#geralt from his 'woe is me i will never be seen as a normal man' and dandelion from 'im the most interesting man in this tavern'

[hanzajesthanza]

geralt "i will NEVER deadname my best friend" of rivia

"he will ALWAYS be dandelion to ME"

[flowercrown-bard]

35 for Geraskier? :3

thank you so much for the prompt! And also, I would like to apologise. I had the most cursed thought about how to end this and I wasn't going to actually write that, but you know sometimes you have an idea so bad that you just know you would forever regret it if you didn't do it

prompt: Bets/teasing with increasing physical stakes makes character confront their feelings

word count: 5k

kind of inspired by the song "anything you can do I can do better"

content warning: brief mention of injury (no detailed description)

Anything you can do, I can do better

“You know you could help me, right?” Jaskier’s tongue peeked through his lips in concentration. “All you need is a little magic-“ he wiggled his fingers through the air uselessly, letting the sticks he had been holding before fall to the forest floor. “-and we would have a fire. Easy as that. So why, oh, why do you insist on torturing me thus?”

Geralt had to bite back his grin when Jaskier turned his big pleading eyes on him. “I thought you said you were ‘perfectly fit to travel through the wilderness’.”

Jaskier abandoned his fruitless attempt at making a fire for good and his puppy eyes turned into a glare. “I am! Just because you decided to be a prick about it, doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“You almost stepped into the snare I had set up to hunt our dinner.”

Jaskier crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin in defiance. “Your point?”

“My point is that you wouldn’t survive a day without me out here.”

“Well, good thing I don’t want –“ Jaskier broke off and his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you…” he came closer to Geralt, who barely could keep his shoulders from shaking. “Are you laughing at me? Geralt, how dare you!”

A snorting laugh slipped past Geralt’s lips and he no longer fought back the grin. “I would never dare do such a thing.”

“Oh, no. That’s it.” Jaskier jabbed a finger at Geralt’s chest in outrage. “I am going to prove to you that I am just as good as you are at surviving out here. No, I am better.”

For a long moment Geralt only stared at him. “I am a witcher. I am enhanced and trained specifically to survive out in the wild. You are a bard.”

“And I am stubborn and pissed off. And I know that I can do anything better than you.”

Geralt threw a pointed look at the sad attempt at making a camp fire. Jaskier cringed and shrugged his shoulders. “Magic doesn’t count.”

“Alright then,” Geralt sighed, but his lips twitched up when Jaskier’s eyes lit up with determination. “How about you prove how good you are by setting up the tent?”

“Psh, that’s easy.” When Geralt sceptically lifted a brow, Jaskier added, “I am a travelling bard. Do have some trust in me.”

Geralt watched in amusement as Jaskier strode off to go about his task. At least for the time being the bard would be distracted. Geralt knew there wasn’t a chance that Jaskier would actually succeed in setting up the tent, but it was strangely endearing to watch him bite back frustrated curses as he got tangled up in the fabric. And maybe, just maybe Geralt was preparing his ‘I told you so’ for when Jaskier finally admitted defeat and asked Geralt for help.

Except, that didn’t happen. Against all expectations, Jaskier managed to build the tent and it didn’t even take him too long.

Geralt stared at him, taken aback. Clearly Jaskier noticed Geralt’s surprise, for the smug grin he wore only got wider and he put one hand on his hips, gesturing towards the tent with the other.

“There you have it. I dare you to tell me again that I’m not as good as you are.”

“You are not,” Geralt said, more to watch Jaskier splutter in indignation than anything else.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“I am able to prepare us dinner,” Geralt said, taking out his knife.

“Oh please, now you’re just being ridiculous.” Jaskier rolled his eyes with a huff. “We both know that before I came along, you only used salt and pepper to spice your food. If even that much.”

Geralt shrugged. “I never said it tasted good. I just said I was able to prepare it.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkled as his grin became triumphant. “Aha! So you admit it. I am better at cooking than you.”

“If you think so, then I’m sure you’ll have no problem preparing these.” Geralt did his best to keep his expression carefully neutral as he held the rabbit he had caught out to Jaskier.

Jaskier blanched at the sight. A hint of guilt battled with the satisfaction of seeing Jaskier give up on his stubbornness and he was just about to take the rabbit back and skin it himself, when Jaskier took it away from him, though he held it in the same way a lordling might hold a wet frog.

--

Over the next days, Geralt started having more and more fun with this. No matter what he told Jaskier to do, he jumped at the opportunity to prove himself. At this point, Geralt wasn’t really sure anymore what exactly Jaskier was trying to prove.

It was obvious that Geralt’s increasingly ridiculous bets were nothing that would prove anything to Geralt other than that Jaskier was a stubborn idiot who would rather attempt to chop down a small tree than give up, though he had done that particular task while throwing glares at Geralt every other second. It had been fun to watch Jaskier grit his teeth and try to succeed in this utterly useless task.

It had become slightly less fun when Jaskier had become so exhausted that he had to shrug off his chemise, revealing his skin that glistened with sweat.

Seeing Jaskier like this – seeing the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex as he swung the axe – was strange. It felt wrong. At least that was the only explanation Geralt had for the strange twist in his guts as he watched his friend. And the only reason why his mouth went dry when he later massaged Jaskier’s sore back to get the tension he was responsible for, was because he felt guilty.

He should have stopped then.

He didn’t. Not when they were making camp and not now that Jaskier was walking beside Roach, humming the same melody for the umpteenth time.

Just to see Jaskier’s reaction, Geralt now said, “I bet you can’t stay silent for longer than I can.”

He threw a glance at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier had stopped walking and was opening his mouth to protest. Geralt lifted his brows and cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, but no sound left him. Instead, he mouthed something at Geralt that he was sure must be some sort of insult, before hurrying after Geralt.

It became clear quickly that this might just be the hardest task for Jaskier. Chopping wood and skinning rabbits was one thing. Evidently, Jaskier’s stubbornness gave him extra strength and the ability to swallow his disgust. But staying quiet? He looked as if he was ready to through the towel right then and there, and not even a full minute had passed.

Geralt was almost fully convinced that the only reason Jaskier remained silent was that every time his fidgeting got worse and he looked like he was about to open his mouth to say something, he caught Geralt’s eyes. Within a heartbeat that determination was back in his eyes and he snapped his mouth shut.

Geralt was almost impressed. He should have known that Jaskier would play dirty.

He started to poke Geralt’s legs, pull at his boots and open their straps.

Any glare of Geralt’s was only answered with a shit eating grin and a shrug that screamed ‘You said nothing about me getting you to talk first.’

Too bad that Jaskier wasn’t the only stubborn one between the two of them.

Geralt remained stoic, no matter what Jaskier tried to grate on his nerves. He was content to ignore him. After all, Geralt had plenty of practice tuning out Jaskier’s singing, he would have no problem ignoring the way Jaskier –

Eyes wide and mouth opened into a silent cry, Jaskier stumbled. He fell forward, his arms flailing to protect his lute.

Without needing to think about what he was doing, Geralt reached down and grabbed Jaskier by the scruff of the neck, steadying him.

“Careful,” he growled.

And Jaskier…Jaskier turned to him with the most self-satisfied expression Geralt had ever seen on him.

“Told you,” Jaskier said cheerily. “I anything you can do-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, but he failed to keep the amusement out of his voice. There was too much joy in Jaskier’s eyes to dampen his mood with Geralt’s broodiness.

“Which makes me think,” Jaskier tilted his head in contemplation. “Not that we’ve determined that I can keep quiet for longer –“

“Because you cheated.”

“Because I can keep quiet for longer,” Jaskier repeated, emphatically ignoring Geralt’s protest, “We should see if you can talk for longer than me.”

“No we shouldn’t.”

Jaskier skipped a couple of steps ahead, until he was walking right before Roach, turning around so he was walking still facing Geralt as he walked. “Whyever not?”

“Because this thing we’re doing isn’t about me,” Geralt replied with a huff. “And talking is no valuable life skill.”

The gasp Jaskier let out could put any actor delivering their final monologue to shame in how theatrical it was. Jaskier clutched a hand over his chest and pointed an accusatory finger at Geralt.

“The audacity!” Jaskier gave Roach a long-suffering look, as if she would understand his woe and agree with him. “Geralt. My dearest friend. You can be such a smart man, but what you said just now? That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Ever heard yourself talking?”

“Don’t try to distract me with insults. I have lived at court, trading insults is a battle you won’t win. Speaking of which, talking might not be important in the woods, but it sure is invaluable when you want rich people to pay you, which – oh! Wait. That is exactly what you want.”

Geralt grunted. “Your point?”

Jaskier’s lips stretched into a grin. He lowered his voice into a very bad imitation of Geralt’s growl, when he said, “My point is that you wouldn’t survive at court without me out here.” His voice jumped back to its normal pitch. “In other words, you need me.”

Geralt scoffed, though for some reason he liked the certainty with which Jaskier said those words.

“I really don’t.”

“Prove it then.”

“What?”

Jaskier stopped, forcing Roach to come to a halt as well.

“I said prove it. I don’t see why I’m the only one that needs to prove that I’m a worthy travel companion – “

“It was your idea,” Geralt grumbled.

“-so, how about this: I continue to do everything you think I need to be able to do out here and you prove to me that you could survive at court.”

“I don’t want to survive at court. And I don’t have to prove anything.”

Jaskier’s brows rose and he lifted his chin in a challenge. “Sounds to me like you’re scared.”

Geralt glowered at Jaskier. He could just guide Roach to walk around Jaskier. He could just ignore that stupid challenge.

But Jaskier had that look on his face. It was infuriating. Geralt never stood a chance against that look.

He jumped off Roach and walked over to Jaskier, trying to make himself look as menacing as possible, until they stood almost chest to chest.

He could see Jaskier’s throat bob as he swallowed. Geralt leaned in until their noses were almost touching.

“You’re on,” he growled, before he turned away from Jaskier and made to get onto Roach.

He was stopped by Jaskier clearing his throat.

“Actually,” Jaskier drawled. “At court it’s considered very impolite to ride on a horse while your companion is walking.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “I’m not letting you ride Roach.”

Jaskier let out a short laugh. “Oh, don’t you worry, I am out of practice anyway.” He stepped to the side to make space for Geralt to walk next to him while leading Roach. “But I bet you can’t walk for hours as you make me do.”

--

It became clear quite quickly that Geralt had underestimated Jaskier’s ability to be petty. Obviously most of what Jaskier made him do now was revenge for the ridiculous tasks Geralt had given Jaskier.

Well, two could play this game. And oh, how they did. For weeks they went back and forth, Geralt giving Jaskier a task that he performed with gritted teeth and Jaskier enacting his revenge by making Geralt do all sorts of ridiculous things. One would think that sooner or later one of them would run out of ideas, but Geralt had been walking the Path long enough to know that there were never enough skills to have and whatever could be said about Jaskier, no one could deny that he was creative.

And of course neither one of them was willing to back down from a challenge.

Which was the reason why Geralt disguised his obligatory protest at Jaskier’s newest demand as a clever explanation for why he can’t possibly do what Jaskier dared him to.

“How on earth am I supposed to ‘dress appropriately for court’ when I don’t have any fancy clothes with me.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “You would have, if you had listened to me when I had asked you to come to the tailor with me.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was back in Touissant. Months ago.” He gestured to the trees surrounding them. “I don’t think there’s a tailor anywhere close.”

Jaskier opened his mouth before letting it snap shut again.

“What?” Geralt demanded.

A blush crept across Jaskier’s cheeks and he averted his eyes. “Nothing it’s just…There are courtly clothes here. Myclothes.”

Geralt’s mouth went dry. “You want…” His eyes drifted to the doublet Jaskier was wearing. Without wanting to, he imagined Jaskier opening the buttons one by one and giving Geralt his own doublet.

When Geralt didn’t resume talking, Jaskier’s eyes darted back to him. For a moment he looked confused before his expression morphed into one of panic. “Oh, gods, no, that’s not what I – no. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you…” Jaskier cut himself off and went over to his bags, rummaging through them for long enough that Geralt began to wonder if maybe he was just trying to avoid looking at Geralt. Finally, Jaskier came back with a triumphant sound that didn’t bode well for Geralt and a deep purple doublet.

“No,” Geralt said firmly, as he eyed the garment in distaste. “I am not wearing that.”

“So are you saying that you give up?”

Geralt held Jaskier’s gaze for a tense moment, before snatching the doublet out of his hands.

“Fine,” he growled. “Don’t complain if it tears. This was your idea.”

Geralt felt awkward as he shrugged off his own shirt and donned the doublet. The fabric felt nice enough against his skin, but for some reason, the knowledge that Geralt was wearing Jaskier’s clothes set his chest ablaze. The sensation was so distracting that he fumbled with the buttons, unable to close them on his own.

“Here, let me,” Jaskier offered and suddenly he was right in Geralt’s space. His head was lowered so that he could see what he was doing as he buttoned up the doublet with practiced movements.

Without meaning to, Geralt leaned forward, just a bit. Just enough to catch more of the lavender-scent that clung to Jaskier’s hair.

“There, all done,” Jaskier said and looked back up. His eyes widened when he saw just how close he was to Geralt who sucked in a sharp breath. Their faces were only inches apart and Jaskier’s hands that had come to rest on Geralt’s chest were burning his skin through the fabric.

“Jaskier…” He didn’t know why he said it, why suddenly this name was all he could think about.

His skin was burning and the doublet felt too tight, too hot.

Geralt squirmed and as if he had been shook out of a stupor, Jaskier took a step back. Geralt pretended not to notice the way the loss of the touch left him strangely cold.

“Yeah, no, you were right,” Jaskier blurted, his face burning in a furious red. “That’s not your colour. At all. Just-“ he gestured to all of Geralt, his eyes lingering on the buttons threatening to pop over Geralt’s chest and the way the fabric stretched over his arms, “that looks just utterly unacceptable. You need to get that off right now.”

Geralt barely had the chance to nod, before Jaskier was on him again, practically tearing the doublet off of him.

He turned back as soon as Geralt was free of the garment again. Geralt should have been relieved to be rid of the atrocious thing, but as he watched Jaskier stuff it into the bottom of his pack as if he wanted to never see it again - as if the sight of Geralt wearing it had been so terrible that he wanted to ban it from memory forever - he felt a strange pang in his chest.

--

After that, Geralt wasn’t sure how to proceed. Usually, he wouldn’t have waited a day to give Jaskier the next challenge, but ever since the incidence, as Geralt had come to think of it, Jaskier had been strangely tense.

Geralt wracked his brain, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Maybe the doublet had ripped after all without Geralt noticing. And who could blame him? It had been distracting having Jaskier so close, touching him.

Then again, nothing had happened. It didn’t even deserve to be called an incident. Still, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed that day, that they had come dangerously close to having something happen.

Whatever it had been, it couldn’t happen again.

And so Geralt refrained from challenging Jaskier.

At least he did, until Jaskier looked at him a couple of days later with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I am sorry,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt’s brows furrowed as he searched Jaskier’s face. “What are you sorry for?”

Jaskier shrugged and turned his face away. “You are cross with me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Geralt’s throat grew tight at the way Jaskier’s voice wavered. “You didn’t. And I’m not.”

“No?” Jaskier looked so hopeful, so relieved. “I just thought…you didn’t give me a new challenge and I was worried I had ruined it.”

Geralt’s chest clenched uncomfortably. “So eager to get your ass kicked?” He said as carefree as he could and nudged Jaskier in the ribs with his elbow. “I just needed time to come up with a good challenge.”

“Did you find one?”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked around camp as subtly as possible, frantically trying to find something he could make into a new challenge. As always, his eyes landed back on Jaskier. More specifically on his exposed forearms, where he had rolled up his sleeves.

“Arms,” he blurted out. When Jaskier gave him a confused look, he cleared his throat and gestured between himself and Jaskier. “We should do arm wrestling. As a test of strength.”

Jaskier get out an incredulous laugh. “You want me to test my strength against a witcher?”

Geralt shrugged, a pointless attempt to hide his sheepishness. “You are the one who said you could do anything better than me.”

Jaskier’s arms drifted down to Geralt’s arms, assessing. Eventually he nodded.

“Alright.” Jaskier’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

And oh, how he did. He stood no chance, of course, even as Geralt held back. Jaskier put all of his strength into it. He used both hands. He stood up and tried to use his body weight.

He let out a noise of frustration and his face scrunched up in an expression that could only be described as adorable.

Geralt didn’t even realise how lost he had gotten looking at Jaskier until he heard a low thud and Jaskier’s face twisted in disappointment.

Geralt forced himself to look away from Jaskier’s face and saw the obvious. He had Jaskier’s hand pinned down.

“I guess you won,” Jaskier said and made a face. “You have found something I can’t do.”

Geralt hesitated. This would have been the perfect moment to gloat, to declare this silly game over. What left his mouth instead was, “We’re even now. I couldn’t wear the clothes and you can’t beat me. I’d say that means we still don’t know which one of us is better.”

Though Geralt knew. When Jaskier’s eyes lit up at Geralt’s words, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jaskier was better – he might even be the best man Geralt knew.

--

After that, the fight was fully on again. Jaskier didn’t hold back. Not an hour later, when the moon had just begun to creep across the sky, Jaskier stood up and offered Geralt his hand.

“I bet you can’t dance.”

He was right, of course, but not once did he mention how Geralt kept stepping on his feet or how his posture was all wrong.

Geralt wouldn’t have cared if he had. He didn’t think his defeat would have even registered. He was too occupied fighting and failing to keep his heartbeat slow as Jaskier pulled him ever closer and let him through the motions of the dance while humming a soft melody.

In this moment, he couldn’t have cared less if he lost a bet or not.

And it appeared that Jaskier cared just as little about winning the bet, just this once.

Neither of them said a word about it and when they finally let go of each other, Jaskier just looked at him with that same unreadable expression he had shown more and more often lately.

“Your turn to make a move,” was the only thing he said, before disappearing inside the tent.

--

Geralt was hurt. It wasn’t a deep or particularly painful wound. Not that one would be able to tell from the way Jaskier fussed over him with worry etched into his face.

“I bet,” Geralt pressed through his teeth, “that you don’t know how to clean a wound.”

Jaskier stared at him in disbelieve. “You’re absolutely right I don’t.”

“Don’t you want to try?”

Jaskier’s brows drew together like storm clouds and his voice was thunder. “Really, Geralt? You’re bleeding. Do you really think this is the right time for this? If I mess this up-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted him and put his hand soothingly on Jaskier’s wrist. He could feel his pulse pump beneath his fingers and he rubbed a small circle into his soft skin. “You won’t hurt me. This is just a scratch. The drowner barely got me.”

“It wouldn’t have gotten you at all if I hadn’t been in the way,” Jaskier said bitterly.

Geralt’s chest clenched and he squeezes Jaskier’s arm gently, making him look at him. “That doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you didn’t get hurt. And that you know what to do if you ever do get hurt.”

There were implications in Geralt’s words that he didn’t want to think too hard about. He didn’t get the chance to anyway. Jaskier looked at him with wide eyes, before he nodded and set to work.

His hands were gentle and he hummed soothing melodies as he cleaned and stitched Geralt’s wound under his instructions. Geralt wouldn’t have been able to think of anything but Jaskier’s closeness if he had wanted to.

--

“Why on earth would I need to know how to do that?” Geralt said scowling, to the utter annoyance of Jaskier how groaned in exasperation.

“No, no no, don’t do that! That’s the exact opposite of what I told you to do. You should be smiling.”

“But why? Who cares if I smile?”

“I do. I-I mean, people at court do. You need to look pleasant and approachable if you want to charm anyone.”

“I don’t want to charm anyone.”

“Too late for that,” Jaskier muttered, quietly enough that Geralt was certain the words hadn’t been meant for him.

Still, Geralt scowled even harder, just to spite Jaskier and maybe, just maybe to make his own frown turn into a laugh.

“Geralt! Stop that this instant! Truly, sometimes I think you enjoy riling me up.” He threw his hands up in defeat. “This is it. You are a hopeless student. I’d have better luck teaching Roach how to behave at court. She definitely is more charming.”

Geralt couldn’t help it. His lips twitched up. “You’d have to bribe her.”

Jaskier snorted. “I’m already working on it. One day I’ll get her to eat that dreadful old cloak you insist on keeping.”

Jaskier looked dead serious and a by now familiar warmth spread through Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s unconvincing scowl.

A snort of laughter left his mouth and in the blink of an eye Jaskier’s face softened.

“There it is,” he said in a tone Geralt couldn’t place. If he dared to let himself imagine, he would have called it fond. “You may never again say that you aren’t charming.”

--

“What on earth does this prove?” Jaskier panted as he tried to dodge yet another swing of Geralt’s fist aimed at his face.

“It should prove that you’d be able to defend yourself against bandits or at least hold your own in a bar fight.”

“Why would I -“ Jaskier ducked under a ridiculously slow punch that would have been truly embarrassing to get hit by, “need to do that?” He jumped backwards. “I can always talk myself out of trouble or – careful Geralt! – or you’d be there to save me. I don’t know why –“ his rant ended in a sharp cry as he stumbled over his own feet.

He let out an exaggerated grown when he hit the ground. Geralt was on him within a second, pinning his hands to the ground.

Jaskier huffed, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s face. He went still.

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “At least try to get out of my hold,” Geralt growled. “You need to be able to protect yourself. What if I’m not around?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Jaskier’s voice was strangely breathless. “Why would I go anywhere without you?”

Geralt froze.

For the first time it hit him just how close they were, with Geralt’s body practically pressing Jaskier’s into the ground. At some point, Geralt’s hair band had loosened and some strands of his hair had come free, framing his face and tickling Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes followed the movement of Jaskier’s lips. The was so close. It would be so easy to just lean down and brush his lips against Jaskier’s. The feel of Jaskier’s body pressing up against him wasn’t enough anymore. Geralt’s heart was pounding in his chest and he wanted, he needed–

He had no time to think. No time to voice what he couldn’t even comprehend.

Because before he had the chance to do any of that, Jaskier leaned forward and breached the gap between them. He let out a soft noise that sounded almost like a sigh when they lips finally met.

Jaskier’s lips were soft and eager and they moved against Geralt’s as if he had been waiting to do this for a long time.

It took Geralt a moment to respond, but once the shock left him, he returned the kiss with just as much fervour. A low growl rose in his chest as he pressed impossibly closer against Jaskier.

His hands let go of Jaskier’s wrists, instead finding his hands and intertwining them.

Gently, Geralt bit into the softness of Jaskier’s lips, eliciting the sweetest sound from him. He felt Jaskier tug his hands free and Geralt let him, eager to feel Jaskier bury his fingers in his hair.

Instead, they pushed against him. Geralt let out a strangled groan when Jaskier broke the kiss and used Geralt’s surprise to throw his leg over Geralt and switch their positions.

Now he was leaning above Geralt, caging him in with his arms and giving him the biggest and smuggest look Geralt could imagine.

“Why…Jaskier, what…” He was unable to finish the sentence, wasn’t even sure what exactly it was that he wanted to ask. All he knew is that he needed to know. He needed this to not have been only a distraction.

“This, my dearest witcher,” Jaskier announced, leaning in close to Geralt; close enough that their breaths mingled and Jaskier’s fringe brushed Geralt’s skin. “Is a technique I am sure wasn’t taught in Kaer Morhen. The one type of battle you won’t be able to win against me.”

Geralt swallowed thickly. “What kind of battle?”

“Why, it’s called battling for dominance. With our tongues.”

“What?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Kissing, Geralt. I’m obviously talking about kissing.”

“For a bard you have a terrible way of describing that.”

Jaskier huffed and Geralt could almost feel his smile against his lips. “Are you saying you’d be a better poet than me? Want to prove it to me?”

Geralt shook his head, his throat tight. One of his hands wandered up to Jaskier’s face, caressing his cheek. “I am much more interested which one of our tongues has won the battle.”

“Mine, obviously.” Jaskier grinned. “I have you pinned down, don’t I?”

“Hmm.” A smile stretched across Geralt’s face and he tilted his head just enough that his lips brushed against Jaskier’s with his next words. “Any yet I feel like I have won.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. “I guess we’ll have to do it some more then. To determine which one is the winner.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, his voice but a breath. “We should.”

As Geralt captured Jaskier’s lips with his own once more, he knew with a fierce certainty that neither of them would be proven a loser in this.

[gayregis]

ok also. i don't think geralt's into pet names BUT he's really just like. thoroughly physically affectionate. like he's not good with words but he knows very well just how and where his bf wants to be kissed and touched and what makes him feel good and what makes him feel appreciated both in terms of sex and in just in general and in turn jaskier is very vocal abt how good geralt makes him feel or abt how much he really appreciates him and his company and how he loves him bc They Know Each Other

in a little sacrifice when geralt begins tripping over his words around dandelion and essi... he was shortcircuiting from the pressure of having to speak in front of two poets. ... the thing is that geralt has the capability to be incredibly eloquent, but it’s only when he’s not thinking about it, and also usually when it’s about something he scorns, or a hateful situation (the nature of humanity, impending doom, the dangers and woes that ciri is facing...) ... when he has to speak about good things and love, he kind of becomes reduced to “you make me feel good in my heart :)” 

i know that this isn’t the ship on the table right now, but, i mean, it took geralt four books and like what, 10 years, to tell yennefer he loved her... i feel like with dandelion, there was less, ahem, drama in their relationship (they don’t really on again/off again, it’s more of a mutual everlasting thing) so it could have gotten to that point sooner between them, but it also has to be considered when exactly it turns romantic or geralt Realizes that he’s not only capable of love but legitimately loves dandelion ... not just in a friend way... 

(personally i understand the appeal of a ship that has love at first sight, but i really like the “love at second sight” dynamic in which they realize they’re important to each other right off the bat but only really realize their feelings later... also i think falling in love / realizing that you have fallen in love with your best friend is a common gay/bi experience...)

so i like to put the estimate of when geralt Realizes actually exactly at the point where dudu changes into dandelion in eternal flame. because at that moment geralt realizes that all he wanted to do when faced with dandelion is hold him, talk with him, be with him somewhere quiet, peaceful, and safe... that he loves him, even if he is wearing that stupid gaudy blue kaftan... that all he ever feels towards dandelion is this desire to be with him, spend time with him, protect him from anything that may come their way... dudu and geralt in this moment both were expecting geralt to raise his sword, geralt was already reluctant and never wants to harm innocents, but after dudu shifted form into dandelion, any kind of drive he possibly could have had for unsheathing his blade in an act of violence just got knocked out of him, blew away like the wind. (also worth noting that right before dudu shifted into dandelion’s form, he was in geralt’s form, and that only made geralt actually more OK with using violence than he was with dudu in any other form... geralt’s self-loathing knows. only a few bounds.)

the reason why i bring it back to this time geralt realizes he’s in love is because of that moment where all he wants is to just sheathe his sword, rush forward, and hold dandelion in his arms... feeling horror at the fact that his sword is glistening in his hand. he doesn’t know what to say, actually, in this moment. the dialogue becomes a monologue as dudu continues speaking in dandelion’s voice and form, and where geralt is supposed to repond, it just says: “geralt nodded reluctantly.” “the witcher said nothing.” “the witcher said nothing.” i interpret this scene as him basically being paralyzed with feelings, especially after a shard of ice where he and istredd went toe-to-toe and was told he can’t experience love because it’s a biological impossibility. he’s still thinking about this question throughout eternal flame, and it comes to a head in this scene, because what else, other than love, stayed his blade, paralyzed him?

geralt’s situation relating to his feelings and love are intensely complex. it’s not the simple “oh i have feelings for you but i’m too abashed to say them uwu,” but rather “i was born to be emotionless so i could fill a societal role and specific caste laid out for me but your presence in my life has changed everything and now i think i might be able to feel love, and i feel love for you” ... so yeah he has difficulty verbalizing all of that. especially when he hasn’t had a traditional upbringing with the presence of fairy tales and stories of love told to him since childhood, he’s missed out on a lot of “normal” societal things like this so he does not have a framework to understand his feelings through! no one told geralt that when you want to spend night and day with someone, sleep in the same bed, talk to them endlessly, and you feel like you can be completely honest and truly yourself and seen for who you really are around somebody... that’s love! 

before dandelion’s presence in geralt’s life, the idea of pleasant touch was really foreign to geralt. from contracts, he felt claws and teeth and maybe the sewing of a wound afterwards. from other contact with other humans, he felt nothing except the ocassional contemptous spitting or throwing of stones (legit what it says in the last wish). the witchers in KM seem to go for that masc shit (he and eskel hug for an imperceptable moment, blink and you’ll miss it) and i can imagine witchers roughhouse for fun and stuff like that, but in the outside world, with no one who could ever understand who he is, what he is, what role he was meant to play... it’s a very isolating life. 

i’m stealing an entire paragraph from this other post i wrote a while ago: “tbh there was probably an entire first week of their friendship where geralt flinched or became immediately alert when dandelion got close to him to speak, touch his arm in jest or gentle motion, or grabbed onto his hand, forearm, or sleeve in anxiety, because geralt just…. wasn’t used to anyone touching him, even in a passing or platonic manner.” geralt wasn’t used to kind touch, but he has highly trained mind-body coordination. i think in one part of tower of the swallow in a chapter prelude, witchers are called a “caste of warrior-priests” which just makes me think of the monk class in D&D... which can be a good analogy. geralt is NOT just a sellsword. his profession goes entirely much deeper, it’s literally what he was genetically altered to perform. this is why he has such a difficult time separating himself from his work, because it almost cannot be done. witchers do undergo extensive training, and especially individuals like geralt who are focused on ethics and morality take time to reconcile the physical and mental effects on their body. it’s not really just “guy with sword feels things physically bc that’s just how he’s wired,” but geralt has really tuned his soul and body together as a result of both his profession and coping with being forced into his profession.

so i think when dandelion introduces this concept of good touch to him in addition to the idea that he can be loved / deserves companionship, it’s natural for geralt as he becomes more in-tune with his emotions to feel them more physically. i ask whomstever is reading to take their mind out of the gutter bc this part at least is a nonsexual context, because they can put it straight back into the gutter later, since this post does involve dandelion.geralt’s emotions are practically on the same level of chronic pain as his shattered leg later on in the series. you know when you feel despair and grief in your chest, the tingling sensation of love in your arms and shoulders, the bristling anger on the back of your neck... it’s along those lines. 

so when he’s feeling emotions very heavily, and can’t begin to craft the statement beginning with, “so, i’m not supposed to feel emotions, but...” he just acts with his body. this can actually be seen in all the times he saves dandelion, saves yennefer (debatable b/c she’s pretty badass; it’s more like he helped her), and when he just runs to ciri without even needing to say anything in something more. 

in his worst times, geralt’s a man of philosophy and surmising and indecisiveness... like in baptism of fire, regis says that the cardinal directions have no meaning to him, as long as he is going somewhere... he paces around, and also like in baptism of fire, the song about the ornery wolf... look how the wolf dances in the holt / teeth bared, tail waving, leaping like a colt (...) look how the wolf is dragging his paws / head drooping, tail hanging, clenching his jaws (...)” ... but in his best times, he’s a man of action. he acts when it’s most important.

ok time to put your head back into the gutter now! i’ll put the nsfw stuff under a cut to save all of your eyes

this part can be treated like an add-on to the post. wow, all this writing just to say geralt doesn’t suck at sex... ok. 

well in terms of geralt x dandelion i think that after their first time together, dandelion accuses him of lying about how many people he’s fucked, because ‘it can’t possibly be that small of a number’ because geralt wasn’t awkward. he was very emotional as to be expected, but also we know he doesn’t tend to show emotions on his face, so the intense rippling feeling of love & desire he feels when dandelion pushes his hair back behind his ear flew under the radar. which is good in geralt’s perspective, because he strongly feels that it would be embarassing if dandelion knew how much he’s affected by him. honestly similarly, dandelion who’s not embarassed by much is at first apprehensive to think about his and geralt’s relationship, because usually he can just leave whenever he feels like it... but with geralt, it became different, geralt was no fling, and realizing this very early on in their relationship was alarming until dandelion did what he usually does and just drops it and remains happy. 

honestly you could make the argument (not outright STATING it... i’m not being h*rny on sideblog...) but you could argue, that geralt and dandelion have bomb ass sex because both of them are canonically good in bed, weirdly enough. geralt is pretty giving and loving in his sex scenes, even when it’s not even romantic and rather a crazed passion, like with fringilla. it’s canon that he’s a proponent of oral sex b/c he defends the concept in discussion with regis and also gives it canonically, so idk what to really say here except geralt’s a real one and sapkowski had a vision i guess for his main character. 

another important thing mentioned in geralt’s sex scenes is that he’s pretty intuitive with pacing. in the last wish, he and yennefer take their time and have quite a soft and loving experience, and in lady of the lake, he and fringilla experience this more sort of intense scenario. but i think these differences are meant to speak to the differences in love and relationships between the pairings... while geralt and yennefer experience an all-consuming love of mind and body, geralt and fringilla had more of a ... bad decision. this makes us have to headcanon for what the pairing of geralt and dandelion would be like, i’m inclined to say it would be a lot like geralt and yennefer because the thing about geralt and yennefer is that they find intimacy in each other that they’ve yearned for their entire lives, and geralt and dandelion have a lot of that similar energy of finding something in another that you’ve always longed for. 

especially towards the beginning of their relationship, i feel like just their abilities to be vulnerable are what drives them. of course, having emotional sex is a fireworks-type event for geralt, while for dandelion it’s more just like, 3 PM on a tuesday afternoon, so that affects their dynamic a lot, again especially in the beginning of their relationship before geralt met yennefer and villentretenmerth, because geralt really was just not sure of himself. dandelion’s very sure of himself so he kind of doesn’t realize that it’s the beginning of an Emotional Journey for geralt and not just something casual like eating brunch together. geralt becomes more confident over time though and that’s good but he still gets just regular pangs of gay love that stops your heart momentarily, from being ... in love... 

as for actual dynamic during i think it would be funny and good to keep them both in-character and interacting as they normally do. cue humorous arguments with no vitriol or consequence: “stop moaning in musical scales, it’s ruining my concentration” “no— fa so!” 

[pip-n-flinx]

What Lay Behind Us

I know my first chapter didn’t get much traction, but here is second chapter of the Witcher fic I’m working on!

“Legend has it they wilt unless nourished with blood, and also if it’s ever sold… But give it to someone you love, and it’ll live forever.”

“This one’s for you Triss. If there’s any truth to the legend it should never wilt, even if you pluck a petal or two.”

Triss found herself staring at the Rose of Remembrance that Geralt had given her more than six months ago. No one would ever accuse Triss Merigold of having a green thumb, and indeed she left the growing of herbs to the alchemists her whole life. But it still bloomed, beautiful as the day they had found in, growing on the elven statue in the garden.

    She’d carried it with her. Sentiment. Just couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind. Smiled every time she looked at it. Pulse elevated. Breathing ragged. And that bath afterwards. She missed him. So much. But he remembered Yen now. Heartbroken, she turned back. Too good to last. She’d known from the start. Even if she was beautiful, Yen was more. Much more. The Djinn had seen to that. Bound her crush to her friend. There were other men. Handsome men. Winsome pairings. Other witchers even. It didn’t matter. She looked into those gold eyes and her heart broke. Torn. Then she found him. He’d forgotten. Forgotten Yennefer. Forgotten the Djinn. And her emotions had swept her away. But she’d known, even then. Doomed, this tryst. Doomed from the very start.

    Tears slid down her face and quiet sobs racked her chest as she clutched the rose close. It was almost too much to bear, seeing him again. “It’ll be nice?” She asked herself as she sat on the stump that passed for a chair. “It’ll be nice?! What was I thinking?” More sobs, more tears. Embarrassing, Triss thought. As an advisor to the king, before the coup, before the assassins, before the war, before the witch hunt, before all this, she could have had most any aspiring noble. Most were fine enough, but no. Her heart had seen fit to fall for Geralt. This all would have been so much easier if she had fallen for any other man. Damn, even Emhyr var Emreis was a more likely husband then Geralt, bound as he was by his own wish. Damn him, and damn Yen too. Clenched teeth, silent sobs now. Crying over a rose that would never wilt, never die. A constant reminder both of her lover and her own indiscretion. But she couldn’t just leave it. Not here. Not anywhere. She’d carry around her badge of shame until she died...

    They’re writing songs of love, but not for me.

    A lucky stars above, but not for me.

    With love to lead the way,

    I’ve found more clouds of grey     Then any tragic play could guarantee.

    I was a fool to fall, and get that way.

    Oh woe! Alas! And oh so lack-a-day.

    So while I can’t dismiss

    The memory of their kiss

    I guess they’re not for me.

    Dandelion’s song had come back, unbidden. Damn that bard, his songwriting always hit too close to home. Prescient even. She’d even wondered if he had the gift of dreams, at one point. There were some things he had no way of knowing, but know them he did.

        She remembered clearly the day she had heard. About the Djinn, about the wishes… She hadn’t had time to weep, not in front of Yen. It was hard, hearing Yennefer rail against the man Triss had her heart set on. Harder still to hear Geralt had chosen this. She’d been bitter, she knew. Her friend had come back beautiful, and scorning the love of “that scheming, manipulative, golden eyed abomination!” if memory served. That had hurt more than anything.

    Later on, she’d taken the time to cry it out. Hell, she’d even taken Eskel to bed with her, trying to forget Geralt. It hadn’t worked, of course, and Eskel couldn’t have cared less. He just wanted the flame haired sorceress underneath him. So when she’d snuck into Kaer Mohren and to his bed, he hadn’t objected. Triss regretted the decision instantly. What was she trying to do after all? Make him jealous? All she’d gotten was a pale imitation of what Yennefer had. It was a mistake, and one she’d never owned up to. Not to Yen, nor Ciri. Not to the other witchers, and most certainly not to Geralt. She didn’t know if she could. No, she held that secret closer than she did even the Rose of Remembrance. That too, she would carry to her grave.

    Then Geralt had returned, remembering nothing. Not her name, barely her face, but perhaps more stunningly not Yennefer of Vengerberg either. It was too good to be true. It wouldn’t last. Whether it was a curse or just a bump on the head, eventually he’d be back to normal. He’d lived so many years, there was no way this would be the undoing of the Butcher of Blaviken. Nevertheless she’d taken advantage of it. It almost hurt more, realizing just how right she was. Eskel was a shadow of the man Geralt was. He’d fought through hordes of soldiers to save her, for no personal gain other than her favor. Risked his life countless times, even treated her like a lady on occasion. He wasn’t the most romantic man, true, but he didn’t lack for spirit or passion. It ached to remember him. The elven bath in the ruin, that mischievous glint in his eyes, the smirk. He flinched when he saw her naked, then tore off his clothes to jump in after her, nearly tripping along the way. It was… cute to see him so frazzled. After the stunning beauty that Yennefer had become, she had thought she would never make him swoon for her. True, she was fit. Some men even favored red heads. It had hurt to think she was a wilted flower beside her friend though. An additional strain on the relationship. But Geralt watcher her with eyes that flickered from near predatory desire to childlike wonder for a time. Gods she had missed him.

    And then back he strolled, right in on her meeting in Putrid Grove, bartering as if her life depended on it. Her life did depend on it, of course. It was hard to hide in a basement next to the fish market, the smell of fish and the stench of rotting meat never left her nose these days. A far cry from the oils, candles, perfumes and colognes of her past life. Into this, with Triss about as debased as she had felt since she was held tortured by Letho’s men, Geralt had walked. Memory restored.

    She had tried to duck out then. It had been too difficult meeting his eyes. It was always hard to read those vertical pupils, but his expression had softened when he looked at her. Bedlam had noticed too, damn him. Triss wondered why Geralt would hold anything but suspicion and hostility for her. She had, after all, used his amnesia to worm her way into his bed. Triss imagined she wouldn’t have been so kind had their roles been reversed. If someone had used amnesia to trick her into leaving Geralt, she certainly wouldn’t have any sympathy for them upon waking.

But when she tried to excuse herself he had followed. Offered to help. Swam in the filthy channel to retrieve her lost implements. Haggled on her behalf with Brandon. Defended her when Radovid’s goons were set on her. Again, he risked life and limb for her. She hadn’t even paid him first! She was sure that was against some ancient witcher code somewhere. She smiled through her tears.

She paused a moment, considering the rose in her hands. Come to think of it, shouldn’t it have wilted now? Surely now that Geralt remembered Yennefer he loved her and not… Perhaps the magic only cared if the rose were given in love? But then what sustained the spell? Surely a flower so fragile it required a blood sacrifice to grow couldn’t be sustained by a discreet act of love. Yet there it be, blooming as if he still loved her. Impossible. Another sob racked her chest.

“What was I thinking, inviting him here!”

“I come at a bad time?”

Whirling, she saw him. Damn. Crying so much I don’t even notice the Butcher of Blaviken walk in.

“No,” she managed to stammer while dashing tears from her cheeks “now’s fine.”

    She even managed to muster a small smile for him. Why now of all times. She hadn’t thought to see him until at least tomorrow. Never in her wildest thoughts would he come to her immediately. It had scant been an hour since he had set off, back fading into the dim sun and smog of the Novigrad evening. Candles flickered around them, on the meager desk and on the small bed frame that made up her abode. She was embarrassed, frankly. It was hardly the kind of dwelling she wanted to invite handsome men home to. Though she supposed, upon review, that this was preferable to him walking in on her chained to the wall, blood crusted on her lips and eyes swollen nearly shut. At least then she had felt relieved when he walked in the room. Now she was more nervous than ever.

“See you kept that Rose of Remembrance I gave you back in Flotsam”

“Seems so long ago. Probably because so much has changed.” 

    Setting the rose aside, not wanting to dwell on it with Geralt right here, she turned back. Now would be a good time to change the subject. Anything would be better than this. Well, maybe not stories of Geralt and Yen’s love-life. That might send her over the edge. Ciri. That was a safe topic. She opened her mouth to try and divert this before the conversation spiraled out of her control, but he beat her to the punch.

“How long you been in Novigrad?”

“Long enough to know how not to get caught, and to survive.” “And before you came here, where were you?”

“Oh, places… where I managed to get by without your help, too.”

    Too biting, she could tell. He even averted his eyes at that one. Damn him, why did he have to pry? She was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Ready for his questions to get personal again. A sigh, a grimace. She didn’t want to chase him away, but she needed some time to gather her thoughts.

“Which doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you...”

    Eyes averted, fidgeting with her hair, feet dragging side to side in the sand of the floor. Damn, he’s got me acting like I’m twelve years old again, nervous in front of a boy. It’d be too much to ask that he not notice. Witchers tended to notice everything. Even the dim light wouldn’t hide her blush from him, certainly not at this distant. She could tell he’d washed up a bit, he didn’t smell of river and sewage anymore.

“You know Triss, it's good to see you again”

    Good? To see me? She could barely keep up with today. It’d been bewildering enough to see him again, but this? This was too much. She wanted nothing so much as to run into his arms again. What would he do? Triss hadn’t the foggiest idea what Geralt intended by coming here.

“Your rose is still blooming I see. Almost as red as your hair too.”

    Compliments? She raised her head only to see the man blushing. Blushing! A nervous laugh escaped her lips. Was this a dream?

“Flatterer. Tis a far deeper shade of red than my hair. Your rose is far prettier too,” she said, gently caressing one petal with her left hand.

Taking a moment to revel in the feel, the texture. Soft as silk, nearly creamy on her skin, and redder than blood. A fitting memoriam of their time together. She’d always wished for more stable times, when great gouts of fire and magic were less necessary. She never wanted to live in such troubled times. Perhaps she’d been born at the wrong time, the wrong age. Maybe a hundred years from now…. 

She stifled the thought. She’d trade no amount of shame and suffering for her time with this witcher. Smiling broader this time, she looked back up at him. His eyes had followed her fingers, and she left a finger on the rose petal in what she hoped was a dainty gesture.

“Explain something to me, Witcher.”