#his witcher verse slapped too he was a good witcher

[crrpo]

i miss my fantasy boi so im making him again oops.

[dhwty-writes]

Dialogue prompt: “you feel so deeply for everyone, let someone feel deeply for you.”

Thank you, lovely person, for this wonderful prompt! I’m sorry this took a while, it got very long. I also just realised as I was uploading this, that the prompt isn’t exactly what you asked for. I hope you like it regardless!

Warnings: None, except for utter dumbassery on these two idiots’ parts

Read on AO3

The room at their inn was infuriatingly quiet, the silence only broken by the scratch of Jaskier's quill. It drove Geralt mad. It drove him mad and yet he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling above the bed.

Not because of the obvious reasons. Not because it was annoying or too loud or anything.

No, it drove him mad, because he lacked the words to fill the silence. Two dozen times Geralt opened his mouth to say something, two dozen times he closed it again.

Then he sat up with a start. "What would you like to do this evening?" he blurted out.

The maddening scratching stopped for a moment, accompanied by a weary sigh. "Gee, Geralt, what kind of question is that?"

"Hmm." Yeah, what kind of question was that? A stupid one, that's what.

"I don't know, sleep?” The scratching started again. “I'm tired." Jaskier yawned to prove his point.

Geralt ground his teeth and turned onto his other side. He had just wanted to do something nice for his bard. But now the opportunity had passed, now he had to work up the courage again. He fell asleep, still ruminating how utterly stupid he had been.

 The thing was, doing something nice for another person wasn't necessarily Geralt's forte. Melitele's tits, even being nice was not his forte! He was a witcher and witchers killed monsters. Niceties and manners had a very low priority in Kaer Morhen’s curriculum.

The other thing was, Jaskier deserved someone being nice to him. He couldn't quite say what it was, but the bard had grown on him over the years. First a slight annoyance and liability, then a reliable travel companion until he felt comfortable calling him his friend. Best friend, even. Which, given that he was his only friend, wasn’t very hard. And now—

Something had changed, something Geralt did not quite dare to name. All he knew was that whenever he looked at his bard, his cheeks and chest grew warm and his stomach and heart did funny things they weren't supposed to.

And that he wanted to do something nice for the bard.

A few weeks after the Question Incident, Geralt had finally worked up the courage to try once more. Given his previous experience, he had decided not to ask the bard again. That way at least, he didn’t run risk to ruin it with his incompetence with words again.

He did, however, hold the belief that words were the key to this tricky situation. Jaskier was a bard, a poet, a minstrel. He liked words. So, Geralt decided to by him a pretty book full of pretty words.

They had managed to arrive in town during market day, which was quite fortunate indeed. Books were pricey, and usually unattainable in the smaller towns. But here he was quick to succeed.

The book was almost comically tiny and abhorrently expensive, but the vendor assured him that it was all the rage in Cidaris at the moment. Even better than that, it was not written by hand, but rather by a very new invention called a ‘printing press’. Needless to say, Geralt was fascinated and excited to have found such a perfect gift for his bard. He slapped down a pouch of coins onto the counter and quickly returned to their inn.

The book was strategically placed onto the rickety desk in the corner and he forced himself to busy himself with his swords as he waited for his friend to return.

It did not take long until Jaskier burst into the room with the usual flurry of words and quickly discarded clothes. Normally, Geralt paid him no mind, but on that day, he was watching him like a hawk. That was how he was fortunate enough to witness the exact moment the bard spotted the book.

Jaskier froze mid-sentence and pointed at it: “What’s this?”

“’S for you,” Geralt mumbled. “I found it.”

He drew closer to the desk and flipped the cover open with two fingers, as far away from the folio as possible. And hissed. Jaskier actually hissed. “What is this?” he demanded again. “And what is it doing here, in our room?”

“A book,” he replied confused. “Poems, they said. ‘S good, they said.”

“Poems!” he exclaimed. “Those aren’t poems, Geralt, those are the uninspired rhymes by a talentless wastrel, who stole my verses! I hope you didn’t spend any money on it, I wouldn’t give a copper for any composition by Valdo Marx.”

Geralt looked at the sword in his lap. ‘Fuck.’

“I’m going to burn it,” Jaskier declared and Geralt leapt to his feet, shouting: “No!”

The rest of their stay in town was spent wrestling the book from his bard, so he couldn’t chuck it into the fireplace before Geralt had a chance to pawn it off again. Somehow, he felt even stupider than the last time.

 ~*~

 Words were off the table, then, so he opted for a more direct-action approach. One of the many things he had learned about the bard in all those years, was that he enjoyed food. Good food, specifically.

They made camp, Geralt decided that Jaskier deserved a nice meal. He went off to hunt and forage, leaving the bard in charge of setting up the camp and caring for Roach. After his initial mistrust of his companion’s animal handling skills, Jaskier had quickly proven himself quite capable. At least more capable than looking for food in the wild.

When he returned an hour and a half later, he was quite proud with himself. He had managed to catch a fat rabbit and found a whole array of mushrooms and berries that would surely please the bard. They were brightly coloured, just as he was.

Smiling broadly and not-humming under his breath—they had talked about that, witchers didn't hum, definitely not—he set about preparing the meal while Jaskier went off to do the laundry in a nearby stream. Fair's fair, after all.

The sun had set and the stew was almost done, when he returned. "That smells—” He wrinkled his nose.

'Oh no,' Geralt thought, icy dread rushing through his veins. That wasn't good. One wasn't supposed to wrinkle their nose when smelling food. Besides, there was nothing to wrinkle one's nose about. The stew smelled delicious.

However, he appeared to have done a grievous mistake, for the displeased expression on Jaskier’s face did not fade. "Geralt," he said warily, "what are you doing?"

"Cooking," he replied, pointing at the pot simmering over the fire. This time, at least, it was Jaskier asking the stupid questions. "Mushrooms and rabbit."

"Mushrooms," Jaskier repeated and pointed at a few leftovers. "Those mushrooms?"

"Hmm." He did not like where this was going.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier's face fell, an absolutely revolting expression of compassion and bemusement. "Those are poisonous!"

Geralt stared at him. Stared back at the stew. Back at him. The stew. "Fuck."

~*~

 Alright, so what Geralt needed was a fool-proof plan. A witcher-proof plan, rather. I plan he could absolutely not muck up, no matter how hard he tried. It took him a month and a half to come up with one.

Then, he decided it was best to put such delicate matters into someone else’s hands. Hooves, rather.

“Geralt,” Jaskier complained loudly as the heat bore down on them relentlessly. “Please, have some mercy on me. I can’t. I just can’t anymore.” This had been going on for hours. “How long’s it been, Geralt? How long’s it been since we had a rest? Since the sweat dripping from my brow wasn’t watering dried weeds on the road side? Since I had but a sip of water?”

He cast his eyes upwards. “About four hours since you took a morning bath in that stream,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And you’d have something to drink, had you not insisted on upending your water over your head.”

“You’re a cruel man, witcher,” the bard whined. Geralt could hear the pout in his voice. “The reason for my demise, even. My blisters have got blisters, I think my feet are about to fall off. And whose fault will it be? Yours, my friend yours alone—”

Geralt jerked on Roach’s reins; he had heard quite enough of those baseless accusations. The bard, however, didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he just kept on babbling and walking��limping, really. He couldn’t help but smile. “Jaskier,” he said far too fondly as he hopped off the saddle.

He spun around, a confused look on his face. “What?”

“Come here.” He gestured at Roach. “Maybe this’ll give your feet some rest.” In the privacy of his mind, he added: ‘And my ears, as well.’

Eagerly, Jaskier hurried over to him. “Are you being serious?”

He rolled his eyes and laced his fingers together, offering to give him a boost. When Jaskier still didn’t move, he growled: “Come on, before I change my mind.”

“Alright, alright,” the bard mumbled. Shortly after, he was safely in the saddle, grinning from ear to ear, as he patted Roach’s neck. “Gotta admit it,” he said smugly, while Geralt adjusted the stirrups, “I kind of missed this. Thank you, Geralt.”

He mumbled something unintelligible and waved him to be on his way, as he got all of his friend’s useless weight situated on his back. It did not take much urging for the bard to ride ahead and leave Geralt trailing behind.

In all fairness, what happened next was only loosely his fault. Maybe he should have paid better attention to the road. Maybe he should have walked beside Roach, ready to grab her reins if anything went wrong. Maybe.

But he was, after all, only a man. Only a man who was not only confronted with the fact that his bard had a rather lovely bottom, but also that said lovely bottom was right in his line of sight, if he walked behind Roach just so. Information he’d certainly file away again for later, if his bard was dilly-dallying again.

Still, maybe he shouldn’t have let himself be distracted quite as much by the sight. And he probably should have seen the bandits waiting at the side of the road well in advance. He definitely should have realised sooner what exactly was happening and come to Jaskier’s rescue.

Alas, none of that had been the case.

A piercing scream had ripped him out of his silent contemplation and next thing he knew, Roach was gone, Jaskier was lying on the ground and he had four, admittedly not very skilled, crooks to contend with.

Once that was done, he crouched down next to his friend, fretting nervously. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously, skimming his hands all over Jaskier’s body to check for injuries. “Did you break something? Any blood, any pain? How’s your head feeling?”

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he insisted, batting the hands away. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, please tell me I’m not that insufferable.”

He sat back on his haunches, unable to do anything but stare. This was nothing like he had planned.

Jaskier sighed heavily and waved his hand. “Just… go check on your horse.”

Bereft of any other options, that was exactly what he did.

 ~*~

 Autumn was almost upon them and Geralt was running out of options. After the Question Incident, the Book Catastrophe, the Mushrooms and the Wannabe Robbers, a number of other disastrous mishaps had followed, the most prominent among those being the Tavern Brawl, the Brothel Failure, and the Library Ban.

What he had learned during all those horrifying events, was that the only way he could ever even hope to do something nice for his bard was with a town, meticulous planning, and the radical elimination of any and all possible liabilities.

The first two, he had excelled at, this time. There was a town, there was an inn, there was a room they rented for five days. The first three of them, Geralt had spent conspiring with the innkeeper and her wife, who found them and his efforts ‘absolutely adorable’ and who were more than willing to aid him in his ‘display of his undying love’. Both of those were rather weird notions, but Geralt was so close, so close, he had no time to bother with semantics.

It was the fourth day and everything was going perfect. The tub was prepared, the tavern was quiet, the bath salts and scented oils and soaps his bard loved so much bought. And the bard did not suspect a thing.

All that was left to do know was fetch Jaskier and finally, finally do something nice for him.

That last thing was easier than he had anticipated; they practically ran into each other on the way out of the tavern. “Jaskier!” Geralt said.

“Geralt!” Jaskier said.

“I’ve got something for you,” they both said.

Geralt blinked.

Jaskier blinked.

“You go first,” Geralt growled.

“Great!” The bard was bouncing on the balls of his feet. That was never a good sign. He didn’t know, however, how much of a not-good sign it was until Jaskier produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve. “Look! It’s a contract!”

‘Fuck,’ Geralt thought. ‘I should’ve gone first.’ “Shit,” he said. “I can’t take it.”

“What?!” he balked. “What are you talking about, you have to take it! That’s a hundred crowns, Geralt, that’ll last us weeks! I know you’ve been going all stir-crazy these past few days; you’re even more quiet and taciturn than usual.”

That wasn’t exactly untrue. Four days of conspiring had taken their toll. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, just a couple of drowners.”

Geralt growled and snatched the page out of his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he promised and stormed off.

He wasn’t back in an hour. It wasn’t a couple of drowners, either.

Instead, he returned two hours past sundown, drenched in mud, every bone in his body hurting like fuck, the heads of a couple of drowners and a fucking water hag. He hated water hags. Not because they were specifically difficult to kill, but because they just kept lobbing mud at him and that was all he needed for a day to qualify as truly revolting.

He stomped to the house of the alderman, collected the payment and then dragged himself up to their inn room, where he was greeted by a far too cheery bard. “You’re back!” he exclaimed and almost lunged to embrace him, when he spotted the mud and guts all over him. “Eww,” he sneered. “You, my dear witcher, need a bath.”

On any other day, Geralt would have readily agreed. Maybe even on this day. But then, Jaskier declares: “Luckily, our gracious hosts have been so kind to already provide us with one.” He stepped out of the way and, to Geralt’s horror, presented a wooden bathtub with candles and rose petals and a nice embroidered linen sheet to avoid any annoying splinters. “Come here, friend, and take a bath.”

“No, you take a bath,” he blurted before he had even time to think about the words coming out of his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m not the one smelling like he just got dunked into the swamp and then took a nap in the pigpen. You take a bath, Geralt, or you sleep with Roach tonight!”

Accepting his fat, his shoulders fell. “Fuck.”

 ~*~

 It was almost winter, almost time to separate for months, and Geralt almost admitted defeat. Almost. But, of course, he didn’t even manage that.

Honestly, after nigh nine months of trial and error (mostly error) it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, that even this final opportunity was a complete and utter failure in regards to his plans. How it still did was beyond him.

The door to their inn room shut behind them with a bang, Jaskier leaning against it to block any means of escape. "Geralt of Rivia," he declared boldly, probably as menacing as he could, "what are you playing at?"

"Hm?" he tried innocently.

"Oh, no,” he laughed throatily and raised an accusatory finger, drawing closer with each word. “Oh no, my friend, don't you 'hm' me. You,” the finger poked into his chest, “are acting weird."

"Hmm."

He huffed. "At least we can agree about that. So. What are you playing at? Because I tell you, this has been going on for months and I can't decide whether you are trying to mock me, insult me, or kill me!"

"None of that," Geralt was quick to assure.

"Well, then, what is it?"

His eyes darted back and forth, desperately searching for a way out of this. But Jaskier was directly in front of him, trapping him against the bed, and still blocking the way to the door. There was nowhere to run, so he decided to go for the truth: "I'm trying to do something nice for you!"

The bard gawked at him. Then, he blurted: "What on earth are you talking about?!"

He didn’t say a thing.

“Geralt!” Jaskier took another step forward and as Geralt’s calves hit the mattress, his knees buckled and he sat down involuntarily.

"I—” He threw up his hands in defeat. How on earth was he supposed to explain all of those confusing things going on inside of him. Before he could come up with a satisfying answer, his mouth started talking on his own: “You care so deeply for everyone, let someone care deeply for you."

Silence fell over the room, as Jaskier kept staring and Geralt kept avoiding his gaze. Then, the bard suddenly crouched down, with the exact same expression he had after The Mushrooms. “Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said in that soft tone he just couldn't quite understand. 'Fond,' his mind supplied, 'adoring.'

"Please," he begged, hiding his face against the reassuring shoulder of his friend, "this has been hell. I tried everything I could think of, and it all failed. Just tell me. Tell me how I can do something nice for you. I'd do anything, anything at all."

"Anything, you say?" He laughed, a playful undertone sneaking into his voice. "Well then, heroic witcher, I would like a kiss,” he said, accompanied by a wink.

Geralt wasn't thinking. If he had been, he'd probably stopped himself. But since any cerebral activity had ceased to exist, he just leaned forward and pressed his lips to the bard's mouth in a chaste kiss.

It was over almost before it had begun, the bard spluttering with surprise: "I- You- I was joking!"

Oh. Fuck. Well, that certainly was a way to end a year of embarrassments. "I'm sorry," he blurted and backed away, frantically scooting back on the bed, only to be stopped by Jaskier's hands.

“I—umm—shit!” Jaskier cursed; now it was him who was avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

He snorted. No hunched shoulders or ducked head could hide the crimson cheeks of his bard. “You’re blushing.”

“Well, you’re an idiot!” he countered. And, well, Jaskier certainly was not prone to be a liar. “I didn't think you’d actually do it, you daft witcher,” he hissed, before his face grew soft and he smiled again, invitingly. “But I also didn't say you should stop.”

It was a terrible line. It was a terrible line and they both knew it. Evidently, they both didn’t care. As soon as the words had left Jaskier’s mouth, they surged forward. It was surreal, really, to finally be granted permission. To finally be able to taste Jaskier’s lips, to pull him in, close, closer, until he was straddling his thighs. To finally be able to dispose of his doublet, push his hands under his shirt and up his back and—

Breathlessly, Geralt pulled away. “I love you,” he blurted.

Jaskier sighed quietly and smiled. “I know,” he whispered and pecked him on his cheek. “You show it in a thousand little ways, every day.” He pecked him on the other cheek.

“I know,” Geralt replied and kissed him on the mouth. “You tell anyone who would listen.”

He chuckled and kissed him again. “I never dared to dream you’d love me like this,” he murmured against his lips.

“But I do.”

“You know,” Jaskier said, playing with the clasps of his armour, “that was awfully nice of you. But if you’d life to do another nice thing for me, to make up for lost time, so to speak, I’ve got a couple of ideas in my mind.”

Geralt groaned and pull away, flopping backwards onto the bed. “No,” he said stubbornly, shoving at the bard who tried to kiss him again. “Nope, not in a thousand years. That was it, you ruined it. Enough nice things for you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier whined. “It wasn’t that terrible. Cheesy, yes, I’ll accept even tacky, but certainly not tasteless enough to warrant such a cruel punishment.”

He raised an incredulous eyebrow at him.

Jaskier crossed his arms and pouted. “Alright, maybe it was,” he conceded.

Geralt huffed his agreement, stretching out his hands for his bard’s hips, already tired of this game.

“Regardless,” a smug grin spread on his face as he shimmied closer, “you love me too much to deny me for long.”

“Yeah.” Geralt smirked as well and put his arms around Jaskier’s neck to pull him in for another kiss. “Yeah, I do.”

[multifandomfanficreclist]

Witcher Fic Mass Post

I have delved deep into the Witcher fandom during these quarantimes. This is a selection of the fics I’ve enjoyed.

All are Geralt/Jaskier unless stated otherwise.

***

Louder and Louder - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295869

Geralt tries to puzzle out why Jaskier keeps following him into danger after danger... completely missing the obvious. There's too great a gulf between what his witcher senses pick up, and what his damaged heart is willing to accept.

//

 "The bard’s heart always beats faster whenever the witcher draws near. That isn't unusual. So do the hearts of most humans he encounters. Not only do they blanch and recoil at the sight of his white hair and amber eyes, but they begin to sweat, the stench of their fear a sour tang at the back of his throat.

 But the bard never seems to reek of fear."

***

The Courting Jewellery A/B/O - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689562

Geralt doesn’t wear his courting jewelry—the medallion is apparently a witcher thing, not an omega one—and Jaskier supposes that makes sense. Geralt leads a very active life, and probably saves the jewelry for situations it won’t run the constant risk of getting ruined in. Certainly a nice set of earrings would be a lot more fragile than the plain studs he wears instead. A lot of omegas don’t wear their courting jewelry day to day, anyway, or at least not most of it. Geralt’s hardly unusual in that.

It’s a bit of a shame, though, because Jaskier’d like to see him in it.

***

You Follow? - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620703

I’m a Jaskier Rivia stan first and a person second @whitewolfpackleader: Did @bardofficial win a Grammy? No. But he DID put his husband in a leather tunic for the red carpet and in that sense, we’re all winners tonight

***

Front Row Praises - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326214

The girl rolls her eyes at him. “If you’re just going to stand here ogling the witcher, maybe go and do it out of the way.”

“Ogling.” Jaskier scoffs. “Who’s ogling?”

She looks unimpressed. “Have you told him you want him to fuck you?”

***

Even a Small Love - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473670

“Well,” Jaskier replies distractedly. “Lots of things want to strangle you.”

“You don’t.”

It isn’t a particularly troublesome accusation, or even necessarily an accusation at all.

***

Redwood and Dandelion - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681252

"The Witcher's bought a room for the night, and says he'll pay double for anyone who can bed him without stinking of fear the whole time."

"Oh, I've fucking got this," Jaskier promised.

Or, the one where Jaskier works in a brothel and falls head over heels for the stoic, not-actually-that-scary Witcher who comes in requesting his services.

Geralt doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

***

Petrichor - Geralt/Eskel/Jaskier - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866559/chapters/54652891

 “Geralt…? What, by Melitele’s tits, are you doing? The door, man, normal people use a d--... Geralt?” He noticed it now. The feverish sheen on the Witcher’s skin, the alert, skittish look in his eyes and the--. He cleared the distance between them in three strides. Geralt retreated until his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but Jaskier would not be deterred. He shoved his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathed in deeply, his hands gripping the edges of the damp cloak draped over broad shoulders. “You’re…”

 “I need… need to ask you… for a…” He clenched his teeth, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Two gloved hands lifted to push Jaskier away from his chest; it felt like trying to move a mountain. Not because Jaskier pushed back, but because every fibre of his being wanted to pull the other way. Ask for a what though? ‘Favour’ didn’t quite fit the bill for what he was about to request, and so he stared at Jaskier with those intense golden eyes, while mentally scrambling for a coherent explanation amidst the brain fog.

The saga of Geralt and Jaskier getting together, falling in love with Eskel, and learning that it's all right to want (and let themselves have) things.

***

Where There’s a Witcher - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604140

Jaskier is a twentysomething recently unemployed journalist and amateur musician looking for his big break. So when he’s saved from the jaws of a wyvern by the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, he comes up with a brilliant idea: he’ll follow the Witcher around and sing about their exploits. He’ll gain fame and fortune and Geralt will get a much needed image rehab. Everyone wins. Unless Jaskier goes and falls in love like an idiot.

***

Tired Symphony Verse - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597723

Silence reigned between them. Outside there was the dull sound of training swords clashing and Jaskier turned his gaze towards the window, watching the sky outside.

“I’m-- sorry.” Geralt said. It sounded truly remorseful.

Jaskier took a deep breath and then tipped himself slightly to the side, pressing his shoulder against the witcher’s.

“I know.”

***

There Goes my Heart Beating - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382665

“Sometimes,” Geralt says quietly, “I forget that you care.”

Jaskier looks up surprised and sees that Geralt is looking down at him with a small frown on his face. “Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, shaking his head fondly, “you foolish beef-brain. Of course I care.”

Or,

Five times Jaskier asks Geralt questions, and the one time Geralt asked Jaskier.

***

Shrug off the Shroud - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027161

askier's student doesn’t see him when she skids into the tavern. Her friends are already present, drinking merrily, and she slaps their table so hard their tankards rattle.

“Have you heard?" She flashes a gossiper's secretive grin. "The White Wolf’s gone mad.”

After Geralt sends Jaskier away, Jaskier returns to Oxenfurt and builds a good (albeit unfulfilling) life there. He's fine—moving on, truly—until gut-wrenching rumors start to circulate that the White Wolf's lost his his mind. Jaskier's a bard. A truth-teller. He can't just let the rumors go unsubstantiated.

***

Sometimes a Hammer, Sometimes a Lockpick - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22998961

Geralt's been in a dungeon for two weeks and is understandably frustrated. Jaskier, on the other hand, is what one might call... livid.

***

New Monster Stories - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097970/chapters/55260658

 “So do you have a name?”

 “Yeah.” The man who had saved his life less than an hour ago – the white-haired, absurdly buff, weirdly sexy man Jaskier might have called taciturn if he was feeling charitable and surly if he was feeling less so – dug into his second burger.

 Jaskier waited. “Are… you going to tell me what it is?”

 The man paused mid-bite, and looked at him reproachfully as if to say how dare you. How dare you interrupt me. Can’t you see I’m enjoying my cheeseburger. Can’t you see this cheeseburger is the most important thing in my life right at the moment. He swallowed, and said, “Geralt.”

It turns out almost getting eaten by a werewolf can make your whole life go careening off in a new, terrifying, wondrous, artistically flourishing direction. Who knew?

***

When Midnights Break their Sleep - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647292

  The first Snapchat that anyone ever sends Geralt is a picture of his own irritated face.

 shrike_princess: can u believe this dumbass finally got a snapchat bc a cute boy asked him nicely

 "It wasn't even that nicely," Geralt says flatly.

AKA: The one where Geralt is a bartender and Jaskier sings karaoke.

***

An Exaltation of Wolves - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687699

Jaskier accompanies Geralt to Kaer Morhen for the winter and finds the other Witchers just as prickly--and just as deserving of love--as the White Wolf.

***

Lilacs and Dandelions - Jaskier/Yennefer/Geralt - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22929526/chapters/54808162

“The Witcher believes you’re under a spell,” Yennefer said, conversationally, drawing a sip from her tea.

“I most certainly am,” said Jaskier to her in a warm drawl that Geralt recognized as the tone of voice he slipped into when flirting and frankly, things needed to start making more sense and fast before he gave into his impulse to do something rash and wholly unhelpful. Namely, chuck himself out the cottage window and into the sea.

Or Geralt seeks out Yennefer only to find her, of all unbelievable and ridiculous things, shacking up with his bard.

***

Woodash and Iron and Leather - https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114921

Jaskier is the only person Geralt's ever been around who doesn't smell of fear

[kl4us4]

FISTS OF FURY (Geralt of Rivia x Reader)

Summary: Travelling with Geralt has always been... interesting. While on the search for Ciri, you both find yourselves in Velen, where Geralt is faced by three overzealous, strong armed fighters.

A/N: ok so I love the Witcher series & I also am super into the game so this is a mix of both but based on a side quest in Witcher 3. this is kinda just me dabbling into a show i love 

“He’d beat all you fools with his eyes closed!” Jaskier shouts, looking around at the group of boys and men. When Geralt gives the bard a glare, you hold back a laugh. The things Jaskier gets the group into is insane. The boy has such a big mouth.

“Is that so?” One of the fighters scoffs, his eyes raking Geralt’s muscles, “The thing about strong men is that they have muscles in the wrong places!”

“Yeah!” Another agrees, sitting on top of the gate to the small ring where the fighting takes place, “I bet he’s dumb as a stone!”

“Hm,” is all Geralt responds with, seemingly thinking to himself: if only they knew. You watch Geralt eye the men, no doubt forming a plan in his mind.

Moving from his position leaning against a wooden pole, Jonah steps in front of the Witcher. And his eyes take in the older mans rough appearance. The strangers eyes then land on you, doing the same to your body before he flicks his eyes back to the tall Witcher standing closely beside you. 

“What? Jonah tilts his head, his blue eyes flicking to you, “You afraid you’ll lose your lady?”

Jaskier lets out a loud, humourless laugh. You can’t help but smile at the mans bravery. You watch Geralt, who crosses his arms and shifts on his feet though he gives a smile of his own. He has no doubts about you. “I’m afraid for your dignity,” the Witcher admires, watching Jonah as he gives you a look, “A man who speaks the most often has very little to say.”

“What d’ya think?” Jonah inquires, ignoring Geralt’s comment and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, “Think your big boy is man enough?”

You let out a low chuckle as you look at the young man, indulging his fantasies, “And... What if he isn’t?” 

Jaskiers eyes grow wide, he looks between you and Geralt; who keeps on smiling. Jonah lets out a hum of his own, leaning closer into you. Geralt knows you’re doing it to rile him up, especially with the way you’re watching him as this stranger speaks to you like you belong to him. “Then we have some fun of our own. And you forget about the white haired freak.”

“How much do you want to bet?” Geralt now clenches his jaw, his voice deep. He can hear everything Jonah says to you, though it’s in a low whisper. And he can hear the disgusting young man’s heart speed up when his eyes flutter to your chest. If Geralt were morally corrupt, he would’ve beat the daylights out of Jonah. He’d rather get paid for it.

“145 crowns.” A man announces, placing his hands on Jonah’s shoulders and bringing him away from you. 

“Hm,” Geralt keeps his eyes on Jonah, “For 190 I’ll take out all three of your fighters, one after the other.”

Shouts and whispers erupt around the ring. Looking at Geralt, you raise an eyebrow. 190 crowns isn’t as much as the base rate for his Witcher services. But winning it from these men seems like it’d be even more satisfying. “Deal!” And just like that, Geralt is taking both swords from his back, handing them to Jaskier who’s barely able to set them down next to Roach.

Seeing Jonah and the old man sharing a few words, Jaskier doesn’t even try to reach Geralt’s shoulders, so instead he just exclaims, “You got this, Geralt. You’re the White Wolf, yeah? You’re infamous! You got this, White Wolf, come on.”

To which Geralt just shoots the shorter boy a look. After the armour is removed, Geralt lifts his shirt off of his body, tossing it to the ground beside his weapons. You’re admiring his body, looking at the scars littering his body. And he notices, watching you closely as he takes a few steps towards you, close. “Good luck kiss?” The corners of his lips turn up in a small smirk as he places his hands on your hips. His large hands pull you against his exposed chest, and you hate that he can hear your heart pick up along with your breath hitching.

“When have you ever needed luck?” You question him, your hands resting against his warm lower stomach. Gazing at his golden eyes, you give him a gentle smile.

Geralt admires you from up close, your kind smile, lovely lips, your beautiful eyes, “I don’t know... Jonah seems like a real catch,” he jokes sarcastically, “What if he steals you away from me?”

“Well,” you laugh lightly, placing a hand upon his rough cheek, “you’re just going to have to win the fight.” Leaning close to him, you close your eyes as you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

When you pull back, Geralt lets out a deep hum before he turns to the circle of watchers. Jonah stands in the middle, watching with an angry gaze, shirtless and relatively skinny except for the muscles on his forearms.

You stand beside Jaskier, who watches on casually. “Nervous?” You ask him.

He scoffs, playing along, “Yeah, what if Geralt meets his demise at the hands of a the fearsome Jonah?”

You chuckle, shaking your head admirably, “You better write a bloody good song after we take home the reward.”

“Trust me, I’m already up to the second verse!” Jaskier smiles, reciting, “Jonah lost the fight and we stood hip to hip / our beloved Witcher won the Velen championship!”

“Begin!” A man shouts, stepping from the circle and joining the small crowd that’s formed to watch Geralt and Jonah.

You exhale, watching Geralt’s clenched fists raised in front of his face. He’s waiting for Jonah to strike first. You know Geralt, you know his tactics. He’ll use Jonah’s first attack against him.

The smaller boy swings strong, aiming for Geralt’s throat, but the Witcher grabs his arm, pushing him down to the mud before upper-cutting his jaw. Standing, Geralt maintains his boxing stance as Jonah grunts in pain, still on the ground.

“What was that? 10 seconds?” Jaskier laughs, slapping his knee.

“Should’ve asked for more crowns.” You note, shaking your head in dismay. This is all too easy.

“Keep talking and we’ll have your tongue, girl!” One of the men shout, giving you a disgusting scowl as he hands golden coins over to the old match-maker, who then gives you a pile of money.

“What’s this?” You ask.

“People betted against your dear freak.” He answers with a glare before bending down to see if Jonah’s alright.

“Looks like that went well!” You raise your eyebrows sarcastically, hands on your hips as you smile.

Geralt leans against Roach, looking off as two men lift Jonah up. That was only the first contestant. The worst he has is bruises to his jaw and maybe a scrap on his knee where he hit the dirt. “We’ll ask for more coin next time.” Geralt tells you.

“That’s what I was saying,” you exclaim, turning to smile at Geralt, “This is too easy for you!”

“Next contestant,” the man shouts in disdain, “Stan Fishgulper!”

A look crosses your face. Leaning to Jaskier, you whisper, “Stan who?” You scoff, bursting into a small laughing fit with your friend.

“They’re going to cut your tongue out!” Jaskier whispers, in the midst of his own laugh as Geralt walks to the circle once again, “I can’t add that into a ballad!”

“Rather be mute than gulp fish,” you whisper to him, crossing your arms as another laugh wracks through your body.

Jaskier shoves your shoulder, shaking his head as he laughs along. In the ring, it’s all serious. Geralt eyes the middle aged man, sees the wrinkles along his face and the scars on his fingers as he balls his fists. Must be a fisher judging by the thin scars along them. Must’ve been one his whole life. His posture is hunched, possibly from staring at the water. He may have some strength in his arms then, though Geralt doubts he’ll strike first. He doesn’t seem the type to. Not overly confident.

Geralt lands a punch on Stans side, almost feeling sorry when the man jumps back and grunts in pain. But when Stan side steps and attempts to land a kick between Geralt’s legs, the monster-hunter no longer feels pity. He punches him in the cheek.

Grabbing the stunned man by his shoulders, Geralt uses all his force to knee him in the crotch. “I hope you’ve had your share of children already, my friend.” Geralt muses, pulling his hands from the man's shoulder and stepping back.

“Smithy!” The matchmaker calls, gesturing for another man to approach. Your smile fades when you see the size of this man. The tiniest bit shorter than Geralt but twice the size anyways. He walks slow, his feet trudging his weight to the middle of the circle beside Geralt.

Though, the Witcher doesn’t look afraid. He takes down fiends and basilisks for Christ’s sake. This, in front of him, is but a man. But you’re not sure. The man in front of him, Smithy, looks strong as hell. “Oh, fuck,” Jaskier breathes, “Now I feel bad for laughing....”

“You’ve got this, Wolf,” you call out, leaning against the sheep pens. Glancing at you, Geralt shoots a wink your way before turning his focus on Smithy.

Immediately, it’s horrid. You cringe, seeing Smithy grab Geralt by his shoulders and swing him across the pen, rolling through the mud. Geralt lands on his back, staring up into the sky with wide and shocked eyes. What the hell just happened? It was so quick, the Witcher barely got time to understand before Smithy pulled him up by his arm.

You and Jaskier, silent from the sides, eyes wide, barely even breathing at the sight in front of you. It can’t be. The Witcher can’t lose this battle. There’s no way. Geralt kicks Smithy in the stomach, pushing him back before raising his arms in defence of his face. The white haired mans footwork is quick, something that cannot be said for Smithy - whos main source of force is his strength.

Slinking around the tall man, Geralt lands a boot in the back of Smithys leg, sending the man falling to his knees slowly but surely. Jaskier gasps, seeing the fight change so drastically so quickly. He grabs your hand, excitement coursing through him. You grip his back, mouth hanging wide open as Geralt takes a few steps back, kicking Smithy in the throat. You grimace, and so does the crowd, as Smithy is winded - much like Geralt a few minutes prior.

Running up to the kneeled man from behind, Geralt lands a foot right on his back, sending the man falling forward. He coughs and sputters on the floor, struggling to stand. The bookie, reluctantly, calls it. And just like that, you and Jaskier are cheering loudly for your friend. “White wolf!” You shout, jumping up and down with Jaskier who whistles at Geralt.

The bookie raises Geralt's hand and the Witcher’s chest rises and falls steadily. His golden eyes come to rest on you as he is announced Champion and given his sum, and Geralt can’t help but grin. You and Jaskier cheer and clap as he makes his way toward you, tossing the coin to the bard. “Done. What now?” Geralt smirks cockily, making you and Jaskier laugh.

“First Velen,” Jaskier announces, his focus on the bag of coin - also filled with the numerous bets against Geralt - “Next: Skellige. Then the next country, then the next, until we rule all.”

“Good plan, Jaskier,” you nod at him before turning back to Geralt who is now dressing, “I think we can do it before the Wild Hunt catches us.”

Geralt chuckles deeply, giving you a smile before placing his swords back in their sheaths, “Funny. Right now, all I need is a shower.”

[afterhoursfic]

A challenge for you if you're feeling up for it. To write a kinky story in 20 sentences or less 💖 it can be any kink and pairing, whatever you feel like, the only rule is to write a concluding story in 20 sentences 💖💖 good luck if you go for it

Warning: non con, drug use, somnophilia

This was a great idea, thank you so much anon!

.

They were a day out of Posada and had left the well worn road to go into the wilderness, and it was fine, really, Jaskier just had to adjust to the diet, the walking, and the company but overall it was quite pleasant.

After that first his body had been aching when he stretched awake and walked with a slight limp in his step but he was determined to continue on, totally not to spite Geralt or anything, but he still had to prove his place by the Witcher’s side.

The one thing he could be grateful for was the sleep, he’d fallen asleep quickly after eating the first night and had slept till Geralt shook him awake and it looked like night would be the same.

He said his goodnight and settled into his bedroll, ignoring the sounds of the animals coming to life around him as he fell asleep.

At least that was until he woke up being jostled about, he could just about open his eyes and relaxed when he felt Geralt pressed up behind him. If he was more awake he would probably question it, Geralt's bedroll was on the other side of the fire, but he was warm and a quick movement from Geralt under the covers had him moaning, just now noticing the pleasant feeling in his gut, how full he felt.

He knew something was wrong but his eyes were already drooping and he fully relaxed when Geralt wrapped an arm around him to pull him even closer, his hips moving still and Jaskier couldn’t help but moan at the feeling.

“Go to sleep Jaskier, just got to make sure you’re nice and full ready for tomorrow”

He was grateful for Geralt’s concern even if he wasn’t really registering anything as he fell back to sleep to Geralt grunting behind him and the slap of something nearby.

Again he woke up a sore ass and bits and pieces came back to him of Geralt behind him, quieting him to sleep and definitely doing something under the covers but that couldn't be right, Geralt was good and noble, he wouldn’t do anything like that surely?

So he explained it away as a vivid dream and too much walking as they set out for the third day.

It followed much the same pattern, Geralt fought a pack of wolves and a few hours later they were making camp and just as before not long after dinner he was ready for bed, which was strange because he’d told himself he’d try and work a new verse into ‘toss a coin’.

Ah well, he’d take the rest while he could now and as before said goodnight before settling in.

It must have been a few hours later when he woke up and felt something stretching and moving in him and it all just felt so wrong he couldn’t help but stiffen, only to notice Geralt behind him again.

He was still sleep dazed only faintly noted when something, fingers he’s guessing leave his ass, and something a lot bigger pressed against his hole.

He’s tired and quickly falling asleep again but he can just about mutter out a ‘no’ and ‘Geralt, stop’ only he feels a hand tighten on his hip, keeping him close as Geralt leans into his ear.

“You want to travel with me, don’t you? Got to let me keep that hole nice and wet if you want to stay”

Jaskier felt a spike of fear at the words but he felt his limbs getting heavier and unconsciousness take him even as he tried to struggle out of the witchers grasp and just heard Geralt’s groan as he finally sank his cock into him.

The next morning he was sore, and now he knew why, could see the glint in Geralt’s eye, but they were in the woods, one likely infested with monsters and so he followed after Geralt and just hoped he wouldn’t ake up that night.

[clintbartonswife]

give me back my heart you wingless thing

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Essi Davern, Cirilla Summary: Jaskier’s not a defenceless maiden by any means, and when he’s surrounded by friends, the bard could do just about anything. Notes: hurt!jaskier, Essi is like a sister to Jaskier and you cant convince me otherwise, chosen family, post episode 6, whole fic based on an idea I got whilst listening to The Horror and the Wild by The Amazing Devil.  (Oczko is Essi’s nickname in the book) masterlists

He flees back to Oxenfurt. 

Of course he does, for where else would he go?

With the vicious words biting at his back, he makes the journey in a few weeks, playing in every tavern along the way with a new determinedness in his eyes and strength in his voice. 

He locks up the pain and tears until he knows he is safe, arriving on Essi’s doorstep with lute in hand and a face that spelt out heartbreak.

“Oh Jask” she sighed, opening her arms wide, letting the taller man fall into them, the instant love and affection proving too much for him.

“Missed you” he mumbled, voice thick with tears when he eventually pulled himself together enough to move from the doorway and into her apartment.

“Well you’ve known I’ve been here for a while, could’ve come to see me whenever you wanted” she replied sassily, the familiar banter relaxing Jaskier.

“I should have”

At the morose tone of his voice, Essi raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

“I know that tone - wine or rum?”

Jaskier let out a shaky laugh, collapsing onto one of her chairs with a small smile, “how about both?”

“Oh so it’s one of those”

He simply huffed, the burning pain in his chest easing slightly as they slipped back into their old ways, a warmth slowly replacing it.

Essi, a few years younger than Jaskier yet in the same years as him at Oxenfurt, had quickly grown on him throughout their tutelage. The two became fast friends, and Jaskier could say with a confidence that she was the only person in the school whom he didn't try to fuck.

They had bonded over shitty family relations and their love for music, and within the first few months Jaskier was calling her the little sister he’d never had - a closeness and trust between them that he had never had with anybody before.

“Here,” Essi said, passing him the bottle of red wine, “I got the good shit out for you”

“You flatter me” Jaskier grinned, popping the cork off and taking a deep swig. He watched Essi do the same to the rum bottle, burrowing further into her chair as she levelled a surveying stare at him.

“Who was it this time?” she eventually asked.

He giggled wetly, eyes blurring with tears as he remembered the words that he was running from, “The Witcher”

“Jaskier”

“I know, I know. ‘Witchers don't feel’ and all that bullshit” he took another deep swig before continuing, “But I thought he was different - is different - he, he cared, just not for me”

Essi frowned as the tears began to fall down his cheeks, though knew better than to interrupt him when he was opening up.

“Twenty two years, Oczko. I gave him twenty two years of my life, knowing that he didn't love me for most of them, and I was okay - I could deal with it because I thought that I was at least his friend” a bitter laugh escaped him then, his smile turning sharp, “turns out I was even wrong about that. Not only did he not consider me his friend, but I’m apparently a shit-shoveller who’s so bad that if life could give him one blessing, it would be to be rid of me!”

Essi let out an indignant noise, and Jaskier gestured the hand holding the wine wildly in agreement, “Exactly! So I left. I gave him his wish and I left”

The blonde took a solidarity sip of her rum, hissing at the sting through her teeth.

“You deserve better Jask” she said sternly, leaning forwards, “If he didn't want you then bugger him! Stay with me. We can write music together, like we used to. I have a few more weeks of teaching until my contracts done for the season - we could travel again, like the old days”

The pain in Jaksier’s chest all but diminished, reduced to a bearable ache.

He was home, safe. He wasn't alone anymore.

Jaskier’s smile widened even further as he danced around Essi, his fingers nimbly moving over the strings of his lute as she sang the ending of the ditty.

As they finished to roaring applause, the blacksmith in the corner called out, “Play us that new one!”

“The one of the wild!”

Essi smirked, nudging Jaskier’s hip as she retrieved a small drum, “Shall we?”

“We shall”

The two bowed again, before they both began to play, circling each other with matching enthusiasm. The bard’s smile grew as Essi began to sing, her hand tapping the beat on the drum.

‘You were raised by wolves and voices Every night I hear them howling deep beneath your bed They said it all comes down to you’

She passed the singing to Jaskier, who flourished in the limelight.

‘You’re the daughter of silent watching stones You watch the stars hurl all their fundaments In wonderment, at you and yours, forever asking more’

This song felt empowering to sing, as if he was announcing his frustration of the Witcher to everybody. His voice joined together in melody with Essi as their music built.

‘You are that space that’s in between every page, every chord and every screen You are the driftwood and the rift, you’re the words that I promise I don’t mean We’re drunk but drinking (sunk but sinking) They thought us blind (we were just blinking) All the stones and kings of old will hear us screaming at the cold‘

They halted their playing, voices carrying the song.

‘Remember me I ask, remember me I sing Give me back my heart you wingless thing‘

As they burst back into song, the tavern cheered, beginning to stomp along to the drum. The overwhelming noise drowned out the sound of the tavern door swinging open, admitting the two new travellers.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, I am the Wild‘

The two began to dance, weaving about the far end of the tavern, twirling through the people until they had found a table to stand on.

‘You are the son of every dressing up box And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play I steal the hours and turn the night into day‘

Jaskier leant down, winking at one of the women sat at the table they were dancing on as Essi sang her part, only coming back up when Essi kicked the back of his leg playfully.

‘Day by day oh lord three things I pray That I might understand as best I can How bold I was, could be - will be - still am, by god still am‘

Jaskier allowed his eyes to scan the tavern, taking joy in seeing all the faces singing along. He barely stayed in time as his eyes faltered on an imposing figure sat in the corner, a smaller figure walking over to him, yellow eyes locking with blue.

‘Fret not dear heart, let not them hear The mutterings of all your fears, the fluttering of all your wings Welcome to the storm, I am thunder Welcome to my table, bring your hunger‘

Communicating with Essi through eye contact alone was something they had learned early on in their friendship, and soon her eyes had found the Witcher. 

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me old man, I am The Wild‘

She gave Jaskier a small nod, moving to position herself in his line of sight, blocking the Witcher’s view.

‘Remember me, Remember me, Remember me, Remember me Remember me I ask. Remember me I sing‘

He took the next verse as time to desperately figure out what to do, until he realised that he had to do nothing. He was here first. The Witcher should leave if it bothered him. With this new confidence, he nodded at Essi once more and sang with even more passion than before.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child‘

He jumped from the table, Essi close behind, moving through the crowd once again, this time doing a full circuit of the room. Jaskier winked at a few patrons as he passed, making sure that the Witcher could see it - could see that he was unbothered.

‘Witness me old man, I am the Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, old man, old man, I am the‘

Finishing with his back against Essi’s, he broke out into a wide grin once again as the tavern applauded once more. She laughed, giving Jaskier a quick hug before collecting their coin with a bow.

“That’s all for tonight folks, thank you ever so much for being such a wonderful audience” she called, tucking their pay into the pouch on her belt, before grabbing Jaskier’s hand and guiding him over to the bar.

“Great performance again” the barmaid smiled, passing them their ales and dinner, “haven't seen the tavern this full since last yuletide”

Jaskier laughed heartily, taking a sip of his ale, “You’re too kind”

Essi smiled at her, before turning to face Jaskier, voice low.

“So that's him?”

“Yep. I don't know who’s with him though. Cant be Yennefer - she’s taller than that”

Essi scoffed, taking an angry swig of her drink, “I could go over there right now and slap him”

“Yeah, and hurt your hand? We need that”

Essi just narrowed her eyes at him playfully, slapping his chest lightly.

“What’s the plan then?”

“We were here first” Jaskier shrugged, “If he doesn't like it then he can leave”

She grinned at him then, lifting her cup up in a cheers, to which Jaskier copied.

“That’s right. Now, lets eat and then we can go to sleep”

Their meal was interrupted as a shadow was cast over them, a person looming behind them.

“Witcher” Jaskier greeted coldly, not looking up from his meal.

The man ‘hmm’ed in response, making the bard roll his eyes. Giving a quick look to Essi, he turned around, coming face to face with Geralt for the first time in almost a year.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want”

He then turned back to his meal, ignoring him until he went away, not realising how tense his shoulders had become until they dropped.

Essi placed a comforting hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, rubbing at it until all the tension had gone.

“You’re ok” she whispered, “We’re ok”

Geralt wouldn't admit it, but he was lonely.

He had regretted sending Jaskier away with his harsh words, though what he regretted even more was how long it took his to realise it.

By the time he identified the hollow ache in his chest as loneliness, it was far too late to find the bard - months too late, his tracks long lost on the mountain path - not to mention the war that had begun to rage North, too close to Cintra for Geralt’s comfort. Ciri had to come first.

So, he pushed his feelings aside, determined to find his child surprise for the first time in his life, a steady urge to protect her pulling at his whole person until he found her, running through the woods and in to each other’s arms.

The lonely ache faded slightly, though even Ciri’s presence couldn't stop the sharp pain that ran through Geralt’s chest like a dagger whenever he heard a lute, or the suspicious sting of restrained tears when they passed a field of Dandelions.

It was only within the last few days that the lonely feeling began to grow again, confusion brewing in the White Wolf.

Confused wasn't the right word for it exactly - it was more like Geralt’s whole body felt like it was off-axis, screaming for a missing piece.

Ciri had noticed his odd behaviour earlier that day, “Are you alright Geralt?”

The Witcher had assured her that he was fine, but the familiar feeling of the thread of destiny was pulling at him again, guiding him towards a small town just North of Ard Carraigh.

The second they neared the tavern, he knew that fate was playing a cruel trick. Jaskier’s voice rang out, loud and true, melding beautifully with a female’s. The implication was enough to make him want to run away, but he could tell Ciri was too tired to travel any further for the night.

“Are we going in?” Ciri asked, taking Geralt’s hand in hers as they walked away from the stables, “I’m quite hungry”

Geralt nodded, steeling himself before opening the door, veering off to the corner table almost immediately, eyes resolutely glued to the floor.

He could feel Ciri’s concerned gaze on the side of his face, so he placed the coins in her hand and gestured for her to go and order the food. Ecstatic with the trust he had just given her, she went over to the bar.

Geralt made the mistake of looking up, only for a moment, the breath being punched out of his lungs as golden eyes met cornflower blue.

Within an instant, the longing that Geralt had pushed aside the past year came rushing back, tumbling over Geralt like water poured from a bucket. He wanted, Melitele he wanted his bard back.

“Geralt?”

He grunted in response, eyes not moving from the bard, even as the woman moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view. 

He absentmindedly registered a meal being placed in front of him, Ciri sitting down on the bench beside him, following his eyesight.

“Theyre good” she commented, “I’ve missed music -”

Her voice trailed off, eyes widening as she caught sight of the bard’s face as he weaved in and out of the crowd, “That’s Jaskier! He played at my birthday feast every year! Geralt we’ve got to say hello!”

The jealousy that had been brewing beneath his skin as he watched the bard flirt with the patrons dissipated as sudden panic gripped his heart, turning to face Ciri immediately.

“We cant risk it” He almost growled, “We don't know if we can trust him”

The Witcher almost flinched as the words came out of his mouth, not believing his own words for a second. Ciri accepted them with a huff, tucking in to her food.

“He wouldn't turn me in” she eventually said, voice stern, “I know he wouldn't”

Geralt sighed, taking a large bite of his food, giving him some time to mull over his words, “We cant be sure”

“Then check”

He barely restrained a laugh, the little lion cub sounding more like her grandmother by the day.

“When I’ve finished my dinner, you go to the room. I will talk to him”

Ciri smiled, spirits back as she returned to her plate with renewed gusto. 

When he approached the bard later, he barely restrained a whimper at the cold greeting, embedded with the barely-there scent of fear.

“Witcher”

Brain scrambling for words he could use to fix the situation, internally reeling from the new knowledge that Jaskier was afraid of him, a hum escaped his lips instead. At that he whipped around, levelling him with a blank stare, eyes void of the affection he was so used to seeing.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want” he stated coldly, turning back to his food, the blonde next to him giving him a glare before returning her attention to his - Jaskier.

Geralt didn't know how long he stood there, frozen with disbelief and grief, but he knew he must have left at some point, as here he was stood in front of Ciri.

“I’ll try again tomorrow”

The next morning Jaskier awoke, Essie’s head resting on his arm.

The two of them had been sharing beds to save money on their travels, glad to be together again. Of course there were some nights where Essi went home with a local - who had been threatened by Jaskier beforehand - meaning Jaskier had the room to himself.

Still, the bard never tried to enchant any admirers. He would tell Essi it was because he was finally happy in himself, not needing any praise as he once did. While this was technically true, Jaskier still couldn't fathom the idea of being with anyone, for fear of breaking his heart again, this time to the point of no repair.

The bard slipped out of the bed, Essi grumbling as she repositioned herself, splaying out on the mattress like a starfish. Jaskier let out an affectionate snort, shaking his head as he put on his boots.

“Morning Mary” Jaskier grinned, sliding onto the barstool, “Could I get two breakfasts please - oh, and some fresh water if that's alright”

“Of course darlin’“

He gave her another smile, watching her retreat to the kitchen.

“Jaskier?”

The bard jumped slightly, turning around to face the Witcher, “What do you want?”

“I-”

He was cut off by Ciri, rushing past Geralt with a smile, “Jaskier!”

“Princess!” he gasped, sliding from the bar stool and kneeling, opening his arms for her to rush into, hugging her tightly, “I was so worried when I heard the news about Cintra”

“It was scary for a little while, but I found Geralt” 

Jaskier smiled at that, “Smart. He’ll keep you safe”

Ciri nodded, turning around to fix Geralt with a pointed stare.

“Here’s your breakfasts Bard” Mary called, placing the tray on the bar.

Jaskier stood back up, grateful for the excuse to leave, “Thanks, love”

He missed the way Geralt frowned when he noticed the two dishes, simply sending the pair a small smile before he returned to his room, tray in hand.

“Essi, open up!” 

The blonde opened the door with a disgruntled sigh, expression brightening at the sight of food.

“You’re a gem” she beamed, ushering him towards the bed.

Letting out a laugh, he placed the tray in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged beside it.

“What prompted this?” she asked, taking a bite of egg with a raised brow, “Normally I can never get you out of bed this early after a performance”

Jaskier scoffed teasingly, “Like you’re any better”

“I am so!” Essi screeched, diving at Jaskier (careful of the food) and landing on him heavily, punching an ‘oof’ out of the man, before beginning to tickle him mercilessly.

“Ah! By the gods have mercy!” he wheezed, body squirming under her ministrations, “Essi I swear to Melitele!”

Essi just cackled evilly.

“Why didn't you say anything!” Ciri demanded, crossing her arms.

Geralt just angrily huffed, moving to walk back to their room, stopping in his place as a small hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Why did he look sad?”

“Ciri..” Geralt warned, fists clenching as he tried to force down the emotions that were beginning to bubble below his skin, his mind still stuck on the two breakfasts.

“Why was he sad Geralt?”

“We need to leave” he said instead, moving towards the stairs again. 

His footsteps faltered outside Jaskier’s room, happy squeals and laughter drifting through the door and into the hallway. The knife of jealousy stabbed through his heart again, and he found himself frozen to the floor.

“Oh - you love him”

He looked to his left, Ciri stood there with a pitying look on her face.

“I don't love him” Geralt grunted, walking back to their room with far more speed than normal.

“Yes you do. It’s okay that you do...” she trailed off, levelling him with eyes that felt like they were reading his soul, wise beyond her years, “If you love him then why is he sad? Is it because you left him?”

“Ciri. Stop”

“But I don't see why -”

“Ciri”

His hands were shaking as he tried to buckle up his potion bag, her incessant poking finally pushing him over the edge.

All the withheld pain and longing crashed into him, the jealousy making his skin burn. Scrunching his eyes shut, he stood still, breathing deeply as he let the emotions wash over him. 

Ciri’s presence at his back made him tense slightly, breaking through his concentration, “I’m sorry - grandma always used to say that I didn't know when to stop”

Geralt took a few more stabilising breaths before turning to face her, “Don't apologise for being right” he said, avoiding her eyes.

Ciri frowned at that, confusion clear in her face, “But - why weren't you with him if you love him?”

Taking a shaky breath - something which had Geralt feeling more vulnerable than he had in years - he sat on the side of the bed, clasping his hands on his lap.

“I said some things to him, terrible things, and he left. It was nothing he deserved...” Geralt sighed again, wiping his hands over his face, “I was angry - at Yen, at the world - and I let that all out on him”

They were silent for a few moments, “Did he love you?”

“I don't know” he laughed, bitterness rising back up his neck, “I don't know”

It wasn't until later that afternoon that Jaskier saw the Witcher again.

He was in the stables, talking lowly to Roach as he stroked her mane lovingly, Ciri sat just outside picking wildflowers from the grass.

The familiar yearning took a strong grip of his sternum, squeezing harder the longer he allowed himself to look.

“Jaskier!” Ciri called, spotting him, “Jaskier come over here!”

The bard cursed silently, slapping on a smile as the Withcer’s head whipped up at his intrusion.

“Hello princess”

She shook her head, leaning closer to him, “When we’re around people we don't trust my name is Fiona” she whispered.

“Ah, my deepest apologies, my dearest Fiona” he smiled, giving her a deep bow, “Why did you call me over here?”

At his question, she brightened, offering him a dandelion that she had picked. As he tucked it behind his ear, she gestured for him to lean down again so that she could whisper in his ear, “Geralt really wants to talk to you but he wont ask you himself - I think he’s scared”

Jaskier almost scoffed at that, pulling away, when she gripped the sleeve of his jacket to keep him in place, “He was really upset this morning. Please just speak to him. Once”

The bard levelled her with a glare, knowing he was weak to her demands, and sighed, “Very well”

He took a steadying breath before entering the stables, deciding to lean against the door and just watch Geralt until he was ready to talk. He knew that the Witcher could sense him there, so felt no guilt watching him.

Jaskier’s eyes followed the Witcher as he finished brushing Roach’s mane, no longer talking to her, until eventually, back still turned, he spoke.

“Jaskier”

“Geralt”

The older man huffed a laugh at that, “Oh, so I’m not ‘Witcher’ anymore?”

Crossing his arms, Jaskier remained stood where he was, “I didn't know if I was allowed to use your name anymore - Melitele knows you didn't want me in your sight last time we spoke”

At that Geralt turned around, hurt swimming behind his golden irises.

“I’m sorry”

The bard blanched at that, “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry” he repeated, his fists clenching at his sides as he forced himself to speak, “I know I hurt you - something I swore to myself I wouldn't do - and I sent you away, but Jaskier I missed you so much”

Jaskier tried to bring up the anger that used to swirl around his soul at the very thought of that conversation, but all he could feel now was the overwhelming longing - so much so that he could hardly breathe.

Geralt continued, “It took me a while to understand that - that I felt lonely. I- I missed your laugh, your voice, your stupid lute strumming …”

In that moment Jaskier knew. He knew what Geralt was trying to say and the feeling screamed at him until he moved towards the Witcher, close enough to look into his eyes and drown in the golden pools.

“Say it” he whispered.

“But the girl?” he sounded confused, hurt coming through his persona again and Jaskier wanted to laugh at the sheer confoundity of it all.

“That’s Essi and she’s like my little sister” Jaskier smiled, shaking hands moving to cup Gerlat’s jaw, “Say it”

“I -I love you”

Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Jaskier closed the distance between their lips, swallowing Geralt’s noise of surprise eagerly, melting against his hulking form as strong hands settled on his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

When he pulled away, chest heaving and lips swollen, he rested his forehead against that of the wolf’s gently.

“I love you too, my dearest Geralt”

[sunflowersupremes]

Riding

Jaskier is only allowed to be on Roach with Geralt inside him.

Author: SunflowerSupreme Prompt: Hurt/Comfort [Geraskier Week Day 4] Verse: Show Triggers: Sex, Spanking, Cock Warming Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2827

Written for @geraskierweek

Read on AO3

“Would you like to ride?” Anyone else might have missed it, but Jaskier can clearly see the amusement in Geralt’s face as he murmurs, “hop up.”

Jaskier’s never gotten on a horse so quickly before. Geralt swings up behind him, holding the reins around him, but not holding him, and slowly guides Roach out of town.

There’s silence as they ride out of the town, because - bless him - Geralt doesn’t enjoy putting on a show where there might be witnesses. No, his shows are for Jaskier and Jaskier alone, because, although he’d never admit it, he trusts the poet.

By the time they’re at the edge of the woods, well past the border of the town, Jaskier is ready to die. But Geralt’s in no hurry to start because he’s clearly a sadist, and the poet is ready to scream (but if he did scream, Geralt would probably just push him off the saddle).

Finally, he feels it, a hand at the waist of his pants, and he lets out a choked sob. “Quiet,” Geralt growls. Then, “Get the oil.”

Jaskier fumbles in his bag, passing Geralt the requested item, nearly dropping it in his haste (which only makes Geralt laugh and chide, “careful little whore”). And then there are hands wrapping around his waist, and he’s being lifted - which is new, they’ve not done this before - and he’s slung over Roach’s saddle with his ass in the air.

“Easy there,” murmurs Geralt and it takes a moment for Jaskier to realize he’s not talking to the poet, but instead to his horse.

“Geralt!” He’s not jealous of the way Geralt soothes Roach, running a hand down her neck. Alright, maybe he is. Just a bit.

“Wait your turn,” scolds the Witcher, and Jaskier is going to kill him.

After far too long there’s a hand on the waistband of his hands, and then his ass is bare, exposed to the air and any who might pass by to see them, and as much as he loves performing, Jaskier can’t help but hope Geralt would warn him before that happens.

Cold oil spills over his ass and he whines, wiggling about and trying to make Geralt hurry, but the Witcher takes his time, rubbing his finger around Jaskier’s entrance.

“Please!”

A soft slap lands on his bottom. “Quiet, Jaskier, or I’ll throw you off.”

He whines and then finally - finally - a finger slips inside him. Jaskier bucks back against it, but his eagerness is rewarded with the finger being removed and another smack to his upturned bottom. After he settles down, Geralt reenters him.

Geralt’s a gentle and considerate lover, under his harsh exterior, and he prepares Jaskier fully as Roach ambles along, barely seeming aware of what her riders are up to - or perhaps she’s just learned not to care. Then, when Jaskier’s about to cry that he’s as stretched as he possibly could be, he’s being lifted up again, placed back in the saddle, his ass pressed against Geralt’s crotch.

Jaskier tries to grind against him, but Geralt grabs his hips and clicks his tongue scoldingly. Careful hands slip between them, and the witcher arranges Jaskier’s trousers, pulling them so that from the front he appears to be fully dressed, but behind him, they bunch below his ass.

Then he feels Geralt unlacing his own trousers and finally - finally - feels a cock against his ass.

“Please.”

He’s surprised when Geralt gives in, lifting the bard’s hips carefully and then settling him down on his cock. “Fuck,” Jaskier whispered, his head lolling back against the Witcher’s chest. Geralt loops one arm around his waist, keeping him pinned and still, the other hand holding the reins nonchalantly.

Jaskier knows it's going to be hours of riding, of Geralt’s cock in him, and he knows by the end of it he will be sore and raw, and that perhaps he’ll have climaxed and perhaps he won’t have, but either way, once they’ve stopped for the evening, Geralt will take him, fully and completely, even if it hurts, and they’ll both climax, even if it’s Jaskier’s second or third or fourth. But he doesn’t care, because it’s bliss, and he moans softly, reaching to touch himself.

And, as he always does, Geralt stops him, placing his hands on the saddle in front of him with a chiding noise. If he gets a climax, it will be solely based on the cock inside him.

They talk as they ride. Well, Jaskier talks and Geralt grunts. It could be a perfectly normal scene, a passerby wouldn’t even notice what was happening between them unless they had Geralt’s sense of smell (and if they passed another Witcher on the trail, its not clear which of them would be more embarrassed).

Each shift of the saddle, every step, makes Geralt shift inside of him, even as the Witcher becomes flaccid, it’s still a strange feeling, one he’s not entirely used to (he hopes he never gets used to it, that it’s a treat every time).

“Easy poet,” Geralt said after a particularly rough step from Roach makes Jaskier gasp. His voice is gentle and quiet as he asks, “Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier sobs and Geralt chuckles.

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

The sun is low in the sky by the time they stop, and Geralt lifts him off his cock, ignoring Jaskier’s whimper. There’s pain in the noise, yes, because he’s raw and the oil has soaked into him, no longer lubricating, but its more pleasure than anything else.  The Witcher dismounts first, then pulls Jaskier down, giving him a swat on his ass and telling him to deal with their bags.

He’s done long before Geralt is finished settling down Roach for the night, and he’s spread out the bedrolls, pushing them together into one, tossing a sheet over them and then stretching himself out on his stomach, nude from the waist down. He’d take off his shirt as well, but the even is chilly and he’s not willing to wait around and shiver.

Finally, Geralt is beside him, a hand on his hips, lifting his ass. His thumb trails over Jaskier’s hole, checking - as he always does - to make sure there’s no injury. But as usual, while he’s raw and sore he’s not bleeding, so Geralt pours a bit more oil on him, then straddles him, pressing against his entrance.

“Ready?”

Jaskier pushed his hips back in reply, spearing himself with a sob. Geralt barely gives him time to adjust before grabbing his hips and taking control himself, thrusting in and out of the poet’s pliant body.

Every thrust brings a yelp of pain and a hand on the top of his head, stroking his hair soothingly. He’s raw and aching and tomorrow he’ll be even worse, (he knows Geralt will let him ride, even without a cock in him) but at the moment all he can think about is his own pleasure, shoving his hips back against Geralt’s, trying to take him as deeply as he could.

Then finally, after waiting an entire day, his orgasm overtakes him.

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

It’s not entirely clear if he truly fainted or was just lost in bliss, but when he comes to, he’s in Geralt’s lap and the Witcher is stroking his back as they sit beside a roaring fire. A cup of water is pressed to his lips and he downs it greedily, then drinks two more before finally collapsing against Geralt with a sniffle.

The Witcher says nothing but continues to rub his shoulders as he once again drifts off to sleep.

--- Chapter 2

He hadn’t meant to cause trouble, but trouble has a way of finding him. How was he to know his paramour was married? And to the town alderman at that?

Geralt hadn’t seen it that way and had pulled him out of the town by the back of his shirt, growling under his breath about stupid, misbehaving bards who ought to pay back his lost coin because they’d had to flee before he’d gotten the second half of his payment.

“Geralt-” Jaskier begins, but a low snarl from the Witcher shuts him up.

Geralt grabs his wrist, cat eyes narrowing. Then he’s suddenly bent over, his head shoved between his own knees, and Geralt growls, “You’re going to learn your lesson this time.”

And he knows this is going to hurt.

Geralt’s angry - and rightfully so - and he knows what he deserves. But still, he knows it won’t go too far, that Geralt knows his limits.

The first blow is more of an annoyance than anything. He hadn’t been fully prepared, hadn’t braced himself properly, and he nearly falls over, but Geralt grabs his shirt, hauls him upright, and lands a second strike.

Three more fall in quick succession, then his pants are grabbed, forced down to his knees, and he cries out, struggling to pull his pants back up to cover his reddening ass.

“If you’re good I won’t use my belt,” says Geralt and immediately Jaskier stops his protests, allowing Geralt to land several strikes with his open hand on Jaskier’s bare bottom.

It stings, but then, he’s used to receiving pain from Geralt, so he sniffles quietly and doesn’t fight back, even when his bottom begins to throb, even when his legs try to grow weak.

And just when he thinks he’s had too much, when he thinks his feet are about to fall out from under him, Geralt straightens him up, pulls up his pants, and lands one last swat on his bottom.

Then the Witcher is striding away, leaving Jaskier to suck in deep breaths and wrap himself in his arms.

“We should get moving,” Geralt says, swinging into the saddle, not looking at Jaskier.

His face is still flushed with tears he stumbles after Geralt. “Let me ride!” he pleads, grabbing for the Witcher’s leg.

There’s a hint of concern on Geralt’s face as he begins, “Jaskier-”

“Please! I need to ride.” And then, in case Geralt doesn’t fully understand what he’s saying, he adds, “Let me ride you.”

The Witcher is hesitant, but just as Jaskier trusts that Geralt knows his limits, the Witcher trusts him to manage himself. He’s lifted up and draped over the saddle, ass in the air, and Geralt clearly can’t resist giving him a soft pat on his reddened skin (or perhaps it’s a warning of what’s to come).

But either way, Jaskier whines for more.

He aches before a finger even breaches him and a pitiful sob comes out of his mouth, but he wiggles around in the saddle, letting Geralt know that he’s still interested.

Geralt’s free hand rubs over his back as he stretches him, and he’s so distracted by the affection that he barely notices when the second finger enters, then a third. It hurts so much, but it hurts so good, and he’s almost begging when Geralt finally removes his fingers.

Then he’s lifted up and placed in the saddle, a cry of pain falling from his lips. Geralt hushes him, murmuring, “You earned this, Jaskier,” but there’s gentleness in the way he holds his hips, a reminder of his choice.

When Geralt enters him he starts to cry. He hadn’t cried from the spanking, but this - the friction combined with the humiliation - brings him to tears. Arms wrap around his midsection and Geralt holds him.

“Good, little lark,” the Witcher says softly, cupping Jaskier’s chin, forcing him to look up at him even if it means twisting his neck. “You earned this,” he reminds him, holding his chin in a viselike grip. “You couldn’t keep your cock in your pants so you’ll keep mine in you like the whore you are."

And he knows its not the whoring that Geralt minds - it would be hypocritical of him to - it’s the carelessness of the whoring, his tendency to get himself in trouble with it. And there’s compassion in Geralt’s cat-eyes, he’s watching to make sure he hasn’t pushed the bard too far, that the pain isn’t too much.

Jaskier does his best to nod, but Geralt’s fingers have pressed between his teeth, forcing his mouth open, his tongue hanging out. He knows he must be a sight to behold, and he’s more grateful than ever that they’re on a deserted road, because he must look well fucked.

Then Geralt releases his chin and once again wraps his arms around his waist. “Perhaps I’ll spank you again when we make camp,” he threatens. “Should I, Jaskier? I could spank you each night we’re forced to sleep under the stars because you cost me my coin.”

“Please don’t,” he says, and he means it, and Geralt can tell, so the Witcher takes his hand and squeezes it. “Only today. Perhaps,” Jaskier adds, because perhaps he could take one more, but not every day. Geralt grunts and they ride along in silence.

He cries off and on throughout the day, from the pain and humiliation, because Geralt hasn’t covered him as he usually does so his ass is bare and red and full of Geralt's cock for all the forest creatures to see. Each time he cries Geralt’s arms tighten around him and when he’s done, without fail, his face is wiped clean of tears and snot.

But that’s not to say he’s not aware that this is a punishment. He truly throbs with every movement, and Geralt isn’t careful today, even going so far as to push Roach into a bouncy trot that makes him sob openly and beg for mercy.

“I’m sorry Geralt,” he babbles, clinging to the Witcher’s hands, doubling over in the saddle. “Please, Geralt!”

But he doesn’t say stop, because he doesn’t want to it stop, not truly, so Roach trots for several minutes before Geralt slows her and Jaskier can finally catch his breath.

It's well past noon when Geralt suddenly pulls off his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier, covering him, and says, “Pretend to be asleep.”

He closes his eyes as Geralt wipes away his tears, smoothing his hair, but he can’t help but turn red when he hears a horse approach. Suddenly he’s hyper-aware of the sting in his ass from the whipping and the feeling of Geralt’s cock in him, and he prays to the gods that it will be over soon.

Geralt calls out a greeting, and the other rider responds in kind, then there’s nothing more, and soon the rider must be far away because Geralt pushes Roach into a trot once again, as if to remind Jaskier that this is a punishment.

But the trot doesn’t last as long as before and he’s allowed to remain wrapped in the cloak and even his tears seem less than before.

When they finally stop to make camp Geralt dismounts, then pulls Jaskier off the saddle, ordering him to ready the camp as he usually does.

It takes longer than it should because he’s in pain and tired from a day of crying and whining, and Geralt’s waiting by the fire by the time he finishes, sitting on a fallen log, and he holds out his arms and pulls Jaskier into his lap.

The bard wraps his legs and arms around Geralt, hiding his face in his shoulder and for a moment they don’t speak, then Geralt pulls him back, holds his chin to force him to meet his eyes, and asks, “Do you need another spanking?”

Because he knows Jaskier sometimes can’t forgive himself and needs to have forgiveness whipped into him, but today all he needs, all he wants, “Fuck me.”

And Geralt obliges, taking him as they sit on the log, pressing deep inside him, drawing desperate moans from the bard.

Geralt’s voice is gentle as he asks, “Is this too much?”

“It hurts,” Jaskier sobs, but he doesn’t tell him to stop, so Geralt continues, lifting Jaskier off his lap then forcing him back down again over and over until he's near his climax.

Then he’s pushed off Geralt’s lap, onto his knees, and there’s a cock pressing against his lips which he readily takes down his throat and once Geralt’s climaxed - and he swallows it all because he’s good - the favor is returned and he’s laying on his back, sore ass pressing into the ground as Geralt sucks him dry.

Afterward Geralt has wiped them both clean - and thankfully, with the semen swallowed, there’s not much to clean - they curl together on the bedroll and Geralt rubs his shoulders as he sobs through the rest of his pain and apologies.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, rubbing his fingers through his hair. “You know you’re forgiven, and if you can’t accept that, you’ll taste my belt in the morning.” And every morning until you forgive yourself, hangs unspoken in the air.

The bard sniffs and nods, curling into Geralt’s side. “I’m hungry,” is all he can say, and the Witcher laughs and promises him a warm meal before bed.

[thursdayplaid]

There’s a Monster at The End of This Castle

Tags: Renfri’s Brooch, SYMBOLISM, Spooky, Horror, Unreliable Narrator, there are at least five ways of interpreting the story and they’re all valid, Geralt, Jaskier, Yennifer, Eskel, no spoilers but it’s creepy  

Geralt's on contract to slay the monster in the castle.  Jaskier stands on the marble floor in his bare feet and watches.  Renfri's brooch is in the bard's hand, Renfri's brooch is hanging from his neck.  Geralt needs to find the monster, it's dangerous.  Geralt needs to protect Jaskier, he doesn't understand the danger he's in.

Notes: I posted this on Ao3 but I love this creepy fic and want it on my blog.  I've written things because they need to be written in a flurry of possessed inspiration and I've written things because it was something that I wanted to read.  I read the summary for chasing_the_sterek's lovely fluffy story: 'it's what my heart just yearns to say' and both happened.  (You can find the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561143)  This is still one of the favorite things I’ve written - even if it’s not my favorite version of it.  It's weird, it's all context clues, and it's spooky.  While there are some theoretical interpretations that are off base, the majority of interpretations of the story are totally valid so take what you want from it.  It may not be quite the thing for tumblr, but it’s quite the thing for my blog and if that’s not my tumblr experience I don’t know what is!

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Jaskier is small under the vaulted ceiling of the main hall, the heavy velvet of the hanging banners are too good quality to molder yet, but they are dark with dust.  “If you could have one blessing,” Jaskier says, eyes lit bright by the torch in Geralt’s hand, “What would it be?”

Geralt looks at him.  Renfri’s brooch is smooth and hand-warm in his palm, edges smooth and rounded from careful crafting.  It’s been with him for a long time: a little over ten years.  It fits his palm like it’s an extension of his body, the stones catch the candlelight like they’re winking.  Jaskier’s words are so precise, enunciated - recited, that they have to be from something.  A play or a ballad, an epic from the blessed paradise of Oxenfurt.  The inside of the castle is cold and gray, he feels like he’s in a cave, the way the dark wraps around him like walls of stone, a hollow in the earth.

“Is that from one of your songs?” Geralt asked him.

Blinking in genuine surprise, Jaskier pulls back to look at him as though a view further back would improve him somewhat.  “Why would it be from one of my songs?”

Geralt doesn’t know anything about art.  He understands it as little as it understands him.  He can read enough to do his work but finds anything other than the most straightforward of records to smack of dishonesty.  A frigid wind whips its way viper fast through the cracks in the wall.   The feeling of having his skin shredded by the cold is so intense he almost touches is face to see if he can feel the twisting ridge of his cheekbone through the slivers of flesh and muscle.

Jaskier is clapping as he sings on a determined mission to go through all the verses of Fishmonger’s Daughter that he knows.  There was the faun, the dragon, the witch – which had been particularly dirty, and other verses on and on until Jaskier faltered.

Geralt clears his throat as delicately as he was able.  “Acted like a whore for a big manticore.”

The bard’s smile grows huge, his eyes glowing with a joy that filled Geralt with an equal mix of delight and terror.  He throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and made a sound like a laugh, like sunrise, like Geralt is a person.  “I knew you’ve been listening to me!  All these years and I had a budding bard all along!”  

The firelight tints Jaskier’s pale skin toward green, he looks like a god of spring time.  They hold hands and dance round and round and round.  In Geralt’s long life he can’t remember laughing this much or this hard, or even just indulging in something so silly.  Jaskier is smiling, as he moves so quick in Geralt’s arms, a shadow that’s crawled its way up from the ground to have its go of a life.

“Eskel, what are you doing here?” Geralt asks.  “Did the Countess not tell you I had taken the contract?” Lettenhove is bright and loud, a thriving city but one that is not so big that there should be a mix up like this.

Eskel stares at him.  His silver sword is in his hand gleaming with oil.

There is a rustle and Jaskier emerged from the dark, picking through rubble with his soft broad bare feet, there’s nothing wrong with them but to Geralt they look like a child’s feet for all that there is hair on the toes.  Jaskier should have better shoes on, where are his boots?  “Hello Eskel,” Jaskier says, his voice soft in a way that is strange, that makes Geralt’s head hurt.  “Come sit by the fire with us.”  

Eskel looks between the two of them, nods.  He doesn’t look right, there is something off about him.

Geralt needs to finish the contract, he should finish searching the castle but he hasn’t seen Eskel in what seems like forever and Jaskier is as likely as not to trip, fall, and get himself killed.  Doesn’t he know there’s danger here?  He puts a hand on Jaskier’s back, pulling him close to his side as they walked so they had to walk in step not to fall over each other.  For a moment the bard looks enraged, feral, and then his face smooths and calms.

When they get back to camp Geralt feels enraged himself.  “Jaskier!  I told you not to let the fire go out!  You know there’s a monster in the castle!” his voice is too loud, he’s shouting too loud.  “You’re a moron at the best of times, but I thought I could expect you to have the good sense not to sit in the dark waiting to be killed!  You could be hurt, this isn’t a fairy tale!”

Eskel moves past them, rearranging the fire and getting it going again.  He seems unnerved.  It’s not like Geralt to lose his temper like that.   Geralt sits Jaskier down and arranges him in place, smoothing down the collar of his camisole loose and open and is half-tucked into those colorful trousers of his.  The sleeves are red, the sleeves are so red. He wants to sit next to Jaskier but he is too angry so he paces until he calms.

He can’t speak to Jaskier without losing his temper so he speaks to Eskel.  “We’ve hunted together before,” he says.  “It’ll be pleasant to do again.  I’ll even split the money with you, it’s no problem.”

Eskel looks at Jaskier first, Jaskier’s back is to Geralt so the bard’s expression is obscured.  The dark line of leather Jaskier uses to hang Renfri’s brooch under his shirt looks like a wound against the back of the bard’s neck.  A wound in the dark black with blood.  There is an impulse to stare and an impulse to tear his eyes out, he does neither.  Then Jaskier turns to face him.  “If you could have one blessing, what would it be?”

“I don’t have time for your recitations,” Geralt tells him.  “Eskel, shall we?”

“Yes,” Eskel says, but he doesn’t seem as happy about it as Geralt expects.  

Pointing at Jaskier, Geralt says with as much menace as he’s able.  “You don’t know what the monster could do to you out there in the dark.  Stay.   Here.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, easy and turns his head away again.  He speaks to the fire in a light dancing voice.  “Remember Eskel, Geralt has always been a better swordsman than you.”

It’s an odd thing to say, but Jaskier has always been an odd duck.

When he and Eskel wander far enough away out of earshot, Geralt puts a hand on Eskel’s shoulder.  “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Eskel looks at him with open shock, he looks stunned.

He doesn’t know how to say Eskel looked hesitant to go with him on the hunt.  Doesn’t want to imply that his feelings were hurt or something equally ludicrous.  Witchers don’t have feelings, they don’t care about people.  “Do you have enough coin?  You’re handling things?”

“Yes, Geralt,” Eskel says slowly as if trying to feel his way toward what Geralt means.  “I have enough coin.”

“Because if you need this contract, it would be alright, I’d let you take the money.  I wouldn’t want Jaskier to get a big head, but he makes enough singing that it would be okay.  We manage fine.”

Eskel stares at him.  After it’s been so long Geralt is afraid he misspoke, Eskel nods at him, slaps his shoulder.  They patrol for a long time, talking to each other.  In an attempt to cover his previous misstep, he asks about Lil Bleater.  It’s good to reminisce although its clear something is weighing on Eskel’s mind or perhaps he hit his head, Geralt suspects that might be the case.  There’s white in Eskel’s hair.  That happens sometimes when there’s been a cut to the head.

Eskel will tell part of a story and then ask Geralt about it or he’ll get a detail wrong and Geralt will have to correct him.  Each time such a sad, hurt, hopeful look comes over Eskel’s face that Geralt doesn’t want to say anything about it.  He’s not good with words.  Eskel doesn’t even remember how long it’s been since they saw each other last.  If Eskel’s memory is going how could he hope to help him.  They walk through the ballroom, up the stairs to duck in and out of the bedrooms, looking under beds like they’re children playing Hunt and Snare in the barracks when the master witchers aren’t paying attention.  The castle must have been beautiful once with its bright colored stained glass and its marble floors, the room full of dried flowers, red-brown sheets, and the piles of sheet music.  Now it smells like an old tomb, skin turned to paper and bones to old wood.  There is white in Eskel’s hair.  This makes his head hurt again.  Eskel goes to open a door, but Geralt saves him.   “There’s a cave in on the other side, it’s quite a drop.  A step through the door and you’d fall to your death.”

Eskel looks at him just like he’s been looking at him all night.  It’s like a joke in a foreign language and it makes him uncomfortable.

“It’s hidden again,” Geralt finally says when the night has begun to tilt its way into very early morning.  The monster is sly, it doesn’t want to be detected.   “We’ll have to search again tomorrow.”

Eskel claps him on the shoulder, “Sure.  I can set up camp next to your fire in the front hall.”

“Jaskier better be there when we get back.  I’m tiring of his wandering,” Geralt said.

“Why don’t you tell him that staying by the fire is the one blessing you want?” Eskel asks, mouth quirking up at the joke.

Geralt slams him against the wall so hard that for a moment he thinks he may have killed him, but he is so angry.  He is so angry.  He doesn’t care. It should hurt.

“Don’t you say that to him!” Geralt roars, he doesn’t recognize his own voice.  He’s never sounded like this even at his most monstrous.  “Don’t you ever say that to him!”  He can’t cry, witchers can’t cry but he howls against Eskel’s chest.  He howls like the cold wind with its mouth full of venom.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells Jaskier as the bard follows along behind him with shadow soft footfalls.  “It’s dangerous, you’re going to get yourself killed.”  The bard’s shirt is so red, it’s like a flame to a dangerous, vicious moth.  He keeps telling the bard.  There is a monster, it will kill him if it’s able to, it can’t be taught or trained or tamed.  It is a monster, it destroys things.  It destroys people like Jaskier who are human, who can be killed in so many stupid ways.

“I need material for my next ballad,” Jaskier replies, he almost seems to dance as he walks.  He holds Renfri’s brooch in front of his face so it looks like it’s smiling at Geralt and then moves it to reveal his own smile.  Geralt smiles back at the bard’s silliness.  Jaskier is a living illusion, looking dainty and fragile until someone stumbles too close and realizes how broad in the shoulder and tall he is.  The man is a sort of magician. “It’s called the Witcher and the Brick Wall.”

Geralt can’t help being curious.  “Does he climb the brick wall?”

“No, he bangs his head against it.”

Geralt stops to look at him but Jaskier just smiles and tucks Geralt’s hair behind his ear.  It makes Geralt feel odd when Jaskier does things like that.  When he’s kind.  It makes Geralt afraid although he doesn’t know why.  He doesn’t know how to act around Jaskier.  He doesn’t know the rules of engagement.  He’s holding Renfri’s brooch in his hand.  He’s had it for ten years.  It’s been a reminder a weight on his back, longer than he expected – ten whole years without being lost or stolen.  He has a habit of losing that which is most precious.  He had been worried it would slip away by misadventure, that he’d wouldn’t listen or be too slow to protect it – things of value were chewed up and spat out by the world, but no.  The brooch lasted, his knew its shape in his hand.  He could pick it out blind from a pile of gold, from its weight on the swing of a sword, from the way its shape made it smile at him in the dark.  Jaskier asked about it of course.  Jaskier was always so curious about the mundane parts of being a witcher.  

What Geralt ate, how he made his potions, why he sharpened his sword so often.

It is part of being careful.  Geralt might yell but he has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

He has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

HE HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING TO HURT JASKIER.

Jaskier takes his hand.  He is barefoot and his shirt is so red.  He puts the brooch into Geralt’s hand.

“Geralt,” he says.  “If life could give you one blessing.”

A woman with dark hair is in the entry hall talking to Jaskier.  It makes him feel weird, to see a stranger talking to the bard.

“We have a visitor,” Jaskier tells him.  His fingers are curled around Renfri’s brooch, it doesn’t bother Geralt.  It’s big enough to fill a hand but not small enough to make a fist around.  Jaskier is tactile, he likes to touch things to understand them.  He touches the little potion bottles to understand them, he touches Geralt’s armor to understand it, he touches Geralt’s face to understand it.  Jaskier will give the brooch back when he’s done.

“Hello,” he says gruffly, usually that’s enough.

She just blinks at him, her eyes are a startling shade of purple.  Everyone just looks at him.  “Hello back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt tells the bard.  “It’s one thing to have a conquest in every city, it’s another to bring a woman to a place where there’s a monster.”

“You don’t know me,” the woman says.  Her dress is odd, he’s never seen anything like it.  He doesn’t pay a great deal of attention to women’s fashion but even he would notice how odd her dress looks.

“No offense miss, but I try to stay as far away as from Jaskier’s bardic romances as I can.”  Something occurs to him.  “Are you the Countess de Stael?”

She makes an odd noise like she swallowed a peach pit.  “No, not the Countess of Stael.”

“Geralt’s memory has been a bit take it or leave it,” Jaskier says, shrugging.  

Geralt says, hurt in a way he can’t articulate.  “I remembered the Countess of Stael, didn’t I?  And you only mentioned once that you met her at the festival of yours.  My mind’s like a steel trap.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the woman muttered to herself.

For the next few days he runs into her everywhere, poking around with an odd lantern.  “What’s that?” he asks her.

“That’s right,” she murmurs.  “After your time.  It’s just a lantern, a more modern version.  Lasts longer.”

He can see that, he’s not a rube.  He’s been around, he’s seen things.  “I don’t know what Jaskier told you about magic and adventure, but I’m on a contract.  There’s a dangerous monster here.  You should be careful.”

“Alright,” she agrees.  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

In the morning there’s a pile of molten metal on the floor of the great hall, there’s a fire that’s big enough he has to pull Jaskier back from it.  Jaskier is just standing there watching because of course he is, nothing on his feet, no armor, nothing to defend himself with but Renfri’s brooch in his hands.

“What are you doing?” he roars, he isn’t sure who he’s roaring at.

The woman stares at him.  Why is everyone always staring at him?  She looks at him with his arms holding Jaskier behind him but she speaks to the bard.  “I thought it had to be his swords.  What else could it be?   Jaskier, what is it keeping him here?  I’m running out of things to burn.”

“Then stop burning things!” Geralt yells at her.

“How should I know?” Jaskier replies, dull and mulish.  “That’s the sort of thing a friend would know, not me.”

“Jaskier,” she says, her voice turned dangerous.  “You have to stop this.”

“Half my life,” Jaskier tells her.  “Half of my life.  I’m not stopping anything.”

“Jaskier,” she says, the word like a drawn sword.

Jaskier’s shoulders drop in defeat, he holds his hands behind his back with his fingers tucked into the opening of the brooch.  “You think I don’t know how this turns out?  What we’ll become?  It isn’t me, alright?  I’m too vain to allow myself to…”  He looks at Geralt with a crooked smile.  “I guess Geralt does value my companionship after all.  I appreciate your help, Yen.  But.  This is better than it was at the beginning.  At least he’s stable now.  I’m keeping him stable.  He’ll understand when he wants to understand.”

Who were they talking about?

“Alright,” she says.  She rubs her face with her hands.  “Alright.  I guess I’ll check in in a hundred years.”  

Jaskier smiles at her, his expression full of relief.

The woman hugs Jaskier and she seems to want to hug Geralt as well.  Geralt isn’t used to anyone hugging him but Jaskier and he doesn’t know her.   She feels dangerous.  She seems unhappy but she leaves.

There is a monster with a silver sword.  Jaskier is fleet of foot even without shoes.  He runs, away from the fire but toward Geralt.  He moves as though carried on the air.  He is beautiful, like an arrow set loose.  The cold wind screams and whistles its way through the cracks in the castle walls.  The relief on Jaskier’s face when he sees him almost knocks the air out of Geralt’s lungs.  Ducking his head the bard slides like silk, like a whetstone along a blade under one of the witcher’s outstretched arms to hide behind the wall of muscle and armor Geralt creates just by standing still.   Geralt can’t find his swords, so he leaps on the monster with his bare hands.  The cold wind cuts into his bones, into his skin, into his gut.

Geralt has always been good at defeating monsters, even when he didn’t want to be.

Jaskier takes him by the shoulders and leads him back to the fire.  He sits him down.  “Don’t you worry about a thing.  Jaskier will take care of everything.  Just sit right there and look at the fire and here’s Renfri’s brooch and just-  Think witchery thoughts.”

Geralt looks up at him.  He wants to ask what’s wrong, he wants to ask why Jaskier is acting like that, he wants to ask Jaskier to stay by the fire.  He holds Renfri’s brooch in both hands.  It is familiar.  He’s had it for ten years.  They would sit by the fire and Geralt would sharpen his sword with it smiling up at him and Jaskier would sing and Roach would nibble on the leaves of low hanging branches.  It was a reminder that he must always be careful.  “Where’s your lute?”

“Some place safe,” Jaskier says.  “I know every secret hidey hole in these halls.”  For a moment, Jaskier presses their foreheads together.  “You are Geralt of Rivia.  You’re Geralt of Rivia, okay?”

“I know who I am,” he says.

Jaskier hugs him tight for a moment and then runs off into the dark.

Geralt wants to finish his contract quickly.  He worries about Jaskier who has barely any sense to speak of and acts like he has even less.  The monster here is dangerous, wicked.  It could kill the bard with a word. Jaskier’s going to get himself killed.  There’s something wrong with the potions in Geralt’s bag.  Some of them are missing.

Are they?  His head hurts.

Where are his swords?

Jaskier stood under the vaulted ceiling of the castle.  His feet are bare, his sleeves are so red, there’s a sword in his hands held out and offered to Geralt.  The witcher examines it, it’s been well-tended, cared for.   Its pommel is different than he’s used to, a cat’s head is at the end.   It is a silver sword though, it must be his.   Geralt hangs Renfri’s brooch on its leather tie around Jaskier’s neck and smooths it flat against his chest.  Jaskier’s smile almost falters, his body bowing as though under the weight.   The brooch is finely made and smiling, he’s had it for ten years.  It’s a remarkable brooch, he can’t hold onto anything for ten years.  Witchers don’t have treasured possessions, to treasure something is to beg the universe to snatch it away.  Loving something is just begging for destiny to swoop in with death on its wings.  Things are so fragile.  But.  It’s a good brooch.  As familiar as a shadow.

Jaskier smiles at him, standing so still by the firelight.  His skin is so pale and his sleeves are all red.  The flames are bright.  It’s a decent fire, it’ll keep the monster away. “Geralt,” he asks.  “If life could give you one blessing, what would it be?”

[afterhoursfic]

Since you said that you were taking prompts for Eskel, how about something with somnophilia when he and Geralt were recent graduates of the Trials, before they headed out on the Path?

So this is both soft and kinda fucked up, so I hope you enjoy

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They were to head out on the path tomorrow. A part of him wanted to be excited, to finally leave the Keep and its grounds, to get to see the rest of the continent and actually put his skills and blades to use, but as he looked at Eskel, sleeping in the bed beside him he couldn’t help but feel dread in the pit of his stomach.

He knew the statistics, that most witchers die in their first year on the path, and the thought that this would be the last time he would see his brother, his one constant in his already shitty life was like a knife twisting in his chest.

He knew the feeling, it was perhaps the only one he still felt, at least that was the same lie the leaders told him to spout, but there was no denying the love he felt for his brother. The only problem was that he couldn’t actually say it. He’d tried too for the past couple of weeks, and even tomorrow when they were forced to part ways, he knew he still wouldn’t have the courage to say it then, but he could show it though, even if Eskel wasn’t awake at least he’d shown his love in some way, and if either of them did die (Melitele forbid) he wouldn’t feel too uneasy about having said nothing to his closest friend.

There were several ways to show someone you loved them, namely big declarations or small gifts, but whilst he’d gifted Eskel with a new cloak that would keep him warm until summer, and small trinkets they’d gathered together over the years, but he felt it wasn’t enough. At least not enough to encompass how he truly felt about his brother, the man who had slept and fought by his side for years, who had been strapped on the table next to him during the first trials and had stood by his side when the other boys shied away from him and his newly white hair.

No, he was going to show his love the way people who were in love did, the way that the older witchers had tried to beat out of them at the sheer mention of it, especially between each other because in their line of work it didn’t do well to form attachments.

Despite their efforts he still knew, had heard some of the raunchy tales that other witchers told when they returned from the path for the winter, well at least he knew enough for tonight. It was with that he slipped out of his bed just after midnight, a vial of oil in hand as he slipped beneath the covers of Eskel’s bed and with a bit of careful maneuvering was spooned up behind Eskel’s back.

Whilst they had been trained to sleep lightly to never be caught off guard, it was their last night of actual safety for a long time to come and so everyone left in his class was taking advantage of it, not knowing the next time they will get a proper night’s rest, at least everyone but him.

He couldn’t help himself as he wrapped an arm around Eskel’s chest, pulling his brother tighter against him as he buried his nose into the back of his neck, enjoying the scent and safety Eskel always gave him, maybe he could talk to Eskel tomorrow and they could walk the path together, their mentors would rip their hides off if they knew, but they never had to know, he and Eskel just had to stay close enough so that they knew the other was safe and alive. He had half expected Renees to bring them into their office and have them be escorted to different parts of the continent given their relationship with each other but thank the goddess for small mercies.

After he felt the ache in his chest ease a little, he pressed a final kiss to Eskel’s neck and pulled away just a little so he could get to work. It was easy enough getting Eskel’s braies down to his knees and he spent a moment tracing his fingers over Eskel’s ass, feeling the muscle twitch a little under his touch and it made his breath catch before pulling one of his cheeks aside to tease his thumb over Eskel’s rim.

He wanted to wait, to fully show his affections but he was desperate as well, they didn’t have long left and he needed to get in Eskel, to show him how much he loved him, how he’d always take care of him. It was easy to push one oil slicked finger past Eskel’s rim, feeling no resistance as his brother slept soundly in front of him, it didn’t take long to push a second finger in, holding his breath as Eskel clenched around him and shifted a little in his hold.

Once he settled again, he pressed another kiss to Eskel’s neck, thanking him for being so patient as he tried to find the right way to express his love. It was easy to begin scissoring the two fingers already in Eskel, stretching him further whilst Eskel occasionally clenched around him with small hitches in his breath, telling him how good he felt.

When he slipped a third finger in he groaned into Eskel’s shoulder as his brother let out his breath in a way that almost sounded like a moan, and he took it for the sign it was, the two of them well versed in silent conversation now, and he slowly pulled his fingers out so he could slick up his cock and press the tip against Eskel’s rim, feeling him clench around nothing yet as if begging him to finally give them what they wanted.

Slowly he began to push his cock in, stopping his movement whenever he felt Eskel clench around him, waiting with bated breath for his brother to relax around him again before slowly pushing forward again, biting his lip to stop himself from kissing and biting at Eskel’s shoulder and marking him like he so wants too.

When his hips are finally pressed against Eskel’s ass, his brother still rhythmically clenching around him as he adjusted and he was practically panting with the need to just start thrusting, to fuck Eskel within an inch of their lives because that’s how deep his love went for him, but he deserved better, especially as he was being so willing and open for him now.

He started by simply grinding their hips closer, moving his free hand from where it was still pressed against Eskel’s chest, holding them together for the last time, downwards to begin stroking at his already half hard cock.

When he felt Eskel’s cock twitching to hardness in his hand he began to pull out his cock a little before thrusting back in, just small movements that gradually got bigger until he was outright fucking Eskel, the wet slap of their skin, although muffled by the blanket, echoed around the room and would be obvious to all who heard it. He also couldn’t help but feel a small bit of pride at the thought, that if any of his other brothers woke up they’d be able to hear them, hear his love for Eskel, and a small part of him wanted them too.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he entered Eskel’s bed, could have been hours but it felt like minutes and he could feel the edge coming closer with every thrust. He angled his hips a little to try and get deeper, to make sure Eskel would feel it tomorrow as a reminder of his affection, but with it he made Eskel practically jolt in his arms and let out a strangled moan. He stopped dead waiting to see if Eskel was awake and what his reaction would be, but there was nothing, and so after another minute or so of barely breathing he ventured a hand back down to Eskel’s cock only to feel it limp in his hand and given the warm, sticky feeling of it, could feel the come covering it from where he had just come.

He groaned as he began thrusting again, desperate to finish himself now and it’s when he brought his hand up to lick at Eskel’s come covering it, the first taste of it earning a deep groan before he spilled inside Eskel with a deep thrust, slowing his movements to ride out his orgasm before spooning up behind again, breathing in deeply the scent of them together, something heady and right that had his cock twitch in interest again.

With a final kiss to Eskel’s jaw, he made to pull away, in fact, he’d only pulled half his cock out before he felt a hand on his arm, warm and firm and made him pause as fear struck him at the possibility that Eskel would hate him after this.

The hand stayed on him though keeping him in place before Eskel turned a little to face him, eyes still closed as if he was fighting sleep, and with a deep voice, hoarse with sleep he heard Eskel telling him to stay. He would almost be embarrassed at the way his heartbeat rose a little, and he knew he’d been caught at the smallest smile curving Eskel’s lips, but then Eskel’s tugging at his arm, pulling them back together again and more firmly telling him to stay before his deep snores began to fill the room.

He would never be called a weak man but for Eskel he would do anything, and so that night he stayed.