#OH WAIT I REMEMBER WHY I PICKED WITCHER

[enbeemagical]

✨️guess who made the mistake of (re)watching a Witcher episode at night✨️

[cosmos-coma]

Sick Days- Geralt

Pairing: Geralt x Reader

Words: ~1.1k

Summary: You refuse to tell Geralt that you're sick and so he has to find out the hard way

__________________________________

“How are you doing back there, Y/n?” Geralt called back to you, he and Roach taking the lead on this narrow path.

The partly cloudy afternoon was more than welcome to you compared to the rain you had pushed through all day yesterday. And the day before. Ugh. 

Honestly, you liked rain as a whole, but the added chill in the air and the absolute soaking of your jacket left you feeling tired, feverish, and sniffly. You dared not let Geralt know that you were growing sick, the deadline to get to Novigrad was drawing closer and you refused to be the cause for missing it.

“Yep, yeah, I’m okay back here…” you lied. Your vision had begun spinning and your vision started lagging behind your eyes about 10 minutes ago. Your light tunic clung to your skin as your fever made you sweat relentlessly. Your various layers were laying across your horse in an unceremonious heap where you had left them and- wait, did you lose a jacket along the way? Hmm, you couldn't remember.

You let out a soft hum as a faint breeze cooled your skin and gave you a moment of relief from the sweltering heat.

 “Y/n?” Geralt called out to you, “did you hear what I said?”

“Hm? Oh, no… what were you saying?” Your eyes closed as you tried to listen, your ears only picking up garbled noises. You could feel your body begin to get to tired to hold itself together, but you had to fight through it. 

“Hmm, That’s interesting… “ you replied- well you're pretty sure that’s what you said. You… couldn’t be sure right now. Your consciousness filled with nothing more than a dense fog you couldn't seem to fan away. 

“Yes very interesting…” you slurred out as your mind finally forced your body to shut down and everything went dark.

“Y/n, you’re not making any sense- shit..!” Geralt turned just in time to see you fall off your horse with a great big THUD. A pathetic groan was the last sound your barely conscious body sent out as Geralt yelled again and ran to your limp body. 

“Y/n?” he shook you, “Fuck… and you’re burning up,” he commented and swiftly picked you up, your skin blazing and burning against his. “Let’s get you to an Inn, we’re done traveling for today…”

You woke up on clean linens, your body stripped down to its underclothes and covered in damp washcloths to keep you cool. “Hmm, Geralt...?” you grunted out as you sat up, rolled up cloth falling from your forehead, “Oh- nope, no, no, no... too dizzy…” you sighed and promptly laid down again. 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty…” Geralt jested and sat on the edge of the bed- his expression slowly changing to something more sincere, his voice quieting as he urged you to take in the seriousness of his words. “You scared me back there… why didn’t you tell me that you were sick..? That you had a fever..?”

Your mouth opened and closed as you tried to find an adequate explanation, but it never came.

“You could have died if you’d fallen over a cliff's edge…if your head had hit rocks…” Geralt couldn’t even meet your eyes as he talked- instead opting to replace the damp cloths on your forehead. “You’re not as hearty as a Witcher is- you know that.” 

You frowned, feeling more and more like a scolded child as he spoke to you. You shook your head and glanced outside instead of anywhere near this conversation. 

“Y/n...” Geralt sighed, knowing exactly what you were doing, “Dear heart..?” he tried once more, finally catching your gaze. 

“I don’t mean to make your softness such a flaw- you know it's exactly what pulled me into you in the first place..” A small smile crept over his features as he briefly remembered your first meeting. “But you need to let me know when to slow down, okay? Remind me now and then to be a little softer too,” he spoke so quietly that you were sure nothing else in the world could have heard him but you. 

Your own expression reflected his smile and his whispered words fluttered around your heart “I will… I promise.” your fingers reached out for his, searching around until they captured his touch. “Oh, how long have I been out? We need to keep going” you urged, using your aching arm to bring his hand up to your lips in a soft kiss before you struggled to pull yourself upright.

But Geralt only laughed and shook his head as he helped you sit up, “now I see where Ciri gets her endless determination from- neither of you wants to stop for a minute to take care of yourselves.”

“We learned it from YOU, Geralt…” you grinned, sniffling as your nose threatened to run. 

Eyes rolling, his smile became even wider. “Anyways… I mean to say that you shouldn’t worry about it… we’ve been making good time, we can spare a day to let you rest and recover.” 

You nodded and relaxed a bit more, rolling your shoulder and cracking your back as you tried to get comfortable. “Good… Good, I really can’t fall off like that again. I feel like I just slammed shoulder-first into a shaelmaar…”

“I bet,” Your witcher snorted, a knowing smile hiding behind your hand as he brought it up to kiss in return. “Do you think some desert would make that shoulder feel any better?”

“Hmmmmmm, I think it’s a good start… that might help being sick but maybe you can rub my shoulder later..?” you grinned, knowing you were pushing it, but that hadn’t failed you yet. 

A genuine laugh pulled itself from Geralt as he stood, audible and even forming a faint crease around his eyes. For a witcher, it might as well have been a full belly laugh the way their stoic expressions dampen everything. 

You beamed and watched your handsome witcher as he headed off to get you dessert. You wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was as golden and lovely as his eyes were.  “Hey, Geralt? I love you…” 

“I love you too, Dear heart… no matter how soft you make me.” He said with a smile as he came back to your side and leaned down to press a sweet kiss against your lips.

______________________________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @dark-academia-slut @madamemelancholysstuff

[fangirleaconmigo]

Fun little smut prompt: in honor of spooky season coming up, could we get some monster loving? Maybe a Geralt/Jaskier werewolf/tentacle/other monstrous happenings going on? Or just straight up Geralt being a witcher has some interesting smut possibilities. Always down for Geralt being Different(TM) and Jaskier being Horny for It (TM). (Or the other way around. Maybe Jaskier's hiding something and Geralt is really really a-okay with it . . .)

In the witcher books, Dandelion says that Geralt won't kill night spirits because they're "sweet". So for my first monsterfuckery fic EVER, guess what I picked?

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

Sweet.

Geraskier. Explicit. Monsterfuckery, but make it sickeningly sweet.

“I know you said they were sweet. You didn’t say they were that sweet.”

Geralt was hung over. And worse, he had apparently told Jaskier about his arrangement with the night spirits of the Black Forest last night. This morning, he just wanted to forget he ever brought it up. He pictured the fresh bread waiting for him at the little shop around the corner. He walked faster.

“Stop trying to lose me!” Jaskier protested.

Geralt sped up.

“Is it a relationship??" Jaskier panted while he hopped to keep up. "Or is it just fucking?”

Geralt stopped and Jaskier ran into the back of him and bounced off.

Geralt crossed his arms and glared at him. 

“What?” Jaskier flailed. That was what he did when he was frustrated with Geralt. It was kind of cute. “ I just want to know! What’s wrong with asking a question?” He grinned a little too wide.

“This is why I don’t tell humans anything,” Geralt groused. “You lot think it’s a fucking joke.”

“I am not mocking! I am merely asking your relationship status, so I know whether I can invite myself to your next rendezvous, and not get punched.”

Geralt blinked. “Seriously?”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “Seriously! Remember that splinter I got on my ass?”

“How could I forget? The trauma of staring at your ass for an hour haunts me in my dreams.”

Jaskier huffed dismissively. “Oh stop. As though you didn’t draw it out.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued. “I was trying to tempt a leshen. It was not in the mood. That is how I got that splinter.”

Geralt massaged his temples. “You told me--

“Nevermind what I told you! Now answer me about the night spirit.”

“Godsdamnit. Look. It’s….neither. We’re—-friends.“

“So—-can I come?” Jaskier’s face lit up hopefully.

Geralt opened his mouth. He expected his response to be ‘no’. The last thing he needed was to throw oil on the flames of his idiotic and ill advised crush on the bard. And yet, when he went to form the word, what issued from his mouth sounded a whole lot more like ‘yes’.

Jaskier drew in a breath and bounced happily on his toes.

——-

When night had fallen and the forest sounds grew loud and bold in the cover of night, Geralt and Jaskier stood together in the midst of a clearing in the Black Forest. It was sort of a clearing, but it was small. It was like a nook.

A towering, luminous being hovered above Geralt. It had no face, but it did have a head that was reminiscent of the moon. Tendrils of flowing light flicked around it like whips or tentacles.

The witcher spoke in a language Jaskier did not understand. Then he bowed his head. The night spirit did not reply. It simply disappeared.

“What did she—-he—-they—-say?” Jaskier asked. He had already put on his night clothes for, as he put it, easier access. However, he still had on his favorite coat, that had several bows running down the back. 

Geralt jerked his gaze back to him. “You wouldn’t mind if it...if the spirit were... a him?”

Jaskier laughed. “I’m trying to have sex with a night spirit. I tried to seduce a leshy. Did you think my ability to be attracted to a person was so limited?”

Geralt rubbed the back of his own neck. “I suppose not.”

The night spirit returned with friends. They hovered, like a chorus of apparitions, casting a lovely glow on the witcher and the bard. They made a series of noises. It sounded practically musical. Jaskier tried to commit the tune to memory.

“They said yes,” whispered Geralt.

Jaskier grinned triumphantly and waved expansively as he turned his body in a semi circle to allow his eyes to fall on every single night spirit. “I look forward to sexual congress with you ALL!”

“Fuck.” Geralt muttered. But he was smiling.

——

Geralt stood, facing Jaskier. Only, he wasn’t really looking at him. He was looking at the ground and speaking more quietly than normal. He glowed from the reflection of the light from the night spirits. His white hair made him look like he was wearing a halo.

Jaskier thought he looked quite beautiful like this. He had always been afraid to tell him when he thought he looked beautiful. He assumed he’d kick his ass and leave him.

But now.

Well.

Maybe Geralt was a bit more open minded than he gave him credit for. Also, Geralt had agreed to bring him along. So maybe he wasn’t entirely repulsed by the idea of seeing Jaskier naked either. This was turning out to be a most thrilling night.

“I didn’t catch that Geralt, I’m sorry.”

“I said,” Geralt repeated, with effort, and barely louder. “They think our skin is…pretty. So they like us naked.”

Jaskier already had his coat half off. “Well, who am I to deprive them of all of this!”

He was naked before Geralt could gather his wits.

And ok.

Geralt thought he was spectacular.

“Well, aren’t you going to get naked too?”Jaskier felt like a pervert because he was unable to keep the absolute glee and anticipation out of his voice. To make up for it he offered to look away. “Want me to look away?”

Geralt startled. “No. No of course not.”

The witcher started to take off his shirt, and the night spirits moved towards him as one. A glowing tendril of light touched his cheek.

A lovely expression came over Geralt. He closed his eyes and smiled.

Gods. Thought Jaskier. Fucking hell. He is so beautiful like this.

Jaskier realized he so rarely saw Geralt smile like that. Relaxed. Unguarded. No thought about being judged or found wanting. Every line on his face seemed to fall away. He looked twenty years younger. It made Jaskier’s heart feel like it would burst.

The night spirit was clearly intimate with Geralt, because it helped him disrobe.

Geralt’s cock was already half hard and it was magnificent. 

Jaskier licked his lips. “Alright, now what? What shall I do?” His voice trembled.

Trembled.

Jaskier was far younger than Geralt, but he was willing to bet that he had more sexual experience. He was a renowned lover, goddamnit.

And yet. He felt like a fucking virgin. He got to see Geralt’s cock. It was like the first time he’d seen a breast. He tried not to giggle. Despite his emotions, his body responded lustily to the buffet of witcher before him.

Looking at Geralt had already gotten him insanely erect. He’d been suppressing this attraction for ages, so it was a relief to stop hiding it. And if it offended Geralt, he could just pretend it was the night spirits.

It was entirely believable. They were rather pretty for people with no faces.

But it didn’t seem to offend Geralt. His cheeks were pink and if Jaskier didn’t know him better he would think he were stammering.

“They also like our voices. So. I make noises. Whenever I feel like it.”

“Well!” said Jaskier, clapping “I do that anyway, so this is perfect. Now what do we do. Penetrate? Be penetrated? Just rub around?”

Geralt smothered a smile. “We just. Lie back. They do everything else. They said for you to just watch, so you aren’t frightened when it is your turn.”

-----

Jaskier didn’t believe in the existence of gods, so he had never seriously asked them for anything.

And now he never would. Because really, what more could one want from life?

Nothing more than this, surely.

Geralt of Rivia was spread out in front of him. He was naked and squirming. His thick thighs were trembling.

He really was the most spectacular thing Jaskier had ever seen, stuffed with glowing tentacles, gasping for air, he was transcendent.

Jaskier stepped closer, transfixed, holding out his hand. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do with it. He just knew he had to touch Geralt. He didn’t think Geralt saw him, but then Geralt’s fingers were threaded in his. Then Geralt was pressing his hand to his stomach.

Fuck. Jaskier whispered.

Suddenly the night spirit language sounded a whole lot like common speech. “Kneel, bard.”

So Jaskier knelt. It felt like the only thing to do. Jaskier knelt and took Geralt’s cock in his mouth. He gripped his ass and used it to hold himself steady. He kissed and sucked and licked and forgot what time and space was. All that existed was the hard length of parting his lips. The entire universe was the salty, warm scent and taste of Him. There were no words spoken more important than the sound of his name falling from Geralt’s lips.

As he bobbed his head, he felt something tickle his thigh. It was asking for permission. He moaned. And soon, there were tendrils made of light curling around his body, plunging into him. Geralt’s length fell from his lips as he cried out. 

Soon enough he managed to feel ecstasy and deliver his pleasure to Geralt at the same time.

They crested together, like the swell in a symphony. They spent onto the forest floor, shaking and moaning. Then, Jaskier crawled into his arms and kissed him. It was only then that he realized they were floating, resting on beams of light.

His voice was scratchy and he whispered in Geralts’ ear. “I think I love you.”

The night spirits tittered.

“What did they say?”

Geralt chuckled. He was still sweaty and breathing deep and fast. “They said, ‘it’s about time’.”

"Hey. Geralt did not mention your sarcasm."

And then.

“Wait. They know me?”

The night spirits once again spoke in common. Their voices were as one. “You’re all he ever talks about. We have asked him again and again to invite you, believing it could open communication between you.”

Jaskier looked into Geralt’s eyes. They were pressed against each other now, enveloped in each other’s arms. “Did they now?”

“They did.”

“He loves you too.”

Jaskier smiled. “Is this true? Are you friends having me on?”

Geralt squeezed him. “It’s true.”

The night spirits spoke again, as one. Jaskier didn't ask that time what they said. It sounded more like a laughter.

The night spirits didn't have a cave or den or any place to host them, so Jaskier walked back to their camp, hand in hand. Only now they shared a bed roll.

Years later, when Geralt and Jaskier were married, and people asked them how they came to be together as a couple, Geralt would always change the topic.

But it was inevitable that Jaskier would clear his throat and hold court. He loved telling that story, even if Geralt turned so many shades of pink that he looked purple.

After all, who else can say that night spirits, and their vibrating tentacles brought you the love of your life?

Just one witcher and one bard, he’d wager.

[honeyyen]

I finally posted my first work!!

Cold Whiteness & Warm Confessions

Rating: Teens & Up (with swear words)

Content Warning: discussion of coming out & homophobia in other countries

Fandom: The Witcher Netflix (but with Priscilla and Zoltan is entirely inspired by his game version)

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier, mentioned Yennefer/Triss, past Geralt/Jaskier

Additional tags: mutual pining; and there was only one couch; love confession in argument; geralt & yen both realized they were homo & divorced but are still best friends

Summary: Jaskier has a huge crush on his neighbor Geralt, who picks him up a few time a week to drive to the shared workplace together. But what happens when the car malfunctions and they find themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere with no service?

thanks @lankygeralt for their feedback when discussing the idea for this work :) check out their works!! big rec

read on ao3 sneak peak below!

Despite his best efforts to stay warm and stylish, Jaskier felt as though the wine red coat was not the best nor the most terrible choice he could have made to wear over his teal suit with the violet tie. His flatmate Priscilla snorted when she saw him leave his room like that, but it was too late to go change now, because down the road he saw the black clar leaving the garage. 

Gripping his bag’s handle a little more firmly, he mentally prepared himself to greet his neighbor and coworker with a warm smile, even if his nose felt like falling off soon. The snow had done quite a number on the road the past days, but luckily it had already melted a little to make the roads accessible and safe again. Jaskier remembered sliding down the pathway to the building he lived in, the ice sparkling in devillish mischief at him from below. 

The SUV stopped in front of him, tires pressing down on the gray sludge. After deeply breathing in and out once more, Jaskier opened the door and smiled at the driver. “Good morning, Geralt.” After knocking his shoes against each other one after the other to shake off the snow, he sat on the passenger seat and placed his bag between his feet. 

“G’morning,” the man next to him spoke, voice still raspy, presumably from having not spoken all night and morning. “Sorry for being a little late today, I hope you didn’t wait too long.” He paused. “The car made some noise when I started it, but I couldn’t find the problem. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow, just ignore the sounds.” Finally, he looked at his neighbor with his light brown eyes.

    “Oh, I hope it’s nothing terrible,” Jaskier replied, blindly grabbing for the seat belt and securing himself with it. “Do you want me to pay up? Since you let me drive with you more often than not.” He had some money on the side for emergencies, but he could not refuse to help out Geralt financially, as it was more than generous of him to even take him to work 5 days a week and back on tuesdays and thursdays. 

    “Don’t worry, that’s not why I brought it up.” Geralt started the car back up, the motor’s protesting noise perceivable even to Jaskier’s grandma three streets away. The music came back to life, the ventilation’s stream blew softly against their skin and fought against the condensation besieging the windshield. 

[queenxxxsupreme]

Ask from @the-apprentice-lia : heya! i love your asks for lambert and i just wanted to do one where lambert’s been really overprotective of reader but she’s just been taking it really gently like a champ because she knows what lambert’s been through and then she gets kidnapped!! after lambert gets her back there’s a fluffy lil scene where he’s got his head on his chest and he just tells her how scared he is to lose both of them and all the fluff and angst!! thank you if you decide to write this!! <33

A/N: I changed it up just a tiny bit! I hope you enjoyed this! And happy birthday to you babe!!! And as it wasn't specified which Lambert to use, I chose to do the one I've been using for dad!witchers, so this is based off of game!Lambert :)

Warnings: nothing outside of canon, the regular violence, Lambert being overprotective Lambert, pregnant!reader, slight violence against reader??? But she actually isn’t hurt in this just shook up

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N!” The witcher cried out from behind you.

In desperate need of a bowl that rested just out of your reach, you had stepped up on to a step stool to be able to get the bowl. Your ever protective husband had, of course, walked in only to see you on your tip toes reaching high above your head.

His hands found your sides, urging you to return to the safety of the floor at once.

“How was your nap, my love?” You asked him, turning to face the witcher.

“Oh, it was great until your heart started beating fast. What the hell do you think you’re doing climbing like that?” One of his large hands found your stomach.

“I need that bowl.” You pointed to the top shelf.

“Why? Don’t we have other bowls?”

“We do…. But I just wanted that one.” You smiled sheepishly.

Lambert sighed and shook his head.

“You’re going to be the death of me, woman.” He pressed a kiss to your head. “Go sit. I’ll get the bowl.”

“I’m going to make oats with the berries from the garden.”

“I’ll make it for you.”

A part of you wanted to object. You could make oats and berries for yourself. But this was Lambert’s way with dealing with his worries. He thought far too much about what could happen, about what might happen should he let you do anything. Any little thing could be a danger to you and your unborn child. The horrors of his past filled him with anxiety about his future.

“Alright, love.” You kissed his shoulder and moved to sit at the table. “I want honey in it as well.”

“Honey, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, honey, and a little bit of brown sugar.”

You smiled at him, nodding your head.

“You remembered how I liked it.”

“Of course I do. This is all you eat.”

You absentmindedly rubbed your stomach while you waited for him to make your food.

“I’m going to go outside and pick a few more berries, okay?

“Are there any left over from when we went out earlier this morning?” Lambert looked over his shoulder.

“They were my snack.” You stood up, moving to hug him from behind.

“I’ll go out with you-,”

“I love you, Lambert, but it’s okay.” You allowed him to turn around in your arms so he could face you. “A little fresh air won’t kill me.”

“But there might be a wild animal out there.”

“We’ve got a fence around the entire yard.”

He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head softly.

“I don’t want anything to happen to either of you.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I’m safe here.” You leaned up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be just a few minutes.”

“You have five minutes.”

“What if I don’t make it back in those five minutes?” You raised your brows as you took a few steps away from him.

“Then I’m going to come out there and haul you back inside.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head.

***

The sun was warm as it hit your skin. You swear you’d never grow tired of the pleasant spring weather that this year had brought.

You made your way around the cottage, following the trail that led into the edge of the woods. Lambert didn’t want the garden to be too close to the house as the produce could draw in animals of all kinds.

You hummed to yourself as you rubbed your stomach, your eyes gliding around the edge of the woods.

“I’m tellin’ ya lads! This is the witcher’s home!” A hushed voice spoke.

You furrowed your brow as you neared the woods. Your garden wasn’t very far away from where you were. In fact, you could see the gate to it from where you stood. But instead of being shut and latched, it was wide open.

“Fuck that witcher. He’s a prick.” Another voice spoke.

“You know he’s got a wife too.”

“Fuck her too! The monster fucker and that mutant bastard don’t belong here!”

You could spot three men in your garden, picking the very vegetables and fruits that you had grown yourself!

Your hand came up to your stomach. Instead of confronting them like you wanted to, you knew it would be best to just go get Lambert. He could handle the trio of thieves.

You turned to head towards your home when something rummaged through the bushes next to you, startling you. You jumped and gasped audibly, catching the attention of the three men.

“Hey!”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“It’s her! The mutant fucker!”

You tried to run, to make a mad dash for your house, but those thieves were faster.

An arm wrapped tightly around you, forcing you backwards. A hand slapped over your mouth, forcing you to be silent.

“Now, now, woman. Can’t have you go off to your witcher.” The man spoke in your ear.

“What are we going to do with her?” One of the men asked.

“We could kill her!”

You cried out behind the man’s hand, shaking your head and trying your damnedest to get free.

“No, no. We won’t do that. But perhaps if she were to go missing, the witcher would pay good money for her safe return.” The one holding you chuckled.

“A ransom!”

“Yeah! That’s brilliant.”

You bit the hand that covered your mouth, making the man throw you to the ground.

“Stupid whore!” The man brought his leg back as if he was going to kick you. You tensed up, bringing your arm up to cover your stomach. Just as you were sure you were going to be kicked, a familiar rumble shook the ground and the man was thrown backwards.

Lambert had casted Aard from where he stood just a few feet behind you.

“Witcher!” Someone cried out.

You had no chance to speak to him as he moved quickly to fight the remaining two men, almost effortlessly taking them down.

You couldn’t bring yourself to stand up. You were trembling, shaking with fear and adrenaline. You and your baby had almost been hurt in your own backyard. You just wanted to pick fruit from your garden.

When the threat was eliminated, Lambert knelt down to you. Tears welled in your eyes as you gazed up at him.

“I-I didn’t- I didn’t think anything would happen.” You whispered, shaking your head as you looked past him to the body of the man who had tried to kick you.

Lambert was quick to stop you. With two knuckles beneath your chin, he turned your head back to him.

“Let’s get inside.” He wiped the tears on your cheeks away with the pad of his thumb then kissed your hair, silently reassuring you that he was right there.

***

Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself as Lambert locked the front door.

“Do you want to sit down at the table, bug?”

“No.” You shook your head. “Will you lay down with me?”

“Of course.” Lambert let you lead the way to the bedroom. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I don’t think so. Just shook up. You got there before anything could happen."

You clambered into bed. Lambert was right behind you, not giving you more than a second to get comfortable before he was trying to suffocate you in the most loving way possible.

"Can you still hear the baby?" You sniffled. You were always a bit jealous that he got to hear your precious little baby's heart beating from inside you. But now you were thankful that you couldn't. If you heard the baby's heart stop-

"Yeah." He nodded. "I.... I can't tell you what I'd do if I couldn't hear them anymore."

“I love you, bug, but that is why I don’t want you going anywhere without me.”

“Shut up.” You turned your head away from him. Now wasn’t the time for him to pull the ‘I told you so’ card.

“Y/N, I’m serious.” Lambert came to rest on his stomach next to you. His hand found your stomach, rubbing soothing circles over your belly. “I-I’ve seen far too much…. too much bad shit happen to people in places where it should have never happened. Nowhere is safe when you’re carrying our child, not unless I am with you.”

You looked at him, nodding your head softly.

He put his head on your chest, closing his eyes for a few moments. Your hand came up to brush through his dark hair.

“For a split second when I saw that ass standing over you…. I thought that I was too late.” His voice was quiet. “I-I thought that I wasn’t…. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to save you or that something had happened to the baby.”

“You made it in time.” You reminded him.

“But I didn’t know that then. And I’ve never felt fear like that in my entire life. I swear, in all my life…. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“I’m sorry.” You leaned your head down to kiss his forehead.

He shook his head softly.

“I’m just…. I’m glad you’re both okay.” He tucked his nose into your neck. “I can’t lose either of you. I think I’d lose my fucking mind.”

Taglist will be in a set of reblogs because tumblr hates me :)

[randomfandomblabdom]

Wait wait wait. Hold the fuck up.

So, you’re telling me that Geralt, whom Yennefer was in an on/off relationship with for the better part of a decade, did not figure out that she had lost her magic or that there was anything remotely off except that maybe she was nervous but Jaskier not only managed to pick up on the fact that something was extremely different about her but point-blank asked what the hell happened? He’s literally one of two people to figure it out over the course of the entire season and the other person is a mage.

You’re telling me that Geralt never so much as mentioned the situation with the elves when Yennefer is part elf? Did he forget this important fact about this woman he was in a tumultuous decade long relationship with? Does he not give a shit? Did Yennefer ever even tell him in all that time? Yet, you’ve got Jaskier over here who remembers she’s part elf in a heartbeat and promptly apologizes for the situation? Speaking of, Yennefer being part elf was her deepest most well kept secret in the first season and Jaskier knows about it? How does he know? Did the observant fucker figure it out himself and ask? Did she willingly tell him one night? Was it a drunken confession?

You’re telling me that Yennefer chooses not to tell Geralt she’s lost her magic yet she confides in Jaskier the second he prompts? Why was she not comfortable confiding in Geralt about that? (And yes, I know, it was for the sake of cheap drama and a way to get to the final act but still).

You’re telling me that Geralt, even after he’s found out Yennefer has lost her magic, isn’t willing to even try to understand her motivations for abducting Ciri and why she might have felt it was her only option and goes on to basically treat her like a broken bad guy so much so that he says he might have to kill her? Then you’ve got Jaskier, upon hearing of her lost magic, immediately sympathizes with her and says he relates to the fear of losing the one thing that gives your life purpose, understands her motivations for abducting Ciri and basically talks Geralt out of the mindset of killing her as well as seems to be the one who knows she’s worth more than her magic whether she has it or not?

Okay, I get that Witchers are supposed to be emotionless or whatever to do what they do but good god, man, it makes you wonder how Geralt and Yennefer ever formed any sort of connection or relationship because we literally never got to see it. If you just watch these two seasons it’s like…well no wonder they couldn’t make it work and it only gives credibility to the idea that they only really feel anything for each other because of the djinn wish.

I’m not saying any of this to be like, oh Jaskier and Yennefer belong together. All I’m saying is that methinks the writers weren’t thinking because Jaskier and Yennefer felt way more like reunited exes then Geralt and Yennefer did the entire season and essentially got all of the substance and emotional growth that Geralt and Yennefer’s dynamic so desperately needed for me to really care about about the found family schtick. I tell you, if I watched this season without any context or without watching the previous one for some reason, I for sure would have assumed that Jaskier and Yennefer were way more to each other at one point in time and if I had a choice in the Witcher world, I would absolutely choose the sing-songy twit.

Disclaimer: I’ve never played the games or read the books.

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

 ---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

 ---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

 ---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;) 

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[jaskiersvalley]

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

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

Kaer Morhen’s Open Door Policy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No I’m not.”

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

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

“What happened?” Eskel asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rebrandedbard]

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

-

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[valdomarx]

Anon requested: Geralt/Jaskier body swap

“It’s not funny, Yen,” Geralt growls. Or, rather, he intends to growl, but it comes out as a petulant whine. He crosses his arms and scowls, but the effect is ruined by the ridiculous puffy baby blue doublet he's wearing and the way his hair flops rakishly over one eye.

Yennefer looks from him to Jaskier, who is trying to hide his now considerable bulk behind a tall plant. He is not succeeding.

“No, you’re right, it isn’t funny,” Yennefer soothes. “It’s hilarious.”

“So glad we could entertain you,” Jaskier snaps, and it’s so strange for Geralt to watch his own body bouncing around the room animated by Jaskier’s irrepressible energy. “But I have a performance tonight and I can’t very well play like this -” he gestures with Geralt’s thick, stubby fingers, which are admittedly poorly suited to playing the lute. “So fix it. Please.”

“You don’t want me to do that,” she says, not looking apologetic. “It’s a powerful binding spell and while I could break it forcibly, it would risk both your lives. You’re better off waiting a few days until it runs its course.”

“So we’re stuck like this?” Geralt can’t control the timbre of his voice and it wobbles and rises dramatically. It's awful.

Yennefer shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll manage. Who knows,” she smirks, “perhaps it’ll be educational for both of you.”

.

“How many times must we do this, Jaskier? I can’t play the bloody lute!”

“Of course you can. Your muscles remember how, and so do your fingers. Just relax into it. Give it another go.”

Geralt pouts (when did he start pouting?) and picks at the strings. His hands do feel like they’re itching to play, but it’s like they’re moving faster than his mind and every time he tries to exert control over them, he falters.

“Stop thinking so much,” Jaskier growls, and he’s actually a little scary like this. There’s a thunderous expression on his face and Geralt wonders if this is how he comes across to other people. “Let’s start with something easy. I’ll sing a song you know, and you play along as best you can.”

He hums a few scales and turns to Geralt, his usually stoic witcher face twisted into a mischievous grin. “Geralt! You’ve been holding out on me. If I’d know you were hiding a lovely baritone all this time, I’d have insisted you join me for a duet before now.”

Geralt groans and wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a couple of drowners, Geralt. I could probably kill them even in my own body.”

“You really couldn’t.”

“I’ll have you know that I have been paying some attention over the last decade. I’ve learnt things. Drowners move in packs. They’re immune to poison but vulnerable to silver. When you engage a group, move in fast and hard but don’t let any get behind you. See?”

Jaskier draws his sword and drops into a combat stance. Admittedly, he moves with a grace and elegance that suggests someone well-trained. However...

“Jaskier?”

“Hmm?”

“What you were saying about having paid attention, knowing your lore, being a capable monster hunter...”

“What about it?”

“That’s the wrong sword. Silver for monsters.”

“Oh. Right. Is this not silver? Ahh. No, I see that now. Whoops. Let’s try this again.”

“You are definitely going to be eaten by a drowner.”

.

Three days later, the strain of their situation is starting to show.

“This body, it’s... I feel like...” Geralt chews at his lower lip, frustration and embarrassment racing through him with a force he’s still unused to. “Fuck, Jaskier, how are you so horny all the time?”

Jaskier laughs, the bastard, rich and warm and deep. “Welcome to my life.”

“I’ve already jerked off three times today and it hasn’t helped.”

That makes Jaskier stop laughing. Witchers don’t blush, but Geralt recognises the way his mouth gapes. “You... with my body... you unchivalrous brute!”

Geralt scoffs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Why, you...” Jaskier glowers. “And I have been so restrained. I have controlled not only my libidinous urges but also my natural and deep-seated curiosity in defence of your privacy. Well, that’s quite enough of that! I'm off to take a bath and I'm going to enjoy myself thoroughly, thank you very much.”

That makes something race uncomfortably under his skin. He swallows and avoids looking in Jaskier’s direction.

.

“Put me down!”

“I will do no such thing,” Jaskier cackles, throwing Geralt over his shoulder like a rag doll. It’s extremely undignified. “This is too much fun.”

“Damn it, Jaskier, put me down!” He beats his fists uselessly against Jaskier’s back. “Or I’ll... I’ll wait until you’re asleep and I’ll cut your hair.”

Jaskier drops him to the ground and gasps. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Geralt levels him with his best steely glare. “Try me.”

“You’ve already made such a mess of it.” Jaskier tuts as he cards his fingers through Geralt’s - or rather, his own - hair. A ridiculous pang of jealously twinges inside Geralt. He has, perhaps, idly wondered in the past how it would feel to run his hand through Jaskier’s hair, and it’s not the same when he does it to himself.

“Even like this,” Jaskier says, brushing a finger along Geralt’s cheek, “you still manage to scowl.”

“It’s my natural charm,” he grumbles, and he has a horrible feeling he might be pouting again.

.

Geralt wakes up the next morning feeling fresh and alert to the sounds of the birds outside the window, the smell of bread baking downstairs, the feel of rain approaching later in the day... And thanks the gods, as he rubs his eyes it’s with his own hand, and he looks down to confirm he’s back in his own scarred body. 

Jaskier is sleeping next to him, splayed out across the bed and taking up far more room than someone his size ought to be able to, drooling into the pillow. It’s so unmistakably Jaskier, and somehow Geralt has missed him.

Geralt allows himself an indulgence and gently brushes the hair from Jaskier’s face. It feels soft beneath his fingers, silky and springy. Jaskier snuffles in his sleep, rolling over and scooting closer. Geralt chivalrously puts an am around his shoulders and he cuddles into Geralt’s chest with a comfortable, contented smile.

Much better. Everything back in its right place.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

i go absolutely feral for h/c where one character gets hurt and you think they are dead and the other character confesses that they love them and then the one dying gasps awake and gets healed and later asks "did you mean it?" and then cuddles and kisses!! bonus points if Geralt is the one confessing to Jaskier🥰🥰

oh babe. do you know what you’ve done? Idk if this is fluffy enough to undo the hurt I’ve caused. even to myself...

Warnings: H/C, drowning, hypothermia, swearing, chest compressions anyone else watch dr mike? 😂😘 its better in the end I promise!

__________

Cold. Every cell in Geralt's body was shocked to the point of pain by how cold the river was. He fought the instinct to gasp even as he was submerged in the freezing, churning current. Forcing his eyes open, he finally remembered why he'd plunged headfirst into a river not one full week into March. 

Jaskier's limp form was being swept away from him beneath the rippling foaming water. 

He managed to kick off a rock and grasp the bard by the wrist before kicking with all he had for the surface. He coughed and sputtered as he hauled them to shore, a cold weight that had nothing to do with the temperature settling in his stomach when Jaskier didn't do the same. 

"Jaskier." Geralt growled as he dragged him all the way up onto the sand before dropping to his knees next to him, "Jaskier!" 

He got no answer. 

His hands shook as they hovered over the bard's chest, the only thing that kept him moving was the too faint and too far apart heartbeat that belonged to the only person he'd ever really loved. His arms worked on their own, crossing one palm over the back of his other hand and pressing down on Jaskier's chest in a steady rhythm. 

He paused for a moment, listening for a stronger heartbeat. 

He heard nothing. 

He worked furiously now, pumping the bard's heart for him, barely keeping from cracking his ribs with the force before he pinched Jaskier's nose to check his airway, "No... No no no no no. No! Jaskier you don't get to die on me like this." 

He pressed down eight more times before sealing his lips to Jaskier's and breathing for him, "Don't you fucking dare leave me." 

He noted there were tears on Jaskier's cheek that couldn’t belong to him with a numb sense of wonder as he pumped his heart for him eight more times. Again, nothing happened when he finished his exhale and pulled away to lean on the bard's heart. And again. And once more. 

"Jaskier, please. I love you. Please don't go." 

He breathed for him again, this time hearing his heartbeat just once on its own. 

Geralt was yelling now, more terrified than he'd ever been in his life, "Damnit Jask! BREATHE! I can't lose you! Please just fucking breathe!"

A sob tore at his throat as he leaned over once more, whispering his plea as his heart crumbled in his chest, "Breathe. I love you, Julek. Please breathe." 

At the end of his exhale he felt something thump against his chest and he reeled backward. 

Jaskier coughed and tried to suck in a breath as his hands dug at the sand in his disorientation. Geralt rolled him onto his side, laughing a little hysterically as tears were still flowing freely down his cheeks, rubbing a soothing hand on his back as he expelled a lungful of water. 

When he tried to sit up Geralt held him down, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes, "Shhh, stay there. You need to lie still." 

Jaskier's eyes finally found him, the fear melting into confusion as he tried to croak out his words, "You're crying." 

Geralt nodded, shivering as his body finally relaxed and let him feel the cold again, "You died." 

"Shit."

Geralt nodded again, feeling weak as he clapped a hand on Jaskier's thigh before rocking up to his knees, "You need to get warm, arms up." 

He scooped his arms under Jaskier's shoulders and knees, almost falling into another fit of sobs when the trembling man wrapped his arms around his neck and held tight. 

His bard was still here. He was alive. 

Geralt walked up the riverbank until he came upon their camp, Roach nickering as they approached. He set Jaskier down as gently as he could and began peeling off his wet clothes. All he could hear, all he wanted to hear, was Jaskier's heartbeat as he worked. Soon Jaskier was dressed and dry and tucked into his bedroll. Geralt haphazardly stacked some logs in a hole in the sand, setting them ablaze before he scooted the bard closer to the flames. 

There was more color in his cheeks but Geralt wasn't satisfied. He dug through their packs and found the kettle and some tea leaves. 

"G-eralt. You're blue." Jaskier's voice was weak and jarring, but as Geralt looked at his hands he realized he was right, "Tea ca-can wait." 

Geralt didn't much care if he stayed this cold for the rest of his life, so long as Jaskier was safe, but his bard looked so worried… 

"Get changed, Geralt. Please. I'm fine."

His upper lip curled back in a snarl, “You’re not fine.”

“Geralt.”

The bard’s usually strong and dulcet voice cracked on his name and Geralt melted. He’d rather get Jaskier to drink something, but he’d do anything never to hear Jaskier sound so desperate and weak ever again. He clenched his jaw and obeyed, wringing his hair out and sitting next to Jaskier and the fire. 

Neither of them spoke for a while, each looking into the fire and worrying about the other. 

As the sun was close to setting, Geralt insisted Jaskier at least eat if he wouldn’t drink tea.

“You’re not warming up.” he grunted, kicking some rocks into the fire to place under his bedroll later. 

“M’not a witcher.” Jaskier offered, a hint of a tired smile on his lips, he untucked himself from the cocoon of bedroll and blankets and held an edge open, “Come here.”

For once, Geralt didn’t hesitate. He slipped into the nest behind the bard, wrapping one arm over his waist and pulling him close while the other became Jaksier’s pillow. His anxious thoughts slowly faded into the background as Jaskier’s heartbeat picked up its pace just like it did every time they shared a bed. It After missing the sound for so long the normalcy and predictability of it was comforting. His eyes finally felt heavy and he was further lulled toward sleep as he nuzzled into the bard’s soft hair, familiar, sweet soaps and oils shutting out all other scents.

He almost didn’t notice when Jaskier whispered, “Did you mean it?”

Geralt pulled him closer, tilting his head to be closer to Jaskier’s ear, “Did I mean what?” he whispered back.

“When-” Jaskier sucked in a shaky breath which he forced out slowly before continuing, “when you said you love me?”

“I did.” There was no point in lying anymore. Geralt had lived two minutes of life without Jaskier and he was too terrified of having to endure any more to worry about what his pride thought. 

“I love you too.” Jaskier turned his head and placed a soft kiss on the inside of Geralt’s elbow before burrowing deeper into his embrace. 

Geralt pressed his lips to his hair, mumbling against his scalp, “Don’t ever leave me.” It was a terrified and heartfelt plea. 

“Never again.”

[wherethewordsare]

Sign Sealed and Delivered

Part 2 to This Fic Here

It had been easy for Jaskier really. There were so few people in the world that he had truly trusted, but giving Geralt his cloak had felt as natural as breathing. He knew what his clan would say if they knew, the traditions that he was breaking by giving his cloak so freely to not just a land walker, but a witcher, a monster hunter, would have been beyond scandal. He just hoped that some part of Geralt didn’t realize what Jaskier had truly done.

It wasn’t every day you asked a witcher to accept a betrothal pact.

He had never felt safer though once Geralt held his cloak, knowing that as long as he lived, the cloak would be kept safe. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the way Geralt had asked him to return to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter.

“I want to keep it there. I don’t feel right traveling with it. What if something were to happen? You’d be at risk as long as I was?” There was a worry to the crease of his brow that softened Jaskier to near puddy. “But I want you to know that it’s safe. It only makes sense that you come with me.”

“Of course I know it’ll be safe, dear heart, that’s why I gave it to you,” Jaskier laughed, hoping that the heat he felt in his face wasn’t showing too much.

“Please?” Geralt asked softly. His hand twitched on his thigh as they sat by the fire, the autumn settling in around them.

Jaskier looked over and nearly lost his breath. Golden eyes stared back at him with a warmth he hadn’t been expecting. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come with you.”

That was how Jaskier found himself following his witcher up into the mountains as the first frosts clung to their bedrolls each morning. After the first particularly cold night, Jaskier woke up to find Geralt slipping into his bedroll and wrapping an arm around him.

“‘S cold, and it’s only going to get colder,” was his only explanation as he settled in against Jaskier’s back. It made sense to stay together for warmth and it wouldn’t be the first time but something felt different about this time that Jaskier couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Geralt’s hand splayed over his ribs like he wanted to keep him safe. Maybe it was the way his cold nose buried into Jaskier’s nape.

It became a routine quickly for them to share a bedroll, to walk a bit closer along the path up, for Geralt to give small reassuring touches to Jaskier’s arm or the small of his back when the ground grew uneven.

Once Jaskier’s feet found a patch of ice before his eyes could and he would have been flung down into the slush of mud had Geralt not grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close. They stood like that for a moment, Geralt looking particularly smug and ready to say something to match the mischief in his eyes.

“Not a word, witcher, or so help me, only one of us is making it to this keep of yours,” Jaskier sniffed, righting himself though Geralt still had yet to let go.

“Hmm.” Geralt kept his council but still smirked as they continued their way. He hadn’t mounted Roach once since they had set off, keeping beside Jaskier the entire trek. He pointed out species of trees and roots that only grew on the mountain, ones that he used for certain potions, ones Eskel used for cooking, and ones Lambert used for other purposes that made him scrunch his nose.

“We have narcotics in Oxenfurt, Geralt. I’m not some naive village waif you’ve picked up along the way,” Jaskier only laughed when Geralt shot him a look. “Oh please, Remember when you picked me up just outside of Foam that one year and I stuffed myself on those rolls from the market?”

Geralt stopped walking, looking around him as if he had just noticed where he was. “This was a mistake. I realize you and Lambert should never meet. I won’t survive the winter.” He looked almost forlorn though the corners of his mouth tilted slightly.

“Sorry, was that a joke? Are you making jokes right now? Who is this? Where is my Geralt, hmm?” Jaskier was still laughing though fairly winded as they hiked the steep incline. But then Geralt was looking at him, his eyes soft and the smile almost fond.

“Your Geralt, hmm?” He took a long stride ahead of Jaskier before reaching back and offering him a hand up. Roach was wandering up the hill slightly ahead of them, sure of the path she was taking.

Jaskier snorted, looking away. He felt caught somehow though, as a selkie, he had already given himself away if Geralt knew. Did Geralt know? There was no way he could know. Selkies weren’t exactly common anymore, and on top of that, they made a habit of staying clear of land usually.

After that, they had found it hard to keep a conversation going. Jaskier had been surprised to find that Geralt became such a conversationalist. He wondered if it had to do with them getting closer and closer to his home. When they finally arrived Geralt looked at him, almost grinning before walking down the slope. He must have seen someone Jaskier couldn’t because he was shouting for someone.

Another witcher appeared. “Well, pretty boy, finally made-” The witcher stopped, looking at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow disappearing into his dark hair. “Well, hello there. Geralt didn’t mention his bard was-” he didn’t get to finish the statement as Geralt’s fist connected with his stomach.

“Good to see another year hasn’t done anything about that mouth, Lambert,” Geralt grumbled as Lambert heaved, still bent over. It suddenly dawned on Jaskier that that time outside of Posada, Geralt may have held back some.

“Leave off of him, Geralt. He’s just mad his cat isn’t here.” Another witcher appeared at the gate, a series of scars across his face.

It happened so quickly. One second the three of them were standing there, nearly perfectly still, the next there was a brawl spilling out into the courtyard beyond them. There were curses and fists thrown in every direction. Jaskier simply looked at Roach who laid her ears flat and huffed, otherwise unbothered.

“What have I walked into, Roachie girl?” He looked around and could make out the stable. “I think this might take a moment. Let’s get you seen to.”

Jaskier led Roach away from the courtyard and into the stable, finding a clean stall for her alongside three other horses. Looking around he noticed that there had been room enough for many more but otherwise, the stables were empty.

“I guess when there aren’t many witcher’s left, there isn’t need for witcher steeds, hmm?” He said softly, undoing her tack. He had watched Geralt do this enough times that it was easy to get her settled though she would nip at him unless he bribed her. “You can’t keep doing this to me. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“You do that by yourself, plenty, Bard.” Geralt deadpanned from the door. “Move over, you’ve missed a good portion of her flank.” He took the brush from Jaskier but didn’t push him away, letting him stay in the small space. His face was a mess of mud and blood and marks.

“You win?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so, but the season has just started. I’ll get Eskel back,” He mused, brushing down Roach. She knew better than to nip at him for sugar. Jaskier gave her some anyways.

“Got to stop spoiling her, Jask,” Geralt sighed but he didn’t make an effort to stop him. He picked up their bags, carefully slinging the one with Jaskier’s cloak in it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you-” He licked his lips and looked down for a moment. “Come on.”

Jaskier followed him, his eyes not being able to take in enough at once. The hall though in a state of disrepair still held the ghosts of its grandeur. They went in near silence, Geralt only turning every so often to make sure Jaskier was still following. There had been a handful of times when he had to stop to wait for him. The walls were nearly a maze, and the stairs didn’t seem to have a rhythm or reason to them. After several flights, they stopped outside a large door and Geralt set their bags down.

“If you don’t want to stay here, I can find somewhere else. I just thought since-” He didn’t say anything else, pushing the door open slowly and sliding in before Jaskier. He stepped back to let Jaskier look around, taking in the simple four poster bed, the little bit of furniture, the large bay window that looked out over the mountains.

On the mantle a few small personal objects made up the only decoration of the place. It took him a moment but Jaskier recognized a few of them. There was the small wood carved wolf’s head he had given Geralt during a festival years ago, an ornate flask that Geralt said wasn’t practical but apparently hadn’t tossed away like Jaskier had suspected. There was a pressed flower laying on a book, the bright blue of the bloom faded slightly but Jaskier thought it looked familiar.

“This is your room,” he realized, whirling around and taking in the large bed again and Geralt still standing by the door. He hadn’t set his bags down just yet, watching Jaskier.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“You want me to stay here, in your room,” Jaskier’s heart pounded against his ribs so hard he knew Geralt could hear it.

“Yes,” Geralt looked down, frowning.

“With you?” It was too much to hope for but he had to hear it.

“There’s another room down the hall if you would rather. You don’t need-”

“I’d love to, Geralt. I mean, stay here. With you, if you’d-” something bubbled up in his chest, light and floating like sea foam. The room already tasted like him. “If you’d have me, of course.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, only set his bags down finally and began to unpack. Jaskier made himself comfortable on the bed, watching as potions and clothes made their way to where they belonged. Their kettle and pots were hung by the hearth and Jaskier’s things seemed to be put away along side Geralt’s. The last bag was placed beside Jaskier and he knew what was in it.

“I could keep it here, if this is where you think it would be safest,” Geralt almost whispered. His thighs were pressed against the bed and he hovered over Jaskier slightly.

Jaskier bit his lip, knowing full well that laughing was not the response here. He reached up tentatively, his hand wrapping around Geralt’s wrist as he slowly pulled him down. He kept his fingers loose so as to not make the witcher feel trapped. “Geralt,” he said softly, shifting up on his knees, they were nearly chest to chest now. “I know I’m safest where you are.”

He let Geralt close the distance between them, his mouth slotting against Jaskier’s in a firm line, crowding him back onto the bed. Jaskier let himself be maneuvered, the laughter he had been holding back spilling over, bright and warm and safe as Geralt wrapped his arms around him.

The mattress wasn’t the most comfortable and the furs needed airing out and they both still had weeks of travel clinging to their clothes but Geralt was kissing him breathless and the ache he had been carrying for well over a decade finally slipped away from his chest.

Finally Geralt pulled away, his hand sliding up to trace along Jaskier’s brow, fingers brushing back his fringe. “I’m going to earn that trust, over and over,” his arm still around Jaskier’s middle gave him a light squeeze and he dipped down to press another kiss to his face before sliding out of his arms again.

Jaskier made an indignant sound in protest which only made the witcher chuckle. “Oh no, you don’t! Years I’ve been waiting for this! Where do you think you’re going?” He groused, reaching for Geralt again.

“Dinner,” Geralt hummed smugly.

At the mention of food, Jaskier’s stomach growled and he flopped back into the pillows with a groan.

“Come on, I got to tell the others I came home with a seal-wife.”

Geralt caught the pillow that came flying at the back of his head with very little effort and it only made Jaskier more petulant as he tried to burrow down into the musty furs. “Go to land, Jaskier, it’ll be fun, Jaskier. Fall for an ass hole of a witcher, Jaskier,” he muttered but he couldn’t help the smile that was threatening to split his cheeks.

There would be time enough for the other things he wanted. For now, Jaskier could sit through dinner with witchers and know that he was safe and wanted but still free.

[writinglizards]

No One Else

Summary: Jaskier hates winters and he hates Yule time, especially.

How is he supposed to spend the holidays with his loved one when his heart is in the Blue Mountains, tucked away safe in Kaer Morhen?

Read on Ao3

Jaskier hasn't spent many Yule holidays with people he cares about, family or otherwise.

As a boy, he remembers a few Yules, but mostly his parents had gone off to bigger, grander Yule celebrations at the homes of other, more influential nobility, leaving Jaskier and his siblings at home. There may have been a few, insincere gifts as a child, but even those tapered off as he grew older. Then he'd been old enough for school and he’d spent...remarkably little time at home, even on the holidays. And then he'd gone off to Oxenfurt and never looked back.

Oxenfurt is more his home than Lettenhove ever was, but his Yules here are still mostly lonely. As a student, he'd been one of the few not to return home for the holidays and had spent most of them, therefore, shut up in his dorm writing and composing as if it were a normal night. As a lecturer? It's not much different, only a nicer set of rooms. There's no point visiting siblings he hasn't seen in years or spending the night down in a tavern with the rest of the sad sacks.

The only person he wants to spend his time with retreats into the mountains every winter and wouldn't stay in Oxenfurt even as a last resort. Jaskier knows, he's offered him lodgings here over the winter before and Geralt has always been quick with a reason he can’t accept. It’s a standing invitation, but Jaskier knows he’ll never take him up on it--he’s just lucky Geralt lets him stick around the rest of the year.

This year, they'd parted much earlier than normal. Geralt had been following a contract south and Jaskier had needed to be in Ellander for a festival and things just hadn't lined up. They'd parted before the first leaves had even begun to fall and Jaskier hates that he'd missed so much time with Geralt this year. After all, it's only a matter of time until he decides he's done humoring him and letting him tag along. He's lucky to have squeezed so many years out of the witcher already--each subsequent year is a gift and Jaskier is terrified of when they will finally end.

Either way, he hasn't seen Geralt since before the first turn of fall and he's missing him terribly, not that that's new at all. He always misses Geralt when they're apart, but winters are...harder. The chill reminds him of cool evenings camping under the stars, the snow always inevitably makes him think of Geralt's hair, bright in the sun, the lit holiday candles always glimmer in a way that makes him think of gold eyes in the dark.

Winters have never been Jaskier's favorite season, but missing Geralt makes them so much harder. Yule is always somehow the hight of that pain--the holiday meant to celebrate the year, to be spent with those you love--and Jaskier spends each and every one alone.

There's a knock at the door and Jaskier reluctantly uncurls from brooding in the armchair by the fire and goes to answer to find one of the attendants that runs the building. It's bizarre to have a personal visit in general, but especially on the night of Yule.

"Master Jaskier?" He's...nervous?

"Yes, Nichol?"

"There's ah...someone here to see you? We didn't let him in because you hadn't said--"

"It's fine, Nichol," who could possibly be here to see him? "Send him up, won't you?" He moves as if to close the door, but Nichol doesn't move.

The man shifts from foot to foot. "Y-yes, Master Jaskier. It's just--" Jaskier cocks an eyebrow, "he's--it's a witcher, sir." It's like being thrown headfirst into the Pontar in the middle of spring--ice cold and shocking. Something must be very wrong.

"Is he--" but there's no point in asking this nervous ball of a man about what the witcher looks like or how he is, is there? Jaskier can tell now, the fear hiding in the set of his shoulders. That’s not the disposition of someone who could be concerned with the well-being of a witcher. "Give me a moment, I'll follow you down."

Geralt's standing at the desk downstairs, whole and unharmed, and Jaskier lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Geralt!" He turns as Jaskier approaches and the look on his face brings Jaskier up short. There's...something wrong. "Geralt, is everything okay?"

"Hm." It's one of his cagey hums. Jaskier won't be getting an answer out of him anytime soon.

"Well, come on up, anyway. No reason to stand in the hall and talk." The attendant is visably relieved when Geralt hoists his swords back over his shoulder and follows Jaskier back to his rooms. Mentally, he makes a note to have a very strong word with the head attendant about sensitivity training the next time he sees her.

It's silent the entire walk back, which isn't new with Geralt, but Jaskier finds himself a little nervous about it anyway. What’s Geralt is going to think? He's never been to Oxenfurt with Jaskier, never seen his rooms, never met the people he works with or the shop owners that know him by name. It's...unsettling. And then there's the reason Geralt's here, which he still hasn't given an answer about.

The door is unlocked, so he shoves it open and ushers Geralt in. He ducks a bit as he passes Jaskier and enters the room and then he...stops. Freezes on the spot. Jaskier freezes in the doorway in response.

"What." He means it as a question, but it comes out taunt and frigid, like an accusation.

"Looks like you," Geralt grunts out after a long moment. Jaskier doesn't know if that's a compliment or not (probably not).

"Sorry, I can--" he starts, already darting forward to clean the loose parchment from the divan, stack the books laying haphazard all over the room, do something.

"No," Geralt interrupts, and Jaskier feels his stomach flip-flop almost unplesantly, "No, this is--it's nice, Jaskier. It's you." And that's...he doesn't know what to do with that.

"Oh," he laughs, just a little strangled, "okay then. Um. Make yourself at home, darling. Sorry there's no Yule decorations I'm...a little unfestive this year.” He’s never festive, actually, but Geralt doesn’t know that. “Have you eaten?" He doesn't wait for Geralt to answer, "of course you haven't. I'll call for something. Won't be more than a moment." He ducks out into the hallway again without waiting for an answer.

He spends the entire walk to the kitchen trying to calm his rapid heartbeat, walk off the nerves that have made their home in the set of his shoulders, the fidget of his fingertips against his thigh. It's just Geralt.

He orders a spread and doesn't let the curious look the cook gives get to him at all as he paces in the hallway and waits for her to finish.

"You know we could send this up for you, Jaskier? No one should have to pace the hallway Yule night." The cook says when she hands the plate over, finally. He smiles at her, only a little tightly.

"Oh, I know Margret, darling. Needed the walk, though. Thank you, love." She 'hm's at him but lets him go, something akin to the noise Geralt makes when he's not buying Jaskier's bullshit. It makes him a little sick, how much he both loves and hates that noise--it sounds wrong coming from someone else's throat.

The walk back to his rooms is both too long and too short--he's worked himself up into a minior frenzy by the time he's at his own door again.

He takes a moment to breathe, eyes closed, before he forces a smile back on his face and pushes through the door. "Food's here," he calls, setting the spread down on the low table in the sitting room. Geralt's nowhere to be found. "Geralt?"

He finds him in the bedroom, the spare shirt of Geralt's that Jaskier nabbed in a moment of weakness earlier just this year to keep him company for the winter in his hand. "Uh, I'm--I'm sorry that's--"

"I thought I'd been a shirt short." His tone is even and neutral and it makes Jaskier want to tear his hair out. Does he care? Does he not? Jaskier can’t tell.

"It, um, must have ended up in my pack. I meant to bring it back this spring." The look on Geralt's face says he doesn't believe a word. "Food's here!" he deflects.

"Mm." He allows himself to be redirected and follows Jaskier back into the sitting room, leaving the shirt on the bed. He settles himself on the divan after Jaskier clears him a spot and digs into the meat and cheese spread without a word. As far as Yule meals go, it’s not very traditional, but Jaskier’s sure it doesn’t matter. He settles himself on the floor by the table and picks at the spread absently, giving Geralt the time he needs to eat unharassed. He tries not to think about how this is the first Yule he's spent with anyone in any capacity since he was a boy and very determinately does not get emotional over the fact that it's Geralt here with him, even accidentally. He can feel his eyes on him as he plucks at a loose thread on his doublet and tries not to fret.

"Soooo--" he says after Geralt's eaten his fill and leaned back, kicking his legs out in front of him, "--what brings you here to Oxenfurt, Geralt?" He winces immediately, but he's already asked, so-- "Shouldn't you be at Kaer Morhen already?"

Jaskier can already tell he's fucked up.

"I won't stay long," Geralt says, expression blank the way it only is when he's withholding his true reaction.

"I didn't say you couldn't stay, you oaf," Jaskier snaps immediately, tries not to let his irritation get the best of him because he knows what Geralt’s like when he meets anger for frosty frigidity, "I would be deeply offended if you left, actually."

Geralt stares at him, hard. "I’d be...intruding," he says, no elaboration.

"What? Gods, Geralt, intruding on what? I'm--" he gestures to the expanse of his very empty rooms, "--pretty fucking far from busy, if you hadn't noticed."

Geralt's expression does pinch at that. "I noticed. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why aren't you--" he pauses, seems to be searching for the right words, "--why aren't you...involved? Doing things. It's Yule, Jaskier, why are you--"

"Alone?" Jaskier interrupts, seeing where this is going. Geralt doesn't say anything, just stares at him, steady. Jaskier sighs, hard. "Who else would I spend winters with, Geralt?"

"I don't know," Geralt says slowly, "I just...I assumed you had someone."

"You assumed I--Geralt. Tell me you didn't think I had some...some lover I'd never told you about waiting for me here in Oxenfurt every winter."

The look on Geralt's face tells him he thought exactly that.

"Melitele's tits, Geralt." Jaskier sighs, breathes in slowly in an attempt to calm himself. "So why are you here, then? Since it's pretty clear you aren't here to take me up on the offer of wintering with me."

Geralt's expression does something complicated Jaskier can't parse before it smooths out into slightly constipated indifference again.

"The passes are snowed in."

And that's-- "Yes, Geralt. I know that," Jaskier says, drawing on the infinite well of patience he seems to only have access to when trying to coax Geralt out of being an obtuse ass. "Why didn't you make it up the mountain before the passses snowed in?"

Geralt visibly swallows. Jaskier can't help but track the bob of his adams apple. "I--" the gust of breath is audible as Geralt sighs, shoulders loosening in something like defeat, "I missed you, Jaskier."

The fire crackles in the hearth. It'll need another log soon. "What?"

Geralt looks like he'd rather be hunting drowners. "I missed you, Jaskier. And I was--I was thinking about coming to see you but I--I couldn't, I wasn't sure--" Jaskier will not faint like some kind of wilting damsel, even if he feels as if he can't get enough air all of a sudden. "--And then the pass was closed and I. I don't--I won't stay if you don't want me to. I'll figure something out."

"Geralt," Jaskier says. It comes out barely audable and he has to clear his throat and try again, "Geralt, love, of course you can stay." Something in Geralt's posture loosens in relief this time, as if he'd still been afraid Jaskier might ask him to leave until that moment, "of course you can. I missed you too."

Something flashes in Geralt's eyes, something that looks a little like surprise. "Oh."

They tip-toe around each other the rest of the evening. Jaskier helps him bring his bags up after a brief visit to Roach during which he slips her a sugar cube he knows Geralt pretends not to see. He gives Geralt space and time to get settled until his armor is off and his bags partially unpacked. They don't really talk until Jaskier realizes he's going to have to either offer Geralt his bed or make up the divan for him. And. Well. He's a weak man, after all.

"Geralt?"

"Hm?" He’s taking stock of his armor by the fire when Jaskier ambles up beside him to stand at his shoulder. He tries not to fidget, despite the nerves trying to choke him. There’s no reason this should be different from any other time they’ve shared lodgings (except of course, it is).

"Going to bed soon, love?"

He stares at his armor just a beat too long before he leans back to look up into Jaskier's face, expression mildly puzzled. "Mm?"

"I--" he can feel his face heat, "I wanted to--to offer to share. You know since I--I don't have--"

"I can sleep on the floor, Jaskier."

"No! No, I--I have plenty of room. And I. I want you in my bed, Geralt." That comes out...not quite the way Jaskier meant it. Or it comes out too honest, actually. He absolutely wants Geralt in his bed like that, he just doesn't think Geralt would want it.

Interestingly, Geralt's cheeks color and he looks away. Jaskier expects him to refuse again. "Okay," he says, soft, and something in Jaskier's chest flutters.

He follows Jaskier into the bedroom and it's...almost normal. Like sharing at an inn, except this is Jaskier's room, Jaskier's space. It's as much a choice as it is a necessity.

The shirt on the bed taunts him. He wants to wear it--has been wearing it--but with Geralt here--

He’s stolen from his painful reverie when Geralt thrusts the shirt at him, gaze averted.

“Wha--”

“Wear it,” Geralt rumbles, already slipping into bed, predictably on the side closest to the door. Something warm and bright burns through him. He does as he’s told.

The material falls to roughly mid-thigh. It fits well enough in the shoulders, but Geralt’s slightly longer and bulkier torso means it billows on him a little like a slip. It makes him feel impossibly small and it’s...nice. Even nicer to settle together, not quite touching, and Jaskier reluctantly relaxes. He's drifting comfortably but not quite asleep when Geralt shifts and tucks himself along Jaskier's side, rests his head gently on Jaskier's shoulder and it's suddenly all too much.

"Geralt," he whispers, afraid to break the spell they seem to have fallen under. They are well outside their normal playbook at this point and Jaskier has no idea how to navigate the situation, only knows he wants it to continue, wants Geralt close.

Geralt stiffens and stays still for a beat too long before he starts to pull away.

"No, love," Jaskier corrects immediately, rests his hand on the back of Geralt's neck to keep him close, tangles his fingers in his hair, "no, please stay." Geralt shivers and tucks himself in closer again, eyes resolutely closed.

"Sorry," he says.

"Don't apologize, darling. I'm--I'm happy you're here, you know? I haven't spent a Yule with anyone in a long time." Geralt makes a tiny noise of acknowledgment. He should say it, he should say it. If there's ever been a time it's now, clothed in Geralt’s old shirt, with Geralt curled along his side, the heat of him radiating through the thin material. He presses his lips to the top of Geralt's head and feels him relax slowly. His heart pounds.

"I know you're in love with someone," Geralt breathes, warm against the soft skin of the bard's throat, "I figured it must be someone you had here. But--" Jaskier's breath hitches, "there really is no one else, is there?"

"No," Jaskier says, voice just a little strained.

"Who is it?" It's barely more than a breath.

"Geralt," Jaskier sighs softly.

"Humor me," he murmurs, presses his lips to the exposed skin he can reach. Jaskier's breath punches out of him.

"It's always been you," he says, running his fingers through Geralt's hair. Geralt makes a small noise. He seems...content. Soft and quiet against Jaskier's side.

"I thought it was too good to be true," Geralt says into the dark when Jaskier doesn't think he'll speak again. "Figured there must be someone else." His chest aches.

"It's only been you since I was twenty years old, Geralt," and oh, that's a bizarre feeling, to get that one off his chest. He's very aware of the fact Geralt hasn't said it back, but...he's here, isn't he?

"Idiot," Geralt scoffs, "I should have left you behind at that inn in Posada." To the ear untrained in Geralt-isms, it sounds dismissive, harsh. Jaskier hears the fondness in it, all the things Geralt isn’t saying.

"Where would I be without you, witcher?" He breathes, feels the tears prickle at the corner of his eyes.

"Safer," Geralt says, without missing a beat. Jaskier scoffs.

"You know, traditionally Yule visitors bring a gift, not verbally berate their hosts." Geralt snorts a laugh, presses his lips to Jaskier's skin again.

"Mm, thought you might like this gift," Geralt says, spreading a palm above Jaskier's pounding heartbeat.

"Geralt, you did not wait until Yule to come to Oxenfurt so you could make a tasteless joke about gifting me your company, tell me you didn't."

"I didn't," Geralt repeats, but Jaskier can hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh, you are awful," he says, delighted.

"There's also lute strings in my pack for you," he says, "I bought them in case...well. They're yours anyway." Jaskier knows what he means. He bought them in case there had been someone else, in case Geralt had been right.

"Thank you, love," he chokes out past the lump in his throat. It's the first time anyone's gotten him anything for Yule since he was a child. "I'm sorry I don't have anything for you."

"Just you is enough," Geralt breathes into the curve of his throat. Jaskier feels fit to burst.

He may not like winter and he may not care for Yule, but this one? This one's just fine.

[julek]

A soft breeze wafted through the forest, the sounds of the early morning slowly coming through. Sunlight glowed against the treetops, effortlessly caressing the ground with its billowy fingers. 

Jaskier blinked against the clarity, his cheek mushed against his bedroll. It was entirely too cold to come out of his warm cocoon, he’d decided, but the sound of Geralt sharpening his swords crawled into his ears, the easy sound of routine setting into his bones as he stifled a yawn, his hair mussed and disheveled. He frowned at the sight of his lute case laying next to him on his bedroll, but ultimately paid it no mind.

“Morning,” he mumbled as he sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Geralt grunted non-commitally from the rock he was perched on. 

Jaskier stood up and walked over to Geralt, who was frowning more than was necessary for this early in the morning, in Jaskier’s opinion. He bent over to place a kiss to the Witcher’s hair, which he misplaced on his shoulder as Geralt stood up with him. 

Jaskier frowned in confusion. “What is it?”

Geralt hummed, jutting his jaw like he did whenever he was being stubborn. The gesture reminded Jaskier of a little kid, pouting when he got his sweets taken away, refusing to meet his mother’s eye. Right now, Geralt was the vivid image of caprice.

Jaskier inhaled deeply, internally praying to Melitele for some additional patience, and took Geralt’s face in his hands. 

“What is it?”, he repeated, softly this time. “It’s too early for your pout to come out.”

“I don’t pout.”

“You do, actually,” Jaskier said with a small smile on his lips. “What happened?”

Geralt looked away, as far as Jaskier’s hands on his face would let him. Jaskier mirrored his movements and found himself staring at their bedrolls, which would normally lay close together, now meters apart. Again, he frowned. 

“Why is your... did I snore too loudly? I knew I shouldn’t have had that last drink—oh, did I kick you? I know I do that sometimes, too...” Jaskier trailed off, his mind reeling.

“’S nothing, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice came out like a small whisper. “Leave it.”

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to pout. 

“No, wait— what happened? Because I very much remember falling asleep as a little spoon, as we very much laid in the same bedroll, and now...”

Geralt shook his head, picking up his sword again. Jaskier looked around for clues, any signs that he might’ve accidentally cast Geralt away in the middle of the night. His eyes fell on his lute.

“Geralt,” he started, gently as not to startle his kicked-puppy of a Witcher. “Look at me.”

Turning around, Geralt tried to school his features into a face of nonchalance, but Jaskier could see right through him. Taking a breath, he placed his hands on Geralt’s forearms, grounding him. 

“Is it, perchance, that you’re pouting,” he said, then bit his lip at his choice of words. “Sorry, sorry, not pouting — um, moping, because I may or may not have fallen into a loving embrace with my, ah, my lute during the night, thus kicking you out of our bedrolls?”

Geralt looked away, again, but the twitch of his lip gave Jaskier the answer. 

“Hey,” he said, again, trying to stifle a laugh. “I’m sorry. I promise it was totally unconscious— ha, as if I’d ever kick you out of my bed with or without good reason. There’s place for both of you in my heart.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “You always talk about how your one and only will always be your lute, and I thought....”

“And she is!” Jaskier said, dramatically taking a hand to his chest, “but— but, it’s also you. Only you, you thick-headed Witcher.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “Okay,” he murmured, and settled his forehead against Jaskier’s. “But you’re putting it in Roach’s saddlebags next time.”

Jaskier pulled back, gasping with offense. “Geralt! How could I?”

“You’ll have to take me in her place,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“I guess you’ll do,” Jaskier pouted, tangling a silver loose strand on his fingers. “Now, should I ask my lute for a good morning kiss, or would that be overstepping?”

“Hmm.” Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s hair, then his forehead, trailing small kisses over his brows, his nose, his cheekbone, and finally, his lips. “Good morning.”

[samstree]

Hug a Witcher Day (3/4)

In which Jaskier goes missing in the spring. Can Geralt finally realize his feelings for the bard in the middle of a crisis?

(hurt/comfort, soft geraskier, 3k, rated T, cw: mentions of a canon-era plague, sick children, and a citywide lockdown.)

part 1, part 2, read on AO3

The third year since Jaskier invented Hug a Witcher Day, Geralt all but forgets about it completely.

He steps into the Two Weatherfish, where they agreed to meet, and realizes that the bard isn’t here. Or in the entire city of Ard Carraigh. No one has seen any trace of the famous bard who won’t quit singing praises for witchers.

Geralt pushes down the slight panic in his chest as he steps out of the last tavern in the city, and decides to just head for Oxenfurt.

It’s not like Jaskier has been the most reliable companion in the past, often distracted by dalliances or even anything shiny and new. One time he wandered off to watch a local celebration and Geralt found him hours later next to a lake, with thousands of lanterns floating above the water, illuminating the night sky like burning stars peppered on a dark canvas.

The soft, orange light spilled over Jaskier’s features, his eyes gleaming like the stars too.

Geralt snorts despite himself. There’s no doubt the bard is just delayed by someone who caught his eye and decided that a promise to a witcher isn’t all that important—the same witcher who he keeps claiming to be his best friend.

Geralt isn’t sure how to feel about that, or how to react when he finally sees Jaskier. Perhaps he will cease to talk about hunts for a while, leave the bard hanging, just so he can get a taste of the same frustration.

The pettiness remains in Geralt’s mind up until he steps into the academy and rampant fear licks up his chest.

Essi is the one who meets him at the gates, worry deep between her brows and rambling about how Jaskier never made it to the yule ball like he should. In her hands are two letters, clearly Jaskier’s handiwork judging from the neat curves and flourish, talking about his excitement to see his ‘Little Eye’ perform again, and how unfortunately his travel would be delayed due to an unexpected ailment.

Don’t you fret, poppet, for I am sure to beat this sickness within days. The promise of listening to your new ballad is already doing wonders for my health! It is a shame that my stay in Vizima is soured thus. The city, so beautifully rich in culture…

“Vizima,” Essi says frantically. “A plague broke out in the city last winter. Smallpox.”

A buzz begins to ring by Geralt’s ear, muffling out Essi’s voice and leaving only the thundering of his own heartbeat.

“They told me King Foltest sealed the gate to stop the spread, and…and no one has heard from anyone inside since then. Geralt, please, you are a witcher. Aren’t you immune to human sickness? That’s what Jaskier told me, isn’t that right?”

“I…yes.” The lump in Geralt’s throat stops any other words from getting out. His blood runs cold in the warm breeze of Oxenfurt’s spring.

“Please, Geralt, you must find him. I need to know. The university won’t allow me to go, but I…I must know. No matter what happened to him.”

The implication hangs in the air.

Tears well up in blues eyes too similar to Jaskier’s. Essi would be my sister in another life, Jaskier once commented adoringly and it’s only standing right here that Geralt can truly see the identical fierceness in her eyes.

As if Geralt needs her to ask. As if he isn’t willing to charge into the land of the dead if it means Jaskier gets out of it unscathed.

“Of course, Essi,” he promises solemnly. Her clutch on his forearm is so tight that any other man would be bruised by the force. “I promise.”

“Keep him safe, if it’s not too late.”

In his near-century long life, Geralt has rarely felt cold, unrelenting fear as he does when Essi breaks into sobs.

 *

The sickness in Vizima casts a gloomy cloud over the sky, choking Geralt’s breaths. The streets are eerily empty. Only a few people will pass through in a frenzy every now and then.

Geralt’s legs take him right through the main streets, to the far corner of the city, where countless makeshift tents are set up and stretching towards the edge of the woods. If anyone has indeed fallen to the disease, that’s the most likely place they will be sent to. If anyone passes, that’s also where they keep the records so friends and families can look for their names.

Bile rises in his throat at the idea of looking through stacks of books for Jaskier’s name.

Geralt walks between hundreds of beds of one tent after another. Some healers throw him an odd look but carry on with their work, the flash of their white scrubs weaving through the busy establishment.

Against all odds, a pang of relief hits Geralt when he notices how the patients are well-treated by healers who seem to know what they are doing. The fever is brought down with a soaked cloth and a minty salve is applied for the irritation on the skin.

He searches and searches, until the sun is almost down, when—

A soft tune is carried over by the gentle breeze of spring.

And there Jaskier is, kneeling next to a little boy on a bed and humming a lullaby that Geralt only remembers vaguely. The bard is wearing the same white scrub like every carer at this camp, his brown hair slightly ruffled, and dark circles are hanging under his eyes. Geralt can see how tired he is by the hunch of his shoulders and the barely-there quiver in his singing, by his unkept stubble and the smile that’s dangerously close to falling.

And yet, he makes the most beautiful sight in the world.

Geralt stands there, drinking in the presence of his bard. The languid heartbeat of a witcher picks up, fluttering and almost bursting out of his chest.

Jaskier runs his fingers through the boy’s hair when the lullaby comes to an end. He tucks in the blanket and slowly pulls himself up, his knees creaking from the strain.

Blue eyes meet Geralt and Jaskier’s shock morphs into unbridled, blazing joy. Within the blink of an eye, the bard is standing right in front of Geralt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes oh so carefully like he’s scared of waking from a dream. “What are you doing here? Wait, you don’t have any protec—oh right! Witcher biology. Can’t catch anything from us.” The bard lets out a sigh and his shoulders drop in relief. “How did you get through the gate? Punched another guard, didn’t—”

“You are okay,” Geralt says, dumbly.

“I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier frowns. “Geralt, why did you come to Vizima in the middle of a plague? Not that I’m complaining about seeing you, but how exactly did you find me?”

Geralt doesn’t want to look away from Jaskier’s face—ideally for a long time to come, but he needs to rummage through his pack for the crumpled letters.

“You sent these to Essi last winter.”

Jaskier takes the letters, flattens the frayed edges before reading his own words.

“Yes, I did tell her…” Cold horror takes Jaskier aback. “Shit. She must think—Oh, Geralt, that wasn’t it! I only caught a stomach bug. It was never the pox! But then…they locked the city gate so fast and everything was in chaos for weeks. I couldn’t get more letters out. Oh, I wish I could take it back! I didn’t think—”

“You damn well didn’t.”

The words come out a lot harsher than Geralt intended, and Jaskier flinches back. Geralt pinches at the bridge of his nose, feeling contrite at his untimely outburst.

“No, Jask—I’m not…” he heaves out a sigh. “She didn’t even know if you were alive for months.”

Neither did I.

“I’m so sorry.” Jaskier is close to tears. “She must be worried sick.”

“She is.”

I was.

“And you too, Geralt. Please forgive me.” Jaskier’s chin wobbles, his arms hovering between the two of them as if he wants to put them around Geralt. “I want to ask you not to be cross with me again, but that seems to be all I do.”

“Jaskier…”

Geralt calls out when he finds not even an ounce of anger in his heart, not when he just spent weeks fearing the worst, not when Jaskier is standing right in front of him, safe and hale, his eyes flowing with guilt.

Jaskier might just be the death of him.

“Fuck. Just don’t pull this again.” Geralt softens his tone, knowing how unfair the request is when such things are out of Jaskier’s control, but the bard replies in earnest.

“I won’t. I swear.”

Exhaustion washes over the bard once again, making him look a lot older than he is. From the looks of it, Jaskier has been working in these camps for months and the last thing he needs is an unsupportive friend.

And Geralt doesn’t intend to become one.

“And you are dressed like this because?” Geralt nudges Jaskier in the shoulder to ease the apprehension on his face.

“Funny you should ask.” The bard presses his lips into a thin line before continuing. “I may have lied—nay, implied—that the seven degrees I acquired at Oxenfurt included…medicine. Hold on! Before you judge, I do know how to care for pox patients. I caught it as a child too and that’s why I’ve been fine this whole time.”

“Hmm. But you don’t have the—”

“The scars. No thanks to my grandmother’s secret healing salve that she insisted on keeping secret. It worked like a charm back then, almost like magic. We’ve been trying to replicate from whatever I remember. The mint is helping a little but something is still missing. Oh, well.” The bard rubs his fingers at the hem of his scrub. “Perhaps that explains all these crazy rumors about her heritage, with all her herbs and teas that always miraculously cured everybody. Honestly, I don’t even blame them.”

Geralt muses the possibility of Jaskier’s grandmother not being completely human and makes a silent decision to unpack it later.

“Then I guess your personal experience should come in handy if we are going to stay here for a while.”

“We? You are staying?”

“The exits are still closed.” Geralt tilts his head in nonchalance. “Might as well lend them a hand.”

And never take his eyes off of Jaskier again.

“That’s…wonderful, in a terrible, terrible way. Being trapped in the same place during a plague. Gods, that sounds like something out of the cheesiest romance novel.” Jaskier gasps as soon as the words are out. The smile on his face blossoms into a heated blush.

“Just promise me one thing, Jask.”

“What?” The cornflower blue eyes uncharacteristically avoid Geralt in a vain attempt to hide how flustered he is.

Don’t scare me like this again.

Don’t get taken from me.

Don’t leave me.

“Read less romance novels. Once this blows over,” Geralt answers, finally.

The fluttering in his chest returns, although this time for a completely different reason. The reason not being how adorable Jaskier looks embarrassed and rosy-cheeked.

No. Definitely not.

 *

“Little Simon asleep?”

Geralt asks as he stokes the fire, watching Jaskier struggle out of the sweat-soaked scrub and throw it into the laundry pile. The bard sits down next to him on the log with a groan and leans into his arm.

“As flattered as I am that he can’t fall asleep without my songs, it does get a bit taxing to sing every night while kneeling on the floor.”

“The kid is sick. Can’t blame him for having bad taste in music.”

The jab would have landed better if he isn’t wrapping his arm around Jaskier so that he can rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder. The days are too long even with most of the patients released home, and it’s been taking a toll on Jaskier.

“Cruel to me when I’m down, huh?”

Under Geralt’s palm, it’s unmistakable that Jaskier’s arm isn’t as thick as it once was, and he really doesn’t want to think about how the sharp of Jaskier’s jaw is becoming more prominent by the day.

Geralt rubs gently up and down Jaskier’s bicep to draw a contented purr out of him.

“Hmm. Now you’re forgiven.” Jaskier nuzzles into the crook of Geralt’s neck so his muscles loosen under the ministration. “It’s so unfair that a shift never wears you out like the rest of us, my dear. So unfair that you don’t need as much food too. I’d kill for some witcher superpowers these days.”

“Trust me, you won’t like what they cost.”

The late summer heat, mixed with the smell of sweat in Jaskier’s hair, should make it extremely uncomfortable to be sitting so close, but Geralt only finds it calming to have Jaskier sagging against him.

Jaskier’s thinning shoulder is too worrisome. Geralt will have to leave him most of the dinner rations again. Excuses are so easy to find, once Geralt realized that Jaskier never questions what he’s told about witcher biology, trusting every word from Geralt’s mouth. It’s just a little lie, a little exaggeration.

The bard is rubbing off on him.

“Simon is among the last ones here,” Jaskier says tiredly into Geralt’s neck. “It will soon be over. They are saying everyone can go in a month or so.”

“We can go even now.”

The prospect of traveling again stirs up something hopeful under Geralt’s skin, prickling with excitement, but he knows more patience is required for now.

“Nah, I should at least see little Simon home. You were right that the boy has suffered enough. The fever is terrible. Even I still have nightmares about it after so many years. It’s excruciating, almost like death is trying to mock you. One moment a fire burns through your whole body, the next it swallows you whole into this…nothingness, cold and alone.”

Geralt tightens his hold and breathes in the melancholic scent emanating from Jaskier’s skin.

“It was my grandmother, again. She sang the same lullaby to me every night, kept me sane. It’s helping little Simon too.”

“It’s in elvish,” Geralt murmurs absently when Jaskier is close to drifting off. The bard’s leveled breathing fans over the collar of Geralt’s neck.

“…hmm?”

“Nothing. Maybe for later.”

Geralt’s fingers reach the side of Jaskier’s head and thread between the soft brown locks, keeping his drooping head in place for the nap. When he looks down to where Jaskier casually drapes over half of his body, the two of them almost melding into one, Geralt is suddenly hit with how much their relationship has changed over the past few years, and at the same time, how it feels completely natural like puzzles fitting into place.

This newfound intimacy should scare Geralt, but strangely, it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because the witcher has learned long ago to treasure his bard as a companion and friend, to protect him and care for him, even without ever admitting it out loud.

Maybe he should.

And what would he even say? Geralt is equally elated and stumped at the thought of the two of them growing into something more. If the fluttering in his chest is a result of loving Jaskier, the bard deserves to know, and he deserves the best words.

Geralt scoffs softly when he realizes that he’d kill for something completely opposite. Not the strength of a witcher, but the silver tongue of a bard, the ability to weave the most beautiful prose to describe what Jaskier means to him.

The summer cicadas are singing with renewed vigor, the sizzling sound disrupting his train of thought. For now, Geralt will need to content himself in simply being with Jaskier.

And, perhaps, in pressing a tiny kiss into his soft brown hair as well. Under the night sky, only the stars will know.

--

I didn't know plague doctor Jaskier could be a thing until I started writing this chapter, and the ending just had to make way for it. Sorry that the chapter count has gone up. I promise hugs are cuddles are on the way!  <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @birdsflyhome @dapandapod @artisanbaguette

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[alittlebitmaybe]

comme un écho

AKA whoops i talked to @yoursummerfrost about orpheus and eurydice and then tripped and fell on this very weird ficlet that is only sort of what i meant it to be. uh oh. (title lifted from “it’s never over (oh orpheus)” by arcade fire because i’m incredibly literal sometimes)

warnings: off-screen major character death

*

The mage had told him to perform the ritual in a field of wildflowers.

“Plenty of life,” she said.

Jaskier had asked, “For what?”

“To feed it,” she said, and did not elaborate.

And as he follows her instructions, surrounded by blooming weeds and swaying grasses, he sees that she was right. As the herbs and other unmentionables in the bowl burn, scorching the wooden sides, the green around him darkens to black. He feels the magic tugging at his energy and resists it. The ruin spreads from his epicenter, cursing the very dirt on which he kneels. A slow but inexorable exchange, and Jaskier thinks it fair. Geralt had watered the earth with his blood and now the earth must give back.

“You’re out of your depth, bard,” the mage had said as he turned to leave, her lips pursed. Was she amused or disapproving? Jaskier didn’t care, nor, he suspected, did she. Her pockets were full, and his own empty.

He hefted the lute higher on his back, clutched at the strap across his chest.

“And yet,” he said.

“He will not come easily,” she said.

“He never did,” Jaskier replied.

The flame in the bowl burns out with a flare of noxious smoke that stings Jaskier’s eyes, makes him cough. The world hums. It’s a tune of his own, as of yet unsung, plucked from his consciousness. It reaches out to him and burrows under his skin. Pulling. He follows it.

Between two gnarled, ancient trees, in the arch of their overlapping branches (Which belongs to which? Where does one stop and the other begin? If one was broken, would the other suffer for it?) the air shimmers.

The tune fades and in its place is a whisper saying, Come.

*

The stairs spiral downward for hours, days. Jaskier’s legs do not ache and he does not hunger, but it is ever so quiet. He takes the lute from his back and plays every song he’s ever composed in Geralt’s honor. Maybe Geralt can hear them. Maybe he will know Jaskier is on his way.

“Get ready, Witcher,” Jaskier says to the darkness. “Gather your underworldly things. You won’t be coming back any time soon. I can promise you that.”

And he says, “I’m sorry that you were alone. I’m sorry that I was too late.”

And he says, when the darkness presses upon him, when it seems the stairs will never end, “I don’t know when I began to love you, but it has been long enough that I don’t know how not to.”

And he says, “I’ve done this for you. You deserve to have a better life. You deserve to live.”

And he takes one more step and trips, for there is no stair where he expected there to be one. He taps the toe of his boot against the ground. It’s solid. He lifts his hand in front of his own face and it is invisible. There is no breeze, no sound, no smells, no light. There’s nothing down here.

In the face of such vastness, Jaskier is insignificant. He is nothing. You are nothing. You are less than a flea clinging to the fur of a great beast. You will be mine. You will become a part of me. You will cease. You will be forgotten.

“Hold on now,” Jaskier says, head whipping around. “Who’s there?”

I am everything that has been. I await everything that is. I anticipate what will be. I am.

“You’re Death,” Jaskier realizes, perhaps belatedly.

There is no such thing. I have no name. I have no need of it.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who or what you are.” His heart thumps arrhythmically, and sweat drips from his brow. He swipes it off on his sleeve. He is far under water. His lungs fill. He ignores it, swallows. Throws back his shoulders. “I’m here for Geralt of Rivia.”

There is no Geralt of Rivia.

“Bullshit.”

You are insolent.

“I’ve been told.”

You will be mine.

“Perhaps.” Jaskier licks his lips, an unbreakable habit. “But I will live on.”

You will not.

He laughs a little, despite himself, a nervous little giggle that he stifles as quickly as he can, clearing his throat. “On the contrary, I am an artist. I shan’t die as long as my art lives. And art does not die.”

Art? Art is not living. I have no use of it.

“Exactly,” he says. “Yes, precisely. It does not live or die. It simply is. Whatever you—whatever you are, being of, ah, all-ness…or what have you—whatever you are, whatever comprises you, you have none of art. You have no music, no stories, none at all. You will always lack it.”

There is a thoughtful pause.

I desire it.

“I can give it to you. Did you hear? I played my whole way down.”

I heard.

“Did you enjoy it? Three words or less.”

It was pleasing.

Jaskier exhales. “That’s actually a decent review, as these things go. I’m glad. I mean, would you like more? I could write you a song. Got a decent hand at improv, me. Won’t take a moment.”

A song. For me?

“Yes,” Jaskier promises, feeling the weight of it as it passes over his tongue, “a song, only for you. I shall never play it again. Well, um, on one condition.”

You want Geralt of Rivia.

“Oh, you were paying attention. Smart one, you are, Your…um, Majesty.”

I can retrieve him. If I am careful. He is me. I am him.

“Truly, I understand. His loss, for me, was…” Jaskier struggles for adequate words. “Irreconcilable. But you will always have the memory of your song to take his place.”

You sang of him.

“I do. Rather habitually. Every day of my life, in fact.”

Hmm.

“You sound like him already. So, whaddaya say?”

Play for me.

*

He plays, and every note that vibrates out from his lute, every note that leaves his mouth disappears from his mind. It is absorbed from him upon conception. He doesn’t know what the last measure was, nor what the next will be. He does not know what key or time signature his song is in, but he knows it’s a song. And that is all he promised.

It ends, and Jaskier does not notice. Possibly his jaw hangs open stupidly for minutes after it is over. He closes it.

“Was, um, was that…”

Yes. I will give you your reward.

“You will?” Jaskier asks, surprised despite himself.

I will release Geralt of Rivia, for you have given me something in return. And I will regain him, as I will gain you. We will meet again, bard.

“I—How do—”

You will walk forward. You will ascend, and he will follow. Until he emerges above, he is still a part of me. You may not look upon him, as you may not look upon me. You must not look back.

“How will I know he is there?”

He will follow.

“How will I know it is him?”

You must have faith.

“How—” Jaskier chokes now, tears welling up. He is glad no one can see. “Will he be—himself?”

Entirely. Once he emerges.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

It is time. Walk forward. In three paces, you shall begin to ascend. Be well, bard.

*

Jaskier climbs. The stairs remember his tread, the shape of his feet. It’s easy.

There are footsteps behind him. Are they Geralt’s? Do they match the way he shifts his weight, the deliberate heel-toe steps that Jaskier has been hearing for decades? He’s not sure.

Jaskier is afraid. More afraid than ever before. There could be anything back there. Anything at all. He must not look.

But he is not forbidden to talk.

“Geralt?” he says, tentatively. “Geralt, is that you?”

A grunt. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

And it is, thank the gods, it is. “Sounds like you,” he says, voice carefully measured, lest he sob in relief.

Silence. Four, five more stairs. They will not end. When will they end?

“How’ve you been, Witcher? It’s good to hear you again, my friend.”

“Where are we?”

“Well, who’s to say,” Jaskier says lightly. “Tell me, what do you last remember?”

“Bleeding out in a forest. I couldn’t get up. I waited to die. I…died. I died, didn’t I, Jaskier?”

Jaskier chooses to take that as rhetorical, and does not answer.

“Anything else?”

“Not until now. Is this a dream?”

“To my knowledge, no, Geralt, it is not. I pray that this is not a dream.”

“Then where—?”

Jaskier picks up his foot, sets it down. One stair at a time. There have been hundreds, there will be more. Is that light above? No, a trick of his eyes. He is still blind.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon be outside. It’s a beautiful day, you know. Big blue sky. Everything in bloom. Your favorite time of the year. We’ll have to do some foraging, stock up for potions. I have your things, of course, but I don’t know the shelf life of your concoctions.”

“A quarter year.”

“Ah, might have to make fresh, then.”

But no, it is growing brighter. Jaskier can see the faint silhouettes of his hands, the edges of the stairs to come. If he were to turn back he might be able to see the gleam of Geralt’s eyes, but he mustn’t.

Why mustn’t he? Oh, yes, the warning. He—can’t look back. He must not—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m dead.”

“You are, Geralt, yes, is that what you would like to hear?” Jaskier says, a little hysterically. “But you won’t be for much longer, if we just keep going.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where? Where?” His pitch climbs with the staircase. Around and around. Dizzying. So many circles. “Above, Geralt. Back home, of course.”

“Why?”

Jaskier has to stop himself from whirling around. “Good gods, you ask me why? I follow you for decades, I immortalize you in song, and the witcher asks me why.” He draws in a great lungful of air, releases it. “I love you, you great idiot. I have loved you.”

The response comes, so softly, a mere rumble, “I know. That’s why I asked.”

The stairs are made of warped stone. He can see that now. They are well worn, dipping in the centers. It can’t be far. “Please, Geralt, we’re almost there.”

“You haven’t answered me. Why you would do this.”

“I was supposed to let you rot, huh? I was meant to live on as if it was fine? As if nothing was missing?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come back.”

“Of course you did. Of course you do.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stops, and behind him the second set of footsteps also halts.

“It was peaceful. It was my time.”

“It wasn’t,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

There is a touch to the small of his back, a gust of air across the nape of his neck. So familiar. He aches.

“Jaskier.” A strong hand closes around his wrist. He doesn’t look down at it, not even a glance. “The world doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What about the monsters? The wars?”

“There is Yennefer, and Ciri, and Eskel and the rest. There will always be someone.”

With dread creeping through his limbs, Jaskier says, “You’re telling me you don’t want to come back. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He can almost hear the creaking of the intertwined, ancient trees above. It is just a few more steps.

“You can’t tell me that, not when I—”

Arms come around him, and he shuts his eyes. “Jaskier, I would rather have done what I have done and no more, than continue on and overstay my welcome. I would rather have my peace.”

“What if I need you?” Jaskier breathes.

“I am with you.”

“You weren’t.”

Geralt’s hand comes to rest over his heart. It is not cold nor hot through Jaskier’s doublet. It simply isn’t much of anything at all. There, but insubstantial. It trails its way up his jaw, traces over his bottom lip. “You forget,” Geralt says, “that I am in your words. That I will live on. Isn’t that what you said? Art does not die.”

“You heard.”

“I must have.”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier sniffles, knowing full well he sounds like a child. “I came all this way. I have always followed you. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I will sing of you until I can’t any longer, to anyone who will listen, and to many who will not.”

A smile, pressed to his ear. “I can think of no better way to be loved.”

Something nags at Jaskier, and he can’t say what. He is surrounded by a body he knows as well as his own, yet it’s not right. Why?

The body releases him. It says, “Look at me, Jaskier. That’s all you have to do.”

“You’re not Geralt, are you,” he says with trepidation, eyes still squeezed tight. “Are you? Don’t lie.”

“Jaskier.”

He breathes in. Opens his eyes. Grips the lute strap in both hands. Turns.

Silvered hair, sad golden eyes, a sharp nose, wispy around the edges.

“Geralt,” he whispers, reaching out even as the form dissipates. Called back to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” it says, and then it is gone.