#I think he is at the stage where he knows Geralt would help him find his father no matter what but..

[spielzeugkaiser]

the love child update from today was 🔥🔥🔥 outstanding as always, i’ve read it like 12 times already i love them sm

i can’t remember if this is smth you already addressed, so feel free to ignore this if it is, but does milek know that geralt is his dad? like obviously jaskier told him to find geralt if he was ever in trouble, and he knows about their friendship, but does he know how far it went? and if he does, does he know that geralt doesn’t know? i just feel like that conversation they had today could be read so many different ways, like are they talking past each other? is milek facepalming bc goddamnit both his dads are morons, fucking typical? so many possibilities!

Ohh, that is a good question, I guess the whole thing is a bit convoluted.

Milek knows that Geralt is his father, he knows that his parents have a long, but complicated history (in which Milek is under the impression that his parents were a couple at one point and Jaskier feels like they were fuckbuddies at best. He felt rather used at times, more like a substitute for Yennefer).

Milek was taught from a young age that he is not supposed to tell anyone about this. First it was a safety measure because Nilfgaard was looking for them and later it continued to be one; they're already not seen in the most positive light and in the best case, it would look like he's lying. In the worst case he would meet anti-witcher sentimentalities. He learned later that Geralt has no idea either - which is something Jaskier needed some time to realise too, as he was accusing Geralt in his talk with Yennefer here about knowing it, but still sending him away.

So there are years of secrecy drilled into Milek, and he knows Jaskier would be fine with him telling Geralt, because I do think Jaskier and Milek had the the talk once he was older that it's his decision if he wants to get to know and tell his father, or not, but.

I think he imagined that talk a hundred times. He daydreamed about this a lot. But now, in reality? The thought of saying something is a suddenly very, very scary.

[northernolddragon]

oh i read your opinion about the ending in Bow. I think that Dettlaff is a character treated very unfairly by the creators. the game almost forces us to kill him. both main paths lead to killing a vampire. sparing him by not taking some ribbon is hard to achieve. because who knew how this ribbon works. Dettlaff's death is the only scene in the game that I avoid. it's super sad like in the bad ending of the wild hunt where Geralt sits with a medallion in a hut in the swamp and waits for monsters to tear him apart. The 'good' ending is an unfunny joke. we kill Dettlaff, regis is anathema and the psycho bitch will not answer for her crimes. this is the worst ending. Using Dettlaff was one of Syanna's many crimes. syanna is based on renfri and should end like renfri. She deserved only death. Dettlaff slaughtered many people but he is a higher vampire, for him people are like cows or pigs for slaughter to us. vampires in tesham mutna treated people like chickens human life have a very small value to vampires.regis mentions many times that dett doesn't reason like a human and can't be measured by human standards.regis killed many people in his youth (especially babies because their blood tasted best) but after the peasants massacred him he changed for the better. I think if Dettlaff survives, he has a chance to change for the better with help of regis. 2 humanistic higher vampires will be worth a lot more to the world than a syanna ever would be. sorry for such a long ask I'm glad you also prefer the ending where Dettlaff survives <33

Hello. And whoever you are, dear anonymous, it's always nice to hear an opinion, that goes along with mine. A very emotional.

On the first playthrough, alas, not knowing about the nuance with the ribbon, Dettlaff died from his own brother, because it seemed to me that the ribbon was important to Syanna and it would be right to give it to her. The decision to replay the ending was immediate once I got past that stage. And even considering, that I do not feel hatred or negative feelings for Syanna, I didn't understand either her or the duchess. Anna Henrietta chose to ignore the reasonableness of Regis and Geralt, and in this stubbornness didn't escape the consequences for her sister. On such a large scale. A slightly spoiled position of an imperious woman, although there is a downside - a weakness for a relative, a close person. She feared for her sister and decided, that paying with innocent lives would be the best outcome. Otherwise, she would have tried to prevent the genocidal position of the Dettlaff's flock. Enough contradictions. And in each you can find different nuances. But we are talking about the unfair treatment of a representative of the strongest race on the Continent, as well as his friend, because after the death of Dettlaff, you can see the fruits of a 'good ending'. How can one wish Regis, who has not yet been fully restored in regeneration, a similar fate? It's cruel. The injustice extends to him. And I understand your emotions and torment on all counts.

Let me touch on the topic, where Regis, with all the actions of his brother, behaves extremely prudently and reasonably (in fact, as in all situations), let's just say, he thinks the way a vampire should, who has years of addiction behind him and the consequences of this addiction in connection with his first 'death'. I think, one of the reasons, why he treats Dettlaff with his usual understanding and actually doesn't express condemnation. Despite the flaming Beauclair. The second is blood relationship and knowledge of Eretein from adolescence. He knew, what Dettlaff was capable of, knew he wouldn't do harm if he wasn't forced to do it. He is the voice of reason for the witcher. It is thanks to him that Geralt considers the possibility of a choice, for many decisions also depend on the intervention of Emiel. The third is a severed hand with a Humanist's ring, such a symbolically important moment, showing the renunciation of this worldview, since he destroyed the one with whom he managed to make friends. And Regis in all cases finds statements to make it clear how much he believes in his brother. He would definitely help him deal with the loss of Syanna by finding Dettlaff one way or another. To overcome the dark period of guilt for the deed, which he himself experienced. I liked your idea on this. There are some parallels in the lives of the two vampires. And I want a good outcome for both of them.

Let's say, Dettlaff brought nazair's roses roots to Regis to plant in them herb garden at his home in Dillingen. He would draw local landscapes, and sometimes, the way Regis works, laughing, on the occasions when he is characteristically well-mannered swearing under his breath at the wrong concentrate of herbs, that one of the local doctors gave to a patient, who came to him with acute pains; and made toys for poor children from orphanages or ordinary beggars. Perhaps, later he would sell them for a small price. And this peaceful life would calm those dark events, as well as his morale.

Thank you. Thinking about the peaceful life of both, I felt warm in my soul.

[fangirleaconmigo]

I Can't Believe It's Not Fanon Part III

Otherwise known as...

Witcher facts that sound like Geraskier fic writers made them up, but that are, in fact, book canon.

People have told me they're interested in this series, so I've made another! (full list of posts at the end)

For this post I'm discussing:

A popular headcanon/fanon that involves Geralt traveling with Jaskier for years before learning his birth name. The fanon scene where he learns Jaskier's birth name usually involves someone addressing Jaskier as “Julian Alfred Pankratz” and Geralt going “Excuse me Julian what? Pankratz Who?” 

In this headcanon, (which is usually a funny scene) Jaskier has kept his family origins/noble birth a secret, and there is more to him than Geralt realized. 

Jaskier having two separate names has inspired a lot of creativity in the fandom. People play with the concept of how Jaskier feels about his name, why he would try to separate himself from his family, etc etc. Queer fans especially may relate to alienation from family, fighting to establish your own identity, and changing your name. It is *throws glitter* transformative fandom.

Now, in TWN, Jaskier introduces himself as Julian Alfred Pankratz multiple times in Geralt’s vicinity. So, if you’ve only watched TWN, the headcanon that Jaskier has hidden his family name/nobility from Geralt for years might seem like pure fanon.

Well folks. In case you didn’t know...

It’s canon.

(sorry I may never stop using my Beyond Belief Jonathan Frakes gifs for this)

Now, I am going to share that passage with you with my analysis.

But first I want to set the stage for what the passage tells us about Geralt and Dandelion’s relationship. Then I’ll theorize why Dandelion has hidden his true name from Geralt. 

As always, minor book spoilers. I try to extract only the quotes I need to analyze, without spoiling the plot.

So, Geralt thinks that he knows everything there is to know about Dandelion. After all, he does know quite a bit. He knows that Dandelion had literacy beat into him at a temple school. He knows how and when he fell in love with poetry. His knowledge about Dandelion does imply many nights of aimless conversation. And Geralt has been listening!

Also, Geralt sees Dandelion as a motormouth who can’t keep secrets to save his life! Geralt laments his lack of discretion and tact on many occasions. He calls him a “prattler”. Which, tough but fair.

Combine those two things and you have a witcher who believes there is nothing new to learn about his simple friend. In Sword of Destiny, they have an argument and Geralt says as much. 

So in this scene, Geralt is upset at Dandelion for flirting with girls at a party. They are back in their shared room and arguing. (I’m going to do an analysis about that in my ‘Geralt and Dandelion share beds’ post, but I won’t go into detail here) But for the purposes of this post, at the end of this argument, Geralt insists that he knows Dandelion well. Dandelion responds:

“You only think you know me. Don’t forget: I'm complicated by nature.”

“Dandelion,” the Witcher sighed, now genuinely tired. “You’re a cynic, a lecher, a womanizer, and a liar. And there’s nothing, believe me, nothing complicated about that. Good night.”

Dandelion only replies:

“Goodnight, Geralt.” 

Sword of Destiny page 208

But does Geralt know him as well as he thinks he does? Two books later, Geralt is in the forest with his friends. They are searching for some potential informants who might help them find Ciri. They come upon some druid pilgrims being slaughtered by bandits and Nilfgaardians. Geralt and Milva (his archer friend and love of my life) jump in and start defending them, killing the bandits bloody and violent.

Once they’ve killed them all, some knights appear out of nowhere. Geralt doesn’t want to be skewered by their lances, and Milva thinks they’ll be arrested for killing Nilfgaardians, so they hide under a wagon. By the way, whenever knights appear in the story, you know it is going to be hilarious and ridiculous. They are always very competent but also very very pompous and the way they interact with Geralt is always gold. And if the witcher books are good at one thing, it’s effectively weaving horrors with humor.

So anyway, the knights approach and one of them calls out:

“Get out!...Drop your weapons and get out!” 

The knights make various threats, thinking Geralt and co. are in league with the bandits.

Geralt and Milva emerge, and one of the knights recognizes Geralt. 

So the knight he helped says:

“Free them with all haste!” he called. “They are not bandits, but upright and honest folk!...And that fellow is a goodly knight!”

A bit earlier on in the forest, Geralt saved this knight from bandits. The man mistook Geralt for a knight, and Geralt didn’t correct him. He basically said ‘oh let’s not talk heraldry there’s no time’ (LMAO) and ran off to find and help his friends. 

The other knights are incredulous. They look at Geralt and don’t believe that he is a knight. The man assures them. 

...”I give you my word! This doughty fellow saved my life when I was in need, after I was flung to the ground by the ne’er-do-wells. He is called Geralt of Rivia.”

So the other knight turns to Geralt and asks...

“Arms?”

Well, Geralt has no arms or heraldry because he isn’t a knight. But his response is hilarious.

“I’m forbidden from revealing them,” the Witcher grunted. “I can share neither my true name nor my arms. I have taken knightly vows. I am the errant Geralt.”

I’m dying laughing at that point. Geralt has such a complicated relationship with knights. He resents them a bit. They are often very religious, which is usually associated with believing witchers are abominations. So. Not good. But he wanted to be one, and would love to be seen as heroic, whether he admits it or not. He also admires their skill and competence. However, he finds their pretentiousness totally absurd. It’s complicated! Geralt automatically reverts to his driest most wilting sarcasm whenever he’s around them. I think it’s partly a defense mechanism. (that’s just me editorializing)

But ok, anyway, Dandelion appears with his ‘lute and his ever present tube of scrolls’. praising Geralt for rescuing them not a moment too soon. 

And then one of the knights, the one that doubted Geralt’s bona fides as a knight:

“...leaned over in his saddle, and his eyes shone. Viscount Julian?”

Hm, a wrinkle! Dandelion recognizes him and replies:

“Baron de Peyrac-Peyran?”

Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. He’s preoccupied with something else (finding the informants) and he tries to talk to the Baron. But, the baron ignores him because he:

...only had eyes, it seemed, for Dandelion. “Pon my word,” he drawled. “My eyes do not deceive me! It’s Viscount Julian in person. Ha! The Duchess will be pleased!”

At this point it registers with Geralt and he asks:

“Who is Viscount Julian?” the Witcher asked curiously.

He has no clue whatsoever. Five books in.

“That would be me,” Dandelion muttered. “Don’t interfere, Geralt.”

Dandelion is like...you’ve saved all of us from bandits but these people are barons and this is the part where I deal with things. It kind of reminds me of Stede telling Ed he can deal with all the asshole nobles in OFMD. Like. These are my people, this is what I do.

The knights are adamant that they must take “Viscount Julian” at once to Beauclaire Castle to the local Duchess, who would want to see him. Geralt says he can’t. He has unfinished business with these informants that he must carry out. Dandelion insists on going with Geralt.

“Me too,” Dandelion muttered, “I’m with you too...”

So, Dandelion turns down the opportunity to go to a luxurious castle with people who adore him, which is very very suspect. Geralt doesn’t need him on this mini-mission. The knights are a little offended, saying that they insist on taking Dandelion, that he doesn’t have a choice, and that the rest of them would be welcome too.

“As the companions of Viscount Julian, Her Grace, Lady Henarietta, would have gladly received you with all due respect and invited you to stay at the castle, but why, if you scorn her hospitality...”

So, their association with Dandelion would get them all kinds of special treatment. Geralt insists he does not scorn her hospitality and will catch up to them. He will meet them at Beauclair Castle. Then Geralt gets in a little joke. He says...

“We shall unfailingly go there. If only,” he added knowingly and with emphasis, “to ensure that no disgrace or dishonor befalls our comrade, Dandelion. I meant, Julian, by thunder.”

He is letting them know that if anything happens to Dandelion, they will answer for it. But he also gets in a little dig at Dandelion for having sprung this on him, and also the knights, who keep saying “Pon my word” and “By thunder” which Geralt thinks is pretentious as hell. (He makes fun of them a few times for it but they never notice.) The baron misses his sarcasm.

“Pon my word!” the baron suddenly laughed. “No disgrace nor dishonor will befall Viscount Julian. I’m prepared to give my word on it! For I omitted to tell you, viscount, that Duke Raymund died of apoplexy two years past.”

That is when we find out why Dandelion didn’t want to go with them. Not surprisingly, it was because the husband wanted him dead. We also get a taste of Dandelion’s utter lack of filter and signature lack of tact.

“Ha, ha!” Dandelion shouted, beaming all over. “The Duke kicked the bucket! These truly are marvelous and joyous tidings!”

You can just picture everyone looking at him like....excuse me? Because he quickly catches himself and changes course.

“I mean, I meant to say, sorrow and grief, a great loss. May the earth lay lightly on him. Lol very meaningful and sincere Dandelion. And then he agrees to go with them. If that is the case, let’s ride with all haste to Beauclair noble knights!” 

After Geralt rides away with Milva and Angoulême (another member of his party, a teenager I adore) Angoulême says:

“Dandelion claims that Duchess Henarietta is madly in love with him.”

Geralt is dismissive.

“Dandelion always claims that.”

The Tower of the Swallow, pages 250-260

(This is a bit off topic but Angoulême’s first reference to Dandelion in the books was to call him a ‘comely fellow’ which I thought was cute.)

Ok, so that was the time Geralt found out Dandelion’s family name and title, and learned that maybe he didn’t know everything there was to know about his best friend. It has a remarkable resemblance to all the fanon, at least some of which was written without knowledge of book canon. It just fits!

Your bonus...Ciri Finds Out The Same Way goes like this...

In the final book, Lady of the Lake, Geralt and Ciri return to Beauclair. They come upon some, shall we say, legal proceedings, where Dandelion is being charged with (among other things) debauchery and harlotry: (honestly, it does sound like him)

“Good gentlemen and burghers of Beauclair and the surroundings!” he read thunderously and funereally from an unrolled parchment. “It is known that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, alias Dandelion--

“Pancratts what?” Ciri whispered a question.

Lady of the Lake page 470

Now remember, Ciri knows Dandelion. Dandelion was even responsible for watching her when Geralt and Yen went to the Thanedd ball. But his family name is still news to her.

It is a funny running joke. And it makes his character a bit intriguing. There is always more to him than meets the eye. Why does Dandelion do this? Why does he hide his identity, and for so long?

It isn’t to hide from vengeful husbands, because he has committed just as many indiscretions as Dandelion. So there is no protection in that name. It isn’t that he has left his family entirely behind or that he refuses to be called Julian. In Season of Storms, his cousin Ferrant de Lettenhove calls him Julian, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.*

I’ve seen one fan theorize that the “Viscount” title is more of a scam on Dandelion’s part. But Geralt does meet his cousin in Season of Storms, as mentioned above, so there is that proof of who his family is. Also, his cousin has a very respectable government position.

Dandelion does makes an offhand remark in Baptism of Fire that I think is pretty revealing. Geralt and his friends (including Dandelion) are all spending the evening talking shit and getting wasted on moonshine in Regis’s summer shack. (one of the best scenes in all the books) And Dandelion, drunk as hell, says:

“Ah, well.” Dandelion looked around the shack with a slightly vacant stare. If the Countess de Lettenhove could see me like this.”

The only person listening to him at this point is Milva who asks:

“Who?”

“Never mind. Bloody hell, this moonshine really does loosen the tongue...Geralt? Should I pour you another one Geralt?”

“Leave him be,” Milva said, “Let him sleep.”

Baptism of Fire, page 138

Now, I could be wrong, and am happy to hear other theories, but that sounds like his family would disapprove of his lifestyle. It is the only time I can remember him letting anything slip, and he immediately curses the moonshine for making him slip.

There are also moments that imply how odd, even bizarre it is to see a poet out in a war zone wading through corpses in harm's way instead of (as Milva says) “writing rhymes in a quiet spot somewhere.” He’s always seen as out of place, and unsuitable for the dangerous mission. What he is doing isn't normal or typical for a poet. So it's reasonable to think his family probably disapproves, and hiding his connection is his way of either keeping them off his back for soiling the family name, or just as a way to escape whatever weight his family exerts on his life and decisions. 

But why wouldn’t he tell Geralt? It isn’t like Geralt is going to tell people. Maybe there is something deeper or more traumatic there that even he (the prattler) doesn't want to discuss.

I haven’t finished my reread, so I may think differently after I do. I do notice so many more things the second time around, and I may come up with more ideas or relevant passages. So if anyone else has any thoughts about anything obvious I’ve missed, let me know.

So yeah, that’s my take on Jaskier’s name, and Geralt finding out about it!

Alright, the other I Can't Believe It's Not Fanon posts and I've linked the ones I've finished. I'll come back and add links as I go:

A shape shifter reads Geralt's mind, then turns into Jaskier because he knows that’s the best way to protect himself. 

Geralt and Jaskier share beds.

Geralt and Jaskier share clothes.

Geralt may play it cool to his face, but he thinks Jaskier has a gorgeous voice.

Jaskier has a voice so beautiful, it can calm a monster.

Geralt drops everything to protect Jaskier, every time, even in the middle of battles when there are other people around to protect.

Geralt can smell lust

Bad guys kidnap Jaskier in order to get to get to Geralt. Geralt slaughters every single one of them.

They also share a kiss in a few of the translations, but not all. It's a very "y yo también" situation.

*There are all kinds of continuity issues with that novel. It was the last one in publication order, but ostensibly it takes place chronologically between The Last Wish and Season of Storms. So then, Geralt would have already known when he ‘found’ out in The Tower of Swallows.

But Sapko really doesn’t seem to care about things like continuity or timelines or maps or a medieval setting that is consistent with a real life historical setting. He just writes the stories and lets us nerds fight about the details.

[reinvent-and-believe]

48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

--

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

-

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

-

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

[jaskiersvalley]

I'm OBSESSED with your writing and your stories, I'm so glad I found your blog, now I always have something new to read!! ❤️❤️❤️

I remember watching you blitz through the blog, leaving likes on a lot of the stories. It really made my day! Now, who knows how many months late, I bring you some silly Witchers and their mutagens.

Kaer Morhen’s Open Door Policy

When Jaskier was invited to Kaer Morhen, he’d thought the open door policy that Geralt mentioned meant that anyone was welcome to stay for the winter. It warmed his heart that the Wolves were so welcoming and generous with their winter lodgings. What Jaskier didn’t anticipate was that said open door policy was a literal thing. He arrived in Kaer Morhen with Geralt, they were stomping snow off their boots when someone rounded the corner at some speed. Slowing down, the man made a beeline for them.

“Lambert,” Geralt greeted before he was veritably bowled over in a hug. If Jaskier squinted, he could have sworn Geralt was given a long sniff and maybe even a lick, perhaps over the lips. But surely he must have seen wrong because Jaskier himself wasn’t given such a greeting.

Two more figures appeared and introductions were made to Eskel and Vesemir. It was quite nice really, even if a lonely winter with just the five of them. However, if gave Jaskier a chance to get used to the ways of the keep. Mostly, it was learning to leave doors open a crack and how to keep the hinges well oiled at all times. If he didn’t, it was guaranteed someone would turn up.

At first Jaskier had thought it was because he wasn’t trusted, not an accepted member of the pack. But that thought was quickly thrown out the window, especially when he was dragged into the cuddle piles in front of fires. Those were rather nice, if a little too warm and sweaty for his liking. Yet, every single time he forgot about keeping a door open, whenever it snicked shut behind him or clicked open as he stepped through, within ten seconds one of the other residents appeared. Usually it was Lambert, rounding the corner at quite a pace even as he tried to make it look like he hadn’t dropped everything and run. It was rather offensive in a way, at least that was what Jaskier thought until he was sat quietly in the library, Lambert browsing for something when his head snapped up all of a sudden and he was off at full pelt. That wasn’t the first time Jaskier saw him running. On more than one occasion Lambert almost bowled him over in corridors as he rushed towards whatever he had heard.

“Doors,” Geralt had explained quietly one night. “If we hear a door open or close, there’s this overwhelming urge to go see who it is, what had happened.”

Now that Jaskier knew, he paid more attention. Any door had Lambert running. Much more sedately, Eskel would usually follow, lumbering towards the source of the noise and trying desperately to look like he wasn’t doing exactly like Lambert. However, he had a weakness, as Jaskier discovered. The cupboard doors in the kitchen. If Jaskier, or anyone else for that matter, happened to go and look in one, Eskel was bound to bumble into the kitchen within a short space of time, looking bashfully hopeful. It was cute, Jaskier even started indulging and giving Eskel snacks because the way he softened and smiled at the offering was far too endearing.

“You’re only encouraging him,” Vesemir grumbled as he watched Jaskier hand Eskel half a slice of honey coated bread. Rather than argue, Jaskier gave Vesemir the other half, not commenting on how the old Wolf appeared for seemingly no reason in the kitchen. The treat certainly silenced him.

For a first winter, it was a good one. Jaskier was satisfied when he left that he was getting the hang of the odd open doors policy. It was the next winter that proved to test his patience. As well as the Wolves, there was a Cat there too. Haughty and aloof, Aiden spent most of his time perched up high somewhere. He slowly warmed up to Jaskier though, cautious at first. However, Aiden seemed to be rather fond of the open door policy, only ever opening or closing a door when he wanted attention. And that was rather frequently. More than once a day Lambert would go running because Aiden slammed a door somewhere, wanting to play.

It was all very well until Jaskier had to use the privy. That was one door that the Wolves learned not to run to. Even though Lambert still twitched, head swivelling it its direction before grumbling and returning to what he was doing. Jaskier was trying to just have a peaceful moment to relieve himself, a considerate two stalls down from an occupied booth when he heard someone else come in.

“Lamb?” Aiden’s voice drifted through the air, a little plaintive and lost.

“What?” Not all that unusual for Lambert to sound irritated.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up at the question. What could Lambert be doing in the privy other than the obvious one of four things?

“I’m taking a shit.” Well, that answered which of the four it was but Jaskier could heard the sounds of a body leaning heavily against the door.

“Oh.” Aiden sounded almost disappointed. “I thought I heard some rustling like a snack being opened.”

“I promise I’m not fucking eating while taking a shit. Who eats in here anyway?” Grumbling, Lambert scoffed. “Don’t tell me, I bet it’s Geralt.”

Jaskier couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. “Geralt most certainly does not eat in the privy.”

The sound of a body moving and Jaskier knew Aiden was stood outside the door to his cubicle. “Jaskier. You’re in there.”

“No I’m not.”

For a moment there was confused silence before Lambert growled. “I swear Aiden, if you don’t leave us alone-” his threat was lost as Aiden moved back to Lambert’s door and there was an odd scratching sound. “No. Aiden. Don’t you dare. You can’t sit on my lap here! Not again. We almost broke it last time. Get out. Get out!”

The sound of a door being kicked shut and a huff from Aiden gave Jaskier a good idea of what had jut happened and he was scared to go out. However, not a minute later another voice joined the fray.

“What happened?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier buried his face in his hands in despair. So much for a peaceful piss.

The whole door thing was becoming quite ridiculous. Especially with Aiden slamming them to get Lambert’s attention. And then being offended whenever he encountered a closed door. Those were all gently knocked on and a head poked through if there was no answer. It meant nothing was private and Vesemir had to use a broom to get Aiden off the top of his wardrobe one evening when the Cat had gone missing all afternoon. He seemed to have no respect or care for anything, not when it came to prime napping spots.

It got to the stage that the common areas had their doors removed and Vesemir started hanging heavy furs in their place. Which did actually make the rooms warmer and there was no more needless running around. Though Eskel still bumbled into the kitchen in the hopes of a shared snack. Jaskier had rapidly cottoned on to the fact Vesemir fought such an urge in a novel and simple way. He was almost always either in the kitchen or within sight of it. So he could see if there was an opportunity for a snack without having to move. The old Wolf was clever, Jaskier had to give him that.

Some days, Jaskier did crave a bit of silence and solitude. Those were rare and far between days but they did happen. When they came, he took to wandering through the crumbling corridors of Kaer Morhen, trying to imagine what it had been like in its glory days. Quite amazing, he should think. So lost was he in his musings, Jaskier didn’t notice until too late that the floor wasn’t solid below his feet. It gave way and he fell with a yelp, landing awkwardly on his ankle. The pain was quite blinding, rendering him into a whimpering mess, throat tight and unable to call for help. Even when he managed to gather himself up, it didn’t seem to help. His voice just didn’t carry and the Wolves probably couldn’t hear him. It was cold, dark and Jaskier was in pain which made it difficult to think. There was a door not far from him and, in a moment of sheer desperation, he pulled himself towards it on shaking arms. Near enough, he reached for it and, with all his might, slammed it shut. It bounced open from the force and echoed through the room. Mustering up a little more energy, Jaskier shoved it again and the crack of door hitting frame made him wince. That would have to do. Jaskier managed to lie down, pillowing his head on his arms, shivering.

His hopes were answered when he heard the steady stomp of running feet skidding to a halt.

“The fuck?” There was the sound of a deep inhale as the area was scented. “Where you got to bard?”

“Down here,” Jaskier called back and squinted towards the hole he had fallen through. “My ankle.”

“Why would you do that? Wait. Never mind.” Lambert turned away and, a hand cupped against his cheek and lips he let out what could only be called a howl before his attention was back on Jaskier. “What did we tell you about wandering off?”

More feet, more people and Jaskier teared up in relief. He watched as Aiden hopped down the hole and took stock of the damage. A soft cry of pain left Jaskier as he was picked up and his ankle was jostled. In a few, seemingly easy, jumps, Aiden was passing Jaskier over to Geralt who cradled him against his chest. There was a still body-warm jacket draped over Jaskier and he burrowed into it, finding Eskel’s scent mixing with Geralt a comfort.

In the infirmary he was patched up, fussed over and, in the end, bundled into a pile in front of a fire where the others snuggled protectively up against him. By the next morning all the doors were back in place and Vesemir ground his teeth when Aiden slammed the kitchen one for Lambert’s attention.

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Interviews - Henry Cavill x wife/actress reader

Summary: You and Henry have been married for a couple years now, and when you’re both part of the Witcher cast, fun interviews are to be had.

Warning: nothing but a good time, btw I’ve never written anything like this so I hope it’s good enough that I might feel motivated to write more

-Readers Witcher character is loosely based off my Geralt fic from here (just a little self promotion), but in this case you play a full vampire in this Witcher universe

The days have been long and grueling, filming hours upon hours of stunts and regular acting had taken its toll. Not to mention the countless times in hair and make up paired with costume changes and traveling to film on certain locations.

To say being apart of Netflix’s The Witcher was full of tiring days and some accidental bruises would be a huge understatement. But none of that mattered, nor did you bother to complain when through the thick and thin of it all did you have Henry with you along the way. And your favorite big slobbery bear, Kal whenever he was allowed on set.

Fortunately for you in the beginning of all the craziness, the casting and writers had wanted you specifically for the part of Y/C/N in the new series before Henry even auditioned for the role of Geralt, that was soon given to him after you accepted your fresh role of vampiric heroine.

It was ironically strange in a good way, you had watched your dork of a husband play the Witcher: Wild Hunt a few times before, eventually learning of what Geralt of Rivia was, who Y/C/N was in the story, who Yennefer and Ciri were, Tris and even Jaskier.

Who would have thought that you’d finally get to snag a role side by side with Henry in quite literally one of the most fantastic shows you’ve ever heard of. You didn’t even need to see the show yet to know how well it was most likely to be reviewed. Being a key character in the grand storyline was enough to convince you of how amazing it would most certainly turn out in the finished product.

And after all was said and done, you couldn’t believe how well loved and popular the show truly became in the following months after shooting and its eventual release onto Netflix. The after parties and cast celebrations truly made you blessedly grateful for pulling through to the vary end.

Then again you had your mans Henry by your side every step of the way. He was your rock and you were most definitely his. You know life on set would have been far less entertaining and dreadfully long if not for the lovely company of your dear Witcher, Henry. And so far after the fact, you and a good portion of the cast have been placed in random interviews for the majority of the day.

Reason being, The Witcher has at long last finally premiered and as per usual the people and media live for those cast interviews that always reveal some interesting events. So far this morning you’ve done some interviews with Anya that have gone perfectly fine since the two of you seem to click so well.

Also it helps ease the anxiety of your fellow newer cast mates to the world of continuous interviews with an experienced veteran actor like yourself, who’s gone round the ring more times then you can count. Though you can’t help but wonder how Henry’s doing, considering you’ve been separated since the sessions began at 10am, you’ve had lunch and now it’s about 1 in the afternoon with more hours to go.

Luckily for you, you’ve just been informed of another interview with the man of the hour himself. Saying your goodbyes and well wishes to your fellow cast mates, you stand and follow the guide into the advised place. Aka some really nice hotel room that’s been done up real nice for efficient interviewing, complete with the Witcher insignia on a large background poster and three chairs that happen to look rather comfy.

The camera and sound people nod in acknowledgment as you walk in, you nod back no doubt making their day with your friendliness and adorable smile that quite literally lights up a room. Soon you spot the bubbly yet nervous interviewee who instantly welcomes you into her space like you’re an old friend.

You sit, a bit confused as to where your partner happens to be at the moment, the interviewer, Lauren makes small talk before a door opens and her big bright doe eyes go wide in nervous excitement. A telling smile upon her face as she shifts in her chair before looking back to you again with a happy grin.

Henry says a quick hello to the behind the scenes crew before waving to Lauren, you smirk while watching him get comfortable next to you, “Well, well, well. Get lost on your way up, you know they have guides for a reason.” You tease as he chuckles at your humorous jab, relieved to see you again after a couple hours apart.

“Traffic.” He quips with a shrug.

“Uh huh.” You mutter with a shake of your head before drawing your attention back to Laura, “Can’t take him anywhere I swear, he does this all the time.”

She laughs as Henry pretends to gasp at your teasing, you chuckle along with them before she finally collects herself, “Well, welcome back to London. It’s fantastic to have you both in town once again, and your big beautiful faces all over Leicester Square.”

You both laugh, “Right.” Says Henry, “I guess we do look pretty cool.”

“Hell yeah, I mean where else can I see myself with a giant sword on a building? And anyways look at this beautiful mug,” You say gently squeezing Henry’s cheeks in your hand, “he’s literally killing it out there.” They laugh as you give Hen another playful squeeze before letting go and setting your arm against the chairs cushioned armrest. 

“Alight let’s start.” She says enthusiastically before glancing down at her cards then back up to you and Henry. Then into one of the two the cameras, “Hi I’m Lauren from Entertainment Weekly and today we’re here with the two stars of Netflix’s The Witcher.” She says enthusiastically while giving a nod to you two, indicating that the camera is now focused on you both, “Henry Cavill and Y/N Cavill.”

You both smile in acknowledgment as Henry gives a slight nod, “How you doing?”

“I’m great,” She beams, “So, I’ll get right into it, what do you like most about the story? What really drew you into the script that made you say, yes this is going to be awesome?”

Slapping a hand against Henry’s muscular leg, you hum, “I’ll let Hen take this one he’s a real expert on the linguistics of the whole show.”

“Thanks Y/N/N.” Replies Henry, bemused that you’re making him take the first question.

You nod to him knowingly with a smirk, “Of course.” Knowing how much he loves to talk about the show and also because you’d rather have him use his energy to talk about it then do that yourself. Priorities, right, though in your defense it’s been a long day.

“Well I absolutely love the games and the books themselves are phenomenal works of literature.” He explains, his face glowing with that usual glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “The story and the world of the Witcher is just so rich and full of potential that when I signed on for the show, I immediately knew it would be amazing, no doubt.”

You lean into the arm of you chair, “And of course I was there so that’s always a bonus.”

“That too.” He smiles adorably, “That too of course.”

Lauren smiles, “Great. So, what was it like working together, how was it having your characters interact with one another?”

You smile, setting a hand against Henry’s forearm, “This guy right here.” You deadpan before waving him off dramatically, “So annoying, my god he whined all the time and he was such a drama queen dear lord so ugh....” You start cackling before you can even finish the sentence causing Henry to loose it as well and with that the interviewer.

Shaking your head you rest your hand against his shoulder, “I joke, he was a gem to work with as usual...I mean I feel incredibly blessed to be able to act alongside my husband for months and months every single day. It’s a rarity in this line of work and I’m grateful to have shared this experience...and I guess more so this whole adventure with him as well.”

The interviewer aww’s as Henry tilts his head to lean into your hand that’s still resting atop his shoulder before pulling away just as quickly, the intimate sentiment not going unnoticed by you or Lauren who looks to be enjoying your loving yet calm energy with one another. “That’s so sweet, what about you Henry?”

“Oh yes absolutely,” Agrees Henry to your recent statement, “not only did I have her by my side through it all but the dynamic of our characters interacting together was so fun to shoot. I think the audience will really be able to see their relationship grow on screen into something strong and beautiful like in the books.”

Slow clapping you give him a curt nod of approval, “Well said.”

Lauren smirks, “Seems like it. Well, I was able to catch the premier yesterday and I gotta say...it was fantastic! I couldn’t believe how diffident the two of you looked from how you are now.” She gushes enthusiastically.

The corners of Henry’s lips curl into a proud smile for the fellow crew of the Witcher’s, “Oh that’s great then, honestly we gotta give all the props to the costume and makeup team, they’re so talented and know how to make us look like real badasses.” He adds.

You nod in agreement before grinning at a positive memory of your first interaction with Henry as Geralt, “Oh for sure, I remember during the early stages of production when our characters met each other for the first time, before this we came to set together but went separate ways to shoot our own stuff in the meantime so I never got a real look at him.” You recall with a bright smile as Henry watches your every move, beaming just the same.

“It was so funny, I was in the tent with Freya Allen, the wonderful girl who plays Ciri, and then suddenly her eyes got all big and nervous and I was like, that’s not me right? Something weird didn’t just happen with my costume? And then I turned around to find this man, wig on, face a mess, and his eyes looked so fearsome and different...it was a bit startling.” You say with a chuckle, “I clearly wasn’t expecting to see Geralt right then and there. He just looked so unlike Henry.”

“Yeah, I was almost hurt.” Laughs Henry, “She had to like squint and make sure it was me.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug, “He had some real creepy looking colored contacts, yunno?”

Henry fake scoffs, “You’re one to talk, I mean when I first say her, Y/N’s eyes were red and she had fake blood spattered all over her face and shirt. Oh, and not to mention those fangs they put on your teeth...we probably traumatized poor Freya that day.”

“Oh shit you’re right!” You exclaim with a snort of concealed laughter, “God I completely forgot about how I looked...now since I think about it, I did that a lot too. I would just walk up to people and be completely oblivious as to what kind of nightmare I looked like, honestly I might have scared one of our producers a couple of times.” You add with a half nervous laugh, it’s true, you did scare some of the crew unintentionally. Most of the time.

Lauren lightly chuckles, “That sounds like you were quite the sight to see then.” She says before glancing back down at her notes, “Alright I have’ta ask, is there anything that you two took home with you from set?”

“Besides Henry every night,” He holds back a laugh while covering his mouth as you nonchalantly continue, “Uh, yes actually I got to take home Y/C/N’s wolf ring that I loved so much and just thought was the coolist thing ever and....uh, I might have stolen some socks too.”

“So that’s why after filming the amount of socks of yours I had to fold increased?” Wonders Henry with a surprised snort of realization.

Turning your head to give him a “no shit” kinda look, you look back at Lauren, pointing your thumb at Henry, “Master sleuth right here, but hey, he folds my laundry.”

“Aw that’s great.” Adds Lauren with a smile before turning her attention to Henry, “What about you Henry? Take anything from set?”

“More then Y/N did actually...”

“He just about took the whole makeup trailer most nights, I swear.”

Henry chuckles, “That. Is true.” He agrees with a nod, “Interesting enough, at home I’ve got Geralt’s armor hung up in our living room and a multitude of other nicknacks that I’ve collected during filming.” He adds, glancing over to you, “So uh, yeah, we were fairly lucky to be able to snag what we could.”

Lauren smiles, absentmindedly shuffling her cards, “That’s awesome to have such special memorabilia, you guys really are fortunate.” She adds before reading off from another card, “Alright you two, care to play a game called guess the image? Witcher style.”

Your face perks up at this, you’re a sucker for interview games and Henry knows it, “Are you reading my mind or something, I have been waiting all day for someone to ask about playing a game.” You gush rather enthusiastically. 

He smiles at your adorableness and how excited you’ve just become, Lauren grins, happy that her suggestion has been so well received, “Okay so how it works is, I’ll show you an image on my iPad and then you have to guess who or what I’m showing you.”

“Oh, cool I’ve heard of this,” You reply, turning to Henry with a smirk, “Loser has to clean Kal’s yard poop for a week.”

Rolling his gorgeous blue eyes he chuckles, “You’re on.”

“Alright, the stakes are high, you two ready?” Beams Lauren, holding her iPad to her chest as she awaits an answer.

“Yes, I’m ready to kick his ass.” You quip, leaning an arm against your chair while Henry does about the same, though he does his best to contain his laughter.

“Okay, first image.” She holds up the device to show some sort of weird golden thing, it’s shiny and hard, worst part is that you’re not entirely sure what the hell it could be.

Sensing your confusion Henry nudges your shoulder, though you ignore it before he smartly answers, “Oh, is that...Renfri’s brooch?” Little shit knows exactly what that is, of course he does.

Lauren claps, “Correct.” Zooming out of the image to show the full picture of the golden brooch, “Right on, that’s one point for Mr. Cavill.”

You scoff playfully, “Beginners luck.” While Henry side eyes you with a humorous grin upon his plush lips, he nudges your arm, “I’m going to really enjoy not cleaning up Kal’s grass turds for awhile.” He mutters lightheartedly, though you know deep down he’s being serious, no way is he going to win this, you think. You won’t have it, hopefully the next few pictures aren’t as difficult, Kal duty is not fun by any means.

“Shut up.” You grumble with a dismissive wave of your hand, though just teasing of course.

“Okay next image.” This time the blurred photo looks much more familiar, soon it clicks as to what the obscured blurriness actually is, yes!

“Got it! Anya’s er I guess Yennefer’s dress from the fight at Sodden.” Lauren giggles, zooming the image out to reveal Yennefer in her tasseled blue and purple dress from the battle at Sodden Hill. “I’m amazing I know.” You boast at Henry with a casual little bow in your seat.

“It’s the second question.” He deadpans, eyes crinkling in amusement as you shake your head at him.

“Pffff get outta here.” You mutter back, gently pushing his arm off of your chairs armrest and setting yours in its place while he gives you a fake shocked expression.

In turn you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, so instead of saying some sassy remark that would no doubt get a reaction out of him, you turn your attention back over to Lauren who’s looking over her notes again.

“Fantastic,” She says, glancing back up at you and Henry, “you’re both tied with one point each. Alright, anyone know what this is?” She asks showing something red and fuzzy, a bit of dirty skin showing from one corner but with The Witcher this bloody image could literally be anything.

The both of you squint, puzzled as to what this could be, “Y/N you got any ideas.” Wonders Henry, brows furrowed as his face contorts into deep concentrated thought.

Raising a brow, you hum, “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Fair point.” He chuckles.

Lauren smiles, “Any guesses?”

 After a few concentrated moments, Henry shrugs in defeat,  “I’m stumped.” He admits as you study the image harder, mind racing to put the pieces together as to what the hell you’re looking at.

“No, I think I might know this....erm is it...me?” You wonder, voice raising in question, hoping to be correct about this or face the teasing of Henry.

Lauren quickly zooms out of the obscured image, “It is!” She says excitedly, revealing the picture of you from your characters debut in episode 2 where you save a girl from a werewolf, your mouth is covered in blood and so is most of your costumes chest area and left arm from the struggle. Not to mention the make-up teams fun 20 minutes of throwing fake sticky blood all over you to get the right look for the taxing scene.

You grimace a bit, “Oh god that was quite the day on set,” You recall with a half smile, “I was doing stunts all day covered in that red syrupy dye, I think it took a week to get out of my skin.”

Henry suddenly snorts with laughter, “Right! That reminds me, I thought Kal had gotten cut or something, it was just Y/N who had hugged him not realizing she still had some fake blood on her arm.”

“Jeez that’s right, I felt so bad, but I couldn’t stop laughing once we realized it was just me.”

Lauren grins, excited to hear some hidden information about little things that happens behind the scenes, “Oh wow that must have been a sight, alright Henry, Y/N’s taken the lead with a two to one score.” She says as you playfully nudge his strong shoulder. “Second to last image, what is this?”

Without missing a single beat Henry replies, “Jaskier.”

Squinting at the image you lean closer to the iPad, “How the hell do you see Jaskier?”

Smiling the interviewer zooms out to reveal the bards full outfit from the banquet scene, though he’s in the background of a fight between Geralt and some Cintran knights. “Right on!” She exclaims as you lean back into your seat dumbfounded, shoulder flush against Henry’s as he clutches your arm and squeezes it affectionately.

Ignoring his silent show of victory you shrug, “And they say he’s just another pretty face,” Earning a laugh from Lauren and some of the crew as you smirk at the camera, face them shifting to apologetic, “also I’m so sorry Joey you beautiful bastard apparently I’m blind. Uh, we don’t have to dwell on it, Lauren whatcha got?”

“You guys are both tied with two points each, last chance to win.” She replies before glancing down at her iPad, “Alright, what is this?” She asks, her iPad showing that of fuzzy bright colors, with a small corner smear of dull white that clearly wouldn’t make much sense to the untrained eye.

Smirking you glance at a puzzled Henry before sitting up in your seat, feeling rather good about yourself, “Would that happen to be, Hen in Stregobor’s illusion?” You answer with, though sounding a bit as a question considering you aren’t entirely confident as to what image this is.

Lauren’s brows raise in surprise, “Henry, looks like we have a winner. Y/N you are correct.” She beams, enlarging the image to reveal Geralt’s side profile as he talks to the old wizard while the background stays colorful and shrouded in various arrays of sunlight..

Shaking your fist victoriously in the air you give a couple enthusiastic whoop whoops while Henry simply takes it like a champ, “Have fun cleaning up Karl’s monster turds, cause this lucky lady doesn’t have to.” You boast as Henry and the crew laugh.

“Well that was something,” Beams Lauren, “I’m so glad to have chatted for a bit about your guys’ amazing new series, and maybe ended a relationship in the process.” She says jokingly as both you and Henry chuckle.

Patting his thigh affectionately, you smirk, “He’s a tough old bear, but yeah, it was awesome having you talk to us.”

“Yes, take care now.” Adds Henry while the interviewer Lauren stands, saying her goodbyes as she goes to exit the room.

The camera crew take a small break to adjust things and whatnot as you and Henry wait patiently for the next interviewer. He turns, an adorable smile pulling at his lips while you pretend to ignore his fiery gaze. “Well that went pretty well, minus the fact that I’m on Kal poop duty for a week...but uh...” He leans in close to you now, “I missed you all morning.”

Breaking out into a smile you raise a brow, “Boring without me huh?”

“Always.”

You casually shrug, “I figured as much. Don’t worry, we have a hotel all to ourselves tonight.” Your brows wiggle suggestively causing your blue eyed lover to shake his head with amusement.

“Say it louder next time.” He jokes.

Side eyeing the oblivious crew you begin to speak a couple octaves louder, “Henry I can’t wait to fu..” Suddenly his hand presses against your mouth before you’re able to call any attention to yourself. He gives you a warning look before slowly pulling his hand from your mouth.

You grin mischievously, “I wasn’t gonna say that...”

“Sure Y/N,” He mutters in your ear as a new interviewer walks into the room and finds their chair, “and I’m wasn’t going to make you scream tonight.”

Your brows raise in surprise and admittedly slight arousal at his choice of wording in this room of all places. Eyeing him up, face still showing surprise, you finally break out into a satisfied smirk. “You know what? I think you should consider changing your offer.”

He thinks deeply for a moment, though you know he’s only pretending to get you riled up, “Hrmm...maybe, possibly, should I? Should we? You are my co-star after all, that wouldn’t be very professional now would it Y/N?” He states with a shit eating grin, all done while the crew and interviewer get ready, minding their business and completely unaware to yourself and Henry’s teasing.

Scoffing playfully you lightly swat his arm, “We are way past being professional.”

He chuckles, looking from you to the rest of the room, “Oh, they have no idea.”

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Desperate For It (Don’t Look At Me)

Pairing: geralt x jaskier Warning(s): omorashi, desperation, wetting, light dom/sub Rating: explicit

Summary:   Jaskier accidentally discovers a new kink when he drinks too much during a performance.

This is the very first time I’ve written something like this and I’m still a little uncertain of it, but I hope someone enjoys it <3

The one plus of attending banquets as Jaskier's bodyguard Geralt thinks, is that no one thinks twice about offering him drinks. Which means he doesn't have to sit through nobles fawning over Jaskier sober, even if he knows Jaskier would prefer he stayed sober. But Geralt finds Jaskkier's performances easier to handle when he's intoxicated, not because he dislikes Jaskier's voice or his music, but because he finds it easier to tolerate the other attendees. Or maybe because he tries less to pretend he doesn't actually appreciate Jaskier's showmanship very much when he's drunk. Maybe too much.

Jaskier is currently flitting around from person to person, basking in their flattery and returning it in droves, his voice sickly sweet and tinged with arousal. He's had a few already as well, and has already started making eyes at Geralt between visiting his admirers. Another reason Geralt finds it easier to attend these events drunk.

He keeps his eye on Jaskier up until he takes the stage, at which point it's safe to sit back for a little while and listen to him sing bawdy ballads thinly disguised as love songs. Secretly, he loves them, has imagined Jaskier in all the compromising positions he sings about, even if he knows he shouldn't. The drink helps with that, too. He tries not to think too much about it tonight, though, focusing more on the people around him and the sway of Jaskier's hips as he slips from the stage to mingle with the crowd once more. They love it, they always do.

Women fan themselves as he approaches, batting their eyes at him and men puff up winking as he gently bumps into them. Jaskier certainly knows how to work the crowd, how to get them excited about an otherwise regular performance. And when he slips up next to Geralt, Geralt finds he's not wholly unaffected either, even if he knows it's an act. There's a break in the song, and Jaskier leans in closer. Geralt holds his breath for a moment, but cryptically, Jaskier whispers,

"Get me out of here during the intermission."

But during the intermission, the Lady of the house joins the party, calling for drinks for her entourage and beelining for Jaskier. Geralt tries not to overhear, but it's hard when the woman is making no attempt to quiet her invitation for Jaskier to join her in her private chambers. Surprisingly, Jaskier doesn't look as thrilled as he might normally. Geralt frowns, but as Jaskier quickly excuses himself, Geralt catches a whiff of desperation from his direction. His suspicions are quickly confirmed when Jaskier sidles up next to him.

"I need you to distract Lady Marabelle."

"What interest does she have in me?"

"I don't care. Pretend there's a vampire amongst the guests, Geralt, I need a piss and she won't leave me alone."

Oh. Something in Geralt's stomach clenches and he shoves it down immediately. He fully intends to approach Lady Marabellem but then she's coming toward them, grinning widely and requesting one of Jaskier's more popular songs. He tries to make excuses but he's ushered back toward the stage and Geralt sympathizes, but there's still a part of him threatening to get to the surface that enjoys the fact that Jaskier can't relieve himself like he wants to.

He tries to push past it, but with every dip and twirl he knows Jaskier is holding his bladder, that he desperately needs a piss and it's… far more arousing than it should be. It shouldn't be arousing at all, but he can't stop thinking about it, about wrapping a hand around Jaskier's prick and jerking him off while he holds his piss, forcing him to come before he's allowed to let go.

Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea for both of them.

An hour goes by before Jaskier gets another break and he's soaked in sweat when he finds Geralt near the edge of the room. Two young men approach him to proposition him, then an elderly woman comes to compliment his voice and Jaskier stumbles through a no and a thank you before scurrying over to Geralt.

This time, Geralt can smell the desperation on him immediately, thick and cloying, and his cock stirs in his trousers. He's not quite drunk enough to tease him, but he's gone enough to consider it.

"Please," Jaskier whines, "Geralt you have to get me out of here before I piss myself."

Heat sears up the back of his neck and Geralt's only glad Jaskiker is distracted by the need to pee or he'd surely notice the flush in his cheeks. Because the thought of him not making it, of wetting himself - especially here especially surrounded by all these people - makes him terribly hot. He doesn't even trust himself to speak, just grabbing Jaskier's bicep and tugging him toward the door.

They make their way through the corridors, and Geralt's barely holding it together with the little whimpers and whines that spill from Jaskier's lips. He wants to thrust him up against the wall and see how long he can make him last. But Jaskier continues to groan and the small part of him that's not hnorrifically aroused by Jaskier's misery, sympathizes.

"Fuck, Geralt, hurry-"

"I can't go any faster-"

"I'm not gonna make it, fuck-"

"Yes you are," Geralt growls, if only because if he doesn't make it, Jaskier wetting himself isn't going to be the worst of their problems.

He pushes through the crowds, apologizing roughly as he tugs Jaskier along behind him and he can smell it getting worse, can feel the way Jaskier's body clenches to prevent embarrassing himself. Finally, just as Jaskier is pleading with him to let him piss in the hall, they reach an outside door and burst out into the courtyard.

There are people all over, but Geralt hauls Jaskier over to the side of the yard, standing behind him to shelter him as Jaskier fumbles with his trousers. He's shifting from foot to foot whining and isn't making any progress with his ties when he lets out a little fuck-

Geralt smells it before Jaskier can hiss at him that he's leaking and his hands are on Jaskier's trousers immediately, quickly untying him and pulling his cock out.

He's wet and it makes Geralt's head spin, he has to try so hard not to stroke him as Jaskier lets go but he wants to. He wants to stroke him slowly, let him feel it as he finally empties his bladder, but he doesn't know how well it would go over. Even with Jaskier in the state he's in.

When Jaskier finishes, he lets out a little whimper and slumps back against Geralt's chest. He's hard under Geralt's fingers and his hand twitches around him. Jaskier's hips shift and Geralt tightens around him, slipping up to the head of his cock and squeezing. Instead of pulling away. Jaskier gasps and leans harder into him, pressing his face into Geralt's neck. It doesn't take much to get him off just a couple more strokes and Jaskier's shuddering through his orgasm, spilling onto the grass between his feet.

Geralt's cock is rock hard in his trousers, wet with pre-come, but he wipes the come from Jaskier's cock and tucks him back into his trousers, leaving him alone in the courtyard.

They're already both well into their cups the next time Jaskier mentions it. It's been weeks since the banquet, but evidently he's been thinking about it too. Geralt's not sure if this should come as a relief or not, but it is.

"Geralt," he says matter-of-factly, swaying over to him, "I need a piss."

"Door's over there," Geralt grunts, taking another swig of his ale. They're staying at an inn in the middle of nowhere, Jaskier knows as well as he does there's no privy here.

"No," Jaskier corrects, "I really need a piss."

Geralt's heart picks up and he can feel his eyes go wide despite himself. Jaskier can't really be offering what he thinks he is… can he?

"Come out with me? Please?"

"No," Geralt says and Jaskier deflates, "you stay right there, I'm getting another drink."

Even as he rises from the table, he hears Jaskier's sharp intake of breath and he grins to himself. He might not be able to touch him like he wants, to make him writhe under his hands, but he can certainly make him squirm.

It's not until his fifth drink that Jaskier asks to go outside and Geralt easily denies him. He's squirmy, yes, but Geralt knows how much he can take now. In Toussaint, he very nearly pissed his trousers, but that was after hours or free drinks and performing, this is nothing in comparison.

"Hold it," Geralt says simply, his cock twitching in his trousers at the mere implication of it.

"Geralt," Jaskier squirms, "I can't, please, I haven't gone since we left Hagge, I'm gonna piss right here -"

His hand darts between his legs, squeezing his cock and shifting into the touch.

"Does getting hard make it easier to hold it?" Jaskier nods and Geralt has an idea. "Come here."

"No, Geralt please, I can't any longer, please-"

"You can. Come here."

Jaskier whimpers but rises from his seat, shuffling over to where Geralt's seated, legs spread wide. Jaskier's eyes drop to his cock where it's unmistakably hard in his trousers, but when he looks back up at him, Geralt interrupts.

"Sit down."

Jaskier does as he's told, seating himself between Geralt's thighs, pushing back far enough that Geralt's cock settles against his ass. It takes all his strength not to grind up against him as he pulls Jaskier close. He fumbles with the ties on his trousers, undoing them and sliding a hand inside to wrap around his cock.

Jaskier gasps at the first touch bucking into his hand then pulling away sharply.

"Geralt-" he hisses, but Geralt just squeezes more firmly, one hand sliding low on his stomach.

"Unless you're gonna piss on me, quiet."

Even as he says it his cock twitches and his gut clenches. He shouldn't be so eager for Jaskier to piss in his lap, but even as he continues to stroke his cock, he wonders if he might just… not let him go.

But when he really starts to squirm, when Geralt feels the first little droplets slip from him, he relents. Jaskier wants to play, but he doesn't know how far he wants to take it.

Geralt's rises to his feet, one hand still firmly wrapped around jaskier's prick and he walks him out the back door of the thankfully empty Inn. Jaskier immediately drops to his knees, finally letting go as Geralt kneels behind him.

It's intentional this time, when he brings him off. Jaskier's so worked up it doesn't take much and he comes almost as soon as he's finished pissing, his thighs shaky when Geralt runs his hands down them.

Jaskier leaves him to call for a bath and Geralt remains, shoving his trousers down and frantically fucking his own fist. He comes hard with the image of Jaskier squirming with need burned into his mind.

The next time Jaskier asks, both of them are sober and Geralt manages to keep his hands off of him until Jaskier relieves himself. He comes even harder this time.

It becomes routine for them, almost any time they're alone and somewhere safe, Jaskier will come to him sheepishly and Geralt is always more than happy to play. He never comes with Jaskier, but watching him work himself up almost to the point of wetting himself is worth the denial.

The first time Geralt gets off with him, they're snowed in in Kaedwen and there's not much else to do at the inn. So when Jaskier wakes him from a nap to show him his belly, swollen with drink, Geralt is out of bed immediately.

"Challenged a couple of the guys to a drinking contest," he explains, "didn't want to get drunk so I- ugh- drank water and apple juice. Drank them under the table," he chuckles, strained.

"I bet you did, so full for me, hm? How bad do you want it?"

"Fuck, Geralt, I might need your hand tonight. Get me hard, please-"

"You're already hard," Geralt rumbles, nosing against the back of his neck and sliding a hand over his crotch. "You like it, don't you? Holding for me."

"Mmhm," Jaskier mumbles, "oh, fuck-" he drops to his knees and Geralt follows, squeezing him through his trousers.

He leans over him, hips pressed to Jaskier's, draped over his back and braced on the floor. His cock throbs where it presses into jaskier's ass, but he ignores it. He's gotten good at denying himself until Jaskier's taken his own pleasure.

"Geralt I'm, fuck, m gonna piss. Please -"

"Little longer."

"Fuck. Please. Ah-"

Geralt's hips shift and he moans low against jaskier's neck, nipping at his skin.

"No."

"I can't hold it."

"You can."

"I can't-"

"Then you'll piss yourself," Geralt growls.

He knows Jaskier can last a little longer, he can't even smell the piss yet, but when he strokes his cock through his trousers, Jaskier cries out. He shoves Geralt's hand away, tearing at his trousers and he's already dribbling over his hand before he gets his cock out and finishes on the floor.

Geralt slides an arm around him, but he's blindsided by his own orgasm. He ruts against jaskier's ass, too overwhelmed and surprised to do anything but hold onto jaskier's prick as he soaks the floor.

After that Jaskier gets handsier, reaching back to cup Geralt's cock and play with him to keep his mind off his own need. He works himself up to it, running his hands up his thighs or covering Geralt's hands when he touches him but he gets braver. He palms at Geralt's cock through his clothes, squeezes and strokes him and the feel of his hand combined with the burning arousal of watching him squirm is a potent combination. If it wasn't for his training, he would have come three times over before Jaskier even gets his cock out to piss.

As it is, he's trembling when Jaskier twists and kisses him. It's abrupt and he's not expecting it, but Geralt sinks into the kiss with a moan, still jerking Jaskier's cock even after he's come. His own cock throbs under Jaskier's touch and he rocks into the touch. The longer it goes on, the less control he has when he gets horny, and he wants to fuck Jaskier more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

Jaskier's fingers wrap around him and Geralt buries his face in his neck, fucking into the tunnel of his fingers. He groans and he aches and Jaskier just squeezes him harder, pressing his hips back to keep the space between them minimal. It's not until he's leaning over Jaskiers shoulder, propping himself up on his thigh, that he realizes Jaskier is touching himself. He's hard again, slick with his own release and jerking hard even as he squeezes around Geralt.

That's all it takes to push Geralt over the edge and he's coming hard, twitching as he shoots up Jaskier's back. Jaskier follows almost immediately, shaking through it and catching Geralt's mouth in another bruising kiss. In all the time they've been doing this, they've never kissed and now Geralt can't help himself. He deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around Jaskier's stomach and holding him. It's… a little overwhelming.

The sex and the deseperation is one thing, but he never expected Jaskier to want him like this. It softens as they come down and Jaskier reaches around, wrapping an arm around Geralt's neck.

"Fuck," he mumbles, lips barely leaving Geralt's.

"Mmm," Geralt agrees, eyes still shut and leaning in for more.

Jaskier obliges him, nipping playfully at his lips and pressing into his chest. He's soft and cuddly and for a moment Geralt can forget that they're both a mess and just hold Jaskier against him. They linger for a little while before Jaskier squirms away and climbs properly into his lap.

"'S more fun when you come, too," he hums, "I know you want to, I know how hard it gets you."

"Jask-"

"Let me make you come," Jaskier breathes, "I know you sneak off and get yourself off after."

"Sorry-" Geralt starts, but he's interrupted before he can continue, before he can tell Jaskier he never meant for him to find out.

"Don't be sorry, I love it. Come for me next time," Jaskier whispers, leaning in to kiss just under his ear, "on purpose."

Geralt can't keep those words out of his mind. Days pass and he's still thinking about Jaskier whispering in his ear, asking him to come for him. It's arousing and more than he could have hoped for. They haven't had time to play since, but more than once Geralt has brought himself off remembering Jaskier in his lap and telling him he wants him to come for him.

They start heading north, preparing for the trek up to Kaer Morhen in a few week's time and they both know their winter stay means a break from their play. Geralt is torn, happy to have Jaskier come with him for the winter, but disappointed not to be able to get off with him for the full five months they'll be there. So when they get to town and Jaskier is performing that night, Geralt doesn't seek out a job like he normally would. Instead, he orders drinks to their room and waits for Jaskier to return from his lunch session.

When he comes back to the room and sees the table of drinks lined up and waiting for him, a grin spreads across his face and he meets Geralt's gaze with a glint in his eyes. He crosses the room quickly, climbing up into Geralt's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. Geralt isn't sure what to do with himself, so he lets his hands settle on Jaskier's hips, settling into the position with surprising ease.

"What do you want from me, tonight?" Jaskier asks, tilting his head playfully. His eyelids drop and he drops his gaze to Geralt's lips before kissing his cheek.

Geralt's skin prickles under every touch and he brings one hand up to the back of his hand, tangling his fingers in Jaskier's hair.

"I want to see you squirm while you're playing for them. I want you aching and desperate and I want to make you come so hard you cry."

Jaskier whimpers, hips twitching and then he's shoving Geralt down to the bed, kissing him hard.

"I want you," he breathes, "wanna ride that pretty cock of yours, make you come again and again- fuck." He nips at Geralt's bottom lip, dragging his teeth along it as he pulls away. "Want you," he whispers and Geralt grins sideways at him, breathing heavily.

He wants Jaskier so badly he can't even properly express it, but if Jaskier wants it too, that's good enough for now.

"Get ready for your show," he whispers, "I'll be watching." He draws him in for one final kiss, then lets him go.

Geralt tries not to watch as Jaskier prepares for the show by making his way through the drinks laid out for him. If he thinks too much about it, he gets hard in anticipation, eager to get on with it. Jaskier notices and comes up to him, running his fingers over Geralt's filling cock.

"Darling, you're so hard already."

He presses into Geralt's neck, humming against his skin and kissing his way down to his throat. When he pulls back, he ficks his eyes up to Geralt then drops to his knees.

Jaskier sucks him off, quick and precise, and when Geralt comes he takes him deep, swallowing it all. Geralt's head lolls back on his head but Jaskier tucks him back into his trousers and rises back to his feet, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"No more watching," he hums, "you'll get me going too soon."

Geralt deepens the kiss before drawing back, still panting against Jaskier's mouth. He presses quick kisses to his lips before Jaskier laughs softly and pushes him away.

"Why don't you go and have supper and a bath arranged for us, hm? I'm sure we'll both want it after tonight." He winks at him and pushes him away gently with a hand to his chest. "I have to prepare."

Despite keeping his distance, Geralt is already vibrating with anticipation by the time Jaskier takes the stage to perform. Something about tonight feels different; maybe it's the gentleness with which Jaskier has been touching him or the closeness that keeps creeping into their encounters. He's always felt more than simple friendship or attraction to Jaskier, but it's becoming more obvious that Jaskier feels the same and Geralt is still trying to figure out how to cope with that.

He constantly wants to kiss him, to hold him, and Jaskier slowly guides them toward that, lingering longer after they play or cuddling up against Geralt's back when they sleep. Geralt feels greedy because he always wants more and more, but Jaskier is always a step ahead, offering himself up before Geralt can work himself up to asking.

Tonight is the first time they've done anything public since the first time and while Geralt has been thinking about it for weeks, Jaskier was the one to suggest it. It had been a passing comment a few days prior, something he wanted to try before they headed north and had to cease their activities for a few months. Geralt has been waiting for the perfect chance and tonight feels right.

He sits at a central table near the back of the tavern with a perfect view of Jaskier where he'll be seated to perform and his cock is already twitching just at the thought of it. He has his own drink and one for Jaskier waiting for him for during the break and his fingers curl around his tankard. When Jaskier finally comes out on stage, Geralt can already pick up a faint scent of need on him and it makes his gut clench. He's gotten better at recognizing the scent, picking it up before Jaskier has to tell him and it's made for some incredible orgasms on the road when he bars Jaskier from relieving himself as soon as he scents it.

It's faint right now, but certainly there and Geralt watches Jaskier's expression as he takes a seat and rests his lute on his knee, smiling and waving to the crowd. He launches right into it, playing a selection of bawdy ballads chosen specifically for the audience, most of them younger working men.

Halfway through his performance, he takes a break and Geralt can see how desperate he is already. When he comes to collect his drink, he's sweaty and twitchy, his breath shallow.

"How do you feel?" Geralt asks, running a hand down his side.

"Fuck, I wanna piss."

"Good." Geralt nudges the tankard toward him. "Drink." Jaskier drinks and as he dips down to kiss him, Geralt presses a hand to his crotch, squeezing him through his trousers. "You're getting hard already," he muses, "everyone's going to be watching you, staring at your cock. You'd better not leak."

"Fuck," Jaskier mumbles, "you're awful." He kisses him again before finishing his drink and disappearing back into the crowd.

This time when Jaskier takes the stage, it's clear he's worked up. He's squirmy, keeping his legs folded and trying not to jostle himself too much. Geralt slips a hand between his thighs, cupping his swelling cock and stroking himself slowly. He plays with the idea of jerking off right here, of bringing himself off watching Jaskier squirm, but Jaskier wants to make him come and that is enough to slow his ministrations.

He doesn't stop entirely though, pressing down on his cock as he picks up Jaskier's desperation scent again and rubbing himself slowly. When Jaskier finishes, he quickly darts away and Gerlt shoves his stool back, following him upstairs. Jaskier is waiting for him, standing in the middle of the room with his knees pressed together and one hand clenched around his cock.

"Geralt, I can't hold it," he wines, "I thought I could but I-"

"Take your shirt off. Doublet too."

Jaskier looks at him pleadingly but reluctantly removes his hand from his prick, peeling off his upper layers. His trousers are still dry, but he reeks of desperation and Geralt wants to throw him down on the bed and suck his cock until he wets himself. He holds back, but keeps his gaze focused on Jaskier. His belly is swollen and he ache to touch it, to pull Jaskier close to him and-

"Please-" Jaskier whimpers and when Geralt's eyes snap up to his, there are tears in his eyes.

"How long," Geralt asks, his voice rough and low. "How long have you been holding it?"

"Last night," Jaskier whines, "I thought I'd surprise you, wanted to- fuck, Geralt-"

Geralt surges forward before he can help himself, catching Jaskier's mouth in a rough kiss, nipping at his lips. He slides a hand down his chest, pressing lightly against his belly and Jaskier shudders, whining frantically into his mouth. Geralt kisses him harder, cups his jaw with one hand and he takes Jaskier's hand and presses it against his own cock.

"I can't-" Jaskier whines and Geralt releases his cock, pulling away.

"You can."

"Please-"

Geralt ignores him, stepping back to sit on the bed, legs spread wide as he watches from a distance. Jaskier squirms before him shifting from foot to foot and clutching at his cock to keep from losing control. And Geralt's cock aches in his trousers. He's rock hard now, jutting up obscenely and he touches himself through his leathers, letting Jaskier see the slow way he slides his fingers up his covered length and how he pushes up into the touch.

"Geralt-" Jaskier cries out, both hands on his cock and Geralt growls low. He can smell the scent of urine now, knows he's not fuckign around this time, but he can't help but push.

"Hands off," he commands and Jaskier sobs as he pulls his hands back, holding them behind his back.

"Geralt please I can't, I really can't."

Geralt says nothing, but watches as Jaskier's movements get jerkier and jerkier, until he's doubled over and actively sobbing to go outside, but Geralt can't let him, can't pass this up.

"Straighten up."

Jaskier whimpers as he stands up straighter and Geralt can see his cock through his trousers now, swollen a little and certainly wet at the tip. Jaskier cries out and jerks and a wet patch forms in the front of his trousers.

"Please Geralt, I'm gonna piss myself."

"No."

"Geralt-"

"No, Jaskier."

He squirms and jerks trying to keep his hands off himself, and the tang of embarrassment seeps into his scent. Geralt can't keep his eyes off him, watching the way he doubles over with each little spurt and then he's begging, pleading with Geralt to let him take his cock out, but Geralt is too far gone and has no intention of letting him.

"Fuck," Jaskier whimpers a tiny sound accompanied but another spurt of piss and the dark spot on his trousers grows larger. "Fuck, I can't stop, I can't-"

Geralt watches in delight as the dark patch grows and grows and Jaskier drops his head back, whining with embarrassment as he soaks himself. But Geralt's cock is like steel in his trousers, pre-come forming a matching wet patch in his own clothes. Piss puddles on the floor round Jaskier's feet and Geralt is on his feet in an instant, hauling Jaskier back against his chest and unbuttoning his trousers immediately.

He shoves his hand inside, stroking Jaskier's prick even as the stream continues, his other palm pressed to his abdomen and pushing. Jaskier whimpers and writhes in his arms, wet and filthy and Geralt can't help but rut against him, teeth grazing the back of his neck.

His only indication that Jaskier is finished is when he slumps against Geralt, but he doesn't linger long. He's quickly pulling away, refusing to look at him.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, gods-" he chokes, "I wanted to- I couldn't- oh gods, I'm so sorry-"

Gerlt slips up behind him, holding Jaskier's shoulders and pressing his cock against his ass firmly enough to demonstrate how completely aroused he is.

"Can I fuck you?" he blurts, nosing in Jaskier's hair. Jaskier makes a choking sound and Geralt presses a hand to the front of his trousers, pressing the damp fabric against his prick. "Fuck, Jask, I want you-"

"I thought you-" Jaskier stumbles, "thought you just wanted to see me squirm."

"I do, but- gods, Jask you're fucking filthy," Geralt sucks at the side of his neck, and a little breathy goran escapes Jaskier's lips. "So good for me. You tried so hard."

"I did," Jask agrees, "had to piss so bad-"

"Mm and look at you now," Geralt squeezes him through the wet fabric, "I think you like it, hm? A little bit?"

Jaskier nods and Geralt groans against his skin. He wraps one arm around his chest, sliding his other hand down over Jaskier's ass and squeezing. He grabs one of Jaskier's hands and presses it against own cock.

"Me too," he rumbles, "feel how much I love you like this, how badly I want you."

"Fuck me," Jaskier chokes, "Geralt, please-"

He doesn't get another word out before Geralt shoves him up against a wall tugging his trousers down and running his fingers between Jaskier's cheeks. He presses against his hole, slipping in just a little and Jaskier gasps under him. He's already slick and Geralt can't help but push inside, sliding in up to the second knuckle and letting Jaskeir buck back onto him.

"You wanted this," Geralt hums and Jaskier nods.

"Not exactly like this," he huffs, clenching around Geralt's fingers, "but yeah. Want you, want your cock, please."

Geralt gets a second finger into him, fucking him steadily on them as Jaskier whines. He's loose and ready, clearly spent a long time prepping himself for this and Geralt' mind supplies an image of him, already wanting to piss and fingering himself open in preparation for Geralt's cock.

"How did it feel?" he pants, "fucking yourself on your fingers when you had to piss like that."

"Good. Nearly came just like that. Would've ruined your fun," he chuckles.

"Wish I'd seen it." Geralt slips out of him and teases a third finger at his rim. "Bet you squirmed so nicely."

Geralt pushes into him and when he finds little resistance, he doesn't linger. He pulls out and fumbles with his own trousers, tugging his cock out. He's already leaking, slick with pre-come and when he presses himself against Jaskier's hole, he moans, burying his face in Jaskier's hair. He pushes further, steadily sinking into him and his eyes roll back in his head as Jaskier twists to face him.

He kisses him soft and slow, but Geralt is too wound up, aching for it and thrumming with adrenaline. He deepens it and Jaskier follows his lead, letting himself be kissed hard and rough, lips bruised from Geralt biting at them.

When Geralt finally settles inside him, he's deep and Jaskier's body is hot and tight around him, squeezing with every little shift. He moves his hips experimentally and Jaskier whimpers, shoving his hips back to keep Gerakt buried inside him, so Geralt keeps his thrusts shallow but hard, driving into him and groaning against his neck. But his body is vibrating, he needs and he can't keep himself from jerking hard.

"Fuck me," Jaskier breathes, "Geralt, please."

He doesn't need anything more than that, pulling back and fucking back into him hard. He lets his mind go calm, almost meditative as he nuzzles against the back of Jaskier's neck, roughly kissing his skin and he snaps his hips. Jaskier's legs shift apart and his trousers slip a little, but Geralt gets a hand around them, using them for leverage as he pounds into him.

He fucks him quick and hard, gasping as Jaskier whimpers under him bracing himself against the wall with one arm while the other slips away. Geralt doesn't realize he's touching himself until Jaskier drops his head back on his shoulder, huffing desperately.

"Fuck," he breathes, "so good, darling, just- oh, right there-"

Geralt aims for that same spot again, catching Jaskier's mouth in a bruising kiss. It's uncomfortable at the angle but neither is willing to give up even as Geralt fucks him quicker, harder.

"Fuck," Geralt growls, batting Jaskeir's hand away from his cock. He slips his own fingers around him, fisting him in time with his thruss because he knows he won't last long now, not with Jsskeir giving way It so sweetly, now with the little sounds spilling from his lips. He wants to bring him off first.

It doesn't take much longer with Geralt's hand on him before Jaskier's coming hard, shooting up against the wall and slumping against it. He goes limp, Geralt's hands on him the only thing keeping him upruight and he holds him steady, fucking quicker and harder until his thrusts grow chopping and desperate.

When he comes, he buries himself deep, pressing his nose into the side of Jaskier's neck and kissing his shoulder. As his orgasm washes over him, the adrenaline ebbs away and his legs shake under him.

Geralt pulls out and drops to the floor, bundling Jaskier back up into his arms. He rolls him onto his side and pushes Jaskier's damp hair out of his face, leaning in to kiss him breathlessly. His heart pounds and his softening cock is sensitive where it slides against Jaskier's damp trousers, but he's barely aware of anything but Jaskier's body against him, through the fog of arousal.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rolls onto his back with a huff of a laugh and Jaskier shuffles up next to him.

"Bet you're glad we ordered that bath now, hm?"

"Mmm." Geralt leans over and kisses him.

"I'm disgusting," Jaskier huffs, pushing him playfully away.

"You're not," Geralt mumbles, reaching back to him, "love you like this." He tugs Jaskier on top of him, running his hands down his back to cup his ass. "Love you," he whispers, softer still and Jaskier's lips twitch before he leans down to kiss him, hands pushing through Geralt's hair.

"Love you," he breathes.

They lay on the floor, tangled up in each other until a knock on the door signals the arrival of the chambermaids. Jaskier quickly strips out of his sodden clothes and wraps a sheet around his waist, waiting for the bath to be filled. Geralt tips the maids a fair sum and sees them out before stripping bare and hauling Jaskier up into his arms.

"I'd like to do this again," Jaskier says when they're both submerged in warm, soapy water. "I… rather enjoyed it."

"I could tell," Geralt rumbles. He settles a hand on Jaskier's belly, rubbing his thumb through a thick patch of hair. "Though I was thinking… what if next time we don't come back to the room first?"

"Geralt-"

"I like the idea of you squirming in my lap," he hums. Jaskier flushes but Geralt can smell the faint scent of reignited arousal. "What do you think?"

"Yeah," Jaskier breathes, "yeah, that could be good."

[bamf-jaskier]

What the fuck are the Trials

Since the show is based on the books and not the games, and more people are more familiar with the games that the books, I thought it might be helpful to sort of officialize the posts I’ve done about specific topics in the books. 

Here are the previous posts on Triss&Geralt as well as Coën

TLDR: So looking at this process, according to the books the way a Witcher becomes, well a Witcher looks like this:

There is the Choice which is the decision to become a Witcher made when you are a child

Eat a lot of magic mushrooms that give you the strength and ability Witchers are known for

Then the Trial of the Grasses which is a concoction of mutagenic elixirs injected into the bloodstream which mutates you into a Witcher

Then finally there are the Changes. This is a big step and one that requires a mage. This is when the hormones are changed and a Witcher becomes permanently sterile

then there is training until you earn your medallion and BOOM, out onto the path with you

Now, have a post about what the trials are as far as the books are concerned

It’s important to note that in the books, The Witcher are a dying breed so the Trials are really only mentioned in Blood of Elves when Ciri trains with the Witchers and the two prequels, Sword of Destiny and The Last Wish. 

Let’s start out with the basics of the Trials, here is a passage from Blood of Elves where Triss is wondering why the Witchers at Kaer Morhen are being so secretive in regards to Ciri:

“It’s obvious. They want to mutate the child, subject her to the Trial of Grasses and Changes, but they don’t know how to do it. Vesemir was the only witcher left from the previous generation, and he was only a fencing instructor. The Laboratorium, hidden in the vaults of Kaer Morhen, with its dusty demi-johns of elixirs, the alembics, ovens and retorts… 

None of the witchers knew how to use them. The mutagenic elixirs had been concocted by some renegade wizard in the distant past and then perfected over the years by the wizard’s successors, who had, over the years, magically controlled the process of Changes to which children were subjected. And at a vital moment the chain had snapped. 

There was no more magical knowledge or power. The witchers had the herbs and Grasses, they had the Laboratorium. They knew the recipe. But they had no wizard.”

Later:

“And now they want to mutate the girl but can’t. And that might mean… They may ask me to help. And then I’ll see something no living wizard has seen, I’ll learn something no living wizard has learned. Their famous Grasses and herbs, the secret virus cultures, the renowned, mysterious recipes…”

Now, what Triss doesn’t realize is that Geralt and the others are not planning on subjecting Ciri to the trials at all but are instead trying to hide Ciri’s magical ability from Triss. They are worried she will report them to the Chapter. 

Of course, until they tell Triss this, she is deeply suspicious and goes on to talk about the mushrooms Witchers have access to which are extremely unique. 

“Of course, thought Triss. They’re feeding her those legendary cave saprophytes – a mountain plant unknown to science – giving her the famous infusions of their mysterious herbs to drink. The girl is developing quickly, is acquiring a witcher’s infernal fitness. Naturally, without the mutation, without the risk, without the hormonal upheaval. But the magician must not know this. It is to be kept a secret from the magician. They aren’t going to tell me anything; they aren’t going to show me anything.”

Later:

“I don’t give a fig for your trust, witchers. There’s cancer out there in the world, smallpox, tetanus and leukaemia, there are allergies, there’s cot death. And you’re keeping your “mushrooms”, which could perhaps be distilled and turned into life-saving medicines, hidden away from the world. You’re keeping them a secret even from me, and others to whom you declare your friendship, respect and trust. Even I’m forbidden to see not just the Laboratorium, but even the bloody mushrooms!”

Triss as a mage has extreme bias against the Trials and for good reason! Most of the populace doesn’t have access to any information on the Trials outside of vague ideas but Mages have access to first hand accounts such as this from Blood of Elves: 

“On the third day all the children died save one, a male barely ten. Hitherto agitated by a sudden madness, he fell all at once into deep stupor. His eyes took on a glassy gaze; incessantly with his hands did he clutch at clothing, or brandish them in the air as if desirous of catching a quill. His breathing grew loud and hoarse; sweat cold, clammy and malodorous appeared on his skin. Then was he once more given elixir through the vein and the seizure it did return. This time a nose-bleed did ensue, coughing turned to vomiting, after which the male weakened entirely and became inert.

For two days more did symptoms not subside. The child’s skin, hitherto drenched in sweat, grew dry and hot, the pulse ceased to be full and firm – albeit remaining of average strength, slow rather than fast. No more did he wake, nor did he scream.

Finally, came the seventh day. The male awoke and opened his eyes, and his eyes were as those of a viper…”

~Carla Demetia Crest, The Trial of Grasses and other secret Witcher practices, seen with my own eyes, manuscript exclusively accessible to the Chapter of Wizards

When most people think of the Trials, they are thinking similarly to Queen Calanthe in Sword of Destiny. 

Here is what Calanthe says to Geralt when talking about what he might do with his child surprise: 

“You are astonished,’ she stated. ‘Well, I’ve studied a little. Since Pavetta’s child has the chance of becoming a witcher, I went to great pains. My sources, Geralt, reveal nothing, however, regarding how many children in ten withstand the Trial of the Grasses. Would you like to satisfy my curiosity in this regard?’

‘O Queen,’ Geralt said, clearing his throat. ‘You certainly went to sufficient pains in your studies to know that the code and my oath forbid me from even uttering that name, much less discussing it.’

Calanthe stopped the swing abruptly by jabbing a heel into the ground. ‘Three, at most four in ten,’ she said, nodding her head in feigned pensiveness. 

‘A stringent selection, very stringent, I’d say, and at every stage. First the Choice and then the Trials. And then the Changes. How many youngsters ultimately receive medallions and silver swords? One in ten? One in twenty?”

Later Calanthe asks Geralt:

“Do you believe a Child of Destiny would pass through the Trials without danger?’

‘We believe such a child would not require the Trials.’

‘One question, Geralt. Quite a personal one. May I?’

He nodded.

‘There is no better way to pass on hereditary traits than the natural way, as we know. You went through the Trials and survived. So if you need a child with special qualities and endurance… Why don’t you find a woman who… I’m tactless, aren’t I? But I think I’ve guessed, haven’t I?’

‘As usual,’ he said, smiling sadly, ‘you are correct in your deductions, Calanthe. You guessed right, of course. What you’re suggesting is impossible for me.’

‘Forgive me,’ she said, and the smile vanished from her face. ‘Oh, well, it’s a human thing.’

‘It isn’t human.’

‘Ah… So, no witcher can—’

‘No, none. The Trial of the Grasses, Calanthe, is dreadful. And what is done to boys during the time of the Changes is even worse. And irreversible.”

Later:

“The risks are too great,’ Geralt said quickly. ‘As you said. At most, four out of ten survive.’

‘Dammit, is only the Trial of the Grasses hazardous? Do only potential witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, selection also occurs in life, Geralt. Misfortune, sicknesses and wars also select. Defying destiny may be just as hazardous as succumbing to it. Geralt… I would give you the child. But… I’m afraid, too.’

Then in The Last Wish, Geralt describes his own experiences with The Trials:

“Kaer Morhen…That's where the likes of me were produced. It's not done anymore; no one lives in Kaer Morhen now. No one but Vesemir. Who's Vesemir? My father. Why are you so surprised? What's so strange about it? Everyone's got a father, and mine is Vesemir. And so what if he's not my real father? I didn't know him, or my mother. I don't even know if they're still alive, and I don't much care.

“Yes, Kaer Morhen. I underwent the usual mutation there, through the Trial of Grasses, and then hormones, herbs, viral infections. And then through them all again. And again, to the bitter end. Apparently, I took the changes unusually well; I was only ill briefly. I was considered to be an exceptionally resilient brat…and was chosen for more complicated experiments as a result. They were worse. Much worse. But, as you see, I survived. The only one to live out of all those chosen for further trials. My hair's been white ever since. Total loss of pigmentation. A side effect, as they say. A trifle.

“Then they taught me various things until the day when I left Kaer Morhen and took to the road. I’d earned my medallion, the Sign of the Wolf's School. I had two swords: silver and iron, and my conviction, enthusiasm, incentive and…faith. Faith that I was needed in a world full of monsters and beasts, to protect the innocent. As I left Kaer Morhen, I dreamed of meeting my first monster. I couldn't wait to stand eye to eye with him. And the moment arrived.”

So looking at this process, according to the books the way a Witcher becomes, well a Witcher looks like this:

There is the Choice which is the decision to become a Witcher made when you are a child

Eat a lot of magic mushrooms that give you the strength and ability Witchers are known for 

Then the Trial of the Grasses which is a concoction of mutagenic elixirs injected into the bloodstream which mutates you into a Witcher 

Then finally there are the Changes. This is a big step and one that requires a mage. This is when the hormones are changed and a Witcher becomes permanently sterile

then there is training until you earn your medallion and BOOM, out onto the path with you

This is why it’s such a big deal that Triss was brought to Kaer Morhen. Without a mage, someone cannot become a full Witcher and Triss believed that was why she was there. Of course, this wasn’t true but it’s a valid concern to have. 

One thing I want to note, there is absolutely NOTHING in the text that says that being a Witcher is limited to any sort of gender boundary. The fact that Triss so readily jumped to Ciri becoming a Witcher and the fact that Geralt didn’t specify  boys until he was talking about the sterilization process...well, there is a likelihood female Witchers actually existed. 

Again, in the books Witchers are a dying breed and you can literally count on one hand the number of Witchers we meet. Of course, considering mages are the ones who made Witchers, it makes sense that female Witchers are either strongly discouraged, banned or simply not talked about. 

One big point Triss has against Ciri’s training is that she won’t “develop” correctly like a woman “should” due to the mushrooms and harsh training and considering how so many northern mages place importance on beauty I could definitely see mages not wanting to have female Witchers, considering it a “perversion”. 

Just a fun thought I often have about the books that I haven’t seen anyone point out. 

So overall, here is what the books have to say about the Trials, it’s a touch different from the games but I find this very fascinating and interesting. Let me know if you want me to do a specific topic or relationship next, but for now, thanks for reading!

[dhwty-writes]

hi! I have a prompt, if you like: what if Geralt hangs up mistletoe to get Jaskier to kiss him? :)

ELLIE, what a galaxy brained concept! It’s so silly and the gay panic is rampant in this one, my friends. The Kaer Morons being a bumbling pack of idiots and Geralt ridiculously pining after Jaskier? Coming right up!

Summary: Geralt is in love with Jaskier. In order to finally get him to admit his feelings, he devises a ten step plan with Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir. 

Warnings: NONE, this is tooth-rotting fluff

Read on AO3

There was a conspiracy of the highest order brewing in the Continent involving no less than four witchers, their horses, a goat, and an unsuspecting bard. It is known under many names, including, but not limited to, Operation Home Sweet Home, Gods Save us from your Fucking Pining, and Get Vesemir's Blessing (and Mission Let's Get Geralt Laid, but that was from Lambert and therefore stupid).

They had laid out the Conspiracy in a set of carefully calculated steps last winter with the help of Vesemir's Wise Words and truly copious amounts of alcohol. Once he saw the whole list sober, Geralt had nearly chucked it into the fireplace out of mortification. Good thing Eskel and Lambert had been nearby to wrestle the slip of paper out of his hands.

Only after the creation of at least half a dozen copies was he trusted with it again. He frowned down at the sheet. It was simple, really. A simple ten-step-plan. He could do that.

Step One: Stop fucking staring out of windows and sighing longingly. (Shut up, Lambert.) Get back on the Path and find Jaskier.

Now, at least that was easy enough. Not for the first time since their acquaintance they had agreed upon a meeting place to come find each other as soon as the snows would allow it. Most of the years Geralt would arrive a little late; because even if they chose a spot closer to Kaer Morhen than Oxenfurt, the Killer was usually impassable for a long time.

A few years they had been lucky and could set out relatively early in spring. Geralt hadn't felt lucky at all, sitting in a lonely tavern corner day in, day out, waiting for a familiar bright-coloured bard to fill his life with light again. He had felt terrified, most of all.

So, this year when he set out to the Path, an already crumpled list clutched tightly in his hand, he was even more on edge than normally. He didn't think he could take Step One failing already, and the mortifying possibility of Jaskier lying dead in a ditch. He might just climb up that mountain again and never come back down.

Luckily, Geralt — and Vesemir — were saved from that miserable fate. When Geralt threw open the tavern door in some backwater Kaedwen town, Jaskier was there already. He was peacocking around in his usual manner, enticing his sparse audience with his captivating presence. When his eyes fell on Geralt, though, his three half-drunk spectators were soon forgotten.

The bard gasped and slung his lute onto his back, vaulting off the stage to come rushing over to him. "You're here!" Geralt stood ready, his arms spread wide to catch Jaskier when he flung himself at him in an overenthusiastic hug. "I missed you." Jaskier slung his legs around Geralt's hips and buried his face against his shoulder, clinging to him as if for dear life. 

Geralt held him tight, deeply inhaling the familiar scent, a mix of honey, grapes, and cinnamon. He was used to this by now. He didn't mind. Truth be told, he craved it.

"Hmm," he answered, acutely aware of the stares they were attracting. Geralt decided he didn't care. "I... missed you, too."

"You did?" Jaskier pulled back and beamed at him. Just a week ago he had thought he would kill to see that smile again as soon as possible.

"Hmm," he agreed. Now he knew he knew he would die for it.

Jaskier wriggled in his grasp as a sign he wanted to be put down again. "You certainly know how to sweep a man off his feet, darling," he announced with a cheerful wink. "I don't think you've ever told me you so much as enjoyed my company before, let alone miss it."

"Hmm." Hadn't he? He could've sworn he had.

"None of that, now, let me just grab my bag and we can be on our merry way." Without another word, Jaskier rushed up the stairs in the back of the tavern.

Geralt stood uncomfortably in the door, waiting for him to return and doing his best not to attract too much attention. 'Hurry up, Jaskier,' he thought impatiently.

"Oi!" the bartender shouted. "Yer the witcher? The one of the songs?"

"I am."

The man nodded and threw something at him, humming a very distinct tune. It was a ducat. Geralt pocketed it with a sigh. He hadn't missed that.

He didn't have to wait long before Jaskier came barrelling back down the stairs, a much too large bag Roach would have to carry again in tow. "Well," the bard straightened his crumpled doublet, which, for some reason, now gaped open and showed off the pristine shirt underneath. Geralt tried not to stare, "where are we off to?"

"Toussaint," he answered, holding the tavern door open for him.

"Toussaint!" Jaskier exclaimed excitedly. "I love Toussaint."

"Hmm," Geralt said. 'I know,' Geralt thought, 'that's why we're going.'

With their reunion out of the way, it was time to proceed with the plan:

Step Two: Travel with Jaskier. Be nice to him (no fillingless pies!)! Compliment him! Laugh at his jokes!

That part was significantly more difficult than the first. Not that he lacked compliments for Jaskier, quite on the contrary. They, however, posed not one, but two difficulties.

The first was one of his own making: voicing his thoughts with actual words. In the privacy of his mind he had a myriad of compliments. 'You're beautiful,' passed through his head when he saw Jaskier bathed in the golden light of sunset. 'You smell nice,' after a day at the coast, salt encrusting Jaskier's hair. 'You make me smile', 'You make the loneliness go away', 'You're the best bard I could wish for.' None of them were quite eager to leave his mouth.

When they finally did, it was awkward. They didn't sound at all how he imagined them. "What are you looking at?" Jaskier asked.

"Something on your face," he answered. 'Yeah,' he thought dumbly, 'sunlight.'

Or: "Geralt, are you sniffing me?"

"You smell." He still cursed himself months later for omitting the simple word 'nice'.

After a while he got better at it. He could manage an "I like your voice" without stumbling over it, or a "Your outfit looks nice and smooth." It wasn't an "I love listening to you sing and say my name; you make it sound like something that is worthy of affection" or an "I love that you wear silk as soft as your skin and could spend days caressing it without growing tired of it" yet, but he was getting there.

What came then, once he was able to say a simple nice sentence to his bard, was somehow even worse. Jaskier was clumsy, that was nothing new, but this season it was on a whole different level. Whenever Geralt so much asked him about the song he was working on, the bard stumbled over his own feet; with every smile or laugh he nearly dropped his precious lute.

But nothing beat that time they happened upon a particularly clear and blue lake and Geralt had leaned over to tell Jaskier: "I like it. It reminds me of your eyes. Just as pretty." The poet had nearly plummeted right into it, which would have been very unfortunate indeed, since he hadn't convinced the nymph living in it to migrate yet.

In the end, Jaskier's utter lack of equilibrium sense led to Geralt offering him to ride on Roach. That was much better. Sometimes they rode double, too. He liked those days especially, when he had an excuse to hold his bard close. The days when Jaskier would sigh and lean back into his touch he liked most of them all.

Slowly, they settled into a familiar rhythm. It was awkward at first, but soon they became used to the change of their relationship. And it wasn't as if everything changed. They still bickered and insulted each other, and laughed and told stories. It was just right; Geralt almost didn't notice how summer came to an end.

But it did, and when the first leaves started coasting to the ground it was time for the next step.

Step Three: Ask him where he will spend the next winter.

It was probably the most mortifying thing he had to say to Jaskier yet. They were sat at a campfire one early autumn evening, Geralt trying to look busy cleaning his sword and Jaskier preoccupied with his lute. Once he finally worked up the courage to ask, he stumbled over his words like a school boy; he even blushed, for fuck's sake! It was embarrassing.

Luckily, Jaskier didn't seem to notice, too busy tuning his lute. "Why, in Oxenfurt, of course. Why do you ask, Geralt?" he answered nonchalantly as if Geralt wasn't just leading the most daunting conversation of his entire life.

'Fucking great,' he thought. Now it was time for Step Three.5: Ask Jaskier to come home with you, you fucking idiot.

"Hm," he said.

Jaskier laughed. "Talkative as always I see." He smiled at him brightly and turned back to his lute. "Alright then. Keep your secrets."

"Hmm." This wasn't getting any easier. "Jaskier."

"Yes, dear?"

His heart fluttered with the pet name, so much that Geralt nearly bit his tongue off in the process of trying to voice his question: "Would you like to stay with me?"

The lute gave a dissonant twang that made both of them wince. "Excuse me, what?" Jaskier stammered, his voice much higher than normally.

"Hmm. I just thought..." He frowned. 'Shit.' He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. This had been doomed from the beginning. "Forget it, it's stupid."

"No, no, not at all!" Jaskier scrambled to his feet and hurried over to Geralt's side. "Where would we be staying? I suppose you could come to Oxenfurt with me, but it could get a bit crammed and-"

"Kaer Morhen," Geralt stated simply.

"Kaer Mo- oh!" His eyes lit up. "Why, yes, Geralt, I would love to stay with you."

And that was the end of that. They didn't talk about it anymore the whole evening as Geralt did his damnedest to forget the conversation had ever happened. But when he laid awake in the night, Jaskier huddled close to him — it was getting rather cold, after all — he couldn't stop his mind from whirling, excitement mixing with immobilising terror. Jaskier would come to Kaer Morhen with him. They would stay together the whole winter. And Jaskier would meet his family.

With a sigh he turned over, cautiously throwing an arm over Jaskier's waist and holding him like the precious thing he was. The smile that spread on Geralt's face when his bard snuggled even closer, outshone the morning sun creeping over the horizon.

The following days and weeks, Jaskier was buzzing with the same excited energy that Geralt held within. It cost him every ounce of self-control not to turn Roach around and head for Kaer Morhen right away. But it was still early in the autumn, at least a moon's turn before it was time to go home, so they busied themselves with taking contracts and performing for sub-par audiences.

It was alright. He needed the money, after all, if he wanted to cross off Step Four: Bring Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen in its entirety, including the note: Buy him some nice and warm clothes on the way - Vesemir

It was good advice, Geralt knew, as most of Vesemir's advice was. Jaskier might have travelled with a witcher for the better part of his life, but he was still only human. And winters were very cold in the northern Kaedwen mountains.

So, on Geralt's annual stop in Ard Carraigh, he took Jaskier to get him equipped with soft woollen sweaters and stockings, as well as a pair of sturdy boots, ignoring the bard's protests of how 'ugly' they were.

"You'll thank me when you've still got all your toes after this winter," he grumbled as he strapped Jaskier's bag to Roach's saddle.

After that, nothing much exciting followed. There were still a few villages and hamlets along the way to Kaer Morhen but the least of them had so much as a tavern. The ones with a real audience of Jaskier were fewer still.

Geralt couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. Quite the opposite, he loved listening to Jaskier in the privacy of their camp or — if they were lucky — the barn where they could stay the night. He loved knowing that Jaskier sang only for him. And most of all he loved the vibrant smiles he got along the way, and the tiny ones, too, etched on his face even when he curled up against the witcher at night.

During the days, Jaskier finally had to stop riding on Roach; the path was simply getting too dangerous. The way up to Kaer Morhen had never been easy, not even when there had been two dozen witchers and twice as many students living there, but since the attack they hadn't tended to it anymore. The Witcher's Trail was no easy one for humans — and it wasn't meant to be.

Jaskier, to his credit, didn't comment much on it, most of the time too exhausted or admiring to run his mouth about the difficulty of getting to Geralt's home. He was almost a bit worried, anxious even, if Jaskier's reaction to seeing the ancient ruin would just be the same kind of silent admiration.

Evidently, there had been no need. They rounded the last corner and, finally, Kaer Morhen was looming up above them. As soon as his eyes fell on it, Jaskier gasped and ran ahead. He had, apparently, forgotten about his aching limbs he had complained about just that morning. "Is that it?" he asked excitedly. "Geralt, is this it?"

"No, it's another crumbling fortress in the Kaedwen mountains," he deadpanned.

"You're mean," Jaskier accused him and turned back around to the keep. "For months I've dreamt of this moment and what do you do? You mock me, truly a horrible habit, that- oh, gods, Geralt, it's so beautiful!"

"Hmm," he answered, watching Jaskier intently. The childish glee on his face, the snowflakes dancing around him and melting in his hair. "I guess so."

"Can we go inside?"

Another barbed comment was already on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt guessed that he shouldn't ruin the moment. Not if Jaskier was so happy. "We can. Come on."

They were still a good distance away when the gates creaked open and three bulking figures stepped outside. "You're early," he accused Eskel and Lambert once they caught up to them. They weren't supposed to be there. They were messing up Step Five: Meet the family. (Lambert Eskel Lambert Vesemir first.)

"And you're impolite," Vesemir grumbled. "I taught you better, Geralt."

"Hmm," he answered and the silence that followed might've been awkward if not for Jaskier.

Thanks to him there was no silence at all, to be precise. "You must be Vesemir; Geralt told me so much about you. Dare I say, Master Witcher, I am honoured and humbled by the invitation, and am looking forward to my stay. The name's Jaskier and I am at your service," he concluded and bowed with a flourish.

The three witchers gaped at him in surprise and Geralt couldn't help but grin. No overly detailed stories by him could've possibly prepared them for... well, Jaskier. "What," Lambert muttered quietly, "the fuck?"

"Now, that's just rude," Jaskier said as he straightened himself, "don't you think? Geralt, your brother is being rude to me."

It was all he could do not to laugh freely. Instead he shrugged and said: "Told you he's the rude one."

"Oh, you're Lambert!" The bard grinned widely and stretched out his hand. "Nice to finally meet you."

Lambert huffed in surprise and shook the offered hand. "Tell you what, bard, I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended."

"Offended," Geralt mumbled just as Eskel said: "Flattered."

Jaskier smiled widely and wickedly. "Both."

Lambert opened his mouth, presumably to return a rude comment, but Jaskier's attention was diverted by Eskel, who gave him a thorough once-over and then nodded. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen, bard."

"Thank you, uh, Eskel?" he hazarded a guess.

A smile tugged on the unscarred corner of his mouth. "That's right."

"Dinner's in an hour," Vesemir cut in. "Maybe you could show our guest to his room, Geralt?"

Right. With the meeting out of the way it was time for Step Six: Show him to his room (Make sure it has some nice fur rugs - Vesemir) (Shag him on the rug - Lambert) (Offer to stay with him if he's cold - Eskel). Both of those additions seemed equally daunting to him.

But before he could even think of an excuse as to why he couldn't do that right now, Roach's reins were ripped from his hands and they were being pushed towards the keep.

"Well, they're certainly eager to get rid of you, considering they haven't seen you for a year," Jaskier quipped once they were inside the keep proper.

"That's not- hmm." 'Fuck.' He had almost betrayed himself. "They'll be different after dinner," he promised. "Besides, you know they can hear you."

"So?" He huffed a laugh. "I know they're just like you; all bark and no bite."

He was about to deny that claim but Lambert's offended howl that reached him from the courtyard quickly changed his mind. That definitely was worth the jab at his own ego. "Come on," he urged, smiling, "no need to continue playing the jester for them any further."

"Why, is there any issue with providing entertainment for a living?" Jaskier teased.

"Only if it's at the expense of me."

He sighed dramatically. "That I know, my dear. That I know."

"Jaskier?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to give you a tour of the keep."

"You are? Oh, I wouldn't have noticed." Geralt shot him a dirty look. Jaskier snickered maliciously, the bastard. "Oh, yeah, yep. Shutting up. Go ahead, Sir Witcher, show me your magnificent home."

From anyone else it might've been mockery. It might've been mockery from Jaskier, too, if not for the sound of absolute awe in his voice as he took in their surroundings.

Geralt could hardly blame him. It might've been a long time since he had arrived at Kaer Morhen, but he still remembered how dumbstruck he had been at the sheer immensity of the place that should become since home.

It had lost its mysticism since then, but seeing Jaskier's childlike wonder as he led him through the kitchens and great hall made him remember. He showed him the library, too, as well as the stairs down to the hot springs that he must never, ever confuse with those that led to the laboratories.

He closed with the rooms the various witchers claimed as their own: "That's Lambert's room down the hall, don't go there, he's a prick; Vesemir is a few floors below us, claims he's too old for our squabbles; that's mine, and that one's Eskel's, ask him if you need something and I'm not there, not Lambert, he's an arsehole-"

"Geralt," Jaskier said soothingly and put a hand on his arm, "you're rambling."

"Am I?" he asked confused. "Don't think so."

"There's no need to be nervous, dear. I won't abandon you; you're stuck with me for the winter."

"I'm not nervous," Geralt insisted, his fingers twitching nervously.

"Right," Jaskier took his hand away, evidently not very convinced. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, then."

"Don't be," he mumbled, not quite able to tear his gaze from Jaskier's gentle smile.

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Do I-" He started fidgeting with his lute strap. "Do I have a room, too? I mean, not that I mind sharing with you, that's not the issue at all- gods, I sound stupid-"

His eyes still trained on Jaskier, he reached behind him and opened the door. "There."

"That's my room?" he asked without turning around to look inside.

"That's yours," Geralt confirmed. He had prepared it last winter already. Just in case.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, the poet whirled around and rushed into the sparsely furnished room. He looked very much... out of place. The realisation hit him like a slap in the face; but apparently the visual of Jaskier and his bright purple doublet in the grey empty walls of Kaer Morhen was what it took for him to realise how little they were reconcilable.

For the first time in his life he felt self-conscious for his home. "'S not much," Geralt mumbled.

"It's wonderful." Jaskier beamed, carefully inspecting the bed and the rug, peering out the window and into the chest. "Might get a bit cold, though."

He grumbled something he knew to be unintelligible to humans into his beard.

"What was that, love?"

"You could always stay with me," he spoke up. "Y'know. We've shared before."

"That we have! You might find that before long you will be forced to let me take you up on your generous offer."

"Hmm," Geralt answered and left him to it, in order to complete Step Six.5: No, let him arrive first, you idiot! There would be no 'being forced' of any kind, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that to Jaskier, yet.

Despite their apparent incompatibility Jaskier settled into the routine of Kaer Morhen disturbingly quickly. Though 'settle into' wasn't quite the right choice of words. More like 'tear it down and build it anew, but with lyrics, laughter, and luminosity'.

The evening of their arrival was truly mortifying, the worst mix of embarrassing stories of Geralt's childhood and very inappropriate questions directed at Jaskier. Geralt had spent the whole dinner frozen in shock and awe at the masterful display of the bard's craftsmanship.

After an hour of vicious cross-examination, the three witchers had finally backed off. And as Vesemir had retreated to his rooms, Lambert had brought up the alcohol. It hall had spiralled out of Geralt's control after that.

Within the hour Lambert and Jaskier were japing and jabbing at each other as if they were lifelong friends and not acquaintances since a few hours. It took his bard three days to have Vesemir completely wrapped around his finger, intently listening to his droning lectures about basically everything. And not even a fortnight into their stay, he found Jaskier and Eskel in the library, talking with hushed voices. He quickly retreated but not before he heard Jaskier telling his brother how beautiful he was, scars or no scars, and Eskel sniveled quietly.

A month since their arrival saw them trapped into the castle by the heavy snowfalls. Unfortunately, that didn't stop Vesemir from drilling them mercilessly.

They were an hour into their morning routine when they all perked at the sound of soft footsteps passing through the hall. "Jaskier," Geralt said softly.

The bard was bundled up in several quilts, his face barely visible beneath the mess of his hair and the blankets. Still his face lit up with the brightest smile when he saw them. "Mornin', lads," he croaked, "lookin' good, keep it up." He gave them a tired thumbs-up and shuffled off to the kitchen, where Vesemir would provide him with a hot breakfast with a side of 'most-boring-information-on-this-earth'. It was their own morning routine of sorts, and the three of them knew it wouldn't be long before they were discussing the 'merits of the iambic pentameter in 10th century love poetry' or some shit.

"Fuck," Lambert cursed once they knew Jaskier to be out of earshot, "I really can't blame you, Geralt. Too much time with him and I start gawking like a love-sick idiot, too."

"Hmm," Geralt agreed. Jaskier definitely had that effect.

"Jealous, wolf?" Eskel inquired with a knowing smile.

"No," he answered earnestly. If anything, he loved Jaskier more for it. His family wasn't easy to deal with, he knew. But his bard didn't care. He had so much affection to give, even for witchers. 'Especially for witchers.' He closed his eyes with a happy smile.

"Y'know, there's still a couple of steps left on our list," Eskel informed him casually.

Geralt's eyes snapped open as his heart sped up. 'Fuck.' The plan. "Hmm."

"Just fucking get it over with," Lambert yearned. "Your pining isn't any less obnoxious just because he's here."

"If anything, it's gotten worse," Eskel agreed.

"So?" he snapped. He had put it off, that was true. Had waited for the snow, he told himself, but now the snow was here and-

"So, we'll distract him this afternoon," Eskel interrupted his spiralling thoughts.

"And you pull your head outta your arse and fucking follow through," Lambert added.

"Fine," he ground out. "We do that." Not before he kicked both their arses during their training, though, for being such utter dicks.

Before long, however, the inevitable happened. Morning passed over to noon, and, true to their words, Lambert and Eskel whisked Jaskier away after lunch. They left Geralt behind in the hall with a branch in his hands and nothing left to do but complete Step Seven: Hang up a mistletoe.

"Fuck," he muttered. Nearly one year had passed since they had come up with their conspiracy. One year to gather his courage, one year to come up with a plan, one year to at least think about where to fucking put it. "Fuck," he said again, for good measure.

He looked around. Looked to the rafters. Looked at the mistletoe. "Fuck it," he declared and tucked it away to scale up to the rafters.

He was already up there, dangling from one of the beams when he remembered that he had nothing to secure it with besides the silky ribbon that would never fit around it. He scowled darkly. He sure as hell wouldn't climb down and up again. Without further ado he pulled his dagger from his belt and drove it deep into the wood, pinning the mistletoe by the ribbon.

He climbed down again, making sure that it was visible from the ground. 'Perfect,' he decreed. With the mistletoe in place, it was now time for Step Eight: Have Lambert and Eskel inform Jaskier of the mistletoe and a strategically placed Geralt. 

He spun around to go and alert his brothers, when he heard a cheerful voice behind him: "Geralt! There you are, you mean witcher, I was wondering where you were hiding. You know, it is not nice to leave your, uh- bedmate all alone and freezing in the morning, and- oh." There was a thoughtful pause. "Now would you look at that."

Geralt heaved a long sigh. He dreaded turning around, for he had a very distinct feeling he knew already what he would see. And fuck, he was not ready for that step. For some stupid reason, he still did turned around.

Jaskier stood in the middle of the hall, squinting up at the ceiling. "Are my eyes deceiving me — and they might be, mind you, my eyes are not as good as a witcher's — or is that a mistletoe I spy up there."

He cursed internally. He knew he should've hung it lower. "Hmm," he answered, his heart beating in his throat. Why was his heart beating in his throat? It wasn't supposed to do that. His voice was surprisingly calm when he said: "Seems like it."

"Oh no!" he moaned woefully. "Quick, Geralt, come here and lift the curse!"

"Curse?" he inquired bemusedly as his feet moved without his volition. "What curse, Jaskier?"

The bard gasped. "Don't you know? When someone passes beneath a mistletoe, they are frozen to the spot until the curse is broken."

"Hmm," he stepped under the mistletoe, too. He should've known Jaskier would make up a story around this. It was just a tradition, for fuck's sake, no curse. Although a curse was certainly more romantic, even he had to admit that. "Must be a rare curse if a witcher's never heard of it."

"The rarest," Jaskier insisted and pointed at his cheek. "It may only be broken with a true love's kiss."

In light of what happened next, let it be known that, in Geralt's defence, he was panicking. Quite thoroughly so. Since the Trials his legs hadn't shaken like that anymore.

He had been promised a pep talk by his brothers before having to confront the situation at hand. And yet they were nowhere to be found and Jaskier was here, evidently expecting him to kiss him.

'Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck.' He was not ready; he was not ready; he was not-

"Geralt?" Jaskier ripped him from his thoughts. "Are you waiting till my nose grows icicles, or what?"

Still, he leaned forward, placing one hand on Jaskier's hip and the other on his shoulder, and pecked him on the cheek.

The cheek. That had not been the plan. That had not been the plan at all. And then, of all things, he heard himself ask: "Can you move again?"

Jaskier blinked, looking just as dumbstruck as Geralt felt. "I- I think so?" he stammered and moved to pull away, blushing furiously.

'Fuck, no,' he remembered thinking. And while he wasn't quite in control of his limbs again, what he did next was probably the single most clever thing he had done in his entire life. Gingerly almost, he tightened his grip on Jaskier. His head tilted to the side, an invitation, an escape.

His bard didn't move. Instead, he said: "Doesn't seem like it."

"Hmm," Geralt answered and leaned in closer. "Difficult curse, seems like. Let me try again."

Before he could even think of changing his mind, Jaskier had his arms looped around Geralt's neck and crushed their lips together. He did his best to reciprocate the kiss, which wasn't easy with fear still gripping his heart tightly, but then Jaskier crowded closer, moulding his body against Geralt's and that was all it took for the tension to seep from his bones and go limb.

It was a weird sensation; being wrapped in Jaskier's arms was so familiar, but he was also kissing Jaskier, which was new- 'Great gods, I am kissing Jaskier, I am kissing Jaskier, I am-'

He pulled back with a triumphant grin, evidently startling his bard. "What?" he asked, very confused.

"I am kissing you," he announced, his grin widening even more.

Jaskier frowned. "That you are, but-"

"I am kissing you," he said again and pecked him on the lips. "And I can keep doing it."

"Oh!" The frown eased away, giving way to the softest of smiles. "That you can, my dear."

So, Geralt did. Again. And again. And again, and again, and again. He didn't know how many times he had kissed Jaskier, how many times Jaskier had kissed him, before he pulled back and blurted: "I love you."

Jaskier stared at him in silent awe, before blushing and cupping his cheeks gently. "That you do, my love," he whispered. "And I love you, too." Softly, he pressed their lips together again.

"You do?" Geralt asked disbelievingly.

Jaskier smirked. "I do. For years and years, I have. I thought you knew."

"Fuck," he muttered. Did that mean... 'I didn't have to do any of this.' He could've just- "I'm an idiot."

"Only sometimes," he allowed, giggling sillily. Geralt was compelled to join in. "Besides, you’re my idiot, and I love you for it." He shifted a little, so he could lean his head comfortably onto Geralt's shoulder despite them being nearly the same height. 

"So," Jaskier drawled, curling a strand of Geralt's hair around his finger, "are we just going to keep standing here, or...?"

He scoffed. Of course, they wouldn't. He had a plan, after all. "Fuck." The plan.

Jaskier raised his head. "Is that a curse or an answer?"

"Yes," he answered warily.

It earned him the most beautiful snorting laugh he had ever heard. "What are you cursing at, love?"

"We skipped Step Eight," he admitted, "got right to Step Nine."

"Excuse me, what?"

"Step Nine: Kiss Jaskier." The poet just gawked at him. "I had a list," he explained.

"You had?" Jaskier's eyes lit up and he made grabby hands. "Show me, show me!"

Reluctantly, Geralt handed it over, studying Jaskier's face carefully as he read through it.

"I knew it," Jaskier concluded finally.

"Huh?"

"Oh, come on!" He threw up his hands. "You were acting weird all year round, Geralt! Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but still, weird. It took me about ten minutes to figure out there was some ploy at play." He laughed quietly and waved the paper around. "Though I never would've guessed what was amiss."

"You don't like it."

"On the contrary! It's a wonderful plan," the poet said and pecked him on the lips. "I've got to admit, though, Lambert was right: you should've just fucked me on that rug once we got here."

"Hmmm." Geralt nuzzled against Jaskier's neck, holding him closer when he tried to squirm away from the tickling sensation. "That still an option?"

"Very much so. I believe it has to be one more step before completing your list." He pulled him close and whispered against his lips: "Take me to bed, my love"

And how could Geralt refuse such a request? Especially if it coincided so luckily with Step Ten.

[julek]

five times jaskier does nice things for roach, and one time she returns the favor.

(or, jaskier spends a ridiculous amount of time and money on a horse).

*

“i told you not to touch roach,” geralt says when he hears his mare stomping her feet on the ground, displeased. she’s tethered to a tree near their fire and geralt, now busy brewing some potions, had finished brushing her a few minutes ago.

jaskier curses himself mentally, still not used to geralt and his witcher hearing, capable of listening to a bird’s cry three towns away. reluctantly, he draws his hand away from the horse, grinning innocently in geralt’s direction.

“i was just saying goodnight!” he says, sitting down cross-legged on his bedroll, “first impressions are very important, you know. wouldn’t want her to think i was being impolite on purpose, not when we are this”—he pinches his fingers together—“close to being best friends.”

geralt looks up at him, unimpressed. “she doesn’t like you.”

behind them, roach snorts in agreement, and jaskier splutters in indignance.

*

the forest is quiet.

no birds chirping, no predators lurking around, no sound. ideal work conditions, in geralt’s opinion. he’s crouched down next to a fallen tree, waiting for the drowners to take his bait.

suddenly, the swamp’s stillness is breached by soft singing and feet stepping on branches. rolling his eyes, geralt stands up as quietly as possible and walks over to jaskier, who’s busy picking flowers from a nearby meadow.

“i told you to stay with roach,” he says in greeting, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

jaskier yelps and turns around to face him, clutching his heart and letting the flowers fall to the ground.

“gods, geralt! warn a guy, would you? i thought you were one of those, um… what do you call them? swimmers.”  

“drowners.”

“my words exactly,” he says, gathering some long stems. “i was waiting with roach, mind you, but i got bored. so i looked around and thought hey! roach looks awfully dull without some pretty flowers weaved in her mane, so here i am.”

geralt lifts his eyebrows, abandoning all hope for a peaceful, quick hunt.

“she’ll trample you to death before she lets you touch her,” he deadpans.

jaskier tsks, already making his way back to their camp with his fresh selection of flowers.

geralt waits for the inevitable.

“fucking ow!” he hears, and feels a smile tugging at his lips. “that doublet was new! that is not how one reacts to gifts, you vicious horse. did that witcher teach you nothing about manners?”

he did, actually. he’s glad she’s putting them to use.

*

“fuck, i’m cold.”

they’re in the outskirts of blaviken, and much to jaskier’s chagrin, they’re making camp in the forest. winter’s near, and as much as he would have liked to sleep in a warm bed, he would have turned it down anyway. he’d seen the look on geralt’s face as they approached the town, and that had been enough of a reason to follow him into the forest.

jaskier is pacing around the fire, his woolen cloak snug around his shoulders, doing little to protect him from the biting wind. geralt had gone deeper into the forest to hunt something for their dinner and hadn’t yet returned.

he looks over his shoulder at roach, who’s laying down on the ground, her legs tucked under her body. geralt had slung a blanket over her back, and she’d been dozing off for the last half hour, seemingly unfazed by the cold.

he knows it’s a bad decision, and he’ll probably be kicked and yelled at, but right now he can’t find it in himself to care. his fingers are frozen and he can’t feel his ears, and he’s sure he’ll drop dead any minute now from hypothermia, so why not?

“hi, beautiful,” he whispers, crouching down next to roach, watching her reaction. “do you mind if i sit next to you? you see, it’s horribly cold,” he sits down, carefully as not to startle her, “and it’s something my brothers and i used to do, you know? huddling for warmth.”

if roach notices him laying against her side, she doesn’t show it. he gently places his head on top of her spine, and drapes himself in his cloak.

“you’re incredibly warm, did you know that? had i known that before, i would have cuddled you sooner.”

he’s so warm and comfortable he almost doesn’t notice geralt coming back. he hears his footfalls but decides to ignore them, too cozy to move, but roach has other plans. all of a sudden, she stands up, leaving him on the floor, confused.

“wha—roach!” he exclaims, picking himself off the ground. “we were doing fine! what happened?”

geralt smirks as he starts to skin the rabbit. “maybe that will teach you not to bother her.”

“but you don’t understand, i—we were happily laying side by side just a minute ago!” jaskier says, sitting in front of the fire. “you startled her.”

geralt snorts. “i did?”

jaskier rolls his eyes and looks at roach, who’s laying down again, unperturbed. “traitor,” he whispers.

*

spices, curated meats, oils, and baked goods are all geralt can smell, meaning this particular market isn’t too big and they’ll be out on the road soon. that, if he can get jaskier to hurry and get whatever he so desperately needs.

“oh, that stone is beautiful,” the bard says to a bald salesman, keen on selling him a new ring. “alas, it’s much too expensive for me.”

he gives the salesman a sheepish smile and moves on to the next stall.

“i just need one more thing, dear witcher, and we can be on our way,” he says, grinning.

geralt arches a brow, but says nothing. better not to distract him, he’s learned.

“hello, madam!” he chirps, looking at the goods displayed on her counter, “if you would be so kind, i’d like a full bag of sugar cubes.”

huh. that’s not what geralt had been expecting. cherries, maybe, or a honeycake, not sugar cubes.

jaskier pays the woman and kindly thanks her, then ties the small bag to his belt. “well, i’m done. are we leaving?”

geralt nods.

they make their way to the side of the road, where roach is nibbling on the outgrown grass. he takes the herbs he’d purchased and places them inside roach’s saddlebag, while jaskier resumes his daily chattering.

“you’re looking quite dashing today, my lady,” he says, gently stroking the mare’s neck.

geralt expects roach to hastily brush jaskier’s hand aside, but much to his surprise, she doesn’t, snorting happily instead. he looks at them for a second, dumbfounded.

“geralt? are we going, then?”

“hmm.”

*

summer is kind enough to let a gentle breeze filter through the trees, giving jaskier a breath of clean air.

he’s got his breeches rolled up to his knees, and his doublet is nowhere to be seen. they’d been traveling nonstop for two long, humid days, the burning sun above them, and jaskier had been too tired to even sing, lazily strumming his lute as he walked next to geralt. then, in the middle of a pointless rant about how the world would be better off without the sun and its infernal heat, jaskier spotted a stream.

grabbing roach’s brush from geralt’s saddlebags, jaskier takes her reins and gently leads her into the stream. she complies, braying lightly as she feels the water on her legs.

“i know, girl,” jaskier says, gathering water on his cupped hands and letting it pour on her head, minding her ears, “it’s too hot out, even for you.”

he looks over to geralt, who’s got his back to them, scrubbing mud from his boots.

“you know,” he murmurs, smoothly brushing her mane, scratching behind her ears, “he doesn’t think we’re friends, you and i.” she snorts in response, and he chuckles. “he still thinks you don’t like me.”

she moves forward, and jaskier’s about to move out of the way to let her walk out of the stream when she bumps her head affectionately against his chest.

“oh,” he whispers, overcome with emotion. “as you know, i’ve become quite the expert at reading geralt’s hums and silences, but this is uncharted territory. animal behavior is foreign to me.”

she swishes her tail, and jaskier huffs out a laugh.

“i’ll give it my own meaning, then,” he says, pressing his nose against her snout. “i love you too.”

*

the tavern is packed to the brim, overflowing with hearty patrons who served as a great audience, generously rewarding jaskier with applause and tankards of ale with his name written on them.

“thank you, my good men and women, for listening to my tales!” he exclaims, hopping off the stool he’d been using as a makeshift stage.

he heads to the bar, picking up two of the mugs and moving toward the corner where geralt’s sitting, half-hidden under the shadows.

“help yourself, witcher,” he says, smiling brightly. “the crowd was kind to us tonight.”

to you, geralt thinks but doesn’t say. instead, he takes a swig of ale. “so i’ve seen.”

jaskier beams at him, his cheeks flushed and his hair matted with sweat. he downs half his glass, sitting back on his chair, sighing contentedly.  

they spend the evening in comfortable silence, jaskier casually making remarks about the town or the last contract, taking small bites out of a piece of bread. after a while, geralt stands up.

“i’ll go check on roach.”

“oh, good!” jaskier says, standing next to him. “i forgot my quill in her saddlebags, i’ll go with you.”

geralt hums, and they walk past the people at the tavern. they reach the half-lit stables at the back, where roach chews on some straw in her stall.

“hey, sweetheart,” jaskier greets, stroking her snout. geralt starts brushing her down, and jaskier looks into her saddlebags for his forgotten quill. a long time ago, geralt had given up on trying to split their belongings into different bags, realizing the your side, my side logic meant nothing to jaskier.

after all, they shared everything. coin, wine, food. beds, sometimes, waking up with their legs entwined, jaskier’s head on geralt’s shoulder, embraced in what they both tried to pass off as the natural seeking of warmth on cold nights, nothing else.

jaskier leans against a pillar, watching geralt take care of his horse. they’d been traveling together for so long, yet it still amazes jaskier to see geralt move around roach. how his gaze softens, and a small smile stretches across his lips, only for roach to see. how he murmurs sweet nothings, rubbing that spot on her jaw he knows she likes.

“okay,” geralt says, “go to sleep, now. we’re leaving at dawn.”

roach bumps her head against geralt’s chest, lovingly, and he gives her a smile.

“goodnight, darling,” jaskier says, sneaking a sugar cube into her mouth. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

when he turns back, geralt’s looking at them with a fond expression, a small smile on his lips. he moves toward jaskier, his eyes soft.

“you’re spoiling her”, he says, amused. this close, jaskier can see geralt’s got a little bit of mud on his chin, and he wants to wipe it off.

“she’s a good horse,” jaskier tells him, feeling roach’s eyes on him. “she deserves nice things.”

“hmm.” geralt closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling softly.

jaskier moves forward, licking his thumb, and gently wipes geralt’s chin. he opens his eyes, watching jaskier.

“there,” jaskier whispers, his thumb now stroking geralt’s cheek.

suddenly, he feels roach nudge him forward with her snout, and he stumbles onwards, clutching geralt’s shirt for balance. they’re close, geralt’s breath on jaskier’s cheek, his hands on the bard’s waist.

“she’s a clever horse, too,” geralt says, pressing the tip of his nose against jaskier’s, rubbing softly.

“she is,” jaskier murmurs against geralt’s lips.

roach nickers softly in agreement.

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

In My Dreams Tonight

for @chaotic-bard who asked me for some fluff!

have a soulmates that dream about each other au featuring both a modern au and the canon universe!

brought to you by “Dreams Tonite” by Alvvays

---

“You’re nothing but trouble, bard,” the tall man glared from atop his horse. He always seemed to be glaring or glowering or huffing, the man in Jaskier’s dreams. The familiar stranger wore his long white hair pulled halfway back and he had golden eyes, the pupils of which were slit up the center like a cat’s. His name, Jaskier had learned after the third straight week of seeing him every night, was Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher, apparently, whose job it was to hunt down monsters.

“Ah, but what a lovely piece of trouble I am!” Jaskier replies. And he’s rather sassy himself in these dreams. Far more clever and ready to fight than he is when he’s awake. “You would miss me if I left, wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

The stranger hums a lot. He glares and he hums. Jaskier’s heart stutters frightfully in his chest whenever the man smiles, though. The sight is rare. Geralt has smiled perhaps three times in the past two months.

“Where are we going today?”

“Werewolf outside of town. You’re staying at the inn, where I know you can’t get into… nevermind. You can get into trouble anywhere.”

There’s a lightly teasing tone to the stranger’s voice that Jaskier hasn’t really heard before. He likes it. He craves more of it. He tosses and turns in his sleep, his skin damp with sweat. The dream goes on.

“Geralt, please,” he whines, “I can’t write ballads about monsters I haven’t seen! Or fights I did not attend! That’s lying to my audience, Geralt, and I simply won’t do it. I must go with you.”

“Drop it, Jaskier,” the man snarls. Jaskier feels sad. Incredibly sad.

Rejected?

“Gera-”

“I said drop it, bard.”

Jaskier wakes up feeling a little heartbroken and he yearns to be held. His pillow holds the fading scents of leather and wood-smoke. The sight of a pine sapling at the dog park makes him tear up.

He starts to wear the color yellow out of nowhere and his taste in jewelry switches from gold to silver. 

When his best friend asks him about the recent changes, he cannot answer.

---

Geralt pours himself a mug of tea and shakes his hair out of his face. He’s been having odd dreams lately, things that feel familiar but manage to stay just out of his conscious grasp. Someone important is waiting for him. Someone he love and cares about and needs. 

Geralt doesn’t really buy into the concept of soulmates, but he does understand instinct. He knows to trust his gut. He knows to listen and start paying attention when the same haunting blue eyes creep into his dreams every night for six months, plaguing him in the waking hours by refusing to give up their owners’ identity. 

He wipes a hand down his face and sighs loudly into the otherwise empty studio apartment. “Fuck me, I gotta figure this shit out. I gotta talk to Yen.”

Talking to himself has always helped him calm down. He does it again, just to hear his own low voice scraping through the silence. 

“I gotta see what’s going on with my head. These dreams are… getting to be a bit much, even for me.”

He nods to no one in particular and goes to text his best friend and coworker.

---

Jaskier hops off the bus and carries his guitar case down to the coffee shop on the corner. Finally, he’s managed to get a gig that wasn’t through the university.

He sets up his stuff in the tiny alcove the shop treats as a stage and watches as a few customers stroll around near the counter, waiting for their drinks or reading through the menu, hovering just far away enough from the line to keep others from growing confused.

He loves people watching. 

Once everything is ready to go and the light outside the window has dimmed a bit, indicating early evening has finally arrived, he pulls his guitar onto his lap and strums through a few quick chords.

“Rode here on the bus,

Now you're one of us.

It was magic hour,

Counting motorbikes on the turnpike;

One of Eisenhower's.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who starts a fire just to let it go out?”

He watches a particularly handsome man with broad shoulders and a vintage denim jacket approach the counter. Jaskier adds a haunting, well-practiced lilt to his voice as he goes into the chorus, hoping to get his attention:

“If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight?

If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight, tonight?”

An equally beautiful woman with long, curly black hair approaches the denim-clad angel and whisks him towards a table nearby. She settles with her back to Jaskier, leaving him with a decent view of the man’s sharp, lightly stubbled jaw, glittering eyes, and severe white ponytail. He’s gorgeous.

He’s also uncomfortably familiar.

Jaskier continues to perform, trying to identify his attractive mystery man the whole time and failing miserably.

---

“He’s everywhere, Yen. I feel like I could identify him by scent if I got close enough. I can’t remember his name, though. Or the color of his hair. I don’t know his face, only his eyes. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Have you talked to Dr. deStael about it?”

“Yeah, but she said this kind of thing is normal. Recurring dreams often help us sort out our trauma or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t feel traumatized by this guy I feel… protective of him. Maybe even like I love him?”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Shut up for a minute, this live music actually slaps and I want to listen to it. Then we can discuss your weird possessive tendencies towards your dream boyfriend.”

Geralt takes a slow sip of his coffee and glances up at the singer off to their left, perched on a barstool with his guitar held carefully on his lap. His voice is soft but somehow bright. Geralt finds himself utterly entranced.

“On the weird guitar;

Said you'd go to work

In the waking hour.

In fluorescent light,

Antisocialites watch a wilting flower.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who builds a wall just to let it fall down?”

The lyrics are strange and hold a dream-like quality to them. They draw a picture in Geralt’s head, something dark and heavy and oddly hollow. He has another sip of coffee and tries to ignore the feeling of panic welling up inside him. He glances at Yennefer to see if she’s picked up on his mood, but her violet eyes are focused on the singer and his nimble fingers as he continues to play and sing.

When he glances up towards their table and their eyes meet, Geralt loses the ability to breathe.

That shade of cornflower blue was…

Couldn’t be…

Had to be…

The gorgeous, feathery tenor continues to fill the air, whirling pleasant notes past his ears and deep into his subconscious. Geralt knows that voice. He’s heard this man laugh and sing and cry and scream a thousand different times. Through a handful of different lives. Geralt knows that face, those hands, those strong legs and long arms and blue fucking eyes. He’s held this singer in his arms every night for centuries, feeling his breathing as they both drift off to sleep.

He has protected this man and been protected by him in return. He has kissed and been kissed, caressed and been caressed. The two men sitting across from each other in the coffee shop physically embody an endless cycle of love. It has been bound up in the souls of two no-longer strangers. Geralt knows that he knows this man. 

He knows Jaskier.

Petal pink lips continue to form soft words and slender hands keep plucking at vibrating guitar strings:

“Don't sit by the phone for me,

Wait at home for me, all alone for me.

Your face was supposed to be

Hanging over me, like a rosary.”

Geralt stands suddenly, startling Yennefer but not the performer, even though he’s clearly just as shocked as Geralt about this recent development.

Their mutual realization.

“So morose for me,

Seeing ghosts of me,

Writing oaths to me,

Is it so naïve to wonder…”

Geralt crosses the room to the edge of the stage in three quick strides. Yennefer is close behind him, her latte just as abandoned as his coffee at their table. She grabs her friend’s arm as if to stop him from doing something violent, but when he doesn’t struggle against her grip she lets it go again easily. 

“Geralt?” the musician asks.

“Jaskier?” Geralt replies. The guitar is placed quickly to the side and a pair of incredibly familiar arms are thrown around the taller man’s neck. Geralt hugs back just as firmly, his arms flung low around the brunette’s waist. Geralt knows that this is Jaskier’s favorite way to be embraced; he doesn’t know how he’s aware of that fact, but it comes to the front of his mind clear as day. 

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes, leaning back to stare Geralt in the face. One of his string-calloused fingers traces down over Geralt’s eyelid and cheek and he cocks his head to the side. “No scar?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “Not this lifetime, I guess.”

“Were we? Are we- are we, you know...?”

“Yeah,” Yen beams, adding her two cents from the sidelines. “I think so. Congrats, boys. This is one of those one in a million chances and you’ve gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Geralt asks. Jaskier tosses his head back and laughs. His happiness rings out through the cafe like a struck bell and Geralt’s heart stutters frantically. He really does love this man already. Wholeheartedly and without fear. “What have we done, Yen?”

“As obtuse now as you were then,” Jaskier chides affectionately. “Soulmates, my love. We’ve been bound by the red string of fate and ta-da! Here we are. Again, apparently.”

“Yes, okay,” Geralt breathes, nosing his way along Jaskier’s jaw with giddy determination. He presses a quick and wholly welcome kiss to the bard’s lips. “That makes sense.”

 “Do you... do you want me again? This time around?” Jaskier asks, fingers fiddling with one of the ties on Geralt’s hoodie. A pair of chapped lips press against his again and he sighs into it, melting against his no-longer-Witcher. 

“Yes. And the next one, as well.”

[thearvariblues]

And They Were Roommates - Chapter 1

Slimmer Than Yennefer’s Waist

***

“I just wish he just fucking did it already, you know?” Lambert muttered, leaning against the bar counter.

“Yeah, I know,” Eskel nodded, wiping another glass dry. “He’s like a lovesick puppy.”

“And you don’t have to live with him,” Lambert groaned as he watched Geralt “help” Jaskier pack his things on the tiny stage at the back of the bar. The help consisted of Geralt doing all the work while Jaskier just stood there and watched, smiling like an idiot.

“Yes, every fucking day I see them like this, I thank all the gods I know for that,” Eskel agreed.

“Hey, Geralt!” Lambert yelled. “Aren’t you fucker supposed to be helping us close the bar? Or are you too busy playing a roadie?”

Geralt lifted his middle finger, not even looking up from Jaskier’s things.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Lambert snorted.

“By the way, aren’t you supposed to be helping, too? Because it seems to me like I am doing all the work here.”

“I’m giving you moral support or something, jeez,” Lambert sighed, rolling his eyes.

“And that prevents you from doing anything else, or…?”

“Ugh, fine. Whatever. Whose bright idea it was to close almost right after Jaskier’s gig ends, anyway?”

“You mean whose bright idea it was to plan a gig that ends at midnight,” Eskel replied. “Although there were so many people here tonight that I’m starting to think Jaskier’s really good. Probably.”

“If you have any doubts about that, don’t mention them to Geralt. He’ll gladly explain to you that Jaskier is the best thing that happened to rock music since fucking Queen.”

Eskel paused.

“Doesn’t Geralt only listen to death metal? Power, if he’s feeling particularly soft.”

“Yeah, I said rock, not metal,” Lambert chuckled. “Besides, Jaskier loves Queen.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah, it’s absolutely disgusting.”

“That he loves Queen?”

“No, I mean what Geralt’s doing.”

“Well… Yeah,” Eskel chuckled, but then he suddenly paused, blinking. “Uh-oh. I think he told him something.”

“What?!” Lambert turned back to the stage, his ginger curls whipping around his head.

Jaskier was just standing there, utterly baffled, staring at Geralt with his mouth wide open. Geralt, meanwhile, was red as a beetroot, clearly trying to come up with something to say and failing.

“Oh, no, don’t you dare,” Lambert muttered. “Don’t you dare back off now, I won’t spend the next two years listening to your lovesick bullshit!”

“You don’t even know what he told him,” Eskel remarked.

“Don’t care,” Lambert shrugged. “Oh. Oh, yes. Can you see that? Jaskier’s coming closer!”

“Oh, fuck, it’s happening,” Eskel gasped, leaning against the counter next to Lambert. “It really is happening.”

“No no no, Geralt, don’t you fucking dare run away, you moron.”

“Yes, Jaskier, stop him, that’s a good boy.”

“Of course he was gonna stop him, that queer bard has been madly in love with him for years.”

“Are you allowed to say queer?”

“Jaskier calls himself that!”

“Fair point.”

“Besides, I am… Oh, god. It really is happening!”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.”

That was the moment when Jaskier and Geralt’s lips finally met in a careful, almost shy kiss.

“Yes!” Lambert yelled, jumping up and down. “Fucking finally, you hare-brained dickheads!”

Geralt pulled Jaskier closer with one arm, using his other hand to give Lambert another middle finger.

“You gotta admit they’re kind of sweet, though,” Eskel chuckled when Jaskier jumped up, wrapping both his legs around Geralt’s waist.

Lambert rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. But if I ever start being sappy like this, just promise you’re gonna kill me.”

“Oh, Lambert,” Eskel sighed. “With pleasure.”

*

Precisely six months later, Lambert was sitting on his couch, staring at Geralt in utter disbelief.

“What the fuck do you mean you’re gonna move out?!”

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Geralt sighed, taking another sip of his beer. “But we knew this roommate situation wasn’t gonna last forever, didn’t we?”

“Oh, fuck of. We’ve been living together for how long? Since your divorce. That was what, four years ago?”

“Five.”

“Even better,” Lambert snorted. “Not forever, my ass!”

“Look, Lamb, I can give you… three rents. So you have time to find another roommate or… a cheaper apartment to live in, I don’t know.”

“You know where you can shove your fucking three rents, don’t you?” Lambert growled. “Am I really that insufferable a roommate, Geralt?”

“No. Well, you’re very… yourself,” Geralt smiled.

“Thanks a lot, mate, really appreciate it.”

“Lambert. It’s not you. I just… I just want to live with my boyfriend, really.”

“Yeah, and I get it, but I…” Lambert sighed. “I fucking love this apartment, I really do, and now I’m gonna have to give it up. I could never afford a place like this on my own.”

“You just need to find another roommate, Lamb.”

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but chances that I find another person willing to put up with my bullshit are slimmer than Yennefer’s waist.”

“You know, you could just say you’re gonna miss me,” Geralt smiled.

Lambert sighed again, but then he raised to his feet and went to the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“I am gonna miss you, Geralt,” he said, placing the glasses on the table with a soft clink. “Wanna get utterly wasted one more time?”

“With you? Always,” Geralt nodded, finishing his beer.

*

Geralt’s task to speak with Lambert was a walk in the park in comparison to what Jaskier had to go through.

“So… You want me to move out, basically,” his roommate said.

“I didn’t say that, dear heart,” Jaskier sighed, pouring them another glass of wine. “You’re more than welcome to stay, it’s just…”

“It’s just that I’d have to live here with you and your boyfriend. No, thanks.” He ran his fingers through his long black hair. “It’s fine, really. I’m sure I can find a place to stay.”

“Geralt’s not gonna move in immediately, of course. I was thinking… perhaps next month?” Jaskier shrugged. “I can even help you with the apartment hunting, if you want.”

“That’s sweet of you, Jaskier, but there’s no need. I’m sure I can do it on my own,” he said, adjusting his long skirt to cover his feet. “Damn, it’s fucking cold today, isn’t it?”

“Just put on some socks.”

“You know I hate socks.”

“Fine, freeze to death, then, if you want. Just… Listen, I want to help. To compensate for kicking you out!”

His roommate smirked.

“You just wanna ease your conscience, that’s all, babe. Stop it, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna be fine. I’m just gonna miss my friend, that’s all.”

“Oh, honey, but you can still see me whenever you want!” Jaskier said quickly. “Just stop by for a glass of wine, or we can meet at Geralt’s bar!”

“You mean Geralt and those other two’s bar.”

“Eskel and Lambert. Geralt’s adoptive brothers.”

“Yeah, those two. The scarred one and the asshole one.”

“You could meet them if you wanted, you see.”

“No, thanks. Knowing Geralt is probably enough, I don’t need to meet his family, too.”

“Well, you’re gonna meet them at the wedding whether you want it or not, so–”

“What fucking wedding are you talking about? Jaskier! Did he propose and you didn’t tell me?!”

“Relax. I meant a… potential future wedding I absolutely haven’t already planned every detail of.”

“Jesus, you’re incredible, Jaskier,” his roommate laughed. “Hey, I have a question. Couldn’t you like… you move in with Geralt and leave this apartment to me so all I’d have to do would be to find another roommate?”

“I wish,” Jaskier muttered, licking his lips. “But I told you Geralt lives with his brother Lambert, remember? And he insisted on leaving that apartment to him.”

“Lucky bastard. Think I could convince him to let me move in with him?”

Jaskier blinked, mouth falling open.

“Aiden!” he gasped. “That’s a fucking brilliant idea!”

Aiden groaned finishing his wine in a single one gulp.

“Oh, well. Looks like I’m gonna meet one of Geralt’s brothers, after all. Lucky me. Just remind me, Lambert is…”

“The asshole one.”

“Fucking great,” Aiden said, lifting the hand holding his glass. “In that case, more wine, please. I don’t want to face that idea sober.”

[dapandapod]

So Jaskilion, thank you for the music, Jaskier wearing a gown, the bards just being somfte 🥺

Bards just being somfte, how about bards being somft HUSBANDS? For my sweet @jaskierswolf, after the wonderful ABBA marathon we had, and thank you @kuripon for doing a beta read in the middle of the night. My middle of the night, to be fair, but still!!

Warnings: mention of past harrassment and Geralt's accordion. That in itself needs a warning I think. Oh and, Dandelion is having a really bad day.

On Ao3 here! <3

Dandelion is so fucking tired. Some days are really just out to get you, and this day in particular seems to want him to have some sort of breakdown.

Anything that could go wrong did go wrong. Murphy’s law and all that. He stepped in a muddy puddle that was deeper than it seemed, he got stuck in the elevator for an hour, the trains were late, his boss were yelling at him (again, Valdo should go sit on something prickly), his computer froze while screen sharing during an important meeting, his food tasted vaguely like fish because the person before him didn’t obey the unspoken golden rule about not reheating fish dinners in their microwave in the office and -

Yes. Long fucking day.

The worst part about it?

He is this close to missing one of the most important nights this year, nay, his life.

Jaskier is singing tonight.

It’s been a while, a very long while in fact, since Jaskier stood on a stage last. When they met, Jaskier used to do musicals, karaoke nights, weddings. His voice is rich, beautiful, a voice that drives off the darkness of the night.

Jaskier sang at their wedding.

But after one particular incident while playing the lead role in a musical, a coworker who had harassed Jaskier to the extent that they had to go to court to keep him safe, Jaskier never stepped up on a stage again.

He tried.

Dandelion watched his hands shake, his face getting paler and sweat dripping down his neck. He heard his voice crack, his breath hitch, and the sobs in the back rooms where he thought no one could hear.

And then he just never performed for others again.

So tonight is very fucking important.

It’s just a small neighbourhood talent show, kitchen chairs collected and pushed together in front of a makeshift theater. Dandelion and Jaskier had helped prepare a few nights before, dining on the kitchen floor in wait for the big day, laughing and teasing each other.

And here Dandelion is, about to fucking miss it.

He looks at his watch one more time. It has already started, but Jaskier is the second to last act tonight, right before the big finale with Tissaia and her little magic helpers.

If he runs, he might make it. Hopefully.

Bursting through the doors, making old Vesemir jump in surprise, Dandelion makes it just in time for little Ciri to get up on stage and do her puppet show.

Gods, just in time.

Vesemir glares at him, but Dandelion just pats his shoulder as he passes, squeezing himself deeper into the room, closer to the stage. He has a stitch in his side from running, and this shirt will need a good washing tonight, but that is a small sacrifice.

Sitting down next to Ciri’s mother in the second row, he finally catches his breath. He is here. He made it.

Now he only hopes Jaskier makes it on the stage.

They talked about that too. There is no shame in backing out, none at all. Jaskier’s well being is more important than anything else. Dandelion will support Jaskier in anything he chose to pursue.

He just hopes the small spark Jaskier has been nursing these last few days will stay.

They all applaud politely when Ciri steps off the stage, Pavetta finally letting her phone fall into her lap, pausing what is sure to be the biggest spam on social media (this week) about her daughter’s many talents.

Ciri is an incredible girl; whenever they had the honor of babysitting her, she and Dandelion would spend hours by the piano. Or the guitar. Or the ukulele. Or the lute. Or the violin….

Triss walks up on the stage, thanking Ciri through a small and rather crackly microphone. Next up is Jaskier.

Dandelion's heart is in his throat. Jaskier didn’t want to tell him what song he chose, only that it would be something very special.

When his husband comes out on stage, Dandelion feels like he wants to fall to one knee all over again, butterflies dancing and swirling in his stomach.

The gown he wears is a deep blue, sparkling in the small spotlight, making him the focus of everyone's attention. Dandelion recognizes it immediately from Halloween a few years back, when there was a Eurovision theme.

Jaskier’s eyes roam the small audience desperately, and when his eyes fall on Dandelion, the tightness in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

He is still a little pale, and Dandelion can make out the small tremble in his hands when he reaches for the microphone in Triss’ hand, but oh, how very proud Dandelion is of him.

Jaskier’s eyes never let go of him, and when he walks the two small steps to the middle of the stage, Dandelion feels each foot fall through his own body.

“Thank you all for being here tonight.” Jaskier begins. “I would like to dedicate this song to the love of my life, and no, I’m not talking about this dress.”

Jaskier’s smile is blinding, and Dandelion hears the crowd chuckle.

“Dandelion, my beloved husband, thank you for always being there for me, thank you for drinking my terrible coffee, thank you for always, always believing in me. For always keeping the music alive within me, with or without words.”

Jaskier points to Triss on the edge of the stage, and she starts what is unmistakably ABBA.

“Thank you for the music, my love.”

The performance is a bit shaky. It is bound to be, Jaskier is fighting for every breath, every note, but it is every bit as beautiful and rich and clear as it ever was. As it has been in the shower, in the kitchen, in Dandelion's arms as they slow-dance around their living room at one in the morning.

The dress sparkles as Jaskier takes a few tentative steps, eyes again roaming the crowd, only to return to Dandelion to anchor him once more.

Dandelion could cry.

He registers Pavetta holding her phone up again. He will have to ask for the pictures (hopefully it's video) after. Right now, Dandelion's hand is pressed over his mouth, trying his utmost to hold back.

“I've been so lucky, I have a love with golden hair I wanna sing it out to everybody What a joy, what a life, what a chance.”

Jaskier sings, winking at Dandelion. Jaskier always loved Dandelion's blonde hair, playing with his curls, dragging his fingers through the silky strands.

The last notes ring out, and the audience clap politely again.

They don’t know how big this is.

Now Dandelion has to stay in his chair until Tissaia has finished her magic tricks, until the last little girls have scampered off stage, and Triss declaring Geralt and his accordion the winner for tonight.

Vesemir hoots loudly in the back, stomping his feet, and then Dandelion is out of his chair. The entire day has been shit, but to hold Jaskier in his arms, high on nervous energy and victorious joy, everything is forgotten.

The dress is a little scratchy under his hands, as is Jaskier's stubble against his cheek, but he holds him tight, as close to his heart he can muster.

“I am so proud of you,” he whispers, and he can hear Jaskier let out a happy little sniffle. “Let’s get home and get drunk off our asses.”

“We just need to find our chairs again, I’m not sitting on the floor in this dress,” Jaskier replies.

“How about no dress, the couch, and that strange cherry vodka you brought home the other day,” Dandelion bargains, kissing Jaskier's temple and grabbing his hand to walk back towards their house.

Jaskier thinks it over for a moment.

“Done. But only if we can blast ABBA so loud, the neighbours at the end of the street will hum Waterloo in their sleep!”

If Dandelion hadn’t already married this man, by gods, he would again.

[keys-to-the-kinkdom]

i see medical/examination kink on your list 👀 maybe someone (take your pick) examining ciri? perhaps she's a sex slave they're getting ready to sell??? - 👽

Aiden was at the slave market under contract. Despite his reputation, he did tend to prefer his partners consenting, but a grieving widow had put out a contract on a slaver and Aiden had been too much of a bleeding heart to say no. Lambert was going to laugh himself sick when he heard. The problem he was having was that his target was back at the slave pens. The public weren't allowed access to the slave pens without being a buyer. Aiden didn't want to buy a slave, not even to kill one of the slavers. 

He was leaning against one of the pillars in the auction room, trying to look dangerous and unapproachable while he worked out how to fulfil his contract. He was barely paying attention to the stage, just enough to spot a threat if one was to emerge. A flash of white caught his eye. His first thought was that Geralt was here chasing the same or another contract. A closer look showed just how wrong he was. 

Ciri was standing, tall and regal in the middle of the stage. She was completely bare. Even with her cunt out and her nipples teased to stiff peaks, she radiated serene regality. Aiden adjusted himself subtly in his breeches. Like all the slaves, her hands were tied behind her with sturdy rope and there was a thick leather collar around her throat. The leash was held by the auctioneer. 

'Our next lot is a young woman, approximately twenty five years of age, healthy and strong. She would be suitable for any work, including manual labour and bedsport. She is not untouched. I'll start the bidding at 300 crowns,' the auctioneer called. 

Aiden’s hand was in the air before he had a chance to think. Ciri was a Wicher in all but mutations. She’d be able to help him fulfil the contract. He also owed it to the wolves to rescue their youngest from a situation that she probably didn’t want to be in (although she looked comfortable enough on the stage). Those were the reasons he’d have given if anyone had asked him what he was doing. The reality was though, that in that moment, he saw her and he wanted and he had the means to take. 

The bidding spiralled up from 300 to 500 to 700 and Aiden began to sweat. He’d had a good season on the Path, starting out with new gear from the caravan and picking up a few very lucrative contracts early on, but he wasn’t made of money. Not like some of these people were. Just as he really began to worry, Ciri bared her teeth and snarled at the greasy, portly man that was attempting to outbid Aiden. Her sharp teeth glinted in the light and the glare was as feral as anything Lambert could have produced. Aiden’s dick twitched in his smalls. His opposition on the other hand, shrank back, put off by the sight and he missed his chance to bid. 

‘Going once! Going twice! Sold to the man with the red hair!’ the auctioneer called. He handed Ciri’s leash off to an attendant and the next slave was dragged out. 

Aiden made his way through the administrative process as quickly as he possibly could. The attendant that led him back gave him an indulgent smile. 

‘She really is something to look at, that one, isn’t she?’ he said conspiratorially.

Aiden swallowed and nodded, ‘Yeah.’ His voice was raspy. ‘I can’t wait to find out what she’s like in bed. Seemed to have some fire in her.’

Of course, he knew Ciri’s fire well. The idea of it leashed under his control was doing things to him that he didn’t really want to admit to. He was learning a lot of things about himself very suddenly. 

The slave pens were in a large warehouse at the back of the auction building. There was an open space in the middle where the sold slaves were tied to hitching posts, waiting for their new owners. Aiden’s eyes snapped immediately to Ciri’s white blonde hair. He walked towards her like he was the one on the leash. 

When he reached her, a lean, rat-faced man stepped forward and took the token that provided proof of sale. 

‘Watch for this one,’ he sneered, ‘she’s a feral little thing.’

He reached out to tweak a nipple but froze when Aiden clamped a hand around his wrist.

‘She’s mine,’ he hissed, ‘and you will not touch her.’

‘Quite right, Sir,’ the man said with an oily smirk, stepping back. ‘Will you inspect the goods before you leave?’

Aiden had heard of the practice, of course. As a Wicher it was impossible to not be introduced to the seedier sides of life. As a Cat Witcher who was less picky about his contracts than schools like the Griffins or the Wolves, it was expected that he’d have contacts in the underbelly of society. As such, he knew what he needed to do here. He knew he should feel reluctant, but all he felt was desperate. He wanted to get his hands on that pale, creamy flesh and show her who she belonged to. 

‘Yes, I’ll inspect her,’ he said, stepping forward.

They were nose to nose now. He could feel her little puffs of breath hitting his chin. Her warmth was intoxicating. He leaned closer, placing his lips by her ear.

‘Hello there, little pup,’ he whispered. 

She shivered, very lightly, but enough that he noticed. 

He stood back and looked her over. 

‘Good. She knows to hold position at least,’ he said, eyes flicking to the slaver.

He reached out and tilted her chin up. Her skin was soft and warm. It wasn’t the first time they’d touched. He’d helped train her after all and spent several winters in the wolves’ keep with her where they all wrestled and sparred. This deliberate touching of her naked skin was different though. Electricity sparked along his fingertips which felt like they suddenly had a direct line to his cock. 

‘Where did you get her?’ Aiden asked. 

As he waited for an answer, he lifted first one eyelid and then the other. Her eyes were clear and bright and she didn’t waver under his hands. He burned with the trust it implied. He ran his fingers down over her cheeks, stroking her hair back from her face and coming to rest cupping her jaw. She blinked once, slowly. 

‘Found her running around in Ebbing, asking questions she shouldn’t have been. Didn’t take much to shut her up,’ the slimy arsehole crowed. Aiden longed to silence him. Permanently. 

He focused on Ciri. Her light, sweet scent filled his nostrils and calmed him. He was where he needed to be to fulfil the contract. He swore to himself there and then that he would kill this odious man before he left. How dare he think he had the right to touch Aiden’s Ciri? She deserved better than his disgusting hands on her sweet, perfect body. 

He lifted her top lip and slid one finger in, running it around her teeth. They were all in place with no cracks or other damage. He breathed a little easier. Ciri didn’t have the same mutated ability to grow new teeth if her original ones were damaged. Her training had focused a lot on protecting her face. He pulled his finger back and hooked it across her bottom teeth, pulling her mouth open. She allowed it and he swallowed hard at the sight of her little pink tongue, sitting there so innocently. He imagined it licking at his cock. He slid two fingers in, as deep as he could. She breathed deeply around them but didn’t otherwise react and Aiden felt himself beginning to leak. Her mouth was warm and soft and he wanted nothing more than to push her to her knees and sink his cock in. He couldn’t though. He had to keep his cover. He had to hope that Ciri knew what he was doing and that she wouldn’t hate him afterwards. 

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them down her throat, spreading the wetness and making it glisten. As he trailed over the collar he felt her breath hitch and he paused to tug on it a little. Her scent deepened, ripening with arousal. He tugged harder and she whined. He considered teasing her some more, but resisted, instead moving to slip his hands down her arms, checking her muscle definition. He tested the rope around her wrists and subtly loosened it enough that she could slip out if she needed to. He desperately hoped she’d stay where she was, but at least she now had the ability to leave if she wished. The leash was looped around the pillar but it wasn’t tied. A good pull would have it free in seconds. 

His fingers skimmed from her wrists over her ribs where he frowned over how clear it was that she hadn’t been eating enough. She blinked at him again and relaxed into his hands. 

‘Did you not bother feeding her?’ he asked, venom dripping from his voice.

‘She’s alive, ain’t she? She ate enough.’

‘I prefer my partners to feel less like I may break them the first time I throw them down to fuck them properly,’ Aiden spat. 

Ciri’s moan was almost certainly too quiet for anyone else to hear. It was barely audible to Aiden’s Witcher enhanced ears, but it was audible. He smirked at her. He could see a muscle jumping in her thigh where she was clenching her legs. He preened at the knowledge that she was turned on by him. 

From her ribs, he slid his hands up and cupped her breasts. He paused with his thumbs hovering over her nipples, which were still taught and peaked in the slightly chill air of the room. 

‘Are you sensitive?’ he asked her, his voice dripping like dark honey between them. He should be kind to her, but there was a beast inside him, rising up and screaming for her ruin. 

‘Yes,’ she whispered. 

‘Yes?’ he asked, giving in all at once to his basest instincts, ‘Yes what?’

‘Yes, Sir, I’m sensitive,’ she replied, louder now and more confident with something to push back against. 

‘Hmm.’

He pinched them, quick and hard and she arched back and wailed. Each breast was barely a handful, but they were soft and round and tight. Her nipples were small and he applied himself to teasing them, alternating sharp pinches and light brushes in an unpredictable pattern. He could see her struggling to stay still, wanting more. Her back was bowed into an arch as she pressed forward into his hands. He thumbed over both nipples, gave them a sudden hard twist then let go entirely. Her voice rose in a reedy wail. 

‘You are sensitive,’ he purred, ‘Does that apply to everywhere, I wonder.’ She opened her mouth to answer him, but he interrupted her. ‘You only need to speak when ordered to. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut unless you’re moaning on my fingers.’

She closed her mouth and nodded. He pulled the leash rope free from the low railing it was attached to and tugged her forward. She fell into him, off balance. He used the opportunity to grab a handful of her tight little ass which she wiggled. He pressed his hand between her legs and found that she was soaking. Slick dripped freely from between her folds and she moaned as soon as he touched her. 

‘Eager little thing, aren’t you,’ he murmured. ‘So wet for me. You’re going to make such a good slut.’

He spun her around and pressed one hand to her hip and the other between her shoulders.

‘Bend over and put your hands on the rail,’ he ordered. 

As soon as she complied, he kicked her feet wider, exposing her most intimate places to his view. She was flushed red and dripping. The scent of her arousal wound around him and intoxicated him. He had to have her. He wound the leash around his fist and pulled it, forcing her head up and her back to arch so that she was presenting to him. 

‘I’m going to touch you now and you’re going to come on my fingers like the greedy little slut that you are,’ he told her. ‘If you’re good, I’ll give you my cock, but you have to earn it. I want to hear you scream, do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ she whimpered.

‘Good girl.’

His finger circled her clit and she whined. He laughed, low and a little cruel. It wasn’t going to be that easy. 

‘Have you ever been fucked before, little slut?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she replied, gasping for breath as he pushed two fingers into her without pause. He wanted to wreck her. He wanted to own her, to possess her so utterly that she would never look at another man again. The intensity of his own feelings overwhelmed him and he pushed another finger in, leaning forward. His hard cock pressed against her arse and he thrust, groaning at the friction. He leaned forward, draped half across her back so that he could hiss into her ear.

‘Look at you,’ he growled, as deep and resonant as any Wolf, ‘You were made for this. You were made to be my little slut.’ He dropped his voice to a quiet rumble so that no one but her would hear. ‘What would Geralt think if he could see you like this?’ he asked. ‘His precious daughter spread out on my fingers, whimpering for more. What would your Uncles say? Do you think they’d be disgusted to know that you’re nothing but a little slut? Or do you think they’d want a turn?’

Ciri gasped and moaned at that, slick leaking out around Aiden’s fingers to drip onto the ground. He pushed the fourth in and reached down with his thumb, circling her clit with a lazy, light pressure that did nothing more than frustrate. 

‘Oh, you like that idea, do you? You like the idea of your father and your uncles lining up behind me, ready to take their turn with my precious little slut? Is that what you want? I can make that happen,’ he growled twisting his fingers and pressing down with his thumb at the same time.

Ciri came apart with a wail, loud enough to turn heads in their direction. Aiden preened, knowing that everyone could see how good his little slave was. She shook apart under him, cunt clenching and fluttering around his fingers. He hooked them forward and pulled, twisting and pressing as she came. Slick gushed out, running down her thighs and soaking his hand. He purred at the feeling. 

‘What a good little slut,’ he whispered. ‘So good for me.’

‘Thank you, Sir. Thank you,’ she whimpered. Her voice was scratchy from the screaming. 

He drew his fingers out and pulled her up. Her knees were shaking and she fell back against him. 

‘You’ve made a mess,’ he said. ‘I think you should clean up after yourself.’

He offered her his hand and she stuck her tongue out, darting little kitten licks to clean it of her slick. She moaned as she did so and he couldn’t help but grind forward, pressing his cock against her pert little arse. She pressed back. The friction was both delicious and terrible. He wasn’t going to come in his braies like a kit. He wasn’t. If she didn’t stop that though, he might not have a choice. He pulled his hand away. 

‘Enough now,’ he said. He barely recognised the sound of his own voice. 

‘Are you happy with your purchase?’ the odious little man asked. Another man had joined him while Aiden had been distracted and he barely resisted the urge to curse. This was his target. The slaver that he had been sent after. Before he could react, Ciri had shrugged out of her ropes, ducked down and pulled the knife out of his boot. Her throw was textbook, exactly as he had taught her, and it embedded itself in the target’s eye. 

All hell broke loose as his body hit the ground.

[pillage-and-lute]

Can I have some Book! Geralt,who somehow happened to be in show universe,meeting Jaskier, who after some prodding from him tells B!Geralt about mountain and B!Geralt is furious? At some point they meet show! Geralt and B!Geralt makes sh!Geralt jealous because he knows Jask's feelings are not unrequited,but only after making sh!Geralt understand that that is not how you treat your best friend in the whole wide world. I just want some sh!Geralt/Jask with a little help from B! Geralt Thank you <3

Hi Sadpathologist!

Have I read the books? no, but I intend to.  I’m giving this a whack nonetheless! 

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

Jaskier about leapt out of his skin when the tall, silver haired witcher appeared beside him at the bar. He seemed...different. Jaskier’s brain, marinating in a fair amount of gin, wasn’t putting in the work to decifer the difference. 

Jaskier coughed.

Geralt glanced at him, looked directly at him, then went back to ordering his drink.

So that was how it was. Twenty two years, just to end up strangers again. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to put up with that. He deserved better than that. He wasn’t quite sure what all he deserved, an apology for one, but not to be given the silent treatment and a cold shoulder were definitely on the list.

“Hey,” he said. “Geralt.” 

The witcher turned. “Do I know you?”

Jaskier felt something little crush in his chest. “That’s not fair and you know it, we’ve known eachother for decades, Geralt.” His voice was getting dangerously wobbly now and it made him burn with shame but he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. “We were friends,” he said through the lump in his throat. “I know you never called us that but we were. I know we aren’t anymore but...” He choked, not able to finish the sentence and not sure how he would have if he could.

Geralt was looking at him, wide eyed.

“Dandelion?”

huh?

“I haven’t gone by that since Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said. His rational brain was really, really trying to tell him something about Geralt, something was weird, but it had been a lot of gin. “I’m not sure I ever told you that, either.”

Geralt picked him up by the shoulder and hauled him out of the tavern, into the light of day. It hurt after all the daydrinking, but realization slid into place and the shock had a better sobering effect than a cold bath.

“You aren’t Geralt,” he said. He began to twist about in the grip, captured by some Geralt-facsimilie. 

“I am, I am,” the not-Geralt set Jaskier down. “I’m just not- I’m not you’re Geralt. He pulled Jaskier into the stables and Jaskier took a good look, since the man didn’t seem to be actively trying to kill him. 

“You aren’t my Geralt,” Jaskier said. “The scars are wrong, and your beard is more grown in than you usually let it get.” He thought. “And I don’t think I told you I ever went by Dandelion.”

“What, never?”

“You-he never asked.”

“Okay,” not-Geralt said, sitting down on a sack of hay. “I’m not from here, I know a Dandelion-Jaskier, he looks a lot like you, but he’s blonde. There was this... thing, I interrupted some big sorceressy ritual, I’m sure I’ll get back in a couple of days but listen...what did you mean when you said we-you and your Geralt- aren’t friends anymore, that he never called you friends?”

The face, almost familiar, looked very serious. Geralt was looking at him with genuine concern and it was so close to everything Jaskier wanted, but the scars were wrong, there were little laugh lines and marks in the wrong places. The eyes were the same.

He believed this Geralt, too. It sounded crazy but, well...golden dragon men, djinns, devils, elves, Jaskier had known a lot of crazy.

This Geralt hadn’t asked for the whole story, but it felt so good to tell someone about it, Jaskier gave it to him anyway. From Posada to the mountain. His voice broke, and not-quite-Geralt put a comforting arm around him, rubbing his hair in a way he liked. It was as if he knew just how Jaskier liked it.

Jaskier full on cried talking about the mountain, but he never even talked about the final argument, merely saying Geralt had sent him away. He felt safe and appreciated but it wasn’t his Geralt and it was so close that it hurt to talk about it. The thought that in another life Geralt might be his friend, could be this more open, loving person ached. In this life Geralt would rather he be dead.

He sat there, other Geralt seemed baffled. After a moment he spoked.

“What a dick.”

Jaskier was thinking though. Maybe the difference wasn’t about Geralt. What difference in Jaskier could cause all this.

“Tell me about your Jaskier?”

Geralt-ish looked down at him. “He’s blonde, he wears loud clothing, more pinks and purples, and feathered hats.” A small smile crossed his face, and it was so beautifully, heart achingly familiar. “It took me a while to accept our friendship too, but he practically forced it to me. I love him more than anything.” There was a soft look in Geralt’s eyes.

“I can’t image a world in which we aren’t at least friends, if not lovers. I don’t think the white wolf was meant to be without his barker.” He made direct, blazing eye contact with Jaskier. “We need to find your Geralt and knock sense into him, if you can’t do it, I’ll take him outside and beat him from one end of the Continent to the other.”

“I don’t even know where he is,” Jaskier said.

“We’ll find him, if I were him I’d still be brooding at the bottom of that mountain.” Other-Geralt began slinging bags onto Roach. She looked exactly like Roach. Jaskier approached carefully. 

She sniffed him cautiously, but there must have been something in his scent she recognized because she nuzzled him appreciatively. Wrong-Geralt mounted up and looked at Jaskier expectantly.

“Well? Go on, get on Roach.”

“Oh no,” Jaskier said, stepping back. “I’m not allowed on Roach.”

Not-Geralt looked at him like he was stupid. “What do you mean you’re ‘not allowed on Roach’, you don’t have your own horse. You can’t walk all the time.”

Jaskier shouldered his lute. “I manage fine.”

Not-Geralt picked him up by his collar and deposited him solidly on Roach’s back. “Hold tight,” he said. “We can’t both ride her all the time, but we’ll take turns walking, it’s not too far to the mountain you mentioned.”

Jaskier wasn’t certain he wanted to go back to that mountain at all. 

This wasn’t his Geralt. This was a witcher from a completely different universe. One with a blonde Jaskier who still went by his old stage name. He could be completely wrong about all of this. He might love his Jaskier, but what if in this world Jaskier was truly despicable to his Geralt. A shit shoveler. 

He must have tensed because the Geralt he had his arms wrapped around twisted back to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s something you aren’t saying.”

Jaskier sighed, and they rode on a few more minutes in silence. He hadn’t gotten very far from the mountain, and it would take them only a few hours on horse back.

“When Geralt-my Geralt, told me to leave on the mountain...” Jaskier tailed off, the memory was still so recent and it stung. 

“He said something, didn’t he?”

Jaskier nodded, sure the witcher would feel the movement.

“It’s okay, you can tell me. What did he say?”

“He told me I shovel shit,” Jaskier gave a wet little chuckle. “He blamed me for every bad thing that happened in his life. Then he said...”

Other-Geralt held Jaskier’s wrist where his arms were holding on and rubbed his thumb across the joint sympathetically. Jaskier began to cry silently.

“He told me that if life could give him one blessing,” Jaskier said, leaning his wet face against the back of other-Geralt. “If life could give him one blessing it would be to take me off of his hands.”

Other-Geralt took in a sharp breath and brought other-Roach up short. He turned almost fully around in his saddle.

“He said what?” His voice was low and dangerous. There was real fury in his voice.

“He said-” 

“I heard what he said, he said that to you? He actually looked at you and told you that?”

Jaskier nodded. 

“Tell me,” other-Geralt said. “Did he leave you to get off of that mountain alone?”

“There were tracks,” Jaskier said, feeling somehow that he should defend his Geralt, although admittedly the witcher probably no longer deserved his loyalty.

“And, from what you’ve told me, some pretty murderous people not to mention treacherous terrain.” Other-Geralt nudged not-Roach into a trot, but his jaw was working the way Geralt’s did when he was angry.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said softly. Not-Geralt peered at him over his shoulder. 

“You know you don’t deserve what he said, right?”

“Yes of course, I didn’t deserve any of that.” Jaskier huffed ruefully. “Especially not after twenty two years.”

“Good,” not-Geralt said, turning back to face front. “So long as you understand that.”

They rode a while in silence, Jaskier’s eyes gradually drying.

“Do you love him?” not-Geralt asked eventually. 

“More than life,” Jaskier said. 

“Even after all this? No one would blame you if you fell out of love after treatment like that.”

“Even now, yes,” Jaskier sighed. “I think it’s because I understand him better than anyone. He isn’t used to dealing with his emotions, so sometimes he does it badly. I still love him, but he really messed up this time, he’s bad at emotions but this bad...it really hurt me.”

Other-Roach walked another long silence.

“I think it hurt even more because sometimes,” Jaskier took a deep breath, not willing to cry again today. “Sometimes I thought he might love me back, love me too. There were little things he’d do...”

“Like what?”

“Oh little things, he noticed when my boots needed replacing before I did, let me wash his hair. Tiny, sleep smiles in the morning, that sort of thing.”

“He does love you,” other-Geralt said. “I’m certain of it. We’re not far from the mountain now, and I have a plan, if you’re willing.”

“A plan?”

“Absolutely. It will be torture for him, and he’ll certainly apologize, probably confess his feelings too.””

Not-Geralt explained his plan. 

Jaskier listened.

“Won’t your Jaskier mind?” he asked. 

“I don’t think so, we have a flexible exclusivity, and this is for a very good cause, besides, we won’t go very far.”

“If you’re certain.”

“It won’t make you uncomfortable?” asked the other-Geralt.

“No, actually,” Jaskier said, grinning. “I think it’s a perfect plan.”

They reached the inn at the base of the mountain before nightfall.

Just like other-Geralt said he’d be, Jaskier’s Geralt was drinking with a single mindedness that was a little worrying. Other-Geralt turned to him.

“Sure you don’t want me to just beat sense into him?”

“No,” Jaskier said, mentally slipping into character.

“Okay then, ready?”

“Ready.”

Other-Geralt strolled up to the bar with Jaskier basically hanging off his arm.

“Pint for me, please,” he told the barman. “And one for my...friend.”

Friend dripped positively salaciously. 

Jaskier’s Geralt didn’t even look up, but he didn’t let himself be deterred. 

They sat with their ales close, but not too close to Geralt. Jaskier plopped himself, giggling into other-Geralt’s lap. He leaned into his ear and whispered flirtily, “tell me a joke?”

Other-Geralt chuckled, and oh, that sound in such a familiar voice made Jaskier’s heart skip in his chest. 

“Where does the general keep his armies?” other-Geralt asked. Jaskier thought, then asked,

“I dunno, where?”

“Up his sleevies.”

It was such a ridiculous joke, silly and lighthearted and so odd to hear in Geralt’s deep rumbling voice that Jaskier tilted his head back and let peals of laughter escape. He finally disolved into little, bubbling giggles and buried his face into other-Geralt’s neck.

“Is he looking?” he whispered, barely a breath so that sensitive witcher ears wouldn’t hear in the loud tavern.

“Yes,” other-Geralt rumbled. “He looks green with envy.”

Jaskier looked into almost familiar eyes, smiling. “Okay?” he whispered. 

“Yeah, okay,” other-Geralt said. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier. 

It was a lovely kiss, other-Jaskier clearly liked being kissed the same way, but it was fairly short. Then other-Geralt pressed little kisses along the top of Jaskier’s cheeks and behind his ears, beginning to trail down his neck.

“Jaskier.”

It was his Geralt, standing over them. Jaskier looked up. “I’m busy,” he said, then leaned in to wrap his arms around other-Geralt’s neck, as if he was going to kiss him again. 

Geralt lifted him off by his collar. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled. Jaskier noted with amusement that he was making his voice deeper than usual, like a tom cat fluffing it’s tail. The bard crossed his arms as his feet hit the floor. 

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he said, although part of him just wanted to melt into that familiar gaze. “Especially since you decided it would be a blessing for me to be taken off your hands.”

Other-Geralt, with expert timing, pulled Jaskier back into his lap, sliding one hand up to Jaskier’s inner thigh. It was almost indecent, although not really, but Geralt looked ready to explode. 

“I don’t know if you noticed,” other-Geralt said, voice pitched suggestively. “But your hands aren’t what he’s going to be on.” This was accompanied with a truly indecent hip thrust, rolling Jaskier where he was sat on other-Geralt’s lap. The witcher wasn’t hard, and it was all an act, but Jaskier couldn’t help blushing a little. This was, after all, the body double of his Geralt. 

He looked up at Geralt. “You can go now,” he said.

His Geralt looked so conflicted that Jaskier’s heart went out to him. He could see the emotion running across Geralt’s face. Guilt, regret, loss, betrayal, anger.

“Please, Jaskier,” he said. 

“Please Jaskier what?” just because he still loved the idiot didn’t mean he was going to make this easy. “Please Jaskier leave me so you don’t shovel more shit into my life?” Geralt winced.

“Please Jaskier take yourself off my hands because after more than twenty years I still don’t think of you as a friend?” Geralt winced again. Other-Geralt had started leaving teasing, butterfly kisses along his neck again, and was shifting in his seat. It wasn’t sexy, and his hips weren’t rocking against Jaskier, but to Geralt it must surely look that way.

“Please Jaskier, find your own way off this god-forsaken mountain with murderers and monsters and, oh yeah, all the provisions were in your pack and I had to forage and not poison myself?”

Other-Geralt growled his displeasure at that detail. Geralt’s shoulders slumped. Jaskier tapped other-Geralt’s leg to let him up and they both stood. 

“I’m going outside,” he said. “If you want to say something, come too, if not, I’m leaving.” Jaskier smiled flirtatiously at other-Geralt. “And he’ll be going with me.”

Geralt followed him outside. 

Other-Geralt followed too, but at a slower pace so they could talk. 

In the stables, hoping Geralt wouldn’t notice the identical Roaches side by side, he whirled around, finally letting out every last bit of anger, betrayal and frustration he’d been feeling.

“Twenty two years you stupid bastard!” he yelled, poking one finger into Geralt’s chest. “Two decades!” he smacked the armor with an open palm. “And in all that time not once could you bear to so much as call me you friend! You ASSHOLE! And I love you! That’s not fair because I STILL love you! And you DON’T DESERVE IT! But I LOVE YOU!” 

Jaskier took a tiny breath then continued yelling. 

“And I KNOW you love me too! You don’t do the things we did for one another without love! It might not be the way I love you, that’s okay, if you only love me platonically, but you love me! I was so SURE you loved me! AND THEN YOU LEFT ME ON THE MOUNTAIN!”

Geralt opened his mouth and Jaskier slapped a hand over it. He wasn’t sure at what point during the screaming he’d started crying but he wasn’t about to lose momentum now.

“NO! I’m talking now! You LEFT ME ON THAT MOUNTAIN! I COULD HAVE DIED! YOU DON”T DO THAT TO PEOPLE YOU LOVE!” Damn it all, he was losing momentum, he was crying for real, sobbing. And the sobs were choking his anger. 

“You told me I was a burden and a curse,” he said between sobs. “That I had only ever caused you misfortune.” He sucked in a breath and looked into tortured golden eyes. “You told me that if life could give you one blessing it would be for me to be taken off your hands. How did you mean that? Did you mean simply that you would never see me again? Or did you mean me dying on that mountain without a pack and without food or water? Or did you mean me falling on that mountain and dying alone and in pain on the rocks below? Did you mean me getting murdered by the bastards who’d gone on that dragon hunt?”

Jaskier was sniffling great, snotty pauses in his sentences. “Or maybe you just wanted some peace and quiet, like that time with the djinn.” He stepped back from Geralt and met his gaze, watery though his own eyes might have been. “So tell me, how did you mean it, Geralt?”

“I didn’t.”

It was a whisper, then Geralt knelt in the straw and took both of Jaskier’s slightly shaking hands in his own. 

“I swear on my life, Jaskier I didn’t mean it.” 

His gaze was so honest and open and he looked so tortured Jaskier wanted to forgive him and fall into his arms right there, but he was still hurting so badly.

“You said it though, it almost came true, like with the djinn, am I that much of a burden to you?”

“No!,” Geralt stood, not releasing Jaskier’s hands. “No,” he said a little more calmly, stepping closer. “You are the greatest gift of my life, my treasure, my friend,I swear it.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s face, gold and blue meeting in the dim stable light. 

“I don’t know if you can believe my oath, but I swear to you, on the name of every witcher, alive or dead, on the medallion I wear around my neck, Jaskier. Jaskier, you are my truest blessing.”

He pulled Jaskier into a perfect, soul numbing hug. 

“I’ve hardly slept,” Geralt whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve hardly slept for the thought that I’d killed you. Fed you to that mountain.” Geralt was taking great, shuddering breaths, his shoulders trembling, tremors in the earthquake taking over him. “I thought I’d killed my love. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. My love. I do love you, not as friends. I love you like a ballad, and I could have killed you.” 

Geralt was crying, Jaskier realized. His tear ducts may have been dry but he was crying all the same, clutching to Jaskier like a lifeline, like Geralt himself had been left dangling from the mountainside and Jaskier was his rope.

“I’m sorry Jaskier, so, so sorry. I’m poor with emotions and I took it out on you and it could have killed you,” Geralt said, his face buried in Jaskier’s hair, squeezing him tight like he wanted them to be glued together. “I didn’t mean a word of it I swear, and I searched that thrice damned mountain for you until I found your tracks leading you safely away.”

“I wanted to kill you,” other-Geralt said, stepping around from the corner of the stables. “You’re lucky he still loves you, or I might have.”

Geralt-Jaskier’s Geralt, for ther first time got a decent look, not obscured by jealousy or dim lighting, of other-Geralt.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re...”

“You? Yeah. It’s hard to explain but it involves blundering in to some sorceressy bullshit.” Other-Geralt clapped one massive hand onto Geralt’s shoulder and stared into his face, gold meeting gold. “I have a bard in my world, and I’ll be returned to him soon. He is truly my greatest gift. I want nothing of your bard but for him to be happy, because I do not believe in any world where I and my love are not at least companions.”

“I understand,” Geralt said.

“No, I don’t think you do,” other-Geralt said. “If I ever somehow, and I don’t know how, get a dream I suppose, that you mistreat your gift again, I will slice open this wall between worlds and hunt you down myself.”

A whistle came from behind them, and the three men turned. Jaskier looked into a face very similar to his own. It had a goatee. And blonde hair. The man was standing next to a glowing portal.

“Geralt,” the other-Jaskier, Dandelion, Jaskier supposed, said. There was relief in his voice. He leapt to his witcher and there was a kiss so vigorous that Jaskier, singer of two dozen bawdy songs, looked away. 

“I feared I’d never find you,” the blonde said. Other-Geralt grinned at him.

“I always knew you would, my love.”

He turned to Geralt and Jaskier, standing dumbstruck. “I guess my work here is done.” Here he pointed at Geralt. “Remember my warning.” He mounted up on his Roach and with barely a sound to mark their leaving, the pair left.

“Well,” said Jaskier, sitting on a barrell. 

“Well,” said Geralt, standing stunned in the center of the stables.

“I’m glad at least somewhere we sorted ourselves out,” Jaskier said, smiling sadly.

“I want that to be us.”

“What?” 

“I want to be able to kiss you like that, someday.” Geralt crossed the room towards Jaskier. “I want to turn to you someday and not be so...so stupid, so emotionally stunted, that I can name you as ‘my love’ in front of others.”

“But...”

“Jaskier, I never called you friend because it ached that you saw me as friend when I wanted you to be more, and now I’ve had a taste of losing you and I would walk over fire never to do so.”

Geralt got down on his knees in the stable and reached out with one hand. His fingers curled around Jaskier’s neck and pulled him closer until their foreheads gently met.

Somehow it was more intimate than a kiss.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier said. “And I love you, always.”

Geralt tilted his head up and captured Jaskier’s lips. 

It was sweet and perfect and Geralt pulled back and planted so many more beautiful, chaste kisses that they fell like rain. 

Then he pulled back and tugged Jaskier to his feet, a little, toe-tinglingly sexy growl escaping him.

“My love,” Geralt said, clearly savoring the phrase in their little bubble of secrecy. “I could eat you alive.”

“That,” Jaskier said, pulling back and smiling. “You may have to wait for.”

Geralt followed him out into the chilly evening. “For you I would wait forever,” he said.

Jaskier had a feeling that he probably wouldn’t make Geralt wait very long.

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

Ope, you sent a request and I gave you a fic. 3812 words! hope you enjoy.

[king-finnigan]

these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on AO3. requested by @dibsonsmth

When Jaskier gets invited to play a few songs for the patients of the mental health ward his best friend Triss works at, he doesn't expect much of it. After all, he's just a music teacher with a guitar, the most he can do for these people is to entertain them for a short while.

But then he finds out about Geralt, who's spent the past few months in the ward without even leaving his room, and Jaskier realizes that he might still be able to make a difference, after all.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Jask,” Triss says softly, big, brown eyes regarding him with concern.

He sighs, carding his hands through his hair as he looks in the rearview mirror, trying to fix the tangled mess at least a little bit. Eventually, he gives up and leans back, hands falling limply into his lap where his fingers start drumming a quick staccato on his thighs.

“I know,” he says with a nervous smile. “But it’s just a little bit of stage fright. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” He opens the passenger door, getting out of the car and retrieving his guitar from the backseat, carding his sweaty hand through his hair one last time.

It had been Triss’ idea to begin with. At the time, he’d wholeheartedly said yes. Now, though… now he’s not so sure anymore. After all, he doesn’t really know what he can do for these people. They’re all here because they form a danger to either themselves or others. And Jaskier? Well, Jaskier’s just a guy with a guitar.

But Triss takes care of these patients day in day out, surely she wouldn’t have invited Jaskier to come sing for them if she didn’t think it would help.

He sighs again and takes a leap of faith.

The mental health ward occupies the top floor of the hospital, and the lift ride up is quiet and uneventful, though the nervous twang in Jaskier’s stomach only grows as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case.

Finally, the lift doors open and he and Triss step out into a bright yellow hall, two closed sliding doors separating them from the actual ward. He watches as Triss scans her badge and types in a code, and hurries forward when the doors slide open and she ushers him inside. He watches again when she closes the doors right away.

“Safety precautions,” she clarifies when she sees him looking. “To make sure no one who’s not allowed to leave actually leaves.”

“Ah,” he says sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other as he turns around to look at the room.

It’s a large, round space, the walls painted yellow and white, large windows letting in the bright sunlight from outside, spilling over the grey linoleum floor and the green couches and chairs that litter the room in small groups, gathered around low coffee tables. There are people sitting here and there, some sharing a table and playing a board game together, others sharing a table as well but sitting in silence – merely enjoying each other’s company, and others sitting all alone, but seemingly content in their solitude. Some are younger, some are older.

And it’s… peaceful. Quiet. Comforting.

He knows that the image people have of mental health wards is quite different from reality, but still, it catches him off-guard.

“It’s still quite early.” He startles at Triss’ voice behind him, breaking the soft lull in the room. “The group therapy sessions start in a few hours, so you’ve got their attention for now.”

He turns back to the room. “And this is everyone?”

She crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder against his. “No, but it is almost everyone. There’s three people missing. Ciri, who’s been restrained because she keeps scratching open her wounds and we don’t have enough staff to keep an eye on her all day. Dara, her best friend – he won’t leave her side, so he’s in her room as well. And Geralt.”

“Right, I’ll pay them a visit as well afterwards.”

She smiles at him. “I’m sure Ciri and Dara would love it, but don’t waste your breath on Geralt, buttercup. Don’t take it personally, he’s not fond of people in general. And he’s quite stubborn in his hatred of others.”

“Really?”

“Hmm. He’s been here a few months already and he’s yet to join a single group therapy session.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He nudges her, giving her an overexaggerated wink. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the one to melt his frosty exterior.”

“Doubt it,” she deadpans. “Now go on, get ready for your performance, maestro. We’re wasting valuable time here.”

---

It goes surprisingly well, the whole thing. Some of the people gather around him as he sings, others content to just stay where they are and listen. He gets a few requests, even, which he is very happy to fulfil.

And before he knows it, two hours have passed, and people start to file out of the room to attend the group therapy sessions.

He doesn’t put his guitar back in its case just yet, though, as he remembers the promise he made to Triss to check up on Ciri and Dara and the ever-grumpy Geralt.

“Knock, knock,” he says, quickly rapping his knuckles against the doorframe, a big smile plastered on his face as he carefully inches into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

There’s a boy and a girl there. The girl is half-lying in bed, her back propped up with several pillows, blonde hair fanning out over the white linen. Her lower arms are wrapped in bandages, the restraints around her wrist binding her to the sides of the bed. The boy is sitting in the chair next to the bed, playing with the sleeves of his too-big shirt, face slightly sunken. Jaskier can’t help but notice how thin his wrists are, and he doesn’t doubt for a second that he could easily fit his thumb and forefinger around them.

Their eyes turn to Jaskier.

“No, it’s fine.” The girl – Ciri, presumably – is the first one to speak. “Are you a new nurse?”

He shakes his head. “I’m Jaskier, I’m…” he lifts his guitar “…I suppose ‘entertainment’ is the word that fits best here. I just played a few songs in the common room, but I didn’t want to leave you guys bereft. If you want, I can sing something for you.”

Ciri’s smile widens. “Sure! I would love that.” She turns to the boy. “Dara, is that alright with you?” The boy nods.

Jaskier pulls a folding chair from the wardrobe – something Triss told him he would find there – and sits down, gently strumming his guitar once to make sure it’s still in tune. “And what would you like to hear?”

She grins at him. “Happy Together by the Turtles!” she says gleefully, and God, she’s truly precious. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he won’t ever be able to say no to her.

He starts playing.

---

Half an hour later, he finds himself in front of another doorway, this time leading to a darkened room, the sunblind pulled down completely to shroud the space in darkness, casting thin strips of sunlight across the walls and floor. Still, Jaskier can see well enough to spot the man sitting at the far end of the room, in front of a table with a chess board.

“Knock, knock,” Jaskier calls, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “You must be Geralt, right?”

The man doesn’t look up but simply lifts his hand to move a chess piece, slowly turning the board around afterwards.

Jaskier clears his throat to break the awkward silence, taking a few steps into the room. “I’m Jaskier. I’m uh… entertainment. I’ve got my guitar with me and I can sing a few songs for you if you want. You just need to ask.”

Now that he’s a bit closer, he can see that Geralt has stark white hair, falling in soft, barely-there waves down to his shoulders, tied back into a half-ponytail. Jaskier resists the urge to check if it’s as soft as it looks.

But from here, he can also see that the man doesn’t even grant him a sideways glance. Quite the opposite; Geralt even seems to turn away from Jaskier the closer he gets, giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you sure there’s no song you want to hear? If you can’t decide, I can pick out something for you, perhaps.”

There’s no movement from Geralt, he’s as still as a statue as his eyes keep drilling holes into the chess board. It’s too dark for Jaskier to see the colour of those irises, but they’re certainly light, and in the back of his mind he ponders how splendid they would probably look in the sunlight.

The silence stretches on. Geralt moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

“As uh… charming as you are, my dearest Geralt, I do wanna know what type of music you like, so I can sing something for you.”

Geralt balls his hands into tight fists on the table. His shoulders grow tense.

He still doesn’t say a word, but Jaskier gets the message: Fuck off.

He laughs nervously, fingers drumming on the wood of the guitar. “Right!” he says, forcibly bright. “I see you’re busy, so I won’t continue to disturb you. I’ll be back next week.” He takes a few steps backwards. Geralt still doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “Alright… Bye, then.”

He turns around and walks out of the room, letting out a long breath once he’s back in the bright hallway. That really didn’t go well – but then again, Triss already warned him it wouldn’t.

Doesn’t matter. If Geralt wants to be a grumpy boor, then who is Jaskier to stop him?

But, as he teaches one of his students how to strum a few chords correctly that afternoon, he can’t help but let his mind wander back to that mysterious man with white hair, sitting all alone in that darkened room, playing chess against himself.

---

He’s back two days later. He knows the deal with Triss was that he’d be there once a week, but something draws him back to the place – whether it’s his captive audience, Ciri’s bright smile, Dara’s quiet gratitude, or Geralt’s unreadable silence, Jaskier doesn’t know. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

He takes the elevator back up, shooting Triss a quick text to ask her to open the door for him as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case, letting his nail dig a path in the soft leather.

Triss greets him the second he steps out of the lift, arms crossed in front of her chest, eyebrow pulled up, eyes glinting with something annoyed and fond she saves especially for Jaskier.

“You know you’re not expected until next week, right?”

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I know, but I don’t have any plans for the morning, so I figured why not, you know?”

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at him before she sighs and relents, waving him inside. “Come on, mister Impatient. Let’s go, then.”

---

“Knock, knock.” He quickly raps on the doorframe, taking a tentative step into the darkened room.

Geralt is sitting at the table again, hunched in on himself as his eyes remain fixed on the chess board. Slowly, he lifts a hand, moving a piece before he slowly turns the board around, propping a fist under his chin, the other arm laid across his lap. Jaskier knows that, were he a drawer or artist of sorts, he would draw Geralt exactly the way he is now: sitting in a dark and empty room, still as a statue in front of the chess board as the sunlight filters through the blinds, painting him in black and white, casting dark shadows and yellow highlights on his face.

But he’s not. He’s a musician, and though he likes to consider himself quite good at what he does, he knows he could never do this image justice.

For now, though, he takes in every little detail and commits it to memory, imprinting it on his mind.

He takes another few steps forward. He’s halfway across the room now. “I know I said I’d be back next week,” he says softly – his normal volume too loud for the stillness of this room. “But I’m back now. Did you think of any songs for me to sing to you?”

Geralt ignores him. He moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

Jaskier sighs, leaning against the wall, idly plucking a few random notes. “Well,” he muses, “if you can’t decide, I suppose I’ll have to decide for you.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists, his shoulders grow tense. Once again, he’s telling Jaskier to piss off without really saying anything.

This time, though, Jaskier decides to ignore it. If it angers Geralt more, then so be it – as long as he doesn’t outright tell Jaskier to go away, he’s not going anywhere.

He strums a few chords. “How do you feel about ‘Big Yellow Taxi’?” The man on the other side of the room doesn’t answer, doesn’t even deign him worthy of a sideways glance.

So Jaskier starts to sing.

And still, throughout it all, Geralt doesn’t say a word. He moves a chess piece once or twice, turning the board right afterwards, but his head doesn’t even incline towards Jaskier. He doesn’t give him any acknowledgement, any sign that he’s aware Jaskier is there at all.

Jaskier keeps on singing as if Geralt isn’t there, either.

And then the song ends. Jaskier strums the last chord on his guitar, eyes glued to Geralt’s silhouette, tracing the line of every highlight and shadow, following the movement of his muscles and tendons as Geralt lifts a hand, sliding a chess piece across the wood before turning the board again. His face is still, oh so still, the dim light and the bright rays of sunshine streaming through the blinds making it seem as if he’s been hewn from marble, as if he’s a work of art come to life, an ancient Greek statue from the hands of the old masters themselves that’s been granted a beating heart by the gods.

Jaskier could drown in the vision before him.

Light eyes quickly dart to him, the first acknowledgement of his existence since he stepped foot into the room, and suddenly his mind slams back into his body. He’s hyper-aware of every single little thing – of the frantic pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in his ears, the breath that catches in his lungs when their gazes meet for a split second, the twitching of his muscles as his body desperately tries to tap out his nervousness on his guitar.

For only a second, the world stops spinning.

Geralt looks away again and Jaskier takes a few steps backwards, heat rising to his cheeks and ears as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“R- right, then,” he stammers. “See you around, Geralt.”

He practically flees from the hospital room.

---

Hours later, his fingers are still trembling with the sheer force and weight of Geralt’s eyes on him, even if it was just for a second or so.

He retrieves the old, square box from the attic of the house his parents left him – it’s still where he remembers stashing it, years ago. He opens it on his desk, shaky hands setting up the pieces before he types the question on his phone.

How to play chess.

---

He’s back on Sunday.

Triss snorts when she greets him at the doors, rolling her eyes at him. “You know,” she says, “I won’t always be around to let you in, if you’re going to keep showing up all the time.”

He smiles sheepishly. “What can I say? I just really like it here.”

She narrows her eyes at him, smiling mischievously. “You like Geralt, you mean. I could see you last time, coming out of his room while blushing like a comely maiden. What happened?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just sang a song for him.”

“And he let you?” She huffs out a laugh. “Well, who could’ve seen that one coming? Come on, let’s get you inside, lover boy.”

He sputters a bit, but follows her through the doors all the same.

---

“Knock, knock,” he says, tapping on the doorframe a few times before he takes a few steps inside the dark room. “I’m uh… I’m back.”

He fiddles with the strap of his guitar case for a few seconds before pulling it over his head, setting the instrument against the wall.

Geralt is once again sitting on the other side of the room, still as a statue, eyes drilling holes into the chess board as he completely ignores Jaskier. But he won’t be able to much longer – Jaskier will make sure of that.

Whether his actions will anger Geralt enough for the man to start yelling at him, he doesn’t know. But as he looks at Geralt’s face, at the way the sunlight peeking through the blinds makes parts his hair shine in a white-golden halo around his head, he decides that it’s a risk he’s willing to take. If only so that Geralt will at least look at him.

He crosses the room in a few steps and snatches two pawns off the board.

And that does catch Geralt’s attention.

Light eyes flicker up to look at him, making his breath catch in his lungs with the intensity of that gaze, with the anger slowly budding on Geralt’s face. But Jaskier doesn’t step back or turn away. He simply puts his hands behind his back, switching the pieces around a few times before holding out his fists, a pawn in each one.

“Choose,” he says. Geralt’s eyes stay glued to his face, eyebrows slowly drawing together, hands curling into fists.

Jaskier sighs. “I’m getting tired of having to see you play chess all by yourself. It’s quite sad to watch, really. So, pick a colour and we’ll play together.”

The silence in the room is almost palpable, unmoving to the point where Jaskier can almost taste it on his tongue. His head grows light, dizziness setting in as he keeps holding his breath – his lungs won’t cooperate as long as Geralt’s still looking at him.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the man in front of him lifts a hand, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he softly taps a finger on Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it, presenting the white pawn to Geralt.

He sits down on the other side of the table, setting the pawns on the board, rearranging the black pieces into two neat, little rows. Geralt does the same, although more slowly, as though he doesn’t quite believe what’s going on. Jaskier watches the man move the pieces, watches sure and strong hands delicately hold those little, fragile things and put them on their assigned square. He imagines how Geralt’s fingers would twitch slightly as Jaskier would hold his hand palm-up, trailing his finger over his skin lightly. He imagines how those scarred fingers would curl around his, hand warm in Jaskier’s.

And then Geralt’s done. Light eyes look up at Jaskier, catching the sunlight streaming through the blinds, and suddenly he can see that they’re amber. A rich, deep amber that holds soft golden and brown flecks, the colour of sunflowers in a summer field, the colour of honey dripping down a finger before it’s licked up, the colour of ambrosia and the nectar of the gods.

It’s a colour Jaskier would gladly lose himself in.

“All yours,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though the words have been punched from his chest.

Golden eyes flicker down to the chess board and a strong, scarred hand moves up to slide a pawn across the wood. Geralt’s gaze shifts back up to him, and for a second, it feels like Jaskier might die from the intensity of it.

He swallows thickly, quickly looking at the board and moving his own pawn. He barely even remembers the things he learned about chess the past few days – hell, he barely even remembers his own name, as if Jaskier’s entire life threatens to wash away whenever those golden eyes look at him, as if every moment has been meaningless up until this point.

Geralt moves a chess piece. Jaskier follows suit.

Slowly, as the minutes tick by one at a time, Jaskier starts to relax bit by bit. His focus shifts from the man in front of him to the chess board and the soft melody that’s starting to build at the back of his mind.

After a while of having it stuck in his head, he starts humming it.

Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, concern knitting his eyebrows together. Because as much as he loves music and loves making it, he doesn’t want to risk shattering the fragile bond he has with Geralt, doesn’t want to lose this just yet.

Geralt’s gaze drifts back to the board. He moves another piece. He doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier takes that as encouragement and starts humming again.

He loses the game in thirteen more moves.

He grins up at Geralt as they both move the pieces back into place. “Well, that was a disaster. Forgive me, I’m not really that familiar with the game yet, but maybe I’ll learn if you give me a chance?”

He phrases it as a question, a gentle hope igniting in his chest. He probably won’t coax Geralt into talking just yet, but if he can just get a reaction – anything other than silent glances – it will make everything worth it.

Please give me a chance.

Geralt looks up at him, face as perfectly still and unreadable as ever as the silence stretches on between them. Eventually, he looks back down again.

He lifts a hand and moves a pawn forward, starting a new game.

Jaskier can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

---

“Jesus, buttercup. Back again, already?” Triss asks him on Tuesday, furrowing her brows at him. “I think I’ll put in a request with the admin to get you your own badge. I really can’t be here to let you in all the time, you know.”

“I know.” He smiles at her before slipping inside the ward, blowing her a kiss as he walks backwards towards the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room. “I owe you one!”

“You owe me several, buttercup!” she shouts back at him.

---

“Hmm, what do you think is better, Geralt? ‘Gorgeous garrotter’, or ‘lovely garrotter’?”

Golden eyes flicker up to his, before looking back at the board. Geralt moves his bishop.

“Yeah, you’re right. Just ‘garrotter’ would work best,” Jaskier mumbles as he uses his knight to take Geralt’s bishop. He continues humming the melody, muttering lyric ideas under his breath, trying to find a good rhythm to the words.

Geralt moves his queen. Jaskier blanches as he realizes he’s been lured into a trap yet again, and knocks over his king.

“You win,” he sighs. “Again.”

He doesn’t miss it when the corners of Geralt’s mouth pull up in self-satisfaction as he starts to reset the board.

“Again, I suppose?” Jaskier asks. Geralt moves his pawn forward. “I assume that’s a ‘yes’,” he mutters.

---

What was supposed to be a once-a-week thing turns into an everyday thing as soon as Jaskier gets his badge from the hospital. Most days he doesn’t even play for the other patients – though he does reserve an hour for them at least twice a week and obliges whenever they ask him for a song – but spends his time in Geralt’s room, chess board in front of him, guitar in his lap.

He doesn’t know what it is about the room, but something there calms his mind down, makes him see things clearer and from a different angle, gives him the quiet and peace and inspiration he needs to finish the songs he’s been working on for years, now, and gives him the spark he needs to write new songs.

He supposes that the ‘something’ might be Geralt himself, but there’s a part of him that fears that if he admits that out loud, even to himself, it will become too serious – that it will become a riptide that will sweep him off his feet and push him under water.

He looks at Geralt, at the man sitting in the sunlight, the white halo around his head making him look ethereal, the bright light highlighting the scars and birthmarks and freckles on his skin – the tiny imperfections Jaskier commits to memory every time he gets the chance to see them. The past few days, Geralt’s begun to lift the sunblind up a little bit, the room suddenly not so dark anymore. It’s probably to see the chess board better, Jaskier supposes.

“So,” he says from the doorway an hour later, his guitar put back into its case and slung onto his back. “See you tomorrow, then?” It’s the same thing he says every day, and just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, he doesn’t expect an answer.

Geralt never answers.

He’s halfway out the door when he hears a soft “hmm” behind him.

He looks over his shoulder, golden eyes glancing away when he meets them, and he has to try his very hardest not to cry out his joy for the entire world to hear. Because Geralt just gave him an answer.

He nods once, and heads to the lifts.

---

“Young man.”

He startles slightly when he’s greeted at the doors by a woman in a doctor’s coat, her raven hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her violet eyes drilling into his.

He swallows thickly, fiddling with the strap of his guitar case, nail digging into the leather. “Yes?”

“I’m doctor Vengerberg,” she says, extending her hand for him to shake. He obliges before quickly letting go, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. “You’re the man that sings songs, are you not?”

He nods once. “That would be me, yes,” he mumbles, going over everything he’s done in the past week, trying to find what might have sparked her ire.

But her face softens, causing Jaskier to frown in confusion. “And you’re the one who keeps visiting Mr. Rivia, are you not?” He nods again. “What is it that you do in there all the time?” she asks him.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, we just play chess. And I sing to him. We don’t… don’t do anything… inappropriate, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Her lips curl upwards. “It is not, but thanks for clearing that up anyways-“ she squints at his badge “-Julian. But… is that really all you do in there? Play chess and sing songs?”

“Yes, doctor.”

Her brows knit together slightly. “Huh. Who would’ve thought?” With that, she pushes past him, out of the doors to the ward, leaving him confused in the common room.

He shrugs it away and turns around, heading to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up, but today there is no sun to illuminate the side of Geralt’s face as Jaskier goes to sit on the other side of the set chessboard. The rain patters against the window, the dim light outside projecting the rivulets onto Geralt’s skin – it’s a sight to behold, and Jaskier finds himself following every drop as its projection slides down Geralt’s cheek.

Amber eyes flicker up to his and Jaskier is shaken out of his reverie, plucking two pawns off the board, switching them a couple of times behind his back before he holds his fists out. Geralt’s gaze never leaves his as he lifts a hand, a single finger tapping Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it. It’s the black pawn. He hands it to Geralt, before setting his own white pawn where it belongs, turning the board so that the right side is facing him. He waits until Geralt’s set his piece down before he makes the first move.

As Geralt contemplates his, Jaskier picks up his guitar case, taking out the instrument and setting it in his lap.

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his knight. He leans back and idly starts plucking a melody, muttering lyrics under his breath. Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” It’s the same question he asks every day. Usually, Geralt will just ignore it and turn back to the game, but this time, as golden eyes flicker down to the chess board, he lets out a soft hum.

“Wh- what?” Jaskier stammers, guitar strings twanging messily as his hand goes limp.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again as he moves a pawn.

“R- right. Of course, thank you,” Jaskier mumbles, excited blush rising up to his cheeks as he starts plucking the melody again.

---

He startles when he’s greeted by a mop of brown curls and two arms throwing themselves around his neck the second he opens the door to the ward. He laughs in confusion, returning the hug Triss gives him quickly.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asks her. “Not that I mind, of course, but still…”

She holds him at an arm’s length, smile bright enough to light up the whole room even more than it already is, rivalling the sunshine streaming in through the windows. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what it is that you do in there every day, but please keep doing it.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?”

“Geralt, of course!” she says, as if it’s completely obvious. “I don’t know how you manage, buttercup, but…” She shakes her head, and he doesn’t miss the light sheen over her eyes as she smiles at him. “He slept six hours last night.”

He blinks. “And… that’s not normal?”

She grins, her curls bouncing around her face as she shakes her head. “No, it really is not. Most nights he doesn’t sleep at all, and if he does, well… it’s only for a short while.”

She pulls him closer, rubbing their noses together playfully, just like they’ve always done since they were little kids. It makes him giggle, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him. “Whatever it is you do, please don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it. Speaking of, I should probably go now, he’s expecting me.”

“Alright. Oh, are you up for drinks this weekend?”

He nods. “Sure. The Kingfisher?” he asks as he starts walking backwards to the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room.

“Meet me at ten!” Triss half-shouts at him, making a few patients look up in annoyance.

Jaskier gives her a thumbs-up and turns around, practically skipping his way to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up and Jaskier takes a few moments to look at Geralt as he sits in the sunlight, hands folded in his lap, golden eyes drilling holes into the chess board. Now that Triss has mentioned it, Jaskier does think he notices that Geralt looks a little less tired – the shadows under his eyes aren’t as deep, his shoulders aren’t as slumped, his cheeks even hold a slight dusting of pink, their usual pallidness suddenly lost.

Golden eyes flicker to him, and Geralt lifts his left eyebrow slightly; he’s getting impatient with Jaskier standing in the doorway and staring at him.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his reverie and shrugs his guitar case off his shoulder as he crosses the room, quickly performing their little pick-the-pawn ritual – where Jaskier ends up with white – before he makes the first move, unpacking his guitar as Geralt stares at the board, the heel of his hand under his chin, his fingers resting against his lips.

He sets his instrument in his lap as Geralt makes his first move. Jaskier counteracts it by moving his knight, before he starts plucking at his guitar.

“Are you sure there aren’t any songs you want to hear?” he asks softly, afraid to break the peace and silence in the room by talking too loud.

Geralt moves a pawn. Shakes his head minutely.

Jaskier half-shrugs. “Right, guess I’ll have to pick something.” He sighs. “Don’t feel particularly inspired today, so I don’t think I’m gonna be composing much.”

He moves his bishop. Plucks a few notes. He looks out the window, at the trees in the parking lot and the city park that lies beyond, at the small, green buds on the branches and the crisp green-white of the grass as the night’s frost begins to thaw in the sunshine. He looks at the children playing in the field, at the man throwing a stick for his dog to fetch, at the young couple that sits on the bench, one of them getting up to pick a budding flower from the bushes, handing it to the other.

He imagines what it would be like to sit there in that park, to have the remnants of last night’s cold nip at his fingers and nose, to bask in the sunshine as it warms his back, to pick a flower from the bushes to hand to his lover. His lover, whose hair resembles the frost that coats the grass, whose eyes rival the brightness of the sun, who gives him a crooked grin as he takes the flower without a word-

“How do you feel about ‘La vie en rose’?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt quickly looks up at him before he looks back down at the board. “Hmm.”

He can’t help but smile softly at that, strumming his guitar a few times as he starts to sing. “Hold me close and hold me fast. The magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose.”

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his bishop.

“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose.”

The couple outside stands up from the bench, holding hands as they walk through the park, disappearing from Jaskier’s view as they turn a corner.

“When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom.”

Golden eyes meet his for half a second, and his breath catches in his lungs, heart beating in his throat painfully. He looks away, Geralt’s gaze too much to bear.

“And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”

He wonders what Geralt’s voice sounds like. Sure, he’s already heard him hum out a reply a few times, but it’s never loud enough for Jaskier to get a proper idea of what he might sound like. Maybe one day, he’ll hear Geralt speak. Or maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter to him – as long as Geralt allows him to stay by his side, Jaskier’s content.

“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose.”

He finishes the last few chords of the song, his voice trailing into nothingness. Geralt moves a pawn.

Jaskier clears his throat, setting his guitar against the chair, leaning his forearms on the table. He moves his knight. Geralt moves his queen. Checkmate.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Christ, how do you always manage to beat me at this? One day, Geralt, I swear that I’ll win one day.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. He might as well be rolling his eyes at this point.

“Alright, fine, you’re right, I probably won’t. But that won’t stop me from trying.”

He starts moving the chess pieces back into place, Geralt following suit. Jaskier reaches for a black pawn that’s halfway across the board at the same time Geralt reaches for the white one right next to it.

Their hands brush.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, head spinning as the side of his hand grows hot, even as he jerks it back – as if Geralt’s touch has burned him, has left an everlasting mark on him whose heat Jaskier will feel for years to come, his touch a brand that’ll claim Jaskier for the rest of his life.

He clears his throat and ignores it.

“I, uh…” he says softly. “I won’t be able to be here on Sunday. I’m going out for drinks with Triss on Saturday so I will probably be too hungover to drive. And I can’t be here on Monday, either, since I’ve got a couple of older students who have class in the morning. But I’ll come back on Tuesday, if that’s alright?”

He looks up. Golden eyes drill holes into the chess board as Geralt moves a pawn. He doesn’t hum a response.

Jaskier sighs and turns back to the game.

---

“Thank God you’re here, buttercup.”

He stops right inside the doors to the ward on Tuesday, clutching the strap of his guitar case as Triss hurries towards him, eyes wide and filled with something he’s too scared to identify.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Geralt.” She grabs him by his arm, dragging him across the common room before he can even think to protest.

“W- wait, what? What’s wrong with Geralt?”

“He’s having an episode. A bad one.”

“An episode- Triss, what are you talking about?”

She sighs, suddenly stopping, pulling him to a halt as well, her hand around his upper arm like a vice. “The past few days, his mental health has been declining. Badly. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten anything, and he just… sits there. Or he paces. It’s really not going well, buttercup.”

He feels something ugly and fearful claw at the inside of his chest. “Triss, I have to ask, what exactly is he having an episode of?”

“He’s got PTSD, buttercup. Hasn’t he told you?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, no. We don’t exactly… talk a lot. But is there anything I can do to help?”

She sighs again. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s been doing a bit better the past two weeks, ever since you showed up, so I don’t know what you do when you’re around him, but maybe it’ll help today as well. As long as he can get some sleep, buttercup – he really needs to sleep, he can’t go on like this much longer.”

He nods once. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, pulling him into a quick hug before letting go. “Press the alarm button if anything happens.”

He snorts incredulously. “Like what?”

She levels him with a look, her eyes flat and tired. “There’s a reason why he’s here, buttercup.”

The words settle in his stomach like stones – even though he has a hard time deciphering what exactly she meant by them – but he nods again, turning around and setting off to Geralt’s room, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

The blinds are pulled down completely and he has to stand in the doorway for a while to let his eyes get adjusted to the darkness, slowly blinking as he starts to distinguish shapes and silhouettes.

Unlike all the other times Jaskier’s been in this room, Geralt’s not sitting at the table by the window, looking at the chess board. No, this time he’s sitting at the foot of his bed, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare at the wall in front of him – glassy and flat yet full of something Jaskier can’t bring himself to recognize.

Geralt’s hands ball into tight fists, blunt fingernails undoubtedly pressing crescent-shaped bruises into his palms, before they let go, uncurling until they’re relaxed again. And then it repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

Like waves rhythmically lapping at the shores, Geralt’s hands curl and uncurl, tighten and loosen, tense and relax. Over and over again, as his eyes never leave the wall in front of him, as his face remains perfectly still – but not still in the same way as it was when Jaskier first met him. Geralt’s face is not a perfectly sculpted mask he put on himself, not carefully blank and even as to hide any emotional response he’s having at that moment.

No, the best way Jaskier can describe Geralt’s face right now is slack. As if he’s not even aware he has a face to control, as if he’s far, far away from his own body, reliving things that are already in the distant past. As if there is no emotional response to hide.

He sets his guitar against the wall gently, kneeling by the foot of the bed, bringing his hands up to ghost over Geralt’s face – he can’t touch, he can’t. Geralt hasn’t said he’s allowed yet and Jaskier’s afraid he’ll never be able to let go if he does.

“Geralt?” he says softly. “Geralt, it’s me. Jaskier.” Golden eyes stare at the wall blankly, looking right over his head as if he’s not there at all. It’s exactly like the first time he met Geralt, except now it feels worse, because it doesn’t feel like Geralt’s doing this on purpose. It feels like he really doesn’t realize that Jaskier’s there.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

His hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

He gets up slowly, walking over to the chess board and snatching two pieces from it, switching them behind his back before he goes to stand in front of Geralt, fists outstretched.

“Choose,” he says, ignoring the way his voice wobbles slightly.

Golden eyes stare right through him, unmoving, unseeing.

“Choose.”

Hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

Jaskier puts the pieces back where they belong, opting to unpack his guitar instead. If he can’t coax Geralt back into his body with chess, he’ll annoy him into coming back.

He leans against the wall, a little bit to the left of Geralt, where the golden eyes don’t look right through him, but from where he still has a good view of Geralt and his blank expression. And he starts playing.

He plays everything that comes to mind, from half-finished songs to old lullabies to pop hits from the eighties. If it drifts into his head, it drifts into the room. He plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers are aching and painful, until the callouses on his skin start wearing away, until his voice becomes raw and his throat dry.

He plays, as seconds turn to minutes turn to hours. It slowly grows darker outside, bit by bit, and he takes a five-minute break to drink some water for his parched throat and to lift the blinds. It’s raining. Big, heavy buckets of it pouring from the skies, fat droplets pitter-pattering against the glass.

Jaskier moves back to stand against the wall. He starts playing again.

And bit by agonizing bit, ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, Geralt’s face turns from slack and empty to something entirely different, something Jaskier’s never seen before. He looks… peaceful. Calm. Content.

Golden eyes slip closed.

Jaskier keeps on playing. He remembers the park outside the window, remembers the couple and the flower one of them picked for the other, remembers the children playing and the man throwing the stick for his dog.

“I see trees of green,” he sings softly, smiling to himself as he remembers the song he used  to hear on his nan’s old radio, back when he was a kid. “Red roses, too.”

He looks up to cast a glance at Geralt. He’s still sitting at the foot of his bed, hands limp in his lap – but they don’t curl and uncurl anymore. They just lay there, calm and peaceful like the rest of him.

“I see them bloom for me and you.” He grins, looking down at his guitar as he strums the chords. “And I think to myself: what a wonderful world.”

There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and before he can lift his eyes to look at it, his head hits the wall painfully, dizzying him, making him drop his guitar – which lands with a loud and dissonant twang – and he’s sure he would’ve fallen over if something wasn’t holding up.

Something is holding him up.

He blinks the fog out of his eyes, Geralt’s face growing into focus. Golden eyes – angry golden eyes boring into his, intense in a way Jaskier’s never seen on anyone before. The word feral shoots through his head at the snarl that bears Geralt’s fangs, at the quiet growl being pushed from the back of his throat.

Throat. Jaskier’s throat hurts.

There are two hands around it, blinding pressure pushing him against the wall – the thing, the thing holding him up.

And suddenly everything snaps into focus.

He gasps for breath, trying and failing to get air into his lungs as Geralt’s hands squeeze his throat shut, furious eyes glaring at him as Jaskier’s hands come up to pull at Geralt’s wrists, feet kicking uselessly against the wall.

“G-“ He gasps, wheezes as he tastes blood at the back of his tongue, heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Geralt-“

The golden eyes don’t recognize him.

“P- please, Geralt-“

He gasps and pants and coughs, a useless sob wracking through his useless chest, dark spots dancing across his vision, obscuring all but golden eyes as oxygen runs out. His hands abandon their attempts at pulling that merciless grip away from his throat and slap against the wall.

His fingertip hits something plastic, jutting out of the drywall. The emergency button.

He stretches his arm as far as he can, muscles aching and joints creaking in protest as his fingertips graze uselessly against the button and he’s running out of air and it won’t be long until his lifeless body hangs limply in Geralt’s hands and all he can see is angry, golden, unseeing eyes and the button the button the button the button the button.

He stretches his fingers as far as he can. He smashes the emergency button.

Nothing happens.

He cries out his frustration, though it’s nothing more than a pathetic, little whimper by now, and he smashes the button again. And again. And again. And again.

His head grows fuzzy. His heartbeat thumps in his ears. He can’t feel his fingers anymore. All he sees is golden eyes.

Shouting.

Screaming and shouting and someone is calling for help. Geralt’s hands jostle him around like a cantankerous child with a ragdoll as people try to pull his arms away from Jaskier.

Golden eyes. Golden eyes and Jaskier goes limp, hands hanging by his side uselessly as Geralt’s merciless hands around his throat hurtle him towards death with each passing second.

A needle glints in the light shining in from the hallway.

Geralt’s hands grow looser, bit by bit, and Jaskier desperately gulps in every bit of air his abused throat allows him to. He sobs. He can sob. The fact that he can makes him cry more loudly, face contorting as he grimaces, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. Parts of his world come into view again.

Golden eyes. Confused, golden eyes as eyebrows knit together slightly. Golden eyes, holding a glimpse of recognition.

Golden eyes, rolling into the back of Geralt’s head.

Geralt drops. Jaskier drops with him. Several panicked voices fill the room and there are hands on his body, turning him around, feeling his neck, his pulse and he lets them.

He closes his eyes as consciousness slips from his grasp.