#conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wren-of-the-woods · 1 year

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Love, Joy, and Kittens

When Geralt and Yennefer finally get a room at an inn after weeks of travel, Jaskier expects to spend a calm evening with his lovers and sleep in a real bed. This plan is derailed when they find an unexpected creature in their room. Or: In which Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier meet a kitten. Established Geraskefer, 5k, rated T. Also on AO3!

Jaskier was having a lovely week.

Ciri had gone off with Lambert and Coën. According to Lambert, they were “having some uncle-niece bonding time.” Jaskier had suspected that this would involve a large number of explosives, cursing in various languages, and very little room for anything else, so he had suggested that he, Geralt, and Yennefer travel alone for a time and rejoin them in a few weeks. The relief on Geralt’s and Yennefer’s faces at the idea had been highly amusing.

The three of them had been wandering the Path for almost a week. It had, for the most part, been wonderful. Jaskier got to spend time with his lovers, singing at them and making them laugh. He got to appreciate their beauty all day long. He got to spend every night cuddled up to the two of them, reveling in the warmth and safety.

However, he did not get to do any of this cuddling in an actual bed.

Their financial reserves were not exactly plentiful and, with Ciri gone, they did not have any real reason to prefer the comfort of an inn over the convenience of a bedroll in the woods. Jaskier understood all of this perfectly well. This did not mean he was happy about it.

He may have complained about it a little bit, but, well, he was a bard. If Yennefer and Geralt didn’t want to hear a little whining now and then, they shouldn’t have brought him along.

Jaskier hadn’t expected anything to come of his grousing. Jaskier had been wrong.

After a particularly long day of travel, Geralt and Yennefer apparently came to an unspoken agreement. Geralt led Roach into the first town they came across and Yennefer headed in the direction of the inn. Jaskier’s confused and halfhearted objections (“What? Yen, that’s not really necessary, I know we don’t have much coin. I’m really fine, I swear!) were met with firm denial (“Shut up and let us spoil you, idiot), so Jaskier deemed it best to give in.

He made as though to protest at the price the innkeeper named for the single room that was apparently available, thinking to offer his services as a bard in exchange for a discount, but Yennefer cut him off before he could. She handed over the money and nodded in approval when Geralt began to drag him upstairs. She followed them shortly after.

“I still think I should have performed,” Jaskier was saying. He tugged halfheartedly at the grip Geralt had on his hand, though he could not claim that he really minded the touch.

“You’re exhausted,” said Geralt.

“I think that, as irritating as the innkeeper was, this town does not quite deserve your half-asleep caterwauling,” said Yennefer with a smirk as she came up behind them.

“Hey! I’ll have you know that you two are the only ones who I grace with my half-asleep caterwauling. Everyone else gets only my performance voice or my drunk caterwauling. Sleepy Jaskier is a gift that only you two get to see.”

“We’re grateful,” said Geralt, “But you really should sleep. Without singing.”

“Just because I’m not a great and powerful magical being doesn’t mean I can’t handle a little fatigue, Geralt.”

“Yes, and acting like a child who doesn’t want to go to bed is such a good way to prove your strength,” said Yennefer.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said as they approached their room, “I act only with the greatest of grace and—”

A mewling sound from the other side of the door cut off his words.

It was soft enough that Jaskier barely heard it, but the way Geralt froze and stared at the door was enough to assure him that he was not imagining anything. He blinked.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Yennefer was frowning. “I don’t know, but be careful.”

“Is it magical?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t smell like a monster,” Geralt agreed.

“Who knows what the innkeeper put in there, though?” asked Yennefer. “It could be a trap.”

“Yes. Be careful.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, staring at the door. It occurred to Jaskier that they would likely look rather comical to an outside observer.

“Well? Are we going in?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, Yennefer stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and peeked inside the room. She was silent for a long moment.

“Well? Is it dangerous?” asked Jaskier.

“I’m… not sure,” said Yennefer. Geralt stepped forward with a frown to lean over Yennefer and peek in the room as well.

“What the fuck?” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s heart pounded. He tried to get a look inside the room, but it was effectively blocked by the bodies of his witcher and witch. He stood on his tiptoes. It was no good.

“What is it?” he asked again. “A trap? A monster? Please don’t tell me we have to find somewhere else to sleep. My feet are already killing me. Why aren’t you saying anything? Is it gruesome? Can I see?”

With an irritated glance at Jaskier, Geralt stepped back. A little shakily, Yennefer opened the door and entered the room. Jaskier shoved past her and saw, sitting directly in the center of the room’s only bed—

A tiny, fluffy, orange kitten.

Its head was almost comically oversized for its body. Its tail was neatly tucked around its paws. It was looking at them with an adorably bewildered expression, appearing rather like it had just been woken up from a nap. Jaskier thought it could probably have sat in one of Geralt’s hands with very little trouble.

Jaskier stared at it. It stared back.

Jaskier burst into uncontrolled, delighted laughter.

Yennefer shot him an irritated look. Geralt shuffled awkwardly behind him. This only served to make Jaskier laugh harder.

“A kitten!” he wheezed when he caught a breath between giggles. “You were so nervous— You paranoid bastards— I cannot believe— It’s just a tiny kitten!”

“It might be a trap,” Geralt protested weakly.

“You could probably eat it in a single bite if you wanted to, Geralt!”

“That’s morbid,” said Yennefer. She sounded amused.

“And you!” said Jaskier, wheeling around to face her. “You said you didn’t know if it was dangerous! Yennefer of Vengerburg, the most powerful and feared mage on the Continent, was unnerved by a tiny little cat!”

“I can strangle you, Pankratz.”

Jaskier was overtaken by another fit of giggles.

The kitten mewled again, this time sounding rather disgruntled. Jaskier whirled around to face it.

“Oh, you poor dear. Did we wake you up from your nap? What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s your family?”

“It’s a cat,” said Yennefer. “It can’t understand you.”

“Oh, I thought it was a terrifying supernatural being capable of destroying nations.”

“On second thought, maybe strangulation is too good for you.”

Ignoring her, Jaskier approached the bed. Slowly, he held out his hand towards the kitten. It sniffed his fingers then mewled again. Gently, Jaskier stroked its head with a finger. Its eyes went wide. For a moment, Jaskier thought he had gone too far, but then the kitten pushed up into the touch. Jaskier’s heart positively melted. He kept stroking its head, unable to help the grin that spread across his face.

Behind him, he heard Geralt slowly sidle into the room. The kitten did not react.

“Are you sure it’s a real cat?” Geralt asked Yennefer. Jaskier glanced back to see him staring at the kitten, almost transfixed. “Cats don’t like witchers.”

“I don’t feel any magic,” Yennefer admitted.

“It’s kind of hard to be afraid of someone who’s halfway across the room and looking like a frightened pigeon, even if you’re a cat,” said Jaskier.

Geralt scowled and ignored him. “It can’t stay on the bed forever. We need to sleep there.”

“That is an issue,” said Jaskier thoughtfully. He turned to the kitten. “What are we going to do with you, hmm?”

“Again, it can’t understand you,” said Yennefer.

“Ignore them,” Jaskier told the kitten. “They do not understand the concept of whimsy.”

Slowly, Jaskier shifted so he was sitting on the bed beside the kitten. It did not seem overly bothered by the change. Jaskier moved to stroke its back. It looked content. Very gently, Jaskier brought a hand under its ribcage and picked it up, moving his other hand to support its hind legs and then cradling it against his chest. It mewled confusedly and squirmed a little, looking up at him, but he kept stroking it and it settled within a few moments.

He could feel its tiny chest rise and fall against his hands as it breathed. Its fur was slightly matted in places and it could probably have used a bath, but at that moment, Jaskier could not have imagined something softer or more pleasant to touch. It closed its eyes. Jaskier felt his heart melt a little more at the trust it was showing him.

He glanced up at Geralt and Yennefer to see them still on the other side of the room, looking at him with something that looked startlingly like awe.

“You can come over here,” he said instead of giving in to the flustered feelings trying to overwhelm him. “No need to cower.”

“I don’t want to scare it,” said Geralt, and Jaskier’s heart broke a little.

“You won’t scare him,” he said.

“Him?” asked Yennefer, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve decided it’s a he. Orange cats usually are, I think.”

“How do you know I won’t scare him?” asked Geralt, returning them to the original topic.

“He can probably smell you perfectly well from here. If he was going to be scared, he already would be.”

Geralt hesitated. “I don’t know how to act around cats.”

“That’s okay. I’ll show you.” When Geralt still hesitated, Jaskier looked to Yennefer. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

Yennefer frowned at him. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to get fleas.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you can magic away fleas as easily as blinking. Get over here.”

After a quickly-hidden second of trepidation, Yennefer stepped forward. She looked at the kitten. The kitten, after a moment, looked at her.

“Mew?” he said.

Yennefer looked back at Jaskier, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. Jaskier had to hold back a laugh.

“Come on,” he said. “Pet him.”

Slowly, Yennefer reached out to stroke a hand over his head. He blinked up at her, rather bemused.

“Keep going,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Yennefer continued to stroke the kitten, first his head and then his back. Within a few moments, he settled and closed his eyes. He looked very content. Yennefer stared down at him with shock and a tiny bit of delight.

Jaskier decided that it was time for her to ascend to the next level.

“Here,” he said, and handed the kitten to her.

Jaskier had seen Yennefer achieve feats of unimaginable bravery. He had seen her fight her worst fears with determination, seen her battle hordes of monsters that might have made even the most skilled of witchers hesitate, seen her face down armies without flinching. Yennefer was brave. She was powerful. She was, in a word, incredible.

She was also looking down at the kitten he had just placed in her hands with an expression that could only be described as terror.

“I don’t know how—” she started to say, then cut herself off with a panicked gasp when she had to fumble with the squirming kitten to keep him from falling. He mewled indignantly.

“It’s okay,” said Jaskier, reaching forward to help. “I’ll show you. Here, you put your hand where it’ll support his weight, under the ribcage is good. Yes, just like that. Now you— yes! You’ve got it.”

Yennefer ended up sitting on the bed beside Jaskier, carefully cradling the kitten to her chest with both hands. The kitten was rather disgruntled by the whole affair, at first, but when Jaskier gently encouraged Yennefer to free a hand and continue stroking him, he settled down. He snuggled into Yennefer’s arm. After a few moments, his eyes slipped closed.

Yennefer’s eyes widened. She swallowed.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked hesitantly, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, feeling a grin spread across his face. “He’s taking a nap.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

She sat there for a long moment, quietly stroking the kitten. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the tiny, fluffy body in her arms. Jaskier found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. She pet the kitten so gently that it was almost painful to watch, care and tenderness written into her every movement. Her expression could only be described as awe. In that moment, Jaskier was unable to think of anything that could possibly be more beautiful.

After a few long minutes, she looked up. Geralt was still standing against the far wall of the room, watching the little group on the bed with what appeared to be a mixture of fondness and longing. Yennefer took one look at his expression and sighed.

“Get over here,” she said. Jaskier nodded. Geralt, after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed.

His approach was slow and silent. When he came within a few paces, the kitten stirred, looking up at him with his ears slightly flattened. Geralt froze. Jaskier hushed him and scratched him under the chin, while Yennefer kept her hand resting on its back. That seemed to do the trick. The kitten settled back down into Yennefer’s arms. Jaskier gestured Geralt closer, and at his behest, the witcher sat down cautiously on Yennefer’s other side.

The kitten was still awake and watching Geralt with a little bit of wariness, but he did not seem overly bothered by the witcher’s presence. Jaskier internally cheered.

“You can pet him,” he whispered to Geralt.

“I don’t want to scare him,” Geralt said again.

“You won’t. Yennefer and I will help.”

A little bit of Yennefer’s uncertainty returned. “I can try, but—”

Jaskier waved her off. “Nonsense. He already likes you. Go ahead, Geralt.”

Geralt hesitated. “But—”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You can make fun of me if I’m wrong. I take responsibility for any and all kitten-related disasters. Go ahead.”

Geralt huffed, amused. Jaskier hid his smile by looking down at the kitten.

Slowly, Geralt crouched down so his head was more or less level with the kitten. He swallowed, reached out, and gently ran his head down the kitten’s neck and back.

“Mew?” said the kitten. He looked up at Geralt. He blinked.

“Keep going,” said Jaskier softly.

Geralt stroked the kitten again. When he did not panic or run away, Geralt did it again.

“He’s soft,” he whispered, entranced.

“Yeah,” said Yennefer, her voice equally quiet.

They both stared down at the kitten, who was content in Yennefer’s arms as Geralt stroked him. The kitten looked very small and helpless beneath Geralt’s big hands, but did not seem particularly bothered by that fact. Jaskier felt himself growing a little teary-eyed at the sight.

“Do you want to hold him?” Yennefer asked after a few moments.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. He glanced at Jaskier, nervous. “Do you think I can?”

“I do,” said Jaskier. “He already likes you, see?”

He gestured at the kitten, who was meowing in quiet protest at the fact that Geralt was no longer petting him. Geralt looked back at him. His face softened.

“I suppose,” he said. He looked up at Yennefer, then back at Jaskier. “Will you help me?”

Yennefer nodded.

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “Here, Yen, you can hand him to Geralt just like how you picked him up. Just support his weight— yeah, there you go. Geralt, you do the same thing.”

After a few moments of fumbling and a few disgruntled mewls from the kitten, Yennefer managed to deposit him in Geralt’s hands. Jaskier had been correct; he could have sat on just one of Geralt’s hands without too much trouble. Geralt was carefully cupping him with both of his anyway. The sight made Jaskier struggle not to dissolve into an unhelpful puddle of affection.

“What now?” asked Geralt, sounding almost as nervous as he had when Ciri first asked him to help her with her hair.

“You can put him in your lap, if you want,” said Jaskier. “You might want to get comfortable, though. Cats don’t always like to move once they have a nice person to sit on.”

After glancing at the bed consideringly, Yennefer crawled up to lean against the rather rickety headboard and patted the spot beside her. “Come on. I think we can all fit.”

Jaskier scooted up to sit near her, leaving space for Geralt between them. Geralt glanced up at them, then down at the kitten in his hands. The kitten had started to nibble on one of his fingers. After a moment of consideration, Geralt cautiously got to his knees on the bed and hobbled over to them, being careful to keep the kitten from being jostled. He settled in between Jaskier and Yennefer and set the kitten gently in his lap. The kitten flailed a little at the new position, but it took only a few moments for him to settle on one of Geralt’s thighs.

“Keep petting him,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Geralt obeyed. On his other side, Jaskier saw Yennefer resting her head on Geralt’s shoulder and looking down at the kitten. For several moments, the three of them sat in content silence. Then—

“It’s vibrating,” said Geralt, sounding adorably terrified.

“Oh!” said Jaskier, delighted. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the faintest of rumbling sounds from the kitten. “He’s purring, Geralt. That means he feels safe and content. He’s happy.”

“Oh,” said Geralt. His voice was filled with awe.

“We made him do that?” asked Yennefer. She spoke softly, as though trying not to interrupt the kitten’s purrs.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, matching her tone, “We did.”

Yennefer smiled. It was not an expression of triumph or of power, not assured or sarcastic. It was not the smile she liked to show to the world. It was small and soft, tender and a little uncertain. It was directed at a small ball of orange fluff lounging in a witcher’s lap. Jaskier knew at that moment that no song he could write would come close to describing her beauty.

“I wonder where his family is,” Yennefer mused after a long few moments of content silence. “He can’t have gotten here all by himself, can he?”

“We can ask the innkeeper tomorrow,” said Jaskier. “Looks like he’s alone at the moment, though.”

“He isn’t,” said Geralt.

Jaskier blinked. “Please don’t tell me there are more cats hiding under the bed and you didn’t tell us, Geralt.”

“No.” Geralt looked rather embarrassed. “I just meant… we’re here. So he isn’t alone.”

Jaskier gave the kitten a thoughtful look. “I suppose that’s true.”

Yennefer looked back and forth between Jaskier. A small frown appeared on her face.

“He might have a family,” she said. “You can’t just take him.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Jaskier protested. “I just think he can stay with us tonight, is all.”

Yennefer looked at him skeptically. “That’s what you said when we found you trying to hide a baby griffin in your backpack.”

“That was one time—”

“It was extremely memorable and also idiotic. I am not letting you live it down anytime soon.”

Geralt casually removed one hand from the kitten to cover Jaskier’s mouth, muffling his indignant response and reducing his words to spluttering. Yennefer giggled at the sight, and Jaskier felt the fight drain out of him at the sound. Sensing his surrender, Geralt removed his hand and started to pet the kitten again before it could stop purring.

“The griffin thing was stupid, but this isn’t a griffin,” Geralt said diplomatically. “I think he can stay the night if he wants to.”

Yennefer subsided. “I don’t see why not.”

The kitten mewled a little. The three of them glanced down to see him resettling himself on Geralt’s legs, apparently having decided that he could make himself more comfortable than he already had.

“We’re going to have to move him eventually,” said Yennefer reluctantly. “We need to sleep somehow.”

Jaskier considered that for a few moments. “Maybe we can put him on one of the pillows. As long as no one rolls over in their sleep, he should be all right.”

Geralt looked doubtfully at the bed. The three them of sitting side by side were already rather squished.

Jaskier rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction. “I don’t see you offering any better ideas.”

“I think we can make it work,” said Yennefer. “We’ve slept in smaller places.”

“All right,” said Geralt.

“I suppose we should lie down, then,” said Jaskier. Though he was reluctant to break the moment, he was still sleepy and knew that they needed to rest if they wanted to get anything done the next day.

After a few moments of shuffling and some rather disgruntled sounds from the kitten, they managed to get settled in a way that was comfortable for everyone. Geralt was on his side with an arm thrown over Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier was on his back so that Yennefer could lie half on top of him in the way she sometimes preferred. The kitten was curled up on a pillow behind Yennefer’s head. Jaskier’s arm was around Yennefer’s shoulders to keep her from rolling over in the night and crushing the kitten.

Yennefer was warm and heavy on top of Jaskier. Geralt’s breathing was slow against his side. Jaskier drifted off within moments, feeling safe, loved, and content.

The next morning, Jaskier was awakened by tiny and very sharp claws kneading directly on his bladder.

He yelped and flailed, trying to sit up. He was not very successful. This was mostly due to the fact that his right arm was trapped under a warm body and there was a thigh pinning his legs down. The kneading continued. Jaskier squirmed again, more frantically. He tried to free his arm to remove the pressure on his bladder, but—

Yennefer yelped as she went tumbling off the bed and thumped onto the floor.

Geralt sat up like a shot, looking around frantically and reaching for a sword on his back that was not there. Jaskier, now free, wasted no time in sitting up and gently but firmly removing the kitten from his person.

Geralt glanced between Jaskier, the kitten, and Yennefer, who had managed to sit up enough for her head to poke up above the edge of bed.

“...What?” asked Geralt weakly.

“Yeah, Jaskier, what the fuck?” asked Yennefer.

She clambered back onto the bed, giving Jaskier her most ferocious glare. The effect was slightly ruined by her spectacular bedhead.

Jaskier gestured emphatically with the kitten in his hands. “This fucker was poking me!”

Geralt frowned. “Why did that mean Yen had to fall out of the bed?”

“She was trapping my arm. I was desperate. Sorry, Yen.”

Yennefer glared at him. “I could turn you into a toad.”

“Listen, if I hadn’t removed him from my bladder we would have had a much worse situation on our hands.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier’s apologetic face. She looked at Geralt’s expression of confusion and fond exasperation. She looked at the kitten, who looked distinctly unrepentant.

Unable to help herself, she dissolved into giggles. Jaskier was rather alarmed for a moment — had she just come up with a magnificent punishment for him? His face must have done something interesting, because Yennefer looked at him and started to laugh even harder. Behind Jaskier, Geralt chuckled a little as well.

“How did he even get to your stomach?” he asked. “He would have had to crawl over Yen’s head without waking her.”

Jaskier looked thoughtfully at the kitten. “He’s a master of stealth, I suppose.”

That sent Yennefer off into another round of laughter. Jaskier found himself unable to keep from joining her with his own helpless giggles.

Geralt looked between the two of them and shook his head fondly.

“I’m going to get us breakfast,” he said, leaving them to their merriment.

Jaskier and Yennefer had caught their breath and mostly regained their composure by the time Geralt returned with some food. Yennefer had the kitten in her lap and was petting him absently. He looked very happy with himself.

“I asked the innkeeper about him,” said Geralt, gesturing to the kitten with the hand that was not carrying their food. “She says he’s been hanging around the inn for a week or so, being fed scraps by the guests. No sign of any family, but he seems to be doing well enough. He’s healthy.”

“Is the innkeeper fine with him being here?” asked Yennefer.

“She doesn’t mind him as long as the guests are happy and he keeps some mice away, but she’s had some complaints about him sleeping on beds. She might have to find a way to get rid of him if he doesn’t stop.”

Jaskier looked down at the kitten, pensive. “I hope she doesn’t have to. It would be a shame to keep him away from people if he likes them.”

Yennefer patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

Yennefer reached for the bread that Geralt was carrying and began to eat. Geralt passed another portion to Jaskier. The three of them munched their food contemplatively, looking at the kitten.

“I feel like we should name him,” mused Jaskier. “Calling him ‘the kitten’ in my head is starting to get weird. I need something to shout when I’m reprimanding him.”

“What do you want to call him, then?” asked Yennefer.

“I don’t know! What do you think?”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the kitten’s purrs.

“Well,” said Geralt when no one offered any ideas, “There’s always Ro—“

“No!” shouted Jaskier and Yennefer simultaneously.

Yennefer smacked Geralt’s shoulder. “Not Roach. You can name all the horses you want, but I draw the line at cats.”

Jaskier nodded. “We can think of something better. I believe in us.”

Geralt subsided with a huff. There was another moment of thoughtful silence.

“Cirilla the Second?” suggested Yennefer.

Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, buried his face in a pillow, and groaned loudly. “I loathe you both.”

“I don’t see you having any better ideas,” Yennefer protested. Jaskier groaned again and rolled onto his back.

“What have I done to deserve this?” he asked the ceiling.

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” asked Yennefer with a smirk.

“It can be both.”

“I’m not so sure. That would require complicated things like nuance and finesse. I am not sure a bard of your caliber could keep up. Perhaps we need someone more practiced, for instance Vald—”

“How about Mackerel?” Geralt said loudly and rather desperately, cutting Yennefer off before disaster could strike.

Jaskier and Yennefer both fell silent. They looked at Geralt. They looked at the kitten. They looked back at Geralt.

“Is your entire repertoire of names made up of fish?” asked Yennefer, and Jaskier burst into laughter.

Geralt looked on with some disgruntlement as Jaskier’s guffaws slowly faded into giggles.

“What?” he asked. “It’s a decent name.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Retrospectively, I’m grateful you didn’t go back to claim Ciri when she was young. The poor girl would have ended up saddled with the name Perch.”

“You are an idiot,” said Jaskier to Geralt. “An utter and complete moron. I love you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, flustered.

“Do you have any better names, Jaskier?” asked Yennefer.

“Absolutely not. Mackerel is hilarious. We’re keeping it.”

Yennefer sighed but failed to hide her smile. “Oh, fine.”

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence. When they were finished, they sat on the bed for a while longer. It was comfortable, after all, and they were in no particular hurry. Jaskier determinedly did not think about any other reasons he might have for not wanting to leave the inn.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Geralt said eventually, reluctant.

Yennefer sighed. “Yeah, we’ll have to get going if we want to meet Ciri and Geralt’s idiot brothers in time.”

Jaskier hauled himself to his feet.

“Let’s get to it, then!” he said with false cheer.

With practiced ease, they packed up their things. They were ready to leave within minutes.

They did not leave.

The three of them dithered in the room. Geralt gazed out the window. Yennefer checked corners for anything they might have somehow lost. Jaskier fidgeted with his notebook.

“Well,” said Yennefer, “I suppose it’s time to go.”

She went to stand in the doorway. Geralt and Jaskier joined her.

None of them moved.

They looked back at the kitten, who was once again on the bed. Mackerel looked back at them. He meowed.

Yennefer heaved a deep, longsuffering sigh. “We’re taking him with us, aren’t we?”

Geralt sighed. “We might.”

Jaskier whooped so loudly that it startled Mackerel. He darted back to the bed and scooped the kitten up in his arms. Mackerel mewled in complaint.

Jaskier stroked his head in apology. “Sorry for startling you, darling, but you’ll be much happier about it soon. You’re coming with us! You’ll get to see the continent. You’ll get to experience all sorts of varied and delightful table scraps. It’ll be lovely.”

Across the room, Jaskier heard Yennefer trying to stifle a laugh. He ignored her.

“You’ll get to meet so many people,” he said to Mackerel. “You’ll get to explore the world. You can meet our family, too—”

Jaskier cut himself off with a gasp and turned to Geralt and Yennefer, his eyes shining. “Ciri is going to love him!”

“Oh,” said Yennefer with a grin. “Oh, she really will. This is going to be great.”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “This is going to be the best decision we’ve ever made, I can feel it.”

“What do kittens eat?” Geralt asked reasonably, looking rather exasperated at their antics. “We can’t just let him starve.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Jaskier. “He can’t be that hard to feed.”

Yennefer nodded. “He’s been living off scraps and what he can catch so far. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

“It’ll be dangerous on the path,” said Geralt.

Jaskier scoffed. “Mackerel is a smart cat. He can take care of himself.”

Geralt looked as though he might protest again, but at that moment, Mackerel meowed. Geralt looked down at the tiny ball of fur in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier saw the exact moment Geralt’s last arguments drained away in the face of the adorable creature in front of him.

“I suppose he can come,” said Geralt with a sigh.

Jaskier whooped again. Mackerel meowed. Yennefer laughed. Geralt, seemingly despite himself, smiled.

The three of them shouldered their packs, Jaskier passing Mackerel to Geralt to free his hands. They left their room. On their way out of the inn, Yennefer stopped to let the innkeeper know they were taking Mackerel while Geralt retrieved Roach from the stables. The innkeeper seemed happy enough with the idea and waved at them with a smile as they left.

They set off on the Path, with Geralt leading Roach and Yennefer and Jaskier walking beside him. It was just like any other day in the last week — except this time, there was a tiny orange head poking out of one of Roach’s saddlebags, and Yennefer was having a hard time suppressing a smile. Even Geralt looked visibly content.

Jaskier’s lovers were happy. They had, somehow, despite everything, adopted a cat. Despite Yennefer and Geralt’s persistent issues with attachment and commitment, they had agreed to take a kitten with them on their travels for no reason other than sentiment and sympathy. Jaskier was so very proud of them.

Stopping at that inn was the best decision they ever made.

#the witcher #geraskefer #jaskier #yennefer #geralt #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #this is the third thing i've posted in as many weeks which is wild #wren writes #i wrote and edited this very quickly so idk how well-written it is but i'm fond of it #self-indulgent fluff my beloved <3

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eiirisworkshop · 6 months

Text

Of Desire, Preference, and Convenience

The first in a series of Witcher oneshots Also available to read on Ao3 here.

The sun was just a sliver clinging to the horizon when Geralt, Jaskier, and, of course, Roach came into sight of the town they had set out from a couple days before. As they drew closer on the road a young man, barely more than a boy, spotted them from where he was sitting at the threshold of his home, whittling by lantern light so the shavings fell outside the door. Upon seeing them, he stood, stared a moment, set aside his woodworking, and ran towards the center of town well ahead of them.

“Well,” Jaskier said, cutting himself off in the midst of kvetching about the several minor injuries he'd sustained over the course of Geralt's hunt, “that's not the worst welcome you've ever gotten.”

“He's not the welcome,” Geralt grunted shortly.

Sure enough, by the time they got there, what felt like most of the town had spilled into the square to gawk. With slight commotion, the crowd parted to let through Geralt’s current employer, the local Baroness, flanked on one side by a retainer, on the other by some relative. Reins in hand, Geralt led Roach forward, hauled the decapitated head of a recently slain monster from under the canvas across Roach's back, and dropped it with a heavy splat on the flagstone at the Baroness's feet. Both noblewoman and mare did the same halfstep back, away from the splatter of gore.

Several parents in the crowd shielded their children's eyes.

“I solved your cockatrice problem.”

“I can see that,” the Baroness said tightly, one hand raised slightly to steady her relation, who had bristled. “You have done a great service for our town and saved untold lives. You have our gratitude.”

“I prefer gratitude in the form of coin,” Geralt said flatly.

“And you will have it,” the Baroness assured. “But we are not a wealthy town, especially this time of year. I offer you the hospitality of my household to make up for the limits of what I can offer you in gold. With my nephew visiting,” she glanced aside to her relation, “there is only one set of rooms available, but it's more comfortable than the inn, we can give you a meal, and a bath, wash your things.”

“Yes, um.” Jaskier sashayed forward and leaned around to preemptively answer on Geralt's behalf. “We gladly and humbly accept.”

While Geralt settled Roach into the Baroness's stables, Jaskier sat in the courtyard on the edge of a low wall, lute propped on his thigh, playing for a gathered gaggle of the younger members of the household, including the Baroness's son, his companions, and several servants. There was applause as the song ended. Jaskier lay his palm over the strings to quiet them. “Thank you, thank you! Are there any other requests?”

“I want to hear about the witcher beheading the cockatrice,” one of the servant girls said with a slightly alarming glint to her eye. Judging by the state of her apron, she probably worked in the kitchens, and the thought of her with a knife was also somewhat alarming.

“Ha, well.” Jaskier bowed his head briefly. “It does usually take me more than a few hours to write a new song, I'm afraid.”

“Besides,” the Baroness's son said superiorly, lolling his head toward the kitchen girl, “that'll be gross and gory, nothing a delicate thing like you would want to hear.”

She leveled him with the most unimpressed look. “I've ripped the heads of chickens with my bare hands. It works better if you twist,” she said with unaffected desensitivity. “Even with the head gone the bodies keep moving for a while sometimes.”

The young noble did a very poor job of covering for the full body cringe that ran through him. Jaskier brushed a thumb across his nose and muttered, “Basilisks do that too...”

“And besides,” the girl continued, echoing her young master's tone, “the last three songs have all been about gross gory monster slayings and this pansy narrowly avoiding being beaten to death or eaten.” She jerked a thumb at Jaskier.

“I prefer Dandelion, actually,” Jaskier said, rocking back a bit while he finished processing that, no, really, she had just said that, to his face.

She ignored him completely. “I don't think one more story of the sort would suddenly be a problem for me. I’m not a delicate flower.”

“She's right.”

Jaskier and his audience all looked sharply up and around at the growled comment, Geralt's approach having been preternaturally quiet.

“Hey, now,” Jaskier began, on the verge of taking offense.

“About the twisting. Works the same on anything with a skull small enough to get a hand around.” He shrugged. “Including humans.”

Jaskier bowed his head again to hide his expression of incredulous, horrified, amusement and busied his fingers with a few chords. That served nicely to draw the group's attention, spare anyone the task of figuring out how to respond to that, and give the Baroness's son a moment to pull himself together without any more needling. The kitchen girl, for her part, looked like she might be in love.

“So,” she said after a moment when it became clear Jaskier was just noodling lyriclessly, “since your bard hasn't had a chance to write about it, maybe you could tell us how you beheaded the cockatrice?”

“With a sword,” Geralt said flatly.

She blinked a couple times, stopped fiddling demurely with the end of her braid, and nodded slowly. “Right.”

Jaskier stopped playing and offered, “I do have a song about his swords.”

“You have five,” Geralt corrected. “And they're all shit because that's what you write whenever you can't think of anything else.”

“That is not true!” Jaskier objected, electing to ignore the giggles from his audience. “At least two of them are decent.”

“Excuse me, sirs?”

Geralt and Jaskier both turned toward another, older servant who looked like she might have been the girl's mother. She smiled gently once she had their attention. “Your accommodations are ready.”

“Fantastic,” Jaskier said, standing up.

Geralt clapped one large, rough hand on Jaskier's shoulder and steered the bard in front of him, following the woman. “C'mon, buttercup.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, said nothing, and resisted the urge to elbow Geralt in the ribs. The effect wasn't worth an additional bruise.

The guest apartment they were shown to was about a room and a half—a bedchamber with a sitting area, and an anteroom with a bath. The servant woman pointed out to them where their bags were stacked by the settee, and the basket that had been provided for their dirty laundry, then she curtsied politely and left them be.

Jaskier shed his doublet easily, tossed it in the direction of the basket, toed off his boots, and went for the tray of food set on the low table. They hadn't made it back into town until after dinnertime, so their meal wasn't elaborate, but there was hot meat, bread that was less than a day old, cheese, fruit-filled pastries, and plenty of wine. He stacked some meat and cheese on a slice of bread, took a bite, made an appreciative sound in his throat, then turned to watch Geralt meticulously divesting himself of his weaponry and armor.

“Food's good.”

Geralt hummed a short acknowledgement. He definitely needed a bath—his hair, what of it was loose, was stringy and dark with grime. It must've felt disgusting. Jaskier felt filthy enough and he hadn't gotten covered in ichor. Geralt got down to his shirt, paused to roll his neck, then stripped to skin. Jaskier turned quickly to pour himself a cup of wine and did not stare at the way the muscles of Geralt's shoulders and back moved as he raised his arms. At least he didn't stare much. He was just observing. For creative purposes. As always.

He did, however, watch as Geralt walked past him naked toward the door of the bath room.

Mouth half full, Jaskier gestured at the food on the table. “Aren't you going to eat?”

“I'll eat when I'm clean.”

“'I'll eat when I'm—' Bah!” Jaskier shifted things around so everything including his cup of wine and one of the bottles fit on the tray. “There's no law that says a man can't eat while he bathes.”

Geralt pulled open the door and took a step back, expression stunned, as though the steam curling lazily from inside had struck him.

Jaskier cocked his head with curious concern. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Geralt grunted, then continued into the room. Jaskier rolled his eyes, gathered up the tray, and followed. He realized about halfway to the door what had struck the witcher—the steam wafting from the bath smelled distinctly of lemongrass and lavender. It was pleasant, but fairly strong even to Jaskier's ordinary human nose.

The bath itself was part of the room's architecture; a large tiled tub built into a sort of dais raised a couple steps up from the floor, underneath which was a firebox of smoldering coals to keep the water hot. There was an elaborately grated drain in the floor, several additional buckets of clear water, and a basket of bottles, jars, soaps, stones, and brushes perched on the wide rim of the tub.

Geralt grabbed one of the buckets of water, stood on the grate in the floor, and dumped the bucket over his head, water flowing in rivulets down his body, cutting tracks through the grime that had gotten under his clothes. Jaskier turned his back to hook one ankle around the edge of the door and pull it closed so the heat wouldn't all escape.

While Geralt began washing with a cloth from the linen rack, Jaskier set the tray of food on the corner of the dais, then took off the rest of his own clothes, grabbed a cloth, and began to do the same. He finished the process more quickly since he was less dirty to start with, so he carefully moved the tray of food to the edge of the tub. He climbed in and sank into the hot, scented water with a satisfied groan—and a slight hiss when the water hit the scratches he had acquired on the road. He took up his wine in one hand, his stack of bread, meat, and cheese in the other, took a sip, took a bite, and leaned his head back, eyes closed. “I probably shouldn't have expected less from a town whose whole thing is its mineral springs, but this is nice.”

“Mh.”

For a while, they were both quiet, Jaskier eating and drinking by feel while Geralt washed. Then, at the splat of a cloth being discarded, Jaskier opened his eyes again. He watched Geralt snag a piece of cheese from the tray and cram it efficiently in his mouth, then take a stiff-bristled brush from the basket of bath things, sit on the edge of the dais with his emptied bucket partially refilled at his feet, unknot the tie holding his hair out of his face, and start brushing out his own mane as he'd done Roach's not long before.

Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn't believe him if he ever told him, but he really was beautiful. Not in a feminine way, not quite in the compellingly unearthly way Yen was, though that was more like it. With his long white hair and amber eyes, his constellation of scars that told a thousand stories the man himself rarely if ever voiced, his striking stature, the control to his moves which spoke both of strength and of a gentleness a lucky few were blessed to bare witness to, Geralt of Rivia was beautiful in his own way. Not that Jaskier ever would tell him. That...that was another urge to be resisted, for the effect wouldn't be worth the bruises.

Instead, he shifted in the bath, hazy water lapping around his waist, and leaned forward against the side of the tub to eat a pastry without dropping any crumbs or sugar in the water. He sucked a bit of filling off his thumb. “Wouldn't it be less trouble and less mess if you, I don't know, braided your hair back? Or kept it up?”

“Yes,” Geralt sighed and dunked his brush in the bucket.

“Then why don't you?”

Geralt shrugged.

Jaskier grinned slowly. “You like it, don't you? You like the way you look with your hair down.”

Geralt resolutely did not respond.

Jaskier laughed, the sound echoing off the tile brightly. “Melitele's tit's, I'm right!”

Geralt glared at him and he sacrificed one dry hand to splash water at him in rebuttal.

“For what it's worth,” Jaskier continued, “you're right too. You do look good with your hair down.”

Geralt looked at him dubiously. Jaskier shrugged. “You have nice hair. And the way you tend to wear it works well with the whole,” he gestured broadly at his own face with his half a pastry, “jawline-that-could-cut-stone situation.”

That earned him an inscrutable snort. Geralt carried on brushing out his hair. Jaskier finished his pastry, dusted off his fingers, and started snooping through the offerings in the basket. One jar was full of a citrusy smelling powder that fizzed against his damp fingers when he poked it experimentally.

“Oh, that's interesting.” He dumped it in the water where it hissed and produced a thick froth of fine, foamy bubbles. “That's very interesting. I like that quite a lot, actually.” He unstoppered a bottle to sniff at its contents, pulled a face, and moved on to the next, then the next, then the next. “We ought to find the glaziers' shop before we leave town; this glasswork is really excellent. Exactly the sort of thing you tend to carry potions and tinctures around in. I know you've had a few break on you recently. Honestly it must be some sort of cosmic joke that the best inert-but-moldable material to make containers out of is so brittle. Ooh, that's nice! That's, hm, I don't know what that is. Here, smell this.” He held out the bottle.

“I can smell it just fine from over here.” Geralt glowered at him through locks of wet hair. “It's almond.”

“Almond in a poison kind of way, or…?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.” Jaskier sniffed at the bottle again while Geralt dumped out the dingy water he'd been rinsing his brush in, poured a little more from one of the other buckets, and resumed the process. Jaskier poured a little of the bottle's contents into his palm and rubbed it between his fingers. “I think it's a hair oil.”

“Probably,” Geralt agreed and just kept brushing.

“Come here,” Jaskier huffed.

“I don't—”

“Like using soap on your hair, it makes it feel like straw, yes, yes, we've had that conversation a few times,” Jaskier said. “This isn't soap. I know you know the difference. Let me help you.”

Geralt's expression didn't appreciably change but Jaskier could see him considering.

“The sooner your hair is clean, the sooner you can actually get in the bath and relax,” Jaskier pointed out. “Ridiculous strength and healing or no, you've got to be sore. I'm sore and you took significantly more battering.”

With what was definitely not a resigned sigh, Geralt got up and moved to within arm's reach of the tub, his back to Jaskier, who grinned.

“I know you,” Jaskier singsonged as he poured more oil into his hand and started working it into Geralt's hair. It was always amazing to realize, again, just how much hair Geralt had. Truly, mane was the right word for it. And the way he wore it, in addition to being quite fetching, lent itself nicely to dramatic movement. There was a lyric to be found somewhere down that train of thought and Jaskier starting humming to himself as he followed it.

“What are you thinking about?” Geralt asked after a moment, voice low.

“Hm?”

“You hum when you think.”

“Oh.” Jaskier shrugged and scritched his fingers against Geralt's scalp. “Just trying to come up with ways to describe your hair color.”

“It's white.”

“Well, yes, obviously, but that's not very poetic. Also it doesn't—” He broke off and dropped his hands, ceasing his attentions entirely. “You have no idea what light does to your hair, do you? You can't see it.”

“I can see my own hair.” Geralt turned over one shoulder to pin Jaskier with a look that quite plainly questioned his intelligence.

“Sure, but only part of it.” Jaskier leaned on his elbows on the edge of the tub. “Only the ends. And never from behind or from a far.

“I've seen other people with white hair.”

“We're not talking about other people's hair. We're talking about yours. And you don't know how it shines in sunlight, almost too bright to look at; or turns liquid and metallic like quicksilver in moonlight; or reflects a stormy sky as though it, too, could flash with lightning—and sometimes I could swear it does.”

Geralt licked his lips and took a breath. “If you write an entire song about my hair, I will finally kill you.”

“If you were ever actually going to kill me for something like that, you would have done it a long time ago.”

With a sideways tip of his head that was unmistakably reluctant agreement, Geralt got up and went back to his bucket. “I do like,” he said as he started brushing the excess oil out of his hair, and with it the last of the grime, “that you haven't ruled out my killing you for other reasons.”

“I figure horse-related reasons are the most likely,” Jaskier said cheekily, rubbing the rest of the oil from his hands through his own hair.

That drew a snort of what passed for laughter from Geralt. “You haven't been doing anything to make Roach want you dead, have you?”

“Well, not that I know of.” Jaskier almost fumbled his cup of wine in slick fingers as he refilled it. “It's hard to be sure, though—she's almost as inscrutably irascible as you.”

Now Geralt chuckled properly and Jaskier beamed into his wine.

Geralt reached for the partial bucket of clear water, dunked his head in it, then sat up quickly, flipping his wet hair out of his face with an arching spray of water. He ran both hands through his hair, combing with his fingers a few times, then wrung most of the moisture out, manhandled the bulk of his hair up to the crown of his head, twisted it deftly into a bun, and tucked it into itself so it would stay.

“Honestly, that is one of your more impressive talents,” Jaskier said mildly. Geralt grunted, stepped up on the dais, swung one leg over the edge of the tub, then the other, then sank into frothy water up to his neck at the opposite end from Jaskier. He lifted one hand, shook the water and suds off, and folded some meat and cheese together to eat.

“On the subject of your talents,” Jaskier segued. “Namely, y'know, violence—I have to know, what the hell possessed you to tell a group of adolescents, one of whom already seems to have a potentially murderous streak, that ripping the heads off of people is the same as decapitating a chicken?”

Geralt smirked. “Did you see that boy's face?”

“That I did,” Jaskier laughed. “Did you see the girl's face though? The murderous one. I think she's fallen for you.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, finished his meat and cheese wrap, and one-handedly took the bottle of wine for himself. “She's far too young for me.”

“Obviously.” Jaskier pulled a face of disgust. “What do you take me for? Don't answer that. Come back in a decade, though, and she'll be grown and you will be exactly the same. I'm speaking from experience of course.”

“You haven't changed appreciably, either.”

“Myehh.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “I'm just babyfaced. I looked about twelve until the summer before you met me. Trust me, I am quite aware of all the ways I've gotten older.”

“In a decade she'd be married, anyway,” Geralt continued. “And I, unlike you, am not keen to make enemies of husbands”

Jaskier flicked water at Geralt's face, and was rather proud to earn a slight flinch. “She might not be, though. A decade later and I'm still not married.”

“Well, yes, but you're…,” Geralt's nose wrinkled a moment, “you.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier reached across the bath and attempted to snatch the wine back. Geralt held it fast.

“Did I mention the making enemies of husbands?”

“That only happens sometimes!” Jaskier abandoned his cup on the ledge and stood for better leverage on the wine bottle, foam clinging around his waist.

“Of course. Sometimes you're making enemies of wives. Or mothers.” He let go of the bottle and Jaskier fell backward, knocking his breath out on the far side of the tub.

He wheezed and spluttered, then jabbed a finger at Geralt. “It is not my fault that everyone worth my company who'll actually look twice at me is either already married or have a very controlling family.”

He took a swig of wine from the bottle as Geralt had. The witcher arched an eyebrow at him and cocked his head slightly. “Maybe you should focus a little more of your efforts on that third camp.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The ones you think wouldn't look twice at you.”

“Ha. No. That's—no.” Jaskier turned to the tray of food, put the wine down, and intently perused the pastries. “I do rather like my head attached to my shoulders, difficult as that may be to believe. What about you, though?” he asked without looking at Geralt. “And don't say 'because I'm me' or anything like that. I know for a fact your options for willing—eager, even, and of-age—partners are not limited to whores and megalomaniacal sorceresses.”

Geralt sighed. “Everyone but the whores want things I cannot give and bring things I have no desire to possess. Even the whores do, sometimes.”

Jaskier turned back to frown at Geralt over a tiny lemon tart. “What sort of things?”

Geralt shook his head, shrugged, and looked away.

“That's not an answer.”

He shrugged again.

“Geralt.”

“I don't feel things,” Geralt snapped.

“Oh, don't give me that 'witchers don't have emotions' spiel.” Jaskier crossed one arm over his chest and took a bite of his tart. “I know you know that I know that's a crock of horseshit.”

“That's not what I mean,” Geralt rumbled and grabbed the wine back.

“Then what do you mean?”

Geralt took a drink and gestured broadly with the bottle. “People...like people. You seem to constantly be mooning after someone. I'm surprised you haven't spent the past week regaling me with embellished accounts of the beauty and charm of whoever you fixated on as your 'muse' in the last town, whether I want to hear them or not.”

“Do you want a pastry?” Jaskier held the plate out.

Geralt stared at him flatly for a moment. “I'm not hungry.”

“That's just as much horseshit as the idea that you don't have emotions.”

With a roll of his eyes Geralt traded the wine bottle to his damp hand, picked up a pastry with the dry, and took a bite. “The point,” he said, chewing, then took a drink, “is that you have feelings about people you want. I don't do that.”

“You….” Jaskier screwed up his eyes in concentration, then shook his head. “Give me that.” He took the wine from Geralt and drank. “You definitely seem to do that, at least sometimes.”

“I don't.”

“Then I need you to explain Yennefer to me.”

“She's…a friend.”

“I think you and I define 'friendship' differently,” Jaskier said slowly. He shifted how he was sitting, his foot slipped on the bottom of the tub and brushed Geralt's leg under the water. He pulled his foot back quickly.

“I'm not in love with her,” Geralt said, hawk-like eyes following a bit of swirling foam on the surface of the water. “I never was. I've never been in love with anyone. I've cared about people—usually against my better judgement.” His gaze flicked briefly up to Jaskier's face then continued to the ceiling as he leaned back, lifting one elbow to rest on the edge of the tub, bubbles clinging along the line of a scar as water ran off his skin. “Had plenty of sex. Even had sex with people I've cared about.” He shook his head. “Never fallen in love. I don't think I can.” He shoved the rest of his pastry in his mouth.

Cautiously, Jaskier held out the last of the bottle of wine and bumped it against the witcher's fingers in a silent offering that Geralt accepted.

After a moment—needed as much to take stock of his own sinking heart as anything else—Jaskier asked, “Do you want to? Fall in love, I mean.”

Geralt snorted and looked at him. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble.”

“You're not wrong,” Jaskier admitted, grimacing. “Is that a 'no,' then?”

Geralt shrugged. He pushed up on one knee and twisted to set the now-empty bottle safely on the dais.

Jaskier took that as confirmation and sank deeper into the water, pulling his knees to his chest—one of them popped and he winced. “Ow. What if…. What if someone fell in love with you? Really fell in love, someone who knows you.”

“That would be their misfortune.”

“It's not so bad,” Jaskier mumbled. Geralt stared at him. It took a second for Jaskier to notice. “What?”

Geralt continued to stare, brow furrowing.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Are you in love with me?” Geralt asked, either incredulous or horrified. Hard to say which was preferable.

“I—wh—huh? No, no, of course not,” Jaskier stammered. “Not 'of course not;' I don't mean I or someone wouldn't. It's definitely something someone might, hypothetically do—be in love with, I mean.” He clasped his hands in front of his face, knuckles to his lips, choosing to believe the flush he could feel in his face could be blamed on the wine and the warmth of the water. “If, hypothetically, someone were—then what?”

Geralt shook his head. “Why?”

Jaskier dropped his face into his palms. “Fuck.” He tossed his hands up, shaking his own head helplessly. “I don't know.”

Geralt stared a second longer, then stood up to get out of the bath. Jaskier averted his gaze and halfway shielded his eyes with one hand. “I—Geralt, I'm sorry.”

“There's no point in apologizing for things beyond your control.” Geralt poured another half-bucket of clear water over himself to rinse away the salts and suds, then grabbed a bath sheet to dry with and strode out to the main room, hair falling from its unsecured bun, leaving the door open behind him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swore under his breath, hauled himself out of the bath, rinsed with the rest of the bucket, wrapped himself in a bath sheet and followed. “I'm not apologizing for having feelings or for what they are.”

“Then what are you apologizing for?” Geralt threw Jaskier's pack at him from across the room, flipped his own open, and pulled out a pair of trousers.

Jaskier swore again and more deflected his pack than caught it. “For making you uncomfortable!”

“I'm not uncomfortable.” Geralt hitched his trousers up his hips and tied the laces.

“You are a terrible liar when it's not by omission.” Jaskier stooped to dig through his pack, found a chemise that was long enough to cover himself, and straightened back up, gesturing with the garment. “If you weren't uncomfortable you'd still be in that bath, luxuriating like a frog in a rainstorm because that is the only way you ever relax, and I am kicking myself for fucking that up because I, apparently, am constitutionally incapable of keeping my mouth shut.”

“Apparently.”

“Oh, hush.” Jaskier pulled his chemise on, let his bath sheet drop, crossed his arms, and took a breath. “I didn't mean to say anything. I wasn't going to say anything. I haven't said anything!”

Geralt took a step towards him. “And why not? To keep hanging around under false pretenses?”

“Because it's not important!” Jaskier flung a hand out in a wide gesture of contradiction. “You are, without question, my best friend in the world and nothing about that is false. Having you as a friend is more important to me than whatever one-sided fancy I might be harbouring. You, of all people, know my track record with love affairs is abysmal—we were justtalking about it—and it is far more important to me to not ruin this,” he gestured between them, “and that is why I never said anything.” He took another breath. “Right after you'd gotten through explaining that you don't fall in love is probably the worst possible time to have said anything, so of course that's when I let slip—and I'll admit it stings a little to hear in such certain terms, and I'm still a bit baffled about the whole thing, really, but it doesn't change the situation. I already knew things were hopeless on my end. I am asking for exactly nothing from you but that things stay as they've been. I'll get over it. Eventually.” He shoved a hand through his damp hair and shrugged. “At this rate it might take me another decade but that's, what, three heartbeats for you? It'll be fine.”

Geralt advanced on him, expression unreadable but intense.

Jaskier put his arms up over his face in an ultimately feckless warding gesture, eyes shut tight. “Really should have put horse reasons farther down the murder list,” he squeaked.

Hands closed over his wrists and pulled them to the sides of his shoulders.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly.

He warily opened one eye, then the other, and looked up into Geralt's face, feeling very much like those amber eyes were looking through him.

“What else would you want?” Geralt's tone was as piercing as his gaze.

Jaskier swallowed and shook his head. “I'm not asking for anything. I refuse to ask you for anything you can't give, and you just told me you can't give,” he gestured as much as he could with his arms immobilized, “anything.”

“I'm not asking what you're asking for,” Geralt growled. “I'm asking what you would want.”

Jaskier retreated as much as he could, leaning back away from Geralt to study him warily. Geralt waited. Jaskier closed his eyes a moment. “Fuck it.” He inhaled deeply and looked Geralt in the eye. “Sex, kisses, cuddles. To wake up, not just at your side, but in your arms. To be able to tell you everything I think of you no matter how stupid or overwrought—and, no, I don't do that already. To sing you the songs knocking around in my head I would never dare perform in public. Maybe, occasionally, to be allowed to ride with you when I'm not on death's door. To know—” He stopped to breathe and looked down. “To know, maybe even be told once in a while, that you're glad to have me around.”

Cautiously, he let his gaze find its way back up, over all the scars, to Geralt's face, searching his expression. For a moment that felt like an eternity, nothing happened, then one of his wrists was suddenly free, there was a hand at the base of his skull, and Geralt was kissing him. He kissed back. Then his brain caught up with him and he smacked at Geralt's chest, mumbling, “Wha—? H'ng om, G'ral', w',” until Geralt gave him enough room to actually talk. He took a breath. “I'm very confused; what is happening right now?”

“I'm kissing you,” Geralt said like it was obvious, which, to be fair, it was.

“Yes, I noticed that.” Jaskier realized his hand was still resting on Geralt's chest and he quickly removed it. “Why are you kissing me?”

“You said you wanted to.”

“I said I don't want anything from you, then you demanded I tell you what I would want anyway!” Jaskier huffed. “I don't want to ask you for anything you can't give.”

“You're not.” Geralt let go of him entirely. “You don't get to decide what I can and cannot give; I'm the only judge of that. Nothing you said you'd want is something I can't do.” He paused. “With the possible exception of the songs.”

“Well, I don't want anything you don't want to give, either!”

Geralt looked highly annoyed. “You're such an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wouldn't do anything if I didn't want to.”

“You just told me—”

“That I don't fall in love.” Geralt rolled his eyes dramatically enough it turned into a rather equine head toss. “You can want to fuck someone without being in love with them.”

It was Jaskier's turn to stare. He ran a hand over his face. “Hang on, hang on. You want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Geralt shrugged and swept a hand in an up and down gesture encompassing Jaskier's whole body. “I have no idea.”

“Why didn't you say anything?!”

“I assumed, given your predisposition towards reckless forwardness, that if you were interested, you would have said so.” Jaskier sighed, hands on his hips, head down. “That's fair, actually.” He looked up. “It doesn't bother you that I'm in love with you? Wow, that feels weird to actually say.”

“Not as long as it doesn't bother you that I don't feel the same.”

“Of course not!” Jaskier said earnestly. “I told you, I'm happy with your friendship. Anything additional is an unexpected, but very welcome, bonus. Though,” he hedged with a grimace, “also liable to ruin my chances of ever actually getting over you.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would it bother me to not stop wanting what I want when I have it? I only mention that in case it's a concern for you.”

“It doesn't.” Geralt tilted his head curiously. “You wouldn't rather want someone…more reciprocal instead?”

“No, see, part of the whole being in love thing is wanting that person even if it's not the most practical choice. C'mon, you've seen the kinds of decisions people make.”

“Pavetta,” Geralt sighed.

“Exactly. So, no. I don't want anyone else instead. I can't promise I'll never find any, um, distractions, but I'm not getting the impression you'd object too strongly to that.”

“I don't care.”

“Fantastic! And, of course, you'd be welcome to join.”

Geralt pulled a face.

“Or not!” Jaskier held his hands up, palms out.

“You wouldn't expect me to…include you, would you?”

“With other people? Only if you want to. Far be it from me to tell you how to spend your money. And I am kind of terrified of Yennefer, but—actually, no, I don't think I should tell you that.” Jaskier rubbed at his temple.

“I know you watched.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that is what I wasn't going to say. Anyway, no, do what—and who—you want. With or without me.”

Geralt nodded. “Alright. Then I think we're on the same page about this.”

“Whatever this is,” Jaskier said, gesturing between them.

“How does 'friends who fuck sometimes' sound?”

“Hm, I might prefer 'best friends who fuck a lot.'”

Geralt snorted, a hint of indulgent humor lighting his eyes. “Sure.”

“In that case….” Jaskier took a step forward, putting himself solidly in Geralt's personal space, lay both hands on his chest, then reconsidered and reached up to loop his arms around his neck instead. “Take me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but lifted Jaskier by the waist, easily walked the three steps it took to pin him to the nearest wall, and kissed him again, hard. Which, well, that sure was an experience. And Jaskier sure wasn't wearing pants. He tangled his fingers in Geralt's hair and kissed back—kissed down, which, frankly, he was not expecting to find himself doing with Geralt, even if he'd found himself kissing Geralt in the first place, but his wandering fantasies hadn't taken into account the fact that Geralt could throw him around like a rag doll. Truly a glaring oversight.

As it turned out, his wandering fantasies had made several glaring oversights.

~ Sprawled on the coverlet, Jaskier rolled over to smush his face against the nearest part of Geralt, which happened to be his ribs. “Truly,” he said, muffled, “your gifts are wasted on monster hunting.”

Geralt hummed in what could just as easily have been agreement as exasperation, pulled Jaskier up, and tucked his face against Jaskier's neck, arms around his back. Jaskier yelped slightly at being moved, then smiled softly, shifted to lay more comfortably against the unyielding angles of Geralt's body, pressed a kiss to his temple, and combed his fingers through his hair, now almost dry. “You are never getting rid of me now—”

“I already couldn't get rid of you,” Geralt mumbled.

“That's true,” Jaskier mused, still combing. “And you did try, though not very hard, you have to admit. Especially considering you could’ve, apparently, put me up somewhere I couldn't get down from, like a rambunctious kitten or something. I did know, in theory, that you could have—I mean, I've seen you fight—but I'd never really considered the implications. What's even more incredible than your strength, though, and stamina—can't forget the stamina, whew, I am…not nineteen anymore, but that's beside the point—”

“Jaskier.”

“—your precision, Geralt, I swear. And that's to say nothing of your attentiveness. Really, though, you're never getting rid of me, I'm staying right here, because I utterly adore you and because now that I know what I'd be missing I honestly believe any other lover would leave me bereft and unsatis—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, “please shut up.”

He chuckled but obliged, ceasing his combing to trace his fingers along the layered lines of scars on Geralt's shoulder and arm. Some of them he knew the stories—he'd been present for a few of them, written odes to more of them than that—others he didn't know, and knew better than to ask. He started to hum, fingers of his left hand fretting amongst Geralt's hair until they gave up the exercise around the third repetition of a single bar he hummed over and over while he tried to think of a verb that both fit the melody and made any sense in context. By the time he'd settled on rained, which was a bit more metaphorical that he'd been hoping for, but fit, the breath washing over his collarbone had gone even and slow.

“Geralt?” he asked softly. “Are you asleep or just breathing slowly?”

“Breathing,” came the muffled reply.

“Right. Good. It's just a bit hard to tell since I can't see your face and I'm pretty sure your heart rate is half mine or less at any given moment.” Jaskier pushed himself to sit up, sort of peeled himself off Geralt's skin, wincing at the sensation and the certain amount of not-fun hair pulling that went with it, and rearranged himself to press his ear to Geralt's chest.

Geralt sighed. “We need another bath.”

“You have been covered in far worse,” Jaskier pointed out. “Even just today. But,” he conceded, “yes. We did make a bit of a mess.” He poked at a bit of said mess just above Geralt's hip.

A moment later Geralt asked, “Are you going to get up so we can do that?”

“Eventually,” Jaskier hummed. “Probably.”

With a sound so low in his chest Jaskier probably wouldn't have been able to hear it if he didn't have his ear right against his heart, Geralt levered himself up, pushing Jaskier off of him in the process. Jaskier was just about to protest being unceremoniously dumped aside when Geralt scooped him up and tossed him over his shoulder so he wound up squawking indignantly and scrabbling for purchase against Geralt's back instead. “Telling you I enjoy being manhandled was amistake!”

“Probably,” Geralt agreed mildly.

Jaskier craned his neck to try to see exactly where he was being carried. “Geralt, I swear—don't you dare drop me in the bath.”

“You can tell me if it's cold,” Geralt said, then did exactly what Jaskier had just told him not to do.

There was a fair bit of splashing as Jaskier grabbed at the side of the tub to keep his head above water and just barelyavoided knocking over the tray of food still perched there. He huffed and glared. “Not as warm as it was, but amazingly, no, not cold.”

Geralt nodded appraisingly, “Good architecture,” and left the room.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier called after him. He got no answer but Geralt returned shortly with the other bottle of wine from the table and a length of leather cord. He handed Jaskier the wine, wrangled his hair back up into a bun more quickly now that it wasn't so wet, tied it up with the cord, grabbed a couple cloths, and joined Jaskier in the bath.

Jaskier took a swig of the wine, then held it out to Geralt who accepted it and did the same. Most of the foam from earlier had fizzled away by now, leaving only a drifts of fine bubbles swirling on the disturbed surface of the water, which was hazy but still clear enough to see their legs through.

Geralt casually dropped one of the washcloths on Jaskier's head, set the wine aside, and set about giving himself a perfunctory scrub. Jaskier also made a pass at washing. “So…,” he said slowly, then laughed at himself. “Why the hell am I feeling awkward now; we're already through what ought to be the awkward part.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed unhelpfully.

Jaskier watched him a moment as they washed. “It's just,” he began again, dragging his eyes back to his own lap, “you haven't really said, well, anything, except for telling me to shut up, which isn't exactly unusual for you, nothing to be worried about, but, uh, I would appreciate some feedback?”

He hadn't meant for his voice to pitch that up into a question.

Geralt looked at him curiously.

“I mean,” Jaskier wrung out his cloth and draped it on the side of the tub, “it was good for you, right?”

Something softened in Geralt's gaze and a smile tugged subtly at his mouth. “Yes.”

Jaskier let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and felt something loosen in his chest. “Great! Fantastic. Glad to hear it.” He leaned forward, elbow propped on one knee in the water. “Anything else to say about it? Any notes?”

The softness to Geralt's expression vanished. “It's sex, Jaskier, not a ballad.”

“I will save the argument they're ultimately the same thing for another day,” Jaskier dismissed. “I'm serious, though—is there anything I should know? For next time. Assuming of course that there's going to be a next time? It sounded like we agreed on this being repeatable.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, pulled Jaskier into his lap, and growled against his throat, “There will be a next time.”

“Oh good,” Jaskier breathed, fingers digging into Geralt's shoulders where he'd caught his balance.

“Fucking you is far more convenient and much less fraught than dealing with a brothel.”

“I don't know how I feel about being called convenient but I have definitely been called worse.” He loosened his grip and stroked the upward swept hair at the back of Geralt's head while Geralt traced the tip of his nose along the line of a tendon in his neck, inhaling deeply. “Do you...like how I smell?” Jaskier asked curiously, trying to make sense of the plenty welcome attention.

“Mm; it's situational.”

“Noted,” Jaskier laughed, then took Geralt's jaw in hand and caught his mouth in a kiss. “Is there anything you like that I have voluntarily control over?”

Geralt shrugged. Jaskier gave up with a rueful sort of sigh and leaned their foreheads together for a moment before maneuvering out of Geralt's lap and settling against his side instead. “Let me know if you think of anything.”

“I will,” Geralt promised, and reached for the tray of food.

End of fic! Read the rest of the series on Ao3 here.

#eiiri made this #fanfiction #the witcher #aromantic geralt #aro!geralt

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fist-amidst-the-hands · 1 year

Note

[shaking from the bars on my enclosure] YENFRI COLLEGE AU YENFRI COLLEGE AU

YENFRI COLLEGE AU I love this one so much and kind of wish it was less abandoned (yes I'm both saddened by this and the direct cause of it) or at least more fully thought out before abandoning lol

this is for the wip ask game!

okay so this au was originally heavily influenced / inspired from when I worked at a gas station and for about 5 months I would just spend all non-work mental energy thinking about this au during shifts (as one does). then I found all the docs last year when I wasn't in the original fandom I wrote it for anymore and took pieces of it and merged it into a college au for the witcher squad!

renfri is a computer science major with a minor in game design, yen is a literature major, they're dating and they room with triss who's a bio / environmental studies major. yen works at the convenience store near campus, renfri likes to visit sometimes while yen is working and there are lots of little work shift shenanigans! geralt is also in their friend group, I didn't note this anywhere but I feel like he and renfri were friends before college. anyway they're all juniors, and jaskier is a freshman and dating geralt

there's truly no overarching plot it's just a bunch of little scenes that will all be strung together but here are a few of them:

yen always teasing renfri for not having homework bc she's such a fucking nerd that she finishes all her assignments during lab

jaskier complaining during an early on hang out about how he has no free time bc there's always so much school work to do :( [college freshman, not gotten into the swing of things yet] and renfri is like "maybe you suck at time management, I always have free time and I work" and jaskier mocks her with "what assignments do you even have, reach level 100?". this inevitably leads to renfri giving geralt the *why did you bring him* look, yen rubbing renfir's shoulder to calm her (it's actually to hold her back but jaskier is oblivious) and saying "she's a cs major", jaskier looking betrayed and loudly whispering to geralt "you said it was something with video games??", and geralt very much not whispering responding with "I said 'game design', and you said 'oh like video games?' then changed the topic"

yen being so sick of the kids she's TA'ing, who chose to be lit majors, for misspelling the last names of very famous authors. she's honestly about to snap at the next kid who can't spell shakespeare

renfri being the best at staring people down when they start hitting on yen, she’s genuinely a little scary and i love her for it

wow I haven’t thought about this au in so long and I’m excited about it all over again thank you for picking this one!!!!

#witcher wip #yenfri #the witcher #oh and it's conveniently wednesday so I'm going to say this counts:#wip wednesday #wait after typing that i realize it's thursday but i'm going to keep it #answered

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drowningbydegrees · 3 years

Text

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

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samstree · 2 years

Text

“What do you mean he’s faking it? Geralt gets headaches, you should know! Lambert, he’s your brother!”

“Oh, believe me, I know my brother, Buttercup. Pretty boy has you wrapped around his finger. He’s just pretending so you’d be like…this. All touchy-feely and cuddly.”

The air shifts when Lambert must be gesturing wildly at Jaskier and Geralt’s general direction, where the witcher is resting his head on the bard’s thigh. The argument is muffled by the hand Jaskier presses on Geralt’s ear protectively.

It’s too comfortable to move, with Jaskier’s lap as the pillow and his doublet draped over Geralt’s shoulder. The fainting couch he’s lying on practically becomes a cocoon—one that is warm and nice and made from a bard’s love, but Geralt can only get it if he has a headache. Which he conveniently does, recently.

So Geralt duly keeps his eyes closed. He’s supposed to be resting for the pain, after all.

“His senses are heightened,” Jaskier protests, his voice low and careful. “You’ve seen him get overwhelmed by all the smells and noises. Don’t you at least have sympathy for a fellow witcher?”

“My senses are heightened too, and I can tell he’s a shit actor. He’s not even asleep!”

“Shh!” The hand that covers Geralt’s ear tightens. “You’re going to wake him!”

“Ugh, how do I tell you this, you can’t wake someone pretending!”

“Get out.”

Jaskier’s whisper remains low, but the determination seeps into those two words. Even without looking, Geralt can imagine the frown on the bard’s face easily. Oh, Jaskier is getting angry.

“You are not listening, he’s—"

“Out, Lambert.”

Properly angry. Even the younger wolf does not have a retort for the finality in Jaskier’s order. With a few muttered curses about gullible bards, Lambert’s footsteps retreat into the hallway. A door slams shut behind him, and Jaskier flinches even though it’s far away.

Geralt hums unhappily at how much Jaskier has tensed, so he hugs the thighs under his head closer. Gentle hands fuss all over him, tucking in the corners of the doublet and stroking his arm, shoulder, hair. He’s so toasty he could melt right here.

A good person would never take advantage of Jaskier’s affections like this, Geralt knows. Shame he’s not a good person.

Now he can bask in the presence of his bard without interruption. Geralt keeps his face neutral and relaxed, but the triumph makes him almost giddy at the knowledge that Jaskier will take his side every time—

“You know I know, right?”

Jaskier’s whisper comes from above, still soft and gentle and full of love. And perhaps, a hint of amusement.

Geralt freezes like a statue. His breathing stops for a long, long time. It’s a good thing witchers don’t need to breathe that much; it’s bad that his face is also heating up rather quickly in the process.

“Alright, then,” Jaskier says after a moment. His deft fingers trace Geralt’s jawline and give it a little pat. “Sleep tight, witcher mine.”

There is the sound of fabric rustling when Jaskier tries to find a good place to rest his head on the fainting couch. His snores come soon after.

Geralt blinks open his eyes after a while, not daring to move a muscle with Jaskier under him, still a vital part of the nice cocoon. Gradually, the toastiness is bordering on being too hot. He wonders if he’s able to panic while staying completely still, because it certainly fucking feels like it. There’s even sweat on his forehead now.

He does end up developing a headache, and it’s probably well-deserved.

Lambert must never find out.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #once again #geralt is a cheeky bastard #jaskier is smart and he does have standards #they just disappear when geralt is involved

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a-kind-of-merry-war · 3 years

Text

Beetle (my beloved)

Jaskier gets a horse. Dedicated to @srapsodia’s anon. (Anon I genuinely love you.)

1.9k words, no warnings.

“She’s a fine horse,” the stable master says, passing Jaskier the reins. “Very good tempered, too.”

“Is that so?”

Jaskier rubs the dark brown mare’s nose, and she snorts at him. No doubt she remembers the last time he’d visited the stable when he’d come to pay the rest of the deposit. His pockets had been laden with coins and sugar cubes, and were significantly lighter of both when he’d left. He’d had too many near misses with Roach and his fingers to risk a horse who wasn’t at least amicable towards him.

“I’ll be sad to see her go,” the man continues. He gives Jaskier an appraising look - taking in his fine clothing. “But I can see you’ll take care of her.”

Jaskier grins. “Of course I will,” he says. “My fri—” he swallows that back. “Someone I, ah, travel with is extremely fond of horses. She’ll be doted on, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely.”

Jaskier watches as the stable master - and his apparent army of stablehands - ready the horse for riding. He wants to argue that he can do this himself, thank you very much, but they all seem to want to say goodbye to the mare before he takes her off on adventures. He’d been deliberately vague about his work, and the master believes he’s a travelling bard. That’s true, of course, but it also manages to conveniently skip the details about monsters and bandits and continual peril.

When she’s finally ready, the stable master helps Jaskier up onto her back. He takes her for a trot around the paddock, marvelling at how much friendlier and easier to guide she is than Roach.

As he goes to leave, he rides past one of the stablehands, watching him closely as they perch on the fence that encloses the farm.

“Have you got a name for her yet?” They ask, sharply. It sounds like a simple question, but Jaskier knows he's being assessed.

Jaskier smiles. “I do, as it happens.”

The stablehand does not smile back. “Good.”

Jaskier is vibrating with excitement as he waits outside Hagge. He’s been meeting Geralt at this spot every spring for nearly twenty years part of a wholly unspoken agreement. Oftentimes they’ll actually find each other in the inn, one or both of them waylaid along the way, but this year Jaskier is keen to meet him on the road.

He’s only showing off a little.

Geralt has been grousing at him to get a horse of his own for almost as long as they’ve been travelling together, and now he finally has. He wants Geralt to like her, absurd as it is, although he’s quite sure Geralt has never met a horse he doesn’t like. She really is a good horse, from what little he knows about horses: she’s friendly and slow to tire, and she doesn’t mind when he threads flowers in her mane or sings at her.

He sings at her a lot.

There is - alas - the small matter of the name. It came to him quite suddenly, while he lay awake in his rented Academy rooms daydreaming about the coming spring. He’d decided on the name before he’d even decided on the horse: before he’d even decided to buy a horse.

He hopes Geralt likes the name, as well as the horse. It feels a little like an imposition - like he’s crossed an invisible line. If he doesn’t like the name, it’s far too late to change it anyway, and Geralt will simply have to live with it. It’s not like she’s his horse, after all.

If he doesn’t like the name - if he hates it - Jaskier can only hope that he doesn’t quite catch its implication. That would be ruinous, of course, and then he’d be left with a horse bought specifically for exploring the continent but no one to explore it with.

It’ll be fine. Geralt doesn’t typically go in for deeper meaning or introspection. Anyway; maybe he will understand what Jaskier’s quite desperately trying to imply, and he’ll be… agreeable. Pleased, even.

Fuck. There’s no need to feel such anxiety about a bloody horse. He grips her reins a little tighter, nervously bouncing in the saddle. She snorts at him - a brief protest - and he stills.

He’s been waiting for nearly an hour, and is considering giving up and retiring to the inn, when there’s a whistle to the North. He turns, and: there.

Geralt is coming around the bend in the road that Jaskier knows perhaps more intimately than any other stretch of road on the Continent. He always comes from that direction, heading south from Kaer Morhen, and every time it makes Jaskier’s stomach leap to see him emerge from the trees, armour shining, hair flashing white in the spring sunshine.

Jaskier spurs forwards to meet him on the road. Geralt waves - just once - and then his eyes immediately fall to the horse. Jaskier feels a little smug: it’s not a dissimilar feeling to when he realised he could bribe his sister’s children into liking him with their favourite treats.

“Geralt!” He calls, “You made it! How was your winter, my de—”

“You got a horse.”

Jaskier tries not to smirk. “I did,” he says. “Isn’t she lovely?”

Geralt urges Roach forwards to better examine Jaskier’s mount. The two horses peer at each other.

“What’s her name?”

Jaskier tries to ignore the sudden flare of fear that’s twisted in his gut. “Beetle.” He fumbles the word, feeling his face flush. “Her name is Beetle.”

He’s expecting Geralt to be amused, perhaps. To laugh. To recognise what he’s done and either praise him for being so dreadfully clever (unlikely) or chastise him for being so forward and foolish (significantly more likely). He does neither. He just stares, and Jaskier finds himself compelled to continue, the tips of his ears turning hot.

“Because… Because Roach, you see?” He explains, stupidly. “They match.”

Geralt continues to stare.

“How do they match?” He says, finally.

Jaskier frowns. “Because they’re both bugs, Geralt? Roach, beetle, you know…” he pulls his hands up, twiddling his fingers beneath a chin in a reasonably good impression of an insect. “...bugs?”

And then Geralt bursts out laughing.

Jaskier scowls. “What’s so—”

“She’s named after the fish, Jaskier.”

“I— what?”

“Roach is a kind of fish.”

“Well, I know that, Geralt, I’m not entirely stupid—” Geralt snorts at that, and he ploughs on. “How was I supposed to know you’d named your horse after a fish?”

“Because naming her after a cockroach would be more reasonable?”

Jaskier splutters. “I— well— maybe! For you!” He tries to regain his dignity, straightening himself in the saddle. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Geralt, and you never thought to explain the name?”

Geralt shrugs. “Did you ever think to ask?”

Jaskier’s mouth hangs open. He’s forced to concede that Geralt is right.

“Come on,” Geralt ignores his sullen silence and burning face, leading Roach around him. “I’ve been travelling since before dawn. I want a drink.”

Jaskier, still utterly aghast, can only follow him.

They stable the horses next to each other, and it’s a small miracle that they seem to be getting along. Roach is famously snippy, both with humans and other horses, and Jaskier had been a little concerned that after all his anxiety she’d be so ill-tempered towards Beetle that they wouldn’t be able to travel together after all. Her personality rather reminds Jaskier of Geralt, although he’s never been brave enough to point that out. She seems to tolerate Beetle, though, and they leave them happily munching on fresh hay in the well-stocked stables to find lunch for themselves.

The landlord of the tavern they frequent is used to them now, and always greets them with easy familiarity. More often than not, they’ll rent a room for the evening - Jaskier had procured one for them as soon as he’d arrived, in fact - and the landlord seems to recognise the importance of building a rapport with well-paying regulars.

He leads them to their usual table in the corner nearest the window, supplying them with the good ale - not the watered down stuff - leaving them to get down to the important business of catching up. Rather: Jaskier attempts to catch up, while Geralt answers his questions with one-word statements and adds only nods and hums to Jaskier’s stories of that winter’s academy adventures. Still, it’s good to see him again - more than good - and thank Melitele, he hasn’t appeared to have noticed what Jaskier’s attempt to give their mounts matching names really meant.

They’re nearing the end of their second pints, Jaskier’s fingertips tingling as he waves his hand around, when Geralt finally adds more to their conversation than a grunt.

“How long have you had Beetle?”

Jaskier blinks at him, thrown off by the sudden change in subject. “Um… nearly four months.”

“It’s probably too late to change her name, then.” Geralt catches his eye over the table, then adds quickly - “If you wanted to.”

“Change her—” Jaskier frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you wanted their names to match.”

Oh.

“...yeah,” says Jaskier.

“If you’d asked,” Geralt continues, “you’d have known why Roach is called Roach. You could have called yours…” he considers, for a moment. “Trout. Perch.” He lifts his head, and looks Jaskier up and down. “Guppy.”

The lingering gaze makes Jaskier blush. “A Roach and a Guppy?”

“Hmm.” Geralt shrugs. “But like I said. Too late now.”

“Probably is,” Jaskier concedes. He sips at his own ale, maintaining Geralt’s gaze. “If I wanted to.” He swallows. “Serves me right for not asking you, I suppose. Now I look like a fool.”

“Unlike two grown men riding with horses with matching names?”

“There is nothing foolish about matching names,” says Jaskier, pointing a warning finger across the table. “It’s noble. It’s…” he pauses. “...a partnership.”

Geralt smiles. “In that case,” he says, “we’ll get you a pony in the next town we stop in. You can call it Herring.”

Jaskier snorts. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, Geralt.”

Geralt just hums once more, and sees off his drink.

The pass north from Ard Carraigh is treacherous and steep, bordered by walls of ice and snow. Beetle, it transpires, is surprisingly resilient, and makes the journey successfully - if not quite easily.

Their arrival to the keep is a noisy, busy affair. Geralt’s family is still a mystery to Jaskier, and they’re swept up in greetings and teasings as they all say the same thing: it’s about fucking time. They arrive in the early afternoon, but the sun is low in the sky before their things are stowed in Geralt’s chambers and they’re finally alone once more.

Jaskier finds himself being led on a brief tour - the kitchen, the armoury, the library. He pulls on the thick fur cloak that Geralt had gifted him before they started the trek north, and Geralt shows him around the grounds too: the training yard, the crumbling outer walls, and the little half-covered grassy patch which serves as a meagre farmstead for the few animals who can thrive in the mountains.

They pause beside the patched-up wall, and Geralt whistles. There’s a scuffling noise from the half-collapsed shed where the livestock lives, and then a little black goat emerges, quickly followed by the rest.

“She’s not quite a pony,” Geralt says, “but she’s the best I could do. Her name’s Carp.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier peers at the tiny creature. She looks very sweet, but he knows enough about goats to understand that it’s no more than an act.

“Do you like her?”

Jaskier extracts his hand from beneath the cloak, reaching for Geralt’s. He takes it, slotting their fingers together in a firm grip.

“I love her.”

#shdfjkdsf im so sorry anon #genuinely youre great #the witcher #geraskier #in which jaskier does a big misunderstanding #but its a fun one for once #geralt x jaskier

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inber · 2 years

Text

Need or Want

A/N: I wanted to write some more headcanon of Yen’s experience at Kaer Morhen, a couple of weeks after the fight in episode eight. I suppose this drabble could follow along with the other two I’ve already written. Spoilers for season two, no real warnings. Some Yennskier feels. I allowed Geralt to be in this one, but he's still on thin ice. 1.8k.

It's a true pleasure to be able to use her magic again. Yennefer had restrained herself from using it frivolously for a week—partly out of reverence, and partly out of fear. What if she drew too deeply from the well of herself? What if the bucket came up empty again?

The small things return to her more out of instinct than purpose; the way she refills her inkwell with an absent flick of her finger, or the conjuring of a new pair of socks because Cirilla's are close to having holes worn in them. Maybe it's the shy smile of thanks she receives. The wriggle of Ciri's warm toes. Whatever the cause, Yennefer's caution ebbs. She allows herself indulgences once more.

She patches the crack in the wall of her chosen room. No longer will she suffer a lumpy straw-stuffed mattress; it is replaced with decadent downy feathers and luxuriously knitted linens. Her fingers run over the furs on the end of her bed. Jaskier had brought them to her some days ago, concerned for her health. Absently, Yennefer smiles, and leaves them where they are.

More candles for her writing desk. More parchment. A small mirror by her wash-basin, which she also wove into existence. The witchers could do as they pleased, but she would maintain a regimen of hygiene. As would Cirilla.

It would be easier to push down the reasons why her nesting feels so lavish. Yennefer knows it all comes at a cost. Not just one she's paid herself; were that the case, there might be no need for introspection.

Carefully, she sculpts a crystal vase onto the desk with her clever fingers, running veins of gold through the intricate material. Along the rim on the glass, she inscribes in Elder: 'Ire lokke, ire tedd. Squass'me.'

“Another place, another time. Forgive me.” Yennefer whispers the words. From the mouth of the vase, peonies bloom, eternal and fragrant. She thinks of the young, feisty boy in the sewers. Of the Elven man that had accompanied him.

Triss used to say that speaking the names of the dead meant that they would live forever.

“Dermain. Ba'lian.” Yennefer touches one of the petals. It shimmers ever-so slightly.

“Who are you talking to?” Geralt's voice is unmistakable on the other side of her closed door. In her concentration, she'd not heard his arrival. Then again, he was likely to employ a softer footfall around her. She felt as if he was waiting to catch her stirring a bubbling cauldron conveniently labelled 'Ciri Soup'.

“Myself.” Yennefer says, rising to open the latch. Geralt won't let himself in. She knows this. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Geralt glances over her shoulder at the changes made to her room. For a moment, she thinks he's going to make a comment about what he must perceive as irresponsible hedonism. She dares him to with her steady violet gaze. Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Training with Ciri--”

“--At six o'clock, in the alchemy lab, after supper.”

Geralt frowns. “Don't read my mind.”

“How presumptuous,” Yennefer says, “I hardly need to. Have I been late to a lesson yet?”

“No.”

“Ciri came and got me last night, actually. A half-hour early. It was quite sweet.”

Yennefer knows she's prodding at a sore wound, but she cannot help it. How can he not see that she'd give the entire world as she knows it to that girl, if she asked? How is he still so blind?

Geralt grunts at the admission, but doesn't take the bait. Undoubtedly he'd seen them enter the lab together the night before, watching from the shadows. The weight of his gaze is impossible to escape.

“Are you taking supper alone?” Geralt asks, instead.

“Has Lambert learned to chew with his mouth closed?”

He almost smiles; it's a feather-brush on his lips, and then it is gone. “No.”

“Then no, thank you. I will take care of myself.”

“Fine.”

Geralt moves to leave. He pauses awkwardly in the doorway, clearly working something through his mind. Yennefer waits. Despite his assumptions, she'd not enter his consciousness without good cause.

“All of... this.” He gestures to Yennefer's fine bed, the wash-basin, the candles. “Could you... could you see to Ciri's room, too? I don't want her to be uncomfortable here.”

Yennefer's expression softens minutely. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good.” Geralt nods, and then turns again.

“Geralt?” Yennefer calls after him. He stops mid-step. “For her. I will make her comfortable, for her. Not for you. Understand that.”

There is a beat of silence before he nods. She doesn't watch his retreat. The door clicks closed.

Yennefer lets out a long breath as she presses her back against the wood. Their interactions are sporadic, but each one is uniquely painful. Her skin still tingles alive in his presence; her cheeks still flare hotly. But it's just a lie. It's the djinn, and nothing more.

Unwilling to think further on that subject, she casts her mind to the other occupants of the crumbling keep. Honestly, she couldn't give a fat fucking fig about Coën and Lambert. They seem content to curl up in their own filth.

Vesemir she holds less animosity towards, simply because both of them are still weighing one another up. Yennefer recognises a powerful mind; Vesemir is old, but he is far from stupid or useless. If he asked her, she'd tend to his ease.

And then there's Jaskier.

Crossing the room, she sits delicately down on the new mattress, and picks one of the furs up again. The bard seems to alternate between purposefully bothering her, and paradoxically allowing her close enough to witness his vulnerabilities. Yennefer thinks back to the way he offered up his own room so she'd not be cold; the way he dropped an entire jar of Dwarven spirit on the alchemy floor; to the wine and cups he'd bring to her room most nights. So she wouldn't be alone. So they wouldn't be alone.

Yennefer sighs to herself. Then she begins to draw energy from the frozen ground deep beneath her. Chaos guides her work.

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

“Enter if you dare!” Jaskier calls out when Yennefer knocks on his door. “For I am armed, Coën, and not afraid—ah, hello, witch.”

Amused, Yennefer looks at the old broomstick he is wielding. Unfortunately, she knows she cannot mock him for this. “Expecting company, bard?”

“Not as such.” Jaskier lowers his weapon. “I'm just prepared.”

Yennefer lets out a short laugh. “I've met stray dogs that are more prepared than you.”

“Now, that's unfair. A dog has agility and strength, and sharp teeth. I simply have my wits.”

“Truly a tragedy, and rather remarkable that you're still alive.” Yennefer agrees.

“Nevermind that,” Jaskier huffs, “What brings you here? It's not wine o'clock yet.”

“I thought it was always wine o'clock.”

“I'm trying to set a good example. We do have royalty to nurture, you know. Can't be two bottles deep every day.” Jaskier says.

“Right. Just every other day.”

“Exactly.”

Yennefer grins. She can't help it; he's ridiculous, and he plays into it expertly. Jaskier tilts his head at her and smirks in a way that always confuses her. She can't read him like this; he's all sincere eyes, so expressive. It's disarming.

“I brought you a few things.” Yennefer blurts, disliking the sudden tension. It's the right thing to say. Jaskier instantly perks up.

“Ooh, gifts?” He asks, before pausing. “Wait, this had better not be some kind of magely courting. I have a reputation to uphold, and I'm not so easily bought--”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupts, “if I wanted to fuck you, it would have happened already, and in a spectacular fashion. Don't give yourself so much credit.”

“Er—right.” Jaskier's voice cracks; as Yennefer turns to the doorway to pick up her things, she pretends she missed the beetroot blush that sears his cheeks. “I mean, sure, you can go ahead and tell yourself that, if it helps you sleep... um, what are these?”

Yennefer lays two wrapped objects on the bed, both boxed and unidentifiable. “Things I thought you might need.”

Jaskier eyes them for mere moments before his curiosity wins out. He undoes the first with deft fingers, releasing the latch on the box. His sharp intake of breath gives Yennefer a bone-deep feeling of satisfaction.

“Oh, Yen...” Jaskier purrs, pulling the new clothes out of the small trunk. “These are so lovely. What a shade of blue. And the embroidery!”

“Yes, well.” Yennefer says. “You were starting to stink.”

“Untrue, unfair, but utterly forgiven.” Jaskier rebuts, still admiring the doublet, trousers, and accessories. “Ooh, is this vest fur-lined?”

“Hush up,” Yennefer instructs, “and open the other.”

Jaskier carefully places the clothing down, doing as he is bid. The second box swings open on silent hinges. Jaskier instantly tenses up where he stands.

“It's not Filavandrel's lute,” Yennefer says, cautiously, “but I thought you might like something to tide you over until you are able to buy one you like. I don't know much about lutes. I kept it rather simple, in case I got the spell wrong.”

He's said nothing, and she's rambling. It unsettles her. Perhaps this is too soon; she knows how much he loved that old instrument, and her replacement isn't nearly as grand.

“You needn't use it if you don't want.” Yennefer continues, her voice growing harsher without her permission. “Forget it. I'll take it back--”

The air is knocked clear from her lungs when Jaskier pivots on his feet and pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce hug. He has to bend down to bury his face in the crook of her neck. Yennefer feels the damp flick of his eyelashes against her skin. It's all she can do to cling to his jacket in return.

“Thank you.” Jaskier mumbles hoarsely. He's trembling against her. “Thank you, Yen.”

He seems to come back to himself, loosening his grip. She breathes. They are so very close; she can see the brimming tears in his eyes, feel the warm whorl of his breath. His heart flutters double-time in his chest. Yennefer envisions herself moving half-an-inch forward, and him doing the same, meeting her halfway; lips and teeth and tongue--

Quickly, she takes a step back. Jaskier looks bewildered; his arms drop and dangle at his sides again. She's gracious enough not to mention his emotion. Distantly, she realises her own eyes are hot, as if she might well-up at any moment, too. It's nothing, Yennefer thinks. A natural reaction.

“Well.” Her voice is thicker than she'd like. “You know where to find me, for wine o'clock.”

Jaskier nods. He's looking down, stroking the neck of the lute. “I do.”

“Good.” Yennefer backs up towards the door. “I'll see you later, bard.”

“Not if I see you first.” Jaskier whispers, smiling.

Yennefer does not run back to her room. She simply walks quickly. And she certainly doesn't grin.

#the witcher fandom #the witcher spoilers #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt #jaskier #yennskier #fortune writes

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regrettablewritings · 3 years

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Preference: You Move In Together II

Am I reposting this? Yes. The last one had over 300 notes -- and, without any exaggeration, most of them were from bots I had to then block. Starting anew with this one, hopefully with less trouble.

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Victor Stone, Modern!Jaskier

Bruce Wayne

The subject of moving in together with Bruce had been a rather quiet affair to say the least. The average outsider probably would’ve expected something more akin to a whirlwind romance when it came to the personal life of one of the richest men in the world. This was especially given that Bruce Wayne wasn’t particularly known for having long-term relationships. So surely it was a sign when your relationship with the man persisted beyond the year mark, right?

Well, the fact of the matter was that there was no whirlwind. There wasn’t a mock proposal or even an invitation over a glass of centuries-old bourbon. And even though there had been gentle insinuations from your boyfriend that perhaps moving in might be beneficial for you, there arguably wasn’t even much of that!

Bruce never wanted to pressure you, wanting to give you all the time you needed. This wasn’t a normal relationship, after all: When you weren’t dating a billionaire, you were dating the legendary Batman. In addition to that, he also lived on the outskirts of town. The benefits of this to him were precisely that, though: They were beneficial for his specific needs. But for anyone who wasn’t him, there might be some hesitancy. And for that, he couldn’t blame them.

So your apartment remained in the picture for quite a while. But after some point, that changed. After some point, you just didn’t really go back there. Not for lack of trying, per se, but … well, it was more like a lack of interest. The little abode would always be “your place”, a little hideaway of sorts at the end of the day – almost like the modern equivalent of those Victorian era members of nobility or high-standing lineage who had summer homes on standby. Only in this case, it was more like your fabulously wealthy boyfriend was throwing a couple bucks down on the lease to keep it under your name.

But even then, when you thought about it, you weren’t entirely certain as to how necessary that even was nowadays.

Your life had shifted. It adapted.

It adapted to dating a wealthy person; it adapted to dating a nocturnal vigilante; it adapted to the odd lifestyle that still managed to squeeze itself in-between the two, creating those moments of domesticity that not everyone would’ve expected of Bruce Wayne, with or without the alter ego.

Because in your humble yet overpriced apartment, there wasn’t any waking up to the sound of Bruce showering. At your apartment, breakfast was usually whatever cheap item you’d grabbed at the convenience store, rather than an invitation to brunch or a homecooked meal, courtesy of Alfred. For that matter, at your apartment, there wasn’t any Alfred to trade banter with. There wasn’t any minimalism to gripe about and try and cover up with your “personal touch”. There weren’t large button-down shirts and slacks with timeless stitching and designs to sort through in the laundry. There wasn’t a Bruce to wait up at night for and greet upon his return, all bleary-eyed and cloaked in a comforter.

Or the smell of Bruce’ aftershave wafting in the morning air, or his favorite mug perched on the countertop, or the warmth of waking up in Bruce’s protective hold …

They couldn’t have been at the apartment; all of that was here. This was your home now. This was your life now.

Victor Stone

According to statistics, moving is one of the most stressful events in a person’s life. But Victor had grown up in that Downtown Gotham apartment: He knew every nook and cranny, every scuffed and creaky floorboard or cabinet, how to work the renovated shower, which spots had better phone reception, et cetera. At the end of the day, the bones were still there.

The spirit, however, was not.

And that’s what made simply being there feel just as though the young man were now living in an entirely new house.

Before, a family had been there. A shaky one, perhaps, but a family nonetheless. But now it was just him. Him, his memories, and the many reminders that decorated its walls, rested in closets, remained scattered on dressers and bathroom counters in the same position they had assumed the day they had been tossed there.

That alone was enough cause for stress. But adding on to the list of changes was the fact that before all of that had even happened, he had assumed a powerful, mechanized body. One which, after said changes, had been used to thwart an apocalyptic takeover. So yeah: Suffice to say, Victor’s inner life and “home life” (if it could even be called that) were at odds when the dust finally began to settle.

Inside, Victor was a whirlwind of emotions. There was the grief that he sometimes did and sometimes didn’t know how well he was handling; there were questions of where to go from hereon out; there were the moments that occurred in-between his new life as a part-time hero; there was you, his supportive but nonetheless surely exhausted partner … All the while, the apartment felt comparatively empty.

Quiet. Foreign. Cold. Unwelcoming.

Even though the walls and hall tables were lined with pictures of him pre-accident, Victor felt like he was a stranger in his own “home”. And even though he wasn’t exactly fond of being looked at (seriously, this was Gotham City, home to a mafioso juggalo and a lady obsessed with cats, what made him so strange?), Victor preferred to wander the streets than to stay in that place for too long.

It worried you.

Victor could take care of himself, of course, and it wasn’t as though he needed to sleep anymore, anyway. In a way, the purposes for which the average person required a structural home were practically obsolete to someone like Victor. It was his humanity that assured that the strained ties to it hadn’t yet severed.

But the unhealthiness seeped through like a gas leak. And for as caring as your boyfriend was, sharing his emotions or sentimentality had never exactly been his strongest suit, just as direct confrontation wasn’t especially yours. Besides, there was no easy approach to such a very specific, very tender circumstance. So for all you could do, you simply did what you could.

Really, the main reason he’d granted you a spare key in the first place was in the event that he needed to go out of town for a mission: You’d simply check on the place, make sure nobody was doing anything shady in or around, etc. He even once joked about buying a plant for you to plantsit despite his own lack of personal interest. But he never objected to you doing more with the key, or showing up even with him still being in town.

Sure, Victor might come home to find the place freshened up, the tables and picture frames dusted, a Glade plug-in restored, and so on. But he also could sometimes come to find other things.

He might’ve raised a brow when he took note of you plopping a duffel bag of clothes on the living room carpet, but he didn’t question it; he didn’t feel the need to. Nor did Victor question why he would come home to find you watching movies, huddled up in one of his old Gotham U jerseys. He didn’t give you an exasperated sigh whenever you’d stop by, sheepishly asking him for help studying for a course, and he didn’t usher you out whenever the desire to wander the streets hit him.

The cabinets had been cleared out when it became apparent that Victor no longer needed to eat. But with you around, they slowly became a bit more full with your favorite snacks and ingredients. Nothing like they had been before the accident, of course, but the difference was there. Soaps and shampoos and conditioners lined the bathroom once more, towels joined in the laundry for the first time in ages, dishes were being used yet again. It was as if life within the apartment had been restored. Something in there was alive.

In hindsight, Victor felt silly for not having noted it when it first started to happen. But then again, in the hindsight of that realization, it began to make more sense: Your presence there just felt … normal. Like you were supposed to be there. Sure, your face wasn’t captured in framed photos depicting family vacations or trips to the zoo, but you fit into the abode just as anything else from before had.

Which was why one morning, after spending the entire night wandering the city, Victor didn’t find it strange to return home and find you there. The suns rays were just stretching into the dimly-lit kitchen, where you had been making waffles from scratch. The sink was full of messy bowls and utensils, of which he could trust that you’d handle later. Meanwhile, you were perched at the counter, offering him the best smile one could give while drowsy and with waffles in the cheeks.

Despite everything that had happened to him over the course of the last few years, it still occasionally startled Victor to realize just how much could shift in less than a minute. The accident had happened in less than a minute; his body’s reform, despite feeling like an agonizing eternity, had occurred just short of a minute; the reversing of time seemed to be a matter of mere seconds from his end.

And despite having not been back for even a minute, that was the moment it clicked with Victor: For the first time in a long while, he was beginning to feel like he had arrived back home. Maybe not completely and truly immersed by it, no.

But at least his foot was toeing the threshold.

Modern!Jaskier

It wasn’t a sprawling mansion, that was for sure. It wasn’t even some sweetass, chic condo. Those, you told him, could wait. In the meantime, rather than splurging his steadily growing income as an up-and-coming musician, a nice, simple apartment would be more than enough to make do.

He pouted about it, of course: In spite of how he acted, Jaskier still came from wealth and although he didn’t miss the formalities and expectations that had accompanied it, he still missed the more pleasurable features like large rooms and fanciful foods. More importantly, he wanted to share the niceties with you. (Though, given what you knew of your boyfriend, it was probably a bit more accurate to phrase it as “he wanted to show it off to you”.)

Now, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t see the appeal in living in a more spacious house – hell, living in a place that wasn’t rented! The freedom to paint the walls and make renovations as you deemed appropriate, not needing to worry about a security deposit … You wouldn’t say that you drooled over images from Pinterest depicting craft rooms and guestroom setups or even roomy bathrooms, but it would’ve been rather nice if standing in the kitchen didn’t put you at risk of hearing somebody blowing up the nearby bathroom.

However, you were also the more grounded between the two of you. More practical. Jaskier preferred to drone that you a fun-sucker, but you knew you were in the right: If he didn’t want to end up washed up and bankrupt by his 30s like countless other musicians, then delayed gratification was the way to go!

He dragged his heels about it, the drama queen, all too ready to make a big stink out of it. He sang about it, even, spending the first three weeks after moving in sitting on the futon (your order from IKEA hadn’t come in yet) and plucking the strings alongside musical complaints about how tiny and ridiculous the place was.

It’s annoying, of course, and you won’t lie: Even if he means it in good fun, it frustrates you. You both agreed that until things really began to pick up, this was how things would have to be. You needed a place both of you could afford and as shitty as this place was compared to the subdivision he’d grown up in, this was it.

… But of course, the annoyance doesn’t really last for long. Jaskier wears his heart on his sleeve, after all, and he’s never been particularly good at hiding intrigue. Beneath all that whining, you can tell that, in some way, he’s also having fun.

The wifi that is inconsistent with how wack it is; the questionable wifi domain names (seriously, you kinda want to meet whoever calls their wifi PrettyFly4AWifi or Tiffany’s Slut Dungeon); your loudass neighbors who get way too intense on game night; questioning if there’s such a thing as depending too heavily on breakfast-for-dinner; zhoozhing up ramen cups with hotdog wieners or hot sauce; that funky water pressure – they all make it into that song of his that he’s always singing. And others. He tells you it’s a concept album and while part of you thinks he’s joking, the amount of times you’ve returned home or walked in on him scribbling lyrics or testing them out tells you that he isn’t.

It’s kinda just what he does: Yeah, he’ll whine for a bit, but somehow he’s going to make an adventure out of his circumstances. He has to. After all, what could be more adventurous than starting a new chapter of one’s life? Not only that, but a chapter with somebody they love?

Together, you’ll conquer the vicious staircases when the elevator is acting slow. You’ll fight to claim use of an empty washer and dryer in the laundry room. You’ll triumph in perfecting not only your grocery budget, but also in actually using those items to cook instead of relying on delivery so damn much. You’ll figure this and more out together.

And frankly … Yeah, it does make the place feel a bit more cozy. (But the moment the chance to move on up happens, you’re fucking taking it –)

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valdomarx · 4 years

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Octoberfest Masterpost

This October I wrote a geraskier ficlet every day using prompts from monthly fests. It was lots of fun and I ended up writing nearly 25k in total, which is a lot for me! The fics are also posted here on AO3. Hope you enjoy!

1. A Marriage of Convenience (T, fake dating) Jaskier has some trouble with his inheritance: if he's not married by the age of 35, he'll be cut out of his family's will. Geralt, being the good friend he is, offers to help him out by marrying him.

2. A Timely Rescue (T, kidnapped) Jaskier gets kidnapped by Nilfgaardians looking for Princess Cirilla. Too bad he doesn't have any information to give them.

3. A Bit of Rough (M, manhandled) Geralt habitually manhandles Jaskier. Jaskier doesn't hate it.

4. The Chase (E, woods + predator & prey chase) Jaskier likes to be chased. Geralt is happy to oblige.

5. An Unconscionable Scandal (T, game of seduction) Geralt is faced with a most delicate situation when sharing a bed with Jaskier.

6. Beastly Appetites (M, 5+1 + monsterfucking) Five times Jaskier seduced the monster (and one time he seduced the monster hunter).

7. Your Song (T, misunderstandings) Geralt has noticed something about Jaskier's songs - they seem to have a rather distinct theme. He's starting to that Jaskier might be in love.

8. Scratching the Itch (M, outercourse) Jaskier tries to sneak away from camp to take care of some... personal business. Geralt won't let him leave though, and that's going to be an issue.

9. In the Eye of the Beholder (G, cat eyes) Geralt's cat eyes catch Jaskier's attention.

10. Incident and Injury (T, trail of blood) Jaskier gets hurt in a tavern fight, and Geralt has unexpected feelings about it.

11. An Unexpected Perk (T, only one bed) Geralt is a man who likes his space but, to his annoyance, Jaskier keeps pressing up close when they sleep.

12. A Most Grievous Injury (G, broken bones) Jaskier suffers what he insists is a most grievous injury while travelling with Geralt. Whatever will they do?

13. Like a Storm, Like a Flood (T, kiss in the rain) Jaskier is leaving for the winter, and Geralt can't bear the thought of not seeing him for months.

14. A Perfectly Natural Reaction (M, monsters + bondage) Geralt needs Jaskier to act as bait for a hunt. Jaskier enjoys it more than he expects.

15. Almost (T, near miss kiss) An almost kiss on a quiet night camping in the forest.

16. A Matter of Preference (T, right person in front of them the whole time) Jaskier is a man of broad and varying tastes. But recently, he‘s started to wonder if he’s developed a type.

17. In Need of Inspiration (T, blackmail) Jaskier, most distressingly, has writer's block. He turns to Geralt for help.

18. Conspicuous in Its Absence (T, ghosts) After the mountain, Geralt catches glimpses of Jaskier everywhere he goes.

19. With Shaking Hands (T, shaky hands) The first time Jaskier patches Geralt up after he's injured on a hunt.

20. The Unforgiving Cold (T, hypothermia) Jaskier is struck down with hypothermia, and Geralt does his best to help.

21. You're On (T, the bet) Geralt bets Jaskier he won't be able to go a whole evening at a banquet without falling into someone's arms. How hard could that be to resist?

22. An Idle Curiosity (G, withdrawal) Jaskier looks like he gives great hugs. But he doesn’t hug Geralt, obviously. That would be weird.

23. The Scent of Home (T, exhaustion) When Jaskier is excited, he smells like juniper and pine. (A love story in scents.)

24. Dead Doesn’t Mean Gone (M, ghosts) People say it’s a ghost story, but it isn’t. It’s a love story.

25. Primal Instinct (E, fuck or die) Strange flowers are having a profound and most disconcerting effect on Geralt, but Jaskier seems fine with it.

26. Weak and Wanting (T, I think I’ve broken something) After the mountain, Jaskier tries to compose music and himself.

27. Comfortably Ensconced (T, extreme weather) Oh to be a bard cozied up under a pile of blankets in Kaer Morhen.

28. High Toxicity (M, high toxicity) The potions give him the edge he needs to take on larger, more dangerous monsters. But once the killing blow is struck and a trophy claimed, he’s left like this, with poison running through his veins and bile building in the back of his throat.

29. Siren Song (T, modern reboot of a classic tale) Jaskier is a siren, but he longs to leave his home beneath the waves for a life of adventure. When he meets a witcher, he might just have his chance.

30. Leave a Mark (E, marking) Geralt enjoys leaving his mark on Jaskier.

31. Untouchable (M, cursed) Jaskier is cursed to feel terrible pain whenever he touches anyone... Anyone except Geralt, that is.

#geraskier #the witcher #octoberfest #aaaaand we are done. finito.#thank you to everyone who read along and liked and reblogged #you kept me motivated :)#my masterpost

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castillon02 · 3 years

Text

CW: mentions of daddy kink; also Vesemir fucking/fucking with generations of the nobility

---

The reason Vesemir stays around Kaer Morhen and is generally the most findable of the Witchers is because nobles keep trying to kill him. This is because he personally knew and fucked was intimate with was held in esteem by their great-great grandfathers.

And their great-grandfathers.

And maybe other people closer in the family line, but if it’s ever brought up, they usually imply that the Vesemir-loving tendency skipped their generation because it’s deeply uncomfortable that this Witcher of all people probably knows about any genetic predispositions they might have in the sack.

“He knows about the elbow thing! We can’t let him live,” a large portion of nobles get around to saying, approximately, eventually, whenever they get curious enough about the man, the Witcher, the legend.

And if the assassins give Vesemir a nice work-out and a reason to leave Kaedwen so he can come and sternly talk to said nobles about not making things that “sound like a personal problem” into HIS problem, then. Well. That’s just unfortunate. Nobody could have predicted it.

Certainly nobody could have made sure to stay informed about monster contracts nearby so Vesemir would have an excuse to stay in the area for a short while.

And certainly nobody would have made arrangements for the best guest room, the one with the convenient secret passage to the noble’s chambers, to be spruced up a little.

“That painting is new,” Vesemir observes as he drops his bag by the door. There’s a little scrape worn into the stone that matches the bronze reinforcements at the edge of the bag exactly.

This must be where Vesemir always drops his things, the noble realizes, simultaneously horrified and weirdly turned on. He forgets to explain that the painting is a very important purchase that he definitely cares about and definitely didn’t buy just because it was supposed to be impressive.

Later that night, Vesemir reassures him after a slip of the tongue. “It’s all right,” he says, still inside him, and pats him on the shoulder. “Most of the nobles that I’ve met have daddy issues. Something about the wealth, perhaps.”

The noble looks up into Vesemir’s weathered, silver-fox face. “Wealth,” he says, swallowing and running his fingers over Vesemir’s jaw, which has reddened generations of high-born thighs with its scratchy gray stubble. “Right. Definitely that.”

Vesemir smiles like the lift of a hungry wolf’s jowls. “Don’t overthink it, son,” he says. Then he starts moving again, so his advice is easy to follow.

Fucked so hard my descendants will feel it, the noble thinks afterward, and bursts into laughter. Probably Great-Granddad Algernon, the progenitor of the elbow thing that Vesemir had known about without asking, had thought the same.

---

(When Jaskier turns up at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir is instantly amused and a little charmed by the role reversal. A noble has never come to his house, after all.)

---

(Mignole had never heard of Vesemir before they met, nor had Vesemir ever before been treated like someone precious, someone who could be courted with surreptitious letters instead of lured in close and then released back into the wild. A gambeson is a small price to pay for the sweetness of that winter, for the ability to leave more of himself behind than a rumor and a scrape on the floor.)

#castillon writes #vesemir #I got started thinking about Vesemir being super old and how many generations he would have seen #which led to how many generations he would have fucked #and the ridiculous cracky gossip that might have ensued #and the daddy kink thing isn't my thing and might not even be vesemir's thing but he one hundo percent takes advantage of it #(also)#(give me the AU where Mignole rode after Vesemir and then they adopted Geralt and Eskel and started the school of the Gambeson or something)

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innocentbi-stander · 3 years

Note

Please please part 3 Elsa Jaskier, your writing is wonderful!!!

@kirenclub I’m glad you’ve enjoyed this so far, and I’m sorry for the embarrassingly long time it’s taken me to respond- but here’s the update!

___________

The first thing Jaskier noticed when he woke was that the pain in his head was gone. Instead, there was only the foggy remains of a long rest.

The second thing he noticed was that he was no longer on the side of a mountain, but in a strange bedroom. A strange bedroom, and in an obscenely comfortable bed.

Jaskier sat straight up, ignoring the dizziness and general room spinning caused by the action when the events with Nilfgaard resurfaced. Black soldiers pursuing them relentlessly, Geralt and Yennefer tiring, on the cusp of being overwhelmed, him clutching Ciri close.

Jaskier, releasing his powers in a fury of ice and snow and the exhilarating way his powers lit up his bones. The confused faces of his family when the dust (or should he say snow) had settled. Collapsing from overexertion, the gold of Geralt’s eyes being the last thing he saw before the world went black.

Were they okay? Did they get away? Was he captured? What the fuck was going on? Jaskier glanced around the room, trying to find clues.

It didn’t look like a place those nilfgaard pricks would bring one to be tortured. Not dark and dreary enough. There was even a blanket made of what looked to be bear fur carefully tucked around Jaskier and he seriously doubted Fringilla was the type to worry about someone catching a chill.

So not a nilfgaard prison, but certainly too nice to be an inn. Too spacious, and not enough mysterious stains on the wood floor. In fact, there wasn’t a wood floor, it was stone. Was he in a castle?

There was a cozy fireplace burning on the other side of the room, various books and knick knacks, and clothes.... wait. Was that Geralt’s shirt? Jaskier had mended enough of them to recognize the faded black undershirt-

“What the hell are you doing up?”

The door flew open and none other than Yennefer herself, looking impeccable as ever strode through. She made quick work of pushing Jaskier back against his pillows, and to his frustration his body was still too exhausted to resist. Yennefer rolled her eyes and produced a handkerchief our of nowhere.

“Look what you’ve done, you’re bleeding again, bloody idiot bard”

The handkerchief was swiped under his nose and Jaskier’s eyes widened in shock.

“That wasn’t there before” Yennefer scoffed,

“It wasn’t until you begin to overexert yourself the minute you’ve finally been healed”. That was nothing new to Jaskier and the witch damn well knew it. Besides, there were more important things at stake.

“Where’s Geralt and Ciri? Are they okay? Are you okay?” Yennefer wasted no time in delivering another eye roll.

“You just wake up after passing out and that’s what you’re asking?” Jaskier’s searching gaze didn’t waver and Yennefer sighed. “They’re fine. I’m fine. You destroyed the rest of the legion of soldiers and we were able to get away. You however, are not as fine. You collapsed after majorly overexerting powers that were bound to you for a very long time. Any other person would have burned apart from such an intense flow of magic. So why didn’t you?”

Before Jaskier could come up with an adequate way of not answering Yennefer’s question, there was the sound of heavy footsteps fast approaching. The heavy wooden door flew open and standing in the doorway was Geralt. He looked wild, his eyes frantic and strands of his hair loose from his hair tie.

Golden eyes met blue and all the air in Jaskier’s lungs seemed to escape.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, panting a little from what must have been a long run to the bedroom, “You’re awake.” Jaskier couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

“Yes Geralt, it appears so”. Faster than Jaskier had ever seen him move, the witcher crossed the room in a matter of seconds and the next thing he knew, the bard was wrapped in his strong embrace. Geralt had never hugged him before. It was.... kind of the best thing to ever happen to Jaskier. He returned the hug, twisting his fingers into Geralt’s shirt.

He felt the witcher ‘hmm’ in approval at the reciprocation.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Jaskier pulled away, affronted and ready to argue to his last breath.

“Do what?” Geralt didn’t waver, meeting his gaze head on.

“Scare me like that again”. Hang on. What? Geralt being vulnerable was an entirely new concept to Jaskier, let alone Geralt admitting that he cared about him. That he had scared him? The big bad witcher? Maybe Jaskier had died on that mountain and he was now in some bizarre sideways world where Geralt talked about his feelings instead of suppressing them deep down inside and openly cared about the bard. Actually, the world sounded pretty nice.

A throat being cleared reminded Jaskier that normal people responded when being spoken to.

He looked into the witcher’s golden eyes and saw the seriousness in them as they waited for an answer. And because Jaskier was Jaskier and had known Geralt far too long to not know what he was thinking at all times, he also saw the worry, the touch of nervousness. He sighed.

“Okay. I promise.” The small twitch of Geralt’s lips that might as well have been an ear to ear grin on the man was something that Jaskier would give away all the coins in his purse to see.

“I hate to interrupt this moment,” Yennefer drawled, and blast the witch because everyone in the room knew she damn well did intend to ruin it, “but we do have some unanswered questions to address. Like what the fuck happened on that mountain? You’ve never spoken of any kind of power before, and that certainly wasn’t anything a human could do. What are you?”

Jaskier swallowed, his throat dry and his heart heavy. Geralt’s hands that still sat on his arms were the only thing that kept him from trying to beat a hasty retreat. Where to begin? How does one tell the sorrid tale of how they lied to the closest people they knew for over twenty years?

“You see, it’s a bit of a long story.....”

Now would be a terribly convenient time to pass out again.

____________

And that’s part 3! This one definitely got away from me, I had a blast writing it!

Part 4, anyone?

Tag List: @here-be-dreigiau @kittynannygaming @watchthewolvesfall @birds-are-a-conspiracy @sapphirebreeze @koala-kat @tinymacaroni @dunroamins @timeladygallifrey @lana-1526 @thebeckybear @technicallywiseoncns @biitumen @ninfatommo @screaming-flapjacks @galaxygalthemess @halfassedglitterbomb @darkangel9193

#jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #geralt #bamf jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher jaskier #witcher geralt #witcher jaskier #immortal jaskier #powerful jaskier #elsa jaskier #yennefer #the witcher yennefer #feral jaskier #non human jaskier

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asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story!

tags: @whereismymonsterlover

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher #big bang #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #me lamh #geraskierbigbang #multichapter

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

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Death Sleep

In a world where people could only sleep in the position they would die in, it was quite normal for a witcher to struggle to sleep. After all, they were more likely to die in ways that defied gravity and couldn’t possibly replicate the pose on hard ground or bed. Of course, Lambert was an exception. He discovered early on that he could shove pillows or throws under an arm and one to sling a leg over, he could sleep in relative comfort. For years he felt guilty and hid away, knowing that some witchers barely could get any sleep yet there he was, curled up and comfortable. Until he realised he was probably curled around someone or something. So he would die trying to save someone else. For so long Lambert wondered why he would be without swords, not even a quen at his fingertips and bodily protecting someone without much luck.

Kaer Morhen was possibly the only place on earth that Lambert felt comfortable enough to sleep in someone’s presence. The other all knew that he found a comfortable way to sleep and didn’t begrudge him. In a way, they were all quite fortunate in that they could all sleep one way or another.

Geralt hated sleeping on the Path and avoided it as much as possible. It was too vulnerable to fall asleep on his front. Without a doubt he was going to die with a sword through his back and it was a humiliation he had learned to accept decades ago. It made him wary of humans, selective of the company he kept to the extreme. At least, until he had met Jaskier who had no shame in how he slept; on his back, sprawled like a starfish and always with a small smile on his lips. He looked like he was going to die a happy man and Geralt was a little jealous. At least, he was until they realised that Geralt’s limbs fit perfectly around Jaskier. Whatever the future held for them, they were going to go out together.

By contrast, nobody had seen Eskel sleep. Not because he didn’t, but because he was guarded. He knew Lambert would give his life to protect someone, Geralt would die in a fight. Eskel? He’d die lying on his right hand side, head tucked down and one arm out. The thing Eskel hated the most about it was that his right arm was always numb when he woke. But there was no question about it, his death wasn’t going to be fast or even glorious. The position was one that meant he had probably been injured, not badly enough to succumb to it then and there, but enough that he’d need to hole up somewhere. Likely where nobody was around, his wounds would get the better of him, infected and without potions. It promised to be a miserable death. Which was why Eskel was so fastidious about having his potions topped up. As long as he had them, he wouldn’t die. However, each winter he retreated to his room and hid away, hoping he wouldn’t have to own up to the fact that he would die because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t careful enough. The scars on his face were already a reminder of his cowardice and failures, he didn’t need the others to think even less of him.

Pure chance meant that Jaskier stumbled, slightly drunk, into the wrong room. He had been aiming for Geralt’s but took a wrong turn. All the halls looked the same to him. Opening the door, he was surprised to find Eskel huddled on the bed, fast asleep. Before he could say anything, Geralt was behind him, coming to his rescue. A soft ‘huh’ meant they were both seeing the same thing. Not that they could say anything, not without Eskel’s shame flaring up and likely driving him into a sort of hiding for the rest of the winter. There was nothing for it, they were going to have to concoct a plan.

Everyone already knew that Lambert and Eskel blew off steam and tension with each other while resolutely refusing to call it anything other than a matter of convenience. Not that anyone believed them. There were looks shot in the other’s direction, soft touches which was absolutely unnecessary from a practical perspective and there was also the fact that neither of them felt inclined to gloat about their bedroom prowess. Geralt knew Lambert was especially prone to oversharing, detailing how great he was in bed when he found partner on the Path. However, there was not a peep about his time with Eskel, no jibes about who was bigger, who lasted longer or what acrobatic positions or locations they had managed to get into. All Geralt knew was that they never fell asleep together afterwards because Eskel always left.

In a way, it was quite a simple affair to get the two of them together. Jaskier had suggested they all drink late into one night while warming up on the furs in front of the great hall’s fire. They were well and truly plastered, laughing and slurring. Jaskier was sprawled on his back and grinning at the ceiling as Geralt flopped heavily on top of him.

“I should call it a night,” Eskel mumbled, struggling to get up.

The plea of ‘stay’ from Lambert was heeded, especially when one tug had Eskel flopping back onto the rug, limbs in an uncoordinated tangle.

“Five more minutes,” he agreed, laughing a little as Lambert snuggled in against him.

In the morning, Eskel woke up with the familiar numbness of his right arm. However, he was warm and his face was tucked against something solid that moved with each breath. The scent was all too familiar and Eskel couldn’t move, Lambert’s leg was thrown over his hip, an arm around him, holding him close.

“Told you,” Jaskier’s voice was low and Geralt only grunted in response. “They fit together perfectly.”

Shuffling backwards, Eskel pulled his right arm from under Lambert and blinked up at amber eyes staring down at him with open adoration.

“Morning.” Lambert’s voice was still thick with sleep. “Is it just me, or do we fit like two puzzle pieces?”

Deciding it was much easier to not reply, Eskel burrowed back against Lambert, tucked himself against his chest and closed his eyes. Sleep came easily for the first time in his long life.

#geraskier #lambskel #eskel/lambert #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #tldr: people only sleep in the position they will die in

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brokenmoonsongs · 2 years

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Companion!Bard AU Prologue/Preview

Alright, Companion!Bard AU. Geraskier primary. Jaskier/Other Witchers secondary. Maybe Yennesker/Geraskefer? This will probably parallel most of season one, unsure yet if at all of season two (or if it may deviate pre-Mountain). No CWs for this first part as it's just setting up. ~900 words.

They say that the best way to hide anything or anyone is to hide it in plain sight. Because it would be so obvious that no one would think what or whom was there would be truly there, in the open right?

It's why Redanian's Secret Service is so obvious about their place in Oxenfurt University. Although, enough people know that it's a convenient front for their other activities. All related of course in the service of their King.

Oxenfurt University keeps another open secret to the world. There are actually eight Liberal Arts one can study and master. But the eighth is rarely taken upon, or completed. It is one of the more difficult of the set, since it does rely so much on reading people, on exposing oneself to a lot of unnecessary strain. And while being a master of this other, more secretive Art could lead someone to live the life of luxury amongst royals, a graduate is usually seen as less than from their peers, and is more likely to get hurt out in the world than the others.

Still, Jaskier, or Julian at the time, was always a godsdamn completionist. And hedonist. And some would probably say masochist. Basically all the -ists that were mostly positive. (He was still too young and naïve to learn yet that what he knew of Elves and some other non-humans were patently false and derogatory. It would still take him some years [and running into a Witcher] to unpack and unlearn all of that.)

The eighth Liberal Art he only learned about when one, he was of age to learn of it, and two, in his second to final year at Oxenfurt. The Univeristy's policy was always as such: As long as you were of the age of majority for your species/culture, and had already mastered at least one other liberal art (or in the final semester of it), then anyone was allowed to attempt mastering this final one. It was also the only path one could pursue with no fear of ending up in massive debt or other complications if one were to fail out or give up on mastering it.

The completion rate to this elusive Art was only one in six students. And majority were of the non-masculine persuasion. Julian had honestly thought it was going to be the easiest of the programs to master. He was very wrong. Oh, he had some natural affinity to it, and used the fact that he grew up very privileged and healthy and pretty to his advantage. But there were always constant lessons that youth and beauty were very temporary. It was one of the reasons why one had to have at least one other Art to fall back on.

This program was the only one that Julian slightly cheated on, desperate to not fail out. Before the final semester in this program, there was a special evaluation. Ones who were susceptible to their emotions (if it hadn't already been trained out), and couldn't separate performance from reality (which wasn't terrible at all), they couldn't become a master. They'd get another grade and still could do a few of the jobs this particular Art availed to them, but it wasn't quite the same.

Despite his ever growing hubris, Julian, only just settling on the name Jaskier, knew himself well enough. Had to, to get this far in the program. He relied on his closest friend, Essi, to help him train and steel his mind, to play the part right. She didn't quite approve of this particular persona, but she was curious to see if it would work.

It did. Jaskier passed the evaluation and in the end, mastered the elusive, secretive, eighth Liberal Art. He was officially deemed a Court Companion, automatically eligible to be any Royal's consort, if they so desired, and would get priority positions in the most elusive of pleasure and entertainment houses. All he would need to do is show off the magicked brand as proof.

Jaskier, of course, was never intending to use it beyond proving to Valdo fucking Marx that he did it, something even that cad couldn't finish. No, Jaskier was content to travel the world as a regular bard and make his mark that way.

And then he was given a summons to the "Faculty of Most Contemporary History". And there, he found himself amongst an even smaller group of esteemed graduates from the eighth Liberal Art. Sigismund Dijkstra was surprisingly a very convincing man. And conniving. Jaskier was ready to turn him down, not wanting to be beholden to anyone. He was young and had his whole life ahead of him! There was a reason he escaped Lettenhove after all.

Unfortunately, as Jaskier was leaving Sigi's office, the man gave him an offer he literally could not refuse.

He was promised that the missions would be few and far between, that it was up to him to take up any other Companion Contract if he so desired. And in exchange, Sigismund wouldn't dig into the Pankratz Family and their political affairs. Convincing, indeed. To protect his sisters, Jaskier swore himself into service.

For nearly three seasons, Jaskier's content, being a bard and mission-less, having only once needing to take a Contract. But then he finds himself in Posada, and meets a Witcher, and finds the lines between his head and his heart beginning to blur.

#witcher netflix #geraskier #jaskier #fanfic aus #fanfiction #my fics #my post #text post #companion bard au #teaser #this is jaskier centric #idk i needed to write something not angsty for a bit #though it's a bit angsty #as a treat #there'll be some fun and smut later on #along with jaskier and other witcher pairings and yeah

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

A little gift for the lovely @thingr2 <3 I hope you have a most wonderful day, friend

word count: about 2.5k

ship: Geraskier

summary: Geralt receives flowers from a secret admirer. What a stupid gift to give him. (modern au/ flowershop au)

Roses and Cornflowers

Geralt’s face is a stone mask as he stares at his doorstep, only cracking the tiniest bit when he bent down to pick up the bouquet, just as he had done almost every day since he had moved to this town to open his new shop almost two months ago.

“A gift from a secret admirer,” Lambert had called it with a shit-eating grin when Geralt had been stupid and drunk enough to tell his brothers about the flowers he kept finding on the doorsteps of his shop.

Eskel had rolled his eyes at Lambert but then he had shrugged and said that that wasn’t the worst start to living in a new place.

No, Geralt supposed for most people -unlike him - receiving flowers would be a nice thing. But then again, most people - unlike him - didn’t own flowershops.

Why would anyone give flowers to a florist? What had started out as something Geralt might even be looking forward to, if he were completely honest with himself, had started to become an annoyance. At this point, it must clearly be some kind of stupid joke.

With a scoff he went inside, almost tempted to just throw the bouquet into the bin, but putting them away in a vase at the last moment against his better judgement, before setting up the shop for the day. Though his movements came with practiced precision, his eyes and mind wandered back to the bouquet again.

Maybe it wasn’t a joke after all. Though it was mainly made up of buttercups, cornflowers and other complimentary flowers – or weeds rather - bouquets were far too expensive to buy one every day for such a long time just to make fun of someone. Maybe the ‘admirer’ just thought that as a florist Geralt would appreciate flowers all the more?

And perhaps he would – he certainly knew how to appreciate good work – if it didn’t mean that whoever got him the flowers must be buying them at the only other flower shop in town that oh so conveniently had his shop just across the street from him. As far as romantic gestures went, supporting his rival was about the worst thing an admirer could do.

It wasn’t as if the other shop wasn’t already thriving and luring in all the customers Geralt might have gotten if the other shop wasn’t there.

If you wanted to call it a flower shop, that is.

Wish upon a Dandelion was not what Geralt would call professional. Though he had to begrudgingly admit that there was a certain craft to the way the flowers were arranges and the florist undeniably had an eye for colours, his choice of flowers was atrocious.

No respectable florist would even think about selling wildflowers and weeds and as if that wasn’t already enough, Geralt’s rival put them on the same shelf as roses and other normal flowers.

Then again, Jaskier didn’t seem like the kind of person who put much value into being respectable. Too openly was he toeing the line of what was an acceptable amount of friendliness between him and his customers, as far as Geralt could see through the window.

Not that Geralt knew much about how to treat customers correctly. Maybe he would, if Jaskier didn’t prevent them all from coming into his shop.

It didn’t matter how much care Geralt put into arranging the flowers in the display window and how hard he worked to keep his flowers in perfect shape, barely anyone even grazed his shop with so much as a glance.

And why would they? He too would rather go to the man with the bright smile and warm blue eyes that crinkled beautifully when he talked about his flowers. Anyone who met Jaskier even once would want to see him again.

Geralt should know. Ever since Jaskier had strolled into his shop on the day he had first opened, welcoming him into the street and asking about Geralt, he had found himself wishing he would come in here again, despite his ridiculous choice in flowers.

But Geralt wasn’t stupid enough to think he would ever see more of Jaskier again than the glimpses he caught through the window. He had made sure of that when he had done nothing but grunt and stare at Jaskier in the way that Lambert always said intimidated people. Sure enough, Jaskier’s face had fallen and left the shop, never to return again. And apart from the times he waved over at Geralt when they closed shops at the same time, he didn’t show any sign of wanting to speak with Geralt again.

Geralt pretended that he wasn’t disappointed.

Just like he pretended that he didn’t feel a strange pang in his chest whenever he saw how other people earned Jaskier’s easy smiles and charming words that Geralt so stupidly had rejected.

Hell, even his ‘secret admirer’ probably got to feel those brilliant smiles on him.

The thought made Geralt pause.

No one, absolutely no one would admire Geralt if they also knew Jaskier.

He didn’t know why he felt so disappointed at the realisation. He had never wanted an admirer. Not some stranger at least. He shouldn’t care if the person who got him the flowers was doing so as a backwards way of saying that everyone preferred Jaskier’s shop and that Geralt wasn’t wanted here. But whatever reason the gifter had to mock Geralt, it hurt that they were doing so by using Jaskier’s flowers.

He knew the sudden anger that boiled up inside him was irrational, but that didn’t stop him from abandoning his tasks.

He acted without thinking, grabbing peonies, roses and lilies – flowers that actually belonged in flower shops – in a bouquet. Before he could think this through, he was storming out of his shop and across the street.

The bells above the door chimed as Geralt marched into the Wish upon a Dandelion and Jaskier’s eyes snapped up at him, making Geralt’s breath hitch. For the briefest moment, the typical smile on Jaskier’s face froze when his eyes fell on Geralt, before they darted down to the flowers in his hand and the smile inexplicably brightened.

“Geralt,” he said and somehow managed to sound excited, “what are you doing here?”

Without ceremony, Geralt slammed the bouquet on the counter, inwardly flinching at his own harsh movement. “Teaching you how bouquets work.”

Jaskier let out a startled laugh. “What?”

“I don’t know what game is being played here, but you don’t put weeds in a bouquet for someone you want to talk to.” He pointed at the bouquet he had brought. “This is what you give someone if you have romantic intentions.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, if I had known you didn’t like those kinds of flowers I wouldn’t have put them in there,” Jaskier said softly, fingers twitching.

“It’s something all florists should know. If you’re going to ruin my business and my day, at least do it with flowers that belong in a bouquet. And tell whoever if getting those flowers for me that I don’t want them.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice was painfully small and his eyes were everywhere but on Geralt. “You really dislike them that much?”

The quiet question was like a punch in the gut. As if a tight had snapped, all tension left Geralt in an instant.

He rubbed a hand down his face and groaned.

“No, they…I don’t dislike them. They are fine.” He sighed and looked away. “I just don’t like getting them. You…the colours are nice.”

Even out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the way Jaskier’s face morphed from crestfallen to an expression that could rival the sun.

“Thank you! I had hoped you’d like the colours. The buttercups do look a bit like your eyes, don’t they? Though of course not quite as pretty. It’s really hard to find the perfect flower to match the colour. It’s a shame there are no golden flowers.”

Geralt huffed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well, it’s easy for you. Your eyes really look exactly like cornflowers.”

Even as he said those words, his mind came to a screeching halt. No. It couldn’t be. His brows drew together as he searched Jaskier’s face for something, any sign that he hadn’t gotten this all wrong. “Jaskier? Did you -?”

“I’m sorry,” the words rushed out of Jaskier’s mouth and Geralt’s stomach twisted as a panicked look replaced Jaskier’s smile.

“Why?” It was too much. It couldn’t possibly be Jaskier. Because if it was, then that would mean that Geralt wouldn’t have to hope for a chance to meet those blue eyes through a window or that he wouldn’t be gifted with Jaskier’s breathtaking smile again.

“I swear I didn’t know you don’t like getting the bouquets. If I had known I would have stopped – I will stop -”

Geralt’s blood ran cold at the words, but his mouth couldn’t form any words, didn’t even know what he wanted to say, except that this was all wrong, that he didn’t mind getting the bouquets from Jaskier, that he was the only one he would want to get them from.

“I just… you always seemed kind of alone,” Jaskier said, wincing at his own words, “and you are new here and I know how hard it can be to make friends, so I thought that maybe… but I will stop.”

Before Geralt could even open his mouth to protest, to explain, to say something, the bells chimed again and the palpable relief on Jaskier’s face as he turned away from Geralt and towards the customer made Geralt’s heart clench.

It was more than obvious that Jaskier didn’t want to be alone with him right now and Geralt could more than understand it. Without saying another word, Geralt turned back and left, going back to his own shop where the last bouquet he would get from Jaskier stood lonely on the counter.

Jaskier heaved a heavy sigh as he walked down the street to open the shop for the day, already dreading the day to come.

Yesterday, he had done his best to keep smiling and making his customers welcome, but it was damn near impossible after his talk with Geralt – and the unmistakable rejection. He had done his best to keep himself busy, but he had found his mind drifting time and time again to what kind of bouquet to make Geralt next, before reality mercilessly came crashing down on him again.

Rejection was nothing new to him, of course. It was kind of a given when you fell in love fast and hard, any yet Jaskier had been foolish enough to hope that maybe if he sent Geralt enough flowers, they could at the very least become amicable shop neighbours. When he had seen through the window how Geralt put each of his bouquets into a vase, he had thought that maybe they could even be friends. Any yesterday, for a beautiful moment as he had seen Geralt come in, a bouquet of the most beautiful roses in hand, he had hoped that –

He should have known better.

The only consolation Jaskier had was that Geralt had forgotten to take his bouquet back with him as he had practically stormed out of his shop. At least, Jaskier had something to take home with him. At least the flowers had allowed him to pretend even if just for a little bit that Geralt’s hadn’t rejected him as harshly as he had.

But, well, the fact that Jaskier wasn’t at his typical early hour at the shop already, preparing the newest arrangement to put on Geralt’s doorstep before he arrived was all the reminder that his little fantasy of charming Geralt was over.

He dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration, just as he reached his shop.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

It couldn’t be. Geralt wouldn’t –

Every so slowly, as if it might still turn out to be a dream, Jaskier crouched down to pick up the flowers laying on his doorstep, caressing them carefully, not daring to even breath.

The sound of a door falling shut behind him, made Jaskier turn.

And there he was. Standing in front of his flower shop stood Geralt, looking somewhat insecure and uncomfortable as he caught Jaskier’s eye.

Jaskier froze, not knowing what to do, but as he lingered at the door shifting his weight from one foot to the other and clutching the flowers tightly, Geralt started to move.

Jaskier’s eyes widened and his heart was hammering in his chest, as Geralt walked up to him, slowly as if he wanted to give Jaskier the chance to unlock his door and flee into the Dandelion if he wanted.

He didn’t.

For some inexplicable reason, Geralt must not have excepted him to stay, for when he reached Jaskier he didn’t open his mouth, just looking at Jaskier with a look in his eyes that made it hard to breath.

He swallowed thickly.

“You know,” Jaskier said, cracking a hesitant smile, “this isn’t a good bouquet to give someone you don’t want to talk to.”

Red heat crept up Geralt’s cheeks and his eyes darted to the side before landing back on Jaskier.

“And what about giving them to say that I am sorry and that I would very much like to talk with this someone again?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. “Yeah, that…that would be a good bouquet.”

He bit his lip, knowing he was pushing his luck, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “But I would also say that the roses, peonies and lilies might be sending a bit of a wrong message still. I’ve been told they would be used for something a bit more romantic.”

For an agonizingly long moment, Geralt said nothing. When he finally opened his mouth again, a tentative but hopeful smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“If…if that were the message I wanted to send, would you accept the flowers?”

The smile that spread over Jaskier’s face was so wide that threatened to hurt his cheeks. “I would, if I were allowed to give you flowers in return.”

Something like astonishment shone in Geralt’s eyes.

“I missed your bouquet today,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier said, pleasant warmth spreading through his chest. “My bouquets might not be quite as romantic, but I will make you as many as you like. Who knows, maybe I’ll even learn how to make proper bouquets with the right help,” he added with a wink.

The shy smile on Geralt’s face turned into something radiant. “Your arrangements are already perfect.” He hesitated, before adding, “But cornflowers are my favourite.”

#it's a little rushed #once again i didn't edit because i wanted to go to bed two hours ago #but i hope you like it nontheless #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #witcher #witcher fanfic #witcher fic #flower shop au #modern au #jaskier #geralt #why have one flowershop in your fic when you can have two?#i know absolutely nothign about flowers #which doesn't mean i won't put them into every single thing i write #my writing

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