#Jaskier has been a part of it since he first stepped on the page

[rebrandedbard]

I don’t have to be a part of your story.

That’s what Jaskier thought, watching Geralt walk further away into the market. Jaskier lingered back, watching him go about his business, just another of many such moments scattered across the years.

I don’t have to be a part of your story, he thought. Just let me tell it. Or if not, let me witness it. Let me know it.

Let me alone know how you buy an onion to eat raw while you shop, you astonishing, winnable heathen. Let me remember that you spend an extra coin to buy the green apples over the red because your horse prefers them.

When you are gone from this earth, let your story rest with me. If I should die first, let it rest within me, a safe haven. When I stand before the gates and am told to leave all my earthly things behind, I will clutch it to my chest, bury it within me, and smuggle it inside or be cast to the fires below if they will take it. Let no one know or remember it if they must go on in their ignorance, but allow me. I’ve accepted the weight of a more beloved burden. That shall help me carry it with ease.

Geralt turned his head back toward Jaskier. “You’re falling behind,” he grunted. “Hurry up, or you’ll get lost.”

Jaskier smiled and trotted up beside him. As they entered the market together, he began prattling on, stringing together ideas for his next song, featuring the last night’s hunt and digging for further details in the dirt of the grave that was Geralt’s stilted tongue. Geralt’s throat, Jaskier said, was where all the best stories laid down to die, never told.

As Jaskier babbled, Geralt watched him from the secret corner of his eye. Whenever Jaskier paused to puzzle out a certain phrase, he fell behind, and Geralt would have to remind him to stay close or be carried off by the crowd. “Hurry up,” he’d say, pausing to let him fall into step.

You belong here, by my side. Such words died on his tongue, afraid to be born. I don’t want to lose you.

When the time did come for them to part, Geralt made sure Jaskier knew where his next contract was waiting. Jaskier had an engagement in the city, and he in the next town. Geralt waited until Jaskier disappeared among the early morning throng, then he turned and went about his business, gathering the last of his supplies from the stalls.

A merchant looked him over as he counted out change. “You’re the bard’s witcher, aren’t you?” he asked, stopping in the middle of his counting as he lit up in recognition.

Geralt felt the impulse of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He nodded.

“It’s a strange arrangement, make no mistake. So used to bards following knights and ladies and such. It’s an original idea, to be sure! But it makes me wonder. How did he ever wind up together with you? What’s your story, witcher?”

It was a question people so often asked. And not once had he left it unanswered.

“Our story,” he said, “began in Posada.”

-

saw this post by @halbarryislife and had to write something

[queenxxxsupreme]

Hi babe! How you doing?

Since winter this year is terrible, snowy and cold I was wondering if you could do those sweet drabbles for our wolves and reader they have huge crush on who spends winter at Kaer Morhen and sneaks into their room and bed searching for warmth in the middle of the night?

A/N: Hi babe! I hope you like this :)

***

Lambert

You moved through one of the many corridors within Kaer Morhen, clutching the blanket that acted as a cloak around your shoulders. 

The corridor was dark with the exception of torches that were lit every few dozen feet along the stone wall. They were strategically placed outside of every room. 

Though most of the rooms on the floor were empty, you were still careful to be as quiet as possible. You knew how sensitive a witcher’s hearing was and you didn’t want to be the reason one of them was woken up. 

You came to a stop outside of the last room on the left. The door was shut, though you expected it to be. The young wolf inside was probably sleeping. Anyone in their right mind would be sleeping at three in the morning. 

You knocked twice on the door, frowning at how loud the sound was. It seemed to echo down the corridor, bouncing off of the stone walls. 

I hope Eskel doesn’t hear that.

There was no response from the witcher inside of the room, so you tried again, this time adding his name to the knock. 

“Lambert? Lambert, are you awake?”

A rustling noise could faintly be heard from beyond the thick wooden door. It was pulled open with a loud creak. 

Lambert stood there in nothing but a pair of trousers that hung low- perhaps too low -on his hips. Your eyes flickered over his chest, over the scars and hair that sparsely covered his muscular torso. 

“The hell are you doing up so late, bug?” He asked, voice groggy with sleep as he rubbed the side of his face. He didn’t notice you staring as he was still trying to force his eyes to open up. 

“I-I just- I’m sorry to-to um-,” You suddenly regretted deciding to leave your bed. Embarrassment settled into the pit of your stomach. “It’s just…. The-The fire in my room, it went out some time ago. There was a gust of wind and I don’t really know what happened. I tried to layer up with what I had but it didn’t work. It’s too cold.”

You rubbed your hands together. Whether it was from the cold or from nervousness, you weren’t sure. 

Lambert looked down at you, brows furrowed together.

“So your room’s too cold to sleep in tonight?”

“Yeah. I’m so sorry to bother you. I-I didn’t want to wake you up. If you could just maybe help me start the fire-,”

“I don’t want to walk all the way down there right now.” He cut you off. His answer made your stomach drop, but then he continued. “Come in here. You can stay with me for the night.”

“Oh, Lambert. I-I couldn’t do that.”

“Yeah you can.” He stepped aside and gestured for you to enter his room.

Even from out in the hall you could feel the heat coming from his room. How could you say no?

You stepped into his room, eyes flickering around, curiously taking in what you could see. 

With the light coming from the fireplace, you could only make out a few notable features of his room. The first was an easel set up in the far corner. The next was a stack of books next to the foot of his bed. 

Lambert didn’t give you enough time to examine his room any further. 

“You can get into the, uh, the bed.” He said, still lingering by the door. It was shut but he stayed near it for whatever reason. “If it would make you more comfortable, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Lambert, I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Floor in front of the fire is nice. And I don’t…. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to pull anything on ya if we share a bed.”

Your eyes immediately left his and instead found a space on the floor between the both of you. 

“I-I wouldn’t…. I wouldn’t think that.” You murmured quietly, offering a small smile to him. “You’re a kind man, Lambert.”

“I’ve been called many things, bug, but kind ain’t one of them.” He rubbed the back of his head. “You can get comfortable first. I’ll get in after you.”

You nodded your head, pulling the throw blanket off of your shoulders and laying it across the foot of the bed. 

Lambert pretended not to watch you as climbed into the bed and got comfortable on one side. He said nothing when the side you chose to get comfortable on was the side he preferred. 

“Okay.” You spoke quietly from underneath the thick pile of blankets. “Do you always sleep with this many blankets?”

“Yeah.” He got into bed next to you. “I’m always cold, especially here during the winter. It gets cold as fuck.”

You nodded, shifting around a little on the bed. You rubbed your feet together, trying to get the warmth to spread to your toes. 

“Are you okay over there?”

“Just…. Just trying to get warm. It’ll take me a minute but I’m okay.”

“Here.”

You weren’t too sure what he was doing as your back was to him, but suddenly you could feel him against you. His body gave off an incredible amount of body heat that had you pressing back into him without even realizing it. 

“This okay, bug?” He asked, his warmth breath tickling your ear. 

“Yeah.” You giggled softly. “Thank you, Lambert.”

“Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death. Then I’d lose my kind guy badge you just gave me.”

Eskel

You knocked on the door to Eskel’s room, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You rubbed your hands together in an attempt to create some sort of heat but it was really no use. You were chilled straight to the bone. 

Your room was freezing cold and no matter how many blankets or how many layers you put on, you couldn’t seem to get warm. 

The door to Eskel’s room opened quietly. He appeared, hair messily tied back with a few strands falling around his face. The tunic he wore was unlaced and revealed a good portion of his chest where the top created a V. 

“Y/N, it’s early.” He looked over his shoulder to the window to confirm his own words. It was still pitch black outside. “Is something wrong?”

“I can’t sleep.” You frowned. “It’s freezing cold in my room. Do you think it would be okay if I stayed with you for the night?”

He looked at you for a few moments, lips parting but no words coming out. 

Your heart began to beat faster with anxiousness. You didn’t want to overstep and you didn’t want to scare him away. The two of you had been flirting lightly here and there over the winter and you didn’t want to ruin that. 

“If you’d rather not, Eskel, it’s no big deal. I can go bother Ciri-,”

“No, that-that isn’t necessary.” He cut you off. “Please, come in.” 

You held his gaze as you passed him, a smile on your lips. 

Your eyes flickered around the room, landing on his bed. It was neatly made as if he had never even tried to go to sleep. At the foot of the bed was a book. It was open with the pages down on the bed. 

“It doesn’t look like you were sleeping.”

“I-I wasn’t.” He admitted sheepishly. Eskel closed the door and moved into the room. “I was reading.”

“Would you read to me?” You asked him, picking up the throw that was laying across the foot of the bed. 

“If you’d like. You can get under the blankets if you want, Y/N.”

“This will do just fine right now. Your room is rather warm. It’s quite pleasant.”

He sat down on one side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. You sat next to him, leaning against him. He was hesitant to put his arm around you, but as he did you seemed to melt right into his side. 

“Are you comfortable?” He asked quietly, looking down at you.

“Very. Thank you, Eskel.” You smiled. 

Geralt

You pulled the brush through your hair, letting out a heavy breath. 

“You look like something is on your mind.”

Your eyes flickered over to Jaskier. He was stretched out across your head reading a book while you did your hair for the night. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re staring at yourself in that mirror.” Jaskier sat up, tilting his head to the side as he looked at you. “You usually aren’t that narcissistic, so something must be up. What is it, darling?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head, putting the hairbrush down so you could braid your hair. 

“Is it Geralt?”

“Jaskier.”

“I only suggest it was him because earlier this evening when we had dinner, you practically refused to look at him. I thought the both of you were…. rather fond of one another.”

“I thought so too. But I suppose since I am no longer the only one here he can bed, I serve no purpose to him anymore.”

“Y/N, you know you mean more to Geralt than a simple fuck.”

“He sure hasn’t made it seem that way since Yennefer arrive. Though I don’t blame him. She’s is a beauty.”

“She is, but all evil things are beautiful.”

“She’s not evil, Jaskier.” You rolled your eyes at him. 

“You didn’t see her and the Djinn.”

You finished your hair and stood up from the vanity, moving towards the bed. 

“He hasn’t paid me a second glance since she’s come. I only feel stupid for thinking that he no longer felt anything for her.”

“You know that isn’t how their…. predicament works, Y/N. You know he has no control over his feelings for her.”

You stayed quiet. Jaskier watched you for a few moments, wishing there was something he could do to help you feel better.

“I’d like to go to bed now, Jakier.” You told him.

“Okay, darling. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Jaskier.”

***

A few hours later, you were still awake. Not only were you unable to sleep, but there was a draft in your room that made you cold. 

After laying there for a while tossing and turning, you decided to read. You turned the page just as someone knocked on the door to your room. 

“Who is it?”

“Me.” Geralt’s deep voice came from the other side of the door 

“I’m in no mood for talking, Geralt. I’m trying to sleep.”

“I can hear your teeth chattering.”

“The only way you can hear my teeth is if you’ve been lingering outside my door.” You sat up, eyes focusing on the door.

You heard the witcher let out a heavy sigh. 

“Can I please come in, Y/N?”

“You may open the door.” You adjusted the shoulder of your chemise and pulled the blankets up to cover your chest. 

Geralt opened the door and stepped inside. Golden eyes flickered around the room, searching for something. 

“Did you leave a window open?”

“No. My room sometimes gets cold during the winter months. That’s why I tend to stay with Jaskier.”

Geralt nodded. His eyes fell on you. 

You shifted around a little on the bed. 

“Well? Did you have something you wanted to say or did you just come in here to look at me while I’m in my nightclothes?” You raised your brows at him. 

Geralt cleared his throat, eyes darting down to the floor for a moment before lifting to meet yours. 

“I-I don’t…. I’ve noticed that for the last couple of days you and I….” He trailed off, unsure of what to say or how to word what was going through his head. “You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?”

“Like the plague, yes.” You stated matter-of-factly. You looked down to the blanket and smoothed out the material. “I don’t wish to step on anyone’s toes. This keep may be big, but it isn’t big enough to last the entire winter feuding with the few who are here.”

Geralt furrowed his brows at you. He opened his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“Now if you’ll please excuse me, Geralt. I’d like to try to sleep tonight.”

Geralt locked his jaw, frustrated. 

“You’ll freeze if you stay here for the night.”

“Then so be it.” You stubbornly laid down in bed and brought the blankets up over your shoulder.

“Can I….” He grunted. “Can I stay with you for the night? At least to keep you warm?”

You swore your heart skipped a beat. You wanted to tell him no and to even start raising your voice at him. But you were far too cold and too tired to fight. 

“I suppose.”

Geralt moved across the room and kicked his boots off. He pulled the blankets back and climbed underneath them. 

“Won’t Yennefer be upset that you’re underneath the same blankets as me?” You looked over your shoulder at him. 

“She doesn’t care what I do. I am my own person. I’m an adult. I don’t have to ask for her permission to do anything.”

“But…. aren’t you two….?” You didn’t finish your sentence. 

One of Geralt’s arms slipped around your torso. He pulled you back into him. 

You could almost immediately feel his body heat coming through both of your clothes. 

“No, we aren’t.” His answer was soft. His breath was warm against your neck. “Is that what’s gotten you so upset with me?”

You said nothing, allowing yourself to sink back against him. 

His hand that rested on your stomach began to trace circles there. 

“Please understand that it’s a spell. Whatever I do feel towards her, it was forged in a last wish I made years ago.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when we are all in the same room and you forget that I exist.” You murmured.

A breath left his lips. 

“I am sorry, dove.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. “I’m looking into ways to get rid of the spell. I don’t want it getting in the way of any real…. Any real feelings I may have for anyone else.”

His words made something in your chest flutter. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. 

“Good night, dove.”

“Good night, Geralt.”

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If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[all-hail-the-witcher]

say yes to the plus one

the sequel to say yes to the drinks. which you should read first. i am so tired. just have it. 

__

ship: geraskier

warnings: none

editing: ish

words: over 3k but under 4k

genre: floof

__

After getting drinks with Geralt, Jaskier could not stop thinking about him. He found himself taking more time with his appearance each morning - something that he hadn't even thought would be possible - hoping that Geralt would come into the store.

But Geralt still hadn’t come into Kleinfelds since the day of his trunk show. Jaskier tried not to be disappointed. He knew that he was very busy and it had been a one off that he had even met him in the first place.

Still, he couldn’t help but think that the two of them had something. There must have been some sort of chemistry between the two of them. Why else had Geralt asked him to get drinks after he had made that awful slip up with the magic fingers? Surely, he must feel something for him.

He had been texting Jaskier though, so Jaskier knew that he was at least still interested. Every message that he got wishing him a good morning or about some funny wedding dress design or of a picture of Geralt’s Pomeranian, Roach, made his heart flutter. There just had to be a future for them, right?

So, Jaskier went through yet another day of busy appointments at Kleinfelds, hoping that he would run into Geralt.

Late May into early June was always a busy time for them. Jaskier didn't personally understand the appeal of getting married in a zillion degree heat, but to each their own. This was by far his least favorite part of the year though. He spent every hour at work on his feet, hardly getting a break as he rushed from appointment to appointment: checking on alterations, making sure that every bride was getting their dream dress, and providing tweaks to designs when necessary to prevent bridal meltdowns.

It was nothing short of exhausting.

“Jaskier!” Camille, one of the consultants, called to him at around mid afternoon.

He had just spent the last hour trying to get a very adamant, very conservative mom and a very eccentric bride on the same page. He needed a daiquiri. Or three. Still, he turned around and put on his brightest smile.

“Yes, darling?”

“You’re needed down in alterations,” she said with a sweet smile.

Jaskier nodded and turned back through the salon to walk down to alterations. He hated going to alterations. If he was needed there, it usually meant that shit had hit the fan in some sense. He braced himself for a long afternoon.

He walked up to the manager, about to ask her where he was needed, when a shout from behind him made him jump.

“Jaskier!”

And a swell of desire rose up in Jaskier’s stomach because he knew that gravelly voice. Quickly, he straightened his tie, thankful he had worn his good pink one today, before taking a deep breath and turning around.

“Geralt!” he said, trying furiously to keep his cheeks from flushing. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Surprise?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together as he walked up to Jaskier, his wolfs head cane clicking across the floor. He was wearing a light blue button down today with the sleeves cuffed to his forearms that made his golden eyes pop and Jaskier had to struggle to keep his eyes on his face. “I texted you this morning.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he reached into his blazer pocket for his phone. Sure enough, there were two messages from Geralt. The first was a picture of Roach, lying in a patch of sun in his apartment. The second was a message that read:

Hey, I’m going to be at Kleinfelds today doing a custom fitting. Can you help with the appointment?

And Jaskier had never even seen it. Much less responded.

“Oh Geralt, I am so terribly sorry,” Jaskier said quickly. “This is our busiest time of year and I have hardly had a moment to think today.”

“You don’t have to help,” Geralt said sincerely, concern clouding his eyes. “I don’t want to push you too hard with the rest of your appointments, but I just figured that since I was here, I would ask.”

“No, no darling!” Jaskier said, rushing to reassure him. “Of course I will help! Helping you is much better than dealing with emotional brides and entourages that aren’t on the same page.”

“It’s alright Jaskier,” Geralt said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know you just want to see my magic hands at work again.”

This time, Jaskier did flush bright red. “ You! ” he said outrageously, gaping at Geralt’s audacity to bring up his slip up from last time. “You need a nap!”

But Geralt just laughed, a glorious sound that sent shivers down Jaskier’s spine. “I think you’re the one who needs the nap, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. How dare he make such assumptions, and how dare he be right?

“Anyway, the fitting is for my brother’s fiancee,” Geralt explained. “I made her a custom dress and she’s coming in for her fitting today. There was a shipping delay, so we only have time for one fitting before their wedding next week. I was hoping you could help.”

Jaskier could see the tension that had creeped its way into Geralt’s broad shoulders and the worry that was clouding his pretty face.

Jaskier placed a reassuring hand on Geralt’s arm. “Of course I’ll help, darling. Helping resolve wedding dress disasters is my specialty. Er- not that your dress is a disaster,” he said quickly, amused by the way that Geralt’s eyebrows had shot up. “Nothing that you design could ever be a disaster, the way that you work lace and beads is just divine, not a disaster. Not in any way a disaster. What I meant was the fact that she only has one fitting, that’s the disaster. Not your dress.”

“My magic fingers are quite incapable of creating a disaster dress, you’re right,” Geralt winked.

Jaskier resisted the urge to smack his shoulder. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.” Geralt looked far too pleased with himself. “Can you grab the dress for me? It’s on the rack for the day. And can you bring it to room 13?”

“Of course,” Jaskier said. He’d let the magic fingers comment slide for now. Geralt looked far too attractive with his moonlight silver hair in an artful bun, tendrils framing his face, for him to stay mad at him for long. He had never been able to resist a pretty face.

“Thank you.” Geralt moved past Jaskier and began to make his way to the room. Jaskier turned to watch him walk down the hall. His ass looked far too delicious in those gorgeous, fitted navy pinstripe pants. He just had to appreciate it. It would be a crime not to.

Distantly, he wondered if his ass looked just as delicious without the pants on. And was he wearing boxers or briefs? Oh who was he kidding, he had to be wearing at least briefs with pants like those. But what color? Geralt seemed like the type of man to appreciate a fun pair of underwear and-

Jaskier. Get your head out of the gutter.

He made a beeline to the rack and grabbed the dress. He had already left Geralt waiting long enough.

“Here you are,” Jaskier said, hanging the dress in the room.

Geralt fidgeted with his shirt sleeves, eyeing the bag. With a pang, Jaskier realized that he was nervous.

“I’m sure she’s going to love the dress,” Jaskier said, putting as much sincerity as he could into his words. “You are one of the best designers in the industry, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt said. “But I’ve never designed for someone that I know before, there’s more risk involved if they don't like it. Cause she’s put all her trust in me and what if she doesn’t like it? This is her only fitting. There isn't time to make anything else."

“Geralt,” Jaskier placed his hand over Geralt’s where he was still fidgeting with his sleeve. “She’s going to love it. Don’t doubt yourself so much, it ruins your pretty face.”

Fuck, did he just really say that out loud?

Geralt’s doubt dissipated as he looked at Jaskier amusedly. “You think my face is pretty?”

“Well who wouldn’t?” Jaskier said, trying and failing to backpedal. “It’s a plenty beautiful face, I mean you’ve got a nose and eyes and everything and…”

“I would hope I have a nose and eyes, yes,” Geralt laughed. Then, he leaned in, as if telling Jaskier a secret. “I’ve also heard that I have lips, too.”

Jaskier was saved the embarrassment of having to respond by a consultant escorting who Jaskier assumed to be Geralt’s brother’s fiancee and her entourage into the alterations area.

“Geralt!” a pretty girl with dark, curly hair said as she stepped up to hug him.

“Hi Triss,” Geralt said, giving her a polite hug and waving to the rest of the entourage. “Are you excited?”

“Of course I’m excited,” she said. “It’s only a week away, Geralt. This better be every bit as perfect as you said it would be.”

“It will be.” Geralt’s smile was easy, as if he hadn’t been freaking out about the appointment moments before.

“And who is this?” Triss asked, turning to Jaskier.

“Oh, everyone, this is Jaskier. He’s a consultant here and my friend,” Geralt said.

“Hello!” Jaskier said, giving everyone a wave.

“Jaskier, this is Triss, the bride to be. She’s marrying my brother.” Geralt gestured to the woman with the dark hair standing in front of them.

“Hello darling,” Jaskier said, shaking her hand. “You look just gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Triss smiled.

“And this is Triss’s friend Yennefer, Yennefer’s daughter Ciri, my other brother Lambert, and Lambert’s husband Aiden,” Geralt said, pointing at the people sitting on the bench.

Jaskier waved to them all and gave them his best customer service smile.

“Tell me about your fiancee, darling,” Jaskier said to Triss.

“I am getting married to Eskel,” she said, her face lighting up immediately. “We’ve known each other forever and he is perfect.”

“Forever is an understatement,” Geralt said. “They went to kindergarten together.”

“Oh, a childhood love story!” Jaskier clapped his hands together. “How romantic! Let’s hope you have a dress to match.” He turned to Geralt.

“Well darling,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the garment bag that Triss’s dress was in. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Geralt stepped up to the garment bag, his shoulder taught with anxiety.

“Take a breath, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, just quiet enough for only Geralt to hear. “She’s going to love it.”

Geralt nodded once before unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. Jaskier couldn't help but gasp.

“Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” Triss gasped next to him, taking Jaskier’s words right out of his mouth. “Geralt, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“You haven’t even put it on yet,” Geralt said, stepping away so that the entourage could see it as well.

“I don’t have to to know that it’s everything I wanted and probably more,” she said, giving Geralt another hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Geralt said and Jaskier thought that he saw a light blush tinting his cheeks. Was Geralt embarrassed? Oh that was just adorable…

The dress itself was gorgeous, just as Jaskier suspected it would be. It was a glorious ivory color that seemed to shift under the lights to be a gorgeous pale blush pink. The skirt appeared to be A line and was sleeveless with a high neck. The bodice had an intricate lace and beading design that blended into the skirt. Jaskier knew that the dress was going to be amazing but Triss was right, Geralt had really outdone himself.

“Would you like to put it on, darling?” Jaskier asked.

Triss nodded, still not tearing her eyes from the dress as Geralt stepped out of the dressing room and Jaskier closed the curtains behind him.

He helped Triss into the dress, zipping up the back effortlessly.

“Oh it fits you like a glove darling,” he remarked. “Almost like it was made for you. Oh wait-” he smiled at her. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Triss laughed at his terrible joke - bless her - as she fingered the lace and beads on the front. “I wasn’t expecting it to look this beautiful,” she whispered.

“Well then let's spin you round, darling,” Jaskier said, taking her hand as she turned to face the mirror. “That’ll really shock you.”

“Oh my god.” She clapped her hands over her mouth as she gaped at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side to look at herself better. “Oh my god .”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jaskier smiled at her. “Geralt is far more talented than he gives himself credit for.”

“Tell me about it,” Triss said distractedly as she continued to stare at the dress. “This is absolutely gorgeous. I love it. Eskel’s going to love it. Everyone’s going to love it.”

“Stop feeding pretty boy’s ego and show us then!” someone shouted from the other side of the curtain.

“Fuck off, Lambert!” Triss called back. “I’m having my bridal moment,” she whispered, tears springing up in her eyes as she continued to stare, utterly transfixed by the dress.

“Here, darling,” Jaskier said, pulling his pink pocket square out of his breast pocket. “You don't want to get your mascara on the dress now, do you?”

Triss dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath before handing the handkerchief back to Jaskier.

“Are you ready to show your entourage?”

“She better be!” Lambert shouted from outside again.

Triss let out a watery laugh. “Yeah, I am.”

Jaskier drew back the curtain as Triss turned around.

“Oh, Triss,” Yennefer said, tears unmistakably clouding her eyes. “You look gorgeous.”

“Holy fuck, Geralt,” Aiden muttered as he stared at the dress, his jaw dropped. “ You designed that ?”

“Hey!” Lambert elbowed him. “I already said that pretty boy doesn’t need his ego inflated any more than it is!”

“Okay but fucking look at the dress, Lambert. It’s fucking gorgeous. And I’m half fucking blind. ”

Lambert shrugged. “Yeah I mean it’s nice. It’s a dress. It’s fabric. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say she looks beautiful!” Aiden nearly shouted, smacking Lambert’s shoulder. “And that Geralt did a great job because if you don't I swear your ass-”

“Boys.” Triss crossed her arms. “There are children present.”

“I’m nineteen!” Ciri protested, throwing her hands up.

Triss ignored her. “There are children present and this is my fitting. So Lambert, shut up and tell your brother he did a good job.”

“You did a good job not fucking it up, Ger,” Lambert muttered.

“I’ll take it. And Aiden? You can finish that sentence later,” she said with a pointed look.

She turned to Jaskier, who had been watching the entire exchange with raised eyebrows. “Sorry about them, they are always like this.”

Lambert flipped her off. Aiden threw up a peace sign.

“Well,” Jaskier said, trying to contain his laughter. “Clearly they are meant for eachother.” He was just glad that he hadn’t had to diffuse the situation. He was tired of telling entourages to get along.

“It’s a good thing they got married then,” Geralt said, standing slowly and walking over to Triss. “You like the dress then?”

Triss once again read Jaskier’s mind and playfully punched Geralt’s shoulder. “I fucking love it . I was right, it is everything I wanted and more. Thank you.” Her eyes were shining with tears again and this time, it was painfully obvious that Geralt blushed when he looked down at his shoes.

“Of course, it was my pleasure,” Geralt said, squeezing her arm. “I’m glad you and Eskel are finally tying the knot, I couldn't imagine a more perfect match for him than you.”

“Geralt,” Triss sighed, the tears pooling in her eyes spilling over again. “You didn't need to make me cry more! The dress was enough!”

Geralt just laughed. Jaskier silently passed Triss his pocket square again.

“Is there anything big that you want to change or do I just need to adjust the fit?” Geralt asked.

“Just the fit,” Triss said, dabbing at her eyes again.

Geralt nodded and set to work, silently slipping into the zone, pinning and adjusting and occasionally stepping back and squinting at his work. Jaskier knew that Triss and her entourage were talking, but he didn't even pretend to be paying attention. He was much more content to watch Geralt work, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the fabric as he made the already gorgeous gown look somehow even more phenomenal.

“Alright,” Geralt said, stepping back. “I think that that should be good, spin round for me.”

Triss turned to look in the mirror.

“Does it look okay?” Geralt asked and Triss punched his shoulder again. “Ow!”

“Geralt if you don't stop insulting your frankly quite stunning work, I will have to steal your little demon dog,” she said, looking over the dress in the mirror. “But yes, everything looks good.”

“Roach isn’t a demon,” Geralt pouted, and oh fuck wasn’t that adoreable.

“That fucking dog almost bit my hand off!” Lambert shouted from the bench.

Geralt made several rude gestures at him and Jaskier nearly swooned. Fucking hell he was gone for this man. And it was only the second time that he had seen him.

“Jaskier, can you get her out of the dress?” Geralt asked. “Be careful with all the pins.”

Jaskier nodded, very much at a loss for words.

“C’mon darling,” Jaskier said, tugging the curtain closed behind Geralt again.

He undid the zipper on the back of Triss’s dress and helped tug the dress off her shoulders, mindful of the many pins that Geralt had put in it.

“Have you and Geralt known each other long?” Triss asked.

“Oh, no not at all,” Jaskier said, glad that he was standing behind her and couldn't see the flush of his cheeks. “He helped me with an appointment a few months ago and we went out for drinks after and we’ve been texting occasionally, but that’s it.” He didn’t say that he wished it was more.

“You went out for drinks on the day you first met?” Triss asked, letting her voice rise. “That’s interesting, Geralt doesn’t often go out with people that he’s just met.”

There was a shout from the other side of the curtain, but it was muffled almost immediately, the sound of a hand slapping over someone’s mouth unmistakeable.

“Well, it had been a long day and we were both in need of one. Step out for me, darling,” Jaskier said, picking up the dress and hanging it back up.

“I’m sure you were,” Triss said from behind him as he zipped the dress carefully back into the garment bag. Before he had the chance to ask what she meant, she was opening the curtains and walking back outside to her entourage.

Jaskier picked up the garment bag and followed her.

“It was lovely meeting all of you,” he said, waving to the entourage. “Triss, darling, I hope you have a wonderful wedding and Geralt, it was nice seeing you again.” He turned back down the hall to go hang up the dress for Geralt to deal with later. He should get back upstairs, hopefully nothing too dire had happened in the salon during his absence, even if the break had been nice.

He was just turning to go up the stairs when he saw Geralt walking purposefully towards him, his cane clicking quickly against the floor.

“Jaskier!”

“Oh, hi again!” Jaskier said. “I was just going to head back upstairs, we are still very busy.” He gave Geralt an apologetic smile. There was nothing that he would rather do than stand and talk with Geralt.

Geralt winced. “Then I guess you probably shouldn't have helped me with the appointment.”

“No, no!” Jaskier said quickly. “It was my absolute pleasure, Geralt. And honestly? The salon was driving me a bit insane, so it was quite a nice and much needed break.”

“Well thank you for helping,” Geralt smiled. “I think it went well.”

“It definitely did, darling,” Jaskier said. “She loved the dress, just like I told you she would.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and looked down at his feet, placing both hands on top of his cane. “Actually though, I had something to ask you before you get back to work, if that’s okay. I don’t want to keep you.”

“The only thing you’re keeping me from is crying brides and disapproving mothers, and there is only so much of that that my poor soul can take,” Jaskier said. “I’d rather stay here with you and your-” he cut himself off before he made another terrible slip up. He had already learned his lesson from last time.

“With my magic hands? Or my pretty face?” Geralt asked smugly.

Jaskier sighed, ignoring him. “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”

“I have a plus one for Triss’s wedding next week,” Geralt started.

“And you haven’t asked anyone yet?” Jaskier asked. “Geralt, what have you been doing?”

“...Designing dresses?” he said sheepishly.

Jaskier swore his heart melted. He just looked so cute. How on earth was this allowed?

“Well, you better ask someone,” Jaskier said. “You’re running out of time.”

“Yes I know.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and smiled. “Jaskier, what are you doing next Saturday?”

“Saturday?” Well…” Jaskier trailed off, trying to remember what was coming up. “That is technically my day off, but I might still come in because we have just been so busy and we’re getting a new collection in and I’m going to have to….wait….” his eyes widened as he finally processed what Geralt had been asking him. “Are you….are you asking me..?”

“Would you like to be my plus one to Triss’s wedding?” Geralt asked, his golden eyes somehow sparkling in the atrocious fluorescent lighting.

“ Oh ,” Jaskier gasped. “Yes. Yes I would love to.”

“Great,” Geralt said, breathing an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll pick you up at 1pm. It’s formal. Be ready.”

Oh, Jaskier would be ready alright. He walked back to a salon with a huge smile plastered across his face.

__

may be a ch 2. havent decided. 

tag list:

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@dapandapod

[contemplativepancakes]

the thorny heart of a wolf

3.5k of it being increasingly obvious that Jaskier has written a romance novel about Geralt while Geralt is increasingly oblivious. read this and my other witcher fics on ao3 here!

Geralt stirs the smoldering logs, brooding as the poker makes ash and ember drift up. His nose twitches at the smokiness of it, but it reminds him of comforting nights spent near the fire with good food and better company. Geralt rarely makes a fire when he’s by himself, but Jaskier insists on complaining about his cold feet all night if Geralt doesn’t keep their campsite warm enough. 

Eskel clears his throat obnoxiously, making Geralt look up at him. It’s a rare night in the keep where Vesemir couldn’t think of any additional chores or maintenance that needed done, so they had scurried away before something came to him. 

Geralt peers at the book in Eskel’s hand, not recognizing it from the library. It’s a garish purple that’s frankly an affront to Geralt’s eyes. “What are you reading?” 

Eskel snaps it shut. “Nothing.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look at it, then.”

“Geralt, really, I’m just trying to protect you from yourself.”

Geralt holds his hand out, and Eskel reluctantly hands it over. Lambert snickers from his corner, and Geralt levels him with a glare. Even Aiden looks amused, and Geralt’s mood sours at the laugh at his apparent expense. He looks at the cover in surprise. Luminescent yellow eyes peer back at him from a shirtless man with an impressive abdomen. Geralt thumbs through the book, and the word witcher catches his eye. “This is about...us?”

He looks back down at it, eyebrows lifting in surprise as graphic descriptions leap off the page at him. “Is this a romance?” he asks incredulously. 

“‘And he prodded the smaller man’s backdoor with his throbbing meat stick, plunging in with a wet squelch,’” Lambert quotes. “Yeah, I think it’s a romance.”

Geralt makes a face and throws the book at Lambert. Aiden catches it right before it hits Lambert square in the nose, and Geralt shakes his head. “Should have let it hit the ass. It’s the least he deserves.”

“Hey, I haven’t even told you the best part yet,” Lambert says. “We’re pretty sure it’s about you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Geralt scoffs, glancing at Eskel with narrowed eyes. 

Eskel’s look does not exactly inspire confidence. “You and the main character do have a suspicious amount of shared scars.”

“Coincidence.”

Eskel bites his lip, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’ll let Geralt live in blissful ignorance for now. 

Lambert pages through the book, his head laying back on Aiden’s lap. “Did you get a new scar on your ass since last winter?”

The meat of Geralt’s ass where a griffin tore into him twinges. “Fuck off.”

-

Geralt is two hours out on his journey away from Kaer Mohren when he feels a hard edge digging into him from his pack. He adjusts it, trying to stop whatever it is from poking him, but it’s bulky and it won’t settle right. Geralt digs a hand into his pack, fishing around until he finds it. It’s a—book? Geralt pulls it out and squints at the cover, recognizing it as what Eskel had been reading. No doubt one of his brothers had thought this would be a funny joke. Geralt considers tossing it alongside the road, but as he looks thoughtfully at the cover with two shirtless men clutching at each other, his curiosity wins out. The Thorny Heart of a Wolf, the cover says.

He tucks it back into his satchel.

Later, after the sun has set, and he’s gone as far as he can for the day—certainly not travelling in the vague direction of Oxenfurt to see whose path his own might end up crossing—Geralt pulls out the book. He flips through pages at the beginning, reading that the witcher’s love interest is a viscount. Geralt huffs a laugh under his breath that someone resembling anything close to nobility would willingly follow around a witcher. 

Geralt thumbs through it until he reaches the middle, a faint blush rising to his cheeks as his eyes flicker across the page. 

The witcher moaned at the sight of his lover stroking himself as he leaned against the tree. Eric’s eyes were black, and the color spread to the veins standing out in stark contrast to his pale face. Julian palmed himself through his trousers as Eric moved closer, his breath hot on Julian’s bared neck, his head tossed back in pleasure. 

Eric paused with his hands just shy of Julian’s chest. Julian took the step forward and wrapped his arms around Eric gently. Julian knew just how overstimulated Eric got when his blood was black with toxicity. Eric buried his face in Julian’s neck, scenting him with a deep sniff. Julian wrapped his fingers into Eric’s long gray hair, tugging at the strands a bit and making Eric moan. 

Eric nipped his way up Julian’s neck, sucking a bruise onto the soft flesh and staking his claim. Julian felt his member twitch at the thought that people would notice it tomorrow, that they would look between him and his handsome witcher and connect the dots. 

Geralt presses the heel of his hand over his crotch and resolutely does not grind down. He casts a furtive glance around him, and seeing nothing creeping from the tree line to rip out his intestines while he’s distracted, he turns his attention back to the book. 

Julian caught Eric’s lips in a messy kiss, bringing his fingers up to trace the black veins spider webbing out from his eyes. Eric ducked his head, but Julian brought his hand under Eric’s chin, tilting it back up and gentling their kiss. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and the sentiment echoed into the night and made Eric’s heart twist. 

Geralt sets the book down on his lap and stares up at the leaves swaying in the breeze. He sticks his thumb in the book, marking his spot as he flips it over and looks for the author. They can’t have any firsthand experience with witchers if this is the sort of thing they’re writing. He runs his fingers over the embossed letters on the spine. Dandelion Pankratz, it proclaims in shiny gold. Geralt hums to himself in curiosity as he flips back to his page and skips forward a bit, eager to get to the good parts and stop having an existential crisis. 

Julian reached behind himself, his fingers slick with a neutral smelling oil. Eric sniffed the air, his senses still extra heightened from his elixirs and shuddered as he drank in the scent of Julian’s and his own arousal mingling. Eric moved forward, catching Julian’s hand and replacing the fingers with his own. 

Julian stifled a cry as Eric found his prostate, leaning forward and muffling his gasps into Eric’s shoulder. Julian brought a hand up to wrap around Eric’s cock, engorged and black veined from the elixirs. Julian shuddered at the thought of that monstrous thing inside him, his stomach tingling in anticipation. 

The first time he and Eric had done this, Eric had squinted at him doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s going to fit?”

Julian had laughed and showed him exactly how well it filled in all his gaps. 

Eric finished stretching him out, and Julian positioned Eric until he was right where he wanted him. Julian sunk down slowly on Eric’s cock, moaning as the prominent veins rubbed against his walls. Eric reached around him to grasp his cock, and he stroked it in time to Julian’s rhythm. 

Geralt swallows hard, palming at his cock before pulling it out of his pants. He trails his fingers over the head as he holds the book awkwardly in one hand, continuing to read as he gets himself off. 

“Oh, fuck, Eric, you feel so good, darling.”

Eric was never one for eloquent declarations at the best of times, and in the middle of sex was typically the worst of times. Eric grunted, but Julian understood the sentiment. 

“I love you, too,” he gasped as he came. 

Geralt drops the book with a thud and pulls his hand away from himself. This author must never have met a real life witcher before, if they think that witchers are capable of being loved, that they deserve to be cherished. Geralt stares at his erection, willing it to go down. It doesn’t, and he vehemently does his pants back up anyway, hissing as the fabric presses rough against the sensitive flesh. 

Geralt shoves the book to the bottom of his pack like it’s burned him, and as he tries to fall asleep that night, he tosses and turns. 

-

Eskel raps on the door three times before he stands back and waits. He waits for ten seconds, twenty, until a woman opens the door just a smidge and stares out at him from the crack. “Can I help you?” 

Eskel is caught off guard at her suspicious squint, so he splutters for a second before regathering his wits. He pulls a book out of his pack, and her eyes widen at the sight. “Where did you get that?” she hisses, beckoning him inside urgently. “The author made it very clear it wasn’t supposed to be seen by any witchers.”

Eskel’s surprised by this. It’s not like people go to great lengths to hide what they think of witchers, and at least this author doesn’t paint them through a lens of disdain. “How exactly were you going to accomplish that?” Eskel asks, in genuine curiosity. Witchers travel all over the continent, and seeking new knowledge isn’t exactly out of the ordinary for them.

The woman tilts her head, considering. “I suppose it was more of a meaningless platitude than anything.”

“Excellent. That means you can tell me who this writer is.”

The woman shakes her head rapidly. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know, what if you decide to take revenge on them for what they’ve written?”

Eskel frowns. “Have you read this?” he asks.

The woman blushes and nods. 

“So why would I want revenge? Is there some offense hidden between the lines?”

“Well, no,” the woman hedges. “You’re an unpredictable sort, though. There’s no telling what you might do.”

Eskel huffs and rolls his eyes. For being so unpredictable, this woman is sure comfortable insinuating things about him and not giving him what he wants. 

“Just tell me who it is, and then I can be on my way.”

“I can’t say,” she says, tilting her chin up. 

Eskel sighs. He can tell a lost cause when he sees one. “You know, this isn’t the first romance about witchers I’ve seen,” he says, trying a different tack. 

“Maybe so, but the rest are all knock offs,” she informs him smugly. “They don’t even have experience with real witchers. This one’s the best there is out there. There’s even going to be a sequel.”

Eskel hums thoughtfully. “I imagine there’s been an uptick in interest after that accursed song.”

“That’s right!” the woman says, before clamming up and refusing to say anything else. 

The wheels turn in Eskel’s head. 

-

Geralt looks through the smoke wafting up from the campfire over to Jaskier, who’s furiously scribbling something in his notebook. They’ve just been on the road for the past four days, so Geralt’s not sure what he could be writing about with such fervor. It’s not like there’s been much inspiration. 

Jaskier’s quill continues to fly across the page, so Geralt pulls out his own book. It’s too dark for Jaskier to be able to see the cover, he reasons. He props his legs up on a log and opens it up to where he left off. 

“Julian, wait!” Eric cried. “Come with me.”

Julian looked up in surprise. “Really?”

“It… it gets lonely, being without you all winter long.”

Julian wound his arms around Eric. “You’re not the only one.”

Eric looked inordinately pleased at the statement, and he slotted their mouths together delicately. 

Julian kissed him for a moment before pulling back. “I’m not going to break, you know.”

“I know,” Eric murmured, but he kept the same slow pace. 

There’s a sudden flurry of movement that draws Geralt’s attention away from the page. “Geralt! What in the world are you reading?”

“A bestiary?” Geralt tries. 

Jaskier is practically in his lap before Geralt can think about it too much, swiping the book right out of Geralt’s hands. “Where did you get this?” Jaskier asks. 

“Eskel gave it to me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “And where did Eskel get it?”

“I think Lambert.”

“Did every single witcher read this?” Jaskier shrills. 

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t think Vesemir did?”

Jaskier presses the book to his chest. “Are you liking it?” he asks, eyeing Geralt closely. 

“It’s not bad,” Geralt says gruffly. “But it’s not very realistic.”

“I hate to break this to you, but realism in sex scenes are not exactly a romance writer’s chief concern.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Not that. I just—no human could think about a witcher like that.”

Jaskier looks like he has something he wants to say, but he bites his tongue, settling on giving Geralt a disbelieving look out of the corner of his eye. 

Geralt turns his attention back to feeding the fire. “So, what did you do all winter?”

Jaskier huffs. “Believe it or not, I do have a life when you’re not around, you know.”

Geralt knows. Gods, does he know. There’s a whole life that Jaskier has that Geralt isn’t a part of, not at all. He wonders how many of Jaskier’s friends approve of them travelling together. Most likely none of them, if Geralt is being honest with himself. And why would they? Geralt wouldn’t be happy if he found out Eskel had decided to travel with some dangerous monster. 

“I know.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “Well, I had this whirlwind affair. It kept me quite busy all winter, I’m afraid. Not very much time for much else. I’ll spare you the details.”

Geralt grunts. 

-

Eskel leans back in his chair and looks at Yennefer suspiciously. “So it’s not you?”

Yennefer slants an amused smile his way. “Definitely not. I am rather enjoying it, though,” she says, drawing Eskel’s attention to her table, where she’s tapping her fingers on a copy of the book. “Who knew witchers could be so in touch with their emotions?”

Eskel snorts. “Can I see it?” Lambert had taken his copy, telling Eskel he had snuck his own into Geralt’s things. Eskel had laughed at the thought enough that he had handed his over. 

Yennefer hands it over and Eskel thumbs through the pages, humming softly. He had skimmed through it before, but this time he’s looking for anything that might give him hints of the author. 

Eskel lands on the main character’s name. Eric. The name niggles at the back of Eskel’s mind, and he racks his brains to remember the significance. It hits him then, and the image of a young Geralt sitting on the bed across from him and grinning comes to mind. Geralt had barely been able to get the words out because he had been so full of self satisfaction. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde,” he had finally said, adopting a solemn tone before dissolving into laughter again.  

Geralt had been poking fun of the ridiculously long names of the nobles, wanting to adopt one for himself. Vesemir had given him a sharp no, so the idea was shelved, and just Geralt took its place. 

Eskel is more convinced than ever that whoever wrote this knows Geralt well, and at this point, it’s so obvious that the story is about Geralt, it’s laughable. 

Eskel thinks he has a pretty clear idea of who it must be.

-

Geralt knows who wrote the book. The thought has been bothering him for weeks, and even though a few nights ago, Jaskier had tripped while he was carrying the book and dropped it straight into the fire, Geralt hasn’t stopped thinking about it. 

He’s decided that the book is mostly accurate to witchers, so the author must have some experience with them—but only a little. There’s no way anyone would write about witchers the way that author does if they truly knew them, knew someone like Geralt. The book talks as if Eric is deserving of love, and while that’s a nice sentiment, witchers are just meant to kill monsters. They walk the Path alone. 

On top of that, it’s someone who’s seen the wicked looking scar on his ass, and that narrows down the list quite considerably. The griffin had torn into him last spring, and Geralt doesn’t typically seek out people to sleep with while Jaskier is with him. 

In fact, the last time he had been with someone was on his way out of Oxenfurt when he had dropped Jaskier off last winter, when he had run into a rather charming bard who he certainly had not slept with solely because he reminded him of someone else. 

The writer has to be Valdo Marx. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, who is predictably scribbling in his notebook. Geralt supposes he must be composing another song; he’s had to have come up with at least in a dozen this year so far with as much writing as he does. 

Geralt nudges Jaskier’s foot with his, and Jaskier looks up after a few more seconds of rushed writing. “What?”

“I know who wrote that book.”

Jaskier’s face twists into something Geralt can’t place. 

“What book?”

Geralt huffs in exasperation; it’s as if Jaskier is being obstinate on purpose. “You don’t remember the book you pitched into the fire? I still had one more chapter to go,” he complains. 

Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, that book? Who?”

“Valdo Marx, have you heard of him? He’s another bard, not that I expect all of you to be acquainted with each other, of course,” Geralt rambles until Jaskier cuts him off. 

“You—you think—Valdo Marx wrote that?”

There’s a sour distressed smell wafting off of Jaskier, and Geralt frowns. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” Jaskier laughs. “Yes. And I can't believe you think he wrote that."

“Well, I do.”

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. “And what do you plan on doing with this new found knowledge?”

“I have to...talk to him, I think.”

“Oh?”

Yes, Geralt has to talk to him, has to know if what he wrote is what he truly thinks of witchers. Geralt’s not used to people assuming he’s anything but a monster. 

He wants to get used to it. 

-

It’s not a long journey to Oxenfurt from where they are, but it’s compounded by the three contracts Geralt picks up along the way. Jaskier is generally huffy at Geralt, and Geralt’s asked him what’s wrong on three separate occasions, but Jaskier just says, “Nothing,” with a dramatic sigh and walks away mumbling to himself. 

Geralt has no idea what his problem is. 

Jaskier gets more and more worked up the closer they get, a fruit senescence smell drifting off of him that has Geralt wrinkling his nose at the sickly sweetness of it all. Geralt even makes sure they make it to an inn to sleep one night so Jaskier can perform and hopefully improve his mood, but he just sulks in their room all night. 

Jaskier usually has no problem curling up next to Geralt and trying to leech all the warmth out of him that he can, putting his ice cold feet on Geralt’s under the blanket, but that night, there’s an ocean dividing them, and Geralt doesn’t know how to get across. 

It’s a long night, one in which Geralt manages to get very little sleep because of Jaskier’s tossing and turning next to him. Geralt doesn’t even have the heart to growl at him to stay still because it’s obvious he’s upset about something or other. 

“Is this about your romance this winter?” Geralt finally asks. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer for a long while. 

“You could say that.”

-

Eventually, Geralt finds himself in front of Valdo’s house. It looks vaguely familiar, as it should, when the last and only time Geralt had been here was almost a year ago. 

Geralt raises his hand and knocks, and then Jaskier’s warm hand is on his wrist. 

“Geralt, wait.”

Geralt turns to him with raised eyebrows. “What?”

“Geralt, it’s me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s me! I wrote the books!”

Geralt’s head spins. The answer has not been sitting in front of his face this entire time. He’s not that oblivious. Hell, his whole damn job depends on him not being oblivious. “My ass,” he says weakly. 

Jaskier takes a step back. “What?”

“The scar. How would you know?”

Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation. “You’re not exactly modest, Geralt. Excuse me if I couldn’t exactly keep my eyes to myself. You know, you were rather vague about why you thought the writer was Valdo fucking Marx of all people. Want to expound? On how he’s seen your ass?”

Geralt grins weakly. “I don’t think we need to get into that.”

Jaskier grumbles to himself. He looks Geralt in the eye before seeming to make a decision, and before Geralt knows what’s happening, he’s being tugged into a very heated kiss. 

The door swings open, and Jaskier pulls back just long enough to sneer in its direction. 

He slams the door shut. “Fuck off, Valdo.”

[jaskiersvalley]

My Bounce A Coin Bingo card has a square for Immortals/Gods. There were so many plans and ideas for it (Old Guard AU was one of them). But sometimes the brain wants something else. Such as Jaskier unironically calling Vesemir ‘Baby’. So, using those infamous words, here we are.

All along, Geralt had known there was something not quite right about Jaskier. He flitted through the world with a naive wonder of sorts. Though that wasn’t quite right because as innocent as Jaskier could seem at times, he was also quick to anger and vicious. Geralt had dragged him away from enough brawls to know better. Even worse, each time he did it, Jaskier always thanked him.

“Thank you sweet pea” or “Dollface, you’re my hero” or, the worst “You’re such a wonderful pup”. They were all so diminutive and Geralt had no idea what to make of it. Jaskier was barely an adult by human standards, in Witcher terms he was basically a babe. As the years passed, Jaskier didn’t change much. He still blindly followed Geralt around, huffed and grumbled about how Witchers were treated. For some wild reason, he had made it his life mission to change humanity’s views. Not that Geralt thought he would succeed but that didn’t stop him from trying all the same. Starting with that stupid, catchy song.

“I think it’s about time I saw where you hole up each winter,” Jaskier announced one autumn. “And meet your fellow Witchers too.”

If anyone else spoke like that to Geralt, he would have left them in the dust. It was as close to parental that anyone ever got with him. Despite his bristling, he relented.

“This has changed so much since I was last in the region,” Jaskier said as they approached the mountains. To Geralt it didn’t look any different when compared to the last 3 or 4 decades. Though, when things got to his age, things did tend to blend into one and memories got a little fuzzier. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed more subtle shifts over time.

At Kaer Morhen Jaskier greeted Eskel with a hug, taking the witcher off guard. Lambert was a little more wily and sidestepped the arm while Aiden laughed behind him.

“Oh! Such diversity,” Jaskier cooed which made zero sense. “I thought it was just Wolves. It’s a struggle to remember. But I’m so excited that they found a way to expand on the gift.”

Lambert grumbled about it being a curse more than a gift but Aiden smacked him in the arm to shut him up. Not that it did much to distract Jaskier and he looked about to ask when Vesemir walked into the entrance hall.

“Baby!” Jaskier all but flung himself at the oldest Witcher. “You’re all grown up!”

Which was just disturbing to hear.

“You back again?” Vesemir asked, patting Jaskier on the back. “You said you’re going out to pick something up. That was almost 300 years ago.”

“Was it really?” Jaskier was wide eyed, a hand covering his mouth with a gasp. “I lost track. But what do you think of my current body?”

Arms out, he turned his back to Vesemir, showing off, striking a few poses.

“Geralt,” Eskel murmured from the corner of his mouth, “what the fuck?”

If only Geralt knew. He was as lost as the others and watching with wary confusion. The worst part was, Vesemir didn’t look all that surprised.

“You always knew how to pick a good one,” he was saying. “Though I got to say, your previous one held more appeal.”

Jaskier’s sly “you fox” was laughed off. “Look, boobs are great and all but I now have a prostate and that is so much more fun.”

Lambert and Aiden side eyed Geralt with a knowing look while Eskel stared at him openly. Resolutely, Geralt kept his eyes to the front.

“Dude,” Lambert whispered to Aiden, “I think Vesemir fucked Geralt’s boyfriend.”

“Oh come now, it was a different time and different body. Humans get so hung up on the body thing.”

Which was true, Geralt was very much hung up on the body thing. He could do with an explanation and why his bard was talking like he had a different body and knew Vesemir come 300 years back. His very human and very male bard.

There wasn’t a chance to quite ask. They were all herded into the dining hall where Jaskier settled next to Vesemir, sounding like he was catching up with an old friend. It was all going quite well until the incredulous “they what now?!” that Jaskier shrieked.

“They lost a page. Cobbled something together but it was excruciating,” Vesemir replied. “And lost meaning too. No longer guardians as promised but exterminators.”

It was the first time Geralt had seen Jaskier look livid and it genuinely scared him. Even the others looked a little uncomfortable as dark eyes moved over them.

“I thought things were a little skew-whiff but I’ve been fixing that. I should have stayed longer last time rather than just stick my head in for a winter.”

 Finally, Eskel had enough. “I’m sorry, what the hell is going on?”

What followed was a truly typical Jaskier story, involving a lot of detours, reminiscing about food he once ate or a lover he left behind through some creative means. But the general gist of it seemed to be that Jaskier was some sort of god.

“Only a minor one, mind you. But I’m still bigger than Valdo.”

“Wait, Valdo Marx. Your arch nemesis. He’s a god?” Geralt couldn’t quite get over it.

“He’s claimed ‘quality music’ as his domain. Sucks to be him because I’ve adopted ‘popular music’ and I am way more worshipped than he is. But aside from that, I’m also kind of a guardian to humanity. Like witchers were meant to be friends of humanity. I showed a group how to nurture and bring you into power. Would have thought there would be more of you.”

Except Lambert only heard that Jaskier was the one responsible for Witchers and he snarled. Not even Aiden tried to hold him back. For his part, Jaskier allowed himself to be tackled to the ground and have a dagger held to his throat.

“When you’re quite done,” he said, sounding bored.

It was Vesemir’s sharp bark of ‘Lambert’ that broke the moment. Gruffly, Lambert stepped back but he was still seething about Jaskier being a fucking sadist. When Vesemir quietly described how Witchers were made, Jaskier looked horrified and he looked at all the witchers at the table one by one.

“You all went through these horrors? My sweetlings, I am so sorry. That was never my intention.”

There wasn’t much Jaskier could do to change the past. But he could change the future.

“You were all made to help me guard humanity. You were meant to be cherished, born of love and treasured. I made you to be my equals, my friends. It seems that while waiting for you to mature, I have made some mistakes. Forgive me.”

If Geralt had thought Jaskier was dedicated to following him around and protecting him before, it was nothing to how he was when they left Kaer Morhen. Within a year, Jaskier was turned the tides and things got a little easier.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Good as Gold pt.13

[part twelve] | [part fourteen] [prostitute!jaskier masterpost]

For @valdomarx because this chapter wouldn’t exist without you 😘

It’s late. Late enough that he’s considering turning in for the night, but there’s a verse in his head that just won’t let him be. Not, at least, until he’s written it down. So instead of lying down and trying to sleep, he plops himself down on the edge of the bed and crosses his legs, notebook propped up on his knees.

It feels good to be writing again after so long. Feels like years since he’s been properly inspired to do anything and the poetry - if it can be called that - that he’s produced in the meantime is severely lacking. Uninspired. But now it just seems to flow through him like it used to, which becomes a problem when he’s supposed to be focused on the person above him and all he can think of is how badly he wants to roll out of bed and write down this one line before he forgets it. Or whether spring or winter provides a better metaphor for love. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier finds himself thankful that his customers pay little attention to him once they’ve got him naked.

Tonight, the piece he’s working on is happier than usual; the excitement of new love, the utter thrill of reciprocation. Jaskier’s mind is working faster than his hand can keep up with. He jots his thoughts down in note form, just descriptive enough to remember it correctly for later because there’s so much rolling around in his brain that he’s liable to forget if he doesn’t get the ideas out. Though, as frustrating as it is not to be able to get all his thoughts down before there are more crowding for attention, he wouldn’t give it up. Inspiration is a fickle beast and one not to be taken for granted.

There’s a knock on the door, right as he’s in the middle of deciphering a quite fitting metaphor and it startles him, causing him to blotch the page he’s writing on. Jaskier pauses; he never sees customers this late, Lorelei usually refuses to let anyone through the doors past dusk - unless it’s Geralt. He smiles to himself at the thought of the Witcher and sets his book down, tucking his quill between the pages to keep his spot for later. He’s sure the unexpected guest is Anise, she frequently brings wine to his room after hours and they’ll spend hours talking about their days.

Jaskier rises to his feet, setting the book on the table next to the bed. He’ll return to it later and hopefully, his inspiration won’t have flitted off into the night. He’d like to decline the offer of wine and company, but he’s already turned Anise down once this month because Geralt showed up and Jaskier could hardly turn him away. He still tells himself that it’s because he has loyal customers and they deserve the same from him, but it’s a different feeling when Geralt turns up at his door. One he doesn’t risk naming.

“One moment,” he calls, tugging his robe closed to tie it around his waist. There’s a beat of silence and Jaskier crosses to the dresser to put away the scraps of paper that remain from his earlier attempts at writing. It’s too personal to be left unattended, even if it’s only Anise. Especially if it’s her. So he pulls the drawer open to tuck it away, but then the door creaks open behind him. He turns to look, a mock accusation on the tip of his tongue, but it dies when he finds Geralt in the open doorway, smiling dopily at him and staring across the room. Jaskier’s heart clenches and he pushes the drawer shut again before crossing the room. Geralt tracks him as he gets closer, eyes flicking up to Jaskier’s as he approaches.

“Hello, darling. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? It’s much later than you usually visit.” Late enough that he’s surprised anyone would let him in, but he doesn’t say that.

“Was nearby.” Geralt stumbles as he comes closer, that stupid lopsided smile still in place. Jaskier frowns at his misstep, but can’t help but return the smile.

“Ah. Well, give me just a moment, alright?” He closes the door behind him and turns back toward the dresser. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him the whole way. Then the sound of footsteps coming toward him and he smiles to himself.

He hears something crash behind him and then warm hands settle on his hips, slipping the robe up to his waist. Jaskier ducks his head, giving up any pretense of putting things away, as Geralt’s fingers slip to the ties on the back of his trousers. It’s only Geralt. Geralt would never invade his privacy by reading something he shouldn’t. Geralt toys with the ties, tugging lightly and winding the silk around his fingers, but makes no attempt to get them undone. He likes the feel of it, Jaskier assumes; Geralt is very particular about fabrics and scents and the ties are soft.

Geralt says nothing, but he runs his hands down Jaskier’s thighs, squeezes softly, cups his ass and squeezes that too. He’s clearly eager, pressing against him and touching him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. And Jaskier can feel how badly he wants it, but Geralt makes no attempt to undress him or move past simply touching him. Jaskier huffs softly, tipping his head back against Geralt’s shoulder.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?”

Geralt leans in, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s neck and it tingles, sending sparks skittering down his spine. Jaskier bites his lip, shuts his eyes, losing himself in the soft warmth of Geralt’s mouth. He kisses him with a sort of urgency, groaning into it and rubbing his nose against the back of his neck. He drags his teeth against Jaskier’s skin and Jaskier shudders against him, leaning back into the touch.

“Oh, Geralt.”

Geralt’s fingers slip into his hair and Jaskier just sighs. He almost prefers this to the sex sometimes and maybe it’s because he doesn’t get this with anyone else, wouldn’t let anyone else get this comfortable with him. But Geralt is so soft, contrary to the rumours about Witchers, and Jaskier is happy to let him have his way with him.

Maybe it’s dangerous - not the way Astrid and Viv seem to think it is, but in a different way. Geralt is a customer, nothing more. Or he shouldn’t be anything more. But that doesn’t stop Jaskier’s heart from beating just a little quicker when he spots him coming toward the brothel. It doesn’t stop him from making stupid decisions when Geralt is there, saying things he shouldn’t. There’s just something different about this man who’s supposed to be some heartless killing machine and yet has, more than once, been happy to pay for just the pleasure of Jaskier’s company.

Geralt’s arms coil around him, his fingers slipping through the loops of the bows on his trousers, tugging a little this time, but still not trying to undo them.

“I want you,” he breathes and something about his voice sounds off -unsteady. Jaskier turns in his arms to face him and Geralt’s hands only leave him for a second.

He’s grinning when he looks at him, that same lopsided grin that seems so out of place on his face and somehow makes him even more beautiful. He tugs Jaskier close, rolling his hips against him and from here, Jaskier can smell the alcohol on his breath. Ah, that explains a bit.

“You’re drunk,” he says but it’s not accusatory.

“A little.”

Jaskier almost laughs out loud. “Darling, I can smell it on you.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to see you.”

“Mm, I gathered that much. Why did you get drunk first?”

“Ran into my brother,” Geralt hums, dipping down to lick a stripe up Jaskier’s neck. “Got to drinking. Eskel hired a girl-” Geralt nips at his skin and Jaskier’s body reacts despite himself “-I came to see you. Missed you.”

Oh, that’s something. His heartbeat picks up again and Geralt clearly notices because he grins down at him, bumping his nose against Jaskier’s.

“Like the way I feel when I’m with you, like the way you touch me.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, breathless.

“And the way you talk to me. Fuck, Jaskier,” he rumbles low in the back of his throat and Jaskier’s cock twitches at the sound, “I want you. Please.”

And there’s that line again between what’s normal and what isn’t. The line Geralt sits right on top of at all times. Jaskier doesn’t think much about it when Geralt isn’t there. There are weeks at a time when they don’t see each other, but it all floods back so quickly when they do. The truth is, that line is there for a reason, the rules are there for a reason, and with Geralt, Jaskier is learning all too well what that reason is.

“Very polite, darling, but I’m not going to fuck you when you’re like this.” He pulls back a little and Geralt pulls a face that can only be described as petulant. “I won’t take money from you when you’re out of your mind.”

“’M not,” Geralt protests, but Jaskier just laughs softly.

“You very much are.”

“You like it. When I came in. I could smell it on you. Still can,” he lifts an eyebrow as if to prove his point and if Jaskier was a man of less strength, he might give in to him. Geralt is stunningly beautiful, whatever anyone might say about Witchers, and there’s something inherently arousing about not being able to hide his desire from him.

But tonight it’s working against him.

“I can feel you,” Geralt whispers, pressing a hand to Jaskier’s crotch and dragging his fingers up the length of his cock, “let me touch you.” He presses his nose into Jaskier’s neck, mouthing at the sensitive spot under his jaw and mumbling into his skin. “I want your cock. Could use my mouth, make you feel amazing.”

Jaskier’s breath catches and a soft moan escapes his lips. Geralt huffs a laugh against him.

“See,” he purrs, “you want it, too. I’m good at it. I know you’d like it.”

It takes all of Jaskier’s willpower to pull away from him, to keep Geralt at arm’s length when he steps forward again. Because he does want that. He’s been thinking about Geralt’s mouth wrapped around him since the first time, but he’s never seemed so inclined. And Gods, if the offer isn’t tempting now. But the fact that this is the only time he’s brought it up makes Jaskier less inclined to act on it. Geralt is drunk and horny and while regularly, Jaskier is more than happy to have him in every possible way, this feels like taking advantage, even if Geralt is the one pushing for it.

“Not like this,” he says finally, looking up to meet Geralt’s eyes, “not when you’re drunk. You should get some sleep, is your brother still here?”

“He’s busy,” Geralt mumbles, “I can hear him. Fucking,” he adds as if it’s unclear.

“Then he’ll probably be occupied for a while, hm? Why don’t you lie down and rest, I was thinking about turning in myself.”

Geralt groans indignantly, pressing forward and wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “Wanna fuck you,” he rumbles, but Jaskier just shakes his head and leads Geralt toward the bed.

“Not tonight, love. Tell me you still want me in the morning and I’m yours, but not tonight.” He pries Geralt’s hands from his waist and presses him gently down to the bed. Geralt goes surprisingly without complaint, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re sexy,” he says and Jaskier huffs a laugh. Geralt really is… something. He’s beautiful and even like this, Jaskier can’t keep the fondness from rising in his chest. He longs to lay down next to him, to curl around Geralt’s back and breathe in the scent of him. But he shouldn’t think these things, certainly shouldn’t encourage Geralt when he’s like this, and he sighs and stiffens his resolve.

“Thank you, Geralt, now get some rest. I’ll still be sexy in the morning.” He runs a hand down his arm, relieved when Geralt shuts his eyes.

Jaskier crosses to the other side of the room, pressing his head against the wall. His whole body is hot and his cock throbs where it’s trapped inside his trousers. Fuck, this is stupid. He shouldn’t let anyone get to him like this. He should be stronger. But Geralt touches him and says he likes the way he talks to him and Jaskier is almost ready to take him to bed, drunk or not. He wouldn’t even ask for payment in the morning.

But he won’t because he’s a better person than that, because Geralt deserves better than that. There are already so many people who take advantage of Witchers, Jaskier refuses to be one of them.

Across the room, he hears shuffling and the sound of something soft thumping against the floor. Clothes, he thinks, and he knows Geralt’s naked. Which is just one more thing he doesn’t need right now. Jaskier turns to find him a blanket, anything so he doesn’t have to look at him, and finds Geralt with his trousers shoved down his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock. Heat coils in his gut and Jaskier just catches the sound of his own name on Geralt’s lips before hurrying out the door into the hall.

He pulls the door shut behind him, leaning heavily against it and shutting his eyes. He should be stronger than this. He knows he’s a mess; Geralt thoroughly mussed his hair and he’s hot and breathing hard and the only thing that could be worse about this is someone finding him like this. Which, naturally, Anise does.

She gives him an odd look, wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and leaning against the wall next to him.

“You okay?” she asks, “Is someone in there?” She nods toward his room and Jaskier sighs.

“It’s Geralt.”

“Did he hurt you?” she asks quickly. She’s been talking to Astrid, evidently.

“No,” Jaskier says with certainty, “he wouldn’t.”

“Then you’re out here because…?”

“He’s drunk. I told him I wouldn’t fuck him like this and he took matters into his own hands. Literally.”

“So? Join him,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Seems like you could use it.” She presses her palm against the front of his trousers and Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut.

“We don’t fuck for free, remember?”

“You know he’s good for it. He’ll pay you in the morning.”

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I won’t make that decision for him. I won’t take money from him while he’s drunk. I won’t touch him.”

A shadow passes over Anise’s face and she looks at Jaskier suspiciously. “Viv was right,” she says, “you’re soft on him.”

"I’m not,” Jaskier says but he can’t meet her eyes.

“Jaskier-”

“I’m not. He’s just a customer - he just happens to be better at getting me worked up than the others. I wouldn’t fuck any of them if they were drunk, either.” Anise just looks at him and shakes her head with a smile.

“Be careful with him, Jaskier. You fall so easily, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, pulling up a smile as she walks away, “you know I always am.” Anise disappears down the stairs and he lets his expression drop.

He waits for a little while before pushing the door open and entering the room. The darkness is silent, broken only by the soft sound of Geralt’s breath from across the room and Jaskier smiles to himself. He approaches the bed slowly, relieved to find Geralt has divested himself of the rest of his clothing but has also managed to cover himself somewhat with the blanket. Jaskier adjusts it so it covers him and Geralt shifts, turning to lie on his back and blink up at him.

Jaskier’s stomach trips over itself. Ah. Problematic.

“Shh,” Jaskier breathes, “don’t get up, it’s just me.”

Apparently satisfied, Geralt grumbles softly to himself and rolls back toward the wall. Jaskier can’t help but smile to himself. It’s a wonder anyone can be afraid of Witchers, seeing him like this and Jaskier fights back the urge to wrap himself around him.

But he’s still hard and he doesn’t want to disturb Geralt, so he slips the robe off his shoulders, lays down, pressing his hips into the mattress, and keeps as much distance between them as the bed will allow. He likes falling asleep with Geralt and this feels very unfair, that he should be so close and Jaskier isn’t allowed to touch him. Or won’t. He shuts his eyes, listening to the soft huff of Geralt’s breath and buries his head in his pillow.

But he doesn’t sleep.

Geralt makes soft, snuffling sounds in his sleep and Jaskier lays awake, torn between absolute adoration for the man lying next to him and petty bitterness at his unannounced arrival. Because now Jaskier is achingly hard and wide awake. And there’s something horrendously unfair about that fact that Geralt came here wanting to fuck him and Jaskier turned him down for this.

He shuts his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow, but apparently, this is the one Geralt had been using earlier because now it smells like him and Jaskier barely holds back a groan of frustration. Geralt shifts next to him, pressing back against his side and Jaskier silently curses him for it. He squeezes his eyes shut and shuffles toward the edge of the bed a little, distancing himself again as he rolls onto his back. He considers shoving a hand down his trousers and relieving the ache himself, but it feels wrong with Geralt right there next to him. And the worst part is, he knows this wouldn’t happen with any other customer; any other customer wouldn’t even have been allowed to stay.

Jaskier wakes to the feeling of a body moving against his own and he groans in protest before remembering who he fell asleep next to. Only Geralt is very much wrapped around him now, one leg pressed between his thighs and an arm slung over his hip. He shifts as he stretches, pressing his cock up against Jaskier’s ass. He’s hard and Jaskier has to bite down on his lip as his unsatisfied arousal from the night before flares back up again.

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbles, but he makes no attempt to move. “What am I doing here?”

“I’m not totally clear on that myself,” Jaskier says, shifting onto his other side. He keeps space between them, hoping that his cock will get the idea and calm down. “Something about your brother.”

“I remember running into Eskel, but how did I make it into your bed.”

“Ah, well, that part was much more clear. You waltzed into my room, incredibly drunk and horny and wanted me to fuck you.”

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, tilting his head to look at him, “what do I owe you? I seem to remember losing a hefty sum to Eskel in a card game.”

“Nothing, darling. I turned you down.”

Geralt pauses, “and yet I’m still in your bed.”

“You are. Because I put you here to sleep if off. I don’t’ make a habit of taking advantage of drunk men who stumble into my room in the middle of the night. Especially not ones I’d like to see again.” Geralt frowns like he can’t quite comprehend that and Jaskier just huffs a laugh and reaches out to run a hand through his hair.

“Not that you didn’t try your best to persuade me. But I can’t be bought with pretty words.”

“You absolutely can,” Geralt mumbles, shutting his eyes again.

Jaskier laughs softly. “You’re right of course, but not when it’s important. I put you to bed and told you if you still wanted me in the morning, I’d be here.” He pauses for a moment, trying to get a read on the situation before offering himself up again. “And here I am.” Geralt is silent again and while Jaskier is trying to work out whether or not that’s a good thing, he looks up to find Geralt’s eyes open, watching him.

“I would have paid you.”

“I know,” he says gently, “it was never your honour in question. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

Geralt looks at him like he doesn’t quite understand and he pushes Jaskier back against the bed. He moves to lie between his legs, chin just above his navel as his hands move up to bracket his ribs. His thumbs brush soft circles into his skin and Jaskier smiles down at him.

“You said if I wanted you in the morning, you’d be here. Does that offer still stand?”

“You know I’m always yours, darling.”

Geralt dips his head immediately, keeping his eyes focused on Jaskier as he presses a soft kiss against the curve of his belly. Jaskier hums, looking down at him and Geralt lowers his eyes, brushing his lips against Jaskier’s skin. He kisses him softly, leaving little wet spots on his skin and Jaskier drops his head back, shutting his eyes and focusing on the press of Geralt’s lips.

He can’t remember the last time someone was this soft with him. It’s not that all his customers are hard and uncaring, but the most affection he usually gets from them is asking if he wants to come - something Geralt considers a necessity. But Geralt has always been different than his regular customers, always softer, and this is just like him. Jaskier reaches down, slipping his fingers through his hair and pressing his fingers against his scalp.

He loves his hair. It looks like it should be stiff and wiry, but even when it’s thick with dirt or blood or gods know what, it’s soft. And Jaskier takes any chance he can to run his fingers through it, enjoys it most when he can play with it - usually in the evenings when Geralt is tired or the mornings before they dress. He undoes the tie, dropping it to the floor and gathering Geralt’s hair in his hands before it can fall into his face. Geralt hates when his hair is in his face and one day, Jaskier would like to braid it for him but he hasn’t been brave enough to ask.

Jaskier’s drawn from his thoughts as Geralt’s fingers graze his abdomen, sending a shiver through him. He sighs softly, slipping both hands around the back of Geralt’s head. He doesn’t look up until he feels a tug and finds Geralt fiddling with the bows on his trousers. A wave of arousal washes over him and his cock pulses in his trousers, apparently catching up with the fact that Geralt’s mouth is very near to it.

Geralt says nothing and, in fact, pays no mind to the fact that Jaskier is watching him, nor that his cock is hard and pressing against the front of his trousers. He moves down, kissing a line all the way to Jaskier’s waistband before pulling his trousers open and dipping lower.

Jaskier can’t help the groan that spills from his lips. He’s been wanting since the first time he laid eyes on him, wondering what Geralt’s mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock, what those lips would feel like stretched around him. But he hasn’t dared mention it, nor thought too much about it when Geralt is there because he’s never shown any interest in it - not until last night, at least.

Geralt takes so long getting his trousers undone that Jaskier isn’t even sure that’s what he’s doing at first. Geralt is always very tactile, has always favoured Jaskier’s softer, silkier clothing and he assumes this is just one of those things until cool air and hot breath dust against his cock at once.

He holds his breath and then, as Geralt’s lips press against the head of his cock, releases it in a soft moan. Geralt’s lips are soft where they’re pressed against him and they part, slipping over the head of him and it’s all he can do not to buck into the touch. He’s been hard for so long and he’s not used to being denied - even of his own will. Usually, he’s having more sex than he can physically cope with, but he’s spent the last eight hours wishing desperately for his erection to desist. And now that Geralt’s touching him - and more than that, mouthing at him like this - he doesn’t know how to restrain himself.

Geralt’s mouth moves up, closing around the head of his cock and slowly sliding down the entire length of him. Jaskier’s eyes flutter and his hands tighten instinctively, careful not to tug too hard. His hips twitch, pressing himself deeper and Geralt moans around him, flattening his tongue to the underside of his cock as he pulls back up again. He lets Jaskier slip from his mouth, winding his tongue around him before sucking the head into his mouth again.

Jaskier wants to ask why, but he knows what the answer will be; Geralt is just the kind of man who sucks a whore off just so that he feels good, too. And gods, it does feel good. Geralt is eager and attentive, carefully memorizing every little spot that makes Jaskier’s hips lift and returning to them again and again.

Jaskier can’t hold back, but Geralt doesn’t seem to want him to. Every time Jaskier’s hips buck, Geralt just takes him deeper, sucks him harder and Jaskier drops one hand to the sheets, clenching his fist around them as he arches off the bed.

He’s struck with a sudden pang of guilt, letting Geralt do all the work, but Geralt is so enthusiastic about it that Jaskier suspects any refusal to let him would be ignored. And it’s a little overwhelming having all of that thrown at him. Geralt has been nothing but kind to him since the beginning and that was confusing enough, but something comes back to him now. When was the last time someone made you feel good without expecting something in return. He didn’t know what to make of that then and he still doesn’t now.

None of his other customers have ever thought to suck him off like this, not even to get him hard when it’s a struggle. But Geralt- fuck - perfect, beautiful Geralt who only ever wants Jaskier to feel as good as he does. How was he ever supposed to withstand that? How was he ever supposed to see this lovely man who only wants to make other people happy and not fall absolutely head over heels for him?

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, forcing down the urge to haul Geralt up and kiss him, to lose himself in those soft lips against his own. He rolls his head back with a groan, dropping his hand to Geralt’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his skin as the pleasure swells within him. Geralt makes him come more often than the rest of his customers combined and yet still Jaskier has never wanted so badly in his life.

Geralt sinks down on him, nose pressed against Jaskier’s skin and he rumbles low around him as his palm slips up Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s cock twitches against Geralt’s tongue and he curls his fingers under his jaw, moaning as he rolls his head back.

“Fuck, Geralt-” he tries to keep himself steady, to keep from coming with Geralt’s mouth around him, but Geralt looks up at him. He locks eyes with him for just a second, but it’s enough to snap Jaskier’s carefully managed control and he comes with an unintentional moan, hips stuttering even as Geralt holds him against the bed.

He shudders under Geralt’s hand, pulls his legs up and lets them drop again, pushing his hips forward. And then Geralt pulls off, licking up the length of his cock before kissing the skin beneath it. Jaskier’s breath comes heavily, his chest heaving with it in contrast to the soft little kisses Geralt presses into his skin.

It’s not until Geralt lifts his head that Jaskier realizes he’s got a hand tangled in his hair. He doesn’t even remember putting it back there, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, pressing up into the touch. He slips both hands under Jaskier’s hips, curling his fingers around the bunched waist of his trousers and tugging them down. Jaskier’s hand slips from his hair and he sinks into the bed as Geralt pulls them off and settles back in place between his legs.

He slides one arm under Jaskier’s thigh, curling arm around it and presses his lips to the most sensitive part of it. He sucks lightly, careful not to leave marks and Jaskier wants to tell him not to worry about it, that he likes the marks, but he knows he shouldn’t. His customers don’t like seeing the evidence of another man on him, but Jaskier has spent hours last time looking at the marks Geralt had left. But Geralt had felt so guilty Jaskier doesn’t think he could ever convince him of how much he loved seeing them. So he stays quiet now, slips his hands through Geralt’s hair and shuts his eyes as Geralt’s tongue slides up the inside of his thigh.

“Oh,” he breathes softly, “you’re very enthusiastic today. Maybe I should make you wait more often.” There’s a huff of breath against his skin and a gentle bite that’s sexier than it has any right to be.

Geralt kisses his way up both of his thighs before turning his attention back to Jaskier’s cock, now sitting soft against his hip. He runs his tongue up the length of it, coiling around the head and Jaskier learns very quickly that Geralt is very good with his tongue.

Jaskier isn’t immune to a mouth wrapped around his cock, but it’s rare that he gets hard multiple times in a day, never mind an hour. But Geralt’s tongue wraps around him and Jaskier can feel himself swelling under his ministrations, the heat in his core rising again. Geralt sucks him down, pressing his tongue against the underside of Jaskier’s cock as he slides up his length and back down again. He doesn’t pull off again until Jaskier is rock hard, straining when he drops from Geralt’s lips.

Geralt crawls up over him, pressing his chest against Jaskier’s and pushing his knees under his thighs. He pushes his nose through Jaskier’s chest hair, kissing a line up his chest.

“Can I fuck you?” The words are muttered into his skin, followed up with a series of wet kisses, and Jaskier almost laughs. But thick fingers curl around his cock, drawing a soft moan instead and Jaskier looks at the ceiling instead of Geralt.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t, darling.”

Lust and something that feels too close to affection swells in his chest as Geralt’s fingers slip back behind his balls, pressing against his rim. He lets out a little gasp and reaches over the edge of the bed for the little bottle of oil he keeps there. It’s in case of emergency - or for his own personal use when he’s left high and dry at the end of the day - and he’s thankful for it now.

He pushes it at Geralt and no further direction is needed before Geralt is tipping it over his fingers and pressing back against Jaskier’s hole. He shouldn’t let him do this. It’s too much, too intimate; the whole reason he wears the plug is to prevent anyone from touching him like this, from pushing in and working him open - but he can’t say no to Geralt, wouldn’t want to anyway.

Jaskier lets himself be stretched on Geralt’s fingers, works his hips to help speed up the process because as much as he loves having Geralt’s fingers inside him, it leaves him with an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because what if Geralt realizes he doesn’t do these things with anyone else? What if he realizes Jaskier is pushing too far, asking for too much? He couldn’t bear to lose him. But the fear isn’t quite strong enough to counteract the aching need in his chest. So he lets Geralt ease into him, lets Geralt prep him in the way no one else ever has - not at least since he started working here.

Geralt fucks into him with quick, precise movements, like he’s doing this for Jaskier’s enjoyment and not just so he can fuck him. Which does something to his head and his heart that’s too much to cope with right now. So Jaskier shuts his eyes and lets himself be looked after. Because it feels good and Geralt wants to. And isn’t his entire job to make Geralt happy? It’s maybe not the most honest way of looking at things, but Geralt’s lips press against his neck and Jaskier can’t do anything but whimper in response.

By the time Geralt gets around to fucking him, Jaskier’s so worked up he could come at any second. His thoughts are foggy, mixed up in Geralt’s scent and his touch. This is not a regular rendezvous, not a regular fuck with a regular customer - and maybe it hasn’t been with Geralt for a long time.

When Geralt pushes into him, he presses his forehead against Jaskier’s stomach, groaning against him. Jaskier can feel the tension in his body, in the way he keeps himself from pushing too hard, too quick, and he slides a hand over Geralt’s cheek.

“You don’t have to be so careful,” he breathes, then realizes maybe Geralt is just pacing himself. “When was the last time?”

“When I was here,” Geralt groans, rocking back before slipping deeper.

“Fuck,” Jaskier shuts his eyes, trying to focus through the pleasure zipping through him, “Geralt, that was months ago.” He only gets a soft hum in response and something in Jaskier’s chest tightens. He runs his thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone and sighs. “Why didn’t you see anyone?”

“I don’t go to other brothels.” Geralt rolls his hips slowly, sliding fully into him, but it’s not the press of his cock that leaves Jaskier breathless.

“Why not?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn’t come out as breathless as he feels right now.

“I don’t need to,” Geralt huffs, “I have you.”

Warmth floods his chest and for a second, it feels like he can’t breathe, but he’s quick to tamp down the feeling. As much as he hates her for it, Anise is right and he shouldn’t allow himself to get close to his customers. But Geralt is so soft and gentle and caring that Jaskier wonders how anyone could resist him.

Jaskier pushes any and all thoughts from his mind, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and tugging him up over him. He presses his nose into his neck, kisses him, lets his lips hover over his pulse point, feeling the steady even beat of Geralt’s heart as Geralt fucks him.

Geralt makes him come again without any effort whatsoever and while Jaskier is trying to remember how to breathe, Geralt follows. They settle against each other, Geralt with his head on Jaskier’s chest and Jaskier softly running his fingers through his hair. He feels oddly content in a way he hasn’t in a long time but beneath that there’s a buzzing anxiety, reminding him that he shouldn’t let this continue for too long.

Most of his customers get off and get out, but Jaskier would wonder if he’d done something wrong if Geralt left right away. In fact, he can count the number of times he’s left that night at all. And if he’s honest with himself, he likes cuddling with him, even if it doesn’t happen every time. So Jaskier takes advantage of it while he can, running his hands over Geralt’s shoulder and combing his fingers through his hair. The first time Geralt came to him, he’d said it had been a long time since he’d shared a bed with someone and Jaskier had gotten the impression that it was something he’d wanted. One of the many things Geralt refused to ask for - at least in the beginning.

Now, Geralt’s breath is hot against his shoulder and his fingers slip softly over Jaskier’s skin. It’s too close to intimacy, too close to something neither of them should want and Jaskier knows if Anise saw him right now, she’d have a whole lot to say about it. Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps him from fully crossing that line into too much - imagining what she would do if she saw them together. And right now he knows he has to do something to get this back on track.

“I’m gonna be no use to anyone today,” he hums, resisting the urge to press his nose into Geralt’s hair. He feels Geralt stiffen against him and feels guilty about the reminder, but it’s best he remembers this is just a transaction. Jaskier huffs a laugh and shifts under Geralt, readjusting himself. “Maybe I’ll take the day off.”

“You should,” Geralt murmurs, “you deserve time to yourself.”

Jaskier’s heart flutters and he shuts his eyes. Geralt really is so soft. “Spend the day with me,” he blurts before he can think better of it. Decidedly not what he should be suggesting.

“My brother,” Geralt mumbles and Jaskier can feel embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. He’s a whore, of course Geralt wouldn’t choose him over his brother, even for the day.

“Right. Of course-”

“I promised him I’d work a contract with him before-”

“Before you got drunk and stumbled into my room?” Jaskier offers.

“Hmm.” Jaskier shuts his eyes and tries to will away the red flush he can feel in his cheeks, but Geralt tips his head, pressing up to kiss the underside of Jaskier’s neck. “Next time,” he says and every one of Jaskier’s defences drops.

He watches as Geralt pushes himself up and disentangles himself from the blankets. Fuck. Jaskier is usually so good at keeping his work life professional; he’s never once allowed himself to think about his customers as anything but what they are. But as Geralt raises his arms in a stretch, Jaskier’s chest tightens and he realizes no amount of professionalism can save him now, he’s already in too deep.

“Can I ask you something?” Geralt says and Jaskier’s eyes snap up to his, suddenly aware that he’s been staring. “The girl Eskel was with was very… enthusiastic.”

“Of course she was, darling, it’s her job.”

“They nearly threw me out the first time I came here. Because I’m a Witcher.”

“Ah. Well. It might have gotten out that a certain Witcher is actually very good in bed.”

“Might have?” Geralt asks, lifting an eyebrow as he approaches the edge of the bed again. He’s dressed again, but he could be covered in pond scum and still be absolutely stunning - he’s witnessed it, in fact.

“The walls are thin and I make a point of not faking it.”

Geralt leans over him, pressing his mouth against his neck, kissing over his pulse point. “You should put something on, we have to go find him if you want to get paid.”

Ah. In the heat of the moment, Jaskier had almost forgotten about payment. Best not tell Anise about that.

The other Witcher is similar to Geralt in almost every respect, though he’s broader and bears a terrible scar down the right side of his face. He pays as Geralt said he would, casting first a dubious look at Geralt then one of almost calculating confusion at Jaskier before thanking him and turning away. Geralt goes with him and Jaskier watches from his window as they make their way toward the inn together. He waits until they’re out of sight, a part of him hoping Geralt will turn and look back at him, but he doesn’t.

It’s the first time he’s had a glimpse of any part of Geralt’s life outside the brothel and it leaves an odd sort of feeling in his stomach that he can’t quite place. Jaskier sighs to himself as he pushes away from the window. Geralt already has so little and gives so much, how can he still want more from him? Before he can think too much of it, there’s a knock on the door and Jaskier opens it to the servant boy with water for a bath.

It’s fine, he thinks, he shouldn’t dwell too much on Witchers and feelings anyway.

[flowercrown-bard]

Whumptober Prompt 8: Don’t say goodbye

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/ Jaskier

Read on AO3

„Geralt, you‘re back!”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up, when he saw Geralt enter their small cabin. His smile added new wrinkles to the numerous ones already there.

Crow’s feet, Yennefer had called them decades ago. For Geralt the wrinkles were a reminder of a lifetime filled with laughter and bright smiles. Though he wasn’t the one in need of a reminder. He would never forget the decades he had been blessed with Jaskier’s presence.

Geralt closed the door behind him and went over to sit by Jaskier, taking his old hand in his. The skin wasn’t smooth anymore and the fingers were crooked from age, unable to elicit music from the lute that had been lying in its case unused for years now.

“I bought you a notebook.”

Jaskier let go of his hand to take to book from him, stroking the forget-me-not on the cover with a fond expression.  

“This is perfect. I have just finished filling my last one.”

“I know.”

Jaskier had shown it to him, proud like he had always been of his creations and exited to share them with Geralt. He had looked at every page, had let Jaskier explain to him the meaning of every line he had written.

Jaskier had looked at him with eager anticipation that almost gave him his years back.

“Come on, three words or less,” he had teased.

“It’s perfect,” Geralt had said and he had meant it. It was perfect, because it was Jaskier’s and it made him happy. It didn’t matter that Geralt hadn’t been able to read a single word. Jaskier’s hands have long ago began shaking too much to produce anything readable anymore, but if writing gave Jaskier joy then that was everything Geralt could ask for.

No, that wasn’t true. He wanted so much more than that. He wanted Jaskier to be young again, to be able to travel with him and let Geralt show him all the far off places he wouldn’t ever be able to travel to now.

At least he had been able to show him the coast.

Jaskier looked up from the journal and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

His heart clenched painfully. It was fine, he told himself. He was used to this.

That didn’t make it any less painful.

“How nice of you to visit me,” Jaskier said lightly, as though the words didn’t break Geralt’s heart. “It has been far too long. How long can you stay, before you go hunting again?”

Forever. Geralt would stay forever by Jaskier’s side, as he had done for years now. Long gone were the days that Geralt only visited their cabin in between his hunts. For almost a decade he had been living here, taking care of Jaskier, helping him eat and walk and stroking his thinning hair as he went to bed wishing for the mercy of being granted more time with him. The only times Geralt still did his witchering, as Jaskier still called it after all those years, was when he accompanied the neighbouring fisherman-family to protect them from sirens and the like.

“I can stay with you for however long you need me to,” Geralt said and never had anything felt more true.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier said with a sly smirk. “Then you can tell me all about your adventure. You really should take me with you the next time.”

“I will.”

He won’t. The only adventure Geralt had left was the quiet life with Jaskier at the coast and the only thrill he needed was watching Jaskier’s eyes light up every time he met Geralt for the first time again.

“Wait, just let me get my quill.”

Jaskier moved slowly. It was obvious how much it pained him to take even small steps, the ache in his old joints sighing with every movement.

Geralt was tense, ready to jump up at any moment to catch Jaskier, should he stumble. He could have gotten the quill for Jaskier, but time and time again, he had been told that Jaskier wanted to know that he was still able to do things on his own.

The triumphant “Aha!” as Jaskier found the quill and almost dried up inkwell and sat back down, warmed Geralt’s chest. Watching all the pain of aching bones was bearable, when it gave him the sight of Jaskier still finding joy in the small things, as he had always done.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt expectantly, quill and the new notebook at the ready.

Geralt swallowed. There was no adventure to tell him off. Maybe later Geralt would tell Jaskier the truth, how he had met the fisher’s daughter on the way to the marked and helped repair her wagon, how he had had trouble buying all the essentials in this time of year.

Later, Jaskier would be happy to listen to the trivial things Geralt had to say. Now, he was attentively waiting for a heroic tale.

So Geralt gave him a tale. He told him about the time he had fought a cockatrice – one of Jaskier’s favourite stories, even though Jaskier didn’t know it.

As every time, Geralt told the story, Jaskier made inappropriate comments and laughed and gasped at the same parts he always did.

“Oh, this will make the most beautiful ballad! Oh, what should I call it?”

Geralt muttered the same thing he always said when Jaskier asked him for a title for this specific tale. An innuendo, of course.

Jaskier let out a barking laugh. “That is genius, my dear! Just you wait, I will make a poet out of you, after all.”

Geralt took the praise. It was easier than explaining that it had been Jaskier who had come up with the title of the ballad that he had already written ages ago, and unwittingly rewritten so many times after that.

“Will you take me to see the sea, Geralt?” Jaskier said after a while.

Geralt nodded and made to guide Jaskier outside.

“No, wait. I need my jacket first.”

“You are already wearing a jacket.”

Jaskier hit his arm playfully. “Yes, but it’s too dark. When going outside in summer, you should always wear bright colours to make the flowers jealous. Not that you would ever do that,” he added with a teasing wink.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll have you to keep me warm.” Jaskier said it so casually that it made Geralt’s heart clench. Even after all this time, even though Jaskier couldn’t remember most of the times Geralt had kept him warm, he was still so sure that he would.

He sat Jaskier down on the small bench in front of their cabin, looking out over the sea. Jaskier sighed wistfully.

“I had always wanted to show you the coast. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Geralt agreed. It really was. It was beautiful and it was painful and Geralt knew that in years to come, he would never see the coast again, because it held to many memories of Jaskier and he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the waves crash onto the shore without having Jaskier next to him to watch it with.

A breeze brushed Jaskier’s hair that matched Geralt’s in its colour, away from his forehead. Geralt laid an arm around Jaskier, doing his best to shield him from the wind, but it wasn’t enough to stop Jaskier from shivering.

All the warm colour of the summer jacket wasn’t enough to combat the bitter cold of winter.

Geralt stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked, eyes suddenly fearful and he clutched Geralt’s hand in his.  

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat at the quivering in Jaskier’s voice.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I am just getting you a blanket.”

Jaskier nodded, but he didn’t let go.

“Jaskier…”

“There is something I need to tell you, before you leave.” He sounded so earnest, hope and worry mixing into a painful harmony. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for years.”

Geralt knew what Jaskier was going to say and yet his heart sped up, like the first time Jaskier had said these words to him.

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

No matter how often Geralt heard the words repeated, no matter how often Jaskier said them for the first time, hearing them was still as breath-taking and unbelievable as it had always been.

“I love you too.”

Jaskier’s smile as Geralt said the words made it all worth it. It made him endure.

He genlty pried his hand from Jaskier’s cold fingers. As much as Geralt longed to stay and make this moment last, he needed to get Jaskier the blanket. He prayed that when he got back outside the moment would still be present in Jaskier’s mind.

He felt Jaskier’s pale eyes on him, as he went inside the cabin again.

“Goodye, Geralt.”

He froze. Agonisingly slow, he turned to face Jaskier. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t, Jaskier. You never say goodbye. You always say –“

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing you around.” Jaskier’s voice was small, but for once his eyes were clear. “I am not stupid, Geralt. I know I am old. I know I am forgetting. It feels – it feels like I am trapped in my own mind and there are windows that show me the outside world and there are doors and I know if I pick the right one, I will understand. But I never find the right door.” He swallowed. He rubbed his fingers, whether out of nervousness or because of the cold, Geralt couldn’t tell. “Some doors are locked. And I am afraid one day I will not be able to walk through the door that tells me who you are, anymore.”

His eyes never left Geralt’s, as though Jaskier was trying to drink in the sight of him. As though he thought it was the last time seeing him.

Fear plunged its ugly claws into Geralt’s chest.

“You don’t need to remember me. I will let you get to know me again and again, if I have to. I will always come back to you. Even if the memory of me leaves you, I won’t.”

“No,” Jaskier said, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “But I think that I might. Maybe not today. Maybe not for years to come. But one day, I will leave you and I might not get the chance to say goodbye then.”

“Don’t say that.” It sounded harsher than Geralt intended. He tried to close himself off, to keep all emotion out of his face, but the impassive mask cracked. It had been too long since he had worn it. There had been no need to put it on while he was with Jaskier. Geralt hadn’t worn the mask for so long that now that he so desperately needed it, it didn’t fit anymore.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side, a smile still playing on his lips. “For years you complained that I wasn’t telling the truth in my songs and now that I am saying the truth, you don’t want it.”

“It’s not the truth.”

“Maybe it isn’t your truth, but it’s mine. And it would be so much easier if it was yours too.”

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t listen to another word of this.

Geralt all but fled into the cabin, leaning against the wall with closed eyes, trying and failing to get his breath under control. To get the words out of his mind.

It wasn’t the truth. Not yet.

Damn it, it wouldn’t be easier if he accepted it. Denying it and shoving the thought of the day that Geralt wouldn’t be seeing Jaskier around anymore as far away from his mind as he could at least allowed him to hope. To forget that there would ever be a time where no one would greet him and await his recounting of adventures long past.

He grabbed the woollen blanket from the rocking chair where Jaskier liked to look at books he couldn’t read anymore and balled it in his fists, before willing the tension to go away. Jaskier shouldn’t have to see him like this.

With a shaky breath, Geralt went back. Jaskier was looking over the sea, a faraway look in his eyes, as he listened to the seabirds’ cries as though they were nightingales. He didn’t even throw so much as glance at Geralt.

Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier was angry because of what Geralt had said or whether he was too lost in his world of closed doors.

Carefully he put the blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders, tugging it tightly around him, before he sat down next to him.

Jaskier flinched and looked up at him, startled, before he broke out in a smile so bright, it could banish the winter wind tugging at their hair.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

Geralt closed his eyes, tried to put the mask back on, tried not to notice the crack in his heart that Jaskier’s words had left.

“You need to tell me about the adventure you had!”

“Maybe some other time,” Geralt said and he knew he couldn’t keep the thickness out of his voice. “For now, can we just… be here?”

Jaskier took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Of course, dear. I will still be here, when you are ready to tell the story.”

An iron chain wound around Geralt’s chest, getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I know.”

Geralt didn’t know for how long they just sat there, looking at the sea. As the sun began to set, Geralt found his words. This one, he knew, wasn’t a story Jaskier had forgotten just yet, but he told it anyway. He didn’t know, if Jaskier was even still listening, if he was aware of Geralt’s presence next to him. But as Geralt spoke about a day in Posada, about a devil and an annoying yet brave bard, he felt Jaskier’s hand twitch in his.

When he turned his head, Jaskier was still looking out at the sea, but there was a smile on his lips, lines around his eyes deepening with the memory of laughter.

Even when Geralt had finished the story, Jaskier still didn’t speak. It was only much later, when Geralt guided him back inside, put him to bed and pressed a kiss against his forehead that Jaskier finally found his words again.

“Will you do me a favour, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t need to speak to let Jaskier know his answer. The look on the bard’s face told him that he already knew it. That Jaskier could ask for anything, ask for black pearl of Skellige that only existed in legends and romantic men’s hearts and Geralt would give it to him.

“Go find a new adventure.” After I’m gone.

Jaskier didn’t say the words, but Geralt knew that was what he meant. His throat became tight, but he nodded anyway.

Jaskier smiled and lifted his hand to caress Geralt’s cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

For a heartbeat there was silence, only the rush of the waves outside that would lull Jaskier to sleep.

Then, quietly, Geralt spoke the words that broke his heart but freed him from the chains around his chest. The words that Jaskier deserved to hear, at least this once.

“Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes turned soft as Geralt took his hand from his cheek and pressed a soft kiss on it.

“See you around, Geralt.”

[fandomsalive]

Kiss Me Like You Want To Be Loved

Kiss Me Like You Want to Be Loved | Jaskier has developed a nasty habit of kissing Geralt, and Geralt cannot for the life of him figure out why. | Geraskier | Teen and Up | 11,412 Words

Set some nebulous time after 1x4 (Of Banquets, Bastards and Burials) and before 1x5 (Bottled Appetites). Thanks forever to my wonderful best friend and beta @imnotinclinedtomaturity. You always make my writing so much better.

(Ao3 Link)

--

It comes out of nowhere, the first time.

It all begins innocently enough, on a relatively normal night in a tavern outside of Lyria. Jaskier’s fame and notoriety has been growing noticeably since Cintra, something that has made Jaskier even more irritating to travel with. It isn’t so much the bard himself as the attention he draws — though Jaskier has his own fair share of annoying traits to begin with.

Jaskier’s acclaim has grown just enough that Geralt isn’t surprised anymore when they’re approached by eager audiences, so he isn’t bothered when a young page first steps up to them that evening. He assumes it’ll be a request to sing in the town square, or to liven up the tavern they’re in — but it isn’t.

Instead, the page requests Jaskier’s attendance at the nearby lord’s home for a night of revelry. Not only does he offer an exorbitant amount of coin, but free room and board for the night, and the words have barely left the page’s mouth before Jaskier is agreeing, a greedy look on his face. He doesn’t even hesitate to jump up and grab his lute to follow after the page eagerly.

Geralt watches him go, amused despite himself, and grabs his tankard of ale leisurely. He has no intention of tagging along until —

“Sir,” the page squeaks, clearly half terrified of him, his voice shaking. Mildly surprised, Geralt puts down his tankard slowly to raise a brow at the boy. Jaskier stands behind him, impatiently hopping from foot to foot, clearly ready to go, annoyed at the hold up. He’s glaring at Geralt a little bit, as if it’s Geralt’s fault the page is still speaking to him.

“What,” Geralt says, and it isn’t really a question. He watches as the young boy swallows thickly before straightening up, seemingly pulling himself together.

“My lord requests your attendance as well,” he says, voice is much stronger this time. Geralt can still hear the quiver in it, but the boy hides it well. Geralt can’t help smirking a little in response, and picks up his tankard without answering to gulp down the last of his ale. When he slams it back down on the table, empty, it's to find that Jaskier is suddenly looking at him pleadingly.

“Geralt,” he says, stressing his name in an almost whine. Geralt just smirks harder.

“Hold your trousers bard, I’m coming,” he comments dryly, and stands.

They haven’t paid for their rooms yet, and their stuff is still with Roach, so Geralt allows Jaskier to lead them out of the tavern and towards the back of the inn. The stablehand is quick to hand Roach over. Geralt takes her lead gently as they make their way to the manor.

Jaskier is rambling at the page, who looks equal parts terrified and intrigued. His eyes keep flicking towards Geralt, as if he’s afraid if he looks away for too long Geralt is going to bite him. It amuses Geralt greatly, and he does nothing to dissuade the assumption.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is quick to notice, rolling his eyes dramatically before stopping in his tirade about the last town they’d been in, who clearly didn’t know a good thing when it hit them in the face, to instead address the problem.

“Ignore Geralt, he’s just a sourpuss,” Jaskier explains dismissively, humming a soft tune to himself. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, I’ll give you a free performance,” he adds, and perks up. “Come on, give me a song and I’ll play it for you — I’m sure Geralt will be right pleased if you do,” he says, and laughs, winking at Geralt while the page stares bemusedly.

The page does pick a song though, much to Geralt’s annoyance, and Jaskier picks it up easily, strumming his lute and singing along as they make their way through the town. Geralt mostly tunes it out until the wrought iron gates of the lord’s manor appear and Jaskier blessedly stops playing.

The page speaks a few words with the guardsman, who open the gates to admit them, and then takes Roach away with a terrified promise to have her seen too. Geralt makes the extra effort to narrow his eyes at the boy, just to make sure nothing happens to his horse.

Jaskier scoffs at him, and hits him on the shoulder. “Give the poor boy a break, Geralt, he’s not going to hurt Roach,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Geralt just stares at him before turning away.

A servant approaches them next and takes their bags, leading them up to two rooms sat side by side where they’re to stay for the evening. The servants have already set up a bath for both of them, but at Jaskier’s request, the servant also sends for someone to get Geralt a change of clothes. Geralt glares at Jaskier in annoyance, but Jaskier merely smiles brightly at him in return as he strolls into his own rooms.

Reluctantly, Geralt allows the servant to help him get settled. He’s halfway through washing when she returns with a change of clothes. Geralt grunts at her when she explains where she’ll be leaving them, hardly paying her any attention until she's gone.

Unfortunately, Geralt’s peace and quiet doesn’t last long, as he’s barely managed to finish washing and dressing himself when Jaskier returns, flouncing into his rooms unannounced.

“Don’t you look dashing,” Jaskier comments playfully, offering Geralt a cheeky wink. Geralt grumbles at him, and turns back to the mirror to adjust his dinner coat. He can see the bard hovering behind him, resplendent in his own clothes.

Jaskier is dressed in slightly fancier attire than usual; he’s got on a blue doublet buttoned all the way to his neck, striped through with a nice, golden thread. It’s really rather classy, and Geralt can’t help snorting at himself for the thought.

Jaskier gives him a strange look, but invites himself further inside and drops down onto Geralt’s bed.

“Get off,” Geralt grunts, just to be vexatious, glaring at Jaskier through the mirror. Jaskier grins at him but doesn’t otherwise move.

“Now Geralt, is that really the way you should be treating the man who got us free rooms for the night?” Jaskier teases, and just to be a menace, sprawls backwards on Geralt’s bed with his boots on and everything. Geralt rolls his eyes and moves away from the mirror to stand in front of him.

He doesn’t particularly care about the mess Jaskier is making of his bed, but Jaskier doesn’t know that, so Geralt looms over the bard just to see him squirm. Jaskier doesn’t, though. Instead, he stares up at Geralt with playful eyes and a smirk on his lips.

“Oh dear witcher,” Jaskier says breathlessly, batting his eyes coquettishly. “Whatever are you going to do with me?” he asks, simpering, and nearly swoons on the bed. Geralt can’t help rolling his eyes again, and bares his teeth just for the hell of it. Jaskier mock gasps, affronted, and Geralt reaches out to grab tight to Jaskier’s arm.

He isn’t gentle as he yanks the bard off the bed, but all it does is lead to Jaskier laughing at him and tumbling into his arms enthusiastically. Geralt feels warm everywhere Jaskier is touching him, and he shoves Jaskier away immediately, uncomfortable with the feeling.

“What do you want,” Geralt grumbles, hell-bent on changing the topic. He never knows what to do with himself when Jaskier flirts with him.

Jaskier chuckles as he straightens his clothes. “I thought we could head down together,” he explains delightedly. “After all, the lord did ask for both of us,” he adds, seeming pleased about something. He stares smugly at Geralt, waiting for… what, Geralt doesn’t know.

So Geralt just stares at him.

It only takes a moment, and then — “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?” Jaskier asks, half amused, half incredulous.

Geralt merely grunts at him, and raises his brow in question.

Jaskier huffs good naturedly, shaking his head. “Only you would be so ungrateful,” he comments facetiously. “You wouldn’t have even gotten in invite if it weren’t for me,” he complains, mock frowning at Geralt. He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting now, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips gives him away.

They both know being invited to a banquet is the very last thing Geralt wants.

Geralt snorts, and turns away, a smile of his own curling at his lips. “Come on, Jaskier,” he comments dryly, “Let's go and get this shit show over with,” he states contemptuously and walks away. Jaskier laughs, but is quick to meet him at the door.The banquet itself, once they head down, is luxurious. There are large platters filled with tiny cakes, and long, thin glasses filled with wine. Geralt would rather be back in the tavern drinking beer with Jaskier, but he supposes sitting in a corner by himself with some wine will have to do. Jaskier’s right about one thing — when it comes down to it, he has no right to complain. It’s Jaskier who's bringing in the coin tonight, not Geralt, and this time he doesn’t even have to kill something to get it.

He can put up with a few hours of fancy shit if it means that tomorrow they’ll be able to restock on provisions and comfortably prepare for the next few weeks on the road.

They party goers leave Geralt alone, for the most part. He’s forced to entertain the lord for the first hour or so, and every once in a while some count or countess will approach him, but they never stay for long. It's nice, for a banquet, and so far better than the last one Jaskier had dragged him to.

Jaskier has been playing for a few hours when the mood of the room seems to change. Geralt hadn’t really been paying attention to what Jaskier’d been playing, but Geralt is familiar enough with Jaskier’s music that he immediately picks up on the beginning notes of a less familiar tune.

He looks up curiously to find Jaskier in the crowd, and he’s surprised to realize that Jaskier is already staring back at him, his bright blue eyes sparkling, and his mouth turned up in a knowing smile.

Geralt’s brow crinkles, and it takes him a moment to recognize the song for what it is; a ballad about loving and longing that Jaskier has been working on for the last few weeks.

As soon as he recognizes it, Geralt frowns and his eyes narrow towards Jaskier in annoyance. For his part, Jaskier casually tears his gaze away and turns that knowing smile towards the crowd instead. Geralt thinks he even see’s Jaskier wink at a lady before he starts singing, and the sight shouldn’t make a sharp twisting feeling burn through his chest, but it does.

It’s confusing, to say the least.

The fairer sex, they often call it

But her love’s as unfair as a crook

It steals all my reason

Commits every treason

Of logic, with naught but a look

The song makes something ugly crawl beneath Geralt’s skin, and sets his teeth on edge the more he hears it. He hasn’t liked it since the first time he heard Jaskier singing it, and has, on more than one occasion, demanded that Jaskier stop playing it, but he has no real idea why.

It’s just annoying, and the way Jaskier looks at him when he sings it only makes it even more annoying. Something has changed between them, though Geralt can’t put his finger on what it is. Jaskier has just been different lately — he’s been flirting more, for one, if that evening hadn’t been evidence enough — and it had all started with the blasted song.

The change troubles Geralt.

A storm breaking on the horizon

Of longing and heartache and lust

She's always bad news

It's always lose, lose

So tell me love, tell me love

How is that just?

The crowd is eating the ballad up, the women sighing at the longing words, bodies straining towards the bard. It irritates Geralt more than usual for some reason, and he can’t help glaring at them. He blames the damn song.

Jaskier, meanwhile, is glowing under all of the attention, the soft tenor of his voice ringing throughout the hall as he moves, leaning in close to some of the women as if he’s crooning the words directly to them. Geralt’s fingers curl into fists against his palms.

He can’t say why his eyes are following the bard, but they are. He can’t seem to pull his gaze away, and he watches as the bard changes direction a few bars into the song, turning towards Geralt.

Before Geralt can yank his gaze away and pretend like he wasn’t staring, Jaskier’s gaze catches his, and holds him there. The look is like fire, and it rushes through Geralt’s veins for the entirety of the long moment it takes for Jaskier to look away again.

All at once, Jaskier’s destination seems to become clear to the entire room, and Geralt can feel the burning gaze of every person in attendance staring at him. Jaskier’s attention flits about, gliding over the nearby tables, but his path doesn’t change.

Geralt inhales sharply, glaring at anyone who dares to meet his gaze. Everyone seems to be staring at him with that same knowing look Jaskier had given him just a moment before, and it’s enough to drive him wild. He shifts, entirely uncomfortable with the attention, with the realization that Jaskier is headed his way and he doesn’t know why, but before he can get up and leave —

Jaskier is there, standing directly in front of Geralt, his eyes dancing and his smile full of breathless laughter. He leans in close, and sings:

But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Her sweet kiss

But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Geralt watches as Jaskier’s face draws ever closer, until he’s breathing the words against Geralt’s lips, just audible enough for those nearby to hear him. Geralt inhales sharply, and his fingers clench tighter against his skin. He can hardly hear the sound of Jaskier’s short laugh, more of a huff than anything else, over the rushing in his own ears, and then —

Then Jaskier’s pressing his lips against Geralt’s and they’re… they’re kissing. It’s brief, just a small moment, but it lingers, Jaskier’s warmth suffusing Geralt.

It’s so fast that Geralt doesn’t get a chance to react. He goes to inhale sharply against Jaskier’s lips, but it’s too late — he’s gone, pulling away and turning without a single word. The entire room seems to sigh, a sound born wholly of romance, as Jaskier starts to sing again.

Geralt can only stare, because that… is not something that has ever happened to him before. Not with Jaskier, that is.

--

The second time it happens is almost as sudden.

It’s been months since the banquet, and they’ve never talked about the kiss. Really, Geralt isn’t even sure there’s value in addressing it. All signs point to that night being a one off, a random night of extenuating factors that Gerat won't even pretend to understand.

First and foremost, there’s the fact that Jaskier had been drunk most of the night. Geralt isn’t sure when the heavy drinking had actually started — before or after the kiss — but by the end of the night, Jaskier had been giggling and clinging to Geralt the same way he always did when he’d had too much to drink.

Secondly, Jaskier hadn’t exactly been… alone, but he definitely hadn’t been partnered for the night, either. That had been somewhat of a surprise, considering Jaskier’s outrageous flirting at the beginning of the night, and Geralt had been fully prepared to drag Jaskier out of the bed of a willing, albeit married, lady, in order to save his arse from another vengeful husband. The night hadn’t ended up calling for it, though.

Rather, as the evening had gone on, Geralt had realized fairly quickly that Jaskier was… keeping to himself, mostly — as unusual as that was. Sure, there was an adoring crowd of onlookers, all plying Jaskier with drinks and encouraging him to regale them with never ending stories of Geralt of Rivia’s travels, but Jaskier’s attention was never on them more than necessary to earn their coin.

Surprisingly, extracting Jaskier from the attentive banquet had been an easy task that night; he’d come willingly, easily, although he’d definitely been rather affectionate. By the time they were staggering back to their rooms together — or at least, Jaskier was staggering, and Geralt was holding him up — the only exciting blip in the whole of the night was Jaskier’s jovial drunkenness… and the kiss.

Which they weren’t speaking about. Still. Even several months later.

Now, they're in a forest in Sodden, Jaskier strumming his lute at the fireside while Geralt cooks, smoking two trout on a roasting stick. For once, Jaskier is surprisingly silent, merely humming a tune that Geralt isn’t familiar with — not yet anyway.

Must be a new song.

They’re headed to Armeria, following a rumor about a devourer who’s graduated from hunting dead bodies to terrorizing the townsfolk. They’re maybe a day out, but it’s late, and Geralt hadn’t thought traveling any further tonight was a good idea.

They’re close enough now that the monster could appear at any moment, and Geralt hasn’t told Jaskier this, but the smell of their food could easily lure it out, if it’s near. Geralt glances at the bard, before sweeping his gaze across the woods around them.

He can’t sense anything closing in, but he’s not about to let his guard down.

“Fish is done,” Geralt grunts as he turns the roasting stick one last time, pleased with how it’s turned out. He slips one of the trout free from the stick, and drops it haphazardly into his lap before carefully offering the other to Jaskier.

Jaskier hums delightedly, and the soft sound of his lute playing ends abruptly as he takes the fish.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he says, far too cheery for someone who's been eating the same, flavorless meal over and over again over the last few weeks. “It smells heavenly!”

Geralt pauses, amused. “It smells like fish, Jaskier,” he quips, rolling his eyes.

The bard sputters indignantly, and Geralt doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is glaring at him. “Very astute, oh wise one. Who ever would have thought?” Jaskier shoots back dryly. “Can’t you even take a compliment when a man offers you one?” he complains, tutting loudly. “Really, someone has got to teach you some manners, Geralt.”

“And I suppose that’ll be you?” Geralt shoots back dryly, grinning. He turns to take in the expression on Jaskier’s face, and huffs out a laugh at how incensed the bard looks.

His brow is furrowed, and his mouth is gaping open in offense. “You joke, Geralt, but I very well just might!”

“I’m sure,” Geralt snorts, amused, and turns back to his meal.

Jaskier “harrumphs!” loudly in response, but doesn’t otherwise say anything. He’s pouting, Geralt knows, but he’ll get over it in a minute or two. Geralt basks in the temporary silence, and chews quietly at his meal, half his mind turned back to the hunt already.

“You know, it really isn’t all that bad,” Jaskier says, breaking the silence and interrupting Geralt’s thoughts about which potions will be most effective against the monster.

“What isn’t?” Geralt mutters, shifting his attention back to Jaskier. He frowns, trying to work out what Jaskier is talking about.

“The fish,” Jaskier elaborates, humming. He sounds pleased and takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Of course, it would be far better if we had some spices or you’d cooked it into a stew,” he muses, considering. “Though I assume you work with what you’ve got— ”

“Get on with it, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts him, rolling his eyes at him.

“— but you’re actually a fairly good cook, when it comes right down to it,” he states, shrugging nonchalantly. Geralt narrows his eyes at him, not fooled by Jaskier’s casualness, and waits for Jaskeir to get to the point.

There’s a pause, wherein Jaskier chews slowly, and then, “Did you learn it on your own, or did someone teach you?” he inquires cooly, as if the answer doesn’t bother him at all.

The question is enough to cause Geralt to pause, and he rests his mostly finished meal on his lap as he processes it.

It’s not often that he talks about himself, or his upbringing — not with Jaskier, and not with anyone else — but Jaskier seems genuinely interested. The problem is, Geralt doesn’t know how to respond.

He’s let some things slip in the past. It’s hard not to, when he spends so much time with the bard. The finer details, though… he definitely hasn't gotten into, and this seems like the kind of mundane detail that no one else would care to ask, especially not from a witcher.

Geralt’s hesitation to answer seems to do nothing to ward off the bard’s questions. He takes another bite, chews it over thoughtfully, and glances up at Geralt.

“I can’t decide whether or not it’s the kind of thing that would have come up in your training,” Jaskier muses, humming softly. “It’s hard to imagine your teachers at Kaer Morhen interrupting monster lessons for a quick cooking lesson.”

Geralt lets out a surprised laugh. Jaskier tosses him a grin, clearly pleased with himself, and the tenseness he’d been holding in his shoulders — a tenseness that Geralt hadn’t immediately noticed — disappears.

“I mean, someone had to cook for you all, didn’t they?” Jaskier pushes, slowly wheedling his way closer to an answer. “I don’t buy into all that nonsense about Witchers being savages,” he comments derisively with a little snort.

Now that shocks Geralt, and he stops eating to stare incredulously at Jaskier, who’s too caught up in his own thought to notice the look.

“I mean look at you!” Jaskier continues, boldly, waving his hand at Geralt as if something about Geralt’s appearance helps to justify his point. “You’re the least savage man I’ve ever met!”

Geralt immediately snorts at the frankly ridiculous statement, but can’t help being astonished at the same time. Jaskier’s entire demeanor is indignant on Geralt’s behalf, as if he truly believes what he’s saying — as if he truly believes that there’s nothing savage about witchers, nothing savage about Geralt.

Jaskier keeps talking, preventing Geralt from being able to react.

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier concedes, tossing his head. “Maybe a little savage, but that’s hardly the point,” he says dryly with a snort of his own. “I’ve seen entire villages more savage than you,” he adds, and nods at Geralt with a look of shared understanding.

Geralt can only stare, because while he can definitely agree with Jaskier on that point, not a lot of people would.

They’ve known each other for years, and yet Geralt still finds himself startled every time Jaskier says something like this, as if he views Geralt as human when the rest of the world very much doesn’t.

Geralt feels very warm all of a sudden.

“Anyway, back to my point,” Jaskier says, a little flustered. His cheeks are a little red. “You hardly ever talk about Kaer Morhen, but when you do, oh ho ho, I dare say you sound rather fond,” Jaskier teases, waggling his eyebrows at Geralt.

“Bullshit,” Geralt responds abruptly, mainly because he isn’t sure what else to say. Witchers aren’t fond. They might not be as emotionless as the continent would like to believe, but they rarely form bonds, and the bonds of brotherhood forged through the trials would hardly leave someone with memories to be fond over. “No one is fond of Kaer Morhen.”

And yet, as Geralt turns and watches Jaskier roll his eyes knowingly, affectionately, he can’t help wondering if the bard might be right after all.

The long days at Kaer Morhen hadn’t all been bad. He’d had Eskel and Lambert with him, and no one could accuse them of being anything less than the worst of troublemakers.

Geralt’s lips tremble for a moment, the edge of a smile there. He hasn’t seen his brothers in a long time.

“Aha! See! There! Don’t think you can hide that from me, witcher!” Jaskier exclaims, laughing.

Geralt’s lips twitch harder, and Jaskier leans over to poke him in the side. “You know I’m right,” Jaskier sing-songs, grinning.

Geralt shakes his head, and finally laughs, because maybe Jaskier is right. Maybe Kaer Morhen wasn’t all bad, even if it wasn’t great, and there are still things to be fond over. Kaer Morhen gave him a family, after all.

For a moment, Jaskier just leaves the conversation there. He hums softly, pleased with himself, and finishes up his meal. Geralt follows suit, and before long, the two of them are tossing their cleaned bones into the fire.

Jaskier sighs, and leans back on the ground next to Geralt. Once he’s settled, he presses their thighs together companionably. “Come on, then Geralt,” he says softly, wheedling. “How’d you learn to cook, then?”

Geralt sighs heavily, but eventually murmurs, “Meriyan.” He doesn’t look at Jaskier, his mood sobering some, as he remembers home — falling from high places because he wasn’t yet used to his enhanced senses, the taste of forbidden fruit on his tongue… “When we’d get in trouble in the keep, they’d send us to her. Asked her to make use of us in the kitchens,” he explains.

Jaskier doesn’t interrupt him, instead listening intently. He doesn’t ask who “us” is, or what kind of trouble they’d get up to. He just listens.

“She taught us to cook,” Geralt repeats unnecessarily, swallowing roughly. It’s strange, thinking of Meriyan now, years later. “Useful skill, considering the job. They taught us to skin animals as part of our training, but…” Geralt trails off. He can’t find the words to say anything more, doesn’t feel there is anything else to say, and goes silent.

Jaskier seems to realize that Geralt is done talking, because he waits for a moment, hums softly, and presses his thigh tighter to Geralt's briefly, as if to reassure the witcher that he’s still there.

Geralt grunts, and goes to stand up — he’s got to settle Roach down for the night.

He doesn’t get very far before Jaskier’s hand finds his shoulder, effectively paralzying Geralt where he is. He turns his head, shocked, and finds that Jaskier, somehow, has moved even closer to him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice soft in the sudden quiet of the night.

“What,” Geralt grumbles, and it's barely a question.

Something soft sneaks into Jaskier’s expression, and he smiles.

“Thanks for cooking tonight,” he whispers. Geralt blinks, and suddenly Jaskier’s there, leaning in slowly, and pressing their lips together again. Geralt makes a muffled little sound, surprised at the gesture, and finds himself surprisingly disappointed when it doesn’t last long.

Rather, it’s just a moment, hardly any longer than the first time he’d been kissed. Jaskier’s lips are warm, just the same as Geralt remembers, only this time the bard tastes like fish and smoke. This time, it’s just that little bit more, enough so that Geralt can feel the exact way Jaskier’s lips move against his own — and then Jaskier is gone again, leaving nothing but his taste and the feeling of being understood behind.

The hand that had held Geralt so firmly in place only a moment ago lifts from his shoulder as Jaskier casually stands up and yawns loudly, as if the kiss hadn’t happened at all.

Geralt stares at the back of him, mouth tingling, but unable to respond.

“Well, good night, Geralt,” Jaskier hums, and moves to pull his bedroll from his bags, spreading it on the other side of the fire where he settles in for the night.

--

It happens again in Oxenfurt.

They’ve parted ways a lot in the decade they’ve traveled together. Sometimes it’s Jaskier choosing to stay behind at the nearest town to chase the skirts of pretty women, or — more likely — to take a temporary post as entertainer. Sometimes it’s Geralt, who gets called away on a dangerous mission that he doesn’t want Jaskier tagging along for, or — more probably still — when Geralt’s had too much time to think and realizes once again that Jaskier deserves a better life than this one.

This time, their separation is a combination of the two. Geralt is accompanying Jaskier to Oxenfurt at his request, where the bard is set to stay a few weeks as a guest lecturer. They’ve barely been in the town for twenty minutes when someone stops Geralt with a missive from Triss requesting his assistance.

It’s with some regret that Geralt sighs, and readies himself to turn back around and be on his leave.

“There’s no way I could convince you to stay for even one drink, is there?” Jaskier asks, sounding far more disappointed than Geralt had been expecting.” His gaze is downcast, and Geralt can see Jaskier biting his lip before those bright eyes find him again. “I was so looking forward to showing you around.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, and turns back to Roach. “Maybe next time,” he acquiesces gruffly.

There’s a part of him that’s disappointed as well, though he can’t name why, and he shakes it away with a roll of his shoulders, uncomfortable with the feeling.

He has responsibilities, and Triss is asking for his help. He can visit Oxenfurt with Jaskier another time.

Behind him, Jaskier sighs as Geralt adjusts his bags on Roach’s saddle and moves to sit astride her. As he settles the reins in his hands, and moves to turn Roach around, Jaskier approaches him.

He’s frowning, and he’s left his bags behind, with his lute propped up beside them. They’re just at the outskirts of the Academy, and Jaskier, for the first time, actually looks like he belongs somewhere. It’s a shock, therefore, that Jaskier looks so sad.

“Cheer up, bard,” Geralt grunts, eyes narrowing. “You have hot food and a bed to look forward to for the next few weeks,” he entices. “Much better than traveling with me,” he adds with a hint of a smile.

Geralt expects Jaskier to laugh at that, to joke back at him, but he doesn’t. He just continues to frown, and steps ever closer to Roach.

“I enjoy traveling with you,” Jaskier replies thickly, and his voice sounds different than it usually does, more serious, more… something. Geralt can’t quite put a name to the somber look Jaskier is giving him now, can’t figure out how to react to his words, isn’t sure what to make of them.

Whatever this is, it’s not the way Jaskier would usually respond.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, unsure what he’d even say to that. It doesn’t seem to matter. Jaskier doesn’t appear to be waiting for a response. Instead, he reaches up and cups his hand against Geralt’s cheek, pulling him down, down, down.

Suddenly, Geralt’s face is held close to Jaskier’s, close enough to be kissed.

Geralt isn’t sure what makes him allow it to happen, but in the next moment, Jaskier’s lips are pressed firmly to his, and he’s got Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth, and he’s kissing Geralt, really kissing him this time, lips a soft, fervent pressure. It’s not chaste in the least, and it goes on far longer than any of the rest, long enough that Geralt has pulled himself together enough to respond. He doesn’t get a chance to, because then Jaskier lets him go.

Geralt’s head is spinning. He can feel a low simmering heat burn in his body, and it’s confusing, so confusing that all he can do is stare. All he can ever do is stare, after Jaskier kisses him.

The bard smiles, as if he hasn’t just turned Geralt’s world upside down for the third time, and lifts his hand in a little wave.

“Safe travels, Geralt,” he says, his voice just this side of hoarse.

Geralt blinks at him, nods, and turns away, leading Roach back down through the city and away from Jaskier, despite the fact that Geralt suddenly really, really does not want to go.

--

The next time it happens, they’ve barely been apart for a month.

They meet back up again in Dorian, where Geralt stops for the night after someone recognizes him as the “white wolf” the bard in town was singing about. It had been an assumption that the bard in question would be Jaskier, but Geralt knows he’s right as soon as he stables Roach at an inn nearby that smells like Jaskier.

Geralt can hear the bard’s voice before he enters, and despite himself, he smiles, the tiniest quirk of the lips. Jaskier is strumming his lute to a jaunty tune, dancing around the inn and making a right fool of himself. The patrons are enjoying it, if the clapping and singing along are anything to go by, and Geralt approaches the barman for a pint before finding a dark, back corner to sit in.

It takes a few songs for Jaskier to notice Geralt, but when he does, his entire being seems to brighten — even from across the room, Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s smile pulls a little wider, his eyes sparkle a little more. He finishes his tune with a lofty flourish, bows theatrically to his audience, and excuses himself for the night with a hefty weight of coin tucked into his pocket. He slides into a seat in front of Gerelt’s like he belongs there.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier says, grinning. The barmaid approaches with a pint for Jaskier, and Jaskier beams at her, thanking her profusely. Geralt inhales sharply, and realizes he can practically smell the alcohol in Jaskier’s sweat. It’s then that Geralt realizes Jaskier has clearly been abundantly plied with alcohol all night, and he seems to already be well on his way to drunk.

“How much have you had to drink, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, sighing exasperatedly. He doesn’t even bother to greet the bard, figuring it hardly matters.

Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at him. “Why, are you here to bespoil my honor?” he teases, his expression lewd as he takes a long drag from his pint. “Because if so, I’m definitely not too drunk to enjoy it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums dispassionately, studying the bard closely. He’s definitely loose limbed, his expression over the top, even for Jaskier. Geralt grinds his teeth a little and elects to ignore the bard's last comment, because he has no idea what to do with it. “You should take care of yourself,” he says, glancing away so that he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier.

Jaskier gasps, dramatic as ever. “Are you worried about me, Geralt of Rivia?” he asks, far louder than necessary. “Perhaps that someone else might despoil my honor?”

“It’s far too late for that,” Geralt grumbles, looking away, but he can feel his cheeks heating up nevertheless. Jaskier isn’t wrong — Geralt was worried about someone taking advantage of the bard, but that has more to do with the fact that Jaskier would go to bed with just about anyone, and the last thing Geralt wants is for someone to do something the bard wouldn’t want.

Jaskier lets out a bark of a laugh in response. He’s grinning, cheeks flushed prettily. “Oh Geralt, you do care,” he crows happily, and stands up, swaying a little. Geralt sees his eyes go a little cross eyed for a moment as he attempts to steady himself. His movements are still a little wobbly when he shifts around the table and abruptly sits in Geralt’s lap.

Geralt tenses immediately.

“Jaskier,” he says, reproachful, but Jaskier ignores him. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, dragging the witcher closer to him. Their faces are inches apart, and Geralt can definitely smell the alcohol wafting off his skin now. It’s almost repugnant, and Geralt furrows his nose.

“Jaskier,” he says again, but Jaskier cuts him off.

“Don’t worry, Geralt,” Jaskier teases in a sing song voice, “I’ve been waiting for you,” he croons.

Geralt doesn’t get the chance to question what the hell that means, because at that moment, Jaskier drags him in for a kiss, deeper by far than any of the rest.

Either the alcohol, or the excuse of alcohol, has loosened Jaskier’s tongue, and he bites past Geralt’s lips with very little resistance. His tongue is hot against Geralt’s own, and for the first time Geralt is getting first-hand experience of what Jaskier is really like when it comes to matters such as this.

He’s very good with his tongue, and he manages to drag a groan out of Geralt’s throat, as, unable to resist, Geralt kisses him back. He doesn’t have enough brain capacity left to question what the fuck is going on, because he’s too busy being shocked by the fact that he actually wants this, that he’d been waiting for the next time Jaskier would kiss him, wondering if it would feel the same every time as it had the first time — if it would keep feeling like something hot has unfurled in Geralt’s chest.

He doesn’t get very much longer to ponder the realization that it does, before Jaskier lets out a tiny sigh and pulls away.

Geralt blinks, brain a little fuzzy. He looks up to find that Jaskier is smiling at him.

“You look cute, like this,” Jaskier murmurs, and leans in for one last little peck to Geralt’s lips. He reaches up with calloused fingers to pat clumsily at Geralt’s cheek, the look on his face positively fond.

As abruptly as Jaskier had climbed into his lap, Jaskier climbs back off, and saunters back to the other side of the table where he plops down happily. His smile is loose and unconcerned as he grabs his pint for another long draw. It’s as if the kiss had never even happened, and Geralt has no idea what to do with that.

“Jaskier,” he says, desperate to just understand already, but then Jaskier turns back to face him with glassy eyes and a slightly-delayed hum of question, and Geralt realizes that now is really not the time.

Geralt doesn’t end up drinking very much, and after he’s had a hot meal, he carries a drunk Jaskier up to bed, and stays with him this time because Jaskier won’t let him go.

--

It starts happening more often after that —

There’s a kiss on the cheek the next time Geralt offers Jaskier a bowl of soup. A kiss on the hand as Jaskier gets up to perform for a tavern full of jovial townsfolk, eyes dark as he stares up at Geralt from under even darker eyelashes. A kiss on the top of the head, as Jaskier washes Geralt’s hair for the thousandth time. A kiss on the forehead, as Jaskier wipes blood away from his hairline with a tiny frown on his face. And once, a kiss on the nose in the middle of the afternoon, because Geralt had been staring off into space, and Jaskier, it seemed, had felt like it.

Geralt is baffled by the whole situation. He’s never been touched this affectionately in his life, and with every new kiss, Geralt realizes that he really, really does not want it to stop — only he can’t figure out how to make sure that it doesn’t.

He’s not even sure what started it.

Geralt knows that Jaskier is free with his affections. He’s a romantic, and he falls in love with everyone he meets, but it never lasts long, and he definitely isn’t shy about saying the words, so…

It shouldn’t be weird, only Jaskier has never been like this with him, so Geralt doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to want anything more from Geralt, if recent events are anything to go by. He hasn’t made one single attempt to ask for more, and that alone is unusual for Jaskier, who’d fucked his way around the continent — only…

Wait a moment. He hasn’t done that recently.

Geralt’s brow furrows as he realizes this. He hasn’t seen Jaskier take someone to bed since before the banquet, all those months ago. He’d just assumed, at the time, that Jaskier had been trying to avoid stepping on any new toes, considering his growing reputation as a cad.

But then why had he kissed Geralt that night in Sodden? Why hadn’t he lept at the chance to have a dalliance or two with the girls of Oxenfurt, rather than bemoaning the fact that Geralt couldn’t stay? Why had he gone to bed with Geralt that night when he was drunk, even though there had been plenty of willing women sitting in that tavern plying him with alcohol all night?

And why, above all else, had Jaskier started kissing him in the first place, if it was clear he didn’t want anything more?

“And what, my dear witcher, has put that look on your face,” Jaskier asks, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts as he plops down on the bed next to him. The moment his body hits the bed, Jaskier falls backwards, and sighs blissfully into the cool sheets.

Geralt turns a little to stare down at him, watching the way Jaskier’s eyes flutter contentedly.

“Nothing,” Geralt grunts, and returns to unlacing his boots. Jaskier hums disbelievingly, but when Geralt glances at him again, his eyes are closed, and he looks to be satisfied with that answer.

They sit together companionably, Geralt lost in his thoughts once again, as he listens to Jaskier breathe quietly beside him. It’s a comforting sound, where it once might not have been. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat as well, a steady, reassuring thump, and he sighs softly.

Yeah, he definitely doesn’t want to lose this — whatever it is. Asking Jaskier what hell is going on though? Just doesn’t seem worth it, right now.

--

It all comes to a head one night in Ellander.

Geralt returns from a hunt with the head of a Golem, covered in rock and dust, but otherwise unscathed. He drops the trophy off with the Alderman, and with a purse full of coin, returns to the inn where he’d left Jaskier.

Jaskier is waiting for him at a table in the back. Geralt expects to see him composing his next ballad, perhaps with a bowl of hot stew waiting for Geralt, but instead he finds the bard chatting with an old friend of Geralt’s. Or at least, she’s chatting with Jaskier.

“Triss?” Geratl calls, surprised.

The curly haired sorceress turns a sunny smile onto him at the sound of her name, and stands to greet him.

“Geralt,” she replies, voice honeytoned. She moves to embrace him, but changes her mind at the last minute, noting that Geralt is covered in dirt. “Ever the mess, I see,” she teases with a small laugh. “Come, sit with us!” she says, beckoning him to the table where a bowl of stew does, in fact, wait for him.

Geralt follows her, but his gaze immediately finds Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s expression is unreadable, something Geralt is entirely unused to, and he doesn’t appear to have been much engaged in his conversation with Triss.

Geralt can’t think of anything they have in common, but Jaskier is good at charming people — good at conversation in general — so Geralt can’t imagine any reason the bard would be so subdued. He hasn’t even greeted Geralt, or demanded details of his hunt the way he usually would.

Geralt furrows his brow as he sits down, and eyes Jaskier questioningly. Jaskier doesn’t respond. His expression doesn’t so much as shift, and that, above all else, worries Geralt. What could Triss have possibly said to render Jaskier mute and emotionless like this?

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks bluntly, turning his attention back to Triss. “Has something happened?” he asks shrewdly, narrowing his eyes at her.

Triss laughs. “What, I can’t just be here to visit an old friend?” she inquires, expression lighthearted.

Geralt glares at her. “You just saw me,” he states in a no nonsense tone.

“But that was under different circumstances,” Triss argues playfully, tossing her hair over her shoulder, Geralt’s glare not affecting her. “Come, Geralt, surely you’re pleased to see me,” she teases, flashing him a sunny smile.

And it’s not that Geralt isn’t pleased to see her, it's more that no one ever really seeks him out unless they need something from him. The only exception is Jaskier, and even then he claims to be along for the adventure. Jaskier is probably one of the only people who can tolerate spending an extended period of time with Geralt, and Geralt doesn’t even know how he manages that much.

For Triss to be here… is just odd. But for Jaskier to appear displeased about it… that’s even odder.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies tonelessly, instead of answering. It doesn't appear he’s going to get a straight answer out of her, so he turns to his stew and begins to eat.

“I see you’re as talkative as ever,” Triss comments wryly, and goes to exchange a knowing grin with Jaskier. Jaskier isn’t smiling, though. Instead, when Geralt turns to look at him, he finds Jaskier practically glaring at the sorceress, and he’s not even trying to hide it.

Geralt’s brow furrows again as he stares at Jaskier.

What the fuck did he miss?

“Well,” Triss says, clearing her throat and looking away. She attempts to share a look of utter bewilderment with Geralt, which Geralt does not reciprocate, and continues on. “Anyway, Geralt. I was just speaking with your bard here,” she explains, nodding her head at Jaskier, but avoiding looking his way again. “And he said you might not be back for hours. What was it you were hunting?” she asks, and she leans in close, attentive, and just waits.

Haltingly, Geralt tells her about the Golem. He can’t help the suspicion he feels, especially considering the lack of commentary coming from Jaskier, but he answers Triss nonetheless. She is one of his oldest friends, and while he might not fully trust her, he can assume her intentions are good.

As Geralt talks, Triss stares at him, her smile coquettish. Geralt, for his part, keeps glancing at Jaskier, who he knows would normally be jotting down every last detail he can wring from Geralt for a song, only this time, he isn’t writing anything.

In fact, he spends the entire night glaring at Triss, hardly saying a word other than a huff or a mirthless laugh, even as their conversation turns far away from the Golem and into gossip, which Jaskier usually loves to partake in. Triss has news of the courts, which Geralt could give less of a shit about, but which Jaskier usually laps up.

Geralt stares suspiciously at Jaskier the majority of the time, grunting in acknowledgement to Triss’ words, and otherwise finishing his stew and turning to his ale. Eventually, Triss moves on to tales of uprisings in the north, which is only marginally more interesting to Geralt.

Triss doesn’t seem to take it very seriously herself, and she teases Geralt about how they’ve both been alive long enough to see kings rise and fall too many times to be much surprised — or worried — about anything.

This comment, however, seems to grab Jaskier’s attention, because for the first time all night he snorts derisively, and tosses his head in outright annoyance.

Geralt stares at him, perturbed. He’s never seen Jaskier be quite so rude to a lady, nor has he ever known Jaskier to be so quiet in all the time he’s known him. Triss chooses to ignore the reaction completely, as if Jaskier wasn’t even there, and continues on.

“Ah, well,” Triss says, yawning quietly after a few hours of talking. “I best be off to bed,” she adds, standing, never once having given away what she could possibly have said to bother Jaskier so much. “I’ve got a long journey in the morning, but thanks ever so much for your company tonight, Geralt.” She smiles sweetly. “Jaskier,” she adds after a beat, seemingly reluctant to include it at all, and offers the bard a bland smile that he does not reciprocate.

Geralt nods in response, a part of him relieved to have this night over with, and stands automatically to bid Triss farewell. He immediately regrets it. He doesn’t actually know what he’d been planning to do, and now Triss is staring at him… well, expectantly. Geralt is surprised to see a soft flush fill her cheeks.

“Unless,” Triss says quietly, stepping in close to Geralt, “You’d care to join me?” she whispers, and runs a soft palm down Geralt’s dust covered arm.

That seems to be the last straw for Jaskier. With a loud scraping of his stool against the ground, Jaskier stands and grabs Geralt’s bicep with tight fingers, tearing him away from Triss.

Triss blinks in shock, and Geralt turns a baffled expression onto Jaskier that Jaskier ignores.

“I’m afraid not tonight, my lady,” Jaskier answers for Geralt, grinning a sharp smile. “We also have a long journey ahead of us in the morning, and Geralt still hasn’t had his bath. Perhaps next time,” he adds derisively, as if he doesn’t mean it — as if he doesn’t plan to let Geralt anywhere near Triss again.

Geralt’s heart clenches tight, and he turns a shocked look onto Jaskier, opening his mouth in preparation to say something — only Geralt can’t find any words.

Jaskier takes advantage of Geralt’s silence to clutch even harder at his bicep and pull, yanking him away from the situation and from Triss. He tosses a few coin onto the table as they go, and despite the fact Geralt is stronger than Jaskier, despite the fact he could throw Jaskier around like a rag doll, Geralt allows it to happen, because it’s Jaskier.

Jaskier had already gotten them a room earlier that day, and he heads up the stairs and straight into it without pause. Geralt catches sight of a bath gone long cold, but he dismisses it quickly, turning his attention onto Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, once Jaskier has slammed the door closed behind them and Geralt has gotten over his shock. “What the hell—” Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off, not even allowing him to finish his question.

With all of his strength, Jaskier presses his hands into Geralt’s hips, and shoves him up against the door, holding him there with the press of his own body flush against Geralt’s.

Geralt inhales sharply, and frowns at Jaskier, whose face is far closer to Geralt’s than he’d anticipated. He forgets, sometimes, how close in height they are. Before Geralt can even begin to make sense of his confusion, Jaskier leans the rest of the way in, and kisses him.

This time… this time is different. They haven’t properly kissed since that night in the bar when Jaskier had been drunk. There have been kisses in between, sure, but those had been more born from affection than desire. This kiss, though. This kiss is nothing but desire, and it shakes Geralt to his core.

He feels himself light up and groans at Jaskier’s touch, at the way the bard licks into his mouth and twines their tongues together. His hands are hot against Geralt’s hips, a brand as he pushes against him, pinning him in place.

Geralt reaches up and cups the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing him in closer. He lets Jaskier bite at his lips, lets him flick their tongues together, lets him take everything Geralt has to offer, and just breathes it in. His fingers thread through Jaskier’s hair and he pulls a little, listens to the little mewl Jaskier lets out, and finds himself desperate for more.

Geralt wants to keep kissing Jaskier, he does, but he wants to know what the hell is going on even more, so before he can completely lose himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s lips against his, Geralt releases Jaskier’s hair, and shoves him away.

Jaskier stumbles, and when Geralt looks up, he finds that Jaskier is staring at him in bewilderment, mouth kiss-bruised and breath heavy.

“Geralt, what?” Jaskier asks, clearly lost.

Geralt’s hands twist into fists at his sides, because what the hell does Jaskier have to be confused about? He’s the one who's been kissing Geralt without explanation, the one who's been driving Geralt crazy with every kiss, every touch, and he just can’t take it anymore. He needs to know why. Geralt grinds his teeth together loudly.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” he growls, allowing all the frustration from the last few months to pour into his voice. He’s sick of not knowing, sick of Jaskier teasing him like this, sick of Jaskier kissing him when Geralt can’t be sure of what his intentions are.

Geralt can feel himself thrumming with energy, and he wants nothing more than to have Jaskier pressed back up against him, kissing him, touching him, but he can’t. He can’t fucking stand it anymore. Not without knowing.

“What?” Jaskier asks again, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Geralt, why—” he tries, but Geralt doesn’t care if Jaskier has questions, because Geralt has a thousand more, and he’s damn well been waiting longer than Jaskier has been.

“Why do you keep kissing me!?” Geralt demands, squeezing his fingers tighter against his skin, and watches as Jaskier stares at him in confusion, clearly uncomprehending of what Geralt is asking.

It takes another moment of Geralt breathing heavily, hands clenched into fists at his sides, before Jaskier appears to freeze, gawking at Geralt in shock.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, astonished, and takes a short step back. “Oh wow,” he says, laughing breathlessly as he shakes his head. “Wow, Geralt, I thought…”

But whatever he’d thought, he doesn’t say. Instead, he just stares up with dancing eyes, that same knowing look on his face from months ago.

Geralt grits his teeth.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Geralt barks, glaring sharply at Jaskier, whose lips are turned up in a grin. “And what the fuck was that back there, with Triss?” he adds, because he doesn’t understand that either. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Jaskier. You’ve been a right prick for the last few months.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound warm, despite the tenseness in the room. The intensity that had seemed to be simmering in Jaskier earlier is suddenly gone, the passion from the kiss moments ago replaced now with something softer, something...sweet? Jaskier is staring at Geralt with something close to adoration, and Jaskier steps closer to him again.

Geralt doesn’t fight it when Jaskier reaches up and cups his cheek, patting it softly.

“You’re an idiot, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt inhales sharply, stung, and goes to pull away, but Jaskier just holds him tighter and pulls Geralt in to press a kiss against his ear. His hot breath against Geralt’s skin makes him shudder, and his eyes close involuntarily.

“Jaskier,” he hisses, trying so hard to hold onto that feeling of irritation, of unknowing, that’s been plaguing him for months.

“Sh,” Jaskier hums, encouraging. There’s something light in his voice, as if he’s smiling, but Geralt can’t move to see it. He’s frozen, hushed, as if Jaskeir has cast a spell on him. “You want to know why I keep kissing you?” he whispers, the sound of his words vibrating through Geralt, right down to his core.

Geralt nods, mute.

He feels more than hears Jaskier chuckle, a rush of something going up his spine. “Let me know when you figure it out,” Jaskier breathes against the shell of his ear, his lips a whisper against skin.

The look on Jaskier’s face when he pulls away is patient, but full of hunger, his eyes dark with want. It’s an expression Geralt can’t seem to parse. He finds that he’s frozen, as Jaskier lets his arms drop from where he’d had them pressed against the small of Geralt’s back, and he steps away, steps around Geralt, and walks out of the room, leaving Geralt wanting, confused, and alone.

--

Jaskier doesn’t come back that night.

Geralt reheats the bath water with a quick Igni after Jaskier leaves, and washes himself mechanically, his mind focused on Jaskier’s words. He can still feel Jaskier’s breath against his ear, still feel the warmth of Jaskier’s body, and the press of Jaskier’s lips against his. It muddles his mind, makes it difficult to think, and it pisses him off to no end.

He’d just wanted answers. Tonight had been the last straw, with the way Jaskier had been acting with Triss, the way he’d dragged Geralt away from her as if he had any say in who Geralt spent the night with, the way he’d kissed Geralt, again, and had the gall, afterward, to look at Geralt as if he should already know why he’d done it — had been doing it for months.

He doesn’t fucking know, and he’s sick of it. He’s sick of the knowing looks, the tenderness with which Jaskier has started to touch him, the desperate longing Geralt feels to have Jaskier touch him again. He’s sick of not knowing where he stands, or what’s going on, or the fact that he can’t, has never been able to, get a grasp on who Jaskier is to him.

He hadn’t wanted tonight’s kiss to end. He hadn’t wanted any of the kisses to end, and it feels like such a tease that Jaskier keeps doing it, as if he doesn’t understand the way he’s making Geralt feel.

Geralt smacks his fists against the water, and climbs out of the bath.

--

The next morning, Geralt makes his way into the tavern alone. He settles down for a quick breakfast, expecting Jaskier to join him soon. They don’t have an early morning as Jaskier had suggested last night, but they should get a move on if they want to make any progress before dark, and Geralt is confident Jaskier knows this.

He doesn’t for one second entertain the idea that Jaskier would have moved on without him. He isn’t sure he could handle that thought right now.

It isn’t Jaskier who joins him that morning, though. It’s Triss.

“Geralt,” Triss greets as she settles down at the table with him, her bag at her side. “Fancy meeting you here,” she says, grinning. She’s got an apple in her hands, and she’s wearing her traveling cloak already. It’s clear she’s on her way out.

Geralt grunts in response, and turns back to his own breakfast: a roll of bread and some sweet meats. He’s picking at it mostly. If the bard were here, Geralt knows it would be almost gone by now, Jaskier snagging bits and pieces here and there while Geralt is distracted.

He’d never admit to the bard that he lets him pick off his plate.

Triss bites into her apple with a small hum, and when Geralt glances back at her, he can see her smirking.

“What’s bothering you this morning, dear friend?” she asks, amused. “Surely you had a good night with your bard.”

Geralt huffs in annoyance. “He’s not my bard,” he snaps immediately.

“Could have fooled me,” Triss replies, rolling her eyes. “The way he whisked you away last night…” She pauses and shakes her head, laughing. “I finally understood why he kept glaring at me, at least,” she muses happily. “Ah well, he beat me to it,” she says, sighing regretfully.

Geralt’s eyes snap to hers immediately, and he forgets all about his meal. He has no idea what Triss could possibly mean, but she seems to think she understands something about what’s going on with Jaskier — at least more so than Geralt. Maybe she can give Geralt some sort of insight into what she’d done last night to rile Jaskier up in the first place. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

Triss gives him a funny look, apparently caught off guard by Geralt’s hostile reaction.

“Geralt, I’m not stupid,” she insists, insulted. “I came here last night for a quick tryst. You might be too dense to notice when a woman is flirting with you, but your bard is not,” she scoffs, and flicks her hand dismissively.

Geralt bares his teeth, frustrated. What the fuck does that even mean? “I said he’s not my bard,” he growls impatiently, waving the very notion away. “And if all you're going to do is speak in riddles, I’d rather you be on your way,” he adds curtly, and glares at her, arms crossed over his chest.

Triss glares back, clearly affronted. “There’s no reason to be like that, Geralt,” she states calmly, and draws her shawl around herself primly. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. It’s clear to anyone who bothers to look that your bard is deeply enamoured with you.” She huffs indignantly, and moves to slip her coin purse away. “And you with him,” she adds decisively.

That shocks him, so deeply that all Geralt can do is gawk at her, astonished. His witcher slow heart rate picks up.

“What,” he asks quietly, “the fuck are you talking about.” He stares, eyes boring into Triss’. He can’t even begin to fathom why Triss would say such a thing. That… can’t be right. “What exactly do you think is going on here, Triss?” he demands after a minute.

Triss blinks back at him for a moment, bewildered, and then her expression seems to clear. Her eyes widen, and she smiles, reaching up to cover a laugh. Geralt grinds his teeth at her, offended.

“Triss!” he growls.

“Oh my gods, Geralt, how do you not know?” she asks, laughing out right now. ”You daft bastard,” she adds, near hysterical. “I wish I could say I can’t believe you, but I suppose I shouldn’t even be surprised. You’ve always been blind when it comes to matters such as this.”

“Damnit, Triss,” Geralt curses, “Just tell me what’s going on!” he half shouts, breathing a little heavy. He can feel something burning at the back of his mind, taste the knowledge he’s asking for on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t reach it. It’s there, and for the first time he realizes he knows, he’s always known, but he just can’t — he just can’t grasp hold of it.

“Please,” he begs Triss, eyes wild with it.

Triss stops laughing to stare at him tenderly, and cocks her head. “You’re in love with him, Geralt,” Triss explains simply, “and he with you.”

The world grinds to a halt as the knowledge slams into him.

He’s known. He’s always known. The bitter taste on his tongue when Jaskier runs off with a lover suddenly makes sense for what it is — jealousy. The warmth blooming inside him with each new kiss is happiness. The anger that has been simmering just under the surface for so long is actually a broken sort of hope that Geralt hasn’t been able to allow himself to feel.

The strange burning feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looks at Jaskier has always been love... Geralt just hasn’t wanted to admit it.

Geralt lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

Suddenly, it all makes sense — the kisses, the affection. It’s all just Jaskier’s way of saying yes to the question Geralt hadn’t known he’d been asking. Geralt had always made fun of Jaskier for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Jaskier has known Geralt’s heart for far longer than Geralt has known his own.

And now he’s just waiting for Geralt to catch up.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters.

“Geralt,” Triss murmurs, grabbing hold of his attention with a soft look of exasperation on her face. She reaches out to take one of his hands, and holds on tight. “You are worthy of love, you know,” she says simply, like she believes it… like it’s true.

--

For a while, the shocking revelation makes it difficult to think. Geralt leaves Triss in the tavern to head back up to his room and pack his things. He pulls on his armor numbly, stares at Jaskier’s rucksack where he’d left it behind last night, and heads down to the stables.

He doesn’t know where Jaskier is, but it’s fine. Geralt needs a moment alone anyway, some time to process the fact that he’d spent the last decade hiding from his own feelings.

Geralt wonders how long Jaskier has known.

Roach is a comforting presence when Geralt enters her stall, bumping her head into his chest companionably. He pats at her neck in greeting. “Hello, Roach,” he murmurs, and drops his bags in the corner.

He brushes her down to prepare her for the day’s ride, and it helps to relax him, to calm his thoughts, until all he’s left with is a slow rolling happiness that burns deep in his gut. He finds that he’s anxious to see Jaskier again, that he actually wants what the bard is offering — that he’s tired of pretending the desire doesn’t exist.

He’s feeding Roach oats by the time Jaskier finds him, and at the sound of his voice, Geralt turns slowly.

“Morning, Geralt,” Jaskier greets him brightly, eyes twinkling. It takes a moment for Geralt to place the look, but when he does he realizes that it’s the same look Jaskier always gives him, only now Geralt can recognize it for what it is — love.

Geralt’s lips quirk slightly, and Jaskier mirrors this, though he looks a little confused.

“You alright?” he asks, taking a cautious step forward. “You look a little…” Jaskier doesn’t finish the sentence, instead waving at Geralt nonsensically.

He’s got his rucksack slung over one shoulder, and his lute case hung over the other. He’s dressed in finery, the same he always is, but his boots are the ones Geralt picked out for him years ago, suitable for traveling. His doublet, at the very least, looks warmer than usual, perfect for the chill that has started to pierce the air.

It occurs to Geralt then that he has spent a lot of time leaving Jaskier behind in some misguided assumption that Jaskier deserves a better life than the one Geralt leads, but as he looks at Jaskier now, and realizes that Jasker has spent the last decade following him willingly, always ready in the morning to be on the road, he decides that maybe Jaskier doesn’t deserve better, because this is what Jaskier chose.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, ignoring the bard’s unfinished question.

Jaskier tilts his head at him. “Yes, Geralt?” he asks, clearly confused.

“Come here,” Geralt urges, and doesn’t wait for Jaskier to move towards him. This time, Geralt moves towards Jaskier, and he cups Jaskier’s cheeks in his hands, and he kisses him. Their noses brush softly as Geralt urges Jaskier’s mouth open, slow and sweet like liquid heat. Jaskier makes a soft noise into Geralt’s mouth, and reaches out to grab hold of Geralt’s tunic, anchoring himself in place.

Geralt’s hand shifts to press against the back of Jaskier’s skull, and he holds on tight. The warm feeling in his chest is growing outward, consuming him in a way Geralt hadn’t let it do before. Triss was right, Jaskier was right… Geralt had loved him for a long time.

He sighs when he eventually pulls back, pressing his forehead lightly to Jaskier’s. His eyes are still closed when Jaskier reaches up to run gentle fingers softly through his hair.

“Figured it out at last, did you?” he teases tenderly. Geralt huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls back from Jaskier just far enough to stare into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and kisses Jaskier again. “I figured it out.”

[mordoriscalling]

The Colour-Magic Theory (1/?)

Intro

Here comes part 1 of me playing with magic and giving myself Geraskier feels. Hope you enjoy! (Also, no beta, pls have mercy.)

***

From a look, a song and unwanted friendship, new lives are born. The stack of firewood is swallowed up by flames the moment Geralt casts Igni.

“Oh, I love that trick,” Jaskier says and puts his hands close to the fire, warming them after his fingers got stiff from playing the lute in the chill of the autumn evening. “Why don’t you use it every time, I wonder?” the bard asks, observing his companion sitting across the bonfire. “It’s so much easier.”

The witcher only grunts in reply, as is his way, and continues munching on a strip of beef jerky. Jaskier, however, isn’t deterred by the silence, and continues staring at Geralt expectantly. His questioning gaze is like a physical touch. It sends a tingling sensation down the witcher’s spine, the way it always does.

With a resigned sigh, Geralt answers, “I usually want to save my magic for when I really need it, but you were whining so much about the cold that I just wanted to shut you up quicker.”

Jaskier gasps and lays a hand on his breast, about to dramatically take offence, but doesn’t voice his hurt in the end. Something else intrigued him. “Save your magic?” he asks, “what do you mean?”

The witcher measures the bard with the blank “no more questions” look for long enough that any sane person would give up. Jaskier isn’t exactly sane, in Geralt’s (and some others’) opinion, and stares at the witcher right back, unmoved. When it comes to stubbornness, their relation is a diamond cut diamond type of situation.

Finally, Geralt gives in, huffing in irritation. “Magic always has a price. When you take power from Chaos, you have to give something back. The give and take tends to affect your physiological well-being, especially when the stakes are high.”

“So...” Jaskier begins, confused about his understanding of the matter, “casting signs weakens you and that’s why you don’t use magic often?”

“No,” the witcher answers, confusing his companion even further, “My extra mutations... they must’ve changed it. Using magic doesn’t have any effect on my body at all.”

“Fascinating,” Jaskier replies, then immediately gets up to rummage through his travel pack. He comes back to sit across Geralt with a notebook and a pencil in his hand. “What is the price you pay, then?” he asks the witcher and starts writing something in the notebook without waiting for a reply.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, “I haven’t told anyone about this.” The bard’s head snaps up and he stares at Geralt in shock. Then, understanding dawns on his face. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Alright.” The next moment, the page is torn out of the notebook. It lands in the bonfire and turns into ash. Geralt stares into the flames silently while Jaskier waits for him to speak up.

“My powers deplete themselves,” the witcher says, “It takes time for the magic to return.”

“Peculiar,” the bard remarks, “And a pretty shitty deal, too. I’d rather have it affect my physiology than have to wait after every silly spell.”

Geralt shakes his head. “There’s something else. It’s... hard to explain. In a way, I can negotiate with Chaos. Make my magic not exhaust itself as quickly as it should. It’s useful when I’m in a fight.” His mouth sets into a grim line. “I still haven’t figured out the price I pay for that, though.”

Jaskier smiles a wry little smile, not commenting for once, and Geralt lets himself look at the bard, who meets his eye squarely. The bright gold connects with the cornflower blue and time stands still. Just between the two of them, the colour of the bard’s irises is suddenly so vibrant that it alerts Geralt’s witcher instincts. Jaskier tends to have that effect on him. The bard is always full of energy  – all flutter and movement, brightness and sounds – and it’s too much not to be suspicious. Too much for Geralt’s heightened senses as well; Jaskier’s constant chatter almost gives him a headache every day. His singing is even more bothersome, considering that Geralt’s medallion reacts to it.

“Maybe the price is putting up with you,” the witcher jokes, deadpan. “You!” Jaskier cries, directing an accusing pointing finger at Geralt, “You bastard! I’m a delight and a gift to this world!”

Geralt huffs out a laugh but does nothing to deny it. Jaskier may be annoying and strange but he’s a blessing all the same. Since he joined Geralt two years ago, he’s been working relentlessly on improving Geralt’s image and changing the public perception of all witchers. The bard wants him reborn as a hero, which is a fool’s errand, but he’s grateful for it anyway. The thank-you gets stuck in Geralt’s throat whenever he wants to say it, even though he’s already less spat at in villages. Thankfully, Jaskier seems to understand. Many things pass between them with little words.

Later, when they lay down to sleep, Jaskier’s quiet question reaches the witcher’s ears.  

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Hmm.”

*

The bard walks a few steps ahead of Geralt, who follows him on his horse’s back. Jaskier is composing. He’s always in front of Roach when he’s preoccupied with the creative process. The song about the healing of the Striga that he’s working on is in the middle stages – the first version of lyrics is ready but every single line needs perfecting. This is exactly what Jaskier is doing now: trying out the sound of every word and looking for ones that fit the melody better.

The bard is so engrossed with the task that he doesn’t notice the obvious – how the nature around him moves to get closer to his voice. Geralt’s keen eyes notice the way each straw of grass and every leaf lean in, just a touch, to “listen”. The air has gone completely still and the meadow is eerily silent; even Roach seems to be holding her breath. Geralt’s medallion vibrates.

The witcher decides that this moment is as good as any to confront the issue.

“You’re not human.” Jaskier freezes in his tracks, his body going rigid with tension. The acidic stench of fear fills the air and Geralt shifts in the saddle, disturbed by the smell for the first time in decades. “I am not,” Jaskier replies, his back to the witcher. “Do you want to tell me?” Geralt prompts, his voice gentle like it almost never is.   The bard turns to face him, face pale and hands trembling. “You really don’t know what I am?” “You should be the one to say it,” the witcher answers softly. Jaskier releases a shaky breath and nods. Stepping off the path, he walks into the tall grasses and strums his lute. When he opens his mouth, he sings in a language which the witcher has never heard in his long life. The tongue consists mostly of croons, trills, whistles and swishing sounds, and it’s enchanting even to Geralt’s ears. The air becomes thick with power immediately. It’s not Chaos, however. It’s a whole different type of magic.

The fae are creatures of nature – they are born from its energy. Guarding its Order and sustaining its sacred rhythms is their ancient task that they’ve always been fulfilling, hidden away in their own dimension of the world. They belong to the magic of nature and they don’t move out of it. Usually.

Jaskier didn’t belong anywhere, not until recently. His rhythm has always been too fast. He flutters from place to place, both quickly bored and immensely fascinated with everything and anything. The skies have always drawn him in the most – he still dreams of being a bird and flying anywhere he wants. In the end, Jaskier’s Queen found his temperament unbearable enough that she didn’t clip his wings any longer and allowed him to mingle with mortals.

Jaskier’s done his fair share of that, along with quite some mischief, but his life of adventure truly began only when he saw the brooding loner in Posada. The man’s restrained disposition and the guarded gold of his eyes were arresting, intriguing. Jaskier instantly wanted to know what secrets the witcher held. A few years later, he’s sure he won’t ever grow tired of uncovering them – every little bit of information, of understanding Geralt better, sends a thrill of rightness and belonging through his being.

Freeing his magic puts him at ease, lets him truly breathe. And so, the bard carries on singing, not afraid anymore. He smiles, radiating happiness. His glamour has dropped a bit and his sharp fangs are showing but the witcher only smiles back with the tiny upturn of his lips. Jaskier laughs in between the lines because from this moment on, he’s well and truly safe.

When the song ends, the meadow is completely silent for a moment, then the buzz of insects picks up anew and the gentle gust of wind returns.

“You’ve said enough,” Geralt remarks, and that’s all he has to say on the matter.

After that, the bard opens up to his companion even more, if that’s even possible. Geralt has a suspicion that Jaskier’s chatter was to serve as a distraction from his magic. Now that it’s out in the open, Jaskier’s silences, previously almost non-existent, has got longer. The bard doesn’t shy away from using his power around the witcher, too, and uses it in various ways to make their lives easier. He enchants a client into compliance when they don’t want to give Geralt the promised pay, or asks plants and animals to tell them where the nearest shelter is. When Geralt has a restless night, Jaskier’s humming puts him to sleep. The witcher’s medallion always vibrates then but Geralt isn’t alarmed by it any longer. It’s become a welcome thrum.

Their dynamic changes but they don’t look for any ways to describe it; they simply live the new way and enjoy it. The lazy, warm afternoons are the most pleasant, when Geralt stretches out in a shade of some tree and dozes off to the sounds of Jaskier's lute. Other times Geralt uses Aard to toss some object and Jaskier tries to catch it, laughing, his giggles lovelier than the tinkle of silver bells. Chaos and Order swirl around them, the sky is blue and the sun shines bright on the lush green grass. It could mean nothing or it could mean the world but what matters is that they both find peace. This is why Geralt doesn’t call Jaskier his friend – the word doesn’t fit.

Then Cintra happens and they part ways for three whole years.

TBC

Part 2

[maythefandomsbwithu]

Hey I decided to post this on Tumblr cuz why not

tattoo artist Geralt/florist jaskier 1

It was just another day for Jaskier. It was June and business was booming. Or should he say blooming, he was a florist after all. The wedding season was well under way and orders were coming flooding in. He couldn’t wait for Ciri to finish her exams so she could help out in the shop more but for now he had to manage on his own.

He owned a quaint little shop called Dandelions Aren’t Weeds in a reasonably quiet part of town. It didn’t seem like much to an outsider but to Jaskier it was his pride and joy. He spent his days tending the plants and catering to his customers’ needs, often with a fresh bloom tucked behind his ear. He took pride not only in his business but in his appearance as well, dressing in fine, brightly coloured clothes that complimented his complexion, with just a light smear of makeup, the boldest on a day to day basis being a dark streak of liner under each eye. He looked as pretty and delicate as the flowers he sold but appearances could be deceiving.

The only thing out of the ordinary in the past weeks was all the work that had been going on the renovate the shop next door. Rumours had been doing the rounds of what it would be when it was finished. By the look of it, the one that proved to be right was that it was going to be a tattoo shop. Jaskier hoped it wouldn’t be off putting to some of his customers with more…traditional values. By the looks of it, it was due to open any day. He hoped his new neighbours would be nicer than the last ones. He sighed and continued putting together an arrangement. He had too much work to do to worry about that right now.

Another few weeks passed and Ciri finished her exams. He was definitely grateful to have an extra pair of hands; his niece was marvellous. She’d been helping him out at the weekends while she was in school. He’d decided to take her on full time over the summer, he needed the help and she was saving for a car. He definitely appreciated having someone to talk to with Ciri’s sharp wit and general good humour. Most people didn’t realise they were related though, they couldn’t see past Ciri’s blond tresses and paler skin. However, if one observed her carefully, her mannerisms were similar to Jaskier’s and she had the same glint in her eye just before she made a smart-assed comment.

The tattoo shop next door had opened too, a steady stream of people going in and out. Jaskier has yet to meet his new neighbours though. Oh well, he presumes they are busy with their opening week or something like that. He’d bump into them eventually.

Jaskier had been doing a bit of tidying up one evening. Even though they technically weren’t closed because the door was still open, it was too late for any more customers so he had sent Ciri to go and get them both a coffee from the café down the road and popped in his headphones. He hummed and bopped his way around the floor, cleaning as he went. He was so distracted that he didn’t notice the man who’d come in until he walked straight into him.

Jaskier snapped out of his day dream to find a man who was basically a blonde, tattooed superman standing in his flower shop. His long hair was drawn back from his face in a bun, accentuating a jawline Jaskier could cut himself on and, holy shit! Did he have gold eyes?!? He thought this stranger looked fantastic. Oh shit, he was staring at Jaskier, he should probably snap out of it and say something.

* Bad Jaskier! * He internally chided himself. *No ogling! *

“Can I help you mister….?” Jaskier asked, clearing his throat and yanking out his headphones. He had to be professional.

“Geralt, Geralt Rivia. I own the tattoo shop next door.” The man, Geralt, offered his hand. Jaskier noted then that if he wanted to, this guy could probably break his entire hand. However, while firm, the handshake bore no ill intent. Good.

“Ah! My new neighbour! Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service, but I prefer Jaskier.” He gave a flourishing bow. When he said he’d bump into the neighbours eventually he hadn’t meant literally. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence this evening?” *Nothing like laying it on thick Jaskier* he thought to himself, inwardly cringing at his own eagerness.

~~ time rewind~~

Geralt was relieved the day that White Wolf Tattoos finally opened for business. The renovations and paper work of starting out on his own had caused him mountains of stress. But he had known it would all be worth it once he got up and running, and away from her.

Her being his ex-girlfriend and ex-boss Renfri. He knew from the start that mixing work and pleasure would be a bad idea but at the time he’d been too loved up to care. Everything had seemed fine at the start but she gradually showed her true colours, growing more manipulative and egotistical as their relationship progressed. It was stifling. He had no reprieve, even when they’d split, he’d see her at work every day. He couldn’t take it anymore.

That was how he came to leave Cursed Princess Tattoos to start up on his own. Well, not completely alone. He had Yennefer. Granted, she was his ex too, a long time ago, but they’d parted as friends and continued as such ever since. She had been his rock during the aftermath of his break up with Renfri. She let him live with her until he found his feet again, she’d become his business partner and done the lion’s share of the paper work while he nursed his broken heart. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

It had taken months but his shop was finally about to take off, he could feel it. A number of his old clients had followed him when he’d left Renfri’s shop, insistent that he was the only reason they ever went near the place. There were new clients too, as expected in a new part of town, that flocked to his shop. Thanks to Yennefer, social media pages had acted as some of his best advertising. He was finally making a real name for himself.

The first week had flown by. He and Yennefer had been run off their feet constantly but he assumed things would calm down after a while. Thankfully a short period of calm came on Saturday evening, his last appointment finished sooner than expected so he could take a break and do some exploring in the neighbourhood. Yennefer assured him she could hold the fort, allowing him to take a walk.

As he’d wandered out of the shop his gaze fell on the florist’s next door. A client he had consulted earlier that day had mentioned wanting a floral piece, a flower shop was a great place to find inspiration. At first, he’d thought they might be closed but the door was open. As he entered his eyes fell on the most gorgeous man sweeping the floor. His brown hair looked soft and artfully styled; a yellow flower perched behind his ear. His dark eyeliner only emphasised how bright the blue of his eyes was, matched by his stylish blue shirt and jeans. He was stunning. Geralt was smitten. He’d realised long ago that he liked men and women but he hadn’t come across a man that he found so attractive in years.

He snapped out of his daze and cleared his throat hoping to get the man’s attention. No response. He tried again and still nothing. He stepped forward to tap the man on the shoulder only for him to turn around and walk straight into Geralt’s chest.

They stood for a moment, both dazed and staring at each other before the florist broke their silence.

“Can I help you mister…?” He’d trailed off while he yanked is headphones out. *Ah,* thought Geralt, *that’s why he didn’t notice me come in.* Geralt immediately offered his hand.

“Geralt, Geralt Rivia. I own the tattoo shop next door.” He shook the florist’s hand firmly, a hint of a smile going unnoticed in his eyes. He generally kept a very stoic outward demeanour.

“Ah! My new neighbour! Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service, but I prefer Jaskier.”

So that was his name. Jaskier. He quirked an eyebrow at the flamboyant bow he received and resisted the urge to scoff. This was a lively one, he could tell. He practically radiated positive energy.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence this evening?” Jaskier asked him. Another eyebrow quirk, his presence was a pleasure then, was it?

~~~Back to presnt~~~

“I came for inspiration.” He stated simply. It was the truth. He watched Jaskier’s face split into a grin.

“Oh really?” the florist, “In that case, I can very much help you. How do you want me?” With that he struck a ridiculous pose and made what Geralt could only presume he thought to be a model face, which was more of an exaggerated pout. He could only scoff and roll his eyes at the antics, ignoring any possible subtext of the latter comment.

“For a floral tattoo.” He clarified, watching as Jaskier’s smile never faltered.

Okay, maybe Jaskier was being a little too flirtatious with the ‘how do you want me’ thing but in his defence, Geralt never even flinched, merely rolled his eyes and moved on. He’d take that as a good sign.

“Ah! That I can help with too.” He gestured grandly around the shop. “See anything you like the look of?” He knew he certainly did, watching Geralt like a hawk as he had a glance around the shop. That man was something to behold.

Geralt shrugged, and moved to browse around the shop. If he was honest, the thing he most liked the look of was the owner, not his wares. He pushed that thought from his head and thought about his client. What had they discussed before?

“Sunflowers.” He said aloud, “My client said something about sunflowers.” He cast his gaze over the room searching for a bright flash of yellow, but although there were plenty of yellow flowers, there seemed to be no sunflowers. He frowned.

Jaskier noticed the frown. “I’m sorry. They’re quite popular at this time of the year, we sold out some time this afternoon.” It was just then that a flash of brilliance struck his brain. “Although, we’ll be getting more in first thing on Monday morning, if you would like to come by then?” He suggested, trying to mask the eagerness in his voice at the opportunity to see the tattoo artist again. He hadn’t known the man for more than five minutes but he felt drawn to him, despite the intimidating aura he gave off. He wanted to get to know him.

Geralt gave a deep, non-committal “Hmm.” As he glanced around the shop once more, before returning his gaze to the florist. He considered it. His client definitely said sunflowers specifically. And he certainly would not be opposed to seeing Jaskier again. He almost shook his head physically as he rid himself of that thought. *Stop it, its far too soon after her to be thinking about someone in that way* he reasoned with himself. While yes, the man was attractive, he knew nothing about him. They might have absolutely nothing in common. He might be just another heartbreak waiting to happen. With his stupid grin, and his stupid hair and his stupid, pretty eyes. *Fuck. * He needed to get a grip. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to come back, with his customer’s best interests in mind, of course;

“Sure, I can find time.” That’s it Geralt, play it cool. He didn’t need to go rushing into anything. Besides it was basically just business and there’s no harm in being civil to the guy. Who knows, they might end up friends. Well, maybe acquaintances.

Jaskier tried to quell the traitorous swell of hope in his chest that he might have something resembling a chance with this guy. But, hey, if not maybe they could be friends at least. But for now, he must remain calm.

“Great, we open at nine.” He beamed. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Was that the time? “Also, we’re technically closed at the minute so….” He trailed off hoping Geralt would take the hint. While he would love to stand and chat all night, he had things to do.

Geralt answered with another “Hmm.”, this one more amused than the last. The smaller man certainly wasn’t behind the door. Normally most people would be more intimidated and would not try to get rid of his in such an unsubtle way.

“I’ll see you Monday then.” And with that he turned on his heel and left without another word.

“Nice meeting you!” Jaskier called after him with a wave. He was dumbfounded by the tattoo artist next door. He was so brooding and mysterious. A man of very few words and yet Jaskier was hanging off every “hmm”, let alone word. He needed to snap out of this. It was just a silly crush. And he could only imagine the stick he’d get if Ciri copped on. Speaking of, where was she with his iced latte? He needed to cool off.

[king-finnigan]

14. Bodyguard, and 63. Everyone mistakes them for a couple, geraskier.

Okay, not gonna lie, this one was a bit harder to write a drabble for (mainly because I was torn between canon compliance and modern AU)

***

It had all started when one slightly deranged fan had broken into his house. 

Really, no biggie, he had told himself, when the cops had arrived. Sure, it had been a bit scary, but really, all the girl needed was some psychological help. She meant no harm. So, he had decided not to press charges.

Which had gotten him into a lot of trouble with his manager and dad, who had yelled at him that oh my god, are you stupid, Julian? You could’ve gotten hurt! She won’t be the last, mark my words! 

The conversation (if you could call it that) had ended with his dad resolutely telling him he was going to hire his son a live-in bodyguard who would be by his side 24/7. Jaskier had protested, a lot, really, because what the hell is he supposed to do with a stranger in his house? Who even invented live-in bodyguards? What the hell was that all about?

His dad hadn’t taken no for an answer.

Which had led all the way to now. As Jaskier walks off the stage, he is immediately flanked by said bodyguard, Geralt. 

“Good show,” the guy mutters under his breath, one hand softly pushing against the small of Jaskier’s back, the other stretched out to ward off fans that are getting a little too close to be comfortable.

Jaskier scoffs, when they finally reach the private area of the concert hall. “Don’t lie to me, I know you hate my music.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a bad show.”

“Alright, alright,” he pushes himself away from Geralt, his back burning in the spot where his bodyguard’s hand had been mere seconds earlier, “that’s enough, you don’t need to guide me as if I’m some lady from the 40′s who’s about to faint, Christ, dude.”

Geralt shrugs. “Just doing my job.”

Jaskier sighs, as he pushes open the door to the side alley, where his driver is waiting for him. Of course, he knows it’s Geralt’s job to make sure he gets to where he needs to be safely, but he also can’t stand the way the guy always looms over him with his big hulking form in a way that makes blood rush to his face and other, much lower parts of his body.

He stops dead in his tracks, halfway between the door and the car. Shit. He’s bloody attracted to the guy. 

Great, way to keep it professional, Jaskier - he tells himself, as he shakes his head and sighs, opening the door of the car, sliding onto the back seat. Geralt, as always, sits next to him, the ride home quiet.

He looks out the window, watching as the lights of the city flit by, smiling as people bustle around the never empty streets of London. He spots the park where he and Geralt had once taken a stroll. His bodyguard had been forced to hold his hand as to make sure he stopped straying away from the path to give anyone who recognized him an autograph. He had also accidentally fallen into the fountain that same day, and Geralt had given him his jacket to make sure he didn’t catch a cold, and he had bought Jaskier icecream after to cheer him up.

He smiles at the memory.

Half a mile later, he sees the bar they had once gotten absolutely hammered in - at least Jaskier had. Geralt had just rolled his eyes, and had eventually picked Jaskier up, carrying him outside over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t give himself alcohol poisoning. He remembers how weirdly comfortable it had been, being carried by Geralt, and how he had whined like a puppy when his bodyguard had put him down.

When he sees the bakery they get bread at every morning, he knows they’ll be home soon.

Really, despite his initial resistance, it had been fairly easy getting used to Geralt’s presence in the house. The guy was a great cook, honestly, and though they had avoided each other at first, they had eventually fallen into a comfortable rhythm, eating all their meals together, watching a movie or tv show on the couch every night, chatting, laughing, getting to know each other.

And he would never admit it to his dad, Geralt, or anyone for that matter, but he’s not so sure he wants to live without Geralt anymore. 

Finally the car stops in front of his- their house- no, his house. There is not ‘their’, there is no ‘them’, it would be completely unprofessional, and Geralt is exactly the kind of guy who is anything but unprofessional. And of course, Jaskier is a bit of a wild child, he’s never going to settle down. 

So why does he feel a pang of disappointment shoot through him as he realizes he and Geralt could never be a thing? Since when does he even consider the possibility of them being a thing? Since when does he want that?

Oh god, he realizes, as he gets out of the car, walking to the front door, acutely aware of Geralt’s presence behind him, I’m in love.

Fuck.

He sighs again, opening the door, letting Geralt in before he closes and locks it again for the night. He honestly, more than anything, would love to take a shower to wash the sweat of the performance off, but his eye is caught by a bunch of magazines lying on the table next to the door. 

Huh. His dad must’ve delivered them earlier that day, judging by the folded note on top of the pile of magazines that reads: “Julian.” His dad is the only one who still calls him that.

He folds the note open, frowning at the single sentence that is written inside. “This needs to stop.”

He cocks his head, laying the note on the table again, picking up the first magazine. On the cover is a picture of him and Geralt, that day in the park. They’re holding hands, and Jaskier frowns at the giddy expression on his own face as he looks up at Geralt, who has a small smile on his face. “Pop sensation Jaskier finally settling down?” it reads next to the picture.

Wait. 

They think Jaskier and Geralt are a couple.

He shrugs, putting the magazine down again. What’s the harm of a few people spreading rumours around? Could be worse.

Except the next magazine has a picture fo him, from that night at the bar, hanging over Geralt’s shoulder, giving the camera a dopey grin. Then, right next to it, a picture of him leaning against Geralt’s arm, once again looking up at the man with an expression that could easily be interpreted as adoration. Once again, Geralt is smiling. 

“Night out with new boyfriend?” it says next to the pictures.

Oh, okay, maybe two magazines are spreading rumours, what’s the problem with that?

Except the pile is at least fifteen magazines thick and Jaskier has a growing suspicion that they all have the same sort of front page. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he looks through the pile. Every single cover is adorned with a picture of him and Geralt, walking hand in hand along the Thames at night, at the bakery a few blocks away picking out pastries together, of Jaskier leaning on Geralt’s shoulder, of them smiling and giving each other looks that could barely be interpreted as anything other than loving.

And each and every magazine thinks they are a couple.

Well, shit.

And what’s even worse is that he wants the rumours to be real. 

He looks up when he feels eyes boring into him, and spots Geralt, now only dressed in a shirt and sweatpants, leaning against the door to the living room, arms crossed. “What’s that?”

Jaskier smiles weakly, holding up one of the magazines for a second. “A lot of people seem to think we’re a couple.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

Jaskier cocks his head, putting the magazine back down on the pile. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

Geralt shrugs. “I thought you knew and didn’t mention it because you didn’t want to make it uncomfortable.”

“Well, you’re right.” Jaskier looks down at the pile, eyes caught on the way he adoringly stares at Geralt in the picture, and the way his bodyguard smiles back, “not about me knowing, but...” he shrugs “I don’t want to make this uncomfortable.”

“This?”

“Whatever...” he points between the two of them “Whatever it is we have going on.”

Geralt sighs, pushing away from the doorframe, running a hand over his face. “I don’t think I can be your bodyguard anymore.”

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and he doesn’t even try to fight to keep the hurt from his voice. “What? Why not?”

Geralt walks forward a few steps, stopping a foot or so from Jaskier. He sighs again, avoiding eyecontact, hand scratching at the short stubble on his jaw. “Because I’m in love with you. Which is highly unprofessional. That’s why.”

And, by the gods, Jaskier could kick and kiss this man at the same time. But, he decides his feet aren’t exactly a match against Geralt and he would probably only end up hurting himself if he were to kick the guy, so instead, he moves forward, cradling Geralt’s face in his hands, kissing him.

After a short moment of hesitation, Geralt kisses back.

He pulls back after a few seconds, Geralt’s face still in his hands. “Hmm,” he mutters, “guess I’ll have to find a new live-in bodyguard.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Geralt says, pulling him in for another kiss.

***

Send me two tropes from this list and I’ll write a short drabble for them!

[hostgalli19]

Once Royal Wolf - Chapter 1: The Perils of Mishandling Superheated Flour

Story Summary: Vesemir had been alive for a long time, he purposefully tried to forget his past. His life before being picked up by Barmin when he was 8 years old and his easy-going and promiscuous ways after start on The Path were times he tried to bury for various reasons.

With the recent changes in Kaer Morhen brought about by Geralt becoming Warlord of the North, he had been focusing on the present and the improvement of the Witchers within the Keep.

With the upcoming Progress to review the Wolf lands and building diplomatic ties having brought up the uncomfortable topic of Rivia. A place he had not been to for centuries.

He hadn’t counted on Ciri digging into his hesitancy and accidentally pulling someone from the past and into Kaer Morhen. Vesemir now has no choice but to face his past and deal with the person he has longed to see for so long.

Chapter Summary: There are downsides to not handling flour correctly

Notes: This story was inspired by my lovely Beta and co-author Randi and I chatting about Vesemir's past and about the things he got up to when he was younger.

This is the original prompt:

Randi: so even though he slept around in his youth and couldn't have gotten women pregnant everyone who kind of looks like him gets accused of being his because his brother had mistresses and bastard children

Me: It would be even better if they were identical with the only difference being a slight difference in eye colour

Randi: In my head the twins were identical

It sort of snowballed from there.

30/08/21: I finally decided to post this story on here. I have been meaning to but haven't gotten around to it until now.

Length: 3,651 words (7 pages)

Link to Ao3:

Date: 05/06/21 - 06/06/21 Time: 1:55 pm - 1:56 am

Today wasn't going well for Vesemir. He had a low-grade headache for the better part of the day that was very quickly turning into a migraine. It was originally caused by a lack of sleep and a series of strange dreams that didn’t quite feel like dreams.

He couldn’t fully remember them once he had woken. Remembering only bits and pieces instead.

Every time he closed his eyes he would see the inside of an expensive carriage. He decided to give up at that point. He wasn’t getting back to sleep. The migraine had gotten worse as the day progressed, small things that usually wouldn’t bother him were irritating him more than usual.

A young pup who had been struggling with the same flaw in his sword forms despite constant correction and hard work. The loud noises of his fellow Witchers as they went about their own training.

The Cranes had started a section on bomb-making with their chicks which resulted in somewhat frequent explosions that felt like they were rattling his skull.

The hustle and bustle of the various servants and inhabitants of Kaer Morhen as they prepared the Keep for the start of the Progress set to begin in a few weeks once the passes and The Killer had fully thawed out. All added to the relentless pounding in his head.

His back and knees were aching due to the lingering cold of the early Spring weather.

He sat down in the office above the Kitchen, resting his tired body and began to work on the mound of paperwork that went with ensuring newly medallion owning Witchers would have what they needed for their first years on the Path and reorganizing pack groups to include rookie Witchers among the Veterans.

Just as he had started to really make a dent, and his headache had started to go away, the rest of the council appeared at his door, bringing their own issues and needs. They still needed to work out who was going with Geralt, Ciri, Eskel, Jaskier and Yennefer on the Progress.

In no time, he was entrenched in discussing and mediating between the various parties and his headache was back with a vengeance. Jan needed input on the number of staff and the Witchers to remain in Kaer Morhen so he could meet the needs of those that remained while everyone was on the Path with the Progress.

At the same time, the same information would be needed to calculate the supplies needed for the Progress.

Livi needed to know how much coin would be needed for each person as well as who exactly would be staying and who would be going so no one would run out of coin and the staff would be where they were most needed.

In addition, she needed to know how often and where the Progress would stop so she could make plans to coordinate with sympathetic Lords and Ladies to ensure the Progress would be supplied as well as giving hosts warning as to when they could expect the Progress to enter their lands.

This would ensure the Hosts were at their best to meet their current and future leaders. Mouse also needed this information so she could place her spies and gather intelligence of the state of the Wolf Lands and the Kingdoms beyond.

Jaskier and Yennefer were trying to convince Geralt that stops outside the Wolf Lands would be equally important to Ciri’s future leadership and diplomatic efforts.

“She needs to be seen, Geralt. Not only as your Heir but a future leader of her people.” Yennefer insisted. Geralt glared at her, not willing to budge, not caring that he was being stubborn. He wasn't going to put his daughter in danger.

“Taking her outside our lands puts her at risk and potentially exposes her to the ongoing tensions and threats in the South. Nilfgaard is pushing towards Sodden and threatening to invade the North.” Geralt snapped.

“It’s bad enough I agreed to this endless nightmare of parties and diplomacy within our own lands; as you have repeatedly insisted it will help us get a better grip on the state of the people and their needs.

In addition, it will help unify the various countries and peoples but we don’t need to be going to other sovereign countries. That is just asking for trouble”

“You already agreed to Aedirn, Wolf” Eskel stated before Yennefer could say anything else.

“That was out of necessity. The only way to keep somewhat peaceful relations with Demavend,” Geralt glanced at Yen and Jaskier.

“As everyone has pointed out, has been to make a diplomatic visit with myself and Ciri present in his capital. I don’t have to like it, but I can tolerate it. However, I draw the line at Aedern.”

“But if we visit the capital of Aedern and don’t don’t go visit Lyria and Rivia, it will be a slap in the face for Queen Maev who has always been supportive of Witchers,” Jaskier added, staring at his husband with a raised eyebrow.

Vesemir’s headache was approaching full-on migraine territory. He paled slightly when Jaskier mentioned Rivia, not enough to be immediately noticeable.

Feeling his heart rate pick up, he thought for sure the other Witchers in the room could hear and scent his distress but so far it had gone unnoticed save for the very observant silent shadow of Ciri.

He smiled wanly at Ciri, hoping it would distract her from his distress.

Vesemir wasn’t… looking forward to visiting Rivia. It had been a long time since he had stepped foot in those lands. He left for good reason and tried to leave the past behind him.

The Progress would be leaving in a few weeks and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, let alone a trip to the place of his birth.

If improving relations between their neighbour's and aid abroad for Witchers was the benefit and mission of this trip then he wouldn’t stop it.

However, it was something he was hoping to avoid himself as he hadn’t been home in 300 years.

“Vesemir what’s the matter?” Ciri asked. She had indeed noticed how distracted Vesemir had become since he had heard they would be stopped in Rivia for several days.

The others paused in their debate when they heard Ciri’s question. Now aware of Vesemir’s distress, Jaskier, Yen and Eskel became equally concerned.

Vesemir was never this distracted during council meetings and had been fine until this point as far as they could tell.

“Hmm… ah, just concerned as Rivia is very close to Sodden and the trouble with Nilfgaard potentially preparing to invade is all,” Vesemir replied, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice and scent.

He knew there was a very high chance they wouldn’t believe him. It was a valid concern but not the reason he was actually nervous.

He tried not to wince when he saw the looks the rest of the council were giving him.

“Vesemir, the Mahakam Mountains are to the west and the Desert to the South of Rivia. Poor conditions for the troops of Nilfgaard to march through and cause problems for us. Now, what are you actually worried about?” Eskel questioned, staring at his mentor. It was a very poor lie and the man clearly knew it.

Vesemir sighed, he looked like he was about to say something when there was a loud explosion from below, the force was enough to make the floor shake.

Vesemir grabbed his wine goblet and inkpot before wine and ink could end up on his paperwork, that was a mess he didn’t want to have to clean up.

“What the hell? The Cranes know better than to practice inside or near the Keep itself!” Vesemir snapped, getting up, using the explosion as a distraction from the inquiry he was suddenly facing.

“I’m going to have words with Einri and Byrtel.” He marched towards the door, having to back away when the door suddenly opened.

Letho stalked into the room dragging the completely flour-covered Crane Trainees Konrad and Rafal followed by a somewhat messier than usual Julita.

The three Witchers were coated from head to toe in flour. Letho’s scowl showed he was clearly not pleased with the two boys. Julita looked like she wanted to strangle Konrad and Rafal as well but was also struggling to hold back laughter at the same time.

Seeing the scowl on not only Letho’s face but Vesemir’s as well, the boys immediately tried to speak in their defence, only succeeding in talking over each other.

“We didn’t mean for it to go off in the kitchen. Please don’t punish us” Rafal pleaded.

“We meant to take it outside. I don’t understand why it went off in the kitchen,” Konrad added at the same time.

“Shut up” Letho growled glaring down at the two trainees. The boys' mouths quickly snapped closed. He had just stepped foot into the kitchen on his way to the hot springs to get a quick bite to eat and to see how Julita’s newest creation was coming along.

He had wanted to see if she had figured out the solution yet when Konrad and Rafal started to drag the very clearly overfilled bag of flour from the pantry and across the kitchen.

They obviously weren’t going as quickly as they would have liked. Julita had been on the way to the door to greet him when the bag of flour exploded from the friction.

Letho’s quick reflexes were the only reason he managed to get between Julita and the fireball caused by the superheated flour.

“What the hell happened?” Jan demanded, staring at the flour-covered trainees. They were burned in a few places and appeared to be bleeding a little from where their skin had cracked open from the heat of the explosion.

Letho was also a little singed but Julita, thankfully, looked perfectly fine though clearly very amused by how scared the two trainees were of her Uncle.

“These two idiots were dragging an overfilled sack of flour through the kitchen and it blew up. The flour somehow caught on fire. You're very lucky no one else was injured given the size of the fireball,” Letho growled in answer for the boys, now cowering not only from Letho’s anger but a very stern Jan as well.

Every Witcher, fully trained or not, knew to never mess with the human staff whether directly or indirectly. Just then, two older Cranes burst through the open door of Vesemir’s now very crowded office.

“Is everyone alright?” They immediately queried.

“We heard the explosion near the kitchens and just wanted to make sure everyone was unharmed.

“Ah, Einri, Byrtel so nice you could join us,” Letho growled when the two Cranes appeared. They looked a little concerned when they saw the state of the two boys and paled slightly at Letho’s words. Bad things happened when Letho was pissed.

“What on earth were you two doing, overfilling and dragging 50lbs of flour across the kitchen?” Byrtel questioned. He and Einri had told the boys to fill two five-pound containers they had been given with flour. Using what would commonly be on hand, they had to find a way to create bombs just using flour, cloth and string soaked in oil as these were items they would often have on the Path.

“This, boys, is why we told you to be careful in the kitchen and exactly why you shouldn’t overfill the bags of flour. The friction from the bag being dragged across the stone floor and it being pressurized from being overfilled caused it to explode.

The force of the explosion was likely the cause of the fireball. We’ve talked about the importance of keeping substances under pressure from exploding.

Next time pick the bag up,” Byrtel explained, not once taking his eyes off Letho who looked like he was contemplating strangling not only him but any Crane who stepped across his path.

While it was true Letho had mellowed out a little since he had rescued Julita he was still dangerous. Every Witcher and Human in Kaer Morhen knew Letho was very protective of his niece.

Anyone who hurt Julita had to face Letho and if they did hurt her they knew what was going to happen to them once Letho found out.

With his pounding migraine and the inquisition he was surely going to face from the Council for his previous distress prior, Vesemir decided to use this argument as a distraction and beat a hasty retreat from the room.

Now would be the perfect time to head to his quarters, make the room as dark as possible and lay down to wait for his migraine to go away.

He might even be able to catch up on the sleep he had missed the night before. Surely his anxiety around visiting Rivia was an overreaction to not getting enough sleep.

300 years was a long time and nothing was the same as it once was. Right?

End Note: Yes, I know this isn't the entire chapter. This chapter is almost 7 pages long. If you would like to read the rest of the chapter you can find it on Ao3 via the link at the top of the post.

[onthepageoftears]

Hold Them Closer ~ Ch.12 [Jaskier x assassin!reader] || Witcher

A/N: okay I lied about there being two chapters left, now after this one there are ACTUALLY two chapters left lol (well, one and an epilogue). it's seriously going to be so weird not writing this y/n x jaskier story ahhhh okay im just not gonna think about it lol enjoy!

Your kind words and reviews mean a lot to me, so please don’t afraid to leave a message/comment!

Summary: Reverting to your old ways never brings peace.

Warnings: language? angst, self deprecation, conflicted reader, lots of gore, violence, mentions of death/killing/blood, again lots of gore so read at your own risk!

Words: 2,713 (longer chapter you’re welcome hehe)

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

Your heart was stuck in your throat as your mother pulled away from Theo. Her daughter. Your mother’s daughter. Her other child.

“Oh, thank the gods.” She said, patting down Theo’s hair where she had just kissed it. Your stomach dropped — that used to be you. The child in your mother’s grasp used to be you. Now, it was Theo. Your…sister?

“Sorry, Mom.” Theo’s voice was sheepish, strained. It wasn’t like you had ever heard her — not the usual condescending or sarcastic tone she carried. But you supposed everyone acted differently around their mothers.

Theo’s mother — your mother — clicked her tongue. “If you ever do that again…"

The first words you spoke weren’t the ones you expected. “Theo did well. She’s a fighter.”

Your mother’s eyes cast over you, absent of any flicker of recognition. “That’s what I’m worried about.” She smiled at you, but in a polite way. Your stomach churned as she reached into the front of her apron. “Well, here. Your reward.”

She stepped toward you, her relief-filled smile not the one you were hoping for. You stared at her for a moment too long, making her frown. After clearing your throat, you shook your head.

“We can’t take that,” you said, almost surprising yourself.

Your mother frowned, pushing the pouch out again. “You must. You helped my daughter. I can’t let that go unrewarded.”

You blinked, taking a sharp breath in. Part of you felt distant from the conversation as if you were watching it from the outside, like a memory, or a dream — or a nightmare.

Again, you cleared your throat, trying with every muscle in your body to keep your composure. “Your daughter didn’t need any of our help, ma’am. Like I said, she’s a fighter.”

Your mother tilted her head, a pleased smile finding its way on her face before she nodded, “I appreciate that.” She looked at you a second longer before turning around, shoving the pouch back in her apron as she made her way behind the counter. It was then that you noticed this wasn’t any shop — it was a bakery. As your stomach churned once more, your mother spoke, “Here. At least take some food with you. I can only imagine how hungry you must be.”

This time, you let Geralt step forward, his eyes casting over you for a moment before taking the loaf of bread from your mother’s hands. Jaskier thanked her gently, nodding to her and Theo and taking your arm in his hand. You kept your eyes locked on her, only moving them when Jaskier led you out the door.

As soon as the fresh air hit your face, you felt like maybe you could finally breathe. That feeling wasn’t enough; you blinked at the brightness around you, taking very shallow breaths as Jaskier led you further away from your mother’s shop.

Geralt walked ahead, grunting about meeting you and Jaskier at the inn. His eyes stopped on you before leaving, but you were too focused on the harshness of your breaths.

Jaskier stopped in front of you, his eyes flitting over your face. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a wraith.” You flicked your eyes to him, and as if he were a mind reader, his jaw dropped. “No— that’s not—“

You cut him off, casting your eyes on the ground, “My mother. Yes. That’s her.”

Jaskier stuttered, his head shaking in confusion, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Julian—“ You looked at him, your eyes full of regret. “I can’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“I can’t…I just can’t. I can’t face her, I can’t—“

“Alright, hey — hey, it’s okay.” You let him engulf you in his arms, his comforting scent filling the space around you.

“She has another kid,” you mumbled into his chest, eyes still open despite their sudden heaviness.

Jaskier sighed, his chin resting on your head. “She does.”

—

“How do you feel today?”

You turned your head from the window, letting your eyes rest on Jaskier. He must’ve been standing there for a while without you noticing, as he was now leaning against one of the chairs in your shared room.

In response to his question, you shrugged.

It had been nearly two days since you came back with Theo — two days since you found your mother. In two days, you could have caught up with her, cried with her, told her the countless stories you had under your belt. Instead, you were cooped up in your room at the local inn, barely saying a word to anyone. You were thinking, quite a lot, about how you were going to build up the courage to reveal your identity.

Jaskier sighed, looking to the quarter loaf of bread left idle on the table. “You haven’t eaten?”

You turned back to the window, silently shaking your head. You didn’t even have to answer him — your mother baked that bread, and one taste would have you…well, you didn’t know what you would do. You didn’t want to find out.

“Love,” Jaskier said, his voice gentle as he walked up behind you, placing a hand on your waist. “You have to talk to her. We won’t leave here until you do.”

You frowned, eyes still focusing on nothing in particular.

Jaskier continued, “I can go with you. We can talk to her together if you want.” At your silence, he kissed your shoulder, “I’ll be around. Let me know if you need me.”

You didn’t watch as he left.

—

It was the early afternoon when you found yourself standing in front of your mother’s shop. Eyes trained on the shop door, you frowned. You had just gone out for a walk to try and clear your head from its constant whirring, but you ended up here. It wasn’t exactly a helpful place to stop — in fact, it was the exact opposite. Maybe your brain was trying to subconsciously force you to talk with your mother, to just get it over with. And maybe you should have.

Standing in front of the shop doors, you thought of what was happening inside. Your mother — her hair now greyed but still just as luscious as you remembered it — setting up the pastries of the day, finally owning the shop she had always dreamed about. Her favorite recipes now perfected, welcoming regulars into the shop doors every day. Someone helps her man the counter on especially busy days, sometimes even helping her bake — except, that person, that child helping your mother — it’s not you. It’s Theo. Theo is the one with your mother. Theo is the one who has been with your mother for the past sixteen or so years.

You feel yourself step back from the shop, a frown forming on your face. While your mother and her daughter have been living in Velen, working in their small shop — you were a trained killer. You killed countless innocent people, sliced dozens of throats, stabbed even more hearts. The blood on your hands, the guilt on your back…how could you ever think your mother would want to know you again? You weren’t the child she left behind. You were no different than Rauf, no different than those endregas you slashed through the other day.

You were a cold-blooded killer. An assassin. A monster.

Your breath was shaky as you walked backward away from the shop. You didn’t belong here, or anywhere of the sort. You belonged in a battle, in the way of a dozen blades. You were meant to kill — built to kill — so that was what you would do.

Your feet stomped their way over to the nearest notice board. No thoughts echoed in your mind as you searched the loose parchments, eyes searching for anything to get your hands dirty. They landed on big letters — BANDITS. You skimmed the page, the location being the only thing you needed. Without thinking, you unsheathed one of the knives from your boot and stabbed it into the notice board, on the very job you were about to fulfill. You would get your knife back when you were done, and only then. You didn’t even care for the money — you just wanted to do what you were meant to do.

Kill.

—

The ride to the bandit’s hideout was nothing for you and Buttercup. You practically hopped off her back, barely stopping long enough to tie her to a nearby tree. Without an ounce of hesitation, you slid your sword from its sheath and made your way down the narrow pathway and into the depths of the forest.

It was just barely getting dark, the sunset casting a warm glow over the horizon. You thought of Jaskier for a moment, but just a moment, as you shook the thought away immediately. He was another person who you didn’t deserve, not after all you’ve done. It didn’t matter if you loved him, or if he loved you — love wasn’t enough. It never was.

You didn’t even bother sneaking down the pathway — leaves crunched under your feet, your sword held tightly in your hands. The sound of laughter echoed in the forest just as you caught sight of smoke from a fire. You grit your teeth, eyes narrowing as you walked faster towards the sound of the bandits.

They had no clue what was about to happen to them, and that made you shiver.

As you neared the small camp, you counted the heads you could see: five. Your shoulders nearly dropped from disappointment. You wanted a real challenge.

Better than nothing, you thought as you rolled your neck in a circle, stretching your muscles casually as one of the bandits finally noticed you.

“Hey! Who the fuck are you?”

You smiled as the bandits stood from their tree stumps, grabbing their weapons and immediately pointing them towards you.

Swinging your sword in your hand, you looked one of them in the eyes, “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

Without waiting for a response, you let out a battle cry, charging the nearest bandit with your sword held high. He blocked your sword with his mace, pushing it so you stumbled backward. One of the other bandits jumped towards you in your state, slicing into the side of your stomach. You grit your teeth, glaring at the man who just cut you.

“You’ll regret that,” you said, and immediately lunged your sword into his leg. He screamed as you removed your sword; you quickly brought it up again and sliced it into his stomach this time. He fell to the ground, his screams fueling your adrenaline as you looked up at the rest of the bandits. They seemed to be in shock for a moment before their wide-open mouths became gritted in anger.

“Get the fucker!” One yelled, making three of the others rush towards you. You immediately dropped down, causing all of them to tumble over your body. While they were on the ground, you unsheathed a knife, throwing it towards the bandit on the opposite side of the fire. The knife lodged right into his throat, blood immediately squirting out from the wound.

By then, the other three bandits had gotten up, one of them slamming you in the back with a bludgeon. You yelled out, hands catching your body on the ground beneath you. You felt another blow, this time knocking the breath out of you and forcing your face down into the dirt.

“I’m gonna enjoy this one,” one of them sneered as he dragged his bludgeon on the ground. You cursed, just now realizing your sword was no longer in your hand. “Looking for this?” The sneering bandit asked, holding your sword up tauntingly.

You looked up, bringing your own face into a sneer. Within a second, you unsheathed another knife and reached up to stab the bandit in the gut: once, twice, three times before one of the others grabbed the back of your collar and threw you in the opposite direction.

You coughed after you hit the ground, trying to use one of your arms to lift yourself up. Before you could, the bandit with the mace kicked you in the stomach — hard. You blinked through the pain, a satisfied smile filling your features at the sight of the sneering bandit writhing in pain on the ground.

“You think this is funny?” The mace bandit kicked you again in the stomach, then placed his foot on your wrist. You yelled in pain as he reached down and took your knife, throwing it into the growing darkness. “What are you gonna do now, huh?”

For a moment, you just blinked. In hindsight, you were pretty much screwed. Only one knife left, your sword a few feet away. But instead of panicking, you laughed.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” The other live bandit said, who was now standing up from the dead sneering bandit’s body.

“This.” You spoke, before clamping your teeth down on the mace bandit’s ankle.

He screamed out, immediately trying to slam your side with his mace. Before he could, you rolled out of the way, sitting up just as his mace made contact with the ground. In one swift movement, you grabbed his wrist and kicked it with as much force as you could. The mace fell to the ground as he cradled his now broken wrist, giving you the perfect opportunity to pick it up and slam it into the side of his head.

You didn’t bother trying to take the mace out of the bandit’s head — instead, you stood up slowly, keeping eye contact with the last bandit. He shook in his spot, holding his small sword towards you, gulping as you walked over to him. His eyes widened as you grabbed his wrist, sliding the sword from his grasp. For a second, the fear in his eyes made you stop. But then, you shook the feeling in the pit of your stomach away, throwing his sword to the side and bringing your knee up straight into his groin. He fell to his knees in front of you, a groan escaping his lips. As he struggled in his spot, you stepped behind him, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Then, after a second of contemplation, you unsheathed the last knife from your boot and grabbed the last bandit’s chin, lifting it up so you could slide your knife across his neck.

His choked breaths echoed in the growing darkness, the sound making you wince. For the first time in a while, you thought of your old friend.

The memories flooded you like the blood that spilled from the bandit’s throat — for a moment, instead of a nasty bandit, you saw Joneta. You saw her confused eyes after you slit her throat, the blood coating your hands as you tried to seal the wound.

“I told you to stop.” You said, falling to your knees, eyes brimming with tears as you relived the memory. Joneta looked back at you, her eyes glazing over just as they had not long ago.

As you blinked through the tears, Joneta's face turned back into that of the bandit. You slumped the bandit’s body to the side, a sob escaping your throat. Your hands were covered in blood, as they were that day — as they were so many other days, from so many other people. You hadn’t just killed a dear friend, you hadn’t just killed the only family you really knew — you killed so many people. So many innocents. How many more? How many more were you going to kill? How could you ever be the person you wanted to be — how could you be with Jaskier, a charismatic, friendly bard? How could you be with someone not as evil as you? As monstrous as you?

Your eyes welled with tears as you stared down at the blood coating your skin, your mouth wide open as you tried to breathe. Instead, loud sobs escaped your throat, seemingly echoing in the darkness falling over you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. So you sat there, in the middle of the bandit’s camp, their bodies littered around you to remind you of all the death you were the cause of.

———————————————————————————————————

:(((( let me know your thoughts!

[crowleyellestair]

I know this is a tad random but I was watching gbbo and it dawned on me...has geralt ever had a birthday cake, like one made for him? I assume he’s celebrated his birthday before but it is suddenly of the upmost importance to me that our good boy gets to have a birthday party filled with love and thanks, just for him

AN/// I love this, and got carried away. Didn’t know how long you wanted it, but this is a longer thing because you are right. The man deserves a cake.

  “How did you know?”

“Well, I have a knack for remembering important dates, and your birthday is one of the most important of all. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she leaned down, giving a wink. Ciri threw her arms around the woman in front of her, a smile clear on the girl’s face. Ashen hair was sticking in every direction from the training she had been going through with the witcher, and her breath was still catching up with her. Sweat rubbed off from her forehead onto the woman’s blouse as she tightened the hug, but Y/n couldn’t be bothered as the hug meant more to her than a simple shirt. She returned the hug, her hand trying to smooth the wild mane.

“Excuse me, but I think I am in need of a hug too. After all, I was the one to make the cake.” The bards voice was dripping with sarcasm, but he had been the one to make the pastry. Luckily for the two of them, it was something he learned by spending his childhood with the cooks of his family’s estate. It wasn’t a big thing, as he had to convince the town’s tavern to let him borrow their kitchen. It was big enough to let Ciri have her fill of lemon cake with a simple vanilla frosting the two had made while her lover and his child were training.

Ciri let her go, jogging into the bard’s open arms, but she had to wait as he paused her to take off his doublet. She rolled her eyes, looking to Y/n who smiled and shrugged. Once the doublet was neatly folded and placed on the rock he had been perched on, he dramatically opened his arms again. She pushed into him, the hug being too heartwarming, even for the bard’s standards. Ciri pulled away for a moment, looking between him and the cake.

“Do I have to eat the flowers too?” That made the bard blush and huff as Y/n laughed. She had questioned the garnish when he placed it there in the first place, but he said it needed to look perfect. Gentians covered the top, the color being as close as possible Jaskier could get to Cintran blue. A dandelion had also made its way onto the cake, but his explanation for it was that it tied in with the lemon flavor, but the woman hadn’t believed that that was his whole motive.

Geralt had simply been an onlooker of the scene, not having been in on the plan. Guilt had formed in his chest as he hadn’t realized it was her birthday, but he refused to show it. Though, it grew worse once the girl pranced up to him, fork in hand.

“What to try it?” Her emerald eyes shined in the light that pierced through the canopy of leaves above them. He kneeled down, a ghost of a smile appearing to her.  His hand fell onto her shoulder, thumb making minute movements.

“It’s your cake, you should have all of it.” His eyes darted to the bard who was still chewing the piece he had accepted. His golden gaze shown over her again, and his tone softened. “Happy birthday.” Ciri smiled, popping the small bite of cake into her mouth before her arms draped over his broad shoulders.

The group moved in tandem as every other night, setting up for bed after the girl had finished her cake. Geralt had been fishing through his travel back when Y/n popped up next to him, shoving a small leaf wrapped item into his hand.

“I remember when you got this for her, but noticed you never gave it. I thought this would be a better time than ever.” He nodded, grabbing the small charm he had seen weeks ago. It practically called to him, whispering the  joy she would have from the tiny lion charm. He had put a chain on it, but it was meant to wrap around her dagger that she had, so she could always have a reminder of her blood family despite what had happened.

He felt Y/n’s hands on his shoulders as she leaned in to press her temple to his. He leaned into it, apart of his guilt subsiding.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you, but I know you don’t like keeping things hidden in general, let alone keeping things from Ciri. Even if it is a birthday surprise.” Geralt nodded again, humming while turning his head. His nose brushed her cheek in a small show of affection. The witcher was still coming around the bend when it came to normal sprouts of affection as he had never really received or gave it. But it was true that he didn’t like keeping things from his cub, despite it being for her benefit.

The witcher had taken his cub to a secluded part of the wood, likely the same place they were practicing in earlier. Y/n plopped herself by the bard, pushing his shoulder with hers.

“So, you’ve been with him for decades. When’s Geralt’s birthday?” The bard raised his brow to the woman next to him, feigning offence.

“You aren’t going to ask when my birthday is?” She rolled her eyes, looking up to the darkened sky.

“It was eighty….nine? Eighty-nine days ago, but I know you had a large celebration at the Rosemary.” He laughed, looking to the sky as well. It seemed for a moment that he got lost in a memory that flooded his mind at the mention of the night before Y/n shoved him again. His expression fell as he realized,

“I don’t think he has one. You know he doesn’t like to think of life before the trials, and I doubt he would find his change an exciting ‘re-birth’.” Y/n nodded, standing to go back to her bag. She fished out a journal, and sat back down, holding a gentian before pressing it into a blank page. As she put pressure onto it, she flipped through the pages, looking over all of the items and dates on each. She kept track of important memories by putting items into the book, and writing the dates over them to be able to revisit them anytime she needed to. One specific page jumped out. There wasn’t much except for a stain from Geralt’s swallow that had spilled there. That was the day that they had officially started their journey together. They hadn’t started their weird form of courting till months later, but they wouldn’t have been where they were unless they had met that day.

“Jaskier, how far away is this from today?”

---

 “Just keep him away! It’s not as hard as you’re making it seem.” The bard rolled his eyes, only his head popping into the room.

“He hates banquets, doesn’t want to leave Ciri and wants to spend his free time with you. It is hard!” Their whispered argument came to a halt when Jaskier heard the creaky steps of the inn grow louder. He was right in being cautious because Ciri hurdled through the door before Geralt followed silently. Jaskier fully opened the door for the witcher, who looked at the girl bounce on the bed after throwing herself onto it. His hands rested on Y/n’s waist, his forehead resting against hers.

“You are sure you’ll be alright?” She smiled, tilting up to brush her nose against his in a soft eskimo kiss.

“I wouldn’t let you leave if I wasn’t. And besides, it’s only a handful of hours.” He nodded against her, but pushed away to check on his cub before he and Jaskier left for a banquet the bard was performing in that night. It was a very lucky happenstance, but Y/n was still worried about her plan. If the two came back too early, or something went wrong on their end, the night could be ruined. Her biggest fear was his reaction.

Ciri had explained how the men of Kaer Morhen did celebrate birthdays, but it wasn’t big. It was a bigger dinner than most nights, along with more ale, and was more focused on living another year. She said Vesemir changed the day every year, as he explained to her, because the date didn’t matter. It was more of a celebration, despite them not really even acknowledging the reason behind the celebration. Y/n didn’t want to go against their makeshift birthday, but it wasn’t a day just for Geralt- it was for everyone there. And from what the cub had said, it wasn’t anything really special anyways. Despite how big or small it was though, it was with his family, and she didn’t want to undermine it. The wolf might not want to change celebrating the day, though Y/n didn’t want him to not celebrate in winter either.

Beside the anxiety, she was excited. The two were only supposed to be gone for two hours, which left the girls with a lot to do. Y/n had saved up enough to get the biggest room in the inn for her and the witcher. Ciri had agreed to room with the bard for the night, and was excited to help. She had free reign over Jaskier’s bath bag, and asking for extra candles from the innkeeper using her large doe eyes. The large room had a smaller one off of it that held a tub, and tried to make it as relaxing as possible.

While the cub went on a rampage of candles and decorations in the bathroom, Y/n was fusing in the kitchen. She had been trying to get Geralt to eat different types of cake over the previous three weeks to try and figure out what his favorite was. Unfamiliar textures and strong flavors had been rejected, and pushed in front of her to eat. It didn’t help too much, but she had an idea by asking around for dumbed down fruit jams. She was lucky again to take care of an older woman towns away who had given her a raspberry jam that hadn’t had much of the favor or scent. Her age apparently changed her taste buds, and tastes too strong became sour to her. And out of all the different types of cake, it seemed the only one she might be able to pull of was a simple sponge cake.

The baking process took longer than she thought, especially since she had to start over after over whipping the eggs. Ciri’s commentary certainly didn’t help her nerves, when she popped down to see if she could decorate the desert. The cake seemed darker on the bottom than it should be, and it isn’t level by any means. She cut through the middle to put the jam in, but afterwards she noticed the slight slant to it. Jaskier had given her the frosting recipe, but she tried to use less sugar. In doing so, it made it runny, but it covered up the filling line and that’s what mattered. Ciri tried her best to create a wolf out of berries they had picked up in town, but it seemed more like a cat. Atleast it had resembled something and that, again, is what mattered.

Y/n brought the cake up, as well as ordered water and a smaller plate of the honey ham that the tavern was selling that night. It was likely the man had eaten when he was at the party, but she couldn’t be sure. Ciri sat by the window, keeping watch for the boys as Y/n lit all of the candles. It was only minutes after she had finished when Ciri practically bounced over to hide behind the door. Y/n stood on the other side, waiting for the door to open. Jaskier made a grand entrance, with Geralt grumbling behind him.

“This isn’t your room bard.” The witcher fully stepped through the door, looking around in confusion before Ciri pounced, using the chair next to the door to get leverage and jupm onto his back.

“Happy birthday, Geralt!” The man turned to look at Y/n questioningly as she leaned next to the door. Jaskier mirrored the child’s statement and started strumming a birthday tune. Ciri let go to run to her bag, grabbing the gift she had made. It wasn’t much, but she had made a small saddle patch as embroidery was something she had to master by ten.

The witcher kneeled down as he always did with Ciri, as she gave him the gift. He pulled her in for a long hug, and she was surprised that Ciri hadn’t pulled away. Jaskier was busy tilting his head at the leaning cake. Eventually the white haired man let her go, and joined Jaskier looking at the cake. Y/n felt her heart pound in her chest. It was well known by everyone that she was not the chef of the group, let alone baker. Jaskier gave her a look, trying to put a smile up.

“It looks…like cake.” Y/n felt a flush spread, looking to Geralt. He simply stared at the cake, but she could see the cogs turning.

“Well…well, it’s not for you. Geralt, darling, happy birthday. It’s supposed to be a raspberry sponge cake, but I guess it could also be poison. If you don’t like it, I won’t take offense. The raspberry is toned down, and the amount of cake should balance it even more.” Her eyes danced everywhere but the man she spoke to. “Oh! And a special bath is ready for you, whenever you want it.” Geralt turned to walk into the bathroom, and Jaskier moved to take Ciri back to their room.

Geralt stood and stared once more for a long moment before turning to look to Y/n, who still didn’t look at him. Her hands were fiddling with each other, and her eyes planted themselves with looking to her feet.

“I, uh, know you already celebrate kind of, but I thought… You deserve more. Way more than this, even, but I thought this was good too for being on the road. The cake is definitely questionable, so I do warn you.” Geralt had closed the few paces between them before his arms wrapped around her. Y/n quickly melted into the tight hold, her own arms wrapping back. He pulled back before leaning down, kissing her. It was soft for the force he put behind it while landing his lips against hers. When she pulled away, she looked at him, searching. A disbelieving smile appeared, and she grinned back.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to.” She rolled her eyes, giving her arms a squeeze.

“Actually, I think I did.” Y/n let go, walking to the cake, but just stared before trying to cut in. She turned, handing him the fork with a nice bite, and he happily accepted. Her heart stopped, and waited with belated breath to wait for his verdict. Geralt smiled and nodded, handing the fork back.

“It’s great.”

“You can say it’s bad-.”

“My cake, my verdict.” Y/n gave a warry look, but nodded regardless.

“Just don’t eat the bottom. It seemed like it could be burned.” Geralt leaned over her, reaching and jabbing the fork into the sponge. He raised the bite to her lips, and she looked to him. “It’s yours.”

“Exactly. I want you to have some.” She sighed, letting the fork pass her lips, and was happily surprised by the pleasant flavor. It wasn’t the best cake, but it was passable. The woman turned in his arms, unlatching the armor buckles as he continued to take bites of the cake. There was a pause, as she had finished and waited to take his pauldrons off when he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s just a cake, Geralt. You deserve more than this.”

“No one has given me a cake before. It’s special.” Y/n didn’t even think of that. She was sure he had, but it was probably before the trials. They continued to undress and eat cake before they made their way into the bath. Y/n was straddling him, washing every inch of skin in front of her before he asked, “Why today?”

“Oh, well, today is the anniversary of us meeting.” Geralt smirked, his hand coming up to brush a thumb over her cheek where rouge soap bubbles had landed.

“You logged that?” Y/n gave a scoff, trying to play off her flush.

“Well, you spilled swallow all over the page. I couldn’t possibly use it for anything else, so I wrote the date down. Maybe it was fate.” Geralt rolled his eyes at that, but let his head fall back against the rim of the tub. He felt Y/n place a small kiss on his nose, hearing a soft, “Happy birthday my darling Geralt.”

[fanficfeeling]

Lovely - Jaskier x Reader

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first attempt at a fanfic in quite a few years, because for whatever reason, 2020 has brought with it a whole lot of inspiration, and I’m so excited to write again! I also recently binged The Witcher, and I’m crushing big time on Jaskier, so that felt like a good place to start! I’m very rusty, so I would appreciate feedback, but please be gentle on this returning writer. I’m so proud of how this piece went after not writing for about three years, I may even make a part 2 to this, so I hope you enjoy it!

Y/N is finally beginning to make a good living doing odd jobs in her hometown when she meets Geralt of Rivia. He shows up to deal with some odd beast in the woods nearby, and Y/N is happy to offer her assisting services to the Witcher, who eventually can't ignore her offer anymore when he realizes he needs the assistance of someone who knows the area better than he does. Y/N assists him with little fuss, because it's what she does, and maybe, just maybe, the townspeople will toss her a coin too for helping him when all is done (turns out, they never do). When it seems that he actually doesn't mind her presence or her help, she asks to come with him when he leaves her small corner of the world, because maybe she can make an even better living going where he goes, since it seems all he does is follow trouble. Oddly enough, he agrees to the arrangement.

They quickly became an excellent silent tag team of sorts. He goes to the newest monster, and Y/N follows him to wherever they reign devastation, to offer any help she can to those in need, temporarily. He gets the coin for his end, she gets the coin for hers,  and they pool it, making more than enough coin for them both, and somehow helping people along the way.

Y/N's new life is good, at the end of the day, with good money, fulfilling work, and decent company to fill her days, and this peace goes undisturbed for quite a good while. That is, until Jaskier catches up with Geralt.

The pair stopped at an inn after moving on from their last area in need, and, as per usual, they ordered their drinks and sat in a corner in near total silence, enjoying some peace and quiet after witnessing a whole lot of suffering.

"Geralt! So wonderful to see you, I've really been looking for you everywhere, I have a request to make of my dear friend." The brunette bard slides onto the seat next to Geralt, and the Witcher grunts in protest.

"Jaskier."

The bard appears to mock offense, "How lovely to see you too, Geralt! And here I was hoping you'd been missing me-" He trails off as he lays his eyes on the lady sitting across from him, and his mouth drops open in awe quickly. The lady shifts uncomfortably as he stares, and her eyes quickly shift to her travelling companion.

"Geralt, do you... know this man?"

The Witcher grunts once again uncomfortably, "Unfortunately."

Jaskier speaks once again, never able to keep his mouth shut for long, "C'mon, Geralt aren't you going to introduce us? Me, your best friend in the world and this stunning woman who I can only hope is also just your friend and also not insane like your taste in women usually implies?"

Geralt stares at him blankly, hoping on everything holy the bard would move on and not try to "woo" his new partner in crime, but he knew that was highly unlikely, so he settled on giving him this; "Y/N, this is Jaskier, not my friend. Jaskier, Y/N, my travelling companion."

Jaskier decided quickly enough that that mediocre introduction would suffice, and took it from there.

"Hello, fair Y/N, Geralt does me no service. I'm Jaskier, a bard some would say of exceptional talent, I wrote 'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher', ever heard of it? I'm sure you have, it's about him!" He breaks briefly to jam his thumb in Geralt's direction, "And may I just say, you are very lovely and I hope that when he says that you're his 'travelling companion', he doesn't mean you're sleeping with him, because I would love to buy you a drink this evening."

Y/N is caught off guard by Jaskier's quick mouth and forward language, but she has to admit, the man is not unappealing. Despite his initial, uncomfortable staring, his eyes are soft as he looks at her, not menacing, and his words don't seem disingenuous; she could bet money on the fact that he really does think she's lovely. As much as she enjoys Geralt's company, she could of course do with some company that wasn't miserable or silent, and Jaskier brought a smile to her face in a way no one had for a while. Besides everything else, he's attractive, and the first man in a long time, if ever, to show genuine interest in her like this.

Once over her shock, she smiles at him. "Alright, Jaskier, I'm almost at my limit for tonight, but I suppose one more drink really couldn't hurt, if you must insist." Feeling bold with his genuine flirtations, she takes a chance and throws a wink his way, punctuating her sentence with it.

The change in atmosphere is sharp as a grin lights up Jaskier's entire face, one that makes Y/N's heart have palpitations as her stomach flops, and for the first time since Y/N met him, Geralt is stunned, and nearly drops his drink. Jaskier, lighting up the whole room with his smile, doesn't take his opportunity for granted.

"Right! Excellent! So glad you feel that way! I will order you a drink, and in return I want to know more about you, deal?"

Y/N can't help but feel lightheaded at the idea of this man really wanting to get to know her. "Deal."

Without questioning his luck, Jaskier quickly runs off to fulfill his end of the deal, leaving Y/N and Geralt in silence once more.

"Not to pry, for fear of damaging our professional relationship, but... really?" Geralt says, breaking the silence once more.

Y/N laughs. "He seems a decent enough man, and it's hard to find someone that earnest nowadays. Unless you have any cautionary tales, about your 'best friend in the world'?"

Geralt rolls his eyes at her comment, but says nothing. For everything annoying he sees in Jaskier, and as much as he pushed him away, it was rare that he found someone who was actually willing to entertain him. Despite how many people Jaskier goes to bed with, Geralt knows just as well that the bard's intentions were pure enough; he just needed someone to get on the same page as him.

"He's not totally incompetent, I'll give him that, and he's not harmful. Do what you will." Geralt mutters, then stands. "I'll get out of your way. I've seen enough of that boy's flirting to not want to watch his attempts at you."

Y/N laughs again. "Well, I thank you for the privacy, and by your standards, that seems a glowing recommendation for him, so I'll give him an honest shot. I value your opinion."

Geralt freezes. So that's what it feels like: mutual respect. He could get used to that. "We head out tomorrow morning." Y/N nods at him as he walks away.

She's not alone for long as Jaskier returns quickly, two drinks in hand, sliding into the spot across from her once more. He doesn't question where Geralt went, but he's relieved by the privacy.

"Now, your turn. Tell me about you. How does a lovely creature such as you end up travelling with Geralt of Rivia?"

She tells him. She recaps her life as it lead up to her career, and tells him of how she met Geralt, and tells him about her travels with the near infamous WItcher.  And hanging on the edge of his seat every moment, Jaskier listens.

As Y/N brings him up to date on her best stories, Jaskier sighs almost wistfully, "You're so interesting. Your life would make for amazing songs."

Y/N's laugh graces his ears. "Would it now? I never figured odd jobs would make entertaining musical material."

Jaskier sits up straight from where his head had lain in his hand, staring at Y/N as she spoke. "You do good things, and you're so... interesting. You've come so far in your life, you travel with one of the most interesting men in the world, all to do some good, even when it's hard. You're incredible."

Y/N feels her cheeks begin to glow a bright red at his praise. Her job was often thankless, so to hear someone say she did good, and that her good was fascinating enough to be acknowledged, felt like a warm hug after getting caught in a rainstorm.

"Thank you, Jaskier, I... don't get compliments like that often. I was under the impression that I'm pretty boring."

Jaskier feigned alarm, "You? I can't see anyone ever finding you boring, how could anyone with a goal and a story to tell be boring? And frankly, I quite think you deserve all the compliments, my lady."

When she began to think that she'd found the perfect man after only knowing him for one night, Y/N decides that she may have had just a tad too much to drink, and decides to call it a night. She coughs nervously.

"Well, I, uh- thank you, Jaskier. That's very kind of you. YOU are very kind. I've never had someone call me interesting, or listen to me so intently for so long, and it's a testament to your good character. This has been wonderful, and I thank you for the drink, but I'm quite tired and we ride out early tomorrow, so I'd best be headed to bed. Thank you for the drink, Jaskier." She pauses as she stands. "And your company."

As she walks away, Jaskier feels his heart beating through his chest, and the harsh thumping of it has him reeling. She enjoyed his company. She thought he was nice. She was willing to give him a chance. And she was... lovely. He got so swept up in her that he forgot he even had something to ask Geralt.

The next morning, after Jaskier had barely slept, he made sure to meet the adventuring pair as they head out once more. He fully intended on asking his favor of Geralt and going on his merry way.

Until Y/N stepped out that door, all misty-eyed and looking like a goddess, and when Geralt asked him what the fuck he wanted, all Jaskier could think to ask was, "Will you please take me with you?" She was too beautiful to let slip out of his hands, not when he was in like this, and she made his mind so blank and dizzy, but so ripe with inspiration at the same time. Being near her seemed a drug he would happily indulge in.

She offered him a ride on her horse, Cinnamon, when Geralt very reluctantly agreed to let him tag along. With his arms wrapped around her waist, he panicked that she could feel the intense beating in his chest. So he reverted to his best coping mechanism, and he sang; a song he had written the night before, about a very pretty woman who had traveled so far from home to spread good throughout the world. She grinned the entire time he sang.

[pressedinthepages]

Redamancy

Latin. verb. the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Lambert x Reader

Word Count: 1623

Rating: T

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937177

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request: By chance can you do a Lambert oneshot of him trying to court the reader?

Tags: @whitewolfandthefox​ ​ @havenoffandoms​ @mishafaye ( Add yourself to my taglist here! )

Warnings: nothing outside of the ordinary swearing, this is fluff at it’s finest. also, this is my first time writing lambert, so let me know what you do/don’t like!

Lambert tries his best to woo you, relying on old traditions to hold your heart.

    You huffed, trying and failing to blow the stray strand of hair out of your eyes. You’d been bent over the counter for upwards of an hour, mixing and kneading wares for the next week. The sweet dough is soft under your fingers, stretching as you dig and pull at the mixture. The dough sticks to your hands and you know that flour dusts across your cheeks like a bizarre set of freckles. You hum lightly as you work, letting yourself be lulled into a peaceful mindlessness. 

    You look up for a moment, stretching the muscles in your shoulders and down your back. Your workbench is nestled along the back wall of your home, a small window just above overlooking the sprawling valley of flowers in the distance. While your little cottage is your slice of paradise, you can’t help thinking that it feels so empty, especially when he’s gone.

    You shake your head and return to your hunched position as you push and punch into the dough. Your mind has always had a penchant for wandering, but you’re determined to focus and get your breads finished before the night is over. Just as you’re about to slice the large batch into smaller portions for baking, you sense something in the room behind you.

    Before you can turn around, though, a large body leans against your back and a hand cups your arse. “Damn, that bread looks almost as delicious as you,” the man growls into your ear before nipping at your shoulder.

    You feel your heart rate settle as you turn to face the familiar voice. Lambert keeps his hands on you as you spin, glancing along your hips as a smug smile dances across his lips. 

    “Lambert,” you chide teasingly, “you know how I hate surprises.”

    His golden eyes glint in the late afternoon sun, mirthful and full of a joy that he keeps reserved just for you. Lambert had followed the scent of sweet baked goods one afternoon last summer, and ever since he had found you up to your elbows in batter, he hasn’t been able to stay away for long. 

    “Ah, I know, love, but when I saw you bent over that table, I just couldn’t help myself…” he leans and whispers into your ear, capturing some of the soft flesh of your neck lightly between his teeth. You sink into his embrace, careful to rest your elbows on his arms so as to not cover him in dough and flour. 

    “I’m glad you’re back, I miss you so when you leave,” you murmur into his neck as you plant gentle kisses along his skin. 

    “Mhm, there’s truly no place I’d rather be,” he kisses along your jaw before meeting your lips, something sweet and delicate barely suppressing the insatiable hunger in his embrace. 

    Regrettably, you pull back, apologetically meeting his confused gaze. “Let me wash this off, then we can continue.” You place a knuckle under his chin as you turn out of his grasp with a cheeky grin. 

    You step outside, Lambert following behind as you stride towards the well in your yard. Before you can reach for the handle, the Witcher hoists the pail from the depths below. You can’t help but watch appreciatively as his muscles swell under his shirt, flexing and shifting with immeasurable strength. 

    As he bends to place the bucket on the ground you rush behind him, planting your hand on his arse and squeezing, Lambert startling back upright at the sensation.

    “Just returning the favor, dear,” you smirk, pulling your hand back to see a perfect outline of flour in its place on the dark fabric. Lambert chuckles darkly, trying to decide if it was dark enough out to just take you right here in the yard without your neighbors seeing. 

    Deciding otherwise, he moves to your side as you dip your hands into the pail. The cool water is refreshing in the warm afternoon, invigorating waves of energy soaring through your skin. You hurriedly wash away the evidence of your craft, water splashing out of the bucket as you scrub.

    Satisfied, you stand once more and take Lambert’s hand, threading your fingers through his. Both of you have hands calloused from years of work and hardship, but for very different reasons. Under your fingers, you can feel his heart thrumming under the skin. A witcher’s heartbeat is always slow, true, but whenever you touch Lambert, hold him close with tender gestures and low words only for him, you can feel it beat just the slightest amount quicker. 

    You pull him back inside, letting him go once you get past the door so that you may cover the dough. Ah, you think to yourself, so much for getting it all finished tonight. 

    When you turn back around, Lambert is...kneeling?

    “Darling, what the fuck are you doing?” You giggle, reaching out to pull him to stand. He shakes his head, staying where he is on the floor.

    “First of all, watch your fucking language.” You laugh heartily, and Lambert does as well. You relish these moments, when the great supposedly impenetrable walls that encase his heart crack and crumble. His laugh is...unique, more of an aggressive bark than what would normally be considered a sound of joy. You know better though, the sound warming your soul as Lambert clears his throat and composes himself, looking up at you with his striking eyes the color of the richest sunset.

    “Ahem,” he starts, and you raise your eyebrows as you hold back a smirk. “I want to be honest with you; I truly have no idea what the hell I am doing.” 

    Your chest shakes with your laughter, but you hold it in, pursing your lips as you huff through your nose.

    “Now, I had the bard help me with this bit, ‘cause I want to get it right and he’s poncy enough to know the proper method of this.” He reaches into his jerkin, pulling a neatly folded slip of parchment into his hand. He holds it aloft in front of him, his free hand flying out in a grand sweeping motion.

    “‘Dearest beloved, I yearn to dedicate an entire volume of poetry to the enrapturing visage of your beauty, but alas I am no poet. So I shall sing your praises in the form of this letter, of which I will read aloud for the world to hear.’”

    You can’t help but smile a bit at his antics, not sure if Jaskier actually gave him proper advice or was just fucking with him. Either way, you felt tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes at the sweetness of the gesture.

    “‘The moment I first stumbled into your life, the sky had only just opened enough for the great glory of the sun to shine onto the petals of flowers left dewy from the dawn fog.’” Lambert’s eyes never left the page as he read, and a slight blush crept up his neck as he continued along. He never was one for grand declarations, but you’re sure that you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.

    “‘...and that is why, dearest of hearts, I desperately plead for you to take my heart as yours, carry it with you wherever you may go, and grant me the honor of holding your heart as mine.’”

    At the final word, Lambert returns his gaze back to you, nervous and vulnerable in a way that you’ve never seen in him. You close the distance between the two of you and sink to your knees, meeting him at eye level. 

    Wordlessly, you snake your hand to the back of his head and pull him to you, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. His hands wrap around your waist as he pulls you flush against him, swiftly deepening the kiss as he licks into your mouth. He steals your breath with every movement, his hands desperately grasping onto any part of you they can. You moan into his mouth and move your hands down his chest, moving to undo the laces keeping his jerkin closed.

    As you begin to untie them, Lambert pulls back with another sharp bark of laughter. “I suppose I can take that as a yes?” 

    You undo the knot and slide the armor from his shoulders, letting it pool on the ground as his hands move to the delicate buttons on your shirt. 

    “Oh, my love, you truly didn’t have to do all of that, my heart has been yours since I caught you smiling at me from across the market, before you really let me see you smile,” you murmur against his neck pulling at any bit of fabric you can reach to try and remove it from his body.

    “Mm, well, you deserve so much more than I can offer, so I figured that I should at least try to court you properly.” Lambert’s voice is low, shame tinging the edges of his words. 

    You move to face him, taking his face in your hands and gently stroking the long scar that runs down his cheek. “You listen here, I don’t give a shit what I do or don’t deserve, what matters is what I want, and what I want is you, only you, my Lambert.”

    You move forward to kiss him sweetly once more, pulling him to stand with you. Suddenly, you feel him bend, and the next thing you know you’re in the air, Lambert carrying you in his arms to your bed. You laugh into his lips, resolving to never let go of the sealed up, hardened heart that has begun to melt and turn soft that you have been given.