#geraskier fic

[samstree]

“Oh, a shooting star!” Jaskier gasps at the night sky, closing his eyes. “Hush, I need to do this right. I wish…”

For Ciri to be safe.

For Yen to find peace.

For Geralt…

“Wasting your three wishes again?” Geralt hugs the blanket around them, huffing by Jaskier’s ear. “Hmm, let me guess. Fame, wealth… what’s the third one?”

Jaskier winks. “The third one, darling, needs no help from the stars.”

For Geralt to be loved, he thinks quietly, solemnly.

“Death upon Valdo Marx?” Geralt smiles.

“Death upon Valdo Marx, of course,” Jaskier agrees, kissing the shape of that smile.

[podcastenthusiast]

"Here should be safe to set up camp," Geralt says, scanning the treeline with his eyes in that odd witcher way. Like he's seeing much more than a mere mortal could.

"Thank the gods," sighs Jaskier, who's been really starting to regret skiving off those physical fitness courses at Oxenfurt.

"Get a fire started while I tend to Roach."

"Oh Geralt, I'd love to, I would. Truly it's colder than a sorceress' shapely—"

"Jaskier."

"Well, as they say: you can lead a bard to timber, but you can't make him—"

"Just do it, Jaskier."

"I don't know how! All right? I've never built a fire in the middle of nowhere before! It's not one of the seven liberal arts, and I much prefer my fires stoked by comely barmaids in taverns."

Geralt looks at him for a long moment. It's a complicated look—frustration and amusement and a hint of regret. Mostly it's a look that says Jaskier is an idiot for joining him on the Path.

"Right," Geralt says slowly. He begins building the campfire himself.

"I imagine they teach wilderness survival to baby witchers at witcher school."

Geralt looks at him again and there's something different in his expression. The ghost of a smile? Jaskier doesn't quite know how to read it.

"Kaer Morhen," he says. "And yeah. Something like that."

"Oh?" Jaskier has to rein in his enthusiasm, his curious questions. Geralt so rarely reveals anything personal about himself or his past. Not that Jaskier has been forthcoming in that regard either. They live in the moment, day by day, but some context would help his creative process.

Besides all that, he genuinely wants to get to know Geralt a little better.

"Vesemir took me out into the forest one day. Gave me a knife and left me there for a month."

There is no bitterness in his words. If anything, the witcher sounds...almost fond. Nostalgic. Proud of his younger self for overcoming the challenges his mentors set before him.

It takes a moment for the true meaning of that to sink in and, once it does, Jaskier is horrified. His own parents weren't great, but even they would never simply abandon him.

"He just— like as a test— what—?"

"Real eloquent, bard. I doubt he had any choice. Probably wasn't even supposed to give me anything."

"How old were you?" he demands, unsure if any answer will make this revelation less abhorrent.

"Six? Seven? Maybe eight. I don't know." Geralt makes a gesture with his fingers and the pile of wood beneath his hand sparks with flame. "Not old enough to have learned Igni yet."

He can picture it, too, so vividly. Curse his dammed artist's imagination. Geralt, just a kid, alone and scared and definitely cold—because no one bothered to teach him how to start a fire.

"Stop it," the witcher snaps.

"What?"

"Looking at me like that. I'm fine. I was fine back then. Wasn't so bad at all compared to the Grasses. Vesemir came back for me like he said he would. I survived the trial—no, I didn't just survive; I exceeded all expectations, which is why they..." The witcher trails off. Takes a breath.

All of that... It's quite a lot of words for Geralt. Honest words, even.

It's his job to talk, to sing, to commit the most painful and difficult experiences to beautiful poetic verse. But Jaskier doesn't know what to say to his friend right now. Surely he has to say something.

"Geralt..."

"Don't waste your pity. Save it for the ones who didn't make it through. I did."

"Okay," the bard replies, careful and tentative. He isn't a brave man, nor a particularly kind one. But Jaskier considers himself an honest fellow so he adds, "Just because you made it through, you know, that doesn't mean what happened to you was all right, Geralt. Children aren't supposed to be left alone to fend for themselves."

The witcher laughs—a humorless, wretched sound. He doesn't say anything at all to that. Which is okay, really; Jaskier just needed him to hear it.

There is a long silence. The fire crackles. Jaskier absently strums his lute.

"You're gonna write a ballad about this, aren't you," Geralt says after a while.

"No!" Maybe. Yes. He won't perform it.

"Hm."

The fire crackles.

Quite out of the blue, Geralt tells him, "I befriended a wolf back then."

"What? You're joking!"

"Witchers don't have a sense of humor. Common knowledge."

"Common misconception. Most people are just stupid. No, hang on, stop distracting me—You had a pet wolf?!"

"Not a pet," the witcher corrects, smiling faintly. "Fangtooth was her own wolf."

"Fangtooth?" Jaskier repeats, struggling to contain his amusement. "Not Roach?"

"No."

"Forgive me, but that's adorable."

"I was just a child. I wanted to stay with her in the wilderness. Be a wolf, too. Or a knight." He shakes his head dismissively. Silly childish dreams.

"But you didn't," Jaskier says. And feels stupid for saying something so obvious.

"Too late for that," Geralt replies without reproach. "I was already a witcher."

"As a child, I wanted to run away and join the circus," the bard offers.

"Of course you did."

They're quiet for a moment then. Comfortable, shared silence. Just the sounds of birds and forest creatures, and Roach contentedly eating grass. The fire crackles.

"Geralt, will you teach me to light a fire? Without witcher magic, obviously, since I don't have any."

"Why?"

"Because...well, because I could be a more useful traveling companion. Like Fangtooth must've been."

"...Fine," Geralt agrees after some thought.

It is a skill he will be very grateful to have on freezing nights in the coming years, especially whenever the witcher is too injured or ill from those dreadful potions to help set up camp. He will try not to think of the child Geralt once was, subjected to horrific tests of his ability to survive all on his own.

Except he hadn't been on his own back then, not completely. And he isn't alone anymore, either.

[aramblingjay]

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

-

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

-

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

-

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

-

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

-

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

-

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

[jaskiercommabard]

Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛

I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams. 

Not Jaskier.

It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice. 

Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest. 

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”

He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot. 

Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town. 

“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”

It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.

It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.

“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”

Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too. 

The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-

And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth. 

It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.

"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears. 

The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.

“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!” 

For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter. 

They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.

The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone. 

What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus. 

The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.

**

The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.

He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty. 

Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-

“In here, Geralt!”

In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own. 

“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”

His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.

“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”

Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer. 

“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway. 

There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over. 

The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.

“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.” 

The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.

“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.” 

“Jask. Stop.” 

Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms. 

He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further. 

After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.” 

“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster. 

“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-” 

He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.

Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.

“It had my voice.”

He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.

“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword. 

“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay. 

Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy. 

“Did you know?”

A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.

“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”

The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.

“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart. 

He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?

"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling. 

Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.

Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying. 

He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.

Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.

[weird-an]

“I can take a look,” the stranger offers. “I work in…pest control.”

Jaskier eyes the fishnet in his hands. “Right.”

“My name is Geralt,” Geralt says. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Who the fuck has a last name that starts with “of”? And Rivia of all places? 

Read more on AO3.

[bambirex]

Tell It With Your Heart

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 2,504

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️

It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe

Read on Ao3

**

Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.

It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.

It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.

That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.

It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.

When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.

But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.

Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.

"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.

"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.

*

The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.

They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.

Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.

"What about you?"

"Lie down, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.

"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.

"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."

"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"

Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.

It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.

*

"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."

"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.

"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.

They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.

"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.

He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

"What is it? Something for Roach?"

Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.

"It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.

"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."

Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.

He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.

"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."

"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."

*

Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.

He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.

Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.

He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.

"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."

"Did it help you create better?"

"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."

"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.

Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.

He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.

Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.

He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.

"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."

"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."

"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.

"Do you not want it?"

"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."

"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.

Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.

*

The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.

"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"

Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.

"And I'm only thirty-five!"

"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."

"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"

"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."

"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."

His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.

"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.

"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."

Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.

Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.

"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."

"You take care of me as well."

"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."

Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."

Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."

Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.

"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."

He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."

He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.

"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.

"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."

Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.

[nezmar13]

Taking care of his Witcher

New fic of Jaskier taking care of Geralt, even in the most of unconventional ways

Check it out at link below where is also the complete nsfw version of the fanart

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

If you're still doing the kissing prompts, geraskier and 30.

30. Kiss as comfort

Jaskier saddled up against his side on the log, as the bard always did at night while they sat around the campfire.

Geralt had grown used to listening to his complaints about the cold autumn weather. He barely felt the urge to point out he’d told him numerous times to buy better clothes.

“You feel warm,” Jaskier stated. He leaned his head against Geralt’s shoulder, and they sat there watching the rabbit cook on the skewers stabbed into the ground beside the fire.

The flames licked up into the air, the wood crackling and creating a heady scent.

Geralt shifted his weight, pulling Jaskier flush against him.

“You’re too bony,” he observed.

“Catch me more rabbits and I’ll fatten up nicely,” Jaskier joked.

Geralt hummed. If they had more coin, he would buy more meals for the bard. It would keep him warmer out here in the middle of the wilderness.

He turned the rabbits, catching the paler side of the meat.

“Won’t be long,” he said when Jaskier’s stomach grumbled.

“It’s fine, darling, I can wait.”

It took another ten minutes before the rabbit was ready and Geralt put an extra handful of meat on Jaskier’s portion. He needed all the strength he could get, but he didn’t need to know the witcher was doing it.

Hearing Jaskier moan in delight at eating their simple, warm meal was enough of a reward.

If he watched his jaw working, those lips shining with animal grease as he chewed, then hopefully the bard never found out.

He wanted to kiss those lips, to feel them move against him, but he couldn’t. The bard deserved someone better to be with. Someone who didn’t bring him danger at every turn.

Later that night, they snuggled together in their shared bedroll. It had been many years since they'd slept in their own individual beds.

Geralt lay facing out into the wild dark while the bard slept soundly between him and the fire, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

He could feel the little puffs of breath Jaskier made against his neck and each one made him ache with want. When he dreamed these days, it was of little noises of happiness the bard would make when they kissed.

It was a sweet torment, one that had him grumbling to the bard most days when all he wanted to do was the opposite.

He just couldn’t let him know. Witchers were not meant to want anything. Nothing for themselves, at least.

But he did want. He wanted so badly to turn around and place a tender kiss upon Jaskier’s cheek, and yet he couldn’t.

Instead, he counted the days and thought about how much it would be a relief and a curse to say goodbye to Jaskier when they reached the next big town.

The next day, Jaskier woke up late to the smell of freshly cooked eggs and roasted partridge.

“Ooh, what a delight,” he said, stretching his legs and arms out, then sitting up. “A girl could get used to this.”

Geralt hummed, like he always did when he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t reveal all his secrets.

“Yes, I know, Geralt, it was rather lovely of you. You do such a good job looking after me.”

Jaskier stood up and brushed his hair with his hands, grabbing Geralt’s cloak and wrapping it around himself.

Geralt plated the food and handed it to Jaskier, who took it and then, leaning over him, placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

It took Geralt’s breath away. The feeling of those soft lips against his rough skin made him forget what he was doing.

He did manage to stand up after, his posture stiff. Jaskier blinked at him slowly.

“You feeling alright?”

“Ye-Yeah.”

Geralt turned around and grabbed his own plate, much smaller than what he had given Jaskier.

Hopefully not noticeably different. His tongue didn’t work at the best of times, but right now he felt like he would blurt out the truth if he opened his mouth.

‘I’m in love with you, Jaskier.’

The words twisted around in his mind while he listened to Jaskier eat.

Like everything the bard did, he was noisy. Over the years, it brought a sense of comfort until the nights he slept alone became unbearable.

Geralt couldn’t let Jaskier know. That would be the end of their friendship and that would break him more than he could even explain.

He could never reveal anything to his friend. Jaskier was his mouthpiece, persuading aldermen to pay the amount they promised and innkeepers to allow a witcher to say.

The bard was a master of charm. Most of the time, anyway.

Geralt had seen Jaskier throw himself at some questionable people over the years and that’s usually when the bard would say something stupid.

‘You’ve got a sexy neck, like a goose.’

Most people would have died of embarrassment, but the bard just kept on going.

The thing about that encounter was how Geralt longed to be the person Jaskier was trying to seduce.

Not just a friend he gave compliments to or placed soft kisses against his forehead to say thanks.

Geralt wanted more. He needed more. He just couldn’t have more.

Nice things weren’t suitable for witchers.

Soft things like Jaskier weren’t meant to give grumpy monsters comfort.

His hands twitched as he picked up a handful of partridge, the plate wobbling in his grip briefly.

Jaskier seemed to notice the movement from the way he raised an eyebrow. It was almost comical if not for how Geralt felt so exposed.

He ducked his head down, staring at the food, and chewed slowly.

The bird meat tasted good, a rare treat after so many days of rabbit. No amount of seasoning could change the fact they had eaten it for every meal since the crescent moon.

Tonight, the moon would be almost full as it rose into the sky. Geralt looked to the sky, seeing it clear, the warmth of the sun spreading across it.

Small birds flew overhead, tweeting in panic. Geralt looked around, searching for signs something was wrong.

And then he smelled it: an acrid smell that told him Jaskier was not happy.

Locking eyes with the bard, Geralt realised his mistake.

Jaskier wasn't only unhappy. He was downright furious.

"You, witcher," he snapped. "You think you can pull the wool over my eyes."

He stood up, marched over the short distance between them and tossed a large piece of partridge onto Geralt's plate.

"Do you think I'm stupid? That I won't notice you serving me more food than you when all I'm doing is walking after you? You're the one fighting monsters day after day."

Geralt glanced down at his plate for only a second, but it seemed to be enough time for Jaskier to launch into another tirade.

"The first time, I thought you'd simply mixed up the plates. Then last night, I was unsure, but I thought you must've been having an off day. And this morning, well, now I know you're doing this on purpose. Am I that much of a liability to you?"

Jaskiers breathing was heavy, nostrils flaring. His heart was beating fast, pumping blood around his veins and gearing him up for a fight.

Not that Jaskier would hit him. Shout at him, yes.

"I'm sorry, I…"

"Why are you doing this to yourself? Do you ever stop to think how I might feel if you died because your body didn't have all the energy it needs to fight off a monster? I couldn't live with that."

Geralt blinked, trying to process what Jaskier was saying.

"I wouldn't die…"

"Oh, no. And all those stories of witchers from yesteryear who died on the path are just bollocks?"

The weight of Jaskier's eyes on him was intense. Geralt bowed his head, the plate he held feeling awkward in his hands.

Jaskier spluttered, "Got nothing to say?"

"Why do you care?" Geralt asked, sounding harsher than he meant it.

Jaskier spluttered, "Care? Why do I care? I'll tell you why, Mr Geralt of Rivia, because I've travelled with you for twenty years and you've never pulled this shit before. Everything has always been fair and equal between us, regardless of your brawn and my charm. Our meals were split 50/50. That was until after Rience and then you started acting weird. What is this, Geralt?"

The scent changed, moving to a deep sorrow.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered under his breath. This was not what he wanted to happen.

"Oh, yeah. Of course. I should've known. I’m a burden and you feel guilty." Jaskier folded his arms. "Well, I won't have it, witcher. You better buck up your ideas. I'm not weak."

"I've never thought of you as weak."

Jaskier scoffed.

"It's true. I don't think you're weak. You're a survivor. You're stronger than most people I know. But I can't lose you."

"That's not up to you."

They stared at each other for a second too long, then Jaskier looked away.

He turned, facing away from Geralt. His hands flexed by his side.

"Jaskier…"

"Don't, Geralt. I've told you that before."

His voice was wavering, thick with emotion. Geralt knew his eyes would be filled with tears, and he didn't want to cause Jaskier to feel that way again.

He'd caused a permanent scar when he'd yelled at Jaskier on that godsforesaken mountain.

And if he hadn't done that, Rience might not have gotten to him.

Geralt closed his eyes and swallowed.

"I love you," he breathed.

When he opened his eyes, Jaskier was still standing away from him, not turning around and looking at him like he expected.

If Geralt couldn't smell the confusion on him, he would have assumed he hadn't heard him.

But Jaskier still hadn't turned around.

He took a step towards him, noting the way his back was rigid.

"I love you, Jaskier. And it's my fault, all of it. If I could only see what I know now back then. I would never have sent you packing. I would never have lost you."

"Geralt," Jaskier said, his voice cracking. "If this is some game."

"It's not," he said, taking the final step between them and wrapping his arms around him. "I love you."

The sob that left Jaskier was choked, but he turned in Geralt's arms, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

His ear was pressed against his cheek and Geralt twisted to press a kiss against it.

Then another against his hairline when Jaskier didn't complain.

The air around them thickened with a sweet smell, happiness slowly overcoming the sorrowful emotions.

Jaskier pulled back slightly, just enough to turn his face towards Geralt and press their lips together.

Time seemed to slow down, hands coming up to cup each other's face, pouring their love into the kiss.

Those lips felt warm and just as soft as they had on his forehead. Each brush of lips—hands slipping into hair, needing each other—Geralt didn't want to let go.

They did eventually part, because Jaskier really needed to breathe. They stood, sharing each other's air, eyes roaming over each other's faces.

There was a small smirk tugging at Jaskier's lips. Geralt felt himself smile in return.

"Well, this was unexpected."

Geralt didn't answer. All he could focus on was the rhythmic beat of Jaskier's heart and the wet shine on his lips.

The heat of him, burning into his skin through their clothes.

His hands moved up and down Jaskier’s upper back, holding him close.

There could never be anything as perfect as this.

It was comforting.

"Geralt," Jaskier said.

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me again."

Without hesitation, Geralt leaned in and their lips touched once more. They melded into one another, and for the first time, everything settled within him.

It finally felt like Geralt belonged somewhere, and it was right here in Jaskier's arms.

Thank you for the prompt. Apologies it took me a bit of time to get round to it, but you're still one of the first to be filled.

List of kiss prompts

[nullio]

If anyone has any Geraskier fic recs in the 20,000 to 30,000 word range, I'd like to hear them :3

I just finished Echo by ravenbringslight and now I'm in a Jask and Geralt mood

Particularly if they're a little angsty, but always with a happy ending. I only read stories with happy endings 🥲

[all-or-nothing-baby]

WHEN THE NIGHT HAS COME AND THE LAND IS DARK

.

Sometimes, on cold nights—and even some not-so-cold nights—Geralt wakes abruptly in the forest with something tickling his cheek and bothering the inside of his nostrils.

Jaskier's hair is like silken web; soft and fine, and fucking irritating when it tangles itself in your eyelashes like dandelion fluff caught in tree sap.

On these particular cold (and not-so-cold) nights, Geralt wants to grunt loudly and swear and push Jaskier roughly from Geralt's space on Geralt's bed roll because what the fuck, bard?

He never does though.

Not even this time, as Geralt awakes to that mass of brunette spiderwebs in his actual fucking mouth, with one of Jaskier's surprisingly muscular arms and a long shapely leg wrapped tightly around Geralt's midriff as if the cretin is some sort of tentacled ocean dweller. Oh, and, for fucks sake, the idiot bard's stupid slackened, drool-covered face mashed right into the crook of Geralt's neck.

Half blowing, half spitting Jaskier's hair from his mouth, Geralt balls his fists and grits his teeth and sighs, heavily.

With the moon fat and high in the inky sky and sounds of the wild all around them, he will try once more to find sleep.

Closing his eyes again, Geralt pointedly ignores how Jaskier smells of lavender and forest ferns. He shuns the way Jaskier's soft, rhythmic snores play their easy tune in his ear. He takes no note of Jaskier's even heartbeat and how the sound of it is a welcome comfort in the dead of night, pays no heed to the shallow breaths leaving Jaskier's mouth and the way each exhale warms more than just the spot underneath Geralt's jawbone, and he doesn't spare even a bit of attention for the way those smooth lips with their perfect cupid's bow feel on the skin of his throat as Jaskier mutters the sweetest song lyrics from his dreams.

As sleep finally does pull him under, Geralt also most definitely does not take to heart the way the idiot bard makes everything better.

.

(from my deleted witcher blog behonesthowsmysinging)

[samstree]

The bandage comes off, and Geralt sees the scar for the first time in a mirror on Jaskier’s desk. His face is blurry in the reflection, but the jagged, angry thing is unmistakable, running across his left eye and reaching the middle of his cheek. A souvenir, from the cockatrice’s claw.

“Fitting look,” Geralt murmurs, “for a monster.”

Perhaps it’s the lingering ache in his body, the discomfort of the half-healed scar, or the blood loss he hasn’t quite recovered from, but the sentence slips out. Geralt didn’t mean for it to happen—he’s learned not to in Jaskier’s presence, even if he whispers the truth in the darkest corners of his mind.

“Do you know what I’d do to those who dare to use that word on you?” Jaskier warns, taking Geralt’s arm and guiding him back to the bed. He towers over Geralt like this, lips pressed into a thin line. “The barkeep the other day? Ran off with a broken nose. That rude Baron at court? The old sod no longer has a court. Some dirt came out. He got chased out of his own land and left penniless, last I heard.” He recounts patiently, voice flat. “A student of mine attempted a cheeky joke once. He was near crying when he left my office. If not, the thirty-page additional essay on the history of nonhumans would have done it.”

Jaskier holds himself tall and proud, the stone-cold protectiveness behind his eyes an impenetrable wall. Geralt suddenly feels a little scared. Just a little bit, but enough for him to fall in love all over again.

“Hmm.” Geralt looks up, catching Jaskier’s piercing eyes. “What punishment shall I receive, then?”

Jaskier only studies him, squinting hard. The serious expression makes Geralt think he is about to get another lecture on not putting himself down, and he silently braces for it. An angry dressing-down from Jaskier is no joke. The teenage boy at Oxenfurt had no idea what hit him.

But Geralt’s breath catches when Jaskier lifts his chin with one finger. A gentle kiss lands on his eyebrow, right where the claw mark begins.

The scar tissue tingles under Jaskier’s soft lips, oversensitive but not painful. Geralt closes his eyes as Jaskier trails down, peppering small kisses on his eyelid, and then along the shape of the scar. When their lips meet, the kiss remains chaste. Jaskier simply kisses him softly, again, and again, until Geralt is breathless with emotions.

Jaskier pulls away after what feels like a lifetime, humming contently. He still observes Geralt with a defiant look.

“There. Fitting punishment,” he whispers, “for you.”

Jaskier’s finger slips away, and Geralt is left woozy for a long time. The scar now feels too tender, but for completely different reasons.

It must still be the blood loss, he reckons.

[podcastenthusiast]

I read an article about Geralt's chronic pain in book canon, then I remembered Dr. Joachim von Gratz in Witcher 3 saying he could tell Geralt broke his leg at some point. So I took all that and ran with it for this.

---

Geralt is in pain.

It's an odd phrase, he thinks as he trudges up the stairs to their room. Like pain is a physical place he could escape if he only knew how.

Vesemir had taught them long ago that pain is simply information. Its message should be acknowledged and the rest discarded as useless sensation. A witcher who can't handle pain is a dead witcher, after all; they were forged in agony.

Geralt can never figure out what all of the pain wants him to know, if anything. Why it flares up like this. It's just outdated information.

They're staying at an inn tonight. What used to be a rare luxury on the Path has become commonplace, at least in Jaskier's company. Good thing, too; an unrelenting spring rainstorm is raging outside. Thunder rumbles a mile away and he can taste electricity in the air, not unlike the pain that zaps through his leg with each step.

Jaskier had called for the tub in their room to be filled, thankfully. Geralt casts Igni on the water until it's almost too hot even for a witcher, and sinks into the bath with a relieved sigh. Warmth dulls the pain somewhat, like a blunted blade beneath his skin, but it's still there.

He eventually must leave the bath, however. Getting himself dressed somehow saps away the last of his energy, and Geralt deposits his aching body onto the bed after, letting his mind drift as much as it can. Jaskier is hovering in his periphery. He's talking, as ever, envigorated by an adoring audience, eyes a little wine-bright. Try as he might, Geralt can't focus on his words. There's a cacophony of sounds around him—rain and Jaskier's heartbeat and drunken revelry downstairs and animals in the forest just beyond the village. But eclipsing it all is the pain.

Years of experience and witcher training allows him to bear it without letting the weakness show. He can live with pain, like he lives with the foul taste of potions and their aftereffects, with teleportation sickness and wearing scratchy doublets to formal occasions. With human cruelty. The blood on his hands.

"Geralt, have you been listening at all?"

"Hm."

"Right. You're not even here right now, I see."

"Hmm."

He isn't here. He's not in this room or even this country; he is in pain.

"Move over, then. You're taking up the entire bed and I'm knackered."

Geralt does move. It nearly steals the breath from his lungs. He curls in on himself, instinctively, as if the pain weren't coming from within.

"Something is wrong. What is it?"

Jaskier sounds serious now. Geralt doesn't want to ruin his evening.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Geralt—"

"I said I'm fine. Leave it, Jaskier!"

He stands up then as if to prove it, but his treacherous knee refuses to cooperate with the simplest command and buckles under his weight. The pain, which had briefly lodged itself near his hip, suddenly radiates sharply down his leg in nauseating waves. He curses.

"You're hurt, aren't you. I thought I saw you favoring one leg earlier. Was it the griffin? Geralt, you have to tell me these things—"

"No," he grits out. "I'm not injured."

"And I'm not stupid, you know. You can barely walk! Clearly—"

"Old wounds. Just...still troubles me sometimes. All right? Nothing to worry about."

There is a long, uncharacteristic silence following his confession. Geralt fears he may have finally broken him.

"Well," the bard says at last, "You're a fool if you think that will stop me worrying about you."

"I can manage." His arm doesn't hurt much tonight, at least, and he gets to sleep in a real bed. Small mercies.

"Oh, I've no doubt of that, certainly. You're the most stubborn man I've ever known. I also know you rarely permit yourself even the slightest modicum of comfort."

"Jaskier..."

"Does anything help when it gets bad?"

"Potions. Meditation." Jaskier looks hopeful at this, and he feels a little guilty for having to crush those hopes so soon when he adds, "But not this time. I don't have enough potions to waste them like that."

"Meditation, then? I can be as quiet as you need, contrary to popular belief."

"Hurts too much," Geralt admits. Then, maybe to ease Jaskier's concern, he says, "The bath helped a little."

"Good, that's a start. Now, I know what works for me might not work for you, but I've a few remedies. Will you let me try to help?"

"Didn't know you were a priestess of Melitele," he grumbles.

"Sadly the temple refused to accept me for study, can't imagine why, so I had to become a bard instead," he quips.

"I thought you were tired."

Jaskier ignores this comment. He can hear the bard rummaging around in his bag.

"Where is it. This salve saved my life when I was a student at Oxenfurt. They had us practicing the lute for hours and hours; I thought my hands would fall off. My wrists still hurt sometimes. Then there was the— Ah! There. Geralt? Still with me?"

"Yes. What?"

"Normally I prefer to say this under much more pleasant circumstances, but: trousers off, if you please."

He groans. Doesn't Jaskier understand how much work it was to get them on?

It's a slow process, mostly because he refuses any help with it.

"Oh, Geralt," he says softly. The bard touches his knee, gentle as a summer breeze. "It does look swollen here."

In truth, he's strangely glad of that. It's much worse somehow when it hurts and yet appears perfectly normal.

"Are you allergic to any herbs? This has got, uh, let's see. Chamomile, willow bark, ginger, essential oil of—"

"I drink poison on a regular basis, Jaskier. Apply the damn salve already."

He does. Geralt closes his eyes. He isn't sure any simple salve will even be enough to touch the pain, but the way Jaskier massages his leg seems to ease a bit of the tension coiled in his muscles, if nothing else. After a while he starts to relax. He listens to the rain. He breathes.

"'M sorry I snapped at you earlier," Geralt murmurs into the pillow. "Wasn't fair."

"It wasn't. But you're already forgiven. Feeling any better?"

Geralt shrugs, because while it is becoming background noise again, he's still in pain. Pretty much always is. No amount of soft touches or herbs or magic can fix that completely.

Being here in pain with Jaskier, though, is better than being alone.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

@roughentumble I attempted drabble, sticking to 100 words is so fucking hard

"How do we always wind up in such wretched places?" Jaskier hisses. The boat lurches beneath them and he's nearly sick.

Beside him in the dark, Geralt huffs a laugh, oiling his sword with, well, with some kind of oil, Jaskier has no idea exactly which. "It's the best way to hunt a siren, catch them unawares."

"You'll be careful though, won't you? You won't get swayed by their songs?"

Again Geralt laughs, this time reeling him in close. "The only one swaying me with their songs is you."

Jaskier supposes he can live with that. Definitely worth the seasickness.

[jaskiercommabard]

Hey! It's moonykins from AO3! You asked for a prompt so here's one: Jaskier getting hurt on a hunt he was perhaps not supposed to be on and Geralt feeling guilty because Jaskier could have died. Geralt can take care of Jaskier and bandage him up and Jaskier probably survived because of his own dumb luck. Feelings can come out? I really suck with ideas but I wanted to give you something <3

Thank you ANGEL for this prompt, this was interesting and fun to write. Thank you also for your very thoughtful and encouraging words.

This one got away from me again, probably to no one's surprise. I hope it's alright!

Read on AO3 (4k)

************************

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No! You’re telling me they aren’t related to mermaids at all?”

Geralt nods sagely and knocks back the last of his ale, then hails the barkeep to refill their cups as Jaskier hides a smile. It’s a balmy spring night, late enough in the season that the hearth in the Drunken Gull remains unlit - a treat, this far north, one that has both their shirts unbuttoned - and he’s caught Geralt in the rare, talkative mood that only strikes him when he’s been paid up front for an easy contract.

“But the songs-”

“Lies.”

“The stories!” Jaskier flaps a hand above his head, gesturing vaguely to stars that - he presumes, despite being in the midst of a revelation - still hang in the sky above the roof of the tavern. “The constellation! The Seven Sirens, Geralt!”

“In Zerrikania, they call those stars the Seven Goats,” he deadpans, amusement sparking in his rolling eyes. "Goats aren't relatives of mermaids either. Write that down."

Geralt taps the songbook laid open on the table, flicks Jaskier's nose when he tries to shut the witcher’s finger in it.

“You're a menace, you know. Terrible. I thought they were just…just..” Jaskier’s hand flutters in the air again. “Ornery, flying mermaids!”

“Mm. Common misconception. Sirens aren’t sentient - not like merpeople or humans, anyway. More like…sharks. Or wasps.”

“But they look like-” 

Geralt slaps his broad palm down on the bartop. “But they look like women!”

Jaskier can’t help his startled laugh, and Geralt huffs easily back at him. His mouth is twisted up at the corner, amber eyes expectant, and it’s…something. It’s something. 

“Go on then, witcher, tell me. Why do they look like women?”

Jaskier leans in close like he's asking for a secret. Geralt leans in close like he's telling one.

“It’s not a mutation. It’s an adaptation,” he says. His breath smells like honey and hops and the flagon of vodka Jaskier’s goaded him into drinking. 

"Brilliant," the bard says. 

"Effective," the witcher concedes. "Up close, once you get them riled, they change. It’s…” 

His voice drops off, eyes shuttering slightly. 

“Ugly?” Jaskier provides.

“Ugly,” he confirms, but he’s still frowning. His fingers tap the bar restlessly, disturbing the beads of condensation gathered below their mugs, and Jaskier's eyes get caught on the motion. 

On nights like this - nights when they’ve been laughing - something ancient always comes to settle itself heavily over Geralt. He knows better than to try and lift it.

Jaskier clears his throat, pulling them both from their separate thoughts. When he grins at Geralt, his companion hums agreeably enough in return, and it's as close to a goodnight as they'll get. 

Jaskier claps him on the shoulder anyway, squeezing to pull himself up. He's just on the right edge of drunk, perilously close to giving himself a wicked hangover if he doesn't quit - that won't do, now that he has plans for the morning. 

“Thank you for indulging me, my friend.” 

Geralt shrugs easily, lifting his palms as Jaskier gathers up his untouched quill and empty songbook. 

"On my own head be it." 

So really, all things considered, it's not even Jaskier's fault that he ends up trailing Geralt to the shore the following morning, not with an invitation like that. 

**

After no small amount of charm laid on the baker’s daughter and the stablehand's father, Jaskier finds himself with a honey-soaked bun in one hand and a crudely drawn trail map in the other. Trail might be overselling it, really - it’s little more than a footpath of tamped-down grass, with dense sagebrush and gently drooping ferns encroaching so heavily from both sides that it disappears altogether in some places. A layer of oppressive fog, so thick it hides most of the formidable Koviri mountain range in its haze, doesn’t ease the way either, but Jaskier is a coastal boy. He follows the call of seabirds and takes his time licking the honey from his fingers as he picks his way toward the ocean. 

Eventually, the dense forest starts to give way to the coast and the hard-packed dirt beneath Jaskier’s boots becomes slippery with silt. Younger trees take the place of the massive ones, bending out from the soil at impossible angles where the ocean has washed it away to expose their roots. When the trail finally disappears completely, he finds himself on a high, rocky outcropping above the sea. It occurs to him that the view must be astonishing on a clear day, but as it is, the fog sits so thick above the turbulent sea that he could almost pluck it from the sky like spun sugar. 

Spotting Geralt is easier than he thought it might be, even in this weather. He's built - and outfitted - to blend into the night, black armor standing out against the morning sky and greyish bark of the cypress tree he's climbed into, but that won't stop him getting a job done.

Not for the first time, Jaskier is fascinated by the stillness Geralt possesses - even as he settles into his hiding spot behind one of the larger boulders dotting the cliffside, he’s tapping out a rhythm with his fingers, chewing on the inside of his cheek, shaking hair out of his eyes. The witcher doesn’t move any more than a boulder would, doesn’t bend to the wind any more than a tree would. He simply waits, crossbow upraised, until the first siren emerges from the fog.

From where Jaskier crouches, the adaptation is indeed an effective one - to his human eyes, it looks like Geralt has shot an angel from the sky. He’s struck by the grace of it falling, leathery wings cradling her, blowing like great sails as she tumbles down into the horizon. It could almost be a song, but when she splatters on the rocky outcrop below, Jaskier loses the melody. 

Several things happen at once, after that. A shriek rises from the fog, just one at first before more join in an eerie, skull-splitting chorus. Jaskier’s ears are roaring with it as Geralt starts picking them out of the sky with impossible precision. He’s thinning them out, but not enough, it can’t possibly be enough. Geralt drops from his perch and lands easily on his feet - Jaskier can almost hear the curse he lets out from where he watches the remaining sirens swarm around the clifftop, banking hard to swoop and dive at the witcher. The crossbow is thrown down in favor of a silver sword - Jaskier sucks a breath in as it slices through the air in a wide, red arc, and then he’s gone.

Geralt has disappeared in the fluttering swarm, invisible until a blast of magic explodes from the center, knocking some of them back into the air and sending a few of the others to their deaths in the churning water below. Jaskier waits. He does wait for Geralt, but the hand that had cast the sign simply crumples to the ground beside the odd angles of his fallen body. 

So, objectively, it is not his fault, with Geralt unconscious in a slowly growing pool of blood at his feet, that he finds himself in the thick of a hunt he promised not to join, defending them both. 

**

“Hand-and-a-half, my arse, Geralt.” His shoulders are screaming as he lifts the witcher’s silver sword, which certainly should be called three-or-four-hands-at-least, but he plants his feet on either side of his friend’s body and raises it anyway. He can’t swing it, really, the thing is far too heavy for him to wield with any precision, but it keeps the few remaining sirens at bay long enough for him to dig the heel of his boot into Geralt’s side. It earns him a promising groan and he takes a steadying breath. He can do this, he can keep them back until the professional is on his feet again. Ornery mermaids, he tells himself, they're just ornery mermaids.

The weight of the blade wrenches his wrists as he jabs it toward the two closest creatures, making them hiss and scream. It’s horrific, bone-jarring, hitting his head like twin daggers. The shrieks send him to his knees until he’s crouched over Geralt, the blood dripping from his own ears and nose mingling with the already gory trenches in the witcher's armor. Gritting his teeth, Jaskier lurches forward and buries the blade in the belly of the monster that had carved bloody grooves into Geralt’s chest while Jaskier had watched, horrified, too far away and too weak to stop it.

Geralt was right - they are ugly up close, ugly enough to staunch some of the guilt rolling in Jaskier’s gut, anyway. Gone are the fair faces they use to lure fishermen to their nests - those plush lips stretched thin around dripping, needle-like teeth, flowing hair gone wild and tangled like sea moss. Their talons rip into the earth, close enough that the sharp tips are stained by the widening pool of blood that surrounds them. 

When the creature at the end of Geralt’s sword crumples, its sisters fall back, rising into the air with great flaps of their wings that send sand flying into Jaskier’s eyes. 

“That’s right,” he shouts triumphantly, jabbing his weapon into the air. “And stay out, you ugly-” 

Ah, fuck.

She rises from the fog like a shipwreck, raising herself above the cliffedge with concussive beats of her ancient wings, so impossibly large that the tattered ends of them blur into the edges of Jaskier’s vision. They’re ragged and torn in places, littered with scars so deep Jaskier can see the sunlight shining through them, yet still they keep her aloft. She’s two, maybe three times the size of the other sirens, easily. Ekhidna. 

“Geralt, get up,” he shouts as the creature’s reflective, fish-like eyes settle on them. It's worse than any storm Jaskier's ever been in, the wind and water from her wingbeats tearing at them like a hurricane. 

"I need you," he shouts frantically, shaking one of Geralt's armored shoulders. Fear grips him for the first time since he rushed out to help the witcher, perhaps for the first time in his very short life - that's what it feels like, anyway, as the ekhidna's tail begins to coil in the sky above them. "Come on. I can't- I can't do this, I need you."

She's flipping in the air like an acrobat, diving at them with deadly grace, and Geralt’s eyes are still closed. Jaskier twists, curls himself over the other man’s body to shelter him as best he can, his own useless fear choking him as the ekhidna's shriek grows louder, closer, until- 

Until it doesn't. Until the air goes still and silent around them with a pressurized pop. Jaskier's eyes open - when had they closed? - to find Geralt already struggling to his feet, hand outstretched to hold the golden shield around them. 

It bursts like a soap bubble when the beast hits it, scattering in a shower of orange-gold sparks, but it's enough to knock her back. Enough for Geralt to get his feet under him and yank his sword from Jaskier's trembling grasp. 

The witcher is unrelenting, brutal, graceful as he beats her back, wielding his weapon with no more strain than it takes Jaskier to wield a quill. She swipes at him with her great claws, bares her gory teeth, and still he lunges. He has her balanced on the edge of the outcropping, ready to take flight, when he buries his sword in her chest. He pulls it back with a grunt of effort, green-black liquid spouting from the wound, and launches a boot into her gut to topple her over the precipice.

He wastes no time rounding on Jaskier, stomping back until he's looming over the bard still kneeling in the bloody dirt. 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he demands. Oh, he's furious. 

"I was thinking you were bleeding out and covered in monsters, and that you needed my help!" 

Geralt scoffs, teeth bared, and it hits Jaskier like a bolt.

"It would have been helpful for you to stay at the inn, like I told you to."

"If I had stayed at the inn, you would be fish food right now, not henpecking me for saving your life."

"Idiot," the witcher hisses.

"Prick," the bard bites back. They both deflate after a tense moment, the frenzy burned out of them, and Jaskier hauls himself up with Geralt's offered hand. 

“Ah, very good," he says, taking a few steps back to dust off his trousers. He's shaking like a leaf in a storm and his clothing is covered in witcher blood and siren guts and gods only know what else, likely a total loss.

He must look a sight, which explains why Geralt is looking at him like he's grown a second head.

"Well done, witcher. Well done, bard-”

“Jaskier, get back from the edge.”

“I don’t know about you, but I am swearing off fish forever, in fact-”

“Jaskier.”

“-maybe women, too, for good measure. At least scary ones with needle teeth and-”

“Jaskier, get back-”

He has the length of a single heartbeat to meet Geralt’s eyes, to watch him lunge forward with his hand outstretched, before the sky tips and Jaskier is falling through it. He barely has time to register the hot slice of talons ripping through his leg or the brain-rattling pain of the ekhidna’s final shriek before they plunge into blackness together.

Jaskier knows the sea, but not this one - it’s dark, made darker still by the clouds hanging in the sky he’d fallen out of, and so impossibly cold that it sucks the air from his lungs. Those massive wings must have broken their fall enough to keep him conscious, but now he’s caught in them like a net, already half-full of seawater and sinking far too quickly. They’re not leathery, like he thought, but fishbelly-slick, making it impossible to find purchase in the ever-darkening water. 

When he kicks himself free, he’s buffeted and turned by the current, unsure of which way he should be swimming to get back to the surface.

He can’t even see past the tiny bubbles already starting to escape his nose, but he knows he’s losing too much air as his lungs begin to burn. It’s all turning white at the edges by the time his chest starts to tighten, and still he pushes through the water.

** 

Julian Pankratz came into the world with a song to sing. That's what his mother tells him, anyway, when she reminds him that she labored for a full two days just for him to greet her screaming. The servants and townsfolk had gathered behind the manor to throw flowers into the sea while she brought him into the world - buttercup and blowball, daffodil and coneflower, sprays of roses the color of noontime sun - an offering to the Goddess, a plea for her mercy.

Did he look like a flower, tumbling through the air?  Was it a song?

Julian is six years old. It’s his birthday, and his father is showing him how to cast a net into the mudflats behind the manor to catch alewife and perch. The sight of the netting makes him sick, all bloated with wriggling silver skin and dotted with eyes that bulge out into nothing. He spends the rest of the afternoon alone, hunting seashells, lining them up on the shore until the sun spreads like fire on the horizon. He dips his ears below the water when his mother calls him in, letting it swallow his name. Julian, Julian - 

“Jaskier!”

Someone is shaking him, slapping his face. A great weight meets his chest, socking him like a sledgehammer - it might steal the breath from him, if he had any. 

He’s twelve, all knocking knees and long-limbed shyness, showing the porter’s son how to coax little crabs out from the tidepools. Their clay-stained knuckles brush in the silty water and his face grows hot, hotter still when Janus hooks their little fingers together. Julian runs, then - runs until his lungs feel as though they’ll burst. He doesn’t play with the servants’ children again after that.

He’s retching, the salt-bitter water burning his throat as it comes up. There’s no room for air, no time to breathe before more spouts forth from his mouth and nose. He’s twisted onto his side, fingers clawing through the sand like bloody talons.

Eighteen, and he holds Julian beneath the waves until Jaskier emerges. The world is stretched out before him and he’s hungry for it, starving, holding it in his teeth like a first breath. Posada is as far inland as he's ever been, far enough that his clothes have just stopped smelling of brine. He crests and falls like a wave that afternoon, crashing against his own heart, dissolving into foam and rising again. Three words or less. 

The first breath hits him like fire, colliding sharply with the water still left in his lungs, but it comes. He takes another, chokes up more foam, and then he must be back in the water because he’s rocking, rocking. There’s a shh-shh in his ear, like the inside of a seashell, a secret thing. It’s warm against his temple, his forehead, his eyelids. 

Twenty. Drowning in Rinde. Heat, salt, copper, bubbling up in his throat, stealing all the spaces air should be. Geralt is holding him, until he isn’t - until he’s holding her. Hope washes out like a tide. 

**

Consciousness returns to Jaskier in fits and starts - the crackle of a fire and the distant, scratchy hum of early cicadas comes first, then the cool breeze ruffling the dry hair across his forehead. Everything else is warm, soft enough at the edges to let him float just below the surface of awareness for a while, just beyond the grasp of pain. 

When he does manage to drag his eyes open, they settle on a familiar shape - Geralt, outlined by the glow of a fire, folded into a meditative stance beside the bed. His chest is bare, starkly pale against the gashes that are already healing - not quite closed, but already turning a healthy pink at the edges. 

His hands are closed around one of Jaskier’s, rough and warm. Something about that is peculiar, but it slips from his mind, silverfish-quick.

He turns instinctively into that warmth but doesn’t have a chance to examine it further before his body ignites in pain. It feels as though he’s been wrenched apart and put back at odd angles, his insides not quite where he left them. He gasps, a mistake that sets him heaving, hacking around shards of ice as the shadow beside him startles and shifts.

“Easy, Jaskier. Small breaths,” Geralt’s voice is rough in his ear as he tilts Jaskier to one side, just in time for him to retch into a waiting basin. The ringing is back in his ears, his mouth full of brine and blood, when he’s hauled back up. The room spins.

“What,” he tries to ask, but it comes out as a wordless croak. 

Geralt's hand sparks weakly in the corner of his vision, and then the rough edge of a mug brushes his cracked lower lip. Hot tea, something vaguely medicinal but sticky-sweet with honey, soothes his dry mouth but scratches his throat. It’s taken away too soon when his chest spasms again, forcing what little air he has out in burning gasps until his vision starts to blur. 

He's gulping, hiccuping, his body crying out for air, but there seems to be no room for it. 

He registers, distantly, the bed dipping under Geralt’s weight as his fingers are gently unwound from where Jaskier is clawing into his arms, and then their hands are tangled together. 

One hand pressed flat to Geralt’s chest, the other against his own, their discordant heartbeats keep time beneath his palms as Geralt takes slow, shallow breaths. Jaskier matches them in time, regaining some control.

“What happened?” he rasps.

“What do you remember?” Geralt asks in return. His eyes are shadowed, searching Jaskier’s face in the dim light as he wades through his muddled memory. Images bubble to the surface, disjointed, curling in his stomach like he’s falling again.

“The water, and- oh, ow, fuck- my leg.”

Geralt winces, nods as Jaskier reaches down to clutch at his thigh above the neatly bandaged wound that had, until now, escaped his awareness. The movement tugs at the other set of bandages, snug around his ribs. When he looks at Geralt for an answer, his golden eyes flick away, pupils narrowing as he stares into the fire. It looks like a door closing.

“You weren’t breathing.” 

Of course. Jaskier had seen it once at Oxenfurt - a ghastly demonstration on a corpse, no match for the brutal reality of it that had come years later when they spent a season in Skellige. Jaskier had been held back with some difficulty, thinking one of the villagers was beating a man who had washed up along the shore to death. The sick snap of a rib cracks in his memory.

"Broken, then." It's not a question - not a hopeful one, anyway, but Geralt shakes his head.

"No, but badly bruised." His voice cracks like it chokes him, like it's weighing him down, and Jaskier can’t bear it.

"Ah, good news. We'll be back on the Path in no time, then-"

"You will stay here and rest," Geralt interrupts. 

"Geralt, enough." Jaskier swats the witcher's hands away where they fuss at the edge of his bandages and attempts to push himself upright with trembling arms. "I am not some fragile-" 

"You are fragile, Jaskier," he growls, snatching the bard's wrist in his hand to still him, grip just tight enough to make him wince. Geralt drops it like a hot brand. "You're human."

Jaskier's heart falls into his stomach. It's churning, tempestuous, stealing the breath from him. Just human, always just human. He feels small, insignificant as he drops his hands into his lap.

"Geralt, I don't-" Jaskier swallows thickly, struggling to keep hold of his shallow breath. "I don't feel well, could you-"

"What is it?"

“Could you just…yell at me in the morning?”

“I won’t yell at you in the morning.” Something peculiar dances at the edge of Geralt's voice, and Jaskier knows better than to think this is the end of it.

“What, then?”

“In the morning, we will find the healer, and then I am going to make sure this never happens again.”

A cold spike of fear, of grief, jumps into Jaskier’s throat, a fresh wave of saltwater already stinging behind his eyes as he nods his understanding.

“You’re going to leave me.” 

Geralt shifts, his expression tightening in a way Jaskier is sure will hurt to remember later.

“I should.” And then, impossibly, “But I… I would not like to be without you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stares at him, unreadable as always, before he decides to throw himself from another edge.

“I would not like to be without you, either,” he whispers, carefully metering out his precious air with each word as his foolish heart slams in his chest. Surely, Geralt can hear it. “Do you understand?” 

Geralt laughs, the wretch. It’s a wet, breathless thing that he throws into the ceiling, like he’s praying to one of those gods he doesn’t believe in. The palm of one broad, warm hand slides up Jaskier’s arm, along his shoulder, against his neck, soothing the chill from his skin. Geralt tips into him slowly, slowly, until their foreheads press together.

“I do,” Geralt breathes, so close that Jaskier feels the words on his own lips. “Now, I do.” 

Two fingers hook beneath his chin, tilting his face up. Geralt’s eyes have gone round and soft and fond, the agelessness slipping from them for a moment. He gathers Jaskier’s hand against his chest again and he can feel the witcher’s tempered heartbeat flipping beneath his fingertips. 

Surely, Jaskier must be at the bottom of the ocean. Surely, the sweet brush of lips at the corner of his own is merely a pleasant hallucination. It's probably a crab eating his face. 

"Wait, no," he squeaks. That wonderful pressure disappears immediately. "I mean, yes, I mean, Geralt!" 

The witcher in question only watches him, merciless amusement arching his brow. 

"I've just thrown up half of the North Sea," he says seriously. Geralt grins, unseriously, as Jaskier tugs on his wrist to get him closer anyway. 

"Don't care," he mutters against Jaskier's cheek.

“You smell like a grave hag.”

"I've smelled worse, and you wanted to kiss me then, too." 

"You're disgusting," Jaskier protests, tipping his face into Geralt's anyway. "And a bastard. I hate you." 

"You don't," he accuses. 

"I don't," Jaskier agrees, and grants Geralt his kiss, dry and chaste and sweet against his salt-chapped smile. Their noses are in the way, the angle is wrong. It’s nothing like he had imagined - and gods, he had imagined this - and nothing, nothing, has ever been more perfect. 

**

The fog has lifted, dawn curling her golden fingers toward them through the mountain peaks in the distance by the time Jaskier wakes again. He's startled from a dream, something about flowers falling from the sky, but it floats away from him like mist when he finds Geralt’s hand settled carefully around his hip. He smells like saltwater and cypress, leather and horse - like an old home, and a new one.

“Geralt?” he asks, softly, just in case his witcher has found sleep. A gravelly hmm slips into his ear anyway. “You'll stay?”

"I won't leave you," he answers. "Go back to sleep."

“Good," Jaskier mumbles, somewhere just on the softer edge of wakefulness. "I won’t leave you either."

In this light, with the morning sun washing them in gold, with Geralt's heart beating free and steady under his open palm, it could almost be true.

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

“Geralt, darling…”

“Hmmm”

“I noticed your communication skills have greatly improved over the last few months. You use your words instead of just grunting far more these days. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

“As such, I was thinking that perhaps it is time for another lesson in verbal communication.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes! It is so! Now, I realize this is a lesson usually given to performers, such as myself, but I think it is one you could greatly benefit from.”

Geralt sighs. Knowing that Jaskier will simply continue to pester him if he doesn’t agree, Geralt says, “If you think I would benefit from the lesson, I’ll to do my best to learn.”

Before, he would have told the bard to fuck off, but ever since the mountain, Geralt had been trying to put in an effort to do better. Doing better meant communicating better. The need for that had only increased when, a year ago, Geralt had finally gotten up the courage to kiss Jaskier and their relationship had been forever changed. In a good way. The kind of good way Geralt didn’t want to lose ever again.

“Excellent! In that case I see no reason not to start that lesson now.”

Geralt did. They were walking the path and Geralt was walking beside Jaskier; guiding Roach by her reigns. Ciri was away, somewhere safe with Yennifer and learning to control her magic, but that didn’t mean there weren’t still threats. He had to remain vigilant in case of an attack or a monster, and trying to focus on what Jaskier was saying would be distracting.

But, on the other hand, they were on a section of road surrounded by fields. For miles, there would be very few places for bandits or any monster too deadly to hide. Geralt would almost certainly see them long before they became a threat. So, he agreed.

“Alright. I’m listening.”

“Ok. So there are 5 organs of communication.” Geralt watched from the corner of his eye as Jaskier counted them off on his fingers.

The head

The heart

The gut

The groin

The arms

“You’re very good with the 1st and the 5th organs. The head refers to things you state. They are a matter of fact. No ifs ands or buts about them. You’ve proven to excel at this in the past several months. And the arms refer to non-verbal communication that is instead conveyed through action. Again. You excel at this.”

To prove his point, and to be an ass, Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and smirks while spreading the arm that is currently not busy guiding Roach.

Jaskier laughs and gently smacks the arm now extended towards him. “Yes. Exactly. However, you are lacking in the other three departments.”

Lowering his arm, Geralt asks, “so how do I go about fixing that? I’m not even sure I completely understand how the first 4 work. I’m communicating with my mouth and voice. Is that what you mean by head? And if that’s the case, I would have thought I was doing just fine with groin.”

Jaskier swats his arm again.

“Yes and no. In that regard, what you’re doing with your groin falls under arms.”

“Hmm.”

“Let me give you examples.”

Jaskier seems to take a moment to think.

“If I was going to tell you ‘I want you to come here’ there are 5 different ways I could go about that.”

“The 5th being arms. I could simply make eye contact with you. Point at you and then the ground. You would understand what that meant, yes?”

“Yes, Geralt exactly. The 1st one being head where I simply say to you ‘I want you to come here.’ And you would understand it to be a simple request.”

“Hmm.”

“But, if I were to make the same statement using my heart,” Jaskier’s eyes got bigger and his posture less ridged. When he continued, his voice was soft and breathy like when they’re lying together at night and just talking, “I want you to come here.”

Oh. Geralt had always been aware of how Jaskier would talk when it was just the two of them. How it would feel different, like now.

He’s tried to do that before, but it had never quite had the same effect. Like it was just… incorrect “I’ve tried that”, he tells Jaskier, “but it just doesn’t work right.”

“You mean when you look at me very intensely and get quieter?”

“Yes.”

“Well… that is part of it. But this isn’t about volume, or what your eyes are doing. It’s about what feeling you’re letting yourself have as you say it.”

Hmmm. That made sense. Even now, when letting his thoughts be known, Geralt struggled with the emotions part.

“So what’s gut?”

“But you haven’t tried heart yet!”

Geralt leveled a look at Jaskier that made it clear he needed to move on for now.

“Oh, all right. The 3rd is statements made in reaction. There isn’t much thought to them, like a gut reaction or when you have to make a decision in the moment.” Jaskier’s voice got louder and more rushed, “I want you to come here!”

Geralt moved closer to Jaskier on instinct. The almost fear in his voice had him going before he could remember this was an example.

“Ah. I think I understand this one. It’s fear.”

“Well,” Jaskier drawled, “it can be. It can also be excitement, or anger, or any other number of emotions. Much like heart can be hurt or longing and not just love. It’s just reactionary. Truth to the heads fact.”

This was getting confusing. How could it be fear but also other things? Geralt decided he’d need time to think about this and it was probably better to keep going. “So what is groin?”

“Ah,” Jaskier’s demeanor changed once again. It was one Geralt was very familiar with, he’d watched Jaskier adapt it with men and women all over the continent for decades. He’s been on the receiving end of it as of late and had grown fond of the change in Jaskier’s stance, the sway of his hips, the light in his eyes. He’d even seen Jaskier adopt it with a particularly good meal when they’d been getting by on what Geralt could hunt for too long.

When Jaskier spoke, it was low and gravely, and sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “I want you to come here.”

“Desire. And not just lust.”

Jaskier’s stance and voice changed once again, the change almost jarring, “Yes! Exactly. The wanting something so badly you can feel it.”

“Hmm. That one makes more sense.”

“Yes, you aren’t terrible at groin, but you tend to only use it when you’re horny and I insist you use your words. You could be using it for so many other things. And don’t give me the you want nothing speech again. I know that’s bullshit.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good!”

“I’m going to need some time to think on all of this, but in the meantime,” Geralt wrapped his free arm around Jaskier’s waist and gently pulled him into his side. Then, putting as much groin into his voice as he could, “telling me you want me got me hard. There’s no one around for miles.”

Geralt enjoyed watching a blush creep up Jaskier’s neck and hearing his heart speed up.

“Not going to say ‘no’ to that, dear witcher.”

Thanks @0dde11eth for telling me to write this

[bambirex]

geraskier, and the art of repairing cracks with gold?

Warnings: none

**

Jaskier was warm against his side.

It was a feeling that Geralt has known well, yet never experienced in such quantity. During their years of traveling together, they often ended up sharing a bed, and if those beds were a little narrow, they had to sleep close to each other. In those moments, Geralt felt the warmth of Jaskier's body against his.

But not like this, not tucked under his arm like he was now, his cheek resting against Geralt's chest. It was allowed now, to hold Jaskier close, to show him that he cared with his touch.

It was all Jaskier has wanted since decades, and Geralt has never dared giving it to him. Not until he's lost him, not until he's chased Jaskier away with his cruel words. They've parted, and then reunited, but nothing was the same. Something fundamental has broken between them: the trust, the familiarity, the understanding, all gone, all because Geralt couldn't appreciate what he had.

But he was different now; he's learned, he's grown, and he was fully ready to fix what was broken.

"This is nice," Jaskier commented against his chest softly. One hand sneaked around Geralt's waist, a light, familiar touch, giving Geralt hope that he wasn't the only one who believed they could return to how they once were.

"Never would have thought you to be a cuddler."

"I missed you," Geralt said earnestly. Taking care of Ciri has opened him up more and taught him to express his feelings. It was still not easy, and he still wasn't completely ready to say what he really felt, but he was willing to take the first steps. If being kind and honest with Jaskier meant he wouldn't lose him again, Geralt was more than ready to change.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier. I know I've said it before, but I really am. You deserve much better."

He felt Jaskier momentarily tense next to him. Geralt soothed a hand down his back. To calm Jaskier or himself, he wasn't sure.

"Do you think we can be alright again?"

Jaskier didn't reply for a while. He traced a finger over Geralt's chest, drawing a small pattern onto his skin. Geralt closed his eyes, his own hand resting on the small of Jaskier's back.

"I think we need to work on it," Jaskier replied after a while. He peered up at Geralt, his lashes fluttering softly. Geralt swallowed.

"Mostly you, to be honest. I can't be your doormat forever, Geralt. I'm tired. If you don't want me, I won't come crawling back and beg for your affection."

"You don't have to," Geralt promised. He brushed a stray piece of hair out of Jaskier's face, tucking it behind his ear. He felt the tension seep out of his body when Jaskier relaxed into his touch.

"I will do better, I promise."

Jaskier hummed. He hid his face in the crook of Geralt's neck, and Geralt could feel his smile against his skin.

"I think you've already started," Jaskier whispered. Geralt kissed the top of his head in response.

It won't be easy, Geralt knew that. There was a lot to repair, a lot to atone for. But as he felt the warmth and softness of Jaskier's body against his, the way his hair tickled his chin, and most of all how he accepted the new ways of affection that Geralt offered him, Geralt started to believe that maybe things weren't broken, just cracked.

And he was ready to fill in those cracks, at last.