its normal steady pace, so he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier returns and settles himself between Geralt’s legs. Geralt lets Jaskier position him until his knees are bent and his feet are planted on the bed on either side of Jaskier. Geralt swallows past the lump forming in his throat as a wave of vulnerability crashes down on him. 

Jaskier must be able to sense his skittishness, because he takes Geralt’s hand in his and rubs soothing circles into it with his thumb. With his other hand, he rests the pad of his pointer finger against Geralt’s hole until he slips it in, a second finger quickly joining it. 

Geralt can feel himself tensing up, but he tries to relax, tries to let himself give in and just be boneless. 

Jaskier stretches him out until Geralt whines in anticipation. Jaskier chuckles and pats his clean hand on Geralt’s thigh. “I seem to recall you saying I was the impatient one?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier laughs again. “Fine, fine. I truly don’t understand why people think you’re so frightening.”

Geralt could list a few reasons, but he doesn’t want to kill the mood. He just grunts at Jaskier until he finally shuffles closer to Geralt and presses inside of him. 

Geralt’s head thumps back against the mattress as he squeezes his eyes shut, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness and the way the feeling radiates through his stomach. 

Are you good?” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt nods, one of his hands finding Jaskier’s and tangling their fingers together, while the other grips the sheets as Jaskier begins to thrust.

He starts out slow, almost too slow for Geralt to bear, each slide dragging inside of him and creating delicious friction while the head of Jaskier’s cock nudges his prostate.

Geralt hums. 

“Let me hear you,” Jaskier says into his ear. 

Geralt looks off to the side, but Jaskier puts a finger on his chin and tilts his head back. “You’ve never been shy; don’t start now.”

Geralt stays sullenly even quieter than before, deliberately slowing his breathing. 

Jaskier laughs at his obstinance. “No performance review for me?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Geralt says breathlessly. 

“Who am I to say no to that?” Jaskier asks, and then there’s no more talking for a while, just gasps and moans as Jaskier slams into Geralt at a pace that leaves them both panting. 

Finally, Jaskier shudders to his climax and wraps a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock to bring him over the edge with him. 

Jaskier slips out of him and collapses onto the bed beside him, draping his leg over Geralt’s thigh, his fingers meandering their way again to the forest of scars that live on Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re lovely. Do you believe me yet?”

Geralt gives an unimpressed hum. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have the whole rest of my life to make you see reason.”

Geralt likes the sound of that.

[vagrantblvrd]

The AU where Jaskier is a ~spy and whilst on an actual mission accidentally uncovers dealings/conspiracy that could topple kingdoms if word gets out?

While he’s considering his options - loyalty to king and country warring with the Right Thing he realizes he wasn’t as careful as he thought he was and has to flee assassins?

Thinks oh, this is all for another Situation because accents or whatnot not lining up with his current batch of trouble and he figures he should go to his handler. Trusts them to know what to do and the whatnot, and ignores the niggling sense of unease about the whole thing. (What if whatever clues he picked up from the assassins was all part of a ploy and whatnot.)

When he gets to his handler all seems fine, normal, but then said handler leaves the room for a moment and Jaskier’s sitting there. On high alert and paranoid as hell because close calls all the way there. (Perhaps a hollywood-esque injury from a scuffle in a back alley before he reached the city his handler’s in and whatnot but surely he’s safe now, right? Right)

But then betrayal!

In which there are more close calls and desperate looks and all that before he hops out a window and flees across the roofs and such before losing his pursuers and holing up in some hideyhole no one but him (and maybe some trustworthy street urchins he’s befriended/folded into his little spy network and such).

He figures since it’s obvious his handler and other assorted higher ups - all the way to the king - would rather what secrets he’s uncovered die with him, so now it’s a matter of going into hiding and looking over his shoulder for the rest of his sure to be very short life, or.

Do the Right Thing and whatnot.

But that’s a laughable thought because how would he even go about it?

So, you know, the going into hiding thing and all that.

But then he runs into this grumpy witcher, and honestly, any other time he would be delighted to pry stories out of the man but he’s got assassins on his tail and living on borrowed time and oh, hell, why not travel with him to the next town at least?

Geralt is like ??? and also >:((((((((((( because what, and why, and how the hell??? regarding this troublesome bard and anyway.

Due to Reasons they end up traveling together through that first town, and then a few more after that and Geralt’s ??? intensifies because really, what the hell???

It seems wherever they go they have to beat a swift retreat or Geralt has to save Jaskier from an angry husband - or on occasion and angry wife - and Jaskier’s ahahaha seems a little strained when he explains about how could he ever refuse a lonely woman some company on a cold night or whatever bullshit he comes up with as he jumps out windows and whatnot and catches up to Geralt who is annyed every damn time but also clearly not about to leave the idiot bard to fend for himself.

(And then there’s the bit where Geralt ~tenderly patches up whatever injuries Jaskier picks up while fleeing from angry husbands/wives/whoever, growling and insulting Jaskier but so, so gentle and just. Yes.)

Jaskier swears he’ll leave, set off on his own and leave Geralt out of his troubles because the sweet bastard doesn’t deserve to get caught up in it on top of his usual struggles with dumb humans regarding the thing where he’s a witcher and whatnot? But he’s weak and selfish and just.

The next town, right, he’ll leave then.

Really.

Eventually though, it becomes clear to Geralt that (not all) of the Situations Jaskier runs into are due to him sleeping with the wrong people, but some other reason and Jaskier hasn’t been telling him the truth. (Half-truths and the whatnot, lies of omission such as the thing about being a spy with a price on his head and anyway, anyway.)

Arguments and so on and Jaskier leaving because Geralt’s right about him being a liar and all that, but then!

He gets captured by interested parties - a political enemy of the king - a fellow countryman or even someone from Nilfgaard or whereever and they really, really want the secrets tucked away in Jaskier’s head and he’s like, ah, so this is how it ends.

Jaskier was expecting a knife in the dark kind of deal one of the assassins after him finally catching up and being good enough he couldn’t slip away, which. Not great, but presumably better than being tortured to death and so on, and anyhow.

He’s in their ~clutches for a few days and is all, well this is terrible because of all the torture and also having time in between the torture to linger on regrets and not surprisingly Geralt features in so many of them, and it’s just.

Delicious Angst.

And then!

Rescue in the form of a very Not Happy witcher, who happens to have other witcher friends and also this utterly terrifying sorceress and a slightly less terrifying other sorceress and assorted other murder friends.

They mayor may not accidentally topple a kingdom in the process, and go to Kaer Morhen to figure shit out right?

Well, Geralt and Jaskier and most of the witchers head there along with the slightly less terrifying sorceress because Jaskier being in need of healing and so on.

Emotional Talking, which really is more Jaskier talking and Geralt going “Hm” using various tones/inflection when Jaskier says something Geralt doesn’t have the words for at the moment? (Other than sheer !!! at his “Oh, I expected to die there, not that I’m not grateful you and your friends rescued me, but you know, life of a spy and all,” and so on.)

But of course Geralt does some Emotional Talking of his own because he’s not a complete bastard and just when they reach the “Wait, he likes me likes me?” portion of things Yennefer shows up at Kaer Morhen cackling because word’s gotten out about this White Wolf unleashing his wrath on whatever kingdom he accidentally toppled and anyway, what does his majesty want to do with his new kingdom?

“What.”

Yennerfer cackling some more as, idk, Triss pops up and confirms what she said and also everyone thinks he’s a warlord now?

“This is your fault,” Geralt says to Jaskier, because it totally is?

But also some of Jaskier’s spy buddies or someone in his personal spy network slipping him information about dire happenings in another kingdom and he’s like “Oh, that’s vile.”

Geralt is just. “NO.”

But Jaskier and everyone else are like “Oh really?” and so off they go to do the Right Thing and maybe they run into other witchers along the way and anyway, anyway, a few monts, a year, two, and Geralt has to pick a consort and is like.

SIGH.

Everyone he knows is a meddler because the thing where he and Jaskier have been dancing around one another for ages even with the he really does like me like me revelation, and is like.

“Fine, I choose him,” pointing as Jaskier who chokes on the grape he just popped in his mouth because the bastard did that on purpose, he knows he did, and anyway.

Yes.

Geralt just wanted to live a normal life for a witcher and...witcher, but then Jaskier happened to him and he ended up topping several kingdoms and amassing a loyal following of witchers from all the schools, non-humans, and humans along the way.

Also he gained a daughter in Ciri due to shenanigans that Jaskier, once again, was to blame for.

The least Jaskier could do for being reason any of that happened is agree to be his consort, you know?

“Well when you put it like that, however could I refuse such a proposition?”

Everyone who isn’t Geralt or Jaskier set up another betting pool on how long it’ll take the two idiots to stop pining and actually do something about all that UST they’ve had to live with for years. YEARS.

Geralt and Jaskier don’t know what they mean by any of that, but a few months after Jaskier is named Geralt’s consort they actually smooch for the first time and are like oh, okay, everything makes sense now, not that either of them will ever admit it, but yes.

(Kind of. There was that thing with the attempted assassination a year back in which the only cure was True Love’s Kiss and while Jaskier felt he wasn’t the right person for the job nothing/no one else had managed to wake him up and the deadline before Geralt died was right there and he was desperate, and anyway, yes)

[teamfreehoodies]

teamfreehoodies masterlist

The Witcher (TV) 

See below the readmore to find links and summaries for all the fics I’ve written to date in this fandom.

and we will be elided by the people that we love most

de-aged!Jaskier, hurt!jaskier, hurt!yennefer, exploration of motherhood, families of choice, panic attacks (jask)

“What did you give me?” he growls, burying his fear beneath a burst of anger. The room around them splinters, making gravity an uncertain principle: vertigo makes him drool and he spits, falling over, digging his fingers into the ground in a futile effort to make everything just stop spinning. “Oh fuck, wha’ ‘id you do t’me?” he slurs out past a suddenly numb tongue. The icy burn has spread out from his throat and chest to take over his whole body, sending lightning strikes of pain zinging up and down his limbs.

“You’ll find out soon enough, I think.”

Yennefer is healing after Sodden, trying to pull her chaos back inside herself. She doesn’t actually have time to chase down wayward bards, much less take care of the child-sized version of one she’s never particularly liked all that well. She really is quite tired of being forced to save this fool.

darling, dearest, don’t you see (voices left inside of me)

follow-up to ‘elided" above: After the events of and we will be elided, Loretta writes Jaskier a letter. How do you forgive the kind of betrayal that’s made to save another life? How do you learn to live with the ways your family has hurt you? How do you heal without betraying yourself?

idk man, read the fic.

the heart electric (beats a half-time measure)

Jaskier drops the torch and the dagger, rushing forward to fall to his knees next to Geralt. The light sputters briefly but holds, and Jaskier curses himself even as he hesitantly reaches out to try and wake Geralt. The leather armour of his shoulder is cold under Jaskier’s palm, and weirdly tacky with something; arachas venom pings in the back of his mind like a warning, and he hastily wipes his palms off on his already ruined doublet, reaching forward to cradle Geralt’s face instead. “Geralt?” he whispers; the horrifying truth of Geralt’s stillness catches in his throat, preventing him from being any louder than that. “Geralt?”

Or

It’s not that he hadn’t thought it possible… but Geralt was a witcher. No one had ever mentioned that witchers could die.

Or

Five Times Jaskier Thought Geralt Was Dead, Plus One Time It Was Reversed

this life that we’ve created (inundated with the fated thought of you)

Gods, but this is very nearly intolerable. He’d been ready to forgive him, even then, waiting for Geralt to take it back, for him to turn around and apologize; and he’d been ready to forgive him two years ago, if only Geralt’s path would cross his again, one year ago, traveling slowly from town to town, chasing whispers of the white wolf in between his bardic circuit. He does not know if his heart can take it again, if Geralt once more decides him too much of a burden to bear traveling with. Injured, now, needing to be saved, he could not have engineered a worse reunion had he written the fates himself.

if you could let me inside your heart (could I be enough?)

Post-coital realizations should never be had alone. AKA Jaskier questions his place between these two powerful, immortal, destined-to-be-together beings, and he finds it hurts to be just… human.

this our winter of love (a gift from one above)

“It’s weird but I don’t think it’s witcher-weird.”

“Oh, it’s witcher-weird, alright.” Lambert interrupted, pulling up something on his phone. It was one of those ‘smart’ phones, paper thin, supposedly able to think for itself; seemed like more trouble than Geralt cared to deal with, but Lambert was half in love with the damned thing. “Look,” he said, thrusting the lit-up rectangle in Geralt’s face.

Geralt had to pull comically far back to actually look at what Lambert wanted him to see. The screen showed a small parcel of people milling about a city center. They were all dressed like either they had walked off of a movie set, or they were genuinely from the 1200s. There was even a bard, holding a lute. A distressingly familiar bard, for all that Geralt hadn’t seen that face in eight hundred years.

i carry your heart (i carry it in)

Witchers don’t have soulmates. That’s been true for as long as Geralt’s been alive, a necessary sacrifice for a life spent on the Path. There’s no place for the attachments that humans define themselves by.

It may not be worth it to Geralt, but love has always been the single most motivating force in the world for Jaskier. Unrequited or not, he’s a bard, and there’s a story to be told. He’ll be the one to tell it.

(Who’s the more tragic figure here? The loved or the unloving?)

Jaskier and Geralt are soulmates, bound by the Red String of Fate. But just because it’s written in the stars doesn’t mean it’s an easy path to tread, and it takes more than a nudge from fate to make a soul-bond work. Between the way Geralt feels about destiny, and the trials and tribulations of the path they have to trudge, it’s going to be one hell of an adventure.

the prairie is vast (the train is quicker) | Into the Jaskierverse, pt. 14

Geralt and Ciri are still trying everything they can to find Jaskier. After… a traumatizing split, they come back together in a new universe entirely. They’re offered a chance to distract themselves from their worry over Jaskier, and the perilous journey they’re on, by helping a female version of their favorite bard steal a wagon, rob a train, and, just maybe, come to terms with a worry that’s been plaguing her.

Featuring; much talk of guns, someone getting shot (on accident), a murder! (on purpose), Jaskier the Horse!Girl, one (1) dissociative episode, one (1) panic attack (though not the same character), and just enough fludd and banter to even it all out.

if i loved you (could you stay?) | QF1

He knows the way to Jaskier’s lodgings, knows by heart how to find the tiny row of cottages reserved for the professors and their families, knows too that Jaskier might not even be there; he’s not heard of anything from the bard in months, not since—

He shakes himself, turning away from the uncomfortable memories. What’s done is done. He only hopes he isn’t too late.

A love confession gone wrong leads Geralt to try and fix his relationship with Jaskier.

Go Get Your Mage | Yennfri promptfic

When Yennefer portals into Blaviken instead of Geralt, a more… mutually beneficial arrangement is made.

fate makes fools of us all (she plays the longest game) | QF2

It’s not that she’d meant to become a witch, but… well.

Sometimes these things just happen.

a willing ear (a hand to hold) |  QF3

A little town in the mountains calls for the aid of a witcher, and Geralt and Jaskier take on a contract that’s more than it first appears to be.

Even the divine have friends, strange as it may seem.

breathe with it (bleed with it)

Fringilla was the first. She flexes her hand, feeling again the phantom tendrils of chaos crawling up her veins as her arm had turned to dessicated ash and bone in recompense for her glory. That was what being noticed got you. That was a lesson learned in blood and pain. That was a lesson learned hard and fast and once.

a Fringilla Vigo character study; “There is no such thing as dark or light magic. Nothing in this world is as simple as that.”

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Good as Gold pt. 14

[part thirteen] |  [part fifteen] [prostitute!jaskier masterpost]

cw: mention of child death

You won't save everyone. He remembers the words clearly, spoken with certainty, finality. He remembers Vesemir saying them first, then Eskel. Even Lambert on the odd occasion they took a job together. Geralt knows the words well, but they provide no solace when someone doesn't make it out. They don't prepare him for the backlash when that person is a child.

Geralt had barely made it out of the village unharmed, blamed for the death of the miller's son, despite risking his life to bring the boy's body back to his family. He had taken down the cockatrice he'd been contracted for, unaware of the second one lurking in the forest until it was too late. The boy had wandered too close, curious about the new man in town - and Geralt had been too slow. Despite his best efforts, the second cockatrice had gotten away with the child and by the time he'd retrieved the boy's body, Geralt had been too exhausted, too injured to take on the second beast.

Not that he'd gotten any thanks. Upon his return, his payment had been withheld and the villagers had made it clear that he was no longer welcome - some even going as far as to follow him out of town. Which, all things considered, is one of the better ways he's been kicked out of town. But it doesn't ease the guilt that crashes over him in waves and it doesn't change the fact that he'll be sleeping outside tonight.

He’d left without a fuss, leading Roach to the edge of town before hoisting himself up into the saddle and turning her onto the main road. Now he's halfway to Hagge because he doesn't know where else to turn and the prospect of spending the night alone thinking about that boy is overwhelming. Halfway there, it starts to rain and Geralt isn't even surprised at the turn of the weather. Just his luck.

He's soaked through to the skin by the time he arrives and his coin purse seems lighter than he remembers as he contemplates spending the night with Jaskier. It's a bad idea, especially after losing out on the pay for his last contract, but there's something in him that aches for companionship, for the soft patience Jaskier has with him that so few others seem to share.

He doesn't actively make a choice one way or the other before he finds himself walking down the hall to Jaskier's room. The door is open but he knocks on the frame anyway, peeking around to see if he can spot him. Footsteps approach from behind and he turns to find Jaskier coming toward him, the frown on his face only increasing with proximity.

"Geralt, you're soaked," he says and Geralt flinches, waiting to be berated for making the floor dirty or something, but Jaskier just presses a hand to his back and leads him into the room. He's holding a mug in one hand which he hands to Geralt once they're inside, turning back to shut the door.

"It's just tea," he says, "but you look like you could use it more than me. Where are you coming from?" Geralt grunts as Jaskier unhooks the buckles on his armour with ease.

"Doesn't matter."

"Okay," Jaskier says slowly. He comes around to Geralt's front, lifting the chest piece over his head. "Everything alright Geralt?"

"Fine."

Jaskier sighs but keeps quiet after that, ridding Geralt of the rest of his armour, then his clothes after. It's been some time since Geralt has worried about Jaskier seeing his body, his scars, but standing naked in the middle of the room feels uncomfortable tonight in a way it hasn't before. He stands awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with himself as Jaskier hangs his wet clothes to dry.

Once he's finished with the task, Jaskier comes up to him, taking Geralt's hands in his.

"Why don't you go lie on the bed?" he suggests, "tell me what you want." His hands are warm, Geralt focuses on that.

"I didn't come for anything like that." Undeterred, Jaskier smiles up at him.

"Then what can I do for you?"

"You're not my servant, Jaskier," he says quietly. Then, considering what it is he does want, "I just wanted some company." He lifts his eyes just high enough to see Jaskier's and he can pinpoint the moment the words he doesn't say hit him. He looks devastated and immediately, he steps forward, pulling Geralt into his arms and bunding him up close to his chest.

Jaskier says nothing but he holds him close and Geralt surrenders. He lets himself be held, shuts his eyes and rests his head on Jaskier's shoulder. Hands are on his back and in his hair, holding him steady, grounding him to the here and now; to this room where he's welcome and safe and maybe even wanted.

He doesn't know how long they just stand there like that, but Jaskier is shaking when he finally pulls away.

"What did they do this time?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Bullshit." Jaskier seethes and Geralt doesn't know how else to fix it, so he tells him.

"A child died," he says, "they forced me out of town, refused to pay."

"Blamed you," Jaskier guesses and Geralt nods. "Bastards! I hate the way they treat you." Geralt shakes his head slowly.

"They were upset, Jaskier. They lost a child, they had no one else to blame."

"What about the thing that killed it! That's no excuse not paying you, for running you out of town - injured and in the rain! And maybe if it was a one-off, but it's not is it? How many times do people find the lamest excuse not to pay you? To be rid of you as soon as they can? How many times do you come to me with stories of people who spit at you in the streets-"

Geralt reaches out to him, sliding a hand against the side of his neck. "Relax, Jaskier. Don't get so worked up over them, they're not important."

"Fuck," Jaskier mutters, dropping his chin then tipping it back up to look at Geralt. He reaches up, brushing his fingers along his cheekbone. "I'm sorry. You came here to relax and here I am- come to bed, darling, stay the night." He leads Geralt to the bed, ensuring that he's settled before wandering off somewhere.

Geralt doesn't follow, doesn't pry. He knows how it feels to be so full of rage on behalf of someone else; he's seen his brothers stoned and shot at, chased out of town more times than he can count and the fury never fades. He doesn't understand why Jaskier is so upset about it, but he understands the feeling well enough.

When Jaskier returns, he curls up next to Geralt, brushing a tentative hand down his side. "Are you still awake?" he asks and Geralt shifts, pressing back against him.

"I am now."

"Oh. Sorry."

Truthfully, Geralt is exhausted - probably the only reason he fell asleep in such a short span of time - but Jaskier's breath is warm and comforting against his neck and if he's going to be woken up, he doesn't really mind being woken like this. The memory of the day is still fresh in his mind, but he focuses on the brush of Jaskier's fingers, the press of his chest as he closes the space between them.

"Geralt?" he asks and Geralt hums his acknowledgement. "Why do you do it? Why do you risk your life for people who don't appreciate you?" He cuddles closer, curling his arm around Geralt's middle and that’s when Geralt smells it - the salty tang of tears.

Everything in him aches to turn and pull Jaskier into his arms, to find out what hurt him and destroy it. But his affections would likely be mistaken for lust, so he just presses back against him, offering what comfort he can manage.

"What else can I do?" he asks, "I'm a monster, who would have me?" Jaskier huffs a bitter laugh and presses his face into Geralt's neck. The scent of salt in the air increases.

"What do I do?" Jaskier asks, "just wait for the day when you don't come back? When you take on a contract that's too much for you or the villagers decide actually, they've had enough of Witchers? And I'm just sitting here, waiting for you to come back - only you never will?" He chokes on his words and Geralt moves without thinking, rolling to face him and wrapping his arms around Jaskier.

He's thought about it, too. Because one day he will lose and there will be no one to tell the few people who linger in his life. His brothers will understand when he doesn't return to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir will understand. Anyone else who cares enough will hear it from them. But no one knows about Jaskier, no one would think to tell him even if they did. To them, Jaskier would just be another whore from a nameless city and Geralt's chest tightens at the thought. He shuts his eyes, so caught up in the moment that he forgets for a moment that Jaskier asked him a question.

"I don't know," he says. "Word would travel, eventually. Though I suppose it would depend on where it happened. If I died in Cintra, you would probably never know." Jaskier shudders against him.

"I hate not knowing. I hate the way they treat you. I hate knowing you're out there somewhere fighting something that would make a knight flee in terror. And this is all you get for it? Blame for a child's death?"

"It's just the way things are for us-"

"That's bullshit, Geralt. You were made. They took you and turned you into this and never gave you a choice and you're just expected to be okay with it?" He's looking up at him now, eyes blue and watery and Geralt can't stand it. He huffs a humourless laugh.

"You sound like my brother."

"Well, at least one of you realizes how brutally unfair this all is."

"I've never known anything different, Jaskier. I barely remember the days before I was taken to Kaer Morhen."

"It still isn't fair. You deserve love like anyone else - more maybe considering what you do to keep people safe every day. You deserve somewhere safe at the end of the day, somewhere and someone you can return to who will take care of you."

Distantly, Geralt thinks that this - having a soft body pressed against his own, having Jaskier pressed against him - makes it worthwhile. At least most of the time. There are days when he feels hopeless when he submits to the emotions he's not supposed to feel, but having one person to turn to makes it better. He doesn't know how to express that, how to tell Jaskier that he is the one who eases his suffering, so he ducks his head, pressing their foreheads together and shuts his eyes.

He's not sure how they got here, how he somehow feels like he's the one doing the comforting now, but it doesn't matter. The child, the hunt, the village are at the back of his mind now, replaced with a need to reassure Jaskier that he's fine. He knows it's futile, has had countless similar conversations with Lambert about the inevitability of a Witcher's life. But he hates seeing Jaskier worked up like this, has never witnessed someone cry on his behalf and he doesn't know what to do with it all. If he can just convince him that this is normal, that he doesn't need to worry about him because he'll be fine and if he's not, well, that's inevitable. But when he pulls back to look at him again, all he sees in Jaskier's eyes is sorrow and helplessness and something clicks for him.

"Is that why you want to come with me?" he asks. Jaskier exhales, shrugs. "There's nothing you could do that would stop them, Jaskier. It would be like telling a horse not to neigh. It's the way they've been raised."

"Then I could be the one to take care of you," Jaskier snaps and for a moment everything in the room is still other than the frantic thudding of Jaskier's heart. His words are so sharp that Geralt nearly misses their meaning, but it registers after a moment and he frowns in confusion.

Why anyone would want to join him on the Path for the sole purpose of picking him up after a bad contract, he can't know. But it seems to be what Jaskier is suggesting.

"Jaskier, I couldn't. No one is safe with me. This is proof of that."

Jaskier sighs and Geralt can feel the fight leave him. "I know, darling. It's just a dream, nothing more. But I wish there was something I could do to make them see who you really are." Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him and Jaskier smiles sadly. He runs a hand down Geralt's arm, tracing soft lines across his forearm. "You're a lovely, wonderful man, Geralt. They don't deserve what you do for them. I only wish they could see you the way I do."

Geralt wants to ask what he means, but Jaskier shifts, wiggling so he can pull Geralt close again, press his nose against his. Like this, Geralt can feel his breath against his lips and all thoughts of their prior conversation leave him. He focuses on the soft puffs of breath, how if he tipped his head up just so, he could kiss him; if there was ever a time for it, it's tonight, but it still feels wrong. He shifts to press a knee between Jaskier's, arms wound around his waist and Jaskier squeezes him tighter.

"Let's not think about it anymore," Jaskier whispers, "they don't deserve our time and they've already taken enough of yours." He presses Geralt's head against his chest and runs his fingers through his hair, humming softly.

Geralt listens to the sound of his heartbeat, the hum of his voice and he breathes in Jaskier's scent. It's worrying how something so simple can calm him and he thinks about what Jaskier said to him instead.

"Why are you always so kind to me?"

"Because everyone deserves love, my darling, and I've learned the people who need it most are usually the ones who ask for it the least."

Geralt shuts his eyes and doesn't ask any further questions, but he thinks about that for a very long time.

[king-finnigan]

5 times Geralt failed to ask Jaskier out and 1 time he somehow managed

I.

Yen calls him immediately after he’s sent her the text. “What’s going on? You said it was an emergency?” She sounds slightly worried, and Geralt realizes that ‘Need help. Emergency.’ does sound like something to be worried about.

“I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

She lets out a long-suffering sigh, and he could swear he hears a ‘fucking finally’ muttered away from the receiver. “Cool, sure. So what do you need my help for?”

“Asking him out.”

She laughs softly. “Seriously? You’re a grown-ass man, surely you can ask someone out, right? You’ve done it before.”

He keeps quiet, and blesses all his lucky stars that she isn’t here to see shame rise red to his cheeks.

“Wait-“ He hears her let out a startled laugh. “You’ve never asked someone out before?”

His silence is confirmation enough.

“How the fuck did you manage to go your entire life without asking someone out?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Whatever. Alright, so, here’s what you gotta do-“

---

He’s waiting outside the doors of the cinema, bouncing on his heels a bit. Jaskier’s always a bit late – fashionably late, as Jaskier himself calls it – which is fine under any other circumstances, but the movie won’t wait for them, so it sets Geralt’s nerves on fire.

Finally, Jaskier shows up. With Triss and Sabrina in tow. To what was supposed to be a date.

“Hi!” Jaskier greets him brightly. “Hope it’s alright that I brought Triss and Sabrina. A movie is just much more fun when there are more people, you know? Hope you don’t mind?”

Geralt smiles tightly, and shakes his head. Later, after the movie, he rereads the text he sent Jaskier a few days earlier, and realizes he maybe didn’t really make it clear that he intended it as a date. Great. Something to remember for next time. Though he’s not gonna ask Jaskier on a movie date again. Firstly because Jaskier apparently likes it better when it’s not just the two of them, and also because they stumbled into their seats ten minutes late, and he doesn’t think he’s gonna survive that kind of embarrassment again.

 II.

Okay, so clearly Yennefer’s plan didn’t work out. Maybe he should ask someone else.

It takes a while before Eskel picks up, but Geralt immediately relaxes when he hears his brother’s voice. “Yeah?”

“I wanna ask Jaskier out. I need your advice.”

Eskel breathes out something that sounds suspiciously like ‘finally’. It’s quiet for a while, as Geralt gives his brother time to think.

“Flowers,” Eskel eventually says. “Jaskier likes flowers, right? He seems like a flower kinda guy. So give him flowers.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says.

“By the way, can I borrow your drill? I’m making a shed and mine broke.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, thanks. Bye.” Eskel hangs up, and Geralt drops his phone on his bed, thoughts mulling over how best to handle this.

---

He shuffles from one foot to another as he waits for Jaskier to open the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bouquet of different types of orange flowers. It had caught his eye at the florist, because of its obnoxious colours, and he figured Jaskier would love it.

Finally, the door opens. And immediately slams shut again, Jaskier’s high-pitched shriek muffled from behind the wood. “Fucking shit!”

Geralt frowns, and knocks on the door. “Jaskier? Are you alright?”

A muffled sneeze, followed by: “No! I’m allergic to flowers.” Another three sneezes, in quick succession. “Very.”

Great. Just his fucking luck. “Uh… r-right,” he stammers. “I’ll- I’ll throw them away, then.”

He apologizes for it later, and Jaskier tells him not to worry about it, though he’s hardly able to string the sentence together through several sneezes and wet sniffles, eyes red and swollen.

 III.

Okay, so no movie date, and definitely no flowers. Maybe he should call someone else. He considers calling Lambert for a second, but he knows that would probably be the worst idea of his life – Lambert would either laugh in his face and hang up, or he would suggest something ridiculous like a bungee-jumping proposal or some shit like that.

Instead, he calls his dad. He’s always been able to rely on Vesemir for advice, so he supposes this time won’t be any different.

“What’s wrong?” his dad asks as soon as he picks up the phone.

Geralt frowns. “Nothing. I’m calling for advice.”

It’s quiet for a while. Then: “Alright, but disposing of a body is a lot harder than you think it is. Just take that into consideration before you go through with it. So first you gotta-”

“What? No, I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

Silence. “Oh. Who?”

“Jaskier. You met him last Christmas. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

“That loud-mouth that kept following you at the party?”

“Yes.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and Geralt could swear he hears a muffled ‘thank the gods’, as if Vesemir is holding his hand over the receiver. “Try flowers.”

“Already tried that. Nearly killed him because he’s allergic.”

“Hmm. Take him to a nice restaurant.”

Geralt nods, and he realizes embarrassingly late that Vesemir can’t see him. “Alright. Thank you. But, what you said about disposing of a body, what-“ The line clicks. Vesemir’s hung up.

---

“Hey, there’s this new restaurant, a few blocks away. Di Mare, I think it’s called. Wanna go there, maybe next Saturday?”

Jaskier snorts at him, incredulous expression on his face. “That place? No thanks, way too fancy for me. What do you take me for, a rich person?”

“Jaskier, you’re literally royalty.”

“Nah,” Jaskier continues, ignoring him, “let’s just order take-out. Have a little movie night.”

Geralt nods, hope shining in his chest. “Yeah, sure.”

Jaskier grins at him, pulling his phone out. “Cool! I’ll text Yen and Triss, let them know. Been a while since we all hung out together.” Oh, fucking brilliant.

 IV.

“Triss? I need your help.”

“Sure, what can I do?”

“I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

“Oh, yeah, Yen told me about that. So I figure you still haven’t managed?”

“Clearly.” He doesn’t mention the fact that so far, she’s come between his plans twice. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, and she’s obviously not doing it on purpose.

It’s quiet for a while. “Uh… Flowers are a big no-no, he’s allergic to those.”

“Figured that out by now.”

“The hard way?”

“The hard way.”

“Yikes. Hmm. Restaurant?”

“No.”

“Fuck, then I’m fresh outta ideas, chief. Wait, no. There’s this new coffeeshop just around the corner. Jask loves coffee, no way you can go wrong with this one.” Geralt highly doubts it, but thanks her anyways and hangs up.

---

The barista makes heart-eyes at Jaskier the entire time they’re ordering, and when they go to sit down, Jaskier turns his cup and finds the guy’s phone number written on the side. He immediately pulls out his phone and sends the barista a text. Geralt tries and fails not to sulk.

 V.

“Hey.”

He blinks, then frowns at his five year-old neighbour who’s blocking the exit of the apartment building, looking up at him with a glint in her eyes that she always gets when she’s about to drop snowballs through people’s mailboxes.

“… Hi.”

“Heard you were trying to ask your boyfriend out,” Ciri says.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And how’d you know that?”

“Gran-gran says the walls are thin and you talk loud when you’re on the phone.”

“… Okay.”

It’s quiet for a while, her gaze intent on him the entire time, and he starts to feel uncomfortable, shuffling on his feet. Sure, the effect may be mollified by the fact that she’s missing her front teeth, but she’s still very unnerving.

“… Ciri, can I leave n-“

“You should ask him out.”

“That’s why I’m trying t-“

“Just ask.”

“Ciri-“

“Give him alcohol. Grown-ups like alcohol. Then ask.”

He sighs. “If I promise to do that, can you please let me pass so I can go to work?”

She holds up her hand, pinkie finger extended. “Pinkie promise.”

He hooks his little finger through hers. “Pinkie promise. Now can I please go?”

She nods solemnly, and steps to the side. He’s halfway down the stairs when she calls out to him: “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

He looks back, sees her staring at him, face blank and grave, and he turns back, getting out of there as fast as he can. What the fuck?

---

Geralt’s walking to Jaskier’s door, two cups of coffee in his hands. Sure, the giving-Jaskier-alcohol part of Ciri’s plan wasn’t the greatest, but he couldn’t deny that simply asking Jaskier on a date might be effective and solid, because it’s so simple.

Except, just his luck, as he walks to Jaskier’s door, Jaskier barges out of his apartment, and smashes into Geralt, coffee spilling over both of them.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his hands in the arms exasperatingly. He sighs, his foul mood evident on his face. “Guys and coffee seems to be a deadly combination for me, lately.”

“I guess it didn’t work out with the barista, then?” He somehow manages to keep his hope out of his voice.

Jaskier sighs and shakes his head, fishing a paper tissue out of his backpack to wipe at the front of his shirt. “Yeah, no. Total hipster, and he couldn’t stop talking about himself. Like, yada-yada-yada, you like old music, we get it, now can we please talk about me?” He sighs, seems to give up on saving his shirt. “Guess I’ll have to go back inside to get a new one,” he mutters. “Anyways, why are you here? Is there something going on?”

Geralt swallows, shakes his head. “No, just wanted to bring you some coffee. Sorry about uh…” he waves his hand a bit “that. Gotta go.”

He rushes out of there, ignoring Jaskier’s inquiring “Geralt?” behind him.

 + I

“So you’ve finally turned to me for council,” Lambert says in lieu of greeting when he answers the phone.

Geralt sighs.

“I want to hear you say it, Ger-Ger. I’ll help you but I need to hear you say it.”

“Don’t call me Ger-Ger.”

“Say it.”

He sighs again, a headache starting to form behind his eyes. “Fine. I need your help.”

He can practically hear Lambert’s self-satisfied smirk. “Lucky for you, I’ve got just the idea…”

For some reason, Geralt doesn’t exactly feel lucky.

---

The first pebble he throws misses its target, and he cringes as it nearly hits Jaskier’s downstairs neighbor’s window. He tries again. This time it hits its mark, but there’s no sign of life from Jaskier’s apartment. He tries again. No response. And again. No response. He throws three pebbles against the window in quick succession.

Finally, a light turns on and Jaskier opens the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Geralt? It’s one in the morning, what-“

He looks down at his phone, frantically searching for the song that Lambert recommended- fucking Lambert. He never should’ve agreed to this, and he’s going to kill his brother once this is over. Finally, he finds the right song. It’s the same one as in that one movie Lambert told him about where this guy held a boombox over his head or some shit – ‘something Jaskier will have definitely watched’, his brother had reassured him. Finally, he finds the right song, and holds his phone over his head, volume as loud as possible, and-

“WANT A BREAK FROM THE ADS?-”

Geralt closes his eyes in horror as the ad continues playing, several lights turning on in the windows of the apartment building. Jaskier on the other hand, is- gone.

Geralt frowns, turns the ad off, and looks at Jaskier’s window, painfully empty. Suddenly, the door to the building opens, and Jaskier comes staggering out, wheezing and clutching his stomach as he makes his way towards Geralt.

“That-“ he says between giggles “that was the funniest and most adorable shit I’ve ever seen.” He hiccups, starts laughing uncontrollably again. “What…?”

“Lambert’s idea.”

Jaskier laughs again, desperately holding on to Geralt’s shoulder as to not keel over. “Of- of course it’s his idea, oh gods-“ He hiccups, finally calming down a bit. “Isn’t this from that one movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it a romantic movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you trying to ask me out, Geralt?”

“… Yeah.”

Jaskier smiles softly. “I accept. But please- next time, you can just ask. There’s no need to go through all this trouble.”

Geralt resists the urge to smack his palm against his face. “Alright, I’ll remember that for next time.”

Jaskier looks back, sees multiple lights on in the windows, sees some neighbors frowning down at them angrily. “Better wrap this up or they’re gonna call the cops on us.” He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against Geralt’s cheek. “Goodnight, Geralt.” He turns around and makes his way back to the apartment complex.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

[relenafanel]

Squats For Thots - Geralt/Jaskier | PG-13.

This is mostly one long dick joke I wrote as an excuse to use “Squats for Thots” as a title. It’s also mostly foolish men with crushes objectifying each other’s asses. #whoops. 

“The Countess likes her men a little more thicc, you know?” Jaskier said, burning through the starting set Geralt had given him surprisingly well. Well enough that he continued talking, though Geralt wasn’t sure the man ever stopped. “Likes something to hold on to.”

Most of the men Geralt saw at the private club thought targeted exercises were a quick way to improve what they considered to be small problem areas, like there was a cheat sheet to looking like a Hemsworth that wasn’t partially genes. Most of them thought they were a personal trainer away from movie-star abs, and Geralt wasn’t there to disabuse them of the notion.

“I figured,” Jaskier continued, breathing through his final 20, “if I found the trainer with the best ass in the place they’d be the person to show me how to turn this slab into fab.”

“Do you ride?” Geralt asked, making a note to make Thursday’s session more intense.

 “Yeah,” Jaskier said, finally sounding out of breath. He batted his eyelashes and Geralt also made a note to recommend the man invest in a sweatband if it was going to make him blink like that, especially since Jaskier didn’t seem to be perspiring hard yet.

 “How many times a week and for how long?” 

 Jaskier opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked flustered and then flummoxed, though Geralt pretended he didn’t notice since he couldn’t figure out why. Then Jaskier laughed. “Ohh, you mean a horse,” he said. “Not often, not since adolescence, though I can still manage a decent seat when needed. Why? Should it be part of my training? I can’t say I’ve noticed all equestrians have a juicy booty but I don’t know if I’ve been looking for the trend.”

 “Hm,” Geralt answered, aware it wasn’t an answer at all. “My job today is determining your limits.”

 “Yeah,” Jaskier agreed, probably because they’d already been over this before starting. There was also that flirtatious lilt to it that Geralt was realizing he should have been able to identify from the start. 

 Fuck.

 Jaskier was one of those people who stopped by the club a few times a month and spent more time off to the side drinking smoothies and watching the people around him than he did exercising. It was a surprise he was able to keep up with the exercises Geralt had designed to easily break him. “Your lower body is better developed than I assumed.”

 “Thank you for the compliment, even though I think what you really mean is you assumed my fitness level is the same as a 3 year coma patient and tested me accordingly. I don’t think I’m even insulted by that. Though we could have saved some wasted time if you’d ever seen me naked.”

 Geralt leveled him with an unimpressed expression designed to ask ‘why would I want to do that?’

 Jaskier flushed but didn’t look particularly embarrassed or emasculated, which was maybe the first thing he’d done in his favour. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, “why does anyone?”

 ****

 “I hear you’ve taken on the Viscount de Lettenhove as a client,” Lambert said, looking far too relaxed against the bar. 

 Geralt shrugged. He had six new clients since the last time he’d spoken with Lambert and the name didn’t sound familiar.

 “Lord Julian?” Lambert continued. “Has a reputation for being very generous in bed, both generally and -“ he made a vague gesture to his dick. “A good third of the people at the club have either already had sex with him, want to have sex with him, or a combination of both. During your session last week, Rodgie said Lettenhove fucked him so well he thought he was gay for another three months, like he’d gone temporarily blind to the charms of women it was so good.”

 Geralt scowled. 

 “I’m just repeating what he said. Don’t pretend you’re beyond gossiping about this.”

 “I can’t place the name,” he admitted instead of answering that. Beyond gossip? Apparently not. Seeking it out? No. Especially about someone referred to as Lord Julian.

 “Really? Tall-ish. Handsome-ish. Good with his hands. Treadmill squad can’t seem to take their eyes off him. Was in on Thursday.”

 New client. Thursday. “Jaskier?”

 “Yes,” Lambert agreed with a snap of his fingers. “That’s the name he uses. Rich people, eh?”

 Jaskier?

 Lambert shook his head. “I can’t tell if you just don’t notice people or if you genuinely aren’t into dick, sometimes.”

 ****

 Geralt was into dick.

 Sometimes.

 ****

 He noticed. 

 Not anything different about Jaskier. The man still talked his way through whatever exercises Geralt threw at him, far too flirtatious for comfort, and never really seemed to notice that he was being openly appraised by almost every single person on exercise machines. 

 But Geralt did. 

 ****

 It wasn’t that Geralt noticed Jaskier, it was just that Jaskier was standing at the smoothie bar on a day they weren’t scheduled to work together and he noticed the incongruity of seeing Jaskier on a Friday morning.

 Wearing shorts.

 It wasn’t really the shorts that kept his attention, it was the same thing about Jaskier that he’d noticed from the first moment they’d started working together - Jaskier’s damn legs and those calves that told of a less sedentary lifestyle than Jaskier pretended.  Geralt didn’t understand why someone would stop by the gym in a health club only to lounge around doing nothing if they obviously spent a lot of time working out their legs (at least).

 It took him a bit longer than it should have to realize he was gawking just as badly as Jaskier’s damn treadmill fanclub. He turned his back and pretended he was very interested in something else. Anything else.

 “Hey,” Jaskier said, handing Geralt the second smoothie in his hands. Geralt was sure the person overdoing it on the rowing machine wilted in jealousy. “Are you in a session?”

 “Technically,” Geralt said and took a sip of the smoothie. It tasted like summer. 

 Jaskier grinned at him. “No show?”

 “Sauna.”

 “That’s an option?” Jaskier asked, but looked more amused than anything. “And here I’ve been exercising like a chump”

 “It’s an option.”

 “Of course, I wouldn’t leave you out here fully clothed. Seems like a waste.” He grinned at Geralt, sly in a way that included Geralt in the joke.  “Maybe you could advise me on the best ways to steam it up.”

 “It’s an option,” Geralt repeated.

 “I…” Jaskier started to say and then closed his mouth.  “Really?”

 “But if you do, you won’t make any progress.”

 “In my butt or with you?” he blurted out.  “And yes, I can hear that sentence is one finished thought away from a dirty joke but I’m going to be the bigger man here.”

 Geralt seriously doubted that.

 “Oh my god. Are you one finished thought from making that into a dick joke?” Jaskier looked delighted.  “Yass, Geralt.”

 The sauna door opened, and Geralt prepared himself to finish the last five minutes of the hour, which consisted of making sure his client was hydrated before sending him on his way, rather than continuing this conversation with Jaskier.  

 “Wait,” Jaskier said, with a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Is there something I can make progress on?”

 Geralt shrugged.  There wasn’t NOT something, which he knew wasn’t an answer either. 

 “Ok, so, that’s not a no. I acknowledge it’s not a yes, but it’s also not a no, and you’re not someone who has trouble with the word no. So.” Jaskier waved his hand, spraying smoothie from the top of his straw.  “That’s cool.”

 That’s cool, Geralt repeated in his head as he walked away. He probably should have said no just to save himself the pain of hearing that’s cool.

 ****

 “There’s a rumour you’re about to get laid,” Lambert said on their bi-weekly meet up for beer. 

 “That’s cool,” Geralt said with a shrug.

 Which, honestly, was worth it just for the look on Lambert’s face.

 ****

 “Ok,” Jaskier said on Monday, which also wasn’t one of their scheduled meetings. He showed up like some kind of annoyance mirage wearing a brightly coloured shirt and shoes meant for lounging. Geralt was in the middle of helping the Earl of Something’s second son work off his weekend bender. The man had run off to puke twice already and Jaskier’s shirt wasn’t helping any. Neither was the way Jaskier snapped his fingers in front of his clammy face. “Off you go, you’re looking a little peaked.”

 “Thank you!”

 Jaskier rolled a yoga ball over with his foot and perched on it, crossing his legs. It occurred to Geralt that Jaskier was like a male peacock posturing, with his vibrant clothes and stupid pose. It also occurred to Geralt that he shouldn’t be into it.  “We should go out for coffee and stuff.”

 “Fine.”

 “What?” Jaskier said, losing his balance and almost falling on the floor.

 “Coffee and stuff. Fine. Let’s go out.”

 “I…” Jaskier opened his mouth. Closed it.  “Expected more of an argument and to maybe leave disappointed.”

 Geralt shrugged.  “Why?”

 “I don’t know!” Jaskier threw up his hands and then stood.  His movements had an ease to them that they wouldn’t if he didn’t fucking exercise somewhere. Geralt was going to figure it out because he was pretty sure if he asked anyone they’d say it was from sex and life didn’t work that way. “Because you asked me if I ride and meant a horse!”

 “You stop by the smoothie bar, grab a lounge chair for a few hours, and take a nap whenever you come in.  Something needed to account for your legs.”

 Jaskier started laughing.

 “Don’t say it,” Geralt told him with annoyance.

 “You noticed,” Jaskier stressed. 

 ****

 “I hate that I know why you look so relaxed,” Lambert grumbled.

[edensbuttercups]

🤠Pairing: Jaskier x reader

Word count: 1.5k

Prompt: They have been friends since they were little, the reader has a crush on Jaskier but is too shy to tell him how she really feels. The day she was about to confess everything, they had a fight over a big missunderstanding and stop talking for a while. Geralt and Yennefer find out what happened and do what they can to get them both back to what they had before but it doesn't work.

The day of her own birthday (January 31st it's my birthday!!! Hehe) the reader goes to a karaoke bar thinking that no one of her friends was going to be there, since she wanted to spend her day alone because it was the anniversary of that fight and at the same bar. She sings "Two Pieces" by Demi Lovato to say everything and, when she finishes, she realizes that her friends heard her singing, including her crush (whi had gone there to sing with his band a few hours earlier)

A little bit of angst and fluff and a happy ending where the two of then confess their love in the most beautiful and angsty way? And maybe a little bit of Geralt making his best friend see reason and tellong him to go to get her before it's too late because she's planning to go to another city for a whule to get away a little bit?

A/N: first of all I apologise for not posting this earlier!! I was planning on posting this on your birthday but then a) the story didn’t get saved so I had to rewrite it, b) I brought my computer at work (where this was on) and forgot it there) and c) haven’t been able to post on tumblr for some reason for about two hours?? Help. And this proves yet again that I’m a clumsy mess and shouldn’t be trusted! BUT here I am now, so, @caritobbg, hope you like this and sorry yet again! 💖

Also this is a mess but hey, so am I 🤠

I think I love you.

That’s what you had planned on saying. But now here you where, sitting in the now-empty room, looking up at the disco ball, spinning around to the sound of silence. The silver and pink ribbons shifted ever so slightly while you moved your legs closer to your chest.

This was supposed to be a good day, a day full of happiness, friends, drinks, songs, love. But out of all the possibilities, you never thought you’d end up arguing with him. You had fought in the past, heavens, you had known each other for way to long not to have had to, but this time stung more. The way his eyes shifted between you and the room, begging for you to say something, to do something, before finally realising you wouldn’t. And the thing was, you didn’t know why you didn’t.

“I was just joking! You don’t have to take everything so seriously, dude” You heard Jake apologising about the stupid joke he made about Jaskier’s song, and you also saw Jaskier glaring at him for a moment before meeting your eyes once more. “I’ll be leaving.” “Jaskier…” you tried, reaching out to him as fast as he moved away from you. “Happy birthday again.” he muttered, turning around and walking up from the small make-shift karaoke room you had prepared.

After that night he hadn’t called you. You didn’t text and didn’t call either, thinking that giving him space might be the right choice. But then a week passed. And then two. And before you knew it, it had been a month.

Jask, I’m sorry about what happened. Jake was just joking. (message delivered)

Jask? (message delivered)

Jask, I know you’re mad, but he was joking. We’re still friends though, right? (message delivered).

You sighed, letting the phone fall. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You thought about that night almost every day, the innocent joke that Jake made, mocking the cheesy love-song Jask had recently composed. You liked the song. You liked Jaskier. Did he misunderstand?

Time passed. Days, weeks, months. You carried on as normal, working, living as normal. Almost as normal.

You walked slowly, taking in the sunset as it painted the buildings pink. You raised your phone to your ear, ordering something from your favourite take away place, too tired to cook something for yourself.

You closed the door behind you, sighing after the long day at work. You turned the music on and moved to the music, happy to spend the evening on your sofa.

It didn’t take long for you to hear a knock on the door, standing and glancing at the clock, surprised at the speed of the delivery. You swung the door open, taking a step back, surprised.

“How are you?” the white-haired man said, offering a kind smile. “Oh. Geralt? Yen? What are you guys doing here?” “We brought drinks.” Geralt explained. “And company.” Yen added, gesturing at her and Geralt. “We heard about the fight. And we also heard you still haven’t talked about it.” “He won’t answer me. My calls, my texts,..” “I can talk to him.” Geralt said, placing the beers down on the table and opening one.

“Okay. I’ll… yeah, try. Thank you.” you smiled.

You spent the rest of the evening smiling and laughing with your friends, talking about old times, fun mistakes and spontaneous adventures you had all said yes to. You hoped things would go back to normal, and you knew they did too, but things had started falling into place. A different place. But now that the dust was settling life was taking structure again. You still saw Yen, enjoying her company on lonely nights and shopping trips, and Geralt, sometimes meeting him after work for a quick jog or a simple chat. And you knew they still saw Jaskier in their own time.

It was okay.

The next day, walking home once again from work, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. You picked it up and answered.

“Hey Geralt, how are you?”

“Hey! I’m good, you?”

“Doing good. You know Eric, from work? He brought donuts for everyone this afternoon, so that was a huge plus.”

“Text me next time and I’ll pop by to steal some” “Will do.” you laughed.

“I wanted to tell you that I talked to Jaskier. Or at least, I tried. He dodged the subject pretty well. I can see he still car-“ “Thanks, Geralt. It’s okay. Just… let’s leave it at that.”

“Okay. Want me to come over? We can watch that film you’ve had on your bucket list for a while.”

“Sure. Thank you.”

“No problem. Be over in 20!”

———————————— —————————————————————— 

You smiled, moving on the stage. People were cheering you on as you sang. You didn’t know anyone there, so you didn’t care what anyone thought. You were sad, it was your birthday, and it had been a whole year without hearing from Jaskier, if not from what your friends told you about him.

You kept singing, throwing everything you felt out, letting go.

“We don't know where to go, so I'll just get lost with you We'll never fall apart, 'cause we fit together right, we fit together right These dark clouds over me, rain down and roll away We'll never fall apart, 'cause we fit together like We fit together like Two pieces of a broken heart“

you felt a tear roll down your cheek as you neared the last phrase.

“There’s a boy, lost his way, looking for someone to play”

You moved back, hearing someone else singing the ending of the song. A voice you new well. You turned towards the voice, seeing Geralt and Yen smile behind Jaskier.

  “What are you doing here?” you started, ready to flee the scene. “I was practicing here this afternoon. Yen and Geralt came to pick me up for a night out. We weren’t stalking you.” “Jask.” Yen mumbled. “I… It’s your birthday, right?” “Right.” He nodded, looking back at your friends for a second before nodding, letting them know he wanted a moment alone with you. They smiled and moved towards the bar, far enough to give you some privacy. “Jask, you can go. I’m alright.” “Happy Birthday.” “Thank you.” you smiled. “I missed you.” you added. “I did too.” You looked around, not sure what to talk about. “You sang well.” he stated, pointing at the stage. “Thank you. I… actually chose that song ‘cause… ehm… nothing.” you laughed, taking a step back. “I’ve got to apologise.” “Jaskier, you don’t-“ “No, let me finish. I’m sorry. Because I cut you off for a whole year. But I didn’t plan to. The first week, I was too embarrassed. The next, angry. After that time passed and I felt like I was just going to make a scene if I came back out of nowhere. Geralt said you were okay and that was all that mattered to me, so I just… let you go, I guess.” “but why didn’t you answer my messages?” he furrowed his eyebrows, looking around, trying to understand. “Messages… Oh.” “What?” “My phone. Broke. I thought the contacts would just sync with the new number?" “Oh. So you weren’t ignoring me!” “I’d never do that! I thought you didn’t want to talk to me!” “But why?” “Because of the song?” “I liked the song?” “The song was for you. The things I said, the emotions I expressed, were all things you made me feel.” “Oh Jaskier. I didn’t know. I thought it was just another song. For another girl.” “Oh but they’ve all been for you, dear. You never noticed, and I figured as much, but that night I wanted to let you know, let everyone know. But when Jake made that joke, and you laughed, I thought you figured it all out and thought you hated it. Hated me.” “Never. But when you say “made me feel”…” you trailed on, waiting for his reaction. “Has anything changed? I know it’s been a year, but…” you carried on. You felt two heavy hands rest on your shoulders, and quickly turned to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Of course he does. A whole year and he barely shut up about you. “How is she doing? Is she okay? What has she been up to? Does she have a boyfriend?”. Heh, he’s smitten and has been for a long time.” “Geralt, I swear to God…” Jaskier reached for Geralt, jumping around, trying to land a punch. You jumped between them, landing a quick kiss on Jaskier’s lips before leaping away, pulling Geralt away with you. You watched as he stayed still, dumbfounded, for a minute, his cheeks red. But not long after there he was, chasing after the two of you and laughing along, with the intention of thanking getting revenge on Geralt and kissing you ‘till the sun came up.

[alittlebitmaybe]

making concessions

so i, uh, maybe wrote the nichest, dumbest cracky au ficlet in the world. i blame @yoursummerfrost who is possibly the sole audience for this. i hope you’re happy.

anyway, this is what i described in this post, aka “Geralt and Jaskier meet at a Magic: the Gathering tournament that Jaskier has no business being at but somehow he beats Geralt and then they try to have sex in the bathroom”

featuring a complete disregard for like, legal cards or real decks or any actual knowledge of MTG tournaments beyond living with someone who plays it a lot

rated M for like frottage and marking and stuff

--

“Fresh meat,” Yen mutters, perched against one of the folding tables, knees spread. She punctuates it with a snap of her bubble gum.

Geralt folds his arms across his chest, eyebrow raised. “This is a low-tier Magic tournament, Yen, not a grade school playground.”

“Doesn’t make him not fresh meat. He’s gonna last five minutes, tops. Someone is gonna OTK that poor bastard.”

“We’ve all got to start somewhere.”

“That kid, Geralt,” she says, “is starting nowhere.”

The man Yen calls that kid does look more like he should be at Coachella than at a Magic: the Gathering tournament—bandana, loose tank top, cuffed jean shorts, and all—but, Geralt thinks, clearing his throat, he’s definitely no kid, not with the definition in his arms and the chest hair and the light scruff along his jaw. He is, though, going around and asking people to show him their decks, which he takes from them and riffles through clumsily while oohing and ahhing.

“Good for me, at least,” Geralt adds. “One less actual competitor to knock out.”

Yen punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Sure, if you can keep it in your pants. You just went all googly-eyed. Those baby blues suck you in already?”

He drags his gaze back to her. “He’s alright. If he touches my cards like that I’ll kill him. They’re worth more than his life.”

“I know, dear. I know. Well, gird yourself, because if you both win your first matches you’re against each other.”

Geralt smiles. “No problem. I’ve been playtesting against every meta deck for weeks. My win ratios are favorable against almost anything. This whole thing is mine.”

“Nerd,” says Yen.

Geralt tugs at the hem of her vest, and she kicks out at him with her boot heel. “You’re literally a judge here. You’re certified.”

“Exactly. I’m in a position of power, but you’re just here to show off. Nerd.”

“Keep it up and I won’t share the prize.”

“Half the prize money would barely buy me dinner at Applebee’s, but thanks anyway, darling. You can keep it, I think I’ll manage.”

And well, that’s fair, actually.

“It’s not about the money,” Geralt protests.

Yen snorts. “Obviously, or no one would be here. We all just bow to the whims of MTG. And thank them. And hand over our credit cards.”

Coachella man has dropped someone’s deck all over the floor and is apologetically gathering the cards back into a haphazard pile. The spectacle has drawn stares.

“Who’s the fool, really?” Yen asks. “Him, or us?”

“Hm,” Geralt replies.

--

“Geralt,” says Geralt. “Bant ramp.”

“Jaskier,” says Coachella man, smiling brightly and taking the proffered hand as he settles himself across the table. “Was that last bit English?”

“It’s…my deck,” Geralt explains dubiously. “Bant ramp? Green, white, blue?”

Jaskier pulls an impressed face. “They’ve got names for things like that? You really know your stuff, Geralt.”

“Uh,” says Geralt, nonplussed. “Yeah, thanks. What are you playing, then?”

“Oh, I’ve got this great deck! It’s got all the colors because I couldn’t pick just a few, and all the cards have such pretty art, you know? I had to put in the best ones. A few of ‘em are even shiny. She’s treated me well so far, this deck. I love her.”

Geralt scans down the list of players on his tourney pamphlet. Next to Jaskier’s name it says only Five color aggro???

Geralt huffs out through his nose. That is nonsensical, and—most importantly—not something he ever playtested against. But no matter what is in that deck, Geralt’s got this in the bag. There’s no way this Jaskier guy has the land base needed to support five colors. Especially if he chose his cards, apparently, based on the art.

Jaskier begins slowly pile shuffling his deck of utterly unsleeved cards. Not even inner sleeves, much less double sleeves. Geralt’s blood pressure ticks up.

“So, uh,” he begins, “you’re new to this, huh? What got you into Magic?”

“Ah, my friend Essi plays here and there, she mentioned this and it seemed like it’d be a lark. New experience and such. And hey”—Jaskier looks up and grins—“maybe I’ll win!”

Geralt thinks about the hours and weeks and years he’s spent studying cards and losing games and analyzing pro matches. “Good luck,” he says.

“Thank you, you’re sweet.”

Jaskier continues placing each card meticulously on its own stack. Geralt shuffles his own deck again and again as he waits.

“Do you want me to, uh.”

Jaskier looks up and says, “Oh, would you? That would be so helpful. I’ve never quite got the hang of the—,” he makes a riffle shuffle gesture, “—whole shuffling thing.”

--

He loses the coin toss, which, he realizes a few turns later, is not an auspicious beginning. But even with Jaskier on the play and him on the draw, certainly it won’t make that much of a difference. Not when Jaskier has to squint at his hand like he’s reading all the card texts for the first time ever. At one point he even goes “Oh, that’s an interesting one,” as if surprised. It cannot make that much of a difference to go second.

And it doesn’t. Because he can’t draw shit to save his life.

While Geralt draws white mana after white mana, Jaskier throws down creature after creature, ignoring effects and the stack entirely in favor of big numbers and building a “board aesthetic.” Whatever the fuck that means. He drops a land on every turn and his mana costs curve out perfectly, despite the stretch over five fucking colors. It’s nothing short of miraculous.

Finally, Geralt is staring down a board of attackers against the lone creature he’d managed to play, and Jaskier says “Ooh, I’ve got enough of the land thingies to play this fella!” and drops—of all fucking things—a Craterhoof Behemoth. Like Geralt isn’t already nearly dead on board.

Geralt eyes the board wipe in his hand that—for fuck’s sake—requires blue.

A single blue mana needed, and a stack of Plains in front of him a mile high.

“It resolves,” he grumbles.

“Woooooo,” says Jaskier. “I mean, that’s good, right?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “For you.”

He’s got one more draw step to try to dig for an Island. One fucking Island, a fetch land, a mana-producing artifact, anything. He’s spent way too much money on his mana fixing for this to happen.

On his draw, he takes into hand a worthless green creature.

“Fuck!” He scrubs a hand over his face, drops his hand onto the table. “That’s the game. Good one.”

Jaskier looks confused. “What do you mean? You mean I win? But I didn’t get to, you know.” He mimes pushing his attackers across the table like an advancing army. “Kill you.”

“I’m dead on board and have nothing.”

“But I wanted to attack with my big fella!”

Geralt sighs and faintly hears Yen laughing her ass off down the table. And they play out Jaskier’s turn. In which Geralt immediately dies.

As Jaskier celebrates and gathers his cards, Geralt levels him with a tired stare. “Look, be straight with me. Is this a fucking hustle?”

Jaskier laughs brightly. “What, didn’t think I could play, eh?”

“You can’t,” Geralt says. “Obviously. Unless it’s a hustle.”

“No hustling here!” Jaskier then wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously. “Unless you’d like to hustle me later. If you catch my drift.”

Geralt does. “That is not a real come on.”

“Sure it is, since you know I’m coming on to you.”

“Let’s just play out the match,” Geralt says with finality.

He’s down one, but he just needs two wins. Two wins against a deck that will, eventually, be inconsistent and impractical. He shuffles his own deck—tested and massaged until its consistency holds up to real life statistics—four times, just to make sure.

Then Jaskier holds out his deck and Geralt begrudgingly shuffles that, too.

“You have nice hands,” Jaskier comments, following his fingers on the cards. “Big. Strong. Capable.”

“Shut up,” Geralt mumbles, and pretends to ignore it when Jaskier says, Yes, sir.

--

He loses the match on game two, and it’s his own damn fault, this time, because Jaskier drops an infinite combo and doesn’t even realize it until Geralt opens his dumb fucking mouth.

“There it is,” he groans, resigned, as Jaskier lays down the last combo piece. “Lucky draw.”

“Eh?”

“You comboed out?”

“Eh?” Jaskier says again, fingers still on the card like he’s thinking of taking it back, face utterly perplexed.

“You—holy fucking Christ.” Geralt throws his hands in the air. “You don’t even know you have that combo, do you.”

“I—do not, per se, know that, no.”

“That effect will untap your artifact, which lets you—oh, who cares. Fine. You win. Congrats.”

Jaskier’s expression brightens. “I win? Really? But I didn’t even attack!”

“You win. Really.”

Geralt wants a beer.

“Oh!” Jaskier is now beaming. He glances at his watch, a gold-trimmed gaudy thing. “Well, that was quick. We’ve got some time before the next round, if you wanna—uh—”

“Yeah,” sighs Geralt. Heat curls in his belly alongside the mingled anger (shame? embarrassment?) and disappointment. “Whatever.”

Might as well.

--

Geralt shoves Jaskier back against the bathroom door as he locks it, and Jaskier promptly wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist. Without a moment of hesitation Geralt leans in, biting at Jaskier’s lips, feeling arms circle his neck and hands weave themselves into his hair. Their bodies align perfectly and when Geralt thrusts forward, Jaskier gasps into his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, like that.”

A growl leaves Geralt in response, frustration with this stupid, clueless man bubbling up within him. Jaskier tastes like red Gatorade and smells like that body butter Yen keeps on her bathroom counter.

It’s less off-putting than it should be.

He keeps going like that, not because he was told to but because it’s infuriatingly good, Jaskier’s body warm and firm and pliant against his as he rolls his hips.

“Oh, God,” Jaskier groans on a thrust that results in a particularly good drag, which separates their mouths enough for Geralt to redirect his attention. With one hand he drags down the idiotic bandana tied around Jaskier’s neck and starts to suck harsh marks into salty skin. Jaskier keeps up a noisy litany of gasps and muffled, bitten-off encouragements. “Oh, that’s—good, fuck—your mouth—like it rough, don’t you…”

Geralt doesn’t particularly like it rough, actually, when he hasn’t been fucking hustled at his own game, but Jaskier still doesn’t seem to have caught on to the part where Geralt is sort of fucking furious about this whole situation.

Instead of explaining himself, he just bites down on Jaskier’s pulse point and curls his hand around Jaskier’s waist where his shirt is rucked up, nails digging in.

“Yeah—” Jaskier says, and tugs at Geralt’s hair, and then there’s banging on the door.

“We can hear you, assholes. There’s a line out here and we gotta piss,” an angry voice calls from the other side.

“Use the ladies’!” Jaskier yells hoarsely. “There’s never anyone in there. This one’s occupied.” Geralt moves against him again. “Oh, that’s—more.”

“No,” says the angry voice. “No more.” Another round of banging. “We’re calling property management. They’ve got a key.”

“Shit,” Geralt says, dropping Jaskier, who makes an indignant noise. He unlocks and opens the door.

There is, in fact, a small crowd around the men’s room, headed by a red-faced man half a foot shorter than Geralt.

“Can’t you mind your own business?” Geralt says.

“Can’t you keep it in your pants?” the man sneers back.

“Technically,” Jaskier pipes up, straightening his bandana and swiping at his hair, “nothing ever came out of any pants.”

“Jaskier,” says Geralt, “don’t help.”

An official-looking group of people rounds the corner, accompanied by Yen, who spots Geralt and nearly falls to the floor in a mirthful fit. He rolls his eyes.

The officials don’t like that at all.

--

A few months later, Jaskier kneels on the other side of Geralt’s coffee table, considering his hand. He licks his lip and taps a few lands to place an enchantment, which Geralt promptly counters.

“You and your fucking—control decks,” Jaskier sighs. “Let me play one some time.”

“Make your own,” says Geralt. “You can use my collection.”

“Ah, maybe I will, and then you won’t be able to play anything at all, ever, and how would you like that?”

“Do you have anything to get rid of my flyers?”

“Unfortunately, no, Geralt, I do not, or I would have played it by now.”

“Then you should probably concede.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He picks up his cards, sleeved properly, and slides them over to Geralt’s side. “Shuffle please.”

Geralt shuffles them.

“Shame we can’t go to the tournament today,” says Jaskier wistfully. “Banned. What rot. We didn’t even get off that day. Rudely interrupted.”

“Yeah, well, someone had no business being there, anyway.”

“I still think I could have gone all the way. Beat you, didn’t I?”

“Haven’t since.”

“Only because you learned my tricks.”

“Jaskier, you don’t have tricks.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, and Geralt can’t help but smile back. When he places Jaskier’s deck back on the table, Jaskier’s hand rests on top of his. “I am, though, Geralt, absolutely thrilled that we met. Whatever the circumstance. Or consequence. If it needs saying.”

It doesn’t, but Geralt meets his eyes and says, “Yeah, me too.”

[mr-geraskier]

"Can I be him (acoustic live version)" by James Arthur is a modern AU where Geralt pines over singer!Jaskier.

Hi, Anon this is like a year late and there is no excuse. I was really in the writing mood and remembers this prompt I had saved in my ask.

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

“You walked into the room and now my heart’s been stolen.”

Geralt by force was taken to a nearby bar with his friend Yennefer. She had said that he needs to get his ass out of the house and find more friends. 

After Geralt has a dream 2 months ago he’s been seeing dreams of a fantasy land where he was a warrior of some sort. He mostly remembers the guy that always stuck with him in his dreams. He couldn’t remember a name but he remembers his bright, big, blue eyes. Every night in his dream they would adventure greats lands and fight beasts. He would never tell Yennefer this but in his dreams, this man wasn’t just a buddy or a friend. It felt more than that, like love in a strange way. Now though every morning he wakes up he is faced with the real world where he has an average job as a college professor, no magical abilities, and no strange blue-eyed man. His hearts nearly breaks every time he wakes up without him. It seems as if Geralt falls in love with the young man every time he dreams of him. For the 2 months, he has dreamt of these dreams he has become more and more distant from the world. All he does is work and go home to fall back asleep and see the man. 

Now because of his bad habits, he is at the bar already with a couple of shots of whiskey and a beer bottle. He looks around the room, already anxious surrounded by all of these strangers.

“Come on Geralt! Lighten up a bit. You’ve been locked in your house for days without talking to anyone. We practically thought you were dead! It’s about time you find something to do with yourself. “ Yennefer pushes Geralt’s shoulder and smiles at him. 

Geralt glances at his friend and rolls his eyes. “Thank you for the concern but I feel perfectly fine by myself in my house. I like it.” He turns away from her and suddenly an announcer comes to the stage and gets everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! May I introduce Julian Alfred Pankratz as our first live performer of the night.” The announcer says into the microphone and walks off stage.

A curtain is pulled back as a young man in a red shirt and blue jeans walks on stage. He slowly steps to the microphone and smiles at the crowd. 

Geralt’s heart stops beating as he notices the man on stage. His face, his eyes, and his name…

“You took me back in time to when I was unbroken.”

Julian takes his seat on a stool and adjust his guitar on his lap. He takes a deep breath and the words flood out of him like sweet honey.

Geralt relaxes as he sees flashes of memories from his dreams of him and Julian traveling the lands, talking, laughing, singing, and just loving one another.

He sits mesmerized by the beautiful melody the man was playing. Geralt’s eyes scan Julian as he takes in all his features. His real-life features.

“Now you’re all I want and I knew it from the very first moment. Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again.”

Julian sings about a person that he loves and adores in his life. How they are meant to be and stay together forever. He whispers and belts out lyrics that Geralt can feel are for him.

“I swear that every word you sing you wrote them for me.”

Geralt closes his eyes and sways slightly in his chair, possibly tipsy. He smiles as he imagines both Julian and him alone in a forest.

“Like it was a private show but I know you never saw me.”

Geralt opens his eyes from the realization that Julian isn’t just here for him. He’s here to perform for an audience. He knows Julian doesn’t even know he exists.

“When the lights come on and I’m on my own will you be there to sing it again?”

Julian sings about him and his lover traveling the world and trying new things together. Geralt feels a small spot of hope inside of him that maybe Julian is talking about Geralt’s dreams.

“Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?”

Julian mentions times when he and his lover moved in with each other and how he got engaged to them. Their wedding had family and friends all around with beautiful flowers of all colors and the most beautiful music Julian had ever heard.

Of course, Geralt would have to disagree with him because right now at this moment Geralt has never heard or seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

“Can I be him?”

Julian ends the song and stands up to a bunch of applause from the people in the bar. Geralt is basically woken up from his trance by Yennefer snapping her fingers in his face. “Wasn’t that good Geralt? Someday he’s gonna be a professional singing up on the big stage. I just know it. Don’t you think so?” Yennefer glances at Geralt and notices his eyes, blown from love. 

“Yeah, I think he will do great. He’s beautiful.” Geralt doesn’t turn away from the young man on stage as Julian collects his belongings. 

Yennefer starts to giggle beside Geralt causing him to finally turn. “What?” Geralt asks.

Yennefer continues to laugh in her chair. “What is it Yen? Why are you laughing?”

“Geralt you are such a lover boy. You literally have the biggest heart eyes I have ever seen a person have.

Geralt turns away, cheeks bright red, and grunts at her. 

“Oh come on Geralt! I don’t mean to make fun of you! I just think it’s really cute.” Yennefer places her hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Come with me to the bar, I want another beer.”

Even though Geralt is slightly annoyed by his friend he still follows her to the bar. 

“Excuse me, sir, could I ask you a question?” Geralt feels someone touch his shoulder and he turns around to Julian himself. All rational thoughts leave his head as he stares down at the young man. His eyes are bluer than he initially thought.

“Sorry for sounding creepy but I noticed you in the crowd and you seemed like you like my music,” Julian says, a small blush from nervousness covers his cheeks. He puts his hand behind his head. “And well I guess I just wanted to ask if you really did think my music was good.”

Geralt fights himself to finally say something. “Yeah, it was beautiful.”

Julian looks almost shocked by the answer causing Geralt to panic.

“Sorry, that sounded weird. I mean yes it was really good. So good that I would like to hear you sing it again sometime.” Geralt’s blush of course makes it harder for him to act serious and he fidgets as he waits for Julian to speak.

“No, it’s not weird at all! I was so scared everyone was faking it or something. Growing up I was told my singing was a waste and people wouldn’t like it but you… thank you. You just boost my confidence so high!” Julian was smiling from ear to ear now. He widens his eyes and slaps his forehead with his hand. “Oh my gosh, how could I forget. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Julian but you can call me Jaskier. You probably already knew my name though, didn’t you? Shoot sorry.” He nervously laughs and smiles up at Geralt.

“Hi, it is very nice to meet you Jaskier. I’m Geralt.”

Geralt knows that this is his Jaskier from his dreams and he intends to not lose him again.

[purplesauris]

Our Hungers Appeased

Lambert hates the Path, and those who set him on it. He hates the people he meets, the stares and jeers. Only one person is strong enough to stand against him, to give as good as it gets. Guess who?

Read it on AO3 here!

Life as a witcher was shit. It had been when he started, and it was still true years later, when people spat at his feet and tried to back down on pay. Not that he was inclined to let them- he needed coin as much as anyone else did and wasn’t nearly as concerned with how people saw him. If they saw him as a half wild beast snarling at anyone who came close, well, then they stepped a bit softer. And if they were scared of him? That was all the better for him. It made people leave him alone, and that was all he wanted on the Path.

When he’d met Jaskier the first time he’d expected much the same, but thinking back, it’d been dumb. Here was a human who’d hiked up a mountain just to spend time with a witcher. He wasn’t expecting Jaskier’s wit, or the strength in his fist when Jaskier had punched him when he was being an ass. He was probably Lambert’s favorite human, and had held the spot for the last year. When the snows melt in the spring, Lambert will begrudgingly admit to himself that he misses the easy banter of his family and their newest addition.

                                                          -*-

Lambert is down by the coast, hunting down a pack of drowners when he happens upon Geralt. The contract is a small one, and it won’t pay him much past bare supplies, but he hardly finds anything else in the springtime. He can hear singing when he’s heading toward the alderman's house, drifting from the tavern, and he ducks inside before he can think better of it. His eyes scan the room quickly, and he spots Geralt tucked away in the corner. He almost turns and leaves then, but the music screeches to a halt and he hears someone yell his name.

“Lambert!” He glances over at the voice and finds Jaskier weaving through the crowd, lute quickly slung behind his back. He isn’t prepared for Jaskier’s full onslaught, and he can feel his face heat when Jaskier draws him into a tight hug. Lambert isn’t sure what to do, but Jaskier is pulling away before it gets any worse and Lambert relaxes a little. “Come sit with us. What are you doing out here?”

All of Lambert’s intentions of leaving are ruined, and he follows Jaskier to the table where Geralt is watching the two of them. He nods his head toward Lambert in greeting and squeezes Jaskier’s hand when the bard slides onto the bench next to him. Lambert plops himself down on the other side of the table and pointedly ignores the barmaid that comes over to offer him a cup.

“Had a contract. Couple of kids were snatched up by drowners.” Talking about it out loud reminds him that he needs to go get his payment, and he almost backs out to do just that.

“Awful. Good thing they had you here, hmm? Another witcher to save the day.” Jaskier winks at him, smiling, but Lambert doesn’t feel heroic. He feels used- tossed away when not needed and dragged back out only when his blade is useful. He knows that Jaskier doesn’t mean anything by it, but anger surges up his throat and he scoffs. Better than the words he’d meant to say. Still, Jaskier’s eyes are sad when the bard looks at him, and Lambert tenses, waiting. The emotion is wiped away quickly, and he glances up when someone in the crowd calls over to them, demanding a song. “Sorry, I’ve got to finish my set. Don’t leave before I’m done.”

He rolls his eyes at the request, wanting to leave now, but if there’s one thing he knows it’s that one doesn’t ignore a request from Jaskier. Lambert resigns himself to staying in the crowded tavern, breathing as little as possible to avoid smelling everyone fully for a little while longer. Geralt’s eyes track Jaskier’s movements as he entertains the crowd, and the back of Lambert’s neck crawls. He can feel eyes on him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s someone in the crowd or just Jaskier, but his fingers twitch to draw his blade and he has to take a deep breath to calm himself.

“I need a favor.” Lambert’s eyebrows go up, and he stares incredulously at Geralt.

“ You need a favor? From me?” Geralt rolls his eyes, sighing, and Lambert holds back another smarmy comment. He seems serious this time, and Lambert has never seen him quite this tense. “Spit it out then.”

“Jaskier has a competition. My contract takes me the opposite way.”

“And?” Geralt’s eyebrow twitches, and Lambert delights in seeing him uncomfortable this way. Realization dawns on him far before Geralt says what he wants, and Lambert’s smile is shit-eating as he leans back, crossing his arms. “You want me to take your bard.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t trust him not to get into trouble?”

“No. It’s springtime.” Geralt’s scent spikes with irritation and worry, and Lambert rolls his eyes.

“Alright, the bard can come with me.” Relief washes over Geralt’s worry, and Lambert holds back a sneeze. Why does it have to smell like grass? Jaskier’s set doesn’t wind down for another hour, and by then Lambert is practically squirming in his chair. The alderman is going to think he didn’t come back and stiff him, he can feel it. Just as he’s about to say fuck it, leave to get his coin, Jaskier bows to the crowd and ducks out of their view. Jaskier’s cheeks are pink when he comes back over, and Geralt gives him a little nod when he tilts his head. Jaskier’s answering grin is blinding, and Lambert frowns. “What are you grinning at?”

“You. Geralt said you’ll take me with you.” The other man seems very pleased at the news, but Lambert frowns harder. His chest tightens uncomfortably, and he isn’t sure if it’s because of the intimacy they have or because he’s been inside too long.

“Are you two telepathic now?” Neither of them answer, instead sharing another look before Lambert shoves back from the table and stands up. He hears murmurs behind him, people turning to look at the commotion, but Lambert is heading for the door before his shoulders can shake. Once outside his chest loosens by a fraction, and he finds his feet taking him toward the aldermans house. The old man is waiting on a bench outside and rises at the sight of Lambert. His face is impassive, but Lambert can smell the acid scent of the man’s angry disappointment. After all, if your problem is solved and the witcher doesn’t come back, who do you have to pay?

“The job done?”

“Would I be here if it weren’t?” His reply is more snide than it needs to be- he can hear Vesemir in his head, scolding him for being abrasive. Nice has never gotten him anywhere, and he snatches the bag of coin out of the air when the alderman tosses it to him. Immediately Lambert can tell it’s too light- they’d agreed on more than double this amount for the drowner nest. “Hey prick, this isn’t what we agreed on.”

“Aye, and you came back without proof. So you won’t get a copper more.” Lambert snarls, fingers curling tight around the near empty purse, and his fingers ache to draw his blade.

“Is there a problem?” A smooth voice pipes up, and Lambert’s skin crawls. Now there’s going to be a scene. “You weren’t thinking of going back on your word, were you?”

“I don’t believe that it’s-” Lambert’s blood is boiling still, but he recognizes when Jaskier steps up, lute strapped across his back and pack on his hip.

“Oh but it is. See, my friend here has done you a service, a very dirty one at that, and I think he deserves to be compensated accordingly, don’t you? You wouldn’t want witchers to stop coming here, would you?” The threat is easily veiled, cheery even, but Lambert’s heart kicks up nonetheless. The alderman looks between the two of them, Lambert snarling with anger and Jaskier smiling politely, and grumbles under his breath. Jaskier holds his hand out, that same smile on his face, and Lambert watches in stunned awe as the alderman slaps a much larger coin purse in his hands and waves them off.

“Be glad to see you leave.” The alderman turns from them, clearly disgusted, and Jaskier hums in delight. He calls their goodbye to the retreating man's back and turns to Lambert, expression soft.

“Here. I think it’s best we move on, hmm? Where’s your horse?” The other coin purse is pressed into his hand, and while Jaskier seems to think better of it, he touches Lambert’s upper arm lightly. The touch makes his anger come to a startling head, overstimulated, and Lambert trembles as he turns stiffly to go collect his horse. Jaskier doesn’t touch him again, doesn’t say a word, and he follows Lambert out of town quietly. Which, given Geralt’s talk and Jaskier’s personality, is surprising. He stays quiet for the first two hours of their trek, and it isn’t until Lambert sighs, grip loosening on the reins, that Jaskier speaks.

“He was an ass.” His tone is light, but Lambert scoffs, kicking at a rock on the path.

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Well it’s a good thing I have none for you.” That hurts, digs into his heart and wrenches, and Lambert’s grip tightens on the reins once more. Leather creaks dangerously, and Jaskier takes the reins from him, shushing the horse and easing the tension Lambert was putting on the bridle. Lambert can’t stand to look at him right now, especially not after what he said, but Jaskier walks backwards and watches him. “I have plenty of other things, though, if you’d like that.”

“What, annoyance?” Jaskier chuckles, and Lambert has to concentrate to keep the scowl on his face. It’s hard to stay mad at the bard when he’s just gotten him a hefty amount of coin without violence.

“I can do annoyance, if you’d like. I could do fury, or melancholy, or weeping sadness.” Lambert wrinkles his nose, anger trickling out of him slowly. “I don’t know what it’s like to be you.”

Jaskier admits this quietly, and Lambert looks up to see him glance over at the water, fidgeting with the reins in his hands. When he turns back his eyes are half lidded, and something new heats in Lambert’s abdomen. He isn’t sure he likes the way his fingertips tingle. “You threatened that alderman.”

“Hmm? No, no I merely pointed out something he didn’t want to happen.”

“Do you do that for Geralt?” He isn’t sure that Geralt needs anyone to do that for him, charming bastard, but Jaskier laughs and turns to walk correctly. Tired of looking back, it seems. Lambert just lengthens his stride to catch up and walk beside the bard.

“When he lets me. He usually just takes what they give, so long as it’s close.”

“Dumb fuck.” The words are out before he can stop them, but Jaskier laughs, nodding in agreement.

                                                             -*-

Lambert has no clue how to take care of someone else. He’s not used to having someone else with him, so when they finally stop for the night and Jaskier goes to gather firewood he’s taken aback. All of his most hated tasks, like fetching wood or clearing a spot for their bedrolls is taken over by a very efficient bard. When Lambert goes to shuck off his armor for the night he finds Jaskier waiting, fingers plucking at the clasps easily and taking each piece as it comes off. Lambert isn’t sure whether he should thank the man or feel unnerved that he helped, so he settles on doing neither. Jaskier doesn’t wait for thanks anyway, collapsing onto his bedroll with his boots still on. He’s asleep before Lambert even goes to hunt down something for dinner, snoring softly, and Lambert can’t imagine being that relaxed. Or trusting that his travel companion doesn’t want to kill him.

He’s still asleep when Lambert comes back, two squirrels in hand, but rouses at the sound of Lambert’s soft footsteps. “I’ll get them.”

“Get what?” Jaskier is already pulling a dagger from a sheathe under his doublet that Lambert hadn’t seen and reaching a hand out for one of the squirrels. Lambert hands them over in silent confusion, and watches as Jaskier skins them with little problem before handing them back to be cooked. “Geralt makes you do all this?”

“Doesn’t make me do anything. S’fair, is all.” Jaskier is still half asleep, and he cleans his knife off before tucking it away again. Lambert isn’t sure what to say to that, so he focuses on the scent and sound of the squirrel cooking, and passes Jaskier his portion once it’s done. Jaskier takes a moment to squeeze his fingers in thanks, and Lambert can feel the tips of his ears burn.

For as much as Lambert bitches when Jaskier takes longer to rise than he'd like, he grows used to Jaskier's presence quickly. He barters with the contract holders better than Lambert could dream, and manages to get him rooms when sleeping outside is so much easier. He can see why Geralt let him tag along in the beginning, and why he loves him so much now. Not for doing these tasks, but for being here, willing to do them and not backing down when things don't go the way he'd like. It's part of why Lambert firmly ignores the niggling of something in his chest that is definitely not positive feelings. When Jaskier leaves him two weeks later, he isn't sure what to do on his own at first. Setting up for the night takes longer, and he catches two squirrels automatically now. He's well fed at least, and he can't quite bring himself to stop. Just in case.

They meet again in the high of summer, when Lambert is busiest, and he almost tells Jaskier to travel alone. He doesn’t want to take a detour to drop him off somewhere, but Jaskier has no destination in mind. Rather, Geralt does, and he leaves Jaskier in Lambert’s care with a stern take care of him . As if Jaskier needed someone to take care of him.

Lambert is asleep one night, curled up tight on his bedroll when he hears Jaskier sit up suddenly. It isn’t unusual for him to wake up- they both seem to have a hard time staying asleep, but it’s different this time. Jaskier’s heart races in the quiet of the night, and Lambert hears him sob quietly, muffled through a hand. Fuck. Crying people aren’t his strong suit, and he considers closing his eyes and falling asleep again as if he’d never heard him. But that wouldn’t be taking care of him, so Lambert sits up with a groan. Jaskier’s noise cuts off immediately, and he looks over to see Jaskier with his back to him, staring into the fire. Something twists in his stomach at the metallic scent of Jaskier’s sadness. “Hey, get the fuck over here.”

Jaskier jolts, looking over his shoulder, and he shakes his head, smiling weakly. “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Lambert watches him as he turns back, shoulders trembling, and he hoists himself off the ground. He plops himself on Jaskier’s bedroll, stretching his legs out and resting back on his hands. He isn’t sure he should touch Jaskier, but one hand is behind the bard, creating a cradle that Jaskier leans back into slowly. Hesitant, as if any minute Lambert will shove him away and tell him to get over whatever it is that bothers him. Instead, Lambert scoffs and tugs the man closer, only relaxing when Jaskier burrows into his side. He doesn’t know what to say and Jaskier isn’t providing anything to latch onto, so he sits there until Jaskier’s crying stops, patting his arm gently.

Jaskier doesn’t mention it in the morning when they get ready for the day, and Lambert isn’t inclined to press. If Jaskier wants to talk to him about it then he will. Jaskier seems better though, after having slept against Lambert’s side, and how he can smile the way he does after crying all night is something Lambert can’t figure out.

“Let’s stop at an inn for the night.” Lambert dislikes the idea of being in a crowded inn, trying to sleep with the sound of other people around him, but… Jaskier seems so hopeful, so he grunts and nods his head. Jaskier gives his bicep a light squeeze, and Lambert focuses on the touch of Jaskier’s hand until he pulls away. When they get to the next town Jaskier goes to find them a room while Lambert heads for the notice board. There’s plenty of work to be done, but only one fit for a witcher to take. He follows the scent of lavender back to the inn, and finds Jaskier in the stable brushing down the horse. Jaskier glances up before Lambert has even announced himself, used to the near silent steps of a witcher.

“Got a room?”

“Yes! The innkeep was very pleased to have us. Business is slow, I suppose. Find anything worth noting on the board?”

“Contract for something digging up graves. Either nekkers or a hag.”

“Going out now?” He nods, digging through his pack and pulling out what potions he thinks he’ll need. Best case, it’s a human desperate enough to grave rob, worst case it’s a hag. Either way, Lambert doesn’t want to deal with being unprepared, and he reaches out to pat Jaskier’s shoulder as he passes. His stomach twists when Jaskier’s smile grows, and he leaves again before he can further embarrass himself. He’s not someone who does casual touch, can stand it even, but Jaskier has gone and done something to him. Something that makes his heart ache and stomach flip into knots whenever Jaskier does anything kind. Which seems to be all the damn time.

The trudge out to the cemetery is grueling in the heat, and when he gets there he can tell right away that no human has done this. There are freshly dug graves, the soil soft from claws digging into it, but no trace of nekkers. The little shits have no qualms about being active during the day, but he hears no scurrying of small feet and none of the bodies are actually dug up save for the hands. Which are… fingerless. Great. Lambert looks around a bit more until he finds a small house, leaning up against one wall of the cemetery and swaying comically in the wind. How no one has spotted it before is a mystery to him, and he wants to set it on fire at the first glance. A grave hag’s hut. Hags won’t come out in the daytime unless desperate, so Lambert hunkers down behind a headstone a few feet away and waits for night. Twilight has just fallen when he hears heavy wheezing and the staggered walking of gangly, too long limbs. Lambert’s eyes snap open, and he draws his sword silently.

There, crawling from the house and stretching, is the monster. Its body is a large mass of grey, wrinkled skin with long, slender limbs, and Lambert wonders if he were to cut the limbs off, would it roll? He stands from behind the grave, casting quen to give himself a bit of protection as he lunges, rolling just under the tongue that shoots out in his direction. The hag smelled him long before she saw, and Lambert rolls again when she screeches and lunges for him with razor sharp claws. Her claws catch his side, tearing against chainmail and leather, but he’s unscathed for the most part and retaliates with a vicious sweep of his sword. It severs two of the fingers on her hand and sends her screaming, clutching at steaming flesh.

Lambert isn’t one to dance around, so he takes the offensive, slashing and shoving through blows that could have been dodged. The grave hag does everything she can, yelling and snarling and lashing out with lightning speed, but Lambert lets all of his anger, any frustrations pouring from him into the fight. Vesemir had always warned him it made him vulnerable, but it serves him well now, allowing him to cut the hag down with a sword through the chest, ending a fight he’d thought would take much, much longer. This time, Lambert takes a trophy, intent on getting his coin without Jaskier’s help.

He treks through the city reeking of rotting flesh, the hand of the hag clutched tight in his fist. The alderman takes his sweet time opening the door and tries to close it upon seeing Lambert’s face. A foot in the door keeps it firmly open, and Lambert holds out the hand, ignoring when the other man recoils.

“There was a grave hag stealing fingers from the bodies.” The alderman looks over the hand with suspicion, as if Lambert had taken a random hand from a body. He doesn’t have much to stand on- the skin is obviously not human and the fingers are freakishly long, tipped with large claws. The alderman drops the hand in the dirt, nose wrinkled, and dips back inside to grab a bag. Lambert can hear the coin clinking together inside, and he holds a hand out for it. The bag is dropped into his hand, and Lambert’s fingers close around it before the man can fully pull away. His hand jerks back away from Lambert, face screwing up in disgust, and Lambert scowls. “Next time there’s a shack in the graveyard, get a witcher sooner.”

“Aye.” Lambert turns on his heel and storms away, snarling when he hears the alderman spit into the dirt. He’s in a pisspoor mood already, but the innkeeper almost bars his access to their room and by the time he argues enough to be let inside he’s fuming. All he wants is to get out of his armor and get some sleep for fucks sake. The room is bright when he opens the door, candles lit in every nook and cranny Jaskier could find, and Jaskier is sat by the fire, scribbling away in his journal. He looks up when the door opens, smiling at Lambert and closing his book with a snap. He stands up, smile waning a bit when he sees the angry red flush creeping up Lambert’s neck.

“What’s wrong?” Lambert shakes his head sharply and Jaskier leaves it alone. He comes over to help Lambert with his armor, tugging and removing pieces as they go along. Lambert feels better with the armor off, less pressed in, but Jaskier’s fingers slide over his side and he grabs his wrist on instinct. Jaskier doesn’t react, but Lambert’s grip is tight and he can feel Jaskier’s bones grind. He relaxes his fingers one by one, snarling, and he expects Jaskier to back away from him. To kick him out. But Jaskier only frowns. “Lambert-”

“Why do you do this shit?”

“Do what?” Jaskier seems confused, and Lambert snarls again.

“Constantly touch me, help me with shit and insist on arguing with people for my sake?”

“Because I care for you, you dolt!” Jaskier’s voice rises, his concern turning to annoyance, and Lambert growls angrily. He’s not sure what he’s doing, demanding answers, but he’s so sick of people using him and he just wants it to stop.

“I don’t want you to!”

“That’s too fucking bad! You don’t get to choose who I-” Jaskier is cut off when Lambert snarls, leaning forward and smashing their lips together. Jaskier goes rigid all at once, and Lambert is hyper aware of his rejection. He goes to pull away, lets go of Jaskier completely, but Jaskier surges forward and kisses him again. Lambert’s skin itches madly at the heat that licks through him, and his hands clutch at Jaskier’s sides. Jaskier’s fingers grip the material of Lambert’s shirt, twisting it, and Lambert hoists Jaskier up. He isn’t sure of what he’s doing- he’s angry and hurt and he shouldn’t be kissing Jaskier, but here he is. Jaskier doesn’t seem worried- his thighs go around Lambert’s hips, holding more of his weight, and he gasps when Lambert stumbles, Jaskier’s back hitting the wall. Lambert feels himself growl when Jaskier bites his lower lip, and Jaskier laughs softly. Lambert kisses him harder for it, presses him bodily into the wall, and doesn’t let him down until Jaskier begs.

What they did last night comes back to him in bits and pieces in the morning, and Lambert's heart clenches painfully in his chest. He's had lovers before-  brief flings or visits to a brothel, but never with some he knows has someone waiting for them. What makes him feel worse isn't that he's betrayed Geralt, but that he wanted to. To have a bit of the happiness that Geralt always seems to get. To have someone who wants him, and doesn't have to be paid. That's what makes his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest, because how is he going to face Geralt next? He's drawn from his thoughts by a hand sliding low over his stomach, tickling around scars and threatening to dip lower. Warmth pools in his stomach immediately, but he grumbles softly as Jaskier goes up on an elbow.

His neck and shoulders are a mess of bruises and bite marks, but if he's sore he gives no indication and Lambert draws him down for a kiss. Jaskier's hand stops then, fingers splaying over his stomach, and he focuses on deepening their kiss, morning breath be damned. Lambert is the first one to pull back, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

"Hell of a night, Jask. You okay?" Just this once, he tells himself, will he show concern, raising a hand to brush over some of the marks he left. Jaskier leans into the touch, smiling.

"Never better. You?" Lambert takes a second to think. Besides the guilt eating away at him now, his anger from last night has petered off, let out in other ways, and other than being pleasantly sore he can't complain.

"Counting my last hours closely."

"Hours? I'd say you have more than that left."

Lambert scoffs, pressing on one of the bruises and pupils dilating at the breathy moan Jaskier lets out. "Not once Geralt sees what I did."

"That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it?" Jaskier leans down, catching his lips in a bruising kiss and pulling back sooner than Lambert would like. "He's not going to hurt you. He did tell you to take care of me."

"That's a shit excuse and you know it."

Jaskier sighs at that, sheepish, and he shrugs. "I meant to bring it up to you last night, after you'd gotten back. Geralt uh, knows about my affections, let's call it that. I would have told you sooner, but someone was being a prick last night and kissed me before I could say a word."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh would be about right. You didn't do anything wrong, or that Geralt and I didn't talk about. And," Jaskier muses, looking down at him. "I'm going to need help when the next full moon comes, I think." Lambert grins at that, laughing until Jaskier leans back down to kiss him breathless.

[thewitcherssongbird]

Heartbeat

Chapter 2

****

Guys... there's a chapter twooooooo! I really wanted to finish and post it on Tuesday but then I forgot and then I had to write a stupidly huge test today so all in all I'm really proud of myself for doing it today :D

****

Jaskier wakes up with a pounding headache. He lifts his head from the pillows, squinting in the near noon sunlight, disoriented, and rolls over to find a jug on the nightstand, a piece of paper propped against it.

Hunting kikimora

Back before sunset

He sits up and peers into the jug. Water. After a few gulps of the blissfully cool water his headache begins to fade and he readies himself for the day, a day of peace and no brooding Geralt to distract him with his silent observation or just general… presence. A day of productivity.

His vision swims as he stands up but he quickly regains control of himself. Memories trickle back into his mind like a stream in drought, little by little. He muddles through his lost memories as he dresses and starts working but soon he sets the pieces of the night aside and makes use of his solitude.

He can’t remember much, a vague picture of sitting on the staircase. A foggy conversation. He hopes he didn’t say anything he shouldn’t have and focuses on his work instead. The sun makes its arc through the sky as Jaskier alternates between humming and working out the final chords on his lute and scratching violently on the paper.

The sun is shining low and warm, gentle shadows fall over the words on the paper;

Love me or hate me, choose and liberate me from this hell

Of wondering, do you know I love you? Pray tell

Lovely Lady, release me from your spell

Pale white woman will you wish me well

When you send me on my way, when I have to say farewell?

The song is complete. He is particularly proud of it, as one can only be about one’s work of art. He takes his chance to test the song on the melancholy afternoon crowd at the tavern, not wanting Geralt actually hearing it for fear that he might become suspicious about the apparent “maiden” the song was about, because the maiden in question has hair silver as moonlight and eyes golden as sunlight, she’s a quiet creature and prefers action over words, she is fierce as a wolf and Geralt was no idiot and he would certainly realize that the maiden was no maiden at all.

He knows very well that Geralt wasn’t born yesterday and if he heard the song he’d be balls deep in trouble because then Geralt would know. Jaskier is already ashamed of his indulgence enough as it is.

Geralt would know that the little bard who calls himself his friend is head over heels in love with him and lusting after him just like everyone else apparently. He’d be just another drop in the ocean that was Geralt’s admirers. What made Jaskier special was… absolutely nothing at this point.

Jaskier can imagine his reaction, he’d scoff, amused at the romantic minstrel whose fallen in love with the Witcher who is, ironically, famous for being incapable of love or any other feeling for that matter. He wouldn’t even deign him the honor of a proper laugh, he’d just walk away and leave him to his shame.

But Jaskier could never help himself. He couldn’t help it when he fell in love with the White Wolf, his travel companion, his friend. He couldn’t help himself when the lyrics of the song came to him, he couldn’t help but write it, compose it and he won’t be able to help pouring his heart out to Geralt when he asks about it.

At some point he will ask about it and deep down Jaskier knows. He’s is sure Geralt can hear the way his breath catches when he looks at him sometimes or when their eyes lock, the way his heart beats faster. For gods’ sake he can probably smell it on him. Jaskier know the day will come when Geralt asks, but still he lets himself tear down his bridges one by one and dig his grave a little deeper. He’s burning those bridges for momentary warmth, but still he doesn’t admit it even to himself and something foolish inside him pretends that he won’t be left cold and stranded in the end.

But for now he will be content to travel at his side and compose songs about the great Geralt of Rivia and suffer in silence. He will be content to love from afar until Geralt sends him away. It’s pathetic really, but it makes for a good song.

Something deflates in his chest when he thinks about it.

He sings it one last time, for practice he tells himself, before heading to the tavern to sing it to the sad saps who drink in the afternoons. They always like someone to share their sorrows with and Jaskier finds that the heartbroken are the most generous with their money. They don’t have much to live for after all.

****

Jaskier sings a few songs before he finally tests the new song on the crowd. They eat it up and he gets a few pitying glances from the women. He sits down at the bar, ordering himself a drink. The serving girl starts conversation while she cleans her cups.

“So,” she starts, she must be near Jaskier age. She’s pretty but her tone tells Jaskier she’s fishing for conversation to quell her boredom and not a bed fellow, she’s pretty enough to have one. “Who is this maiden after whom you’re pining?”

“Oh she’s a girl from a little village near Kaer Morhen. I come across her every once in a while, she travels a lot.” A lie so painfully close to the truth.

“Doesn’t she know you love her?” the woman asks, genuinely curious.

“I suspect she might.”

“That sounds like a tragic thing, doesn’t it,” she comments.

“Yes,” Jaskier says mournfully, “very tragic indeed. She’s either aware and indulging me tagging along with her every once in a while or she’s completely unaware of my infatuation. Either way she has no fondness for me. I suppose she just tolerates me.” Jaskier swirls the liquid in his cup, staring the little whirlpool.

“Well,” the girl says cheerfully, “maybe you’ll find your soulmate.”

“I think she is my soulmate,” Jaskier sighs before continuing, “but I am not hers.” The girl frowns.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but perhaps she’s a bit oblivious. You shouldn’t give up hope without trying.”

Jaskier smiles at the kind woman. “Thank you,” he says sincerely even though he won’t be doing that at all. She gives him a comforting touch before she hurries off to listen to another poor sod’s story and he realizes that he’s qualifies as a poor sod. He finishes his drink and picks up his lute, determined to change the mood.

When Geralt finally trudges through the door, the first of the regular evening crowd are already singing along cheerfully or chattering away with each other and Jaskier is proud to have them all participating, the warm feeling fades quickly when he spots the Witcher.

Geralt is filthy and wet, Jaskier stops mid-song. Something shifts like the last piece of a puzzle finally locking into place and suddenly Jaskier remembers.

Geralt you’re so handsome

And

Not just women

And

Why do you get to be pretty and muscly and gorgeous…

And ooooh fuck.

Geralt scans the crowded tavern for Jaskier, he finds him in less than a seond and locks eyes with him. Jaskier swallows.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, hoping he doesn’t sound hysteric. “It’s almost sundown I was starting to worry. Look at you, you’re soaking, you might catch a cold.” Geralt hums, stripping off his satchel of potions and Witcher necessities. “Are you alright? What you need is a warm bath.”  Jaskier starts fussing over him like he always does, but this time using proximity to hide his expression from Geralt’s all-knowing sight because he said that.

“What I need is my money and a drink,” Geralt says, grudgingly tolerating Jaskier patting him down, looking for injuries. He looks tired. Jaskier sees a few wide eyes all belonging to people ranging from middle aged to elderly. They are expecting something, expecting Geralt to break his hands, decapitate him, something. Because the last time Geralt visited this town he probably would have.

Jaskier finishes his fretting, Geralt lets him and waits until he finishes, it’s a routine and by now and Geralt has learned by now to just let Jaskier finish before he collects his payment from one of the staring men. The man doesn’t demand proof, just says his thanks and hands over the bag of coin. Geralt nods to him. Old acquaintances then.

Jaskier buys a flask of liquor to take with him to the inn for Geralt to drink while he bathes. The same girl he’d talked to hands it to him. She looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back to Jaskier. She says nothing but she knows and he trusts the girl to keep her mouth shut but the fact that she had put the pieces together so quickly has Jaskier wondering how obvious he’s being. Maybe he wouldn’t have all that much time left before Geralt puts the pieces of it all together himself.

For gods’ sake he probably already has because Jaskier called him handsome and told him it’s a shame he didn’t sleep with men. Didn’t sleep with him. But then Geralt told him he does and gods didn’t that just make it worse? Geralt didn’t want him.

His heart drops into his stomach.

***

Geralt is quiet, taking gulps of alcohol every once in a while as Jaskier washes his arms and chest. Jaskier takes quiet pleasure in getting to touch Geralt, after all it’s probably as much as he’ll ever get to touch him. Once again, Jaskier is painfully aware that he’s digging his grave deeper by indulging in bathing Geralt and once again he can’t bring himself to stop.

He waits for Geralt to say something, sure that he wants to. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

“Geralt,” he starts as he moves the Witcher to wash his back.

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something about your meditating?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier takes that as a yes.

“Can you hear me? When I talk to you while you’re meditating?”

“No,” Geralt says simply and Jaskier assumes it’s the end of it. “I can sense when there is a threat nearby. All my senses shut down save for the base instincts that wake me up when I’m in danger.”

“Interesting,” Jaskier comments. Geralt is quiet for a minute, Jaskier tips his head back and pours a jug of warm water over his hair before lathering soap into the dirty strands.

“Do you talk to me?” He asks then.

Jaskier debates his answer. “Sometimes.” He’s fucked anyway, deeper graves don’t hurt when you’re already dead.

“Why?” Geralt’s voice is flat, a product of years of succumbing to people’s assumptions of his absence if emotions.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier answers truthfully, “I hate the quiet. Sometimes it feels like you’re not really there anymore and I don’t like that. I suppose it’ my way of holding on to you.”

Geralt hums and the sound is not quite as… empty as usual.

He knows.

***

After his bath Geralt disappears to the tavern to inquire about the location of the drowner nest. Jaskier takes off his boots and jerkin and climbs otherwise fully clothed into the bed but waits until Geralt returns before he even tries to sleep, he’s gotten used to Geralt’s steady presence when he falls asleep. Geralt would wake him up just to reprimand him for sleeping with an unlocked door anyway. Jaskier picks up his lute, he hums some of his favorite songs.

Inevitably he ends up quietly singing his latest song and of course Geralt enters when he’s in the middle of it.

“Lovely Lady, release me from your spell

Pale w-“

Jaskier stops and puts the lute down somewhat abrubtly and snuggles into the blankets, ready to close his eyes and pray Geralt leaves him be, but Geralt speaks before he can fall asleep.

“Who is the lady you sing of?” Geralt while he removes his layers.

“What lady?” Jaskier’s heart is beating rapidly and he’s sure Geralt can hear it. This is it.

“The lady in your song?” Geralt stops undressing, he’s rid of his armor, only his dark blue undershirt still covers his chest from view.

“What song,” Jaskier says stupidly.

Geralt cocks his head. “The one you were singing.” Obviously, he doesn’t need to add.

“You heard that?”

Geralt taps his ear, “Witcher hearing.” Just Jaskier’s luck. Geralt still waits for an answer.

“Why do you ask?” he deflects instead.

Geralt shrugs “You’ve never talked about her.” Some useless part of Jaskier’s brain decides that the fact that Geralt actually listens when he talks is very noteworthy but it’s not enough to distract him from his inevitable heartbreak. He’s putting the pieces together now.

Oh gods, Jaskier can see the air around the witcher changing. He can see in Geralt’s eyes the moment something tips over the edge.

“You would have wouldn’t you?” It tenses between them as Geralt’s tone changes from casual interest to a curiosity that is slightly… unhinged. Jaskier is reminded of a cat playing with its terrified dinner. The tilt of his head is predatory.

Is he rubbing salt into the wound. How cruel of him.

“You’ve been travelling with me for months.” He stalks closer to Jaskier, his shadow falls over Jaskier, blocking out the candlelight. “You haven’t met any woman.” He braces his arms on the mattress, leaning over Jaskier. “You don’t invent your muses, you never have.” There’s something in his feline eyes that confirms that he can hear Jaskier’s rapid pulse, smell his terror. “Who is she.” His tone is quietly demanding and lethal. Deathly calm before the storm.

“Why?” Jaskier is playing with fire. He’ll get burned either way. “That’s none of your business.”

The storm hits. Geralt growls, pupils thinning, and throws his hands up, he turns faster than lightning, pacing up and down the small room. “What is it?” he demands. “Your heart. Your heart speeds up and your breath catches when you see me but you’re not afraid. No you’re never afraid and when you are,” he stops, staring at him in snake like stillness, ”it’s- there’s nothing to be afraid of and then suddenly I can smell terror. And there’s something else. I’ve never seen it before and it’s bloody annoying! What is it?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t he know?

Suddenly he calms and looks away. “You’re afraid of me now.” A statement. False.

“No.” Jaskier isn’t afraid, not of him.

Geralt scoffs. “I can smell it, I’m a Witcher for heaven’s sake and they don’t let me forget it.” The words hang between them, waiting for Jaskier to prove him otherwise.

He doesn’t even know.

Jaskier doesn’t know where the bravery comes from or if it’s just capitulation, surrender. “I’m not afraid of you.” He shrugs off the blanket and crawls to sit at the edge of the bed nearest to Geralt. He waits for Geralt, knowing how this conversation ends.

“And why not? Maybe you should be.” Geralt walks to the fireplace, his back toward Jaskier and presses his brow to the wall above it. “You,” he begins slowly, “you are a puzzle, a paradox. You defy everything you’re supposed to be, I don’t understand.” Geralt turns and there is something close to pure anguish tormenting his features. Jaskiers heart clenches in his chest.

He doesn’t understand. Of course. Of course Geralt would know, notice and still not understand, wouldn’t see blatant adoration if it was staring him in the face. Of course he’d have to go and make this so much worse for Jaskier.

Geralt never even realized that Jaskier was in love with him. Didn’t even know what it was. He didn’t know how to love and gods and how to be loved, and it made Jaskier angry. Angry that Geralt was so oblivious, so emotionless and conforming to everything people said about him, letting their rumors mold the truth. Angry that Geralt had never let himself feel, learn and understand the human part of himself.

Angry at the world for hurting the witcher who had believed he had no choice but to take the pain.

“Really?” Jaskier’s tone is low and frustrated, angry tears pooling in his eyes. “You really didn’t know?” he demands. Geralt says nothing, staring into the flames again. He shouldn’t be angry at Geralt. He isn’t.

“If I did, I wouldn’t ask would I?” Sarcasm drips from his tongue. Jaskier scoffs.

Geralt strides across the room to lean over Jaskier, grabbing him by the front of the thin shirt he was wearing. He pins him with a fiery gaze that should have made Jaskier cower under the blanket but instead, bright blue meet gold, ice meets fire. Ironic how Jaskier had always been warm to Geralt’s cold.

The tension between them is charged with something that feels like lightning before thunder.

Geralt’s eyes are glowing embers in the dim light of the candle.

*******

Ahhh I did it, I'm stupid proud of myself. Please leave kudos and comments :))))

[scribblingfangirl]

WANDERLUST | The Witcher - Jaskier

not my gif!

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Author’s Note: My second attempt! I’m still not able to find a good ending, but I think I’m getting there. English is not my first language, so I hope there aren’t to many mistakes.

word count:  ~ 1.9k

prompt: //

warnings: //

.•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•.

You were standing behind the bar, chatting with yet another drunken guest, well, rather distracting him from the fact that you hadn’t, even after his fifth attempt, given him another ale, when the door to the tavern flew open.

The man you had been fretting about since he had left with the Witcher the prior day stood there, smiling at you with open arms. “Mind my words Posada! The next thing you’ll throw at me won’t be bread! It will be coin! I will enchant you with the tales of the White Wolf and how he defeated your devil!” 

His sudden appearance and outburst startled a few of the guests that were spread out throughout the tavern and not drunk enough to be able to ignore him, resulting in a few spilt drinks and angry mutterations. You just sighed, while Jaskier, stupidly unaware of his surroundings, walked as if nothing had happened up to the bar and took a seat, scaring away the drunkard.

It would be a lie if you said that you weren’t glad to see him this way, alive and happy. Having heard the dark stories and tales about the Butcher of Blaviken, you couldn’t but be afraid for Jaskier’s life, or rather, his mouth, as he had the extraordinary ability to talk him into very stupid and dangerous situations. Yet, you knew what the grin and the mischievous glittering in his blue eyes meant. He had found his muse, his inspiration and would soon be leaving to begin a new adventure. It was just like the day he left his old life behind to pursue his new calling as a bard.

So, all you could do was chuckle at his usual exaggerated behaviour and started to wipe the counter. It was dark outside, well into the night and almost, if not already, closing time for the tavern, but you were waiting for Jaskier, knowing he’d return to you if he saw the lights still lit. Not that you would tell him that, or anybody else for that matter. You both might have been young, but his reputation was already well established and you didn’t want to be just another girl in his bed. You’d already lost your appreciation for yourself the moment you started to follow Jaskier around like a puppy and you didn’t want to sink any lower in your own regard.  

“You heard that? I’m going to be Geralt of Rivia's barker!” Jaskier said while leaning across the counter and tapping his finger excitedly against it. For the other tavern guests, it might have seemed, as if he was afraid, that you wouldn’t be able to hear him. You knew, however, that this was just his way, unconsciously always searching for a little more closeness than before.

As did you. Even though you could have lost yourself in his blue eyes, you soon felt your own wandering down his face, following the lines of his neck, over his Adam’s apple and stopping at the visible line of chest hair. Thankfully, he had already leaned back and turned around, not seeing the way your eyes betrayed you, as he started waving happily at the Witcher, who had just appeared in the doorway. 

You blushed in the meantime, cleared your throat, and hopefully head as well, not used to such a closeness to the bard. “The usual?” you asked to distract yourself and went to grab a clean glass behind you, hoping to give your face enough time to cool down.

“No,” you heard him say behind you. “Give us the best and strongest ale you have. After all, he defeated the devil of Posada!”

“Was it really the devil? With horns and all?” you asked, turning around and seeing that the Witcher had now approached you both and taken a seat besides Jaskier.

“Yes! And I’ve got a song to tell the tale! You’ve got to hear it! Oh!” he suddenly stopped, then smiled and stood up, bringing is lute to the front of his chest. “Actually, I have to perform right now it in front of this ungrateful lot. Let’s see how close I can bring them together now. This is…”

“... a story for another time,” the Witcher finished the sentence for him, his deep voice thick with annoyance and tiredness. He waved you off as you went to grab another cup, telling you to put the alcohol back. “This lady seems to be cleaning up and probably wants to close the bar. I’ll retreat to my chambers now.” After he stood up, he pushed Jaskier forcefully back into his seat, as he passed him to go to the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

“He’s either incredibly stupid or extremely brave, if he agrees to be accompanied by you, Jaskier,” you say as you look after him, completely missing the faint hint of jealousy that washes over the bards face.

“Hm,” you heard the Witcher grumble, as he stopped at the beginning of the stairs, having heard you thanks to his reinforced hearing abilities. “I never agreed to anything. You might even make a better travel companion.” Then he definitively stomped up the stairs, leaving Jaskier squirming, gesturing indignantly with his arms at the edge of your field of vision and squeaking helplessly. 

“You’re already welcome!” the bard finally called after him, but you doubted that the Witcher heard it, reinforced hearing or not. Then he placed his lute carefully on the counter. “Isn’t she sexy? I got her from Filavandrel after one of his fellow elves broke my old one. That’s at least one reason to celebrate,” he added quickly, as he saw that you had started to clean up the bar for real and gestured to the last guests to pay up and leave. “Why does nobody ever care about Jaskier?”, he asked then, pouting and slouched against the bar, staring at the wall in front of him.

“I care about Jaskier, a lot, but some of us do have a job so that they’re able to go home with some coin.” Without a second thought, you pushed his hair out of his face, so that you could take a proper look at him, freezing for a short while the moment you touched his forehead and then retracting your hand and occupying it with any task you could think of.

Jaskier didn’t react immediately. He seemed frozen too, then moved his head and looked at you, still slouched against the counter, but a with a bright smile plastered on his face. You didn’t like that look. Suddenly he heaved himself up, clearing his throat and supported himself with his arms on the counter. “You could come with us! Be my muse! After all, Geralt did say that you might make a more favourable companion than I. You must give me the possibility to prove him wrong!” 

The silence that followed his request gave him the answer he needed but didn’t want to hear. “You… You don’t want to?”, he inquired stunned.

“Jaskier.” You breathed out his name and weren’t even sure if it was loud enough for him to hear. Gladly you took the coin the last tavern guest handed you as a distraction. This was his wish and dream, not yours. You weren’t a traveller, didn’t want a big adventure, just a cosy home and someone who loved you to come home to. Things Jaskier would never be able to give you, you knew that and yet, your heart just couldn’t let go of him.

“Why?” His voice nearly broke saying just this one word and he stared at you, his eyes wide open as he grabbed your hands, that were scrubbing the same spot over and over for the past minutes.

You clenched your eyes shut and blew air out of your nose. “We both know why. I mean, come on! The university staff was right to look at me weirdly as I quit my job at the same time as you. I should’ve just stayed in Oxenfurt as a librarian. Look at what you’ve been doing while I stayed behind, watching over drunkards and sweeping tavern floors. What would I be even bringing to the table?”

His hands clenched tighter around yours. “I think we have to go now.” 

That was an answer and reaction that you weren’t expecting. “What, where? Wait, Jaskier!” You almost didn’t have the time to finish up your work behind the bar, as he started to pull you towards the exit.

Opening the door for you, he let you get dressed quickly before he shoved you out into the cold air. “I have to show you something.” 

This is when you realized that he let go of your hand and instead intertwined his fingers with yours. Blushing again, you tried to hide your face somehow from his view and act as nonchalantly as possible, even if it was almost pitch black at this time of the night, save for the occasional torch that was nearly burned down, and almost impossible for you to see his face, to begin with.

He stopped suddenly in front of the stable and turned you around to face him, looking serious. “I want to introduce you to someone. But do not tell Geralt about it! See… well, technically,” he started to babble nervously and his fingers fidgeted against yours. “You know what? Never mind!” He pushed the stable doors open. “Meet Roach!” 

He had a plan, at least that much you had to give him. He knew how much you liked animals, especially horses, and wanted to convince you to join his travels by saying that you’d be able to watch over Roach and maybe even convince Geralt to let you ride her. Sadly, after walking around the stable for a few minutes, Jaskier had to admit, that he had no idea which horse it was, as he didn’t know what she looked like anymore.

You just punched him lightly in his shoulder and laughed, as you finally exited the stable. “All right, all right! You tried and you convinced me. I’m coming with you! Even if it’s only to help you out of tricky situations and keep track of your, apparently, rather leaky brain. But I won’t be playing matchmaker. If people are stupid enough to follow you into your room, that’ll be their fault.”

He turned around, after closing the doors behind you, looking bewildered. “Why would I need a matchmaker? As far as I’m concerned, there is a beautiful young barmaid right in front of me. My, as I’d like to call her, muse, whom I’ve been trying to impress since seeing her the first time in Oxenfurt, but, admittedly, failing miserably every time.”

This time your silence gave him the answer he needed and wanted. It would have been a lie if you’d said that you weren’t stupid enough to follow him to his room and that you were angry for throwing your own rules out of the window so fast. Being his muse for a little while and travelling with him and the soon to be White Wolf - and yes, deep within Geralt was thankful for the image change - was something you’d never come to regret. You were still young, after all, and had your whole life in front of you to find someone to come home to, and who knew? You’d helped Jaskier achieve his dreams, he might be able to help you achieve yours.

[king-finnigan]

Unchained Melody

What A Wonderful World Masterlist. Also on AO3!

Day 1 of Whumptober! On the menu today is ‘Waking up restrained/shackled/hanging.’

~~~

When he finally blinks awake, Jaskier is, more than anything, confused. A throbbing ache in the back of his skull tells him something might be terribly wrong, and when he shifts and his shoulders scream out in agony, his suspicions are confirmed.

He clenches his teeth, ignoring his rapidly rising heartrate in favour of focusing on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t panic, Jask. He takes one final, steadying breath, ignoring the pain in his chest for now, before he starts mentally checking his body bit by bit.

His head hurts, the pain splitting and dull at the same time, spreading heat across his skin and down his neck – though that might also be blood, he’s not sure. He furrows his brow as he tries to remember what happened.

Inn room. Waking up in the middle of the night. Three dark figures standing around his bed. One of them raises an arm as Jaskier tries to scramble away. A loud thud echoing through his head, half a second of searing pain, before darkness overtakes him.

That doesn’t really tell him much about why he’s here or who took him. So, he moves on. His shoulders are stiff, and when he tries to move them, he nearly screams in pain. It takes him a few seconds to realize his hands are shackled above his head, the chains rattling loudly when he shifts a bit. His fingertips feel numb, and he wonders how long he’s been here like this, and how much longer until the lack of blood will make his fingertips die off.

He doesn’t like that thought very much.

He’s shirtless, too, and wherever he is, it’s very cold, sending shivers down his spine, making his ribs scream out in pain as well as his shoulders.

Ribs. He takes a deep breath in and out, and indeed: some of them must be broken. Or at least bruised. He doesn’t know – he’s tended to Geralt’s broken and bruised ribs plenty of times, but he’s never been on the other side of injuries, like he is now.

Geralt. He wonders if this has something to do with the Witcher. He’s heard rumours that Geralt was seen with his Child Surprise and that Nilfgaard was looking for the girl, so it wouldn’t be a long stretch to say that Nilfgaard might have taken Jaskier in hopes of finding out where Geralt is through him.

Ha. Jokes on them – Jaskier hasn’t seen Geralt in years. Not since the mountain. Not that he wants to see Geralt, of course, and obviously Geralt doesn’t want to see him either. He’s made that much clear.

Though, Jaskier wouldn’t exactly be very unhappy if Geralt were to barge through the door and free him from these cursed shackles – and gods, he can’t even move his fingers anymore. This is bad. This is really bad.

Thank sweet Melitele, the door opens right at that exact moment. There’s a man, standing there in the doorway, his face clad in shadows, the light from the hall behind him hurting Jaskier’s eyes, making him squint. That’s not Geralt.

The vision sways in front of him, before doubling, and Jaskier has time to think that he might have a concussion, actually, before the man walks forward, grabbing Jaskier by his hair and yanking his head backwards in a swift, harsh movement.

Jaskier cries out, gasping for air as his ribs protest loudly, the chains rattling as he sways from them, his bare toes barely touching the ground. Tears gather in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, only managing to make them spill over and down his cheeks.

“The Witcher,” the man says, and Jaskier can’t help but chuckle as his suspicions are confirmed.

“Don’t bother,” he wheezes out, his voice raw, throat dry, lungs constricting as he desperately tries to pull in air. “Haven’t seen him in years.”

“Liar!” the man shouts, hand clenching more tightly in his hair, making the already sharp pain gain a numbingly hot edge. “You know exactly where he’s taking the girl,” he hisses.

Jaskier blinks, the image of a lone castle on top of a snowy mountain flashing through his mind. Kaer Morhen. He banishes the thought away, desperately conjuring up half-finished lyrics and nonsensical rhymes, in case the man is a Mage and can read his mind.

Toss a coin to your Witcher- Fishmonger’s daughter badabada- Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a selkie by the toe-

He pulls a face and tries to shrug, barely managing to hold in a scream of pain as it jostles his stiff shoulders – though it comes out as a pathetic whimper instead. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says, the cold air like sandpaper in his throat.

The man scoffs. “Suit yourself, then, bard.” Jaskier’s eye catches on the glint of light on steel, before his head is whipped to the side, breath knocked from his longs in shock. It takes him a few seconds to feel the pain in his cheek, the warm dribble of blood spilling down his neck and across his chest.

“Where is he?” the man asks again, the tip of his knife dangerously close to the wound in Jaskier’s cheek, ready to dig in. “I can do this all day, bard. All week, if needs be. Just tell me where he is and this will all be over soon, you get to go back to that dingy little inn and forget this all happened.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, the fake mercy in the man’s eyes gaining a hard edge, his soft smile turning into a scowl. “Now who’s the liar?” Jaskier asks. “You’re never letting me go.”

It’s quiet for a while, as the man grinds his teeth together, glaring at Jaskier. “No,” he finally admits. “But it’ll be a lot easier for the both of us if you talk now.”

Jaskier nods, hesitantly, taking a deep breath, ignoring the protesting of his ribs. He whispers something noncommittal, and the man frowns, taking a step closer. “What?” Jaskier whispers again, causing the man to get closer once more. “Speak up, bard.”

“I said,” Jaskier mutters. “Go fuck yourself.” He gathers what little blood has run into his mouth, and spits it into the man’s face, making him stumble back. With his last remaining effort, he lifts his legs, shoulders and wrists screaming from the strain of the shackles, and kicks forward, square against the man’s chest.

He laughs as he watches the bastard fall flat on his arse, a stunned and furious expression on his face. He knows the man will make him regret it soon enough, but for now, he lets himself have this.

A door slams in the distance, and Jaskier turns his head, though he’s well aware he won’t be able to see anything that isn’t happening directly in front of the door to his cell.

The sound of metal clashing against metal, distant shouts and cries ending in the tell-tale gurgling of someone choking on their own blood. Then, a scream, loud and ear-piercing, making the walls shake around him.

He cries out, pressing his upper arms against his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound, the pain in his shoulders taking a backseat in favour of trying to make the pain in his eardrums go away. It doesn’t help much, and by the time the screaming stops, he’s dizzy and delirious, his vision spinning before his head lolls backwards, his eyes now trained on the stone ceiling.

The noises grow closer and closer, and he hears someone unsheathing a sword right in front of him – probably the man, gods, Jaskier had forgotten about him. He tries to raise his head, he really does, but his attempts only result in the light-headedness growing worse, the ringing in his ears distracting him.

Running footsteps, coming to a halt in front of his cell. The clang of metal on metal, a few grunts here and there as small hands try and fail to reach up to his shackles, momentarily appearing in his field of vision before the person gives up and clings to his arm instead – a steadying presence, though he still feels himself slipping away more and more.

Finally, the wet sound of a sword going through flesh and bone, before being pulled out and dropped to the ground, metal on stone.

“Jaskier.”

“’S me,” he garbles, vision blinking in and out of darkness. “D’you want?”

Large, familiar hands bring a key up to the shackles, and before he can realize what’s going to happen, he’s already falling. He braces for impact, but two arms catch him, using his momentum to gently lay him on the cold, stone floor.

Two faces appear above him, both of them familiar, though he feels like one of them shouldn’t be. “Pavetta?”

The girl’s face twists into something pained, before she shakes her head. “It’s Ciri.”

“Oh. Hello.”

Her smile might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen, and he feels as though, under different circumstances, he would’ve huddled her up in a blanket, sat her by a fire, and told her the most embarrassing stories about Geralt he could think of.

Speaking of- “Hi, Geralt.”

“Hey,” his Witcher whispers, rubbing one of Jaskier’s hands in both of his, and Jaskier notices that the tips of his fingers are tinged blue.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters, as the world starts spinning again.

“It’ll be fine, Jask. You’ll be fine.”

“You look like shit.” Geralt does look like shit – his hair a mess of tangles and, strangely enough, a few twigs, the length of his stubble hovering between ‘just long enough’ and ‘would be avoided like the plague if seen in a dark alley’, the shadows under his eyes speaking of many days – if not weeks – without a proper night’s rest.

If anything, Geralt looks like a man on the run. Makes sense.

“Thanks for saving me,” he whispers. “I really appreciate it.” The ceiling above him spins, and he swallows down the urge to gag. “But I think I’m going to pass out now.”

Geralt grins at him, the relief evident in his eyes. “Alright, you do that.”

“Alright, goodnight.” His eyes slip shut.

“Goodnight, Jask,” he swears he hears before blessed unconsciousness finally overtakes him.

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 15 (final chapter)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Action, angst, gore, badassery, feels, fluff, angst, caring, tiny bit of smut. Probably some errors due to lack of proofing. A/N: So...this is apparently the end of the story. Thanks for the comments and reblogs, it’s been a joy seeing the reactions to each chapter. HUGS!!

15 – Soft Dogs

...   Jaskier   ...

If teeth had been gold coins, the Witcher be rich A monster less monstrous, it whines like a -

No I can’t use that! Annoyed with the lack of progress, Jaskier lazily swirls the wine. Having no problem letting the other two deal with the messy part of things, the bard has decided to spend the waiting time composing a song of the ultimatum Geralt has given the vampire. The Bloody Barter...oh, that’s a niiice title.

Half of the Higher Vampires fell as they had decide among each other which of them got to live – it turns out that such decisions are quickly made by ripping the weaker individuals’ hearts out. Now, a musty smell of burning flesh and rot is lifting to the night sky together with the embers and smoke thanks (again) to the stronger vampires’ hard work. It took little time for them to create a pyre due to the adequate amount of slaves blindly following command. And those bloodsuckers? All are lying in a heap, waiting for their turn to impersonate a roast dropped in the cooking fire.

“Would it have been too much to ask that they smelled more appealing?” Jaskier sighs.

“Hm.”

At least [Y/N] eyes him wearily. “Would it be too much to ask that you help?”

She’s standing by Leif Nordbergar. His own faith is sealed too: like the last few vampires he will have his teeth pulled and hands cut off. But for now, he has remained calm and collected, enforcing the orders upon his kin, never wavering under the feather light touch of the woman’s silvered blade as his children have died and his plan gone up in smoke.

No longer.

With a ferocious snarl, he bashes her arm aside, sending the weapon clattering towards the fire where Geralt is tossing the remains into the flames, and latching on to a portion of bared flesh at the crook of her neck.

Before Jaskier can fully register what is happening, a familiar sword skewers Nordbergar’s face with a sickening sound, causing both monster and woman to fall and the other bloodsuckers to flee.

“[Y/N]!”

The bard can’t see the anything but the broad back of Geralt as he comes to a skidding halt on the ground by the fallen, unceremoniously shoving the vampire aside and ignoring the pained moan from the creature...but he can hear the break in the voice, a panic he had never expected to witness coming from the stoic hero.

“C’mon, my flower...” Each word is pulled from the bottom of the Witcher’s heart, filled with ache and longing as though he fears for a loved one’s life.

Wait. “Ger...what’s...is she...?” Jaskier crawls across the dirt of the cave floor, afraid his legs won’t carry or that he should fall if the fear growing inside him is validated. “She isn’t...”

Rounding the hunched figure, nothing looks real anymore. Not the blood seeping between the fighter’s fingers as he clasps them to [Y/N] neck, not the already ashen skin, not the tears obscuring the yellow eyes. This isn’t happening! They were meant to...and then...the romance! Damnit! There were so many times Jaskier could have said something, made them realize what they were feeling for each other except now...Too late.

“Jask, give me the square vial in my satchel.”

How can a young land deny such a request, meaningless though it may be, when spoken with a voice thick with desperation? He can’t. Scampering in a frenzy, the bard does as ordered and watches in reluctance as the Witcher pulls the stopper and pours a thick white liquid into the woman’s mouth. The scene conjures a ridiculous image in his mind.

“It would take a kiss. In all great ta-”

And there it is: the bard has been stunned into silence as Geralt’s lips softly seals [Y/N]’s mouth, tears still dripping onto her cheeks where the last glow lingers – perhaps out of stubbornness to celebrate how she was in life.

...   Reader   ...

Dazed and confused, your entire world consists of the sensory inputs. Numbness in your limbs. A flaring pain in your neck and chest. A foul, sticky taste in your mouth. But most of all, what you feel are the warmth enveloping you and the gentle begging of lips upon yours.

“Geralt,” you mumble in between returning the kisses.

“Wild flower.”

The taste of his smile is soothing. Reassuring. Curling up slightly to get comfortable in his arms, you are ready to fall asleep then and there knowing that he’ll keep you safe. Someone interrupts the calm, though.

“Wait, WHAT?” You know without looking that Jaskier must be flailing his arms. “That’s IT?! Where’s the moment of clarity? The serendipity?! Are you real- oh!” He must have realized something. “Oh, I see! And how long has this been going on? When did you decide ‘Let’s not tell Jaskier, let’s make him look like a fool.’ Haha! Well joke’s on you! I’ve known from the beginning that...that...oh fuck it.”

Disgruntled, he returns to his seat only to have faith mock him as it turns out the wine has been spilled.

You don’t care. At least not right now.

“You’re a mess, wild flower.”

“Guess you get to clean me up when we get a chance then.”

You can feel the soft of him humming in agreement when he kisses you again, though the sound is drowned by a Jaskier,

“Oh, come ON!”

...   Geralt   ...

The trio is tired as they start their descent. Jaskier is still moping about the surprising turn of events but at least he does so quietly for the fear of the wyverns abandoning the hunt on the few vampires that fled – apparently the creatures hold a grudge. Similarly, the Witcher is on edge, his eyes darting to the shadows that are beginning to lose their hold in the greying dawn. His sword is drawn as a necessary precaution as much as for the sake of [Y/N] whom he carries on his back. She is too weak to walk still, caught somewhere between unconsciousness and sleep save for the few times the jostling movement stirs her and she releases a puff of hot breath against Geralt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine.

The sound of birds have accompanied them for a while when they reach the remains of the temporary camp where Roach greets them with a soft, worried whinny muzzling at them all in turn though paying special attention to the prone woman.

“She’s fine,” Geralt mutters, silently appreciating the horse’s gentleness.

“Yeah. Well. I’m still in shock.” The bard might complain, but his genuine concern returns straight away. “Is she...how long will she be like...that?”

Who knows. “The potion draws upon her own energy to rekindle her life. It’s taxing on the body.”

...

The sun is setting on the other side of the valley which is stretched out below like a sea of greens and golds, inviting and enticing with the promise of gentle travels and warmer winds. Still, they have made decent headway, distancing themselves from the threat of vampires and wyverns alike to the point that Geralt decides to make camp not far from a stream running past the first decent thicket.

It does not take a lot of convincing from Jaskier before the Witcher half assists, half carries the unnaturally weak woman towards the waters and once there (hidden from the bard’s eyes and ears), he seats her with the back against a large rock heated by the sun. Stripping, methodically pealing off the black armour, he places everything within reach on the bank before turning to [Y/N].

“Hmm.”

She stirs, understanding what is going on, as he frees her off the bloodied clothes but accepts when he gently swats her hands away that her attempt to help largely is a hindrance. Leaning against him, the large man feels the softness of her curves and the slowly returning strength in the arms that embrace him.

“This is...aaall backwards.” Despite the resignation in the voice, she still smiles.

“Hmm?”

A bit of deviousness bubbles to the surface, ghosting over Geralt’s skin together with her lips when she leans in to whisper. “I’m normally the one saving you.”

Turning to capture her lips, he lets the final piece of garment drop to the ground in favour of picking her up. So...giving. Neither for the first nor the last time does the Witcher envy Jaskier’s skill with words. The resentment at his own lack of skills is willingly swept away by the frigid water which he backs them into because the gasps escaping [Y/N] brings other things to mind, generously aided by the stiffening of her body which she presses against him in the hope of borrowing his heat – a heat that swells and grows as his hands start sweeping off the filth.

“Fuck me sideways, it’s cold!”

He quirks a brow at the exclamation, catching the glimpse of realization on her features. “Don’t worry, wild flower. I’ll make sure you don’t freeze for long.”

Continuing the ministration, Geralt makes sure no inch of skin is left unclean, fingers adeptly rubbing and stroking until the gasps due to the cold turn to soft moans of pleasure, stolen out of the evening air by his mouth. Still, afraid the low temperatures might get to her he begins to walk back to the shore, only stumbling once when she repositions in his arms and manages to sheath the head of his cock into her burning heat.

Falling to his knees, how can he not worship the woman on his lap? Slick with water droplets like precious stones scattered across her skin, she fits effortlessly around him, pliable beneath his hands as she allows him to control the pace by lifting and lowering her with a strong grip on her ass. [Y/N]’s breasts are within reach, nipples perked and begging for the attention of a tongue as she arches from the first spark of euphoria.

Don’t hold back. Never hold back.

“Lo-ove you, Gera-a-alt.”

Let me take care of you. “And I...I love you.”

[corancoranthemagicalman]

@vencurial (it won’t let me tag you??) asked for some Jealousy, “he’s mine” and how could I not?? 5+1 (and I’ll eventually post all these drabbles to my AO3)

1.

The thing is, Jaskier does not get jealous. He evokes jealousy (spouses, betroths, etc, etc, the list really could go on, couldn’t it?) but he doesn’t get jealous. That is until Geralt, apparently. Geralt of Rivia instills many feelings in Jaskier, one of which is that green-eyed monster that is closely followed by the raging beast in his gut.

So when a busty barmaid with fair skin and red hair that falls perfectly over the swell of her large bosom proceeds to lean said bosom into Geralt’s arm, well, Jaskier becomes a jealous man.

He clears his throat, stage smile plastering across his face as he waltzes toward his lovely beau and the girl painted in red. “Hello!” He greets, happily leaning a palm on Geralt’s opposite shoulder as he reacher’s for the Witcher’s ale. “I see this tavern has some fair hands-on service, eh?” Jaskier teases, looking to Geralt. “You look tired from our far travels, though, Geralt. How about we retire for the evening?”

Geralt grunts, turning to face Jaskier with a silent expression save for the raise of his brow. Jaskier answers with a smirk, an unspoken promise of the hands-on service he can provide back up in their room. “Hmm,” those yellow eyes turn to his ale that is currently held in Jaskier’s hand. He snatches it from the bard before standing.

The Witcher is already pushing Jaskier bodily up the stairs as he looks over that large shoulder to catch the gaze of the barmaid. “He’s mine,” he mouthes the words to her.

2.

The thing is, Jaskier is apparently a jealous creature. He supposes that he should have expected it sooner. His heart has always fallen fast and hard. Now that it has spilled into the permanent fixture of his Witcher, why should he love any less deeply? So this time when it’s a young knight of Temeria trying to ask for sword practice, well, Jaskier has thrown around enough innuendos to know what that means.

“Geralt!” The bard shouts as he limps toward him, lute in hand. “I was wondering when we were going to be leaving? What Temeria has in beauty it lacks in action.” Jaskier pouts as he caresses the lute in his hold.

“Jaskier,” it’s almost a reprimand on his tongue, “you’re still not well enough for the trip.” Geralt’s eyes roamed over Jaskier’s figure, but not in that lovely and hungry way he knew so well.

Jaskier gaps for a moment. Huffing in indignation, Jaskier swings his lute to his back that way he can properly cross his arms. “Well, if I had known how to wield that bloody sword you had decided to throw at me, perhaps I could!”

It was almost a growl that escaped the Witcher’s lips. “You refuse all of my lessons.” Those golden eyes pierced Jaskier’s weak leg. “And now is not the time for swordplay.”

The bard chuckled a laugh, smirking. “I don’t need my legs to know how to play with a sword.” He allowed his eyebrows to dance across his features, purposefully ignoring the young man beside them.

“Jaskier,” came another warning from the Witcher, but the warning was short-lived as he sighed. “Come on, you stupid lark.”

While any other time, Jaskier might have resented the term of endearment, instead he kept his eyes to the young knight. A smirk of victory as if he had won that sword fight blossomed across his face. “He’s mine,” he mouths again.

This time it might be more of a whisper.

Either way, Geralt hears it.

Dammit.

3.

The thing is, Jaskier is fucking jealous. There’s a princess thrusting herself in dance upon Geralt unlike the barmaid or the knight ever had. Not only is it very unbecoming of the royalty, but it’s rather rude of her to throw herself at Jaskier’s Witcher. Still, he can’t exactly cut in so he keeps playing, strumming without his heart really being in it.

The band he’s playing with, the kingdom’s actual band that isn’t a famous bard invited, they seem to be invested in his plight. He tries to keep his eyes off Geralt lest he draws too much attention, but how can he not look at that man? Jaskier turns his attention elsewhere with force, playfully winks and sings stories about maidens and men, monsters and gold.

It’s when he’s switching songs that it happens. He looks up for a moment only to see the princess reaching for Geralt’s very well endowed self that he almost breaks the string on his precious lute. His eyes go wide and if his rage at the slight against his relationship was not enough, the genuine discomfort on Geralt’s face is enough to have him raise his voice.

“Excuse me, princess!” He shouts, the band behind him stopping and the dancers halting as he leaps from the stage, swinging his lute behind him as his steps quicken. “But I believe you’ve delighted yourself a bit too much this evening. How about you have a good sit, my lady?”

The princess guffaws for a moment, wine heavy on her breath. “E-xcuse you?” She begins before her brother, a handsome man and the soon to be king, comes to rest his hand on her elbow.

“Elise.” He speaks gently. “I think our guest is right. You’ve been dancing all night. Rest?”

“I dance!” She exclaimed, figure wobbling for a moment, “with whoever the fuck I want!” Princess Elise turned to face Geralt with a drunk-flushed face. “He likes my dancing.”

Jaskier feels himself bristle at Geralt’s defense that the Witcher does not even get to speak. “Perhaps your dancing, but not your roaming hands.” He points a finger, momentarily forgetting decorum. The prince seems more embarrassed than angry though, so small saving graces.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “Let’s go.” He commands them.

The bard wants to say more, but he can feel the tension in the room. Instead, he silently nods and follows Geralt out of the ballroom. He will not take a gig anywhere near here again.

This time, it doesn’t need to be said.

4.

The thing is, Jaskier thinks Geralt likes it when he gets jealous. Surely, it’s a very romantic notion. The idea of belonging. Jaskier can see the appeal in it. Perhaps not when he is the one blinded by jealousy and want, but he can see the appeal. Ideally.

This is not ideal.

An entire bloody fucking forest of nymphs with their hands everywhere is nowhere near ideal for Jaskier. Geralt, of course, is a very loyal man and does not reciprocate, but apparently, he is not above letting them touch. Their hands caress his arm, his bicep. One of them looks at his jaw with the tips of their fingers. Geralt is used to being observed, he was made after all. But this is different. They both know this is different.

Jaskier thinks, at first, Geralt is teasing him. Thinks maybe Jaskier is jealous that he too is not receiving this affection from the forest nymphs. But the thing is, Jaskier couldn’t give a shit about the forest nymphs. He would just like this perhaps consensual touching of his Witcher to stop right now thank you very much.

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls for him again. “I think I can hear Roach.” He curses internally at the terrible lie.

“I don’t hear her,” Geralt speaks truthfully and damn his Witcher hearing. He turns to look at the young nymphs (or perhaps old nymphs?) that worship his body like a love god. Oh, doesn’t Jaskier know that truth? But did they have to make it evident in their touching?

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls, this time his hands fall to his hips. “I don’t think we should spend the night, lest we stay forever?”

The Witcher grunts, shrugging his shoulders as he looks to the nymphs around him. “That’s a myth. Nymphs don’t-”

“I don’t care what they do, Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, throwing his hands in the air until he realizes who is surrounding him. He chuckles awkwardly, smile chagrin. “Not that you aren’t a lovely hosting party, really-” the bard begins to ramble before Geralt’s sigh cuts in.

Those large hands gently remove the reaching limbs and it seems that Geralt must swim through nymph to reach Jaskier. “We really must be going,” he tells the nymphs, or tree spirits, or whatever they are.

Jaskier raises his chin, nodding. “Yes, thank you.” He looks around them, nymphs growing agitated and dismayed as Geralt and Jaskier begin to step out of the clearing. “Uh, Geralt?”

Growling, the Witcher pulls his silver sword from his sheath, putting himself between the bard and the nymphs. “Run.” He ushers Jaskier with the command, but the bard can not help but pull Geralt with him.

“He’s mine!” He shouts as much as his exhausted body will allow as they run.

5.

The thing is, Jaskier needs Geralt. More than just a soft conversation over a bath might imply. Jaskier needs Geralt as in the other part of that very same conversation. As in the someone who wants Geralt. He wants and needs Geralt. More than his Witcher, but the forever love of his life. Even if Geralt does not want him or need him.

Geralt is still in Jaskier’s arms and the bard feels like cursing him. Cursing that stupid fucking Witcher who had taken his heart from the first. So carelessly fought. Too late had Geralt of Rivia finally realized he was not invincible, eh? Jaskier grits his teeth, eyes burning.

“He’s mine,” he sobs, “he’s mine. Don’t take him.” Jaskier cradles Geralt closer, feels the rain wash away the caked mud. “Please, if Destiny has brought me to him, don’t let Destiny take him. Gods, he is mine.”

The rain is not soothing. It is cold, and it makes Jaskier feel lonely even as Roach whinnies at his back. It’s not until a deep gasp for breath that shakes both Geralt and Jaskier that Jaskier feels warmth again.

This time, Jaskier does not need to say it for Geralt to know it.

+1.

The thing is, Jaskier apparently really loves when Geralt gets jealous. The Witcher is seething from the other side of the room, jaw ticking as he clenches his mug of ale. Jaskier winks, turning back to his playful conversation with one of several wanting suitors it seems.

He can’t really tell what they’re speaking about. It’s not that Jaskier doesn’t care entirely, he just has a greater game he’s playing. A game that only ends when those golden eyes burn so bright before stalking toward him. He grins, mouth full of teeth to match the bared canines of his White Wolf.

“The bard,” Geralt growls out and Jaskier is already standing, “is mine.”

[cock-holliday]

What TWN Fucked Up

I think if I wasn’t in love with the book series, the show would be fine on its own. It’s an interesting world, the fight scenes are great, the music is wonderful, and the cast is doing well with what they are given, ESPECIALLY Joey Batey. That said, I’m going to be frank: they fucked ALL of the characters.

Let Them Be Funny You Cowards

I’ll actually start with Jaskier/Dandelion.

In the show, Jaskier makes some appearances where he didn’t in the books (Pavetta’s engagement ceremony) for one simple reason: he’s the comic relief. This does a disservice both to Jaskier AND the other characters. The games also tended to do this, but I think it’s even more apparent in the show. 

It’s bullshit for 2 reasons: 

1. the rest of the characters are SO FUNNY. Geralt is really funny! Yennefer is fucking hilarious. Ciri is a little shit! Triss is funny! Calanthe is funny! Regis is funny! Yarpen Zigrin is funny! Zoltan is funny! Philippa is funny! Everyone’s humor might be dry, or witty, or smartass, but the characters are funny, let them be funny.

2. Jaskier is not JUST funny.

Jaskier is a fun and creative character but the biggest thing that makes him unique is the contrast of how he says how he feels while everyone else hides. Jaskier is very open and tends to lay things out on his sleeves. He’s very aware of his own feelings and urges and emotions and by extension, is very aware of what others are not saying. Everyone else hides.

Yennefer, Geralt, Ciri, Triss, Calanthe, Cahir...all of them hide their thoughts and feelings.

Feeling vs Expressing

This nuance is almost entirely absent from SO many of the characters. The most glaring example is--of course--Geralt. A lot of the adaptations fuck it up, the difference between FEELING and EXPRESSING.

Geralt is one of THE MOST emotional characters in the Witcher. He’s very introspective, he feels very deeply, he struggles with internal conflict CONSTANTLY, but he isn’t GOOD at expressing it. That does not, for fuck sake, mean it isn’t there.

I recognize that a book gives us the luxury of knowing Geralt’s thoughts, but not showing signs of his internal combat and the feelings radiating off of this man is a complete disconnect from his character. This brings us back to Jaskier. Jaskier knows Geralt better than anyone and is constantly a wall for Geralt to play his emotions off of. When Geralt is closed off, Jaskier picks up on it. When Geralt does better at expressing himself, he does so and Jaskier listens. When Geralt tries to lie, which he is canonincally bad at, Jaskier calls him out. Jaskier can read him like a book, so there NEEDS to be signs shown to the audience about his emotions.

Geralt Is A Liar Sometimes

Adaptations need to learn or at least show that they know that Geralt is a massive liar about himself all the time. Geralt says he has no emotions but is one of the most if not the most emotional character in the series. Geralt says he can’t feel love but he falls in love with Yennefer after she kicks his ass, loves Ciri when he meets her in the woods, quickly loves Jaskier, loves the hansa, and has a love of people in general.

Geralt SAYS he doesn’t need anyone, because he has faced so much rejection. Geralt wants love and acceptance but is turned away consistently. He was rejected as a child, gets rejected by the people he saves, by townsfolk, by kings, and allies, and strangers. He SAYS he has closed himself off, but his constant drive to help people shows that he. is. a. liar.

Sides of the Same Coin

Which brings me to: Geralt vs Yennefer. They parallel and contrast one another beautifully and oh ho ho does Netflix fuck that up. Yennefer is also a massive liar, but very importantly: she is much better at it than Geralt. Like Geralt, Yennefer faced constant rejection and was taught that she is unlovable. She similarly has trust issues, buries herself in her work, and suggests she doesn’t need anyone when in fact she too is desperate for love and acceptance.

BUT! while Geralt is woeful and keeps desperately trying to help and care for others, Yennefer has decided that she would become more powerful than those who would seek to hurt her and make them regret trying to take advantage. Geralt sets himself up for abuse hoping that someone will surprise him, Yennefer has lost patience and will not let people hurt her anymore. She uses her looks and connections to her advantage, but punishes those who underestimate her. She’s ruthless. She very easily could have been made a villain, but doesn’t become one, for the same reason that Geralt keeps trying to help: she’s a loving person.

She is loyal and protective of those she cares about. She has gained immense power and is cutthroat with it when protecting herself, so god help anyone who threatens the people she cares for. 

Father, Daughter?

Something crucial to the Witcher series is that the novels are CIRI’S story, not Geralt’s. However, their relationship is the most important one in the series. Geralt’s first mini intro with Ciri is when she is 6. He is supposed to come collect her, but cannot bring himself to. They meet again when she is 10, after she has run away. She’s a snotty spoiled princess, but still a child. Geralt warms up to and protects her. When he learns who she is, though, he is afraid of her falling victim to the death and destruction that follows him, and he leaves her behind in the care of Moussack, who will take her back home. 

The next time they meets is after the fall of Cintra. Geralt learns of and mourns the death of Calanthe, and beyond the wreckage of this destroyed city is Ciri. She survived and escaped and has crashed back into his life again. This time he CAN’T ignore Destiny. The significance of their repeated meetings over her formative years builds a crucial foundation to their relationship. They are tied by Destiny, but BECOME FAMILY by FORMING a relationship.

Cahir, the Manchild

If I had a dollar for every time a piece of media in the last ten years thought you could have a character do the most monstrous things and be forgiven so long as he was sad about it, I’d have enough money to get counseling for watching what they did to Cahir.

Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, when first introduced, is hidden behind a mask. As 10-11 year old Ciri watched everyone around her get slaughtered, this man (a teenage boy) pursues and catches her. She manages to escape him, but knows he is after her and haunts her dreams.

A small child’s memory of a man in armor chasing her builds this idea of Cahir as a terrible and imposing figure, but he is essentially Zuko from Avatar: The Last Airbender. He is a young boy, skilled in battle, not yet a man, but with the weight of his family and country on his shoulders. He is not evil, just driven by his country’s imperialism and is terrified of failing (and being killed by) those that preside over him.

He kills in battle and is furiously hunting down Ciri. He is on the wrong side, is a tool of those that ARE evil, but this boy thinks what he is doing is right. After having not committed aggressively heinous activities, this boy comes face to face with Geralt. Cahir knows he will be killed if he doesn’t succeed in catching Ciri for his country, and his family would be shamed and/or killed for his failure. While fighting, his helmet is finally removed and Geralt, in a position to finish him off, realizes this is just a boy, barely a man. Cahir was wrong, but he deserves to be pitied for being taken advantage of.

From then on, Cahir’s story is about redemption. He earned the right to even START this arc by being a naive and manipulated child. The show making him significantly older and eager to participate in cruelty absolute FUCKS AWAY any chance to sell this story of misguidedness and the redemption and forgiveness that follows.

So yeah, uh, fuck all this.