#clumsy jaskier

[inexplicifics]

💛 or 💙 pretty please, Oh great Inex!

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries delightedly.

Geralt hesitates in the doorway. Jaskier is clearly drunk - not so drunk as to be falling over his own feet, but well past tipsy - and so are the others at his table. Geralt has faced selkiemores and leshens and nightwraiths without a qualm, but drunk bards give him pause.

Unfortunately it seems to be too late to perform a strategic retreat, so he girds his loins and heads for the bards.

There isn’t a chair available - the tavern is very crowded, enough that he has to squeeze his way through the crowd, which rather bafflingly does not give way around him the way people usually do for a large and well-armed man in armor, even leaving aside the whole ‘witcher’ thing - but Jaskier gets up at once and gestures grandly for Geralt to take his seat, almost knocking the hat off of a man at the next table. Geralt sits down before Jaskier can become even more effusive in his gesticulating. Jaskier, naturally, sits on his lap.

Jaskier likes to dress and act like he is a waifish and delicate man, but in point of fact he’s six feet tall and astonishingly sturdy, and Geralt grunts a little as Jaskier’s full weight lands on his legs.

“Oh, shush, darling,” Jaskier says cheerfully, and -

Well, Geralt assumes the bard means to plant a messy kiss against Geralt’s cheek, that being something Jaskier has done before while in his cups, but Geralt has turned his head to try to say something to a harried barmaid as she goes by and Jaskier is drunk enough to be clumsy and -

Well. It’s not a great kiss, all things considered, being rather sloppy and off-center, but it is most definitely Jaskier’s lips on Geralt’s.

“Huh,” Jaskier says, pulling back and blinking at Geralt as the other bards catcall and whoop. “You taste like mint.”

“I was at the bathhouse,” Geralt points out. They had mint to chew in addition to the usual array of soaps and oils, and Geralt does like feeling clean when the option is available.

“Yes! Your hair’s all shiny and cleeeean,” Jaskier coos, running his fingers through Geralt’s unbound hair gleefully. “Look! Isn’t it lovely? Like moonlight on snow!”

All the other bards nod and giggle, because becoming a bard apparently means that you’re incapable of calling white hair white like any sensible person.

“That wasn’t a very good kiss,” Jaskier informs Geralt solemnly. “I’ll do better next time.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and hums dubiously. Jaskier bops a finger against his nose. “Don’t you ‘hm’ at me! I will, you’ll see.”

“Like you did with Demyan, last midwinter?” one of the other bards asks with a sly smile, and Jaskier turns to expostulate at her indignantly.

Geralt rolls his eyes and winds an arm around Jaskier’s waist to make sure his bard doesn’t fall entirely off his lap. Jaskier will have forgotten all about this by tomorrow morning.

(Jaskier doesn’t forget.)

(Or here on AO3!)

[thedemonofcat]

In the wake of the mountain incident, where Geralt's cutting remarks deeply wounded Jaskier, the bard is left shattered, convinced of his own unworthiness. Vulnerable and in pain, Jaskier unwittingly becomes a target for a malevolent entity that thrives on suffering.

This insidious force begins to exert its influence over Jaskier, compelling him into increasingly perilous situations to feed off his anguish. Curiously, the entity shows a particular affinity for Jaskier, possibly drawn by his inexplicable longevity, ensuring his survival despite the dangers he faces.

As time passes, Geralt notices subtle changes in Jaskier's behavior, sensing an underlying disturbance but unable to pinpoint its source. Despite the witcher's hopes for tranquility at Kaer Morhen following the ordeal with Ciri, Jaskier's apparent clumsiness and silence regarding his injuries raise Geralt's suspicions.

It's not until a severe snowstorm exposes Jaskier's vulnerable state, finding him half-frozen and scantily clad in the bitter cold, that Geralt realizes the danger lurking

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Jaskier and Lambert learn they have more in common than first thought.

CW historical abuse, child abuse, beating.

Jaskier silently ground his teeth in agitation as Lambert kicked off again, saying something about the little Lordling not liking hard work when Jaskier collapsed at one of the long tables after spending the couple of hours before dinner helping them repair one of the walls (typically, the three Wolves hadn’t even broken a sweat). People underestimated how thick a skin you needed as a Bard, but even Jaskier could only take so much and Lambert was relentless. Geralt had imparted the usual, trite advice of ‘ignore him and he’ll get bored’. Unfortunately, whilst Jaskier may have succeeded in keeping his mouth shut in the name of civility, his emotions were doing all the talking for him and the scent of Jaskier’s hurt and annoyance only seemed to spur Lambert on. If the sneer on his face was any indication, he could tell the Bard was nearing the end of his tether.

“Give it a rest Lambert.” Eskel growled warningly, “It’s been four days. If Jaskier’s not had enough of your shit by now, the rest of us have.”

“Not my fault. Maybe next time Geralt should bring somebody who didn’t have such a spoilt, cushy upbringing.”

And there went the remnants of Jaskier’s self control. He stood up quickly enough to tip the bench, turning to Lambert with a snarl of his own. The Wolf smirked in return at having finally gotten a reaction.

“Let me show you how cushy I had it.” Jaskier scoffed. Before any of the others could react, he turned his back and lifted his shirt. The tension in the room switched from uncomfortable to stifling as the Witchers took in the sight of the Bard’s bare back. Raised scars from both whip and belt crisscrossed his flesh, some of them showing the outline of a buckle.

“My father wasn’t a very nice person.” Jaskier said dryly, “First time he took his belt to me was because I was laughing too much. I was six.”

Geralt felt a wall of ice slam into his gut as he thought back on all the times he’d told Jaskier to shut up, manhandled him. That time he’d actually punched him....

Jaskier lowered his shirt, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll be in my ivory tower.”

“Jaskier-“

“Don’t. Just...don’t.”

As soon as Jaskier was out of sight, Eskel rounded on the youngest Wolf, “You never learn. You always have to take shit too far.” He snarled.

“How was I to know?” Lambert bit back, “Geralt, you’re the one who’s been travelling with him for years. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“I... didn’t know.” Geralt said truthfully. All things considered, it was rare he saw the bard shirtless and when he did, Jaskier always made sure to stay facing Geralt. Even here at Kaer Morhen he was always the first one in and the last one out of the hot springs, “He never put his back to me.”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

“Not turning your back is one of the first things they drilled into us here, so no.”

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

Jaskier sat at the top of one of the more stable towers, swinging his feet idly in the open air below him and occasionally swigging from the half bottle of wine he’d retrieved from his room on the way up.

He was half aware of someone sitting next to him, spite and petulance making him continue to stare ahead rather than turn to see who.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his mystery companion spoke up.

“My old man was always careful not to leave any lasting marks. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by our own clumsiness.” Lambert said, taking a swig of his own bottle.

“Hmm, mine was determined to make sure the lessons stuck. Apparently I was a slow learner.”

“He still living?”

Jaskier shook his head, “Died not long before I met Geralt. Yours?”

“Died decades ago, probably. I swear, if I knew where he was buried - if he was buried. It’d be more than he deserved - I’d go and piss on his grave.”

“I actually did that. It’s not as gratifying as you’d think.”

That startled a laugh out of Lambert, Jaskier giving a small chuckle back.

“To arsehole Sires.” Lambert said with mock solemnity, holding his bottle out to Jaskier.

“May they enjoy eternity in the deepest pits of Hell.” Jaskier replied with equal gravity, knocking his own against Lambert’s in a toast.

They sat drinking and watching the sun disappear behind the mountain tops, each of them lost in their own memories. When the night time chill started to descend, Lambert silently offered a now slightly tipsy Jaskier a hand up. Jaskier wordlessly accepted.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Yennefer saying 1, Yenskier

Here's some post-season 2 Yennskier with background Geraskefer.

"Could you hold me? Please."

Yennefer knows that casting the spell will probably kill her. All of Tissaia’s dire warnings about what happens when a mage burns themselves out ring in her head. She barely survived Sodden Hill and she know she shouldn’t risk that kind of loss of control again, especially not so soon after regaining her powers.

But soldiers found her, Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri in the little farmhouse where they’ve been hiding for weeks now. Geralt is injured, his movements clumsy as he holds off three soldiers. She doesn’t know where Ciri is. The princess is hopefully hiding somewhere, but she’s probably about to do something reckless and dangerous. She can hear Jaskier shouting, taunting their attackers as he tries to draw them away from Geralt.

Yennefer turns and finds the bard backed up against the wall, holding a ladle like it’s a bludgeon and making anatomically improbable suggestions about the mother of the soldier approaching him with a sword. The soldier raises his blade and Yennefer knows there’s no time for her to hesitate. She may not survive, but she needs to make sure that Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri get out of this alive.

For the second time in less than a year, Yennefer throws out her hands and lets her chaos run wild.

***

Yennefer wakes in the middle of the woods, her mouth tasting of ash and blood and her entire body aching. Her head is cushioned on a scratchy woolen cloak that reeks of horse and there’s a blanket thrown over her. A few feet away, a campfire crackles merrily and on the other side of the fire, Jaskier strums his lute. There’s a furrow in his brow and his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

She takes a moment to observe him before she croaks, “Geralt? Ciri?”

Jaskier’s head jerks up, pure relief flashing across his face. “They’re off catching dinner.”

“Hurt?”

“No, love.” He puts down his lute and rounds the fire to sit next to her. “Geralt caught a sword to his side, but you know witcher healing. He bled a lot, took a couple of potions, and then started acting like nothing ever happened. Ciri doesn’t have a scratch on her.”

“You?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” He brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Thanks to you.”

“Idiot. Shouldn’t taunt people with swords.”

“I’ve spent over two decades taunting a man with a sword. It’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

“Idiot,” she says again, too tired to hide the fondness in her voice. 

“You scared the shit out of us, Yenn,” Jaskier says. “You slept for two days. We didn’t think you were going to wake up.”

“They were going to kill you and Geralt and take Ciri.” Yennefer closes her eyes, trying to block out the memories. “Are the soldiers dead?”

“All of them. And the house is burned to the ground. With all my favorite clothes inside, I may add.”

“Pity you were able to save your lute.”

“Yes, I got luck—hey!”

Yennefer smirks, eyes still closed.

She feels him let out a long sigh. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“You nearly got stabbed for insulting a soldier’s mother.”

“Well, I had to do something to piss them off enough that they wouldn’t go after Geralt.”

Yennefer grits her teeth. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“You impossible fucking bard.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “You impossible fucking witch.”

She hates this fucking man. She would tell him that at length, but moving her mouth is starting to feel like too much effort. She’s exhausted and acutely aware that the hard, cold ground she’s lying on is much less comfortable than the bed she’s been sharing with Jaskier and Geralt for weeks now. She’s gotten used to not having to sleep on the ground.

Jaskier sighs. “Anything I can do for you, Yenn?”

Yennefer hesitates, then asks, “Could you hold me? Please?” A few months ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for such a thing. It still feels odd to show that kind of vulnerability. But she’s cold, hurting, and all too aware of how close she came to never being held by Jaskier again.

“Of course.” The blanket lifts off her for a moment as Jaskier slides under it, curling against her side and tucking the blanket around both of them. Eyes still closed, Yennefer lifts her head off the cloak to settle it against Jaskier’s shoulder, a far finer pillow. His arms wrap around her, warm, secure, and achingly familiar. Yennefer settles against him, soothed by the feeling of him against her. The ground is still hard and her body still aches fiercely, but it’s a little more bearable with him holding her.

“Do me a favor,” he says softly. “Don’t almost die on me again.”

Yennefer knows she can’t promise that. None of them can, not when they’re on the run with the most wanted princess on the Continent. She can’t imagine how the four of them will all manage to get out of this alive. But Jaskier doesn’t need to hear that and she’s not above lying to her bard when necessary.

“I won’t,” she says. “So long as you don’t taunt any more men with swords. Except for Geralt. He would miss it.”

“No more taunting men with swords.” She knows he’s lying, just like she’s sure he knows she’s lying. But right now, curled up together on the ground, holding each other, they can both pretend that they believe it.

***

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[bardcore-jaskier]

♡My immortal Jaskier headcanons♡

So here are my headcanons, because I refuse to believe that our ball of sunshine has an expiration date...

So, I know Lauren said that Jaskier not aging in the show was just a filming mistake, something they simply forgot to do and on a completely logical level I am fully aware that in canon Jaskier is completely human, 100%. And I also know that they're not gonna change it, no matter how much some of us may wish they did (Although why not? They already strayed so far from the books and made so many changes, might as well go the extra mile)

Realistic-ish headcanons:

- Jaskier is part elf, perhaps quarter elf like Yennefer, it is an entirely justifiable headcanon, theoretically, Jaskier's human father could have married a half elf commoner woman (who may or may not have had the pointy tips on her ears cut off with a knife to avoid human prejudice)

- Jaskier has a fae ancestor, somewhere many many generations back in his ancestry, so his entire family is suspiciously long lived but nobody cares because Lettenhove isn't politically important and therefore doesn't catch the attention of the prejudiced Nobles farther up the royal court chain.

- Jaskier unintentionally drinks the same elixir mages/sorcerers drink to prolong their life. I read that chaos wielders don't have naturally long lifespans, they semi-regularly drink an elixir with mandrake roots in it to slow the aging process. According to Witcher Wiki, you can only buy mandrake root in Lindenvale and my headcanon is that Jaskier experiments with many different tea blends to see which one is more effective for soothing his throat after singing. So at the age of 29-30, he wanders into Lindenvale and buys some dried mandrake to make a tea, after one sip he felt more rejuvenated than ever and since that day, mandrake root tea has become his number one go-to, he drinks it as often as he can.

More fanfic centric, less canon possible headcanons:

- Jaskier is a Dryad. (Yayyy trans Jaskier headcanon) Since Lettenhove is so tiny, it isn't even on the Witcher continent map, but a simple Google search says that it is Located somewhere in Kerack. Kerack borders with Brokilon, so it's kind of a nifty little loophole for fanfic writers to use and place Lettenhove somewhere near the forests where Dryads live.

And while most Dryads treat any man that enters their realm as a mere sperm donor, Witcher Wiki does also mention that some Dryads can form emotional relationships and fall in love with humans and/or elves, but in the end, all Dryad born offspring is AFAB. So imagine this, Jaskier's father falls in love with a Dryad, she falls in love with him, they have Jaskier, Jaskier notices early on that he feels like a boy and his rich Viscount father hires a mage to help Jaskier transition early.

- Jaskier is a higher vampire, higher vampires are a HIGHLY secretive society, even in canon, part of the reason why even Witchers have so little information about them is because they prefer to hide in plain sight and are ridiculously good at it. Jaskier doesn't age, has no self-preservation instincts, doesn't buy a horse and yet still keeps up with Geralt on foot for 20 years. Jaskier's personality isn't fake, he doesn't act like someone else, it's all him, but his clumsiness is a little bit of an act, he also purposefully avoids physical fights, it comes across as fear of getting hurt but in reality it's because he's afraid of appearing too strong and exposing himself. Lettenhove doesn't appear on maps, because it doesn't exist legally, it's just a castle hidden in the woods, a safe place for higher vampires, kinda like Kaer Morhen is for Witchers, Jaskier's parents just happen to be the ones who run it.

[samstree]

Being loved by Geralt is easy.

After the mountains, after wounds are healed and lost brothers mourned, Geralt shows his love, and it’s easy as breathing.

He approaches Jaskier with a cup of mulled wine and takes him to the highest tower of Kaer Morhen. The stars blink amongst the green northern lights, and Jaskier is warm between the wine and the arms around his back.

Under the night sky, Geralt tells Jaskier of his love for the very first time.

Both of them return to Geralt’s hearth-lit chamber with red cheeks and glistening eyes, and they laugh and kiss and fall into bed together. Jaskier drifts off with a smile and dreams of a future with Geralt’s hand in his.

When morning comes, Geralt promises to do better. Guilt should be left in the past, Jaskier wants to argue, but the promise seems equally important to Geralt himself, so Jaskier listens carefully with his palm pressed against the slow-beating heart of his witcher. He’s always trusted Geralt with his life, and now his heart too. Despite all the broken parts of it, he trusts Geralt with his heart.

And Geralt keeps his promise.

He is not perfect—neither of them is, really—but he tries so hard with his imperfect, clumsy love. There are quiet nights when Geralt’s kisses span across Jaskier’s back, counting the specks of birthmarks with his lips. It’s a constellation, he says. They guide me home, like you.

There is also his infuriating protectiveness, his heartbreaking self-hatred. It drives Jaskier away, but never far and never for long. Soft apologies always follow, soothing away all that is angry and difficult between them. There are separations and reunions, messy tears and joyful laughter.

Geralt’s love is easy. So, Jaskier wonders.

Nothing is easy by nature. A witcher’s skills are honed through decades of training, through every swing of his blade, every parry, every kill. It’s why the ease of Geralt’s movement is a terrifying sight for his foes. If handling Jaskier’s heart looks easy, he must have gotten the practice somewhere.

The answer comes one day when Jaskier is alone. His hand slips on the strap of Geralt’s pack and all the notebooks within spill out on the floor.

There is a red book, sprawled open with its pages full of Geralt’s lean, neat writing. Jaskier’s eyes are caught by his own name between those lines.

It’s a notebook he’s watched Geralt use countless times while lazily resting his head on Geralt’s thigh and trying to draw his attention.

“What are you writing?” Jaskier asked once. “Another one of your boring bestiaries?”

“Boring bestiaries save lives.” Geralt looked down, putting down the quill. “And no, it’s not a bestiary.”

“What is it then?”

Jaskier remembered all Geralt’s notebooks: the green ones titled Herbs, the brown ones with Monsters and Locations written across the first page. He didn’t recognize the red one. A secret book, then. It only made him more curious.

“Nothing,” Geralt answers, putting the book down to join Jaskier in the nest of tangled sheets. “Just…thoughts.”

“Thoughts about me?” Jaskier asked cheekily. “Love thoughts?”

“Hmm.”

At the time, Jaskier teased but did not pry. Geralt rarely gets to keep things for himself, and Jaskier delighted in the fact that Geralt could find comfort in keeping a journal.

Now, as the notebook lays open on the ground, Jaskier finds his name all over it. He picks it up and flips to the first page, and finds the title. It’s just one word, one name.

Jaskier.

A book written in his name. A book he never gets to read.

When he flips another page, the entries begin with lists of food. Fruits, pastries and wines, followed by stores to buy the best of them in Ard Carraigh. The combination rings a bell, reminding him of a surprise picnic a while ago. He marveled at how Geralt could gather such a feast without him knowing, and only got an absent hum as reply.

The next page records another date of theirs, detailing Geralt’s careful preparations even though the words are scribbled and crossed out at times.

There are other things. Thoughts.

Thoughts of love, of regret and hope, pride and fear. These are thoughts of Jaskier and their future.

He read slowly as if holding Geralt’s heart between his hands, skipping some passages when the emotions grow too tender, making him ache at the self-doubt that bleeds through these pages.

He has no reason to stay. Jaskier reads on, his heart breaking. And yet he does. I don’t know how to deserve him. I don’t know if I ever will.

The notebook isn’t completed yet, and the last entry consists of the names of many towns and cities. It’s the planning of their next journey, Jaskier realizes, following the route they will travel and diverting for all the local festivals. A coastal village in Cidaris is underscored twice. Jaskier vaguely remembers mentioning its name years ago on a hot sunny afternoon. He went on about how nice the water was there, and how he dreamed of going back. It’s the same place he thought about when asking Geralt to run away with him during that dragon hunt.

Geralt wants to take him there now, after all these years.

Jaskier closes the book with a shuddering breath and puts it back into the pack. Guilt churns in his stomach for having gotten a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have.

When Geralt returns, Jaskier has tidied up the mess. He puts on a smile and hugs his witcher close. Tears prickle his eyes still, and the attempt to hide them fails spectacularly.

“Hey,” Geralt says, confused. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier’s voice breaks, and leans into the strong hands running up and down his back. “I just…love you.”

Geralt lets out a quiet oh and brings Jaskier flush against him. Even without looking, Jaskier can picture perfectly the slightly panicked frown on Geralt’s face.

“You’re upset.” Geralt murmurs gently. “Shh, it’s alright.”

“It is.” Jaskier sniffs. “You are here.”

That earns him an amused huff. Geralt continues, “you know, I just had this idea. How about we go to the coast? I heard Cidaris is nice in the summer. It’s on our way north, and it could…cheer you up?”

Geralt is so tentative, the nervousness thrumming under a thin layer of nonchalance, and Jaskier nods.

“It’s a nice thought.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier pulls away to meet Geralt’s gaze, and this time, his smile is genuine. “I’ve wanted to see the coast for a long time.”

The subtle pride at the corners of Geralt’s lips is more beautiful than the sunrise at sea.

Jaskier doesn’t mention the notebook of unsaid things. It’s a book that holds all the soft parts of Geralt’s clumsy heart, and of course it’s something Jaskier will protect.

He’ll protect the quiet love Geralt bestows on him by tucking the book away in the corner of his heart. He’ll let Geralt try, and try, and try.

And Jaskier will meet him halfway.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Error 404 Brain Not Found: Bonus Scene - Part 7

Geralt had thwarted Jaskier's every attempt to get him with water balloons, eggs, and various nerf darts, citing that his Witcher reflexes were just too good.

Jaskier knew Geralt wasn't bragging. It was just a fact. An annoying fact that often runined his fun. Some pranks just weren't as fun when your target kept effortlessly dodging the bit that would make it funny.

Jaskier had decided to test just how good Geralt's reflexes were. He challenged him to Slappsies.

Jaskier failed miserably at slapping Geralt's hands. By the time he even thought about moving his hand, Geralt's hands were already safely out of the way and Jaskier was hitting empty air.

Then it was Geralt's turn.

A few rounds later, and the backs of Jaskier's hands were as red as a smacked ar*e.

*disgruntled bard noises*

*smug 'hmm'*

"Yeah, well...let's see how you do if you have to start with your hands behind your back!"

*sound of massive Witcher paws smacking the backs of human hands at the speed of mach Jesus*

*pained squealing*

Jaskier, inspite of being a rational adult, had paused to check the floor, just to prove to his brain that his hands hadn't just been slapped off his wrists.

No. They were still there, and functioning normally, if a little tingly. Okay, maybe it was time to try a different test before he ended up having to make a career change. Or learn to play all his instruments with his feet.

Which wouldn't be a bad thing. Some people had a thing for feet. Jaskier was absolutely not a kink-shamer!

Jaskier had to come up with a test that 1) wouldn't make a mess that Yennefer would yell at them about, and 2) was much more challenging than the old catching-a-falling-ruler, or Whack-A-Mole.

"I bet you can't take a block of cheese off a rat trap without setting it off!"

"I can, but I bet you can't!"

"Please! I've got very nimble fingers. All the ladies say so! And there's no way you can do it with those clumsy sausage fingers. I've seen your f***ing text messages. Every other word is misspelt!"

Geralt looked at Jaskier.

Jaskier looked at Geralt.

A trip to the hardware store was made, and shortly after, Jaskier was frowning as Geralt casually plucked a cube of cheese off the rat trap without setting it off.

Geralt 'hmm'ed in a smug tone.

Jaskier scoffed, "That doesn't look so hard. Even I can do that!"

Geralt nodded towards the trap, "Hm!" (Go ahead then!)

Jaskier went about very carefully resetting the trap. His hands shook slightly as they set the fiddly mechanism. It was a delicate operation that required a light touch...

Trap, for no apparent reason: *snap*

Jaskier: *shrill scream*

Geralt: *snort*

"Shut your gob!"

Jaskier got the trap set, studied it for a few breaths, then went for it. He crowed triumphantly, holding the little cube of cheese in his fingertips and pretending like he hadn't been sh*tting himself the whole time.

"Hah! I told you I could do it! I have very nimble fingers. I work very hard and put in long hours of practice to be as good as I am at fingering."

"I can finger for hours and not miss a beat. I've been told by various members of the nobility, and even commoners, that my fingering is the best in the Continent!"

"Hmm!"

"Mouthing off? Excuse me, but just the other day, the f***ing Prince of Redania told me that he quite enjoyed my fingering, f***youverymuch!

Geralt's brain had to take a moment to process the very idea that Jaskier was not making any kind of innuendo.

He was completely serious, and it was mentally throwing Geralt off. This was unnatural. The Universe was out of balance.

"And he said my tongue was quite talented, too! He was begging for more! You can ask Madeleine, she was there!"

"Then show me how good you are with your tongue," Geralt rumbled, feeling like he had to make the jokes now.

Jaskier blinked, then tried to hide a cheeky grin. "I don't know, Geralt. Sounds like a bad idea. I mean, what if Yen walks in?"

Geralt realxed. Ah, that was better. The balance had been restored. He lightly smacked Jaskier on the back of the head, saying "Stop bragging about your fingers. If I could play guitar, my fingering would be four times better than yours. And since I'm a Witcher with superhuman reflexes, just imagine how good I am with my tongue!"

"Ow! Why don't you prove it, Mr. Super Witcher Reflexes? I bet you can't knock the cheese off the trap with your tongue!"

Geralt baited the trap, set it on the table, and then crouched down to eye level with it. There was a tense moment of silence where he and Jaskier eyeballed each other distrustfully.

"You better f***ing not touch me or the trap!"

"I won't!"

"You just stay over there! Don't move, don't say anything, don't even f***ing breathe!"

"I'm not going to do anything, you suspicious b**tart!"

Geralt grunted, then slowly extended his tongue. It touched the cube of cheese, barely brushing it...

He must have twitched, or breathed too hard, because the trap went off with a snap!

One second, the tip of Geralt's tongue was touching the cheese, the next second, the hammer was snapping down across his tongue.

Geralt stood up with a loud ululation of anguish, the rat trap dangling from his tongue.

Jaskier went from gasping in shock, to laughing until his sides ached. He couldn't help it. Geralt was making this distorted screaming sound and doing jazz hands while he danced round, the trap hanging from his tongue.

Jaskier was too busy clinging to the kitchen counter, tears streaming down his cheeks as he howled with laughter as Geralt gained enough brain function to start yelling "Fffukhhhh! Fffukhhhh! Helm me!"

Geralt pawed at his tongue, trying to remove the trap with fingers that were suddenly clumsy.

Jaskier swallowed his laughter and came to the rescue.

"Holy f**k, are you alright?" he asked as Geralt prodded gingerly at his tongue. It felt swollen and numb, yet painful at the same time.

Geralt stood there, looking pitiful for a moment, then said in a small, lost voice, "I fink I neeb uh popfikool."

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Maybe you should try enunciating?"

"Ahthhoww!"

"Say 'I was born on a pirate ship'!"

Geralt glared angrily at Jaskier

"Do it and I'll give you a popsicle!"

*put upon sigh* "I wath born on a piol-a' sh*'"

Jaskier: *ugly cackling*

Geralt: "now gib me mah ffukhim popfikool!"

"Sorry, we're all out of the F**k Him flavored ones. Do you want blue or green?"

Geralt: *unamused glower* "Boo."

The popsicle was handed over, the trap was disposed of, and Geralt prayed the swelling would go down before Yennefer got home at the end of the week.

[aramblingjay]

Let the sea birds cry Geraskier, pre-relationship (1K)

Jaskier wants Geralt to have a holiday. In the summer, when it’s warm and sunny, and preferably by the coast. He resorts to creative measures to make that happen. Or: When Jaskier said “we could head to the coast”, it’s because they’d already been there once before.

ao3

“I want to go to the coast,” Jaskier says brightly one evening.

Geralt looks up from counting potions (there’s a few he needs to replenish, but the current stock will tide him over until they come across an herbalist) to Jaskier lounging against a log beside the fire, popping nuts into his mouth between words. He looks, despite every evidence Geralt has seen to the contrary over the last seven years, like he belongs out here amidst the forest, as familiar to walking the Path as Geralt himself.

“Hmm?” Geralt asks, because Jaskier hates when he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier looks too beautiful illuminated in the red-orange glow of the firelight to sulk.

Nearly a decade of experience must mean Jaskier correctly parses that particular hmm into the intended set of questions, because he responds as though he’s heard Geralt verbalize every one of them explicitly.

“Anywhere along the coast, I’m not picky. Yes, I do mean now. It’s the birth of summer, the season of sun and warmth and happiness, Geralt. This is the perfect time to take a break. Just for a week or two. No contracts, no monsters, just sun, sand, waves, and music.”

The request hasn’t come entirely out of nowhere. Geralt is aware that Jaskier has a fondness for the coast, likes to winter as near to the water as he can manage without actually going for a swim (or encountering any of the numerous nobles he’s pissed off, which can be a difficult proposition in some coastal towns). And he’s often wondered how many years Jaskier can keep this up, being his companion on the cold and dirty and dangerous Path without complaint, when a man of his talent and nobility could certainly afford to spend his days in much greater comfort.

Jaskier deserves better. He deserves two weeks relaxing by the coast, away from this life.

Still, it feels like stabbing himself in he heart with a dagger when he says, “Okay. You should go.” There’s a flash of hurt in Jaskier’s eyes that he doesn’t understand, but hates all the same, and Geralt tries to rephrase. “I want you to enjoy the coast. In summer, when it’s warm. You should—you should go? Yes.”

He feels clumsy, closer to the child fumbling with his new senses after the Grasses than the decades-old monster-killing machine he knows himself to be. Jaskier always manages to draw out that buried part of him, somehow.

The hurt in Jaskier’s eyes dissipates, leaving something—sad? Fuck, now he’s made Jaskier sad. This is why Geralt tries not to open his mouth if he can help it.

“Geralt, I didn’t mean I want to leave you to go to the coast. I meant, I’d love a holiday, and we’re—well. I meant that we’d both go. I’m aware you have to walk the Path, et cetera, et cetera, but I’ve yet to see any stipulation on exactly how long you have to be out here in the muck killing monsters continuously for it to count. And we took down a whole—okay, yes, you took down that whole striga nest a week ago, which surely counts as multiple monster hunts all in one, so really, if you ask me, we’re ahead of schedule and due a vacation.”

The very idea of abandoning the Path for several weeks to relax by the seaside is abhorrent. Witchers don’t go to the coast and rest. That isn’t—that isn’t how it works.

“Jask, I—” Geralt doesn’t know how to say this in a way that won’t upset him. He wants Jaskier to go, Jaskier deserves to go. But as with many things, the Path means Geralt can’t just do as he pleases. “I can’t,” he finishes inelegantly.

Jaskier frowns. “Okay, don’t think of it as a vacation then. Think of it as a contract. I’m going to the coast, and because I’m just a poor, helpless bard, I need a witcher bodyguard to make sure I don’t get killed before I dip my toes in the sand. You in? I can pay you, make it all proper and everything.” He sounds so earnest it hurts, eyes wide and gleaming.

“I don’t want your coin,” Geralt snaps, because that’s the easiest part to focus on.

“Is that a yes?” Jaskier asks with barely-contained glee, seeing through his surliness as always.

Could this work? Technically, there’s no rule book he’s ever seen that dictates what does and doesn’t constitute a contract. And Jaskier looks so eager—and as much as it’s a ruse, the bard truly would be highly likely to run into trouble if he travelled alone—and it wouldn’t be his first time accompanying Jaskier somewhere he would never go himself, just the longest journey he’s had to undertake to do so.

“Fine.”

Jaskier punches the air in delight, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to regret this.

-

The coast is everything the Path is not.

Warm, so warm. Sun in the sky for hours on end, lighting the sand a brilliant white. Even the sand is warm. It nestles between his fingers like a friend that’s too attached, and Geralt loves it so much he pulls off his boots and lets it nestle in his toes, too. Soft and warm.

The rustle of the ocean is different than the trees, but the quiet, rhythmic hum-whoosh of the waves seeps into his very bones, and he starts to wonder if maybe he could become a coastal Witcher, hunting only drowners and the occasional sand monster.

And then there is Jaskier. If he looked strangely at home on the Path, he’s positively unleashed here—strumming his lute jauntily at every man, woman, and child who walks past, earning more than a pretty copper for his trouble, and immediately wasting every single coin on some special kind of salted sea nut they don’t make in the woods.

(The nuts are good, Geralt can admit that much, but it’s not worth all the coin they have.

The way Jaskier smiles after every bite though, wide and dimpled and unabashedly happy, that might be.)

It’s inevitable, in some ways, that after two weeks covered in nothing more nefarious than sand and saltwater, pulling out his sword only to clean the ocean rust off and put it back under the bed—after two weeks of looking at Jaskier in the golden light of the coastal sun—he wakes up in the morning to the bard snoring in the other bed, hair askew, drool spilling into a little puddle by his mouth, and thinks—

Oh.

[flowercrown-bard]

ooh number 5 oblivious pining prompts for jaskel? these are all so sweet

Thank you!

5. Rambling about something you both love and all you can do is stare at them lovingly, when suddenly they also turn to look at you and now you're both just staring at each other

Jaskier was dragging his feet. His smile was still cheery and he kept up with Eskel well enough, but still it didn’t take a genius to notice that the bard was getting tired. Out of the corner of his eyes, Eskel glanced at him. There, beneath the smile sat a tiredness and Jaskier’s breath was laboured, as if he had danced all night. If only. No, instead, Jaskier had been following Eskel around for hours. Through moors that had ruined his boots and boring fields. Eskel wished he hadn’t left Scorpion at the inn, but the old boy had dearly needed some rest from the track of the day before. So did Jaskier, evidently, but the bard was too stubborn to let Eskel go on a hunt on his own, and Eskel...well, Eskel was too weak to refuse him.

The sun was already creeping towards the horizon and still they were some miles away from the town. They had to push through, if they wanted to spend the night in a real bed. And gods, did Eskel want to give that much to Jaskier. He deserved a soft pillow and warm blanket.

Jaskier yelped, as he stumbled and shook Eskel out of his thoughts.

“Are you alright?” Eskel asked, as he steadied him by slinging an arm around his waist.

“Yeah,” Jaskier said and smiled up at Eskel, but he couldn’t hide how out of breath he sounded. “I’m fine. We can keep going.”

Eskel hesitated. “Alright,” he said after a second, when Jaskier pushed onwards.

They walked in silence for a bit and Eskel kept listening as Jaskier’s breathing sounded more and more ragged and he kept stumbling. In an odd way, it reminded Eskel of when he had been a child, struggling to keep up with his mother when they went on a hike, and then later, when he had stumbled time and time again during his training. Caught up in the memory, he didn’t even notice as he slipped into an old habit he had thought long lost: Under his breath, he began to sing.

“De ole hen she cackled, she cackled on de fence: cluck cluck, cluck-e-doo, de ole hen she cackled, and she ain't cackled sence.”

Beside him, Jaskier came to a halt. Eskel turned around to see what was wrong, only to be met with Jaskier giving him an unreadable look. It was only then that Eskel’s actions really caught up with him. His mouth snapped shut immediately and he moved away from Jaskier.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier said softly and reached for Eskel’s hand, stopping his retreat. His skin burned where they touched.

“I’m not - I didn’t really mean to sing.” Eskel chuckled awkwardly. “That’s your job.”

“Please?”

Eskel swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. With a side-glance at Jaskier he made sure that his clumsy singing really was wanted. When he was met with Jaskier’s encouraging smile, he picked up the song again.

  “De ole cock he crowed, he crowed on the shock: cock-a-doodle-doo, de ole cock he crowed, no longer crows the cock.”

As he sang, he changed his steps, until they matched the marching rhythm of the song and whether conscious or not, Jaskier did the same.

“De lil’ chicks they cheeped, they cheeped on de kitchen floor: cheep, cheep, cheep-a-deep, de lil’ chicks they cheeped, and now they cheep no more...”

He trailed off.

“You don’t have to stop,” Jaskier said.

“That’s all I remember.” Eskel shrugged. “It’s just a silly song, but I know my mother used to sing it to me to keep me distracted when we went on a hike and my feet started to ache.”

“It’s not a silly song!” Jaskier said with unexpected insistance. “It’s simple, yes, but it’s supposed to be.” Eskel watched in wonder, as Jaskier’s step seemed to gain more energy as the bard straightened his back. “Hiking songs are brilliant in their simplicity. You only have to hear them once and you’ll remember them for decades.”

As if to prove a point, he sang a couple of bars. Eskel’s lips twitched.

“It sounds strange without the hillfolk dialect.”

“And that’s another thing!” Jaskier gestured wildly with his hands, inadvertedly swinging Eskel’s hand that he was still holding onto as well. “It’s something so special to certain cultures. That’s what music is supposed to be. Hiking songs help people. Everyone can sing them and they - they are a legacy. Not of one person but of a people.”

Warmth spread through Eskel’s chest and he could do nothing but stare at Jaskier, as he - despite being a renowned bard with the highest education and positions at court - talked about how wonderful the only part Eskel remembered of his childhood was. He had sang his mother’s song a couple of times for his brothers and they had always seemed happy enough to listen to him, but this was something entirely different. This was Jaskier.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jaskier continued, “I love being a bard and writing complicated ballads and all, but hiking songs? Lullabies? Working songs? That’s music coming from the heart. It’s the essence of what makes music so important.”

He sounded so...loving. The way he talked about music was loving. It always had been, of course, but this was different from the enthusiasm in Jaskier’s voice when he explained chord progression or rhyme schemes. This was...this was the same soft, warm feeling in his voice that always welled up in Eskel, when he remembered his mother’s song.

 Watching Jaskier’s whole face light up as he talked, listening to the emotion in his voice; it was light a magnet pulling Eskel in. He wouldn’t have been able to resist if he had wanted to. And gods, he didn’t want to. He wanted to be close to Jaskier, closer, as he shared this love with Eskel. He gravitated closer to him, until their sides brushed together.

“When I was a child, I used to sing to myself all the time to help me get through boring chores or remember the names of important nobles,” Jaskier said, evidently not bothered by Eskel’s closeness. If anything, he squeezed his hand a little tighter. “You can bet those ditties weren’t brilliant, but they’re what made me want to be a bard. People always say ‘Toss a Coin’ is too simplistic, but that’s the whole point. It’s supposed to help witchers and for that it has to be memorable and simple or else it wouldn’t be stuck in people’s ears.”

Jaskier let out a long breath that announced the end of his rant.

“So, yeah. I guess what I want to say is, thank you,” He turned to face Eskel. “For sharing that song... with me...”

Jaskier trailed off and the flush on his face clearly was no longer only from his excitement. Eskel’s throat grew tight. Jaskier was so close. So close. He was probably able to see all the flaws in Eskel’s face; every detail of his scars, every speck of dirt, every piece of longing that he was never able to banish fully from his expression when Jaskier was around. Eskel hadn’t even noticed them coming to a halt. All he could focus on was Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier. The name echoed in his mind and heart as if it too followed the rhythm of a folk song. A love song, simple yet true.

“Jaskier,” he said, voice coming out hoarse.

Jaskier’s eyes flickered down to his lips. 

And like a call- and - response type of song, Jaskier answered, “Eskel.”

And the way he said it was almost like a melody, almost like the second verse to a love song.

Maybe, Eskel thought, as he leaned in closer, his hand coming up to cradle Jaskier’s cheek, maybe they could sing together.

Their lips met softly, tentatively, and the beating of their hearts was the rhythm of their song.

[bambirex]

Hello.Good morning.I'm Ao3 user Jacobflower who commented on your work yesterday.It's the first time in my life that I've used Tumblr and made a request to an author, so please excuse any clumsiness on my part.The request idea is: In Whicher's universe, Jaskier and Geralt are in a town and it's Jaskier's birthday. Geralt spends the whole day looking for a good present but finding nothing, at the end of the day Jaskier admits that the best present is the presence of the witcher. I think the cute genre would fit well and humor.

Thank you for your attention and sorry for anything, I'm lost 😩😁

Hi there! Don't worry, your request was completely coherent 💕

Warnings: one slightly sexual line towards the end

**

There was no dessert sweet enough, no perfume good enough. Not a single piece of clothing was as soft as it should have been, as colorful and as fancy as Jaskier deserved. No piece of jewelry shone bright enough for Geralt to deem it worthy for Jaskier.

No matter where he looked, he couldn't find anything that he believed would have been good enough for Jaskier. Not because Jaskier was picky; it was actually very easy to make him happy. He always appreciated the small things in life, so that was not the problem.

The problem was that Geralt believed Jaskier deserved the entire world, and he wasn't sure how to give it to him.

When Geralt has realized it was Jaskier's birthday that morning, he's been overcome with a sense of dread. He wasn't exactly proud of the very not witcher-like panic he's been feeling the whole day. Poor Jaskier must have thought he went mad, wearing a hole into the floor as he paced up and down, trying to come up with the best birthday present for his bard.

The people of the town were also horrified by a visibly distressed witcher running about, grunting under his breath as he rummaged through the market. He even went through the ridiculous and disgusting trial of cake-tasting, just to find something eligible for Jaskier. He's still felt the overly sweet taste on his tongue hours after.

The Sun has already started to descend, and Geralt still hasn't found the perfect present. Defeated, he returned to the inn him and Jaskier stayed at.

Jaskier immediately noticed his troubled state when he walked through the door. He opened his arms for his witcher, and Geralt fell into them with a heavy sigh, resting his head on Jaskier's shoulder.

"Why the long face, my dear?" Jaskier asked softly, rubbing soothing circles onto Geralt's back. Geralt groaned into the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I've tried to find you the best present for your birthday. I didn't manage."

"Is that why you've been running around the whole day?" Jaskier laughed, tightening his arms around Geralt. "I nearly went to find Yennefer because I thought you were drugged on something and went crazy."

Geralt chuckled. "I figured you'd think that. I was upset."

Jaskier pulled back a bit to look up into Geralt's eyes. His expression was soft and somewhat amused, his lips curling into a gentle smile.

"There's no reason to be," Jaskier told him, making Geralt snort.

"Why? You deserve the best present. And I couldn't get you anything."

Jaskier's smile only widened as he took Geralt's hands into his own. He laced their fingers together. There was a faint, soft blush adorning his cheeks.

"Oh, Geralt," he whispered, "I already have the best present."

Seeing the confused look on Geralt's face, he laughed softly.

"You," he clarified, reaching up to cup Geralt's cheeks. "I have you, and that's more than enough for me."

Geralt suddenly wasn't sure how to answer. No one has ever told him his company was needed, let alone wanted and appreciated. He couldn't comprehend how such a wonderful soul like Jaskier would find him enough.

"I'm serious," Jaskier assured him, probably seeing his bewilderment. "Nothing could ever compare to having you here, with me."

He leaned up and kissed Geralt on the lips so sweetly, it made Geralt's heart flutter. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier's waist and pulled him closer.

"Well, happy birthday, then," he chuckled awkwardly, kissing the tip of Jaskier's nose. Jaskier grinned, his eyes bright as he looked up at Geralt with so much adoration. It made Geralt almost believe his presence really was enough.

"Happy birthday to me," Jaskier repeated. His eyes suddenly lit up mischievously.

"You can still blow me as a second birthday gift, though."

Geralt rolled his eyes, but he couldn't wipe the grin off his face as he pulled Jaskier into another kiss.

[27dragons]

New Year Countdown: Dec 27

I did not almost forget to post today but I was out of the house for most of the evening. Today's is a short and kind of ridiculous Geraskier Sentinel/Guide AU!

Dec 27 - Geraskier - Sentinel/Guide AU - Shovel

When Geralt came back up from the caves where he tracked the spriggan, he was still deep in the grip of the Sentinel. His eyes were black corner-to-corner, absorbing every scrap of light and color; his attention shifted at the softest breath or slightest step; his jaw clenched at the rasp of even the breeze against his skin. His sword was rock-steady in his grip, but his free hand trembled.

“Did ye get it?” demanded the alderman, who’d insisted on accompanying them to the site.

Geralt spun. His sword lifted.

Jaskier already had the alterman’s collar clenched in his fist. “Don’t say another word,” he growled. “Go and fetch the shovel from the camp.”

The man started to protest and Jaskier held up one finger in warning. He could feel Geralt’s need scraping against his mental walls, and he had no time for idiots. “The shovel,” he repeated, and shoved the man in the direction of the camp they’d made before coming down to the caves.

He reached for Geralt before the sound of the alterman’s clumsy footsteps had begun to fade. “Geralt,” he whispered, barely a breath that he knew Geralt would hear as if it had been shouted. “My Sentinel, let me Guide you home.”

Geralt’s dark gaze fell on Jaskier, considering. He didn’t relax at all.

If Jaskier had been anything other than what he was, that menacing gaze might have terrified him. As it was, he was only worried. “Geralt?”

Geralt’s lip curled in a silent snarl. “There is still danger,” he rumbled.

“You mean the alderman’s plan to kill us and keep the fee?” Jaskier murmured, smiling. “I know. You don’t need to stand Sentinel for that one. Even I could handle it all on my own.”

“Hm.” Even in the midst of his hypervigilance, Geralt managed to be unimpressed with Jaskier’s claims to competence.

Jaskier grinned. “Come back to me, Geralt. Let it go, release it. I promise, you don’t need it. He’s fetching the shovel to dig his own grave with, as we speak.”

Geralt closed his eyes and let his head fall, breathing slowly. Jaskier hummed quietly until he saw the last of the tension bleed out of Geralt’s body.

“Thank you, darling,” he said.

Geralt huffed. “I didn’t bring a spade with me. All I have is a snow shovel.”

“Why?” Jaskier demanded.

“Cave floor,” Geralt pointed out. “Easier to scoop up the body with a snow shovel.”

Jaskier sighed. “Well, we’ll figure something out, I suppose.”

[thedemonofcat]

When Geralt resolved to pursue a proper courtship with Jaskier, his attempts were initially clumsy. As things progressed, Geralt mustered the courage to broach the subject of courting with Jaskier.

However, Jaskier mistakenly believed Geralt was interested in courting Yennefer, not him.

[wren-of-the-woods]

I just hit my guitar case against three seperate things while trying to get back into the room where the it goes and put it away, and that got me wondering about how on earth Jaskier manages to never break his lute given how much he travels with it, how clumsy he seems to be, and the fact that it doesn't have any obvious protection. We even see his first lute get broken within hours of meeting Geralt, only for him to somehow keep the same lute for the next two decades. I can only conclude that this is because it's a magical elven lute, and that Jaskier got very lucky to find the only lute on the continent that's impervious to his idiocy.

[jaskierswolf]

Bullet fic time!

Jaskier is a long suffering barista who has a new crush every week. The coffee shop is opposite a gym so there's no shortage of gorgeous, sweaty people in workout gear.

Essi teases him relentless but he has a big heart and a lot of love to give.

Until in walks Geralt and Jaskier is smitten. Long silver hair, golden eyes, a butt that is just so bubbly in those tiny spandex shorts. And has he mentioned arms??

One day Geralt pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face and Jaskier just freezes, milk goes everywhere when he forgets he's in the middle of pouring it.

And then he promptly slips on the puddle and smashes his face into the counter.

Geralt is very confused by the cute barista with pretty eyes and blood streaming from his nose as he tries to take Geralt's order.

The next time doesn't go well either.

Jaskier is wiping down tables when Geralt walks in and he crashes into a chair, stubs his toes and starts hoping around the shop cursing.

Geralt can't help but think it's endearing, and he wonders if this is a him problem or whether the barista is just clumsy.

Eskel and Lambert confirm it's a Geralt problem.

So the next time, Geralt purposely wears a workout outfit that makes him look hot. Poor Jaskier doesn't stand a chance but when he tries to ask for Geralt's name for the coffee cup, he accidentally blurts out "What's your number?" and Geralt isn't exactly going to say no.

They start dating, and slowly Jaskier is able to be around his hot boyfriend without being a complete clutz... unless Geralt is purposely trying to wind him up!

He's only human after all, and Geralt is really really hot.

[iridescent-petrichor]

but the waves (oh the waves)

Pairing: Jaskier x Reader

Warnings: none

Words: 1.6K

Request:  I have a request for Jaskier. Idk how to fully describe what I’m thinking but like kissing him in like the water. You both some how end you in a body of water and then the tension builds to the smooch

A/N: Writing this really reminded me of that scene in season two where Jaskier’s washing the blood off his shirt in the river and I got carried away w/ that lol i hope you enjoy it !!!

You stood at a riverbed near where Geralt and Jaskier were set up, washing splotches of blood off the sleeve of the shirt in your hands – the shirt you’d been wearing earlier. One of Jaskier’s bloodied shirts sat nearby, discarded on a rock a few feet behind you. With a sigh, you continued to scrub at the shirt, thinking back on the moments earlier that led to this.

You and Jaskier walked through the forest, wandering off from where Geralt was, taking a detour to take in the sights of whatever location you had ended up in. Jaskier spotted a path off to the side, and there was no way you would let him go off and explore on his own. The two of you strolled down the path, finding yourself deeper in the forest until a distant rustling made you freeze in your tracks. Casting a glance to Jaskier, who was also frozen in place, he gave you a terrified look. Slowly, you brought a finger to your lips, carefully stepping off the path into the shrubbery to follow the sound.

What you didn’t expect, however, was something to lunge out onto the path, nearly knocking you over in its haste to get away.

“Shit!” You cursed, grabbing a low tree branch to keep your balance.

The creature – whatever it was – had overgrown fur and sharp claws, a bit bigger than most dogs. It stopped in front of Jaskier, panicked, growling up at him.

Before you could warn Jaskier from any sudden movements, he crouched down in his attempt to soothe it. Like any frightened animal, it only got more scared, swiping its claw and slashing Jaskier in the side, backing away towards the bushes you stood in.

You jumped forward, momentarily forgetting the creature once you saw the blood pooling onto Jaskier’s shirt. It growled once more, reaching up as you crouched down to Jaskier’s level, its sharp claw slicing into your arm. While it wasn’t the deepest cut in the world, you could feel the blood dripping down your arm immediately.

“Oh fuck.” Jaskier groaned, lightly putting a hand over his wound.

Distantly, you heard the animal run off in the direction it came from.

“You alright?” You asked, trying to gauge how bad Jaskier’s wound was from what you could see.

“What even was that thing? Why is everything out to get me?” He whined, pouting.

One thing about Jaskier was he complained more about his injuries when they were less fatal. Based on his tone, you gathered he was relatively fine, so you helped him stand, keeping an arm on him while you two made your way back to Geralt to get looked at.

The whole way back, Jaskier is talking your ear off, complaining about the hole in his shirt and the blood stains covering it. It keeps you calm, knowing he at least has the energy to monologue about his woes.

Upon arriving back, Geralt took one look at the two of you and sprung into action. Jaskier had insisted on you getting cleaned up first, so once your arm was wrapped up, you threw on a clean shirt and grabbed the two bloody shirts to head down towards the riverbed a couple minutes away from the camp.

 As you stood ankle-deep in the water washing the shirt in your hands, you hear faint footsteps behind you, too clumsy to be a bandit, and you were too far from any town for it to be anyone passing by.

“Let me help.” Jaskier’s voice makes you smile, and you don’t turn around as you speak.

“It’s quite alright, Jaskier.”

Still, he wades into the water with you, stepping carefully so he doesn’t slip on the mossy rocks. He was wearing a new shirt as well, the thin fabric hiding the wraps around his side.

He reaches for the shirt you’re holding, his hand barely brushing yours as he takes it from you.

“You should be resting your arm, anyway.” There was a gentle tone in his voice that you hadn’t heard before, making you stare up at him in surprise as he worked on washing the blood out of your shirt.

“It’s not that bad.” You finally say. Truly it wasn’t. You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline or if it really was just a small cut, but it was only a dull sting by now.

Jaskier hums in response, not looking up.

You stood there for a moment before reaching for his bloodied shirt that you’d tossed aside earlier. Once you start cleaning it off, you make a mental note to stitch the shirts back up when you have the time.

“How’s your side?” You ask, glancing up at him.

You’re stuck for a moment, realizing how wonderful he looked. The sun was shining through the trees, bouncing off the water and casting you two in a warm glow. It almost felt as if you two were in another world where nothing could hurt you. You tried not to stare, but the way his eyes shone, rivaling the river’s soft blue, was entirely distracting.

“It’s alright, doesn’t really hurt. What about your arm?” His eyes cast down to where your own injury was.

“It doesn’t really hurt.” You insisted, giving him a smile.

The two of you were silent for a moment, the only sound being the wind whistling between the leaves and the birds chirping in the trees.

“Look!” Jaskier’s voice made you snap your head up, his smile bringing one to your own face. He held up your shirt, now free of any blood. “Good as new!”

“Thank you, Jaskier.” You nodded, going back to the shirt in your hands.

“Although, it would need some patching up…” He commented. You looked up to see the hole in the sleeve he was fiddling with, a frown on his face.

“I can get to it later tonight – yours too.” You held up his still-bloodied shirt, poking your hand through the gaping hole in the fabric.

“You don’t have to,” You almost laughed, but when you saw the gentle look in Jaskier’s eyes you stopped. The expression on his face was unreadable, and there was a seriosity to him that you rarely saw. He discarded your shirt, hanging it over a low tree branch to dry.

“I want to.” He insisted quietly.

You could practically feel the tension in the air, seeing Jaskier’s eyes dip down to your lips before making eye contact once again.

“I was worried about you, you know.” He said, watching you scrub at the shirt in your hands.

“It was only a scratch, Jaskier.” You try to brush off the worry in his voice, but he continues to speak.

“That didn’t make it any less scary. Whatever that thing was could’ve done much more damage and I wouldn’t be able to help and you would’ve gotten hurt-” He took a breath, gathering his thoughts. “I worry every time you’re in danger.”

You stay silent, letting Jaskier say whatever he needs to say.

“I mean, you’re very capable, you know, it’s not because you’re not capable!” He quickly assures you. “I just…”

A moment of silence passes between the two of you that feels like an eternity.

“I just don’t want to lose you.” Jaskier finally says.

You don’t say anything, staring down at the shirt in your hands to avoid his gaze, unaware of the growing anxiety building in Jaskier’s chest.

“I know.” You mutter, still not looking at him. “I couldn’t bear to lose you either.”

Inspecting the shirt in your hands, you notice the blood was successfully washed out. Setting it beside your shirt on the tree branch, you turn back to Jaskier, surprised by the longing in his eyes. Suddenly, he grinned, a lopsided smile that lit up his face, attempting to step closer to you.

Unfortunately, he didn’t anticipate how slippery the moss had gotten on the rocks.

With a yelp, he fell forward, trying not to lose his balance. You jumped, reaching out to catch him, pulling him closer to you as he steadied his feet.

“You alright?” You couldn’t help but laugh, keeping your hands on him to make sure he wouldn’t fall again.

He didn’t respond, fixated on how close your faces were to each other.

“…Jaskier?”

Still, he said nothing, eyes cast down, staring at your lips. Your breath hitched when he leaned closer, stopping mere inches away from your face.

“May I?”

You nodded, heart leaping into your throat when Jaskier closed the gap between you. He reached his hand up, gently cupping your cheek. His other hand found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You brought your hand up, resting it on the nape of his neck.

Every bit of longing the both of you had built up over traveling together finally came to a head.

It certainly wasn’t what you were expecting when you woke up that morning, but no part of you was complaining as Jaskier held you close to him as if you were the most precious treasure in the world.

And in his, you were.

Reluctantly, you pulled away for air, resting your forehead against his.

“What was that about?” You asked quietly, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” Jaskier whispered, sighing with relief.

Your smile widened, if at all possible, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“We should get back to Geralt before he thinks we’ve drowned.” He mutters, reluctance evident in his voice.

With a nod, you pull away, your hand finding his as you made your way back to Geralt with your freshly cleaned shirts in tow.

[samstree]

Caesura

A curse, a cure, a bard who forgets, and an overly careful witcher.

(1.5k ☆ also on AO3)

The man standing in Jaskier’s cell is covered in blood.

“Hey, there,” Jaskier greets him, and notices yellow eyes and white hair in the dim light. A witcher.

“Do you know me, Jaskier?”

There’s something hopeful in the way this stranger whispers his name, something gentle.

“How do you know my name?” Jaskier asks in return, eyeing at this man with suspicion. The witcher takes a step forward, and Jaskier retreats into the corner, his shackles rubbing the tender skin around his wrists.

The stranger stops immediately. He sets down the iron sword, a menacing thing that is also dripping blood. Jaskier pities anyone who brought on this witcher’s wrath, for whatever reason.

“I mean you no harm.” The timbre of his voice is like honey, coating Jaskier’s tongue with warmth. Or Jaskier has just been alone here for too long. “My name is Geralt. I’m your…friend.”

“Friend?” Jaskier hesitates at the word because the witcher did too. “I don’t have a friend like you.”

“You’ve been hit with a curse. One that causes amnesia,” the witcher—Geralt explains. “And the cure is simple, if you just let me show you.”

Jaskier doesn’t remember a friend who is a witcher, but again, he doesn’t remember much. Only his names, and songs. There were songs in his life, that much he is sure.

“What is the cure?”

Trusting a stranger should fill Jaskier with dread, but looking at Geralt only makes his heart settle, those golden eyes acting as a balm to his nerves.

“True love’s kiss.” Geralt holds his gaze, unwavering. “Like in the fairy tales. If you would let me kiss you, you can find out for yourself.”

Jaskier only stares at Geralt, a man he’s only known for a few minutes, and answers with silence.

“Alright, then.” The smile on Geralt’s lips is still reassuring, if not a little broken. It’s a subtle thing, this man’s heartbreak, but Jaskier finds all the telltale signs of it by instinct. “One step at a time,” he says. “Let’s get you out of these chains.”

☆

Geralt has given Jaskier his cloak and scarf, and then, his rations and horse.

The mare is such a gentle thing, guided by Geralt’s steady hand on her reins. She let Jaskier onto her back without a fuss, and has since slowed her pace after he jostled his injuries on the uneven terrain. It’s like she knows him too.

Now that Jaskier is warm and free with his belly full, his mind swirls with questions.

“So,” he starts, looking down to catch Geralt’s eyes and trying to not let his gaze drift down to his lips. “You love me?”

Those lips part slightly before closing. Geralt pauses before answering, his words equal parts reverent and remorseful.

“More than you know.”

Jaskier forgets to breathe for a second.

He pulls the cloak tighter to fend off a chill, letting the scent of leather and pine on the thick fabric anchor him. Anything relating to Geralt has a calming effect on him, so Jaskier grows braver.

“And I love you?” he asks and looks away when his cheeks heat up. “I meant, if what you claimed about this curse is true, I’d need to love you for the cure to work. You must believe it, um, that I am in love with you too, if you suggested it.”

His words feel clumsy, but the gold in Geralt’s eyes melts with fondness.

“It took me a long time to see it, but yes, Jaskier, you did. Perhaps too much and to your own detriment, and yet…”

“And yet, I loved you,” Jaskier muses, tasting the words on his tongue. They are as easy as breathing.

The wind picks up, and Geralt removes his gloves and puts them in Jaskier’s cold hands.

As Jaskier slips into those gloves and flexes his numb fingers, he wonders how easy it was for his past self to fall in love with Geralt in the first place.

☆

The campfire burns bright, and all the bruises on Jaskier’s arms are blooming with purple and green. After a day’s journey, he’s finally sitting on a soft bedroll and now has time to inspect himself.

“Let me see?” Geralt touches Jaskier’s wrist briefly, but it’s enough for Jaskier to flinch like he’s been burned. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The flames are lining Geralt’s hair with gold, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“I’m not scared.”

It’s just that no one has touched him in a long time, let alone this gently. He fears and longs for it at the same time, his body not knowing how to react.

“Okay.” Geralt nods, and places himself a few more feet away from Jaskier. He’s now sitting on the ground. “You should get some rest. I will keep you safe.”

With that, Geralt crosses his legs and seems content enough to keep guard. The ground must be uncomfortable compared to Jaskier’s bedroll and the warm cloak wrapped around him, making him feel safer than he ever remembers.

“Why—” Jaskier resists a yawn, finding the lull of sleep deep in his bones. “Why didn’t you just…do it?”

“Hmm?” Geralt frowns in confusion.

“If a kiss could restore all my memories, you can just, I don’t know, grab me and kiss me already. So, why aren’t you doing that?”

The thought makes Jaskier’s face flush hotly once again. If the witcher does that now, maybe he wouldn’t be as scared as he’d imagine.

“Oh.” But it looks like the thought never even crossed Geralt’s mind. “I don’t—you, um, you didn’t say I could, so I… Jaskier, I don’t know. You’ve been hurt, and I don’t want to cause you any more harm.”

“According to you, we love each other.” Jaskier pauses. “Deeply.”

It’s not hard to infer from all the careful ways Geralt has handled him in the past day. It’s strange, to be treasured by someone without a reason.

“When you looked at me,” Geralt starts, “there’s no recognition, and I—I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t felt unsure towards you for a long time.”

“You felt safe with me too.”

Geralt answers with a thoughtful smile.

“Sleep, Jaskier. Don’t worry a thing. Just sleep, and we’ll be alright.”

By some miracle, Jaskier does, and there are no nightmares.

☆

The morning light casts a shadow on Geralt’s face. It’s hard for Jaskier to tell if the witcher has fallen asleep while meditating.

“Morning,” Geralt says, eyes still closed, and Jaskier lets out a surprised gasp.

“Were you peeking?”

“Don’t need to peek. You are thinking too loud.”

“Have a lot to think about.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s gaze falls on Geralt’s lips again, and he leans forward. Their knees are nearly touching.

“True love’s kiss, right?” He lets Geralt’s coat pool on his lap and swallows hard. “There’s no harm in trying.”

With that, Geralt’s eyes flutter open. His body remains still and patiently waiting for Jaskier to make the first move, so Jaskier does. He rests a hand on Geralt’s forearm, and the other on his chin. Geralt nuzzles his cheek in Jaskier’s palm, the stubble on his chin scratching Jaskier’s skin, tickling him a little.

“It’ll be okay,” Geralt promises softly.

Jaskier believes it with all his heart as their bodies fit into each other and he ends up between Geralt’s arms. He is held gently by hands on the small of his back, careful to avoid his injuries, and then, they are kissing.

Magic hums faintly in the air, but Jaskier pays no mind. Geralt’s lips are soft and exploring, guiding him with sweetness. They kiss until the magic disappears, and kiss more until they are both dizzy with foolish happiness.

Jaskier reluctantly breaks away, and opens his eyes to meet his husband’s smile. It is only when all of the memories of the same smile rush back that he realizes how much he has missed it.

“Hey,” Jaskier breathes, not being able to help the grin on his face.

“Hey,” Geralt answers. “There you are.”

“You didn’t need to wait for this long, you oaf.” Their foreheads rest together in that familiar way of theirs, Jaskier’s favorite. “Could have swooped into that cell and kissed me already. It’d make a nice fairy tale.”

“You’d have swooned with fear. Not sure what fairy tale has that.”

“Mine, perhaps. I’ll just change it in my songs. Swooning with gratitude right into my husband’s arms sounds much better.”

“Your husband…” Geralt is having that look on his face again, the one that says he’s overwhelmed with emotions and doesn’t know what to do with them, even after all these years, so Jaskier takes pity and lets Geralt hide in the crook of his neck as the shells of his ears turn red. “Sorry. I just…I felt like I lost it, somehow.”

“You couldn’t. No matter what I remember, you’ll always be my husband who is so unwilling to hurt me he’d rather abandon that title for a little while.”

“But only for a little while.”

Geralt breathes in Jaskier’s scent, a witcher’s heart slowing against a human's, and they stay there for a long time.