#he was certainly not expecting a Jaskier

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 14

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Another work week :(

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Not long after the king’s departure, Lord Jaskier excuses himself to see to his horse. Queen Jazlene sends him off with a similar quip about serious matters. You don’t quite understand her. She should be concerned with the weeks of travel ahead of her, not only of the time, but of the climate. 

She finishes the bottle on her own. Much of it went to her cup. You think of warning her but it isn’t your place. You can only watch her head wobble as that hazy look softens her features. On her last gulp, a droplet trickles down her chin. You suspect she might be as unhappy as her husband claimed of himself the previous night. They make a rather sad pairing. 

It’s early still. Perhaps once they are settled, it won’t be so tense. They will have a chance to know each other better without the stresses of a war or the road ahead. 

Your thoughts stray and your vision fogs as you stare at a blue tapestry. Jazlene continues to babble and suddenly, the clink of her cup jolts you from your trance. You look at her as she slumps against the table. Her shoulders are slack, her arms bent around her head as it droops onto the wood. You can see her breath as she hunches weakly in her chair. 

“Your highness?” You call to her. You sway on your feet as you watch her. Come on, move. “Your highness?” You take a step toward her, “Lady Jazlene?” 

She groans and slips to the side. You rush around without a thought to catch her. She garbles drunkenly as you hold her in her arms, one leg still on the seat as her other hangs limply. She’s heavier than you would expect. 

“Your highness?” You squeak as you struggle to keep her off the ground. You can’t drop the queen. 

Her head lolls as her lashes flutter. She is certainly not conscious. The acrid scent of wine rises from her lips. You try to hike her higher, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you grunt. She’s not that big, you’re just weak. You can carry a cask or a chest, but a person is a much different matter. 

You wrap your arms around her and haul her around the table. Her slippers drag and you clatter into the chairs and nearly trip on the edge of the rug. Your leg muscles thrum with the effort and your back racks. You look around. The bedchamber is too far. 

You turn and little by little, step by step, drag her to the couch. Her feet loudly scrape across the floor. You angle her around with another laboured grunt and as you do, the hinges whine and the left door opens. You look up as the king enters and your lips part in surprise. You’ve been caught. Rather, the queen has. 

He stares at you and eases shut the door. He comes around as your arms quake. He wordlessly takes his wife from your grasp and lays her across the sofa. You put a pillow under her head and back up, rubbing your upper arms. 

“Your highness, she was not feeling well,” you say. 

“She has drunk herself into a stupor,” he snarls as he backs up, crossing his arms as he glares down at her. “Do not lie, especially on her behalf. It does not become you.” 

“Your highness, I apologise. I only worry for her--” 

“You shouldn’t,” he intones, “she doesn’t worry for you. Or me. Or anyone but herself.” He turns and goes to the table. He rights the overturned cup and you reproach yourself for not doing so first. “But I do appreciate you attending to her. I’d rather not have found her upon the floor.” 

“Your highness,” you bow your head. 

He’s quiet. You’re unsure what to do next. Should you leave him with Jazlene or stay to tend to her? He will need sleep for the ride. 

“Little maid, you will send to have a bath drawn. There will be little chance to wash upon the road,” he commands. 

“As you wish, your highness.” 

“Mm, if only,” he murmurs as she sits and grabs the empty bottle, sneering at its hollowness. 

You set off to have water brought to his chamber. You assist the other servants in carrying the vessels of steaming water. All the while, the king ruminates at the table. He picks at his index finger and his cheek ticks. When at last the tub is full, you go to trail out after the castle servants. 

“Little maid, I require assistance,” he says. 

You remain and the doors close in the tension. You watch the king, your fingers twined together as you cautiously approach. He glowers at his fingers and huffs. 

“You have small hands,” he rests his palm open on the table, “please, I would have use of them.” 

Curious, you move towards him. He turns to you and holds out his large hand. He pokes his index fingers up and hisses. 

“I got it on the door. A splinter,” he explains. 

You see the dark spot, just the minuscule tip of it poking above his rough skin. The skin around it is inflamed, both from the sliver and his fussing. You bring your hands to cradle his single one and lean to have a closer look. You keep one hand under his and slip the other down the side of his palm. 

You brush your fingertips over the lines of his knuckles. He’s quiet as he lets you gently squeeze. You glance up beneath your lashes. 

“It might hurt, your highness. Apologies.” 

His cheek twitches, “I’ve had worse than a maid’s touch.” 

You squeeze until his flesh his taut. You pinch the tip of the splinter with your other fingers, using your nails to get a grip of it. You pull slowly. Very slowly, terrified of losing hold and having it go deeper. The wooden sliver slides out and before you can examine it, it falls to the floor, disappearing into the fabric of the rug. 

The king sighs, “better.” He brings his other hand over yours and covers your small ones with his, “many thanks, little maid.” 

He lets you go, his calloused skin brushing your sleeves, and he hums grimly. He bends his head forward and his white waves shift on his shoulders. He pushes his hair back and raises his head again. His eyes almost glow as he looks at you. 

“I should fetch some water for the queen in case she stirs--” 

“Later,” he dismisses, “might I ask another favour of such delicate hands?” 

You dip your chin down, “I serve you and the queen, your highness.” 

“Mm, yes, you recall, the knot in my shoulder, where I carry my sword,” he points along his shoulder, “if it isn’t trouble, I might have you loosen it before I must ride anon.” 

“Your highness,” you acquiesce, curling your fingers into your palms. You remember that first night you met him, as he sat in the steaming tub and had you touch him. You sweat at the memory. 

“It would be best before I soak,” he reaches to untie the laces of his tunic. 

You watch him, helpless. As with the queen, you can only heed his whims. At least he is gentler in his mastery. He pulls his tunic above his head and strips it away completely. He lets it hang over one leg and squares his shoulders as he sits back in the chair. 

You go around him and he moves his hair to his other shoulder. Your hands tremble slightly before you touch him. His muscles are thick and his skin taught across everyone. His arms are rounded with bulk and his neck is bullish in girth. He carries so much strength and power as if it is nothing. 

You squeeze the muscles gently with one hand, pressing the other behind it. You knead carefully, gradually putting more behind it, responding to the soft breaths and low grunts rising from the king. You hit a spot with some resistance and he growls. 

“There,” he grits as he drops his head forward. “Harder.” 

You push your thumb against the little pearl of tension you feel along his shoulder. He exhales deeply and lets out a wolfish snarl. He grips his thigh as you work his flesh. Your hands move without much thought. Lady Rezlyn often requested to have her feet done, a much less ideal task. 

“Mm, treasure...” he breathes though his words aren’t entirely clear. 

Another noise rises from him, sharper than before. You stop, frightened. 

“Your highness, have I hurt you?” You utter. 

Before you can retract your hand, he has a hold of you. He lifts his head and hangs it back, his hair spilling down. He looks up at you with his bright eyes as he clings to your hand. He presses it flat and moves it over his shoulder. He drags it down against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat. 

You’re caught in his gaze and his grasp. You just stand there, entranced by his golden irises. Each time you see them, they are more brilliant than the last. Your own chest tightens and binds up your breath. 

“You can never hurt me,” he rasps. You gulp as he lightens his hold and pets your hand. He closes his eyes and winces. “Little maid...” he sits forward and gently moves your hand away from his chest, “you must go now. You must face the road with us and you will require rest.” He lets you go completely and stands. “I trust my wife will have many a demand to keep you busy.” 

“Yes, your highness,” you murmur. 

“Now,” he insists. “You must go now.” 

He crosses the chamber and stops in the door to his bedchamber. You quickly flit over to the doors that lead out to the corridor. You pause and glance over as you sense him move. He stares at you, his eyes licking with flames. His chest rises and falls, trimmed in thick hair that trails down his hard stomach. 

“Go...” 

You obey and heave open the door. The soldiers on the other side snort. It is late, they must’ve dozed. You don’t think much of that as you harry down the corridor, not looking back. The king’s timber nips at your ears. The way he spoke; ‘go’. It was more than just a word; it was a warning. 

⚔️

You rise with the castle, quickly falling into the tumult of the impending departure. When you arrive at the king’s chambers that morning, you are sent away. You find Jazlene in her own. He must have taken her back before the sun. 

She is groggy and sombre as you help her dress. The pain in her skull leaks out in pathetic moans. You offer her lemons water and a cool cloth for her head. You see the difference as she accepts but she remains weak. It will be difficult for her to ride. 

Horses fill the courtyard and the luggage carts crowd around the stables and rear of the castle. The scene reminds you of Debray. You only hope Queen Jazlene does not cause a similar scene. You don’t believe she can. 

You accompany her to the front of the train. The king is not there. The queen clutches her throat as if she might be sick as the smell of the horses is stirred by their whipping tails. She grumbles and calls for a water skin. You find one and she shooes you away. 

“Enough of you,” she snips.  

You stay close, keeping watch should she signal for anything else. She can barely lift her head to do more than drink thirstily. Lords and ladies as good as ignore the queen as she mutters to her horse. 

“Eh, mouse, there y’are,” Bryce’s voice undercuts your pity. “I’ve been looking for ya.” 

You face him and the weight slips from your shoulders, “you have?” 

“What are you insinuating?” He challenges, “Daisy’s missing ya.” 

“Oh,” your brows raise, “well, it just so happens I miss her too.” 

“We’ll be off soon. You should come claim your place with the luggage.” 

“Should,” you agree. 

You follow him through the press of bodies. You get further down, away from the pages and soldiers, see Daisy lazily hoofing at the ground. She chews on a sparse bit of grass in the dust. As you near, you notice that her holster is thicker than it was. She is attached to a small cart. 

“What is this?” You ask as you stop short. 

“It’s yours, mouse,” Bryce says staunchly, “isn’t right you riding with the chests. Not for so far as we need to go.” 

“You... you did this for me?” You ask. "But... what about--” 

“Found a spare horse. He’s a bit less friendly than our beloved but he’ll do fine enough,” he explains, “’sides, Daisy needs a respite. She don’t needa be carrying around my hefty behind much longer.” 

“Oh, my,” you put your hand to your cheek and go to the cart, “Sir Bryce, you are a true knight.” 

“Don’t you get sappy with me,” he tuts as he follows. “Look inside, will ya?” 

You look inside the cart. There’s a long cushion and a pack. It’s a lot compared to what you came with; nothing. Bryce reaches in and tugs something from beneath the cushion. You watch the fur ripple out as he reveals the cloak. It’s thick and long and hooded. He holds it up. 

“When we get to the Hinterlands, you’ll be needing this,” he says. 

You touch the fur, it’s soft. You blink and feel it between your fingers. Your eyes sting. 

“Sir,” you bat your lashes, “it is too much for me.” 

“It isn’t very much, you are just too humble, mouse,” he folds and holds it out to you. “Now, don’t you be telling anyone this was my doin’. I got a reputation to uphold.” 

“Oh,” you clamp your lips shut as you try to hold back your emotion. 

A smile breaks through and you bare your teeth. Your cheeks hurt from the joy bursting forth. You hug the cloak and rock, looking around. As you do, you falter at a familiar face.  

The king leads a dark horse along the edge of the yard. He is looking at you, or so it seems. You let your expression slip and tamp down your glee. You bow your head in King Geralt’s direction. 

When you look up again, he is gone. 

[endiness]

"But I certainly think that Jaskier thinks there might be hope [for his and Radovid's relationship]. He's a very hopeful human being and will find the light in the darkest, darkest days."

joey pls i am trying to lower my expectations

[artistsfuneral]

Geralt is imprisoned, waiting to be trialed by the local Duchess, when the cell door opens and Jaskier appears, teasing him for getting into trouble again. Geralt, who certainly wasn't expecting to see his friend, asks why it's him and not the Duchess, to which Jaskier replies something like "Goodness Geralt, that woman is 64 years old, you can't really expect her to travel to town every time a prisoner needs to be judged!" Which no, of course not, most of the time it wouldn't even fall into a aristocrats responsibilities at all, but given the fact that Jaskier is currently leading him out of his cell, Geralt is hardly in a position to argue. But Jaskier is here now, no matter how unexpected the situation is, and there is a carriage waiting for them and Geralt blindly follows his friend into it. Surely Jaskier knows what he's doing.

The bard is babbling as always, when he complains that Geralt rudely interrupted tea time with the Duchess and naturally the witcher assumes that Jaskier is having an affair with her. When he tries to tease Jaskier about it (Jaskier that poor woman is 64!) the bard stops, stares and breaks into loud laughter. Turns out Jaskier was spending some quality time with his Grandmother.

When they arrive at the estate and tea time can resume, including Geralt, he discovers that she's teaching Jaskier how to knit and crochet. At the end of the day, the witcher knows how to as well. :)

[wren-of-the-woods]

Curse Fic Recs

I absolutely love Witcher fics where a character gets cursed so I thought I'd share some of my favorites! All of them are Geraskier except for a few Lambden ones at the end.

If anyone has other fics to reccommend, please feel free to give them a shoutout – I’d love to read them!

~

Cursed Jaskier

A Friend in the Wild by @samstree (Rated T, 1k)

In which Geralt acquires a tiny mouse friend who wouldn't stop following him.

If There's Any Sleep At Night by @smolalienbee (Rated T, 22k)

A mare, also known as a mara or a zmora - a malicious entity, a bringer of nightmares and a demon of the night. An easy enough contract to fulfill, if only frustrating, or at least that’s what Geralt believes when he first sets out to hunt down one such mare. What he doesn’t expect is to be wrapped up in a tale of a wronged soul, of love and of joy.

My Name is Hidden On Your Tongue by @anarchycox (Rated T, 10k)

Jaskier is cursed. Well his whole family line is. Every male born child cannot be named. They can be given a name, but it will never be a true one and people will always have an allergic reaction to saying this false name. Only a soulmate speaking your true name aloud will break the curse. The family though has never cared, they've only cared about the family fortune and marrying well. But Jaskier cares. He is determined to travel the world, find his soulmate and learn what his name is. And the best way to travel the world seems to be with a rather taciturn witcher named Geralt of Rivia. If he started to hope that Geralt would be the one to say his true name, well that was one thing that Jaskier would not say aloud.

The Cursed Jewels of Lettenhove by GoldenDaydreams (Rated T, 8k)

Geralt has no intention of getting involved with breaking a curse and naturally ends up very involved.

Silver and Copper by @heronfem (Rated M, 56k)

Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

Priceless by @handwrittenhello (Rated M, 38k)

Jaskier was cursed as a child; when spilled, his blood turns to rubies and his tears turn to diamonds. When his secret is discovered, Geralt must save him from those who would take advantage of it. Together they work to break the curse, but the cost might end up being too steep.

Set My Wings on Fire by bilboakenshield27 (Not Rated, 4k)

Jaskier gets turned into a bird and has to warn Geralt about an ambush.

Sleep of the Dead by @dancedelion (Rated T, 20k)

Jaskier thinks he hit rock bottom when Geralt flushed twenty years of friendship down the drain, but then he finds himself suddenly translucent and rudely walked through by a traveller. Apparently he's dead - that's certainly a new low. He needs to find out what happened, and who better to help him than the man who's made more than clear he wants nothing to do with him.

The Sandpiper by @welcomemysentence (Rated T, 2k)

When Jaskier gets cursed into an actual sandpiper, the little coast bird, the only way to save him is with true love's kiss.

What's Engraved Upon My Heart (In Letters Deeply Worn) by @made-of-constellations-blog (Rated T, 6k)

Jaskier gets cursed to be a lark with a strange failsafe to turn him back. Geralt misses this, and realizes too late that he's not ready to lose his bard.

to be held by @wanderlust-t (Rated T, 1k)

The knife dropped on the ground. And Geralt’s thoughts reached to a halt for a moment. He had no rope. Not anything to keep Jaskier still. To hold him back. Oh. That was going to be a really long night.

Catskier by @al-in-my-head (Rated T, 17k)

Due to an unfortunate encounter with a mage while him and Geralt are apart, Jaskier is transformed into a cat. It just so happens that Geralt likes talking to animals.

~

Cursed Geralt

A Marvelous Night for a Moondance by @flowercrown-bard (Rated T, 1k)

There was a warning every child living near Oakwood Valley knew. "Don't go out at night, or you'll disturb the Moonlit Dancer." No one truly knew who the Moonlit Dancer was, but everyone agreed on two things: The Dancer must be dangerous. And he must be oh so lonely.

animal instinct by leodesic (Rated M, 13k)

Despite Jaskier's hard work, there are still plenty of people who hate witchers. They think they're monstrous, inhuman, only held back from violence by a thin veneer of control. One mage has a plan to spread his views by capturing a witcher and bewitching them to remove their control. When the Butcher of Blaviken walks into his hideout, he's convinced he's found the perfect candidate - and a convenient way to get rid of the pesky bard that's been singing his praises. Jaskier is forced to agree witchers are not human, but that doesn't mean they're dangerous. In fact, he's astounded by how many of Geralt's uncontrolled impulses involve touching.

Connecting dots by @dapandapod (Rated G, 3k)

Geralt is hit with a lying curse, and it takes Jaskier an embarrassing amount of time to figure it out. Now, it Jaskier only would stick to the safe questions....

Don't Go Stealing My Heart by @thesilverqueenlady (Rated T, 17k)

When Jaskier is stiffed by a lord on payment, he decides to help himself to proper compensation. Alongside the correct amount of gold and silver, he also steals a beautiful silver wolf's head medallion. It's safe to say that he is not expecting the medallion to be haunted by the spirit of a very grumpy, very handsome, very cursed Witcher.

Cuddles, Curses, and Confusion by me :D (Rated T, 3k)

Geralt becomes oddly affectionate after being cursed by a mage. Jaskier would just like his life to be less complicated, please.

Spectre's Soul also by me :D (Rated T, 31k)

When Jaskier tried to go on a date with a man named Rience, he did not expect to nearly be killed. He certainly did not expect to discover a beautiful valley while running away from him. He very definitely did not expect to find out that the valley was haunted — by an absurdly beautiful man. Or: In which Geralt is cursed to be a ghost and Jaskier is the first person in decades to talk to him.

~

Cursed Aiden

Headache at First Sight by YorkAndDelta (Rated T, 12k)

A story of how Lambert ends up looking after a cursed cat, helping a Witcher from a rival school retrieve his gear from angry mages, and maybe finds love along the way.

~

Cursed Lambert

the mortifying ordeal of being known as a cat by @skaldingrayne Rated M, 10k

Lambert is cursed to be a cat. Fortunately, he finds Jaskier.

~

You can find my other reclists here!

[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.

[astaldis]

Witcher Cat Fics

Do you like cats and The Witcher? Then maybe you'll also like Witcher cat fics! (sorry, not Cat Witcher fics). Here is a little list of fics I found that feature cats, but it's certainly not complete. If you know of other Witcher fanfics where a cat plays an important role in the plot, please let me know so I can add it to the list.

Have fun with cats and Witchers!

(The order is totally random)

5 Times Someone Else Had To Watch The Damn Cat

Foltest, Ves, Geralt of Rivia, Iorveth, Silas of the Blue Stripes, G, 500 words:

Five times someone else had to watch Roche's cat.

It's the latest in a series of drabbles about Roche's cat: Kits Out for Temeria by Faetality, check it out, it's so funny!

The Sorceress' Challenge by Annaatemychocolate

Yennefer/Triss, F/F, 11,485 words:

“The Sorceress Yennefer has set a challenge: capture her black cat and retrieve the key around its neck before the end of the month, and you get your wish granted. That’s why everyone’s here.”

Triss’ eyebrows were now dangerously close to disappearing into her hairline. “You’re not serious.”

flowers in every room by SummerFrost

Geralt/Yennefer, Ciri, F/M, 5,077 words:

Hey, Mum! Sorry, I can't stay long, there's this—" Ciri tilts her head. "What's with the cat?"

"Fuck if I know," says Yen.

Aka: The one where Geralt gets turned into a cat and dumped on Yennefer's doorstep.

Here Kitty, Kitty by round_robin

Geralt & Jaskier, Gen, 1,671 words: “Cats don't like—you can't be serious.” Geralt said nothing and Jaskier gasped. “Of all the weird fucking things they did to you, that takes the cake.”

This got a small chuckle. “Oh yes? The heightened senses that bring headaches if I'm in a town too long, the poison tolerance that still hurts like I'm dying, but no, cats hissing at me is clearly the worst...”

Of Wolves and Cats by A_hopeful_disaster

Geralt &/ Jaskier, Gen, 1,353 words: Jaskier adopts a cat. Geralt isnt sure what to think.

The Mystical Divinity of Unashamed Felinity by Star_dancer54

Geralt & Jaskier, Gen, 2,778 words: It's a morning like any other when Geralt wakes up, until he discovers that Jaskier's been turned into a cat. (unfinished)

The Way to a Man's Heart Goes Through His... Cat? by Frywen

Geralt /Jaskier, Cirilla, Yennefer , M/M, 16,861 words: Jaskier is a live-in cat sitter and Roach is the biggest and meanest cat he has ever met. Just what kind of owner does a cat like that have? (unfinished)

Ball of Purr by kentucka

Geralt, Gen, 1,211 words: A fluffy little thing (pun intended) in which Geralt gets to pet a cat.

Cat Got Your Tongue (But I’ve Got Your Heart) by WanderingDrui

Aiden/Lambert, Geralt/Jaskier, M/M, 31,093 words: After the mountain Jaskier throws caution to the winds and decides to use a secret he's kept his entire life to get back at Geralt. He expects a short and petty journey of revenge. Instead he makes new witcher friends, explores his past, and finds peace with who he is and what he wants in life. Meanwhile, Geralt hasn't heard anything about Jaskier since he sent him away and is growing worried.... (WIP)

Lovecats by Lula_Claims_The_Snakeskin_Jacket

Cahir/Yennefer, F/M, 16,404 words: Cahir and Yennefer acquire a stray cat. Or does the cat acquire them? As a witch, Yennefer vibes with cats well. Cahir is sceptical, as to his best knowledge cats are of no use on the battlefield. Obviously, some tensions are inevitable here. But this relationship will, yes, evolve.

powerful by mayoho

Rience, Gen, 100 words: Rience has always been drawn to power, even in the most unexpected places.

Figs and black pepper by calvaria

Assire var Anahid, Merlin (the cat), Gen, 233 words: Assire prefers Merlin to all astrolabes, signs and pendulums.

Cat Comfort by Molanna

Cahir, Assire var Anahid, Merlin (the cat), Gen, 1,805 words: Merlin is not only suddenly brought to a different place by his Witch, but, when he comes back to the apartment late at night from exploring the new garden, he finds a stranger in the bed he is not sure how to feel about at first. (POV Merlin)

A Furry Foundling for the Bard by Molanna

Jaskier/Radovid, M/M, 1,111 words: Jaskier and Radovid are disturbed in their very enjoyable nightly activity by a strange, eerie sound. Luckily, what they find in the street is not a monster but a pleasant surprise.

A Fiery Night by Molanna

Jaskier/Radovid, M/M, 500 words: Jaskier and Radovid are having a great time together at Radovid's little island cottage. Unfortunately, one night, something goes very wrong.

Cat-Napping by Molanna

Rience, Gen, 500 words: Unexpectedly and totally against his will, Rience ends up with a fluffy tabby cat napping in his lap.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

If you still want prompts, how about 2 for Geraskier? 💚💕

2. A casual touch on the shoulder to acknowledge them

Jaskier is sitting by the campfire, hunched over his lute as he mulls over a particularly tricky lyric, when he’s startled by the unexpected feeling of a hand brushing his shoulder. With a shriek, he startles and drops his lute. It’s not until a hand snaps out and seizes his lute before it can crash to the ground that he realizes that it’s not some ruffian who’s snuck up on him while he’s composing, but Geralt.

“Geralt!” Jaskier claps a hand over his chest. “You just scared the shit out of me! I didn’t know it was you!”

Holding Jaskier’s lute in one hand and an apple in the other, Geralt looks at him blankly. “Who else would it have been?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I was scared shitless.” Jaskier doesn’t point out that in the months they’ve been traveling together, Geralt has touched him a grand total of three times. Once was the punch that Jaskier can fully admit that he deserved. The second time was when he grabbed Jaskier’s arm to drag him away from a drowner who was about to snatch him while he bathed. The third time was to press a damp cloth over a gash in Jaskier’s arm left by a griffin. All three times, the contact was brief and businesslike, lasting mere seconds.

Jaskier gets the impression that Geralt doesn’t like being touched, which has been an adjustment. He’s used to exchanging casual touches with his friends and family—kissing his mother and sisters on the foreheads, picking up his nieces and nephews and spinning them around, throwing an arm around Essi’s shoulders, leaning against Valdo while they sit together. But every time Jaskier forgets himself and claps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder or picks a bit of grave hag out of his hair, the witcher looks like he’s just swallowed something sour.

Geralt snorts and holds out the apple. “Here. Your stomach has been growling for an hour.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks and takes the apple. Now that he’s not entirely focused on his composition, a new version of Toss a Coin recounting Geralt’s heroic defeat of a wyvern, he can feel the hollowness of hunger in his belly. “Thank you, Geralt. That’s… very thoughtful.”

“Hm. All the rumbling is disturbing my meditating.”

“And me playing the lute isn’t?”

“Getting fucking used to that,” Geralt grumbles, handing Jaskier his lute, and turns away.

Jaskier finds himself grinning at Geralt’s back. “Does that mean you’re starting to like my music?”

All that gets him is another grumble, but Jaskier’s spirits aren’t dampened. Because this is the first time that Geralt has ever touched him just to touch him. It wasn’t much, just a simple hand on his shoulder. It certainly wasn’t the myriad ways he’s guiltily fantasized about Geralt touching him over the last few months. But it’s still the first sign the witcher has given that he’s starting to grow comfortable in Jaskier’s company. That someday, he might even like having Jaskier around.

“Thank you, my friend,” he calls.

“Not your friend,” Geralt says, as Jaskier expected him to. Ah well, progress is progress, no matter how slow.

Jaskier takes a bite of his apple. It’s the best thing he’s tasted in a long time.

24 Touches Prompts

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

[magdelanesingerin]

Out in Redania

Almost from the moment they meet, Jaskier proves to be a boy man with no shame and no filter. He talks about sex loudly and often: sex he’s had, sex he wants to have, sex he’s only dreamt about. He strolls along beside Roach, long legs jauntily swinging, gesturing broadly and describing his many conquests in a combination of extravagant praise and raunchy detail that makes Geralt blink hard and shake his head the first few times he hears it. 

Geralt is…well, ’experienced’ would be the kind word. ‘Old’ would be a more blunt choice. Both are accurate. He’s seen and done a lot of things with a lot of people, and it’s hard to shock a witcher, generally. None of the sex acts the bard lovingly and exhaustively describes are really shocking in and of themselves (except perhaps in their frequency and in how many seem to feature married women). 

It’s the way that Jaskier talks about the women he beds that surprises Geralt. Nothing demeaning, or coarse as one might expect from a young man who loves to talk about fucking and has something to prove. No, he talks about each and every one as though he fell at least halfway in love with her, as though each woman was a glorious work of art that he was privileged to enjoy.  

And it isn’t just an act that he put on as part of his cheerful romantic persona, he’s completely genuine about it . Baffling.

He truly turns the full force of his attention toward each and every lover: engaged, attentive, and admiring. Geralt is all too often the object of Jaskier’s overwhelming focus and care when he returns from a hunt injured, so he can only imagine what it must feel like when the bard is actually doing something he enjoys rather than sewing wounds or wiping rancid blood and filth off a reluctant, battered witcher. 

And, of course, he has imagined it. He has eyes and the bard may be annoying, but he’s also annoyingly beautiful.

At first, he rolls his eyes and ignores any hint of his own interest in the fresh-faced boy who trails along after him like an enthusiastic puppy by scowling, growling and avoiding physical contact as often as possible for his own sake as much as for Jaskier’s. The bard is 18 and of age, and he’s certainly bedded whores of 18. This shouldn’t be a problem, but the boy is so cheerfully inept and keeping him alive is somehow so fully Geralt’s problem that it’s impossible to miss that he is, essentially, a child . He’s very pretty to look at, but it’s hard to be attracted to someone who you might as well be babysitting.

After several summers traveling together, though, Geralt looks at him one day and realizes that the naive, excitable boy is gone, replaced by a reasonably competent, sometimes shockingly shrewd, self-possessed, though admittedly, still excitable man. A very good looking man, suddenly broad and leanly muscled from a life on the road, with shining blue eyes and a smile that could stop a man’s heart if wielded irresponsibly. 

Immediately after the realization, Geralt has a bit of a crisis about it and finds some reason for them to part ways quite abruptly for several weeks. 

Because Geralt is also painfully aware of how one-sided his attraction is. Sure, Jaskier is weirdly kind to him and seems to be perpetually horny, but there hasn’t been a hint of interest in return. It’s easy to shove aside his own lust and ignore it without hurt; Jaskier only beds women. 

Until he doesn’t.

continue on ao3

[chaosandwolves]

Fuck it Friday

Cause you all totally love me for writing the fic in which Geralt has to kill Radovid, I thought I'd share another snippet with you

You can read more here

"Ah," Radovid breathes, a shallow smile on his lips when he says, "So you've come to kill me at last, Witcher." Jaskier snorts, "Yeah right. He certainly is not. Right, Geralt?" But when Jaskier looks up, he isn't met with the expected eye-rolling or with an annoyed grunt. Instead Geralt isn't meeting his eyes. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, his voice sliding into a too high pitch. The Witcher sighs and then finally looks up and meets his gaze. "I'm sorry, Jaskier." "What?" Jaskier asks in a mix of utter disbelief, shock and betrayal and just stares dumbfoundedly at the Witcher. Then he feels a slender but strong hand on his shoulder. "My love, it's ok." But Jaskier can only frantically shake his head as he tries to make any sense of what's happening. The room rapidly grows blurry and his thoughts spiral and break apart without him being able to catch even one of them. This… This doesn't make sense.. Geralt only kills monsters and monstrous men and Radovid, his sweet gentle prince, he's as far from a monster as any human can be. This surely must be a trick; some magic has to be involved. They need to call for Yen, she'll be able to help them; to lift this…this illusion or curse or whatever it is. Yes, she'll help them. Her name is already forming around his tongue when he hears a soft "Jaskier," whispered into his neck. The warmth of Radovid's lips against his bare shoulder shakes Jaskier out of it and he remembers the pendant Yennefer gave him a moon ago. He reaches for it and desperately clutches it in his fist and his entire body is praying to find it humming with magic that it has detected around them. But there is nothing, just skin warmed dead metal. His stomach lurches at the horror of the realization that this is really happening.

Feel free to yell at me. I'm doing the same

Tagging ppl who might be interested in reading

@alyxmastershipper @robin-not-batman @theresoneicouldcallking @flordefandom @elvensorceress @hippolotamus @panbuckley @the-chiseled-dorito-of-justice @wannastayugly @bringyouruin @shortsighted-owl

[baldurs-kinfessions]

I appreciate being given the go ahead, I'm a fairly anxious person in this life (which is just peak irony).

I'm not sure how exactly the mind-flayers managed to snatch me and Jaskier (our Gale never figured it out, either, though he was quite fascinated by us, how we arrived in Faerun, and in Witcher signs, which kind of worked in Faerun? They weren't the same but they were close, almost like the Weave reacted to the expectation more than anything else, like axii working something like Friends or Charm Person, igni was like a deformed fireball...), but they did. Jaskier certainly had more fun than I did.

Where he got to learn magic, I had to deal with the tadpole weakening me. Wyll at least understood that feeling. I felt like a beast on a leash. I certainly got myself injured more than usual, something Shadowheart outright refused to deal with after the run-in with the pack of gnolls near that one cave. Jaskier handled it for me until Halsin joined us, then he took over.

It was definitely strange. I know I talked about the monsters of Faerun being "obviously weaker than the ones I'm used to" but I'm not sure that's true. Maybe humans and elves and others in Faerun were just stronger than the humans and elves I was used to.

🐙

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.8

this turned out longer than expected so most of it, the fanart and the vote are under the read more so people don't have to scroll past this for 5min

✨🌿🌼✨

It was good that Cat Witchers were already considered a bunch of madmen, otherwise Aiden would've started to worry for his sanity as he watched Jaskier's blue eyes light up with joy. “Good, because I have already named them!” Of course he had.

Following the bard on wobbly legs to where the four horses grazed, Aiden almost forgot about all that had happened a couple of hours prior. Then he accidentally kicked his foot against a stray helmet and the clattering sound of metal reminded him of the fresh cuts across his chest and the awful ache in both his shoulders and he couldn't help but to stare at the back of the bard's head, wondering what exactly a protector was.

But then Jaskier turned and smiled at Aiden with such incredible warmth that his heart fluttered inside his chest and he found himself mimicking the smile without the all too familiar voice inside his head telling him, warning him not to and he suddenly understood that despite it all, despite the horrors of having seen what Jaskier could do if angered, despite not knowing and therefore not understanding how or what or why Jaskier was who he was- Aiden wasn't afraid of him. Aiden trusted him. Aiden, who – much like any other witcher – from the very first day of his training had been taught, no, had been drilled to never trust anyone on the path that wasn't one of his own brothers. He knew of the world's cruelty, had learned first hand not to seek comfort and friendship where he wouldn't find it, but Jaskier- Jaskier was different. How long had they been traveling together? A month? A month was a time hardly worth mentioning, passing in the blink of an eye for someone who would possibly live up to three, maybe four hundred years or longer. Sure, Aiden was on the younger side of the Cat school, only having followed the Call of the Path for around sixty or seventy years, but even compared to that a month was nothing. And yet-

“Are you alright, sunshine? Are you in pain? Should you have rested more before getting up? We can take it slow, you know, no pressure.”

Aiden chuckled, “I'm fine, Jask, no need to worry. Simply got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” Not so easily persuaded, the bard gave him a look that was eerily similar to Lambert's 'don't bullshit me' face. Thankfully Aiden knew how to deal with that. “You said you already have names for the horses?” Success. Jaskier's face lit up again and he took hold of Aiden's hand to gently pull the witcher along. “I have! Or at least for three of them, I'm not quite sure what to name the fourth one, but I still want to introduce you to them!”

The horses waited at the sidelines of the camp, heads rising curiously as the two men made their way over to them. Untacked except for their bridles they stood closely together, showing that they had been traveled together long enough to form a bond between them. Jaskier had been right, they were friends, given the way they bumped their heads together. Aiden hadn't owned a horse in some time now, so the prospects of riding again had him smiling, even if he still believed four horses to be excessive. Though, all complains he had went right out the window when they reached the small herd and almost immediately a soft nose bumped against his head, warm breath tickling against his skin. Jaskier laughed warmly and gently nudged the big horse head away from Aiden's face, so the witcher could properly look at it. “That's Sprout,” the bard dutifully introduced Aiden to the tricolored pinto. “I'd say he's the youngest, certainly acts like it, but from what I've seen today the others keep him in check quite well.” Aiden hummed, taking in the gelding's lively eyes. He was the smallest of the four, his mane and tail cut short like it was custom for military mounts. He was pretty, almost too pretty to be ridden by a soldier, not that that was the case anymore, but it still seemed a bit odd.

Next to them one of the two bay horses snorted at him, making Aiden turn towards it. Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly and petted her neck. “This feisty lady is Roachie.”

“You're kidding, right?” One truly had to be a fool these days to not know the name of the White Wolf's horse. Jaskier had written several songs about Roach after all. “Certainly not,” Jaskier grinned. “They share the same color, the same temperament and I think it is time I get a Roach of my own. Can't be the Witchers' Bard without a Roach now, can I?” Aiden hid his face in his hand and giggled like a child. It was so stupid, such a petty thing, but at the same time the most brilliant name Jaskier could've come up with. “Alright then,” he grinned at the bard, “Roachie and Sprout. Who's next?”

“Chicory!” Jaskier said and wiggled his finger in front of a sheer mountain of a horse. A kaedweni draft, if Aiden was correct. It had that distinct gray color that ranged somewhere between a dapple gray and a grulla silver. The soldiers must've obtained it somewhere along the border from a farm and used it as a carrier or cart horse afterwards. The name Jaskier had picked fitted the horse perfectly. “She's a mare too, definitely on the calmer side I'd say, but given her size she'll be able to handle the boys just fine.” Introducing himself to Chicory by softly petting her rosy nose Aiden was reminded of the horse he had learned to ride on. “Our caravans are pulled by draft horses, they're good animals, sturdy too. I always liked them better than other breeds,” Aiden admitted. Jaskier bumped their shoulders together in silent reassurance. The witcher hadn't told him yet what exactly was going on with the Cats, but from what he understood so far the school of the Cat was going through some disagreements concerning the leadership, fractioning it into two or three sides and a handful of witchers that preferred not to intervene and therefore split off with the rest of the Cats for now. Aiden was one of them.

Turning towards the fourth and last horse, the second bay that was almost identical to Roachie except for the missing blaze, Jaskier sighed. “And this is the little fella I couldn't seem to find a name for. He's a bit more careful than the others, needed some convincing before I could give him a treat, but nothing I came up with really fit him.” Aiden hummed in agreement, seeing the shyness Jaskier had spoken of, but also the strong legs and firm muscles underneath the gelding's timid character. Unlike the other three it was almost obvious that he was a military mount. The poor thing was, in a way, so horribly normal that he'd be entirely invisible surrounded by other horses and that thought made Aiden gasp. “He's Horse!” Jaskier slowly turned his head towards the other man and blinked in confusion. “Uh- yes? He's a horse, well done, Aiden.”

“No, listen, Jask. He's Horse, like Geralt's horse is Roach and Lambert's horse is Horse.”

“Lambert's horse-horse? Huh?”

Aiden slapped his hand against his forehead. “No, Lambert named his horse Horse,” he explained, over-pronouncing the name. Now it was the bard's turn to gasp for air. “That poor Horse!” The two men blinked at each other once, twice before bursting into a loud fit of giggles.

After taking their time to get to know their new horses, Jaskier and Aiden tacked them up, going for the simple brown reigns and saddles and avoiding anything that looked too much like the redanian horse armor. They hopefully wouldn't encounter anyone else on their way to Kaer Morhen, but better safe than sorry. For now, Jaskier and Aiden would ride on Roachie and Sprout, securing their packs on Horse and Chicory. The plan was to swap the animals' tasks every few days, the rotation hopefully keeping their spirits up and prevent any sores or strains.

Jaskier's little looting session was thankfully providing them with everything they needed to take care of the horses for weeks, if not two months. Not that they planned on taking so long to search for the Wolves' keep, but you never knew. Aside from that Jaskier had scraped together whatever bits and pieces of armor Aiden could use in the future, some additional food and water skins and miscellaneous items like a bigger cooking pot and a nice set of knifes that would do them good. They stored everything in the horses' saddle bags, keeping just a handful of their belongings in their own packs. Jaskier of course, kept his lute close to him, just like Aiden refused to remove the swords from his back.

For a while the two rode through the underbrush of the forest, leading the horses in a circle to hide any possible tracks, then followed a well used deer trail further east until it came to a natural stop next to a small, rocky stream. Allowing the horses to drink, Jaskier turned in his saddle to find Aiden's eye. “How are you holding up, sunshine?”

Aiden, who's shoulder's had been aching for quite some time now, sighed loudly. “I'll live. Think, I will drink another Swallow and fight through it. We lost a couple of hours because of me, so we should keep riding until night falls.”

“I will ignore the fact that you said it like it was your fault Vizimir's toadies caught up with us and remind you that the sun will not set for at least four or five hours.” Jaskier replied, while Aiden fetched the reddish potion out of his sea sack and proceeded to drown it in one go. The bad rolled his eyes, “I mean it's not like our arrival at Kaer Morhen is expected on a agreed upon day, since we – you know – aren't expected at all. If Vesemir is at the keep at all. As stingy as Geralt is with details, I at least know that his father still hears the Call from time to time. So really, we don't need to hurry.”

Aiden gave him a deadpan look. “Have you forgotten why we're trying to find Kaer Morhen in the first place? We aren't looking for a summer house, Jaskier, we are refugees hoping the grandmaster of the Wolves will hide us from the rest of the continent. If not for you being- well, you, I'd still be chained to that tree right now. So can we just ride on and get enough distance between us and everything that's trying to fucking murder us? Please?”

please like and reblog if you voted

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I gave up when it came to drawing the saddles, that shit just didn't want to be drawn, so use your imagination to make their tack more realistic pls 🤫

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[wren-of-the-woods]

True Slug's Kiss

When Geralt finds himself entangled in a magical mishap, Jaskier is prepared to save him as usual. What he is not prepared for is the sheer strangeness (and sliminess) of the situation— nor the feelings that it will force him to reveal. This is 2.3k of Geraskier shenanigans, rated T! Also on AO3.

If there was one thing Jaskier really should have learned over his years of traveling with Geralt, it was that he should never trust Geralt when he said everything would be fine. 

Here Jaskier was, picking his way through overgrown and vine-entangled elven ruins, all because he trusted Geralt to know what he was talking about. 

“Oh, it’ll be fine, he says,” Jaskier muttered to himself, doing his best Geralt impression as he clambered over what was probably once a stone pillar. “‘I’ll just do a quick sweep of the ruins for monsters. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ Then, flash! Bang! Something loud and fucked up and probably magical has happened! And now I, a humble bard, and once again stuck cleaning up the messes of Geralt of Rivia.”

He climbed under the remnants of a door in a great stone wall that was now more of a great stone heap, wincing as water dripped into his hair. He was headed in what he hoped was the direction of the flash he had seen. He had stared at the ruins for long enough as he waited fruitlessly for Geralt to return that he was reasonably sure he knew the way. It shouldn’t be much further; or at least, he certainly hoped not, because he’d left Roach and most of their things on the top of the hill overlooking the ruins and he did not want to leave them there longer than necessary. 

Jaskier passed the tall beech he had noticed just behind where the flash had been. He picked his way through large, scattered blocks of stone strewn across a cobbled street.

“Geralt!” he called. There was no response. Taking a deep breath, he rounded a corner and looked into the courtyard where he thought the probably-magic had taken place.

The sight that greeted him was… not what he expected. 

For one thing, there was no particularly unusual wreckage or carnage. There was no sign of a fight. The courtyard, in fact, was completely unoccupied— except for a large, yellow something beside a heap of stones right in the center. 

Jaskier stood there cautiously for a moment, watching. The thing did not move. It was long and low and rather squishy-looking. It did not seem particularly threatening. 

Slowly, Jaskier approached. 

As he drew nearer, he began to make out more of the thing’s appearance. It was as long as Jaskier was tall, and perhaps three or four hands’ width at its widest point. It was yellow and gave off the overall effect of a rather slimy banana. It had antennae protruding from one end. It was, Jaskier realized as he began to draw near, some sort of exceptionally large slug. 

He kept a healthy distance between himself and the giant slug, mindful of the fact that this thing was probably involved in whatever had happened to Geralt. As he watched, he realized that it was moving. It was, very slowly, turning to head towards him. 

He took a step back. The slug continued to turn. 

“Nice slug,” he said placatingly, slowly starting to back away in earnest. “You are a very nice slug with no malicious or magical intentions toward any humble bards, I’m sure.”

The slug was still turning. Jaskier noticed that it had something around what passed for its neck. 

He paused, frowning. He watched as the slug turned to face him. When it finally came around, his jaw dropped.

Around the slug’s neck was a chain, and from the chain hung a very, very familiar medallion. 

“You’re Geralt,” said Jaskier, master of the seven liberal arts. “Fucking fuckity fuck.”

~

The less said about the next few hours, the better. Suffice to say that, with great effort, determination, ingenuity, and some slime, Jaskier managed to get the slug up to where Roach was waiting before nightfall. The slug was just as surly and stubborn as any white-haired witcher could be, and any lingering doubts Jaskier might have had about its identity were laid to rest when, the moment they were close enough, Roach trotted up to the slug, sniffed it, and whickered happily. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Jaskier asked slug-Geralt once he’d had a moment to breathe. The ex-witcher looked rather incongruous surrounded by their packs and Jaskier’s lute. 

Geralt-slug, predictably, said nothing.

“Is this a curse? It’s probably a curse. That pile of stones I found you by could have been an altar or some other object of magical fuckery, retrospectively. Shit. I’m going to have to find a mage, aren’t I?”

Geralt-slug said nothing. He looked, to Jaskier’s frazzled imagination, rather judgemental. 

Jaskier sighed, long and deep. “I suppose it’s Yennefer time.”

~

It was a long, long few days as Jaskier tried to get Geralt to Yennefer. 

He discovered very quickly that there was no way he could travel at Geralt’s pace without getting bored out of his mind, and try as he might, he could not figure out a feasible way to get the giant slug to ride Roach without Roach becoming incredibly unhappy, so he was eventually forced to spend a day constructing a makeshift sled out of logs and Geralt’s cloak and clothes so that Roach could drag him along behind her. Jaskier draped his own cloak over Geralt to keep him from drying out, and also to keep him from bewildering any unfortunate passers-by. 

The nights passed rather uncomfortably, too; Jaskier had to subsist off of their rations and what little he could find himself. He also tried to gather some nice leaves and greenery for Geralt to eat, because his size seemed to impede his ability to find his own without squashing them. 

The only upside to the whole situation, as far as Jaskier could tell, was that Geralt couldn’t complain when Jaskier sang incessantly. He could invent as many ditties about his irritation as he wanted without repercussion. He wasn’t entirely sure that Geralt could even hear him. 

If he had to go through this ordeal without anyone to listen to his complaints, he was damn well going to get a decent song out of it. After a several days of travel, he had something he was reasonably happy with. He sang it incessantly to stave off boredom. 

The witcher called his barker to save his sorry ass To find him after he got lost in ruins of cities past A strange yellow shape oozed forth to request a deft assist But the Witcher was still unseen, the story had a twist

The Golden Slug with the golden slime A wolf’s head medallion on its neck shined Far squishier than a day-old lime It covered me with grimeI’m all covered in grimeThere’s so much slime

The strange yellow slug turned to the bard with pleading in its eyes The bard realized the truth, he saw through the spell’s disguise He knew he had to help it, or else throw away his lute For it was a curséd witcher, not a giant slimy fruit

Oh, the Golden Slug with the golden slime A wolf’s head medallion on its neck shined Far squishier than a day-old limeIt covered me with grime I’m all covered in grime There’s so much slime

Eventually, he did manage to make it to the town where he had last heard of Yennefer being. The little party received several confused looks as they made their way through the streets. Jaskier eventually managed to get a (mildly frightened-looking) child to point him in the direction of the sorceress. 

He stood on Yennefer’s doorstep, feeling distinctly bedraggled and rather absurd. He was fully aware of the fact that he, or at least Geralt, had a decent chance of being lampooned if not laughed out of town altogether. 

He was not disappointed. 

Yennefer did not stop laughing for a solid quarter of an hour after Jaskier explained the situation. She broke down again when Jaskier brought Geralt into the alley behind her house for her to examine him. It was distinctly awkward to stand there as she looked at a against slug and giggled. He really hoped Geralt appreciated/would appreciate his sacrifice. 

Eventually, Yennefer completed her examination and vanished back inside to do some research. Jaskier deposited Geralt in the stables with Roach, hoping that it wouldn’t cause a disaster, and bullied Yennefer into letting him use her baths. It was heavenly to finally be clean of all that sweat and slime. 

~

“I believe he’s been turned into a giant version of something called a banana slug,” Yennefer told him over wine that evening, after having concluded her research. “They live mainly in the wet forests by the coast to the north. Normally, they’re only about six inches long.”

“That’s still unsettlingly large for a slug.”

Yennefer shrugged. “Anyway, it was probably caused by an old magic item he happened across in the ruins, one that had broken over the years to curse anyone who came near it.”

“Do you think you can undo it?”

“I can’t undo it directly. It’s too old. But I do know the cure.”

“What is it?” 

“It’s old, just as the magic is. It’s hardly used nowadays, but it’s effective.”

“Get to the point,” said Jaskier. He thought she looked like she was enjoying this far too much. It was suspicious.

“It’s true love’s kiss.”

Jaskier blinked. He stared at Yennefer, hoping that she would laugh and tell him it was all a joke. She did not, though her eyes were sparkling in what was undeniably amusement.

“Are you telling me that Geralt’s true love has to kiss him for him to become human again?”

“Yes,” said Yennefer. The expression on her face was approaching glee. Jaskier was afraid. 

“Where are we going to find Geralt’s true love? Does he have one?” Jaskier blinked. “Is it you? Do you have to kiss a giant slug?”

“No,” said Yennefer. Her expression clearly added the word ‘idiot’. “You have to kiss a giant slug.”

Jaskier blinked. “Me?”

“Of course.”

“But… doesn’t the love have to be reciprocated for true love’s kiss to work?”

“Yes. But it is. He loves you back.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s obvious.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t just trying to get me to make a fool of myself?”

“That’s only a delightful side effect. It’ll work, I promise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Her grin grew. “Though you should know: banana slugs are that color because they’re mildly toxic. It’ll make your mouth go numb. Also, the slime expands in water.”

Jaskier resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Oh, joy.”

~

Jaskier looked at Geralt. Geralt (probably) looked at Jaskier. Yennefer watched them both. She was ostensibly there in case of any magical mishaps, but Jaskier thought she just wanted to watch the fun. 

“You’d better love me back,” Jaskier told the slug threateningly, doing his best not to feel like a fool, “Because if I have to kiss you like this, I’m going to be fucking mad if it’s for nothing.”

With that, he leaned down and planted a large kiss directly between the slug’s antennae.

It was wet. It was slimy. Jaskier stayed as long as he could bear before rearing back, spitting and spluttering. The slime stuck to the inside of his mouth, expanding. His mouth was indeed beginning to go numb. It was a deeply unnerving sensation. 

Jaskier was so wrapped up in his disgust that he didn’t notice anything else had changed until, from behind him, a very deep and familiar voice said, “Jaskier?”

Jaskier whirled around. There stood Geralt in all his witchery glory, his armor and swords on, not a drop of slime or a hint of yellow to be seen. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier tried to say. It came out as an indistinct mumble, since his mouth was numb and full of slime. He tried to spit again.

“I told you it’d work!” said Yennefer happily.

“What happened?” asked Geralt.

“True love’s kiss,” said Yennefer. She sounded entirely too pleased with herself, and also not nearly appreciative enough of Jaskier’s plight.

Geralt blinked. He turned to Jaskier. “But that means…”

“Mmmph,” said Jaskier emphatically.

Yennefer conjured a glass of water and handed it to him. Jaskier swished it in his mouth gratefully. 

“I love you,” he managed to say when he spit the water out. “I love you so much I kissed you as a slug.”

Geralt swallowed. He, at least, looked suitably touched. “I love you. I never thought you’d love me back.”

“I do. Idiot.”

Geralt smiled, pulled Jaskier towards him, and tugged him into a kiss. It was rather slimy, as first kisses went. Jaskier’s mouth was still numb. The whole affair was rather awkward. 

And yet, because it was true love — because it was Geralt — it was the best kiss he ever had.

~

“Do you have to keep singing that damn song?” Geralt grumbled. 

“Yes. It’s my payment for having gone through that ordeal.”

“I thought your payment was kisses.”

“That too. I went through a lot.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, shut up. I know you love the song, deep down.”

Geralt said nothing, but his glare spoke volumes.

“I’ve written a proper ending, actually. Would you like to hear it?”

Without waiting for a response, Jaskier began to sing. 

The bard sought out a helper, a sorceress beauty She told him how to break the curse, unpleasant as it be The brave bard kissed the creature, though it covered him with slime And the slug became a witcher, for their love was for all time

Oh, the Golden Slug with the golden slime A wolf’s head medallion on its neck shined Far squishier than a day-old lime It covered me with grime I’m all covered in grime There’s so much slime So much slime

He let the last note fade and bowed dramatically, trying not to laugh at the exasperated expression on Geralt’s face. 

“Come on, give me a review. Three words or less.”

Geralt smirked. “Once, I would have said ‘shut up, bard.’ I know a much better way to keep you quiet now.”

Jaskier grinned. “Oh yeah?”

Geralt pulled him into a kiss that was long, emphatic, and not remotely, and the song was soon forgotten in the face of Jaskier’s joy. 

[amloveabledeathmo]

In the end, they were both still different. She was not the ruler Nilfgaard had hoped for, if the rumors at court were true. And Vernon was Vernon, no matter whose right hand he was. They both met no one's expectations and ended up exceeding their own. In their diversity, they were the same. In their stubbornness, too.Finally, it was Geralt, of all people, who was after all a connecting link between them, who suggested they put aside their walking on egg shells at the card table and ride out together. "A race," he suggested. "You'll never agree on anything. Ciri is still too unpracticed at commanding, and you, Vernon, know that thumping the table won't get you anywhere. Take it outside." suggestion was crazy, of course, because Ciri couldn't just ride out whenever she wanted, and certainly not with just anyone – and those were exactly the reasons they did. They drove their horses through a seemingly endless field of buttercups. The wind whistled through his clothes, his thighs ached from the force with which he spurred the animal, and Vernon felt more alive than he had in a long time. Ciri laughed, she laughed at him and with him, and her eyes were as green as a pond.And perhaps those green eyes were the legacy of something he had once loathed. Her powers were unnatural, yes. As unnatural as witchers and sorceresses and much more in this world, in which he had nevertheless decided to live on. And then, one morning, Vernon Roche woke up in silk sheets, and those green eyes were looking at him with that certain sparkle. He was lost. But a loser, he was no longer.

Hello. This is a nice little fic. Cute ending. However I think you may have sent this to the wrong person. I have zero clue who Vernon Roche is. I barely know Ciri. I visit the Geralt/Jaskier part of the fandom but I don't even watch or play or read the original material, way too gross and unhappy for me.

[lambden]

oops here’s an accidental follow up to 2021’s valdskier fill for ‘mending clothing’ 😅 now with 150% more pining valdo and 500% more sexual tension! also i’m sorry for paraphrasing and bastardizing sarah dessen, elvis costello, shakespeare, greek mythos, the bible, etc etc… i have no excuse except that valdo minorly possessed me

@whataboutthebard november 7 prompts: taking off clothing, mending clothing

M, 2.4K words, valdo/jaskier (slightly unrequited), background geraskier (ooo we love pain)

The stinger sneaks out between thick slabs of wood meant for keeping in noise and warmth and keeping out light and sobriety, and as the chord hits Valdo’s eardrums, his traitorous heart swells. On this Continent committed to tearing itself apart, there are only a few masters of his craft left standing. Valdo has studied, loved, or taught them all— and unless his ears deceive him, he thinks he might have caught wind of the one person who fits into all three of those categories.

And he has perfect pitch.

He enters the tavern just as tonight’s entertainment is ushered off-stage to some back private room, and thus only catches a glimpse of a coat far too ugly to house the man he knows. But Valdo trusts his gut; he doesn’t order a drink, instead brushing past the barkeep with grandiose excuses of bardic solidarity. The door to the back room swings open slowly onto a narrow staircase, and when Valdo ascends it he finds an equally narrow room awaiting at the top.

There, standing amidst— are they his band? They must be his band, although their dirty attire and sallow faces separates them greatly from anyone Jaskier would have played with at Cintra or Oxenfurt— a small group of cloaked, wide-eyed strangers, is his equal, his rival, and though admit it he will never, his muse. Jaskier’s mousy hair hangs long around his chin, and his coat is really, truly dreadful. Even more upsetting than his garb is the dismay he wears on his brow and frown, and the fervour in his voice when he stammers, “Valdo— what the fuck are you— you can’t be seen here!”

Valdo’s gaze sweeps over the local chaff. If these are the best musicians that this backwater town has to offer, he doesn’t think he’s got much to worry about. He scoffs, raising his palm to the other bard and keeping his tone as peremptory as he can. “Calm down, Pankratz. I rented a suite close by; no one will pay us any attention there.”

Jaskier twists to exchange some complex look with one of his compatriots; the man’s hood casts most of his face in shadow, but the whites of his eyes shine as he nods. Still flustered, Jaskier turns to Valdo and he nods too, albeit much less certainly. Although Valdo cannot say he understands the need for such dramatics, he respects them anyway, making sure the door slams shut between them on his way back down the stairs.

He doesn’t bother glancing behind him the entire journey to his suite, only pausing at one corner before hurrying into the crowded town square. Valdo half-expects his tail to abandon him in the rabble, but when he makes it to his inn and nods to the innkeep, he sees her nod to someone behind him as well. 

Disguising his smile as best he can, Valdo leads Jaskier through the winding hallways to his rented room. It reminds him a bit of a classic tale they would have both studied at Oxenfurt. Only in this story, when the door to his room swings shut behind them both and he turns to finally see Jaskier, neither of them are struck down by the gods or turned instantly to salt. Jaskier stares, his gaze as arrestingly bright as always, and Valdo swallows his smile so aggressively that he’s sure he looks quite sour.

Then in the same instant, they both ignite:

“Why in the bloody fucking fuck are you here?” 

“Really, Jaskier, I know that your voice isn’t what it used to be, but there’s no point in retiring— why am I here? Why the fuck are you here—”

“Retiring! I’m sorry, perhaps you were too late and missed my sold-out show—”

“A sold-out show in a backwater hovel, my, how will I ever overcome my jealousy—”

“I haven’t heard of any of your shows selling out in over a; well, no, make that ever—”

“Some of us are less concerned with finances and more interested in honing our craft—”

“Oh, I bet you and your fucking craft have spent some nice long winters together, just honing it up—”

“At least I find my inspiration without having to step around piles of horse shit all year long,” Valdo sneers back. “Tell me, darling, how is the muse?”

He fully expects Jaskier to bite back, and when no rejoinder comes, a new and unwelcome shudder runs up Valdo’s spine. The other bard looks as though Valdo has slapped him, his usually brilliant eyes lowered to reflect nothing. Duller than Valdo has ever heard him, Jaskier mutters, “What the fuck do you want, Valdo?”

“I want my greatest rival back,” Valdo answers without thinking. Last time he was brutally, unreservedly honest, it had thrown Jaskier for a loop. He expects the same quick turn this time, and for Jaskier to embrace their regular dynamic. When Jaskier doesn’t even glance up, the pit in his stomach only grows. “I… well… You haven’t been to many conferences or competitions as of late!”

Heaving a gentle but tremendous sigh, Jaskier still doesn’t meet his gaze. “There are more important things in the world than music.”

“No,” Valdo dismisses without hesitation. “Music is the great uniter. Something that people who differ on everything and anything else can have in common. A song may not be able to change your mind, but it can infiltrate your heart, and the heart could change your mind.”

When he finishes the quote, Jaskier is finally watching him. But in his expression is a funny sort of bemusement that makes Valdo’s heart race slightly faster; panic, no doubt. “You read my thesis.”

“Had to keep myself entertained somehow,” Valdo mutters, instead of the sore, ugly truth: that he read it as soon as it was published, and his intent had been to decry it to all who would listen. But instead, he had found it frustratingly genius.

“Valéry, I don’t know what you want from me,” pleads Jaskier.

“Well...” A plethora of ideas come to mind, but only one of them is stupid enough to maybe actually work. Truth be told, he hadn’t given the rumours of Jaskier’s residency in this town enough credence to really think this plan through. But where logic fails, perhaps nostalgia will suffice. He soldiers on: “I’ve torn a hole in one of my very favourite articles of clothing. Perhaps you could mend it for me.”

Jaskier stares, unimpressed. This part went smoother last time. “You know, there are plenty of fine tailors.”

“Of course,” Valdo lifts his chin proudly, bracing himself. “But I find myself hesitant to trust just anyone with this sensitive matter.”

With that, he removes his trousers, which are free of any runs or loose seams or frayed threads. Then Valdo takes a heavy inhale before stripping out of his smallclothes, pulling them down his thighs and around his knees. There is a small hole of fabric missing at the crotch, worn away after years of use. But otherwise his smalls are clean, if slightly sweaty from the journey to fetch Jaskier.

He drops them to the floor, and scoops them up with one hand. Jaskier stares, quite shamelessly, at what Valdo’s garments were previously adorning. Valdo doesn’t move to cover himself, but he does clear his throat expectantly, breaking the silence between them. “That is, unless you have more urgent plans. I’m sure that witcher keeps you on a busy schedule.”

“No,” Jaskier chokes out, finally glancing away from Valdo’s prick and crossing the room in only a few steps to yank the drawers out of his grasp. “No, that’s fine, this— this is fine. You have a needle?”

He indicates that Jaskier should check the small bag on the nightstand, and he quickly finds and retrieves the meagre sewing supplies that Valdo has yet to even open. Jaskier struggles to thread the needle and Valdo bites back a hundred entendres; he’s in too vulnerable a position to tease. Instead he retreats to the corner of the room and sinks into a chair next to his discarded trousers. 

Sitting like this, with a distance between them and his legs bared, allows Valdo to recollect the last time they saw one another. He thinks of it and presses his lips together, his mouth remembering how Jaskier’s had felt. Across the room, without glancing up at all, Jaskier chews his lower lip— it makes him look decades younger, somehow.

Valdo’s breath catches in his throat. Jaskier looks up, instantly catching his gaze across the room. Mildly, he offers, “I can get you something else to cover up.”

Valdo shrugs. “If you’d like.”

Neither of them move to do so. Valdo reaches down but cowers at the last moment, resting his palms atop his thighs. Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he says nothing, only twisting his lip gently between his teeth as he returns to his needlework.

Because he’s in the most vulnerable position of his life, or because he’s never allowed himself anything good, or because he knows better than to think this can end well, or because he thinks they’re at their best when they’re at their ugliest, Valdo speaks without thinking; “So. Tell me, Julian. Where is that witcher of yours, anyway?”

The change is instant, and horrific. Jaskier’s voice drops to an awful bitter and clipped tone. “No clue.”

“Ah.” Valdo, appropriately chastened, frowns. “You were so happy last I saw you.”

Jaskier’s frown only hardens. “I was a fool.”

“A fool in love,” guesses Valdo.

“But a fool regardless,” Jaskier snaps back. “Do you care what pattern I stitch into this?”

“Dealer’s choice.” That makes the bard finally glance his way, and then glance very obviously down at his prick, still clamped tightly between his thighs. Jaskier nods sharply before turning back to his needlework. 

His fingertips move deftly over the softly worn fabric as Valdo’s fingertips dig into the meaty muscle of his legs. Between them, his cock twitches, desperate for attention. It might be the strangest thing they’ve done together yet. Perhaps the strangeness is what finally prompts Jaskier to speak again.

“He told me he no longer wanted me in his life,” admits the poet, his gaze flicking down to Valdo’s cock even as his heart drifts to another man. It says a great deal about Valdo that his arousal does not falter, and that in fact this jealousy, combined with the attention, makes his erection even harder. 

But Valdo is nothing if not a gentleman, even to his greatest rival. Voice unmistakably thick, he tells Jaskier firmly, “Then he was the fool.”

Jaskier laughs; there is no humour behind it. “No, he… he might have spoken brashly, but it was a necessary wake up call for us both. He was grieving, and I was…” He swallows, shaking his head. “I followed him around for decades. I was worse than his horse, I was…”

Valdo tuts. “You can’t blame a poet for being hopelessly romantic.”

“Not much of a poet anymore,” mutters Jaskier.

“Well, that much is true,” Valdo agrees, steadying his hands on his bare thighs and crossing his ankles primly. Juxtaposed with his hard prick, still throbbing between his legs, his prudence must seem amusing. “I’ve heard your recent compositions, and I must say, I would much rather listen to a dog bark at a crow than even one verse of Burn, Butcher, Burn.”

The reference to the classic that they had both so enjoyed in school brings a pleased, clever grin to Jaskier’s lips. He sets Valdo’s smallclothes down on the bed and then rises to his feet, steadying his hands at his hips and staring Valdo down. “Valdo,” he begins, teasing but nervous, in a way he usually isn’t.

Mocking his tone, Valdo echoes, “Jaskier.”

“You found me here.”

“A stroke of good luck.”

“For both of us.” Jaskier takes a step towards him. Valdo is reminded abruptly of chess. He is also reminded abruptly of his lack of dress; he shifts in his seat, knees spreading then closing again. “Valdo, are you going to have some big melodramatic overreaction if I tell you I’ve missed you?”

“Yes,” hisses Valdo. “Absolutely. Don’t you dare.”

Jaskier ignores him, humming, “What was it you asked me for last time? So pitiful, and yet it had a beautiful, memorable ring to it.”

Valdo puts on his best Gwent face and pretends not to remember, parroting back Jaskier’s words cruelly; “No clue.” His traitorous cock dribbles between his thighs, and he shoves his knees together.

“I don’t think you would have come here with the same strange request if you didn’t remember,” Jaskier’s grin turns downright dangerous. “You begged me to be mean. I don’t think I was quite capable of it back then, but. Good news! I’m much meaner now.”

Damn the bard. This is the very thing Valdo had wanted, and the very last way he’d wanted it. He shakes his head, spitting harshly, “You may look the part, but I know you, Julian. Inside, you’re still that bleeding heart poet, aren’t you? It’s unmistakable, even when you’re dressed like a pirate and a lush. It’s in your eyes, and that little twist of your soft pouty lips. You can’t even pretend to be cruel to a man who you once called your greatest rival! You just don’t have it in you.”

The pout Valdo mentioned comes out in full force now; Jaskier is practically smouldering. “I ought to accidentally forget to take the needle out of your drawers.”

Valdo hisses, “That isn’t exactly the prick up my ass I had in mind,” and Jaskier takes the bait, lunging forward. His soft lips capture Valdo’s harshly, and both of them exhale— Jaskier, with the relief of someone who really needs a good release.

Valdo, with the agony of someone who has dreamt of this for decades.

Jaskier is not as gentle as he had always imagined; perhaps his ‘Path’ has wrung that from him, despite all his soft qualities that never seem to fade. But he is passionate, taking what he needs from Valdo and giving him the world in return. They don’t make love but Valdo never expected them to, and when Jaskier moans his name— his real name— into his shoulder, it’s nearly enough to curb the yearning.

He leaves with mended undergarments and a brand new, deeply familiar hole in his heart.

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

“You know, you certainly aren’t who I was expecting to find when I first set forth on this journey,” Jaskier said, perched awkwardly at the end of Geralt’s bed. “Though I’m not sure I myself know what I was expecting. Someone I met more than the once, maybe?”

“I don’t think anyone ever expects to find a witcher for their soulmate, bard,” Geralt responded, and Jaskier laughed lightly.

“I suppose that may be true,” he admitted. “I’m just disappointed in past me for not recognising what I was clearly seeing in you. Destiny, heroics and heartbreak? Gods, I may as well have committed myself as yours then and there.”

[thenightling]

"It's not historically accurate" that's because... It's not history!

I've seen these complaints in regard to Game of Thrones and even though I'm not that big of a George R. R. Martin fan it frustrated me even then. Now, today, someone has informed me how annoyed they are that Jaskier's songs are called bard songs because they're actually "Corporate pop songs." Yes, of course they are "Corporate pop songs." They are songs made for a fantasy show produced by Netflix. They didn't use necromancy to revive an actual medieval minstrel. Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire (books) are not really set in the middle ages. They're a fantasy book series set in a world that just resembles our middle ages. It's very, very loosely based on the War of the Roses with the Lannisters representing the Lancasters and Stark representing York. The Witcher is yet another medieval looking fantasy but it should be obvious that it's not actually the middle ages.

Traditionally most High Fantasy settings resemble the middle ages of Europe.

I explain this with the acknowledgement that worlds where magick is common place, technology and culture might be slower to develop as necessity is the mother of invention and with magick answering certain needs, the necessity isn't there so progress may be slower. Part of why I had liked Carnival Row was the change of the traditional High Fantasy setting from mediaeval-like to resembling the late nineteenth century / Victorian era.

But these stories are not actually set in our world. You should not be expecting historical accuracy. Jaskier LOOKS like a 1980s rock star. You are not going get him to sing a "real" bard song. You're going to get a rock / pop-esque song done in Bard-like style where it's recognizable as being a bard singing but certainly not historically accurate. It's not history.

Jaskier wears a burgundy colored leather jacket. Ciri wears leggings. Yennefer had a magical hysterectomy. the word "Okay" has been used even though the term is less than two hundred years old. They use modern-Modern English.

I take Jaskier's anachronistic look (and I use the term loosely as it's not our real mediaeval era) to show us, the audience, that he is a rock musician of that world. And how much of a star he actually is is all dependent upon who you ask. They use the term Mutant in the Witcher. Have you any idea how recent that word is? It's less than a hundred and fifty years old. It's unfair to penalize The Witcher for "not being historically accurate" when that's not what was meant to be. It's a fantasy world that resembles our mediaeval era. It's not actually medieval. The same applies for Dungeons and Dragons... These are not histories. They aren't even set in our world. Stop expecting our world's historical limitations.

Expecting these stories to be historically accurate is actually worse than expecting Xena: Warrior Princess to be an accurate depiction of Ancient Greece. At least that one actually claims the setting is Ancient Greece.

In closing, yes, Jaskier's songs are corporate pop. They are rock or pop-like songs written for a fantasy TV show created by Netflix. You're not wrong about that. It is foolish to expect authentical medieval minstreling in a show like The Witcher. That being said... "Toss a coin to your Witcher, O' Valley of plenty! O' Valey of plenty! Toss a coin to your Witcher. He's a friend of humanity."