#Jaskier: *Pained and happy smile* Geralt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ladyannemarie5 · 10 months

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Jaskier: the emotional support bard for EVERYONE

Well, remember my "Things we learned/confirmed about our bard in Vol. 2" post? You can see it here.

I haven't stopped thinking about point #16 (He's the emotional support bard for EVERYONE (Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri and even Dara) but who the hell is my baby's emotional support?) and after many sleepless nights I finally got around to it to write something about it.

So here you have 2k words of hurt/angst for my beautiful bard. Because he needs to vent to someone and I love a Geralt writhing in pain and guilt :D

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Geralt is truly grateful to have Jaskier in his life. Having him is the true blessing.

The bard is always by his side, with a soft and understanding smile on his face, with the right words that will give shelter to their hearts and a joke to lighten the mood.

He knows just the right combination of words to make Yennefer smile sincerely. He knows what song to sing for Ciri after her nightmares. He knows what to say to elves who have lost their homes and families to always keep them hopeful.

And of course, Jaskier is always sincere about his emotions, the things he likes, the things he dislikes.

Jaskier is colorful, loud, colorful and true with his feelings.

That's why Geralt is at a loss for what to do when he hears Radovid comforting his bard.

Geralt was about to tell them both to gather by the fire to continue the party after saying goodnight to Ciri. The party in the forest was in full swing when both lovebirds decided to step away from the spotlight and spend some time alone.

"How are you, lark?" asks Radovid.

"I'm perfect, my prince. All things are finally flowing properly" replies the bard cheerfully.

There is silence for a moment, Geralt sneaking up on the pair, not wanting to abruptly interrupt their moment.

"I could see how your hands shook as we approached the fire, I also noticed that you didn't play your usual notes on your lute, and of course, you tried to sing the dirtiest songs in your repertoire only to have your friends tell you to stop singing in front of the girl" the prince murmurs softly and Geralt stops his steps altogether.

"Well, I wouldn't want a witcher and his sorceress to cut little Jaskier for singing obscenities in front of his daughter. You should thank me for stopping, I know how much you enjoy little Jaskier."

A silence follows, Geralt thinks the matter is settled, that Jaskier is fine.

"And now you're evading the issue" replies the prince in a tone Geralt can't detect. "You said you weren't afraid of the fire anymore but you sat in the farthest place from the campfire, you didn't have your twitch with the strings and I know you only do that when you don't want to want to keep playing the lute and I also know you only sing your dirtiest songs when you want to make people uncomfortable and make them stop asking you for songs.

I ask you again, how are you?"

Jaskier doesn't respond. Geralt holds his breath and frowns in the darkness.

Jaskier isn't acting weird, it's just Jaskier being Jaskier, Geralt thinks. His bard is always happy, in fact he is surprised that he always smells like honeysuckle and lavender all the time because humans always have a wide variety of smells about them. Sadness, anger, joy, satisfaction, and more and more, but Jaskier always smells of happiness, and several (many) times of lust. Radovid believes that just by knowing Jaskier for a few years he is already able to read him backwards and forwards. Like him

Jaskier doesn't say anything for several minutes and for a second, it seems like the conversation has stopped there, maybe he'll start cracking a joke about how being the most famous bard on the continent is taking its toll on him or maybe he'll comment that Radovid isn't giving him any enough attention.

If there's one thing everyone who knows Jaskier personally knows, it's that the bard is...

"I'm tired "

And Geralt's heart stops. Because he has never heard the bard speak in that tone. Not even when they had walked miles and miles for hours, not when they had spent days and days sleeping outside instead of an inn, not even when Geralt apologized after the mountain. It's not the kind of physical exhaustion that Jaskier always brags about, it's the exhaustion that comes from his soul.

A soft sound is heard and the witcher must not have special mutations to know that the prince has gotten closer to the poet “Dear heart, it is me. "You know you don't need to pretend to be someone you're not with me."

More silence. More doubts.

And then, like a dam that has broken, Geralt smells for the first time the bitter aroma of rotting dandelions: Jaskier's sadness.

"I feel so lonely." Jaskier sighs, an exhausted, desperate sigh.

And then the sobs come.

Geralt can imagine the prince holding Jaskier in his arms because the poet's voice sounds muffled and sobbing.

Jaskier talks about how he has always felt sad and alone since he was a child. How sometimes he is not able to remember his childhood because his mind has blocked everything bad to protect him. He talks about how music saved his life, how sometimes it's not enough and he just forces himself to make it enough.

Geralt thinks about the times Jaskier didn't sleep or eat because he stayed to write in his notebook, how he took his lute and held it to his chest saying that the muses were blessing him with inspiration. He now wonders how much was real and how much was the bard breaking.

The bard tells the prince how scared he was when he first toured the continent, fearing that he would have to crawl back to his parents to survive. The happiness of being able to find Geralt and follow him. The sadness of being rejected over and over again by the only person who was his lighthouse at that moment. The panic attacks he suffered when he woke up and Geralt was already gone. The tremors in his legs when he ran to the next town to catch up with the witcher and the fake smiles he had shown when pretending that their reunion was accidental.

Geralt remembers a time, in Temeria, when he found Jaskier drinking beer in a tavern and how his leg kept moving, up and down over and over again. How Jaskier told him it was the emotion that the red-haired waitress caused him. He tries to remember how many miles Jaskier had to walk by himself.

Jaskier tells him how devastated he was when Geralt left him. Because he knows that 20 years are nothing for a witcher but they were half of his human life. He tells him that he returned to Geralt because he missed him and is his best friend, the person he has the most faith in, but he doesn't think he can trust him again, not like before. Because he had been his only friend, his only constant after leaving and being disowned by his own family, because he had given him his youth, voice and friendship for decades and yet Geralt had left him. And his heart is so broken that he can't put another patch on it or will be useless forever.

He tells him how ashamed he is of his human condition. Because he's surrounded by gods who can set the world on fire literally and figuratively, he clings so hard to being someone magnificent like them, but sometimes he's so exhausting that the very breath escapes him. He tells that every time they make a joke about being weak, worthless or just being left behind he gets it because they remind him of his family, but now it has become a dull ache that builds up in his heart and he knows it's wrong, but now has gotten used to it.

Geralt doesn't even have a specific memory, but he knows that he has a lot to think about.

The poet talks about nightmares about being burned, about being left behind for being a mere human. Because he knows that he is only a second in the infinite life of the people he loves, that he is nothing more than a thorn in the hearts of the people he considers his family. Because they will live long, wonderful lives and the memory of him will one day be erased from their minds, and sometimes it's okay, but other times it feels like it burns his soul to know that he means nothing to anyone.

He tells Radovid that he is so afraid that he will leave him too. Because he knows that he can be a lot and feel so much that he is used to being left aside, but he doesn't believe he can bear Radovid's rejection and he doesn't believe can bear to say goodbye to the prince he has fallen in love with like never before. He tells him how much loves him, how fervent his love is, but Radovid is a prince, the representation of the gods on earth, the man who has armies and subjects and men and women at his disposal; and he’s a simple bard, with scars from torture and a lute on his back. Jaskier opens up and talks out loud about how scared he was when he met him, because he always jokes about being heartbroken, like every good poet, but he never talks about the fear of not being enough again.

He talks about his resentment and envy of others. He was always the bard of comfort for everyone, always the shoulder to cry on and complain about, always the perfect man to put down and feel good about yourself. Jaskier, the man who always smiles. Jaskier, the man of a thousand words. Always the bard Dandelion.

He says that has no right to cry and complain about his pain, because there are elves out there who have lost their homes, their family, and their lives. Because just a few steps from him, there is a girl who lost her parents, her grandparents and her entire home in the flames. There is a sorceress who was sold by her father, who was undone and remade countless times. Because he has traveled with the man with the purest and noblest heart on the continent, that he has suffered for decades without complaint. Because there is a prince trapped in a viper's nest next to him. He has no right to cry because he is exhausted.

But sometimes it's so hard to stay smiling. Sometimes the curtain must be lowered, sometimes his lips also get tired of saying words of encouragement without any in return, his arms are also tired of holding and not being held, his heart sometimes gets tired of loving without being loved.

Sometimes he just wants to sleep and not wake up again.

Jaskier talks and talks and talks. But for the first time, he's not about the best color for his doublet, but instead he mutters about the insecurities he hides behind those colors. For the first time, Geralt doesn't tune out Jaskier's inane, meaningless chatter and actually listens, hears the tremor in his voice, smells the pain in the air, feels every sob rumbling in his chest. And he wonders how he never saw it, how he always took his friend for granted.

It seems that Jaskier's words are exhausted, because all that remains is a deafening silence and the aroma of salt from tears not shed for years.

“You are not alone, lark,” the prince murmurs, soft and determined. “You have me, Geralt, Ciri and Yennefer. We are your family. We are yours. And I'm sorry you feel that way, because it was never our intention to burden you with our burdens. Because we love you. You are the light of our lives, and the only reason we all have a family. Jaskier, you are my lark, my heart and my soul. I love you more than anything, Jaskier. You can always come to me to listen to you, to cry or simply to be by your side, the way you want me, all the time you want me.”

Jaskier sobs again and Geralt can imagine Radovid holding him tighter, closer, because it's something the witcher wants to do.

Geralt walks away silently with only the thoughts of him.

He returns to the bonfire that miraculously continues to burn, with no Yennefer and Ciri in sight.

Geralt sits in his place. He thinks about everything he has learned from the bard in 1 hour and has been missing for 24 years. He wonders how much of what he sees in Jaskier is him and not his mask. He questions why he never asked Jaskier how he is.

Then he hears footsteps coming out of the forest. He feels Yenn sit silently to the right of him and then Ciri to the left of him. Everyone heard, everyone felt their bard break.

No one says anything, as if the bard had taken away their words. He probably did it. So the three of them sit together until they decide to go to sleep, always in silence.

The next morning, the 3 find a note from Radovid saying that he and Jaskier will take some time together. That they will soon find them.

The witcher, the sorceress and the princess shed tears together and then wait anxiously for their bard. Their lark.

#jaskier #my baby deserves the world #my beloved bard #radskier #geraskier #fanfiction #ficlet #the witcher #geralt of rivia #emotional support bard #angst bard #ao3fic #fanfic

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starfirewildheart · 9 months

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The Wolf and the Flame

Chapter 4

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to

Words: 2,992

Chapter 4

Naurel got out of bed as soon as she was positive that Ciri and the others in the next room were asleep. She sat down by the fire in the small fireplace to warm her freezing body. Thoughts and emotions battled in her head and heart until she wanted to scream for them to stop. Should she tell Geralt she wanted to be left here? Run for it and not say anything? That wasn’t an option really because Geralt kept saying they were connected in some way and he needed to understand why. The sky was starting to lighten just before the sunrise by the time she’d made her choice. She’d heard Geralt yelling then storm out slamming the door shortly after she had gone into Ciri’s room and hadn’t heard him come back. If she was lucky she would be able to slip out unnoticed.

She made it out of the Inn without incident only because the witcher was still gone. Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding she headed to take care of some business. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when she had completed her deeds. “Thank you for letting me ride you,” she said softly to the paint horse whose reins she gripped in her right hand. Roach and Ciri’s gray mare Lady were both on her left, leads being held together. She smiled when Roach nudged her with her nose as if to say ‘good job’ for talking to her new mount. “I’m not a good rider. I’ve never ridden without Geralt,” she admitted. “I’m still not physically healed but I promise to do the best I can and to get you treats whenever possible.” They had arrived at the Inn and she latched Lady and Roach’s reins to the hitching post before turning to her horse and trying to get in the saddle. It caused her too much pain to try and lift her weight into the stirrup and it also made her angry at herself for not healing faster. Damn her body and her weakness. How was she going to do this without help because if Geralt knew she was still hurting this badly he’d insist she ride with him so he could protect her and she wasn’t about to take his attention from his mate so soon after their reuniting.

Biting her bottom lip she looked around for something to help when her eyes settled on the building across the street with a raised porch. Guiding her horse over she positioned her so that she was sideways next to the wooden structure then climbed the steps and approached the horse that way. She didn’t have to lift herself off the ground but throwing her leg over took her breath for a moment. Her horse wickered and huffed but stayed still. “Good girl,” she praised and scratched her neck. “Now let's try this whole moving thing huh?” Naurel clicked her tongue and gave the mare's sides a small tap. “Oh gods!” she softly squealed as they started moving. Deciding it would be good to experiment now instead of in front of everyone she pulled the reins to the left then to the right and was quite proud of herself when a sudden voice nearly caused her to fall.

“Where do you think you're going?” Geralt demanded as he grabbed hold of the halter on her horse. He was pissed that she was leaving but he’d suspected it would happen after last night. Yennefer and Jaskier both promised to keep an eye out for her until he returned. Looks like they did a magnificent job.

“Nowhere,” her voice was soft but sure. “I mean I did go somewhere earlier but now I’m here.” His look was anything but impressed or amused so her forced smile faltered but she continued. “It’s going to be snowing soon so I got a warm cloak and boots and now that we have new companions I figured I should have my own horse. I know roach is special but I don’t think even she can carry three for long.” His eyes never left her like he was searching for the least bit of dishonesty.

“We need to talk about last night.”

She shook her head and held her smile. “No, Geralt, you have nothing to explain. Ciri told me how you thought Yennefer died at Sodden. How you searched for her until the witch told you she died. How sad you were at the news. You did nothing wrong.” It was me who fucked up, she said to herself.

“No,” he growled and put his hand on her thigh. “Naurel, I care for you. I’ve never felt the way I have since I found you.”

Her heart thundered in her chest and she knew he could hear it. A tear slipped down her cheek as she reached out to cup his jaw in her hand. “I know whatever it is that was done to me, whatever magic that is on me is drawing us together. I promise you that I’m not running Geralt. I told you I’d go with you to Kaer Morhen to see if anyone could help and I will keep my word. Hopefully Vesimer or one of your sorceress friends can figure out how to fix me and you can have your life back.”

He knew the hurt was deep for her because it was just as bad for him so he didn’t push. At least he had her promise that she wouldn’t run. He turned his head, placing a soft kiss on her palm. “You’re wrong about my feelings Naurel but I’ll take what little hope you can give me for now. I don’t like you riding your own horse, you are still too weak and I’m afraid your wounds will open up again.”

Before she could protest the door of the Inn opened and their other companions came running out. Jaskier looked relieved to see Naurel safe. “I’m sorry, it was Yennefer’s watch,” he explained to Geralt.

Ciri handed Geralt his things as she breathed a sigh of relief at seeing Naurel. When she woke up and her friend was gone it made her heart ache. She climbed up on Lady and prepared herself for another long day in the saddle.

“Can I ride with you?” Jaskier asked Ciri. “Geralt won’t let me ride with him,” he shot the witcher a look.

Ciri chuckled, “Sure as long as Lady is agreeable.” Jaskier jumped up behind her and Lady didn’t protest.

Yennefer came to stand beside Geralt between Roach and Naurel’s horse. She touched the red head’s leg while giving her a look of mock sympathy. Naurel spurred her horse forward and rode away from them. Geralt sighed and shook his head at Yennefer. “What the fuck are you playing at Yen?”

“I feel asleep. I was tried. It worked out because she’s fine,” Yen explained.

He glared at Yen but spoke to the redhead. “Naurel,” he called out a warning, his tone stern.

She turned the horse back and rode toward him slowing as she passed. “Never out of sight. I remember your rules witcher. I’m just trying to get a feel for my horse.”

“Go that way,” he pointed to the north. “I need to pay the farrier then we will head out.”

“I paid him when I bought the horse from him this morning,” she told him, then rode off northbound before he could question her.

They rode till late afternoon mostly listening to the bard tell stories about his adventures with Geralt and Yennifer and the occasional song here and there pretending there wasn’t an uneasy tension in the air. Naurel was pretty sure that her head was going to explode. Geralt had reluctantly let Yennefer ride behind him and they rode beside Naurel most of the time, the witcher' eyes always watching her even though she’d assured him she was fine.

Naurel was trying to focus on the road ahead instead of the pain or the way Geralt’s eyes never left her when she noticed Ciri ride around to the other side of her effectively pinning her between them. She wondered if her riding was that bad because she thought she was doing well for her first time alone.

“Where did you get the money for the horse,” Yennefer asked, trying to distract Geralt. She bit back a smile when she caught Naurel’s glare but pushed on. “I mean Ciri told us how they found you near death with nothing. Or were you hiding your wealth from them?” she asked accusingly.

“I would never do that,” Naurel growled angrily. “I can be accused of a lot of things witch but being a thief or a whore are not one of them.” She knew Yennefer was insinuating she’d whored herself out for money and it provoked a rage in her that she didn’t like. The most severe beatings she received in her life were because she’d run from slavers or owners when they tried to force her into the sex trade. “I sold my necklace to the innkeeper. I had asked him if there was a jeweler in town and he asked to buy the locket himself for his wife.”

“You sold your locket? Why?” Geralt was angry and confused.

Naurel shrugged. “It was just a locket. I’ve had it since I was three and it wasn’t doing anyone any good hidden away.”

“But it was your only tie to your past,” he sighed. “To help you find who your family was.”

“It was a stupid dream. I was orphaned either by choice or necessity. I’ve been nothing since I was three. I'm sure that’s not going to suddenly change because of a small piece of gold. Besides, it just made me more vulnerable if someone were to attack. Now I have nothing worth their time or attentions.”

“So you were just a slave girl?” Yen asked, intrested in the woman's past and where she was from.

“Yennefer,” Great growled in warning.

Naurel shook her head but forced a smile. “Yes, I was just a lowly slave. I have no worth, no fortune, no talent, no usefulness really but I guess destiny wasn’t done with me yet.

“Destiny is for frightened people who can’t think for themselves. You make your own lot in life, your own choices that lead you where you end up. That is one thing Geralt and I agree on wholeheartedly. Fuck destiny.”

She thought about it for a moment and realized that Yen was likely right. If she had been stronger or better at something or just been a different person she would have likely been a different person in a different place. If she’d just given in to the demands of the guards maybe she wouldn’t be here now. She frowned when she felt Geralt’s hand on her left arm and Jaskier’s on her right.

“It’s time to stop for the night. Yennefer get down, Jaskier, hold her,” Geralt inclined his head toward Naurel.

Naurel frowned as Ciri reached out and took the reins from her. “What are you doing? I don’t need anyone to hold me. Why are we stopping?” She hissed when Geralt pulled her down into his arms. “Put me down.”

“No. You are wavering in the saddle barely able to hold yourself up. The fact that you don’t realize it tells me just how bad it is.” He sat her down on the blanket Ciri laid out for them then sat behind her. He opened his kit then started to undo the back of her dress to check her wounds.

“How can I help?” Jaskier asked as he knelt beside them.

Geralt frowned at the blood soaking the bandages on her back. “Bring one of the water skins,” he told his friend.

Jaskier grabbed the waterskin Yennefer was getting ready to drink from and took it to Geralt. He knelt over one of the witcher's legs just in time to catch Naurel as she fell forward, too weak to hold herself up anymore. “Easy,” he soothed as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“I’m ok. We can keep going,” she insisted even though she was losing the battle to stay upright.

“Yennefer, start gathering wood for a fire. Ciri, start setting up so we can heat some water,” Geralt ordered. His anger was getting the best of him. He didn’t understand why Yennefer was acting this way. He just knew he had to get her out of his sight for a few minutes or he was going to snap.

“Bossy witcher,” Yennefer sighed but went to gather wood.

“That’s bad Geralt,” Jaskier said as he looked at Naurel’s back. “I thought Triss healed her.”

“She did heal the worst of it.” He shared a concerned look with the bard and focused on his task. Once he’d examined every injury including her hip and leg he laid her back on the blanket with his cloak folded under her head then went to the fire to start mixing herbs into a tea to help with the infection.

The sun had long set and the stars were shining above the trees. Everyone was gathered around the fire eating some cured pork that they had gotten on their stop in town. Naurel groaned when Geralt lifted her upper body and sat behind her again. As much as she didn’t want to she couldn’t help but lean bodily into him for his comfort and warmth. “Drink this,” he said as he held the cup to her lips.

She took a sip and started coughing. “By the God’s it tastes like a frog's ass,” she sputtered.

Everyone laughed, even Geralt, which shocked the hell out of Jaskier. He’d never even seen the witcher smile. “Drink,” Geralt chuckled.

“No,” Naurel shook her head. A low rumble in his chest and a commanding “Drink,” made Naurel shiver and comply. How the hell did he do that?

“Um,” Jaskier spoke up, “How do you know what a frog’s ass tastes like?”

This time Naurel choked from laughing. “I don’t but it’s low to the ground, wet and slimy and covered in dirt so I assumed.”

Geralt put the cup aside when it was empty then ran his hands over her arms. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s the ice in my heart,” she teased and she could feel him shake his head. After a moment she got to her feet.

“Where are you going?” he stood with her.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she told him. He took her arm to guide her. “Umm, no. You are not going with me to pee.”

“You are not going out there unprotected,” he argued.

She reached out and pulled the dagger from the belt on his side. “Now I’m protected. If I need you then you will reach me quickly, you're a witcher.” She walked past Ciri who was about to stand, “You aren’t going with me either princess. There are some things a lady needs to do alone.” She heard Geralt’s displeased growl as she walked away from the fire and knew he didn’t like it but he stayed put.

She went a bit farther than she intended but something seemed to be watching out for her because she found what she was looking for. There was a large willow tree and the withered husks of carvacrol plants near a small stream. The water had mostly iced over but still trickled in places. The weather had already caused the willow sap to draw back deep into the tree and the plants were long dead but she needed them if she had any hope of hiding her pain from her companions. Kneeling before the tree she took Geralt’s dagger, sliced across her left palm, and allowed the blood to drip on the tree and the plants below. “ I call upon Sylvestris deus, keeper of the forest. I take only what I need and will heal your tree after. Please allow me this,” she pleaded. She felt when energy left her body and went into the tree and flowers. It was energy she really couldn’t spare but she convinced herself it would be ok. The tree bark brightened and the flowers below bloomed purple. Carefully she harvested them, cutting the bark into small pieces and putting it all into a pouch that she had in her cloak before rubbing her still bleeding hand over the wounded tree and watching as it knitted back new, fresh bark. She quickly washed her hand and the dagger in the stream knowing she’d been gone too long. Geralt was going to kill her. Sure enough, when she was halfway back he was searching for her and he wasn’t happy. She held her hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I don’t move as fast as I should right now. It took longer than I intended.”

He was relieved she was ok so he let it go this time. “I’m just glad you are safe,” he pulled her to him and hugged her.

“Geralt, I won't do anything stupid. You don’t have to focus so much of your attention on me. I know you have other responsibilities.” She hated worrying him so much and was afraid that his attention would be focused on her and something would happen to Ciri.

“You aren’t a responsibility,” he told her as he leaned in and kissed the top of her head before he led her back to camp.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

#geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #witcher fanfiction #the witcher netflix

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kuwdora · 30 days

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Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

Here is a messy witcher snippet from 2021 which was part of a longer plotty story that never went anywhere. But this mostly was me embracing Jaskier as a Disney Princess and finding my way to Jaskier and Geralt's netflix dynamic and voices. Only remembered this because @littlestsnicket and I were talking about jaskier and geralt and music recently.

the original fic title was actually called Counterpoint of Disaster and got too big and messy for me to deal with. but this snippet should whet your appetite!

jaskier & geralt. case fic vibes. 850w. rated T.

Jaskier ambled along the stretch of road beside a fence, strumming his lute and humming. The sun was easing itself behind the peaks of the Mahakams and the shadow was creeping along the meadow. At the top of a sloping hill, Jaskier noticed a dot that resembled a cow.

He perched himself on the fence and he resumed his song, uncertain he could project his voice enough for the cow to hear him.

But it did. The cow moseyed down the hill towards him. By the time it was half-way to Jaskier on the fence two more cows appeared at the top of the hill.

Amused, Jaskier sang louder. The ambling cow continued its approach with its companions making their way to Jaskier’s little stage. His fingers danced along the strings. Swing that scythe dawn to dusk with weary shoulders, to home and hearth your wife… All variations on a satisfying theme. A hard day's work followed by ale and love at home only to wake up and do it all over again. Music to rejuvenate oneself for the next day’s work.

The cows mooed upon their approach and Jaskier played on. Three more cows appeared on the horizon and they herded each other down the hill towards him.

“Not my usual audience,” Jaskier said and laughed. He tilted his head and adjusted his posture, a smile tugging at his lips. “I wonder…” he murmured. He began playing a lighthearted song of a young maiden’s carefree day.

He was halfway through the chorus and was deeply amused by the nearly dozen cows standing in front of him. By the time Jaskier was on the final verse another three cows had joined them, shouldering their way closer.

Jaskier continued to hum and sing, plucking a cute little melody for the attentive audience. He received some lowing in return and he laughed. “Happy cows indeed. Who knew I had fans afield. Will a good song produce sweet milk?” he asked them.

His fingers danced along the strings, improvising nonsense and one of the soft-eyed cows wandered right up to the fence and offered him an insistent moo before nudging his knee with its snout.

“I would definitely consider tips in the form of cheese,” Jaskier said and gave the cow a gentle pat on the side of her face.

His hand came away wet and he was about to wipe the cow snot away when he saw his hand was crimson.

Jaskier gagged and nearly wiped the blood on his clean trousers. He stopped himself just in time and wobbled on the fence.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier called. “There’s some bloody cows over here.”

“There’s a farm nearby,” Geralt said, sounding like he replied without looking up.

“No, I mean they look like they rolled around in a pool of blood,” Jaskier said.

Two of the cows pushed forward as if to ask why he’d stopped playing. They crowded Jaskier enough and pushed at his knees with soft blood-covered snouts. Jaksier unwound his legs from the fence to lean forward for a closer look. Then they were all at his knees at once.

Jaskier wobbled.

The cows mooed.

Jaskier flailed and threw up his arms with his lute, instinctively protecting it as he fell.

He landed hard.

Jaskier wheezed. Pulled the lute close to his chest, cradling it amidst the pain.

He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. Geralt leaned on the fence, looking at the assembled cows.

“I think they were going to take a bite out of me,” Jaskier rasped. Geralt held out an arm and when Jaskier grabbed it he was heaved upward like it was nothing, again reminding him of Geralt’s effortless strength. He spread his feet and tried to gain his bearings but he’d fallen harder than he realized because the ache persisted in his chest and back. He rubbed the back of his neck and the back of his head and took a step backwards from the fence.

“Wouldn’t be the first creature to try,” Geralt said and climbed over the fence for a closer look. The frown on the witcher’s face worried Jaskier. The eager brown cow, hungry for more song didn’t appear blood-thirsty in the slightest despite the blood-matted fur indicating otherwise.

“Did they make a grand escape from the butcher? One last dinner before they became dinner?” Jaskier said.

“I doubt it,” Geralt said. He was reaching out to the animal and touching the side of her face, peering at her eyes and ears before doing a cursory check of her mouth before moving on to the rest of her body. She paid Geralt little heed and when she mooed it started a chain reaction from the others.

“The blood is human. At least a day old,” Geralt said and moved on to examine the other eager cow who hung her head over the fence like she was waiting for Jaskier to resume his song.

“So they were trying to take a bite out of me. This is definitely a mystery in the making: The Mystery of the Bloody Cows,” Jaskier said.

#silly messy snippet #this scene was absolutely inspired by that one youtube video of cows enjoying music that i saw ages ago #my fic #my witcher fic #jaskier #geralt #twn #geraskier #answerdora #littlestsnicket

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shy-urban-hobbit · 9 months

Text

For @elmonstro . Inspiration hit after our convo about potential Witcher Yule traditions and went in a weird direction 😂.

Aiden and Lambert are both oblivious, pining idiots and the other Kaer Morhen residents have had enough.

Implied, non graphic smut under the cut:

"It's mistletoe." Lambert stated like he was talking to a small child when he caught Aiden staring at it yet again with a slightly perplexed look on his face. The other Witcher elbowed him in the ribs as he rolled his eyes.

"I know what it is, Wolf. What I'm wondering is why you've just got random spriggs of it hanging over various thresholds this year."

"Jaskier's idea, probably." Lambert shrugged

"That still doesn't really tell me why." Aiden prompted when Lambert refused to elaborate. The Wolf could feel himself growing flustered. Explaining would lead his mind down a path he'd been trying to steer clear of for years.

"Yule tradition." Eskel piped up and thank the gods! Lambert wanted to hug his brother in that moment, "You're supposed to stay trapped under it until somebody kisses you." He continued, not looking up from his book...Lambert was going to reorganise everything in his brother's room, "And you were right, Lambert. Jaskier thought it would be fun."

"Of course he fucking would." Lambert grumbled under his breath. This was going to be a long and torturous winter.

It started out well enough. Aiden had discovered that Jaskier - typically - was happy with any form of physical affection bestowed on him, Eskel was happy to exchange friendly pecks on the cheek (as was Geralt, surprisingly), Vesemir's facial expression alone had warned everyone present that if they tried to kiss him, there'd be consequences, a brief hug however, was acceptable. It was the same with Yennefer, although it was becoming more of a thing to kiss her hand after Jaskier had done it as a joke and hadn't been blasted through the wall for his trouble and all of this was done with a smile and a laugh. Apart from when it came to Lambert.

No matter where or when, as soon as those two found themselves trying to pass through the same doorway it was like watching a couple of adolescents, the both of them turning into stuttering messes both reeking of anxiety as they brushed barely there kisses to each others cheeks before dashing off in opposite directions like their backsides were on fire. It would have been funny if it wasn't so painful to watch.

"Idiots. They are both idiots." Yennefer stated after having just watched Lambert staring longingly after Aiden when he left to help Vesemir bring some things up from the cellar, with Aiden doing likewise when Lambert left to see to a couple of things in his lab.

"Love truly is fucking blind." Jaskier groused from his perch in Geralt's lap, "I was sure the mistletoe would give them that teeny tiny push, you know?"

Yennefer patted his knee consolingly, "Oh it still will, little bard."

Eskel peered up at her suspiciously from where he'd had his head buried in his arms in despair at the situation, "What are you planning, Yenn?"

The witch said nothing as she took a dainty sip of wine.

"Aiden? Yennefer said you needed help with something."

"Awfully nice, considering I think it's Yennefer who's responsible."

Lambert looked down at Aiden, who was sat cross-legged on the floor just inside the doorway to the room he used whenever he accompanied Lambert in the winter, elbow resting on his knee as he propped his chin on his hand, "....I'm failing to see the problem."

Aiden got to his feet, pointed to draw Lambert's attention to the all too familiar plant above his head and made to take a step forward. Magic shimmered as it blocked him before his foot had even hit the ground, the same thing happening when he tried to take a step back further into the room, "Looks like she decided to take the trapped part of this literally."

Lambert groaned internally, "What about Jaskier, or Eskel? Can't they-"

"Offended." Aiden snorted, "And no, they all tried and no change. There's only you left."

"Offended."

"Well, maybe I've been saving the best for last. Now get over here and help your best friend."

All of Aiden's bravado vanished when Lambert moved into his space, close enough to feel his body heat, smell the slight nerves - but not close enough to touch, with Lambert's gaze settling on Aiden's ear.

"So should I, uhm -" he stuttered,

"Same as always?" Aiden asked, voice sounding only slightly steadier than Lambert's.

They both hastily brushed lips against offered cheeks - the quicker this was done, the quicker they could forget about it. Aiden once again tried to take a step into his room while Lambert made to back out into the corridor.

"Are you kidding me!?" Aiden bit out alongside Lambert's growl of "Yennefer!" as both of them were stopped in their tracks.

"Fucking great. Now what?" Lambert asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Maybe we did it too quickly?" Aiden suggested.

Lambert nodded in agreement, that seemed a perfectly logical explanation. They repeated the kiss, lingering this time, neither of them mentioning the spike in the scents of anxiety and the slightly quickened breathing of the other. Still nothing.

"Well, I'm out of ideas." Lambert leaned against the doorframe

"...I don't think I am."

"Hmm?"

Lambert wrinkled his nose at the nervousness now coming off Aiden in waves, the Cat looking more scared than Lambert had ever seen him.

"Aiden, are you-"

"Shut up. Just...please don't hate me for this."

Before Lambert could say anything else a hesitant kiss was pressed to his lips, his body stiffening on reflex.

Aiden pulled away as soon as he felt the other sieze up, "I'm sorry. I thought that maybe if...I don't actually know what I thought."

Lambert grasped Aiden's chin and repeated the same chaste kiss, only lingering a couple of seconds before pulling away and finally looking Aiden in the eye.

They collided with one another, Aiden's hands fisting in the front of Lambert's shirt while Lambert yanked him in with a hand on the back of his neck, both opening up to one another at the first hint of probing tongue. Lambert's hands travelled down, down, down to press lightly on the back of Aiden's thighs, the Cat getting the hint immediately and giving a little hop so he could wrap his legs around Lambert's waist. The Wolf moaned as Aiden's skillful fingers started making a mess of his hair as he rolled his hips while Lambert shamelessly groped Aiden's ass as he supported his weight.

It wasn't until Lambert's knees hit the bed he realised that they were now fully inside Aiden's room - quickly followed as he lowered them both onto the mattress by the realisation that they should probably close the door. He gave a deep chuckle as he felt Aiden pause in his efforts to apparently just rip Lambert's shirt clean off him and make a quick motion behind his head, closely followed by the sound of a door slamming.

"Hey." Lambert said softly. Aiden cracked an eye open to peer at him from where he'd been dozing in the strip of sunlight that fell oh so conveniently across Lambert's chest "What did you mean earlier before you - when you asked me not to hate you?"

"I thought that would have been obvious." Aiden sighed, propping himself up, "You always smelled like you were about two seconds away from bolting whenever we got caught under that fucking plant. I thought the idea of doing anything like that with me made you uncomfortable, so I kept quiet."

"Like you didn't smell exactly the same." Lambert rebuffed, tweaking Aiden's nose, "I never said anything because I thought it made you uncomfortable, otherwise I would have dragged you to bed years ago."

Aiden grinned, sliding up Lambert's body so they were face to face, hovering over him "Yeah?"

Lambert nodded, running his hands over the others ribs, "Oh yeah. There'd be no doubts about whether you were mine or not. They'd smell me all over you."

"Oh, so I'm yours now am I?" Aiden purred

"As much as I'm yours?"

Aiden gave him a couple of quick pecks, "I like the sound of that."

Without warning, he rolled off Lambert and leaned over the side of the bed, digging through his clothes before holding the sprigg of mistletoe triumphantly - he must have grabbed it off the doorframe when Lambert was distracted - before proudly placing it on the headboard.

"You're fucking ridiculous." Lambert laughed as he moved to get up and get something so they could clean themselves up. He was stopped by Aiden grabbing onto his arm.

"Ah ah ah, we're under the mistletoe. You know the rule."

Lambert made a show of rolling his eyes before leaning in and very quickly deciding that getting clean could wait.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #aiden/lambert #aiden x lambert #lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert x aiden #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert

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thedemonofcat · 1 year

Text

Upon learning of Radovid, Geralt was caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Familiar with Jaskier's penchant for fleeting passions that often fizzled out after physical intimacy, Geralt couldn't help but cautiously approach this situation. Yet, something undeniably distinct about Radovid set him apart from Jaskier's usual trysts. Geralt could perceive Jaskier's genuine love for the prince, which intrigued him, leaving him uncertain about what to make of it all.

Amidst the chaos of their escape and the constant threat looming over Cirilla, Geralt had grown accustomed to placing his trust in only a select few individuals. Whenever Radovid was in their midst, a nagging sense of apprehension crept into Geralt's mind, as if the prince harboured ulterior motives that could potentially lead to betrayal. However, it was Jaskier's vulnerability that concerned Geralt the most. He dreaded the possibility that Radovid might ultimately shatter Jaskier's heart, inflicting irreparable pain upon the bard he cared for deeply.

After Jaskier suffered a grievous injury in a sudden ambush, Geralt's heart pounded regretfully, knowing he had been too slow to protect the bard from the merciless stab. With great effort, Geralt brought Jaskier to the safety of a trusted healer, intending to remain steadfastly by his side throughout the recovery. Little did he expect the arrival of Radovid. At that moment, Geralt braced himself for a potential strike, anticipating that the prince would take advantage of Jaskier's weakened state to enact his malevolent agenda. Yet, to Geralt's surprise, Radovid exhibited genuine concern for Jaskier's well-being. In the prince's eyes, Geralt caught a glimpse of an affectionate fondness that puzzled him, challenging his preconceived notions about Radovid's intentions.

Several days passed, and Jaskier had regained enough strength to move about. From a concealed vantage point, Geralt observed the interaction between Jaskier and Radovid. As he watched, the prince effortlessly drew a genuine smile from Jaskier's lips—an authentic expression of joy, unlike the theatrical smiles the bard often wore during performances. It reminded Geralt of the intimate moments they shared by the campfire, where genuine laughter would fill the air. In that fleeting moment, Geralt's doubts began to dissipate. Seeing the prince bring such happiness to Jaskier reassured him that perhaps Radovid could be trusted, at least to some extent.

#the witcher netflix #joey batey #jaskier the witcher #geralt of rivia #the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #gerskier #headcanon #Jaskier and Radovid #jaskier x radovid

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writerdream22 · 2 years

Text

requested by: anonymous, I sincerely hope you like this ✨🌻💛

pairings: Jaskier x reader, Geralt of Rivia x reader (platonic)

warnings: none

a/n: I tired to make this imagine as fluffy as possible, but I just couldn't help but add a little bit of angst!

feedbacks are always appreciated!

It had been so long since you saw him last. His hair was longer, and he dressed differently. He must have went though hell you thought, and you were grateful that Geralt had found him just in time and brought him to your shed.

“Y/n, you've—” he muttered “— you've changed”

“That is true, my dear Jaskier” you pointed out “I kept the promise. I trained hard, and I became a hunter. Am I finally a hero?”

The bard smiled softly and responded with a nod of his head; then, he cautiously took a step closer to you. You instinctively took a small step back, and it was almost painful to see the man's hurt look.

“She's been through... a lot” Geralt explained, addressing Jaskier while putting a hand on your shoulder in hopes that it would reassure you “And now, all I want is for her to be happy”

You looked up at Geralt and then turned to Jaskier; he was clearly surprised by what the Witcher had said, and you were too. His deep and sentimental words made you realize that, maybe, that was the right moment for you and the bard to rekindle the relationship that you were forced to interrupt many years prior.

“Jaskier, I—” you stammered “—I can't imagine what you've been through, but I do understand what you're feeling right now. I spent many years hoping that I'd see you again, and act like nothing happened. I don't want us to be apart any longer; that is, if you feel the same”.

You gulped: you were now more anxious than you'd ever been in your life, and Jaskier's quietness wasn't helping. You glanced towards Geralt again, and he smiled softly. Then, you took a deep breath and posed your question.

“So, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove...” you began “What do you say?”

“Lady y/n, seeing that I want to stay by your side as long as you wish me to, and as long as my heart beats... my answer will be a very resolute yes”

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aramblingjay · 2 years

Text

And when it's hard (I'll place your head into my hands) Established Geraskier, hurt/comfort, modern AU (1K)

Geralt has a bad night. Jaskier helps.

ao3

Geralt calls him at three in the morning, and Jaskier picks up before he’s even fully awake, heart hammering in his chest.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, dread crawling up his spine.

“Need you here,” rasps the voice on the other side. It’s Geralt but also not Geralt, small and shaky and hollowed-out.

Jaskier gives himself fifteen seconds to throw on clothes, and then he runs.

Geralt opens the door looking like a shell of himself.

A thousand questions clamor in Jaskier’s throat, but he swallows them all away at the watery shine in Geralt’s eyes—he hasn’t seen him cry in years, and this is the closest he’s looked in about that long. What Geralt needs right now isn’t to be bombarded.

“Can I come in?” he asks instead, even though they haven’t needed that kind of formality in forever. He hopes it’ll help, in some way, letting Geralt have control over what’s happening.

Geralt nods. He doesn’t like to speak too much on a good day, and today is not a good day. If Geralt makes a single sound tonight that isn’t a grunt, it’ll be a surprise.

Jaskier doesn’t mind. They have many ways of understanding each other.

“Ciri?” he asks, half expecting to see the little rugrat emerge from behind one of Geralt’s legs at the mere mention of her name, even though it’s hours past her bedtime. She’s Geralt’s shadow in every way, and Geralt indulges her like he would no one else.

But Geralt shakes his head and points upward with his index finger, indicating she’s already in bed.

Oh, thank god. Geralt wouldn’t want her to see him like this, but she won’t fall asleep unless he reads her a bedtime story—it’s a catch-22 that Jaskier is more than happy they get to avoid.

Satisfied there’s no imminent work required of him, Jaskier makes a beeline for the living room couch, sensing without having to be told that this isn’t a bedroom kind of conversation. He nearly smiles when he sees Roach already curled up on an armrest, her eyes tracking his every step. She has a sixth sense when it comes to Geralt, and he doubts she’s slept at all tonight.

The sounds of Geralt making tea filter in from the kitchen, and he settles into his usual spot. This is a familiar routine, Geralt disappearing into the kitchen when he needs a moment to calm himself. Jaskier just strokes a hand down Roach’s back, taking the fact that she’s in here with him instead of sitting right at Geralt’s feet as a good sign, and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Geralt comes in with two mugs of tea a few minutes later, one still steaming and the other clearly having cooled. Jaskier takes the latter from him with a nod of thanks, noticing the way Geralt sits on the opposite couch instead of beside him, the way Roach immediately perches herself on top of Geralt’s toes, the way Geralt’s eyes are no less glassy than they were when he opened the door.

Geralt takes a sip of tea. He’s using the mug Eskel bought him last year, Jaskier notes absently, a gleaming black emblazoned with the silhouette of a wolf. It’s easier to look at the mug than to look at Geralt’s face, at the pain so clearly written into every line.

“Darling,” he starts quietly, having learned from experience it’s better not to use Geralt’s name when he’s untethered like this, “how can I help?”

What’s wrong will come later. That involves words and emotions and complicated thoughts, giving a voice and a shape to the pain. Comfort is simpler.

Geralt shakes his head minutely in a way that Jaskier takes to mean I don’t know I just needed you here, which would elate him if he wasn’t too busy worrying Geralt might crumble into tiny pieces right before his eyes.

“Okay. That’s okay. Can I come over there?”

A nod, and Jaskier moves slowly, cautiously, to sit beside Geralt. It’s not that he’s worried Geralt would hurt him—never, he would never—and more that startling Geralt now might be what tips him over the edge, and Jaskier needs to be sure he’s ready to catch him before letting that happen.

“Will you lay down with me, darling?” he asks after several minutes. They’re close enough that he can feel Geralt’s warmth all over his right side, but no part of them is touching, and he wants to remedy that immediately.

Only if Geralt wants.

Geralt takes in a deep breath and lets it out. The shaky tremor on his exhale rattles in Jaskier’s chest like a bullet.

Then Geralt brings his hands up from his lap and signs, no bed.

“No bed, just here on the couch,” Jaskier agrees immediately.

Several seconds pass. Geralt nods again.

“Should I sign?” Jaskier asks, carefully forming the words with his hands as he says them. Sometimes sound is overwhelming too.

But Geralt is shaking his head even before he’s done, signing something back faster than Jaskier can interpret. He’s much more adept at signing since meeting Geralt, and getting better every day, but there’s still a difference to the speed Geralt normally uses with him versus with his family, and moments like this remind him why.

Want to hear your voice, Geralt signs again, slower this time, each word enunciated in a separate motion.

“Can I sing you something?”

Geralt shrugs, but his eyebrows furrow in a way that Jaskier understands.

“Alright. C’mere, darling.”

He pulls Geralt’s head into his lap, grateful as ever for their extra-long couch, and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. When Geralt lets out a low, quiet rumble, the one that means pleasure, Jaskier smiles and does it again.

“There you go. Thank you for letting me be here,” he murmurs, knowing Geralt will be able to hear him. “I’m glad you called me.”

Jaskier fully expects the grumble that follows, a disquieted protest that means everything from I’m sorry I bothered you to I don’t deserve this to all the other terrible things Geralt thinks about himself when there’s no one around to remind him otherwise. He fully expects it, but it breaks his heart anyway.

“Shh, none of that. It’s not a hardship to hold you, darling. You know I hate when you suffer alone.”

Geralt stays quiet, but one of his hands reaches out to grab Jaskier’s in a vice grip, and it’s more than answer enough.

“Not going anywhere,” Jaskier whispers, and begins to sing.

He cycles through the softest, gentlest melodies he can think of—lullabies his mother would hum after he had a bad nightmare, love songs so sappy he wrote them for an audience of one, snippets of poems whose only tune is the lilt of his voice—and cards his hand through Geralt’s hair in time to the rhythm. The minutes blur into hours, and eventually he looks down to see Geralt’s chest rising and falling in a slow, steady beat, his face soft and slack with sleep.

Tomorrow, when morning dawns, he will ask Geralt what happened, and Geralt will find the words, either with his voice or his hands. But in this moment, he closes his eyes, Geralt a comforting weight in his lap, and they sleep.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskiersource #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing

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flowercrown-bard · 2 years

Note

Idea for your arranged marriage AU: some time after they get to Kaer Morhen, Geralt hears Jaskier composing on his lute and stops to listen. Jaskier is writing a song about tender feelings for someone -- feelings that aren't love, but could become love. It's painful because he's sure this song must be for someone else... then he hears a reference to a feature of his own, golden eyes or white hair etc. What mental gymnastics happen next?

thank you for the inspiration! The painful pining doesn't fit the vibe anymore, but this chapter was still inspired by this ask so I'll put it in the reply <3

Not for us (arranged marriage au - part 14) previous part / masterpost / ao3 word count: 3173

Ever since he could recall, Geralt had defined himself by his duties. His mother had sent him to fetch water and he had run off to do just that. Of course, it had ended with him being left on the side of a road, not understanding what he had done wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been fast enough or been too weak to fill the bucket with enough water or been too clumsy and spilt some of the water.

Maybe, if he just tried harder to be what people needed him to be, he would be able to do good. Maybe they would stay.

So he underwent the second trial when the mages told him to. He killed monsters, when lords demanded it of him. He married a viscount when Vesemir presented him with the treaty. He was trying so hard to be good, to do as he was told, even now. There was only one thing preventing him from fulfilling his duty to be a tolerable husband: The things Jaskier tended to ask of him were just so strange.

Please eat enough.

Tell me how you’re feeling.

Take a break.

Talk to me, Geralt.

And when Geralt failed to comply, Jaskier was always there helping him with these tasks by taking work off his load, engaging him in conversation and sneakily handing him something to eat while he was distracted, making him feel like he could trust Jaskier fully with his thoughts.

Despite the many things Jaskier wanted Geralt to do, he never asked him to be different. The only thing he had asked him to be was to be his muse. And he had truly asked, not demanded.

That above all, made Geralt’s heart soar and spurred on the fire in his chest that urged him to do his best to be what Jaskier wanted him to be.

His best, as it turned out, was the easiest thing in the world. All he had to do was seek out Jaskier in the evenings, simply enjoying his company. What would have been an anxiety-inducing task a couple of weeks ago, now came as naturally to him as breathing.

The fire was crackling merrily in the hearth, dipping the room in soft light and filling it with warmth. Jaskier and Geralt were sitting on some furs Geralt had laid out for them in front of the hearth and Jaskier's lute was carefully propped up against the wall beside them. Geralt had hoped to hear him play this evening, but he couldn't complain about the lack of music, when instead of playing the lute, Jaskier started playing with Geralt's hair. It soothed him and loosened his tongue. He could keep talking for hours, if it meant that Jaskier would stay like this, happy and close to him.

Geralt by nature was a provider. Whether food, protection or warmth, he would always do his best to give his family whatever they needed.

And Jaskier needed him to provide stories. So, despite the initial awkwardness of talking about himself, Geralt provided.

"The girl wanted to pay me with a drawing of Roach," he said, smiling involuntarily at the precious memory of the rosy-cheeked girl who had clutched her pencils so eagerly.

Jaskier leaned into him, with a small sigh, a smile dancing across his lips. His hands idly began to plait Geralt’s hair into a loose braid. Geralt tilted his head to the side to give him better access, but not enough to lose sight of Jaskier. No matter how good it felt to have Jaskier comb his fingers through Geralt’s hair and twist it into something beautiful, it wasn’t worth missing a second of Jaskier’s smile.

"Have you kept the picture?"

Geralt's throat grew tight and he felt himself grow rigid, despite how much he tried to remain relaxed.

"No," he said in a clipped tone. "Never got it. Her father pulled her back inside and told me to fuck off before she could give it to me."

"What?" Jaskier stopped braiding his hair, his hand dropping down into his lap. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt could see the braid unwind, the strands falling down to curtain his face, now obscuring Jaskier after all. "I don't understand. You just said you had saved her from a Griffin?"

Geralt pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded.

"And then her father protected her from witcher." He brushed the hair behind his ears harshly, though his face was burning with the old yet never forgotten shame and he desperately wanted to keep it hidden behind the hair.

"Protec - Geralt! No one needs to be protected from you. You wouldn't hurt a child!"

Jaskier pushed away from him, leaving his side cold. Jaskier's hand came up to cup Geralt's cheek, tilting his head towards him. The sincerity and righteous anger in Jaskier's eyes took Geralt by surprise. He was used to being faced with fury, but rarely was it for him instead of being directed towards him.

"It's not fair," Jaskier insisted fiercely. "He shouldn't have done that."

Geralt shrugged. He put his hand above Jaskier's and pulled it away from his face, holding it between them instead.

See, my hand can do more than kill. It can be gentle. It can hold soft things without breaking them.

But Jaskier didn’t need to be told. He was the one entwining their fingers.

"It's not, but that's just how it goes,” Geralt said, looking down at their hands. “ I'm sorry I can't give you any happier stories of the Path. I don’t think there are any."

"There will be," Jaskier promised. "There's the contract now. You'll be safe around Lettenhove. You'll be paid fairly and treated kindly and once word spreads about how good you are, the provinces around Lettenhove will follow suit and soon the entire country will see the wrongs in shunning you. They’ll take you in and give you food and no one will turn away or tell you to leave.” He paused. “Roach will have the best boxes in any stable."

Geralt closed his eyes, trying to imagine a world like Jaskier described. A world in which people would welcome him and his brothers. A world in which he wouldn’t have to worry about his family being denied services from healers or starving while on the Path. A world in which no one would bat an eye about a witcher loving a human.

The thought sent a twinge through his chest and he shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the aching spot on his chest.

“The world isn’t that kind,” he said, more as a reminder for himself than for Jaskier. Gods knew Geralt didn’t want to see Jaskier’s smile drop further. “Not to us.”

“Then we’ll just have to be kind to each other.” Geralt opened his eyes, when Jaskier’s thumb caressed the back of his hand. “I’ll make sure your life will be easier. I promise.”

Geralt’s mind wandered to nights in a tent, when he slept like a rock with Jaskier curled against him. He thought of the helplessness of watching Roach rear up in panic and of Jaskier rushing in to save her. He thought of Jaskier doing everything in his power to lighten the load Geralt was carrying in preparation for a harsh winter. He thought of smiles, shared laughter, soft touches.

You already do, Geralt thought. A wave of affection hit him, swept him closer to Jaskier.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier scolded lightly, swatting at Geralt with his free hand. “I can do it.”

“I know.”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open to a silent ‘oh’. He cleared his throat and let go of Geralt’s hand. He scooted away from him and for a moment, Geralt’s heart dropped and his mind began to real as he tried to figure out what he had done to push Jaskier away. But Jaskier didn’t get up. He simply stretched, making his shirt ride up a little, to grab the lute. Once he had it, he settled back against Geralt’s side. He hesitated for a second, his fingers fluttering over the strings, as he tried to decide with which chord he should start, before they finally settled.

Geralt let out a pleased sigh, when the first notes filled the air. He wanted to close his eyes to take in the music fully, but he couldn’t look away from Jaskier.

The tip of the bard’s tongue peeked through his lips and there was a tiny furrow between his brows. Jaskier’s eyes flitted up from the lute and met Geralt’s. Then, he began to sing.

It wasn’t a brilliant song by any means. It was obvious that Jaskier was making it up on the spot, but there was a rawness to it, a need that Geralt couldn’t quite grasp. And all throughout it, Jaskier was looking at him.

Geralt was so taken in by the way Jaskier’s eyes were holding him captive, that it took him an embarrassingly long time to remember to pay attention to the words. When he finally did, his eyes widened in recognition.

Jaskier was singing of him, of the contract he had just told him about. Only in this version of the story, Geralt was far more heroic than he had been in real life. The song made it seem as if he hadn’t been scared of dying at all, as if he was infallible. The griffin was far more feral than it had been in actuality and at the end - Geralt choked, when Jaskier reached that part - at the end, Geralt was welcomed into the family’s home. He was embraced and thanked and told that he had done good.

“Stop,” Geralt choked out and immediately, Jaskier complied.

“What’s wrong?”

“It didn’t happen like that.”

“It should have.” Jaskier played the beginning of the song again, almost absentmindedly, but didn’t sing. “Maybe if I sing a song like this, it will give people ideas and they’ll start to act like they should.”

“But - “

“Call it poetic license. It’s just a little white lie and it might help you in the long run.” Jaskier swallowed and broke eye-contact to look down at the lute. “I won’t sing it if you don’t want me to, but I really think it could help.”

“It might,” Geralt agreed tentatively. “And it’s a nice song. It’s nice to imagine.”

Jaskier hummed softly and the conversation came to a halt. Geralt didn't mind. As much as he loved listening to Jaskier speaking, there was something precious about seeing him relaxed enough to not feel the need to fill the silence.

Not that there was true silence. Jaskier's fingers, ever restless, kept plucking the strings. The melody from before merged into a cheerful little tune that made it seem as if the flames in the hearth were dancing to it. The crackling of the fire sounded like home. So many times while out on the Path, Geralt had closed his eyes listening to the fire and imagined he was surrounded by his family.

He didn't close his eyes now. He didn't need to imagine. He had already found his home, right there next to him. Jaskier's eyes darted over to him for but a second, clearly catching him staring, but he didn't scowl. Instead, he gave Geralt a soft smile, before dropping his gaze back to his lute, as he played a complicated trill that Geralt was fairly sure was just there to show off. When Geralt hummed in appreciation, Jaskier's cheeks turned a darker hue of red, bringing out the roundness of them. Eating the way witchers did during the cold months clearly had done him some good. For witchers, it was part of survival to eat more plentiful in winter to compensate for the lack of food during the rest of the year. Looking at Jaskier, Geralt found himself thinking that it might also be a show of being comfortable and fully at home.

Jaskier's belly had gotten softer as well and he was filling out Geralt's clothes the slightest bit more than before. It was a good look on him. He looked safe. Protected. Comfortable.

Geralt let out a content sigh and leaned back. He didn't know when it had happened, but he found that he didn't feel the need to add ‘at least I hope so’ in his mind anymore, when thinking about Jaskier's comfort.

So smoothly that Geralt almost didn’t notice, the song faded into a new one again.

“I know this one,” Geralt blurted out into the almost-silence, unable to stop himself. Normally, he would have stayed quiet, but in this moment, he was flooded by emotion so strong that he couldn’t hold back. The song made him think of warm blankets, of soup and resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. It reminded him of the northern lights and secret moments that only the two of them were privy to.

Jaskier’s fingers didn’t fumble, but he glanced over at Geralt with a small smile that crinkled the sides of his eyes.

Then, without saying anything, he began to sing. Quietly, at first, but when Geralt leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes, Jaskier grew more confident. Last time Geralt had heard this song, Jaskier had merely hummed the melody. That alone had been enough to make Geralt’s heart flutter, to conjure up images of longing and holding close and looking from afar.

Hearing the words now almost took his breath away. Jaskier sang of longing, that much was true, but it wasn’t the soft sort of yearning that Geralt thought he could content himself with. It was violent, filled with heartache and doubts.

Without meaning to, Geralt scowled and a low rumble rose in his chest.

Jaskier stopped singing and the music faded out.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, silencing the strings with his fingers.

“Nothing,” Geralt said and sat up straighter, as if he was a boy again, caught slacking off by his teachers. When Jaskier’s gaze remained unwavering on him, he shifted uncomfortably and added, “I just don’t understand why you play these sorts of songs. It’s - sad.” ‘Sad’ was about the least adequate word Geralt could have used, but he didn’t think there even was a word that could fully encompass all of the emotion Jaskier had put into this song. “Why make yourself think about these bad things by writing a song about it?”

“It’s not like I wouldn’t think about them anyway,” Jaskier gave a self-deprecating smile. “At least like this, it can be something beautiful.”

The last sentence was said more as a question than a statement. It sounded hopeful and for once, Geralt caught his cue.

“It is beautiful,” he agreed.

“Besides,” Jaskier turned his attention back to his lute, rubbing at a small speck on the wood with more intensity than Geralt thought necessary, “those types of songs sell best. I’ve seen it, whenever bards passed through our court. Don’t ask me why people delight in hearing about other people’s heartache, but they do.”

“Of course they do,” Geralt scoffed.

“You don’t like it then?” Jaskier lifted a brow. “I do. But not because it’s sad.” “Why then?”

“Because -” Geralt swallowed thickly. His heart jumped in his chest, as if he was facing a bruxa. “Because it’s you. I do enjoy hearing your voice. I just rather you didn’t look like your heart was breaking when you sing.”

“Oh.” Jaskier stopped rubbing the spot and fiddled with the hem of his shirt instead. Of Geralt’s shirt. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t feel that way. Not anymore. I did when I wrote the song and part of that always comes back to the surface when I play - part of the performance, I suppose - but genuinely, I think I’m done with all the -” he waved his hand through the air vaguely and nudged Geralt teasingly, “- sadness.”

“Then fuck it.”

Jaskier let out a startled laugh. “What?”

“Fuck what other people want to hear. Fuck singing about things because they pay well or because they might help me. What do you want to sing about?”

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Jaskier simply studied Geralt. Then slowly, he lifted his hands again, resting them on the strings.

When he played, the new tune came out soft but gentle. It was unmistakably a song about unwavering affection, even Geralt with his notable lack of understanding for poetry and music could tell that much. But this time there was no doubt, only tender curiosity. Geralt scooted closer to Jaskier. Simply listening wasn't enough anymore, he needed to feel Jaskier's body pressed close to him. Jaskier in turn gravitated towards him, so that his elbow brushed his side every time he shifted to play a new chord.

It set something aflame in Geralt's chest, when Jaskier began to sing of hair the colour of seafoam and eyes gleaming like the sun’s reflection on the waves. He spun tales of arms that could hold him as tightly and safely as a shell that became home to a crab. It was a strange comparison and Geralt was sure that the great academics would have less than favourable opinions about it. But to Geralt, it sounded perfect. It sounded like nights spent at the library. It felt like Jaskier falling asleep to Geralt reciting poetry to him. It felt like… Devotion.

For a brief flicker of a moment, the all too familiar hurt that normally accompanied those thoughts flared back up. Fear of another owning Jaskier’s heart. Fear of these verses that Geralt was almost certain were describing him being part of those white lies Jaskier had talked about.

But no. Geralt refused to believe that. Not while Jaskier was leaning against him, sharing this side of himself with Geralt, trusting him with this song. As he had said, he was done with sadness and damn it, it was time that Geralt was too. They could push these pesky feelings aside together. He forced the doubts and fears aside with all his might, until all that was left on his mind and in his heart was Jaskier and the hopeful love he was singing about. Maybe it wasn’t quite the love Geralt was feeling, but there was no two ways about it. Jaskier was happy with him. He wanted to be near him and share moments such as these with him. Devotion could take many forms and for Jaskier it manifested in a song about Geralt, describing him not through a lie, but through the eyes of someone who truly saw good in him. He described him like the ocean that had bordered his home before.

“It sounds like a fairytale,” Geralt whispered softly enough that it didn't interrupt Jaskier's song but just loud enough that he would still be heard. “Like a dream.”

Jaskier finished the verse, looking thoughtful. His fingers still kept playing, but instead of moving on to the next verse, he said, “It doesn't have to be. Not for us.”

—

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#arranged marriage #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #fic #fanfic #witcher #my writing #fluff

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magdelanesingerin · 4 months

Text

Chapter 9: Intimacy

“I feel like a creep and an asshole. He moved on, he’s happy, and I’m happy for him. I should be over it by now, we were only together for a few weeks, for fucks sake. But there are these moments between us and I…” Geralt breaks off with a groan, rubbing his eyes hard enough to see stars bursting behind his eyelids.

“That’s understandable,” Nenneke says. “You dated Jaskier because you were attracted to him. Those feelings don’t magically go away just because the romantic relationship is over.”

“Yeah,” Geralt says morosely. "So far he either hasn’t noticed, or is nice enough to not call me out on it. I try not to spend time with just the two of us anymore. We hang out with Ren, or I try to have June with me as a distraction, so I don’t just fucking ogle him the entire time.”

“And does that help?” she asks with a knowing smirk.

“No,” he mumbles through his fingers. Nenneke laughs.

“Have you thought about getting back out there, trying to meet someone?”

“Get over someone by getting under someone else?” he asks wryly, and she snorts, shaking her head.

“Not exactly, no. Intimacy is a very normal human need, Geralt, and it’s not surprising that you’re craving human and physical connection again as you get more emotionally stable,” she says reasonably. “You’re doing really well. Making jokes, deepening friendships, your sleep is better– you seem lighter, happier. It’s wonderful to see, and it makes sense to me that you’d want to share that happiness.”

Geralt can feel his face heating as she speaks, embarrassed by the praise, but he can’t help the tiny smile that stretches his lips upward. That fragile smile fades as she continues, “Have you been intimate with anyone in the last few months?”

He grimaces and clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. It’s just sex, for fuck’s sake. He’s never been shy. This shouldn’t be so hard to talk about.

“No. Not since…hm. That hookup at the beginning of the year. No one since then,” he forces out, feeling self-conscious and pathetic.

“Ah, I remember,” she hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t berate him for his recklessness. She didn’t back then, either, when he told her about the party, the bar, and all his horrible decisions that night. He frowns and picks at his fingers, remembering the sharp, burning pain of getting fucked without prep, the cold tile under his hands, the smell of piss and stale smoke heavy in the air…

“I think you should consider dating.”

Her words pull him back out of his head and into the present.

“Uh. What?”

“Dating,” she repeats slowly. “I think you should consider it.” She cocks her head thoughtfully. “You could try something new, something outside the bar and club scene. There are a number of dating apps for people looking for more than a hookup.”

The skeptical noise Geralt makes starts out as a groan but travels through a few other sounds before it trails off into a grumble. Nenneke’s eyebrows go up and she grins.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad an idea, surely,” she snorts. “It can be a good way of meeting people who want the same things from a relationship as you. Actually, this will be an interesting exercise, a way to consider and verbalize what you are looking for in a partner and a relationship. Tell me how you’d describe yourself in your profile. Who are you, Geralt Morhen-Rivia, and what do you want out of a partner?”

She smiles expectantly and Geralt grimaces, trying to imagine it.

Cranky, job-insecure man, late thirties with no discernible career goals seeking companion for awkward dates and maybe more. Interests include horseback riding, medieval history, working out, and going to therapy for my various mental illnesses. Open to all genders and expressions; I will be equally emotionally inept with all.

Oh yes, what a catch.

Nenneke smiles at him encouragingly.

He can’t say any of that out loud.

“Hm. I…like horses. And. Food. And I’m looking for someone who. Uh…” he trails off, eyes wide and slightly desperate.

Her smile turns a little sad, and she sighs fondly.

“I know, it’s not easy, is it?” she says ruefully and regards him silently for a long moment. “Well, we’re out of time for the day anyway, so you’re off the hook.” She grins at him as he sags in obvious relief. “But I’d like to make that your assignment for this week. Think about three positive things you can say about yourself in a dating profile, and three things that you are looking for in a partner.”

Geralt groans like he’s been assigned a 20 page research paper instead of a dating profile, and his very supportive therapist laughs at him.

“I know, making you say nice things about yourself, so cruel,” she teases.

continue on Ao3

#a life alone #Geralt goes to therapy #my fic #last chapter of this installment woo!#the witcher #modern AU

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samstree · 2 years

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Dark Bird (3)

Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard. Geralt tries to fix things.

(The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, see tags and warnings on ao3)

The first things Jaskier notices upon waking are the ironclad shackles around his wrists. They are pulled tightly above his head, pinning his arms to the wall.

“What—” Jaskier calls out, pain shooting from his shoulders. “Geralt?”

His head throbs with every pulse of his heart, his temple covered in something sticky and cold. He must be bleeding.

And held prisoner, apparently.

“Anyone?”

The walls of the dark prison cells don’t answer him, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the aches of his body to stop. The shackles dig into his wrists, rubbing his skin raw. He lets out a pained gasp, struggling against the restraints, his breath shuddering.

“How?” Jaskier asks the empty room.

He remembers their honeymoon at the coast, the flowers in his hair, and those short blessed days that followed. They were married, away from the war, and they were happy.

Until the day Geralt was pulled through time and came back shaking, his face pale as a sheet.

Oh, yes. It all changed quickly. Too quickly.

Geralt asked Jaskier to pack in a panic, but there was no time. Nilfgaardian soldiers found them in their home. Jaskier climbed onto Roach’s back before realizing Geralt is not doing the same.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier’s face. “Go,” Geralt whispered like he was saying goodbye. “I won’t let them have you. I won’t.” He kissed Jaskier’s ring finger. “I can’t.”

Before Jaskier could protest, Roach started to run, taking him away from Geralt. Jaskier looked back at his husband, silver hair lined with gold in the sunset. The soldiers surrounded Geralt in no time, drowning out the glint of his sword and the dance of his attacks. It’s always a joy to watch Geralt fight, his movement always precise and elegant. Not that day, not when fear seized Jaskier’s throat, and all he could hear was the sound of Roach’s hooves hitting the ground.

She took Jaskier away from the coast and she ran for the whole night.

Until the dawn brought them right into the next trap.

An arrow pierced the air at the first ray of sun, missing Jaskier’s ear but enough to startle the mare into a halt, throwing Jaskier off her back. He hit the ground hard. There was blood in his eyes as soldiers dressed in dark colors pulled him up.

The last thing he remembers is shouting for Roach to run before someone knocked him out from behind.

And now, Jaskier is here, in a cold prison cell, not knowing what became of his husband.

“Geralt…” Jaskier’s breaths pick up from panic. There were too many of them for Geralt to fight alone, and Jaskier was away.

Geralt sent him away.

The world spins, and Jaskier blinks away the spots in his vision.

“Hello, Jaskier.” A tall figure pulls open the door. His face is obscured in the shadows, but his voice chills Jaskier to his core. “The witcher thought he was clever, but you see, you are here. It won’t be long until we have him too.”

Jaskier’s legs give out beneath him, his shoulders sagging.

Geralt isn’t here. Geralt is safe. Geralt is safe…

He repeats it like a mantra, under his breath, until the words disappear into a laugh.

“You won’t,” Jaskier smiles, grimacing. His wrists can’t take all of his weight. He can’t feel his fingers already. “You will never find him.”

A punch lands in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Jaskier grunts, biting into his lips. He spits into the man’s face and gets another punch in return.

“Tell us where he is, and I could spare you.”

Jaskier draws a breath, and another, his lungs seizing. He laughs, the half-choked, half-broken sound echoing in the dark cell.

“He is safe. He is safe…”

And Jaskier needs to keep it that way.

“Tell me.” The man’s voice grows dangerously cold. “Where did he hide the princess?”

Jaskier lifts his head defiantly.

“She’s dead.”

Magic hums in the air and the chains suddenly drop from the wall. Jaskier falls like a rag doll, his back hitting the stone floor. The mage kicks Jaskier in the ribs, his anger exploding. He kicks again, much harder this time, not giving Jaskier a chance to suck in a breath.

Something cracks under the man’s boot. Pain lights up deep within Jaskier’s side, blinding like white-hot flames.

“Oh, little bard. We both know she isn’t.” Slender fingers grab Jaskeir’s arm, digging into the wound at his wrist. “Tell me where they are, and it won’t come to this.”

Fire flickers alive in front of Jaskier’s eyes, held in the mage’s palm.

Jaskier whimpers, his mouth full of the metallic scent of blood. He tries to hide, to retreat, but the mage pushes him against the ice-cold wall with a twisted smile.

“She’s…dead,” Jaskier says stubbornly, and the mage’s twisted smile fades.

Fire licks up the tips of Jaskier’s fingers.

He screams.

☆

Jaskier is left on the ground, his hands still bound, the burnt fingers held at his chest.

The trembling won’t stop, and neither will the fog in his mind. The fire mage has come in more times than Jaskier can count, and his consciousness fades in and out until there are no coherent words from his broken lips. There is no use for him anymore. They can’t get to Geralt through him, and all Jaskier feels is relief.

The pain doesn’t matter. The tortures don’t matter. He could die here, knowing Geralt is far away from this place, keeping Ciri safe.

So he dreams. Curled into himself on the hard stone floor, he dreams.

Jaskier is eleven again, seeing a witcher’s golden eyes for the first time under Lettenhove’s darkened sky. He is seventeen, kissing Geralt in the warm greenhouse, safe within his witcher’s arms. He is eighteen, meeting Geralt in a dingy tavern in Posada, his heart broken at the lack of recognition in those golden eyes. He is twenty, thirty, and then, he is Geralt’s husband. They find each other through time. They find each other, always.

They went to the coast.

Jaskier opens his eyes. His cheeks are soaked with tears.

“Oh, but you see, Rience. You have it all wrong,” A woman speaks above Jaskier, her hand pressed against Jaskier’s temple, magic flowing between her fingers. “You needn’t ask the bard at all. The witcher shall come to us on his own.”

The fire mage said something—Rience. They are arguing, but Jaskier can’t keep himself awake long enough to catch it. The magic works still, penetrating his mind, pulling at his memories. He is too tired to fight.

“I can break him,” Rience says. “The witcher—”

“The witcher is linked to him by destiny. It’s a temporal bond, far beyond the understanding of the likes of you.”

Voices are raised, and the fire mage is lashing out. Fire flashes in the dark room, and Jaskier flinches.

“We cannot just wait!”

“That’s precisely what we should do. This human is the anchor of the witcher’s existence. He will be pulled here whether he wants to or not. Destiny will send him if the bard is in need. I’ve seen in all in his memory.”

A hum, and footsteps retreat into the hallway. “I’ll prepare the dimeritium.”

“Sleep, bard.” The woman’s spells seep into Jaskier’s mind. “You may be of use to us yet.”

☆

Dreams turn into nightmares. Jaskier is hot all over for one moment, and freezing cold for another. An infection settles in, the fever burning bright.

Jaskier is Geralt’s anchor, and now he will betray Geralt simply by existing.

Don’t come, Jaskier pleads. Not for me.

Neither of them can control when destiny brings Geralt to Jaskier through time, and for the first time since being captured, Jaskier feels real fear rising in his chest.

He listens as the guards lay traps around his cell, dimeritium cuffs clinking at their hips. He struggles against the chains until blood drips down his arms. He screams at them. He curses the mages. If they are hurting him, they won’t be thinking about getting to Geralt. He yells at them to hurt him.

And Geralt can’t end up here. With the cuffs, he won’t be able to escape, and Ciri…

Ciri.

“Don’t worry, bard.” The woman stands above Jaskier’s head, tall and proud. “The lion cub will join us soon.”

Jaskier’s fists wrap around the chains, the burns on his fingers blistering, keeping him lucid.

“You’ll pay for it,” he says, voice low. “If you hurt them, you’ll pay for it.”

The woman only lets out an amused huff. She leaves. The door is sealed shut, and Jaskier is alone.

He stays on the floor, touching the patch of bruises stretching from his sternum down to his stomach, where Rience likely broke his ribs. He’s fevered and sensitive, like an exposed nerve.

The air is getting thin.

Every breath is more difficult than the last. Still, Jaskier breathes, and waits.

The night settles in, silent and lonely. They’ve taken away all the light sources. Jaskier blinks his eyes open in the pitch-dark room, not wanting to fall asleep, but he doesn’t realize when he’s closed them. It could be minutes, or hours. Jaskier wakes from his fitful rest, shaking like a leaf, his back covered in cold sweat.

In a brief moment of weakness, he wishes Geralt was here.

He wishes Geralt would come to him.

It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, but Jaskier is tired to the bones. He just wishes his husband could hold him again. He just wishes a gentle hand could touch him again.

The familiar swoosh breaks the silence, and the next thing Jaskier knows, Geralt’s weight appears next to him, solid and real.

Just like that, Geralt is here.

No.

“No,” Jaskier says in anguish, realizing what he has done. “No, not here. Not for me…”

“Gods, Jaskier,” Geralt lets out a horrified gasp in the dark. “Where are we? When are we? You are bleeding. There is too much blood.”

Despite how much fear is in Geralt’s voice, despite the mistake of the situation, despite their doomed fate, Jaskier weeps at his husband’s voice.

“Geralt…”

“Hey, Jask. I’m here. Don’t you worry. I’m here.”

A hand cradles Jaskier’s face, and he nuzzles into it.

“You are,” Jaskier croaks, his throat ruined from hours of screaming. He allows himself a moment of respite, just a moment, to feel Geralt’s skin against his. Jaskier catches Geralt’s hand in his broken ones, holding it to his bloody lips. “You are not a dream.”

“I have to get you out. You are hurt. Jaskier, how—”

“There is no time,” Jaskier interrupts. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to run.”

He can’t see Geralt’s features, but he can picture the frown on Geralt’s face as clear as day.

“What are you talking about? Jask, I won’t leave you like this.” Geralt’s hands travel down Jaskier’s arms, finding the chains.

In a panic, Jaskier’s lungs seize. A coughing fit rattles against his chest.

“It’s a trap—” He draws a painful breath. “They found us, at the coast.”

“We’ll run. I’ll send you away. Roach can take you to the next town within a day.”

Jaskier shakes his head, his chest heaving.

“It’s…too late.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Jaskier. I’ll send you away with Roach. This can’t happen. I won’t let them get to you.”

Oh, but they did. It was all Jaskier.

“It was me. I wished... I’m the reason we are here.”

Geralt is here because of Jaskier. He went back and sent Jaskier away, because of Jaskier. That’s precisely how they will find all of them now. Time is playing the cruelest trick on them.

“Stop it, Jaskier. Just…let me save you.”

Geralt pulls off one of the chains from the wall with a grunt. Jaskier’s head lolls to one side from exhaustion. “You are more important, Geralt. Think about Ciri—”

Light splits the darkness and a portal opens in the middle of the small cell, the brightness forcing Jaskier to look away. He hears shouting, from the mages, from the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Geralt is gone from his side.

Aard sends half of the guards flying, but the rest keep coming in. The fighting begins, but Geralt can’t beat all of them. He isn’t carrying any weapons.

They were on their honeymoon, after all.

“Geralt…” Jaskier calls out, but he can’t keep himself upright. His other hand is still chained to the wall, held behind his back, keeping him away from Geralt, but he reaches forward.

Geralt screams a deep, rumbling scream as they knock him off his feet, his face pressed to the floor and arms twisted back. A guard brings the cuffs, and Rience clicks them shut.

“Didn’t I promise you, little bard?” Rience smirks in the cold light of the portal.

All Jaskier can see is his husband, whose eyes are equally fixed on him. Geralt looks guilty, like he’s failed Jaskier, somehow.

Why can’t he see? He can never fail Jaskier.

“You can’t keep him,” Jaskier whispers.

“But we have, and there’s nothing you can do,” Rience continues. “Now, witcher, where is our princess?”

“You will never find her,” Geralt growls at the mage, the rumbling in his chest animalistic and furious. “You will pay for this.”

“You two sound too similar. Is that what they say about married couples?” Fire ignites in Rience’s palm, illuminating his crooked smile and Geralt’s face. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the princess.”

In the bright light, Geralt catches Jaskier’s gaze. Something flickers in his eyes. It’s subtle, followed by the faint hum of magic in the air. It’s the sound that Jaskier used to hate when he was a child. All he looked forward to were the little pockets of time they got to spend together, until the hum of magic pulled Geralt away each time. Right now, the same hum is music to Jaskier’s ears.

Geralt’s time is up.

“I’m coming back,” Geralt says, the promise solemn. “I’m coming back for you.”

It all happens within a heartbeat.

Geralt throws his head forward, knocking Rience off balance, the fire in his hand turning into sparks. Several guards charge forward to keep Geralt in place.

Only to stumble into nothing. Dimeritium cuffs fall to the ground with a clunk.

Geralt is gone, back to the coast.

Jaskier lets out a whimper, rolling onto his back. He could laugh at Rience’s dumbfounded face, so he does.

Bony hands wrap around Jaskier’s throat in anger, cutting off his air. They loosen after a brief moment, and Jaskier gasps violently, but he pays no mind to the mage anymore. They can’t keep Geralt.

It doesn’t matter what they do to Jaskier now.

☆

Rience no longer bothers with Jaskier anymore. The chain that was broken by Geralt is left as it is. Jaskier spends his days fighting to breathe but mostly failing.

He touches the tender parts of his side. The broken ribs put a strain on his lungs, shooting pains into his limbs with every rise and fall of his chest. He has heard about this condition. It happens amongst injured soldiers who slowly die from a chest cavity that no longer draws breath. It’s like drowning on dry land.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, not knowing the passage of time. They send him water but he doesn’t remember drinking it. The fever comes and goes, preventing any of his wounds from healing. The burns on his fingers are swollen and sensitive. He wonders if he can still play the lute after this, and then, he wonders if there is an after at all.

He worries for Geralt, his Geralt, always placed out of time. What happens after he dies? Will he still be the anchor? Will Geralt be pulled to his presence, but only find his tombstone?

Jaskier clutches the fabric at his chest. He pictures the child by the road, with brown curls and big eyes, being pulled from his quiet life only to watch a sad, old bard die. The idea makes his stomach roil.

Bile rises up, and Jaskier gags. He spits out the bitter liquid until he tastes blood.

When rescue comes, Jaskier barely registers the noise.

There is an explosion, he thinks, and the ground shakes with raw, unbridled chaos. The guards are drawing their swords, but the sound soon becomes their wailing. The scent of lilac and gooseberries fills the air. When the door to his cell opens, Jaskier meets violet eyes.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer is gentle with him. It’s a rare sight. “Can you hear me?”

Jaskier only stares, searching. In the distance, swords clash, and he catches the shouts of a little girl. Ciri.

“Ciri…” He opens his mouth but no sounds come out. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“Ciri is fighting. So is Geralt,” Yennefer says, her hands weaving a spell. “You better not give up before a little girl, bard.”

Jaskier wants to laugh at her joke, and the coughs wreck his body again, choking all the stubbornness out of him. He wheezes, not being able to get air in. Yennefer’s spell settles in, and suddenly all the pain disappears.

It’s like he’s lying on top of the clouds. He could sleep right there and never wake up.

“Stay awake.” Yennefer sounds desperate. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d even think she’s worried for him. “Geralt!” she shouts. Now, he’s sure the great Yennefer of Vengerburg is worried.

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, he is held in Geralt’s arms, his body hanging limply. There is daylight in the corridors of the prison, and Geralt is beautiful. His hair is a mess with soot and blood, his eyes bruised from exhaustion, but he is, and Jaskier tells him so.

“Beautiful…”

It comes out a hoarse whisper, and Geralt looks down at him.

“Keep breathing, Jaskier,” Geralt kisses his forehead before crossing a portal. It jostles Jaskier, making him grimace. “Just keep breathing.”

Oh, but how difficult that is.

It��s like a mountain sits on top of Jaskier’s chest, squeezing out all the air. Every step Geralt takes sends shooting pains from Jaskier’s ribs, pulling him apart from the inside.

His airway grows tighter and tighter, but he can’t give up. Geralt is here, and they can go back now. They can go back to the coast, to the little cottage they call home.

“He can’t breathe. Yen, he can’t…”

“…Get him to Triss…have to…quickly!”

It’s like his head is bobbing at the surface of the sea. The waves drown out the sound, muffling out the world.

Jaskier drifts, and lets the waves wash over him.

☆

There is murmuring, and herbal water poured down Jaskier’s throat.

Too many people are handling him. He recognizes Yennefer and Ciri. Their hands are soft, wiping the blood and sweat from his face. Magic seeps into his lungs, easing air into him. He breathes gratefully at the faint outline of Triss’s hair. Her eyes are warm and reassuring.

When sword-callused hands finally wrap around Jaskier’s wrist, darkness sinks in again. It drapes over his eyes like a heavy curtain, forcing him to sleep. When he comes to, the night has receded, and golden light kisses the back of his eyelids.

The bed beneath Jaskier is soft, and the covers light, but he startles awake in fear.

The coldness that surrounds him is gone, but his skin remembers the phantom touch of the stone floor and the ironclad shackles. He struggles against it but gentle hands stop him by the shoulders.

“Where—”

“Yen’s safe house. You are okay,” Geralt says, his face impossibly close. “We got you out of there. They won’t touch you again.”

It’s morning already. Light spills through the window, casting long shadows in the room. Jaskier’s vision blurs when he looks at anything that is not Geralt, so he looks at Geralt again.

Jaskier’s fever dream was right. His husband is the most beautiful man Jaskier has ever seen.

He’s keeping his hair down for once, letting it drape to one side like a waterfall made of silver. There are dark circles under those golden eyes and tight lines around his lips, and all Jaskier wants to do is to soothe them. Geralt looks drained, exhausted.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Darling, are you alright?”

He’s surprised to find his voice. It’s still rough, with barely any force behind it, but it’s his voice.

Geralt looks incredulous like he’s just heard a terrible joke. “Am I alright?” he huffs. “You gave me quite a fright yesterday. Can’t say I’m too well.”

Jaskier reaches out from under the blankets to touch Geralt’s face, only to notice the thick bandages around his wrist and the spasms in his muscles. Geralt catches his hand to stop him from trembling.

“My hands?”

“They’ll recover. It’ll take time and exercise, but you will play again, I promise.” Geralt kisses the bandage. “Your voice will come back too.”

“You’ll be here when I sing again?”

“Of course.”

Jaskier nods, satisfied. “Your hands are cold,” he says a moment later, frowning, and Geralt softens.

“Well, you nearly died from a collapsed lung. Guess we are even.”

Jaskier is not amused. He hates it when Geralt doesn’t take care of himself. Even with his enhanced biology, there is no need to be uncomfortable like this. He must have sat at Jaskier’s bed through the night to get this cold.

“Here.”

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hands into the covers where it’s nice and toasty. He wants to rub some warmth into them, but his wrists are too weak. They end up holding hands near Jaskier’s heart, letting his body temperature do the work.

“Easy. You are on a lot of potions. You may not feel all the wounds yet.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, the expansion of his chest pulling at the aches in his side. He grimaces, winking in mischief. “Oh, I feel them.”

Instead of smiling, Geralt’s face falls. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a bit funny.”

Geralt’s shoulders tighten. His expression looks like a kicked puppy, and that’s how Jaskier knows he’s crossed a line.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts. “You were tortured. For days. They broke three of your ribs and left you to die.” Guilt sits between Geralt’s brows. “It was all because of me.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

“I disagree.”

“It was me.” Jaskier takes in another labored breath. Talking still takes a lot out of him. “In that cell, I wished to see you, and there you were. Don’t you see, Geralt? This happened because of me. They found out about us from my memories. They knew all they needed to do was wait, and they were right. All of it happened because of me.”

Geralt’s fingers link with Jaskier’s, careful with the bandages around his burns.

“I sent you away with Roach, because of what I saw. I tried to prevent you from getting hurt, but I sent you right into a trap.”

“You almost fell into their trap too, because of me. Rience almost had you.”

Jaskier shudders, a few coughs bubbling up in his throat. Lying down puts too much pressure on his chest, so he struggles against the covers.

Geralt wraps his arms behind Jaskier to help him sit up. He also brings a cup of water, and Jaskier drinks it gladly, his throat soothed from the coolness. He looks down to find his torso also wrapped in heavy bandages, the aches throbbing underneath. A sheen of sweat has broken out on Jaskier skin when the coughs die down.

“He’s dead now,” Geralt says, dabbing Jaskier’s forehead with a soaked cloth, avoiding the healing wound on his hairline.

“And the woman?”

Geralt’s lips press together. “Fringilla. She’s gone. Yen wanted to track her, but it could expose all of us.”

Dread sits between Jaskier’s breastbone, but he stays quiet.

“You look pale. Is it the fever?” Geralt presses their foreheads together to feel Jaskier’s temperature. “It hasn’t gone down yet.”

“Just thinking.”

“You are never this quiet when you’re thinking.”

Jaskier smiles tiredly. “Just want to go home now. Back to the coast.”

Geralt sits back, his expression grave. “Oh,” he says, “we can’t. They found us there.”

“In a few years, then. When the world has forgotten all about us.”

Now, Geralt looks properly pained.

“Jaskier, they burned down our house.”

The morning light blinds Jaskier’s sight for a moment, and he has to look away.

The small cottage on the cliff, the home where they were handfasted by their family, is gone. It’s not rational to mourn a building, perhaps, but Jaskier mourns anyway.

“I see.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking? Of course they did.”

“Jaskier…”

“If only—” his breathing quickens. “—If only we were still there. Just a few days ago, before everything changed. No destiny, no wars, just us. If only we could go back.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s lax body to lean against his, letting his head rest comfortably. Jaskier lets out a whimper, his chin wobbling. It’s pathetic to be sad about something as inconsequential as a small cottage. Everyone is alright, after all. It shouldn’t matter, but Jaskier is too hurt to care.

“I’m sorry, Jask.” Geralt says under his breath. “It’s all my fault.”

“Again, not you.” Jaskier will repeat as many times as he needs. “It was just bad people, doing bad things. They used us both.”

“What if we could—”

Geralt cuts himself off before finishing the sentence, and Jaskier hums.

“What if we could…?”

A sigh, followed by a kiss. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looks up, confused. “You were saying?”

Geralt is wearing that determined look on his face, the look that is equally tragic and doomed. He only does it when he’s decided to do something incredibly self-sacrificial, and therefore incredibly heroic and stupid. Jaskier hates that look.

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it.

“We’ll talk later.” Geralt rubs Jaskier’s back to soothe him. Or dismiss him. “You must want to rest.”

“That’s all I’ve done,” Jaskier argues. “And you said half of it already, so you must tell me now. It’d be incredibly rude to toy with a bard’s curiosity like this, you know?”

Jaskier’s attempt to lighten Geralt’s mood fails, and the shadow in his husband’s eyes only darkens. He might as well be walking towards the gallows.

Geralt sits next to Jaskier, cradling his hands gently. He looks like he’s trying to muster all the courage for what he’s about to say. It’s becoming really unnerving.

“Jaskier,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier answers, his frown deepening. He waits for Geralt to continue. “And?”

“Yen has been studying Ciri’s power, helping her control it.”

“Yes, I know this.”

“She believes Ciri has the ability to manipulate time. The past, present, future. All of it.” Geralt pauses. “She believes she can harness it.”

“It sounds like a powerful thing,” Jaskier says, not sure why Geralt would look saddened about this fact. They’ve been studying Ciri’s magical abilities for a long time, and there’s finally a breakthrough. “But what does it have to do with me?”

Geralt touches the bandages on Jaskier’s wrists, his thumb running the familiar soothing motion. He’s so nervous that Jaskier wants to let it go for a second.

“Yen thinks, with Ciri’s help, there could be a way of undoing the bond between us, and I want to let her try. The temporal magic is ancient. It’s as old as destiny itself, so it will be tricky and the spell won’t be ready for a while yet, but there is a chance it could work. We’d need to look after Ciri in the process, of course, but she has enough chaos to protect herself…”

The world narrows down to the words I want to let her try, and the rest fades into the background. Jaskier’s heart beats steadily in his chest, and for a few moments, he does not register the meaning behind those words.

“…it’ll be for the best. The Nilfgaardians are still searching for me. We can’t let them get to you again.”

“What are you saying?” Jaskier hears his own voice from a mile away. “Surely, you can’t do that.”

“We can. The bond is strong, weaved into destiny itself, but more powerful things can break it. A Djinn, perhaps,” Geralt says. “Or a Source.”

Jaskier stares, unblinking, and then he’s laughing at the first truly funny thing he’s heard since being captured. It’s nearly hysterical.

“Oh, Geralt. How silly! Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter how Yen can work her wicked spells. The past is in the past!” he explains, as if to a child. “Everything we’ve been through together has happened already. If she breaks the bond, what of the past? Our lives are weaved into the same, tangled since the beginning. The same bond brought you to me when I was a child. What of those days? Will they just disappear into thin air, like they’ve never exis—”

The laugh freezes on Jaskier’s face, his stomach twisting.

“Oh, Jaskier…”

The look on Geralt’s face is now of sympathy.

“They will just disappear, like they never existed,” Jaskier repeats. “Our days together will be erased.”

Geralt’s nod is almost imperceptible, gentle, but it may as well be a punch in Jaskier’s gut. He flinches, recoiling from Geralt’s touch.

Jaskier curls into himself, inhaling sharply, one breath after another. Distantly, he notices the pain in his ribcage. It begins as a spark, only a faint stinging of his broken ribs, but soon it takes life, radiating through his core.

“We never would have met,” Jaskier murmurs. “But I waited for you. I waited for you my whole life.”

“You wouldn’t have known I existed, Jask. You’d just grow up in Lettenhove—”

“Alone. Without you.” Jaskier swallows, his throat constricting. “The past will be lost.”

“It’s the only reason you are in danger. If we had never met,” Geralt explains gently, a faint smile on his face, “they’d never have hurt you like this.”

He looks like he truly believes it to be a good idea.

“Is it because of me?” Jaskier asks, his breath hitching. “Because it was my fault. They used our bond because I was weak.”

“No, Jaskier—”

“But it was only a moment. I know better now. I won’t make the same mistake,” he pleads. “You mustn’t blame me, Geralt, not too much, not for long.”

Jaskier is panicking, and he’s breathing too fast. He realizes that, but he can’t bring himself to care. Geralt wants to leave.

Geralt wants to leave again, after all this time.

It was only a moment of weakness. Jaskier was hurting and he couldn’t stay strong. He only missed Geralt, just a little, and let his mind wander.

Surely, his husband should forgive him.

“Jask, no. Listen to me, it was not your fault.” Geralt’s eyes have gone round, his hands holding Jaskier’s cheeks, making sure their eyes meet. “My brave Jaskier. It’s not what you think. It was never your fault, only mine. I’m the reason you are hurt, over and over again. I’ve been selfish enough to let it happen for decades, but when I found you in the cell…I—I couldn’t live with myself anymore. It was too close this time.” Geralt swallows like he’s going to be sick. “Too close.”

“You got me out of there,” Jaskier insists childishly.

“Barely.” Geralt’s eyes are vacant, haunted by memories. “Had we been a moment late—”

“I’m fine now.”

“You are very much not!”

The words come out too loud, and Geralt winces, ashamed to have raised his voice. The room is quiet, except for Jaskier’s rattling breaths.

Panic morphs into anger, licking up in the midst of pain.

“Don’t I get a say in it?” Jaskier says, voice low, teeth clenching. “I don’t care if it’s the price of being with you.”

If it’s the price of loving Geralt, he’d choose to bleed and burn a thousand times over. He’d choose it any day. It’s the same choice Geralt made once, the old aches in his joints a solid proof.

“Oh.” Geralt’s thumb ghosts over Jaskier’s split lips. “It’s not a price I’m willing to pay.”

And yet…

He’d deny Jaskier the same choice.

The room spins in front of Jaskier’s eyes, dizzying in the bright sunlight. Out of nowhere, Jaskier musters the strength to push away Geralt’s hands, his body toppling to the other side.

“No!” Jaskier shouts, panting violently. “You don’t get to—” He coughs, hoarse and painful. “—you don’t get to give up on us.”

Jaskier clutches at his collar, gasping for air, his lungs rattling pathetically like an old ship in a storm. It’s like Rience’s hand is around his throat again. Waves of nausea crash into his trembling body, but Jaskier holds himself upright out of sheer spite.

Tentative hands rest on his shoulder, trying to help him. “Jaskier, you are hyperventilating.” Geralt sounds scared now. “Shit. Something's wrong.”

“You…” Jaskier rasps. The world blacks out for a second. The ringing in his ears grows louder and louder until it drowns out his own voice. He isn’t sure if the words are spoken, or if they are just an echo of his anguish. “You promised me.”

Geralt promised, under the pine trees of Kaer Morhen, on the grassy cliff by the sea. He promised with their hands wrapped together. He promised not to leave.

Geralt is choosing to leave now.

“…Jaskier…you need to breathe…”

He will leave the child who waited at the lake, in the cold mansion of Lettenhove. He will leave Jaskier to the lonely days of his childhood. He will leave, on top of a mountain, and never return.

“…Please…breathe…”

The ringing pierces Jaskier’s mind, and the world quiets.

“You promised,” he whimpers.

Warmth rises from Jaskier’s throat, metallic and cloying, filling his mouth. He throws his body forward, splattering the sheets with crimson. He coughs and chokes, watching helplessly as blood drips onto the bandage around his fingers.

Jaskier feels strangely calm.

He looks up, and finds people rushing into the room.

Ciri is standing by the door, her eyes wide with fear. Jaskier must be quite a sight. He has been tortured and starved, and now, covered in blood. He never wants to upset Ciri. She has gone through too much already.

Yennefer is yelling at Geralt, that much is sure. Her mouth is opening and closing, and she looks cross with him. She opens a bottle of potion, but Jaskier doesn’t care about the pain anymore. Triss’s hands are around him, her magic vibrating against his skin.

And Geralt…

Geralt looks as scared as Jaskier feels. He’s calling Jaskier’s name, again and again, begging him to answer, but Jaskier can only remain still.

It’s like he’s floating outside of his body, watching himself break apart in silence.

Can’t Geralt see it? Rience’s fire couldn’t do it, nor could Frigilla’s magic and destiny’s cruel jokes, one after another.

But Geralt can.

He breaks Jaskier easily, by holding his heart within his palms and casting it aside. Jaskier shutters into pieces right there.

The pain spreads through his limbs, seeping into every cell of his body, reaching every inch of Jaskier’s soul. It makes sense it’s the worst pain he’s ever felt—he’s grieving a part of himself. It’s the best part, tangled with Geralt from the root. It is now being pulled out alive, leaving an empty, gaping wound.

Tears trail down, salty like the blood on his tongue.

Jaskier collapses in despair.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the time traveler's wife AU #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #i've been waiting for 40k of words just to get to this scene :'D

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bambirex · 1 year

Text

The World Is Yours, If You Seek The Good: Chapter 11

Pairings: Geraskefer, Geraskier, Yenralt, Yennskier

Characters: Jaskier, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt of Rivia, Ciri of Cintra, Lambert

Additional tags: implied/referenced abuse, forced pregnancy, mpreg, creature fic, fae Jaskier, creature Jaskier, creature Yennefer, captivity, enemies to friends to lovers, polyamory, found family, hurt/comfort, it starts out angsty but it will get better, completely made up lore, fertility issues, completely made up skills and powers, angst, angst with a happy ending, whump, Jaskier whump, Yennefer whump, intersex Jaskier, Ciri whump, Geralt whump, blood, nightmares, injury, wound care

Rating: mature

Full word count: 34,232 words

Chapter word count: 2,880 words

Chapters: 11/?

Summary: Used and abused by humans, Jaskier and Yennefer believe they are alone and with no reason to trust anybody. That is, until they meet each other - and then, a couple of other strange misfits.

Chapter summary: Geralt returns from a contract with an injury. It gives him and Yennefer an outlet for their emotions, as well as a chance to become closer.

Author's notes: I am bringing some Yenralt softness this time! They're both so deeply sad and I think it was time they actually talked about it.

Read on Ao3

"That's not the price we agreed on."

"Are you trying to negotiate with me now, you mutant freak?"

A nasty, guttural laughter showing off yellow teeth followed. The farmer was the most disgusting creature Geralt has seen in a while, and that was something considering he was holding the severed head of a ghoul.

"You're too stupid for that, anyway."

"There's nothing to negotiate on something that has been already settled," Geralt said calmly. "We agreed on a price. Now you're trying to rip me off."

"You should be glad you get paid at all," the farmer growled. He spat at Geralt's feet. "You're spending the money on whores anyway."

"I fail to see how that's your business," Geralt sighed as he lowered the ghoul's head onto the ground. It rolled slightly, making the farmer wince. "Besides, the pot should never call the kettle black."

He sent a glance towards the farmer's wife whose eyes widened. The farmer cursed loudly, surging forward to get up in Geralt’s face.

"Say shit like that again and you won't get any money at all!"

"I'm going now," Geralt concluded with a resigned sigh. He was exhausted after slaying a horde of ghouls that became too bold and approached the farms, and he was getting even more tired of the humans' bullshit. They hired Geralt to get rid of the monsters that plagued them, then treated him like the dirt on the bottom of their shoes. Geralt was used to it by now; didn't mean it was fun.

The farmer threw the satchel at him with a grimace. He only paid half of what he promised, but right now, Geralt didn't feel like pressing it any further. He wanted this to be done with at once so he could get back home and see how Ciri was doing. She was his priority now. Maybe he could come back one day to get the other half of the money.

As he turned around to leave, he noticed a girl sitting on a chair by the door. She was younger than Ciri, but she also had blonde hair and light eyes. She watched Geralt curiously, not with fear or hatred like her parents. There was still pureness in her heart. She smiled at Geralt, and he smiled back.

She dropped her toy and it rolled on the floor, to Geralt's feet. He bent down and picked it up. The girl shyly reached her hand out for it, and Geralt approached the chair to give it back to her.

He was the one that dropped the toy this time when a sudden, searing hot pain flashed through his arm. Geralt hissed and grabbed at the sore spot with his other hand. His fingers were quickly covered with blood.

He turned around to see the farmer glaring at him, holding a small kitchen knife in his hand.

"Don't you dare touch my daughter, you monster!" He growled and raised the knife again. Geralt avoided it easily this time, fleeing the hut without looking back.

He got up on Roach's back and urged her on. There was an uncomfortable, queasy feeling in his stomach that he thought he would be able to ignore by now, but it has always remained, stubborn and bitter. Geralt cursed under his breath as he rode home, his arm throbbing.

He was surprised to find Yennefer alone in the kitchen. It was rare she left Ciri's room, especially since the accident that revealed her heritage. She was stuck to the girl's side like glue. That protective streak in her, that Geralt has noticed before, seemed to have reached its peak, and now she's also taken it upon herself to try and help Ciri with her powers.

He heard the faint strumming of a lute coming from Ciri's room and he understood why Yennefer finally felt comfortable leaving her alone: the girl was with Jaskier, who, no doubt, was trying to put her troubled mind at ease with his magical, calming voice.

Yennefer looked up from the book she was reading by the table. The small smile on her face quickly morphed into an expression of horror when she noticed the wound on Geralt's arm.

"What the fuck happened," she gasped, rising to her feet. She made her way over to Geralt quickly, her hand hovering above his arm, unsure of what to do. "Were you bitten by a ghoul?"

Something about the fact that Yennefer remembered what kind of contract Geralt was dealing with made him smile through the pain.

"No, a human cut me," Geralt explained. Yennefer still stood in her way, anxiously glaring at his wound.

"It looks nasty," she concluded. Geralt chuckled.

"Thank you."

"Seriously, Geralt," Yennefer leaned closer, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "What the fuck did they cut you with?"

"A knife."

"You need to sit," Yennefer ordered. Not even waiting for Geralt's answer, she grabbed his healthy arm and dragged him towards the table. She pushed him down on a chair. Geralt was surprised at how easily and without resistance he followed her.

"Where do you keep your medical kit?"

"Yennefer," Geralt sighed, "it's kind of you to worry, but this isn't my first injury. I can do this myself."

"You don't have to," Yennefer told him simply. "Where's the kit, Geralt?"

Geralt let out a sigh. It was obvious that Yennefer wouldn't leave him alone until he went along with this. He pointed at the cupboard. Yennefer immediately sprung into action. She moved fast as lightning, raiding the cupboard at an incredible speed before she was right back at Geralt's side with the medical box.

"Have you ever done something like this?" Geralt asked, watching intently as Yennefer rummaged through the box for the needed supplies.

"Only once," she admitted. "I was once kept with another drepima. The only time I was not alone before I met Jaskier, actually. She got really badly injured after a beating, so I had to steal some supplies from our owners and patch her up."

"What happened to her?" Geralt asked. Yennefer sighed, avoiding Geralt's eyes.

"She was killed. Don't look at me with such pity, we've only spent a few days locked together. It wasn't a lifelong friendship or anything."

"It still must have hurt," Geralt said softly. "Losing someone is never easy, even if you only knew them for a short time."

Yennefer didn't reply for a while. Instead, she focused on cleaning the skin around the cut.

"I haven't gotten along well with Jaskier in the beginning," Yennefer said. She dabbed at the dried blood with the gauze. "I always told myself it was because we were so different and I used to hate his kind, but maybe I was scared of becoming friends with someone."

"Because you were worried that if you did become his friend, you might lose him."

"Maybe. I never really allow myself to get attached. It's not like I'm built for cute friendships or romance or anything like that."

"Me neither," Geralt hummed. Then, with a faint smile, he added, "or so I thought. Then I found Ciri."

He could see Yennefer's eyes softening, and there was even the beginning of a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

"I've been told I'm not supposed to have emotions so many times that I eventually believed I didn't have them. And I also believed that growing attached to someone was too risky. But things changed. And this is coming from someone who hates change, but it can be good sometimes, Yennefer."

"Maybe," Yennefer whispered. She stared at Geralt's wound before she let out a sigh. "This looks infected."

Geralt followed her eyes, and indeed, his injury did not look good. The knife must have been rusty. Geralt's body was more resilient to injuries, and his slowed heartbeat made it harder for the infections to spread, but it was still not ideal to walk around with a wound oozing yellow puss. Especially now when he had to be on high alert and at his strongest for Ciri.

"Well, shit."

"I can try and burn out the wound," Yennefer offered. "I think I can control the fire enough to not burn you alive."

"Very reassuring."

"I can do it! Trust me, just... let me do something good for once!"

The desperation in Yennefer's voice made Geralt's chest tighten with sympathy. He knew that drepimas were considered creatures of utter destruction - they couldn't create, only destroy. But then again, wasn't that what they believed about witchers as well? That they were dumb, horrifying creatures who were only good for mindless killing?

It wasn't true for him, and it wasn't true for Yennefer either.

"Okay," Geralt said, "I trust you."

He really did, in that moment. He watched Yennefer's eyebrows twitch in concentration as she touched the tips of her fingers against his wound. He watched her, so much more caring, so much kinder, so much lonelier and more vulnerable than what the humans made her out to be, and his heart fluttered in a way that was unfamiliar to him.

He felt the searing, painful heat of the fire on his arm. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle a yell as it burned his skin and his flesh. It was luckily over soon.

There was disbelief, and also the most beautiful smile on Yennefer's face when she pulled back. Geralt couldn't help but smile back at her.

"You did it," he told her softly, "you didn't burn me alive."

"It will stop the infection from spreading," Yennefer told him, looking down on her hands with something like awe. She deserved to feel that way about herself, Geralt thought.

"Thank you, Yennefer," he told her earnestly, making her smile widen.

The same smile slowly faded as concern took its place on her face.

"What exactly happened," she asked softly, "on the contract?"

Geralt shrugged. "Ghouls got bold and ventured into the towns. They started killing farm animals and they attacked a stablehand, that's why they asked me to intervene. Ghouls have usually only been found around battlefields before. It's probably because of all the wars lately, they're everywhere."

"I meant, what happened with the humans who hired you. Why did they cut you?"

Geralt looked down on his hand, suddenly finding the dirt under his fingernails very interesting. It wasn't often that someone asked about his experiences with the humans. It wasn't his favorite topic either, he preferred to brush it under the rug.

But it would have been unfair to keep it bottled up when Yennefer finally opened up to him about her own problems. Geralt believed he owed her that much.

"He believed I was gonna attack his daughter," Geralt explained, still not meeting Yennefer's eyes. "He was just protecting her."

"Why did he think that?"

"I wanted to give her her toy back. He saw me approaching her, and he jumped on me."

"That's all it took for him to attack you?" Yennefer's voice lowered to a growl. Her eyes lit up with genuine rage. "Fucking humans."

"I'm used to it," Geralt sighed. "It's what always happens. They call me to get rid of their pest, then they spit on me and hurl stones at my head. It's always been like that, and it will always be like that."

Yennefer didn't say anything for a while. She returned to tending to Geralt's wound, gently bandaging it. Whenever her fingertips brushed his skin, Geralt felt a pleasant tingle running down his spine.

"I don't understand," Yennefer started quietly, "I thought witchers were pretty much in cahoots with the humans. You get rid of creatures, that's your job, so, how... how is this possible?"

"I'm not human, and you know that, too."

"You used to be."

"When I was still a child. What do you know about witchers?"

"Not much. Only that you are advanced humans who kill for a living."

"They turn us when we're still kids," Geralt said. The memories hurt, they always would, but he got better at ignoring the pain in his chest. "Abandoned kids work the best. My mother has dropped me off at the doorstep of an older witcher, Vesemir, who then became my father. I went through the trials with several other kids. Not many of us survived. The mutagens do terrible things to a fragile body. They change you on a cellular level. They inflict pain upon you, so much pain that it feels like your flesh is being ripped into pieces. They kill the old you. Empty your soul, your mind, everything. From then on, you only have one purpose in life. To hunt and survive."

When he looked up, he saw something like sympathy in Yennefer's eyes.

"The humans rely on us, because we're stronger and more agile than them, but that doesn't mean they like us. Not at all. We're just mutant freaks in their eyes, the same monsters they're scared of. Only a little more useful."

He looked at Yennefer, whose gorgeous violet eyes bore straight into his - more open, more trusting than ever before.

"I know you believe my kind isn't better than humans," Geralt continued, "and in some ways, you might be right. It is true that I kill creatures and get paid for it. But I always try my best to choose the lesser of two evils, and I would never hurt someone who's innocent."

Yennefer fiddled with a lock of her hair. She twisted it around her finger then released it, watching it bounce back. She bit her lip as she looked up at Geralt again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. To Geralt's hum of confusion, she continued.

"For what you had to go through, and for what you're still going through. And for the things I've said to you. I guess I've never really given it much thought... that maybe... we are not so different, after all."

She reached out and touched Geralt's arm through the bandages, careful not to apply too much pressure on his injury.

"I'm sorry for not trusting you."

"That's not something you need to apologize for," Geralt told her. He laid his own hand over Yennefer's. He smiled when she didn't pull away. "It made perfect sense that you didn't. Do you, now?"

"I'm getting there," Yennefer promised with a small smile of her own. "I see the kindness in you. I didn't notice it right away, not like Jaskier did. But then again, he trusts a little too easily."

Her smile widened as she talked about the synella. Geralt felt that flutter in his chest again.

"You're so sweet with him. There are so many ways you could have taken advantage of him, but you didn't. The same way you never used me, either. And you're a wonderful father to Ciri."

Geralt chuckled. "I think I'm a very awkward father, actually."

Yennefer laughed softly. "Yes, you are. But you try your best. And you care about her. That's what matters."

"Do you think she will be able to control her powers?"

"She needs a bit more time," Yennefer admitted. "She's still shocked, not that I blame her. She needs to wrap her head around it. Her powers... they're very unique. But she will get there."

"You'll make sure of it," Geralt said. It wasn't a question, but a statement: he knew that Yennefer will do anything she could to help Ciri. Even if they had a bit of a rocky start, Geralt believed the drepima has earned his trust.

After all, it would have been very easy to burn him to ashes with the touch of her fingers, but she didn't. She bent over backwards to help him instead. As strange and unexpected as it was, Geralt found himself caring for Yennefer more and more.

Yennefer pulled her hand away with a smile that seemed almost coy. Geralt found himself missing the feeling of her touch.

Yennefer looked towards the stairs, listening intently. She smiled as she glanced back at Geralt.

"It's quiet," she noted, "I think they fell asleep."

"Wanna check on them?" Geralt asked, rising to his feet. He couldn't wait to see his daughter after such a physically and emotionally difficult day. He stood and reached his hand out for Yennefer. Yennefer stared at his hand in confusion for a few moments before she took it carefully, her cheeks pinkening.

Together, they walked up to Ciri's room. Geralt opened the door carefully and peeked inside.

The sight that greeted him made warmth spread through his chest.

They were indeed both asleep, Jaskier propped up against the pillows with one arm resting over Ciri's back, who hugged his torso, her cheek pressed against Jaskier's belly. It looked both like she needed comfort, and like she was protecting him.

When Geralt looked back at Yennefer, he saw the same awe on her face that he felt. He smiled at her, and Yennefer's eyes lit up like a million stars.

Geralt felt a little embarrassed upon realizing he was still holding Yennefer's hand, but nearly not as much as he was probably supposed to.

Instead, he felt that warmth inside him spread even more, until that was the only thing he felt.

It felt a lot like happiness.

#geraskefer #yenralt #geraskier #yennskier #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #my fic #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ciri #the world is yours if you seek the good

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