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dat-carovieh · 2 years

Text

Stupid

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: G

Wordcount: 2.4k

Tags: intelligence, unexpected skills, 5+1, getting together, first kiss

Read on AO3

One: Monster parts.

Jaskier had usually acted pretty stupid. In the nearly six months, Geralt had known him, he had shown him multiple times how stupid. Starting with not staying back, when Geralt told him to for his own safety. Way to often he had nearly gotten gutted by some monster. He kept fucking married people or other people whose relatives might not agree with this and he had been beaten up by someone because of this at least three times since they knew each other. He absolutely wasn’t made for the life in the road. He didn’t know how to build a fire, how to hunt or how to protect himself against the weather when sleeping outside.

When they had been on their first adventure, he had yelled at the elves to not hurt Geralt and better kill him too if they killed Geralt. This might have been brave but also so incredibly dumb.

In short, Geralt had various reasons to think Jaskier was stupid. That was until he started to realize there might be other ways of being intelligent. Geralt had just killed a bunch of drowners and a water hag and Jaskier was standing behind him as he cut out the valuable parts for selling. He was mumbling something to himself as he watched Geralt do this. When Geralt got up he looked at Jaskier questioningly, the bard was still mumbling under his breath.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.

“Calculating” he answered.

“What?”

“So, you got 12 drowner eyes, one is squished so only worth about half the price, four brains, need to be more careful with them, they’re valuable, six hearts and six livers, also water essence from the hag, her tongue and eyes as well. You should keep three eyes and a liver for your potions, because I saw you run out, so if the merchant you sell them to gives you what they’re worth you should get 63 crowns and 32 copper out of this,” Jaskier explained.

Geralt stared at the bard, his mouth open. Not only had he just calculated this in his head, he also knew the current prices of monster parts and had payed enough attention to know which potions Geralt had run out of and what ingrediences he needed for them.

“Did you just do that in your head?” Geralt asked pretty dumfounded.

“Yeah, of course. You know Geralt, despite what you might think, I’m actually highly intelligent. You do know, I’ve studied in Oxenfurt, right? I graduated as master of the seven liberal arts. People might think the student life is all partying and fucking around, which it is a lot, but it’s also a huge amount of work,” Jaskier started to lecture him. He was right, obviously, Geralt had to admit. He knew Jaskier had studied in Oxenfurt and knew he had graduated as Master of the seven liberal arts. He still pretended to be unimpressed.

“I’ve been a professor for a year,” Jaskier added and seemed to end his rant with this. Geralt’s head snapped around.

“You what?” Geralt asked. This he hadn’t known and he wouldn’t have expected at all.

“I taught poetry at Oxenfurt Academy for a year before I left to chase fame and adventure,” Jaskier explained.

“You’re only nineteen,” Geralt said.

“Well you usually graduate with seventeen and I was best in my year so I was offered the teaching position just after my graduation.” Now Geralt couldn’t hide anymore that he was impressed. To get offered a teaching position just after graduating he couldn’t just be best of his year. He must have been incredibly good. He felt a little bad for underestimating the bard.

Two Blacksmithing

“Geralt your sword looks like shit. Who fucking made this?” Jaskier asked while watching Geralt polishing his sword. He wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t a good sword but his last one had been broken and he hadn’t been able to afford a better one.

“What the fuck do you know about swords?” Geralt asked confused.

“Enough to know that this one has a shit quality and will probably break during your next hunt. You need a new one,” Jaskier lectured him.

“Too bad, I can’t afford a new one,” he answered. They were pretty low on coin so the sword would have to make do.

“Well, you’re not going hunting with this piece of shit. If I had a couple of smithing tools, I could probably improve it enough to at least be usable.”

“You what now? What do you know about smithing?” Geralt asked. He probably had read some books about it, but it was nothing you learned from a book.

“Everyone needs a hobby, Geralt. I learned it when I was still in Oxenfurt. It’s actually pretty relaxing. With all the reading and composing and studying I needed something more physical. Give me your sword, I will go to the local blacksmith and ask him to use his tools to fix what can be fixed with this piece of shit,” he explained.

Once again Jaskier had shocked him, that was not a skill or interest he had expected from the bard. But he did hand over his sword and watched Jaskier hurry off with it.

It took a couple of hours until he returned and the sword looked a lot better now, the bard himself was covered in grime but looked really happy.

“This was fun,” Jaskier announced. “Heinz was very accommodating. He was happy to meet someone who shared his passion and even allowed me to use his smithy for free. Here you go.” He handed Geralt the sword and the Witcher inspected it. Jaskier really had done a great job with it. It was hard for Geralt to believe what he saw.

Three: Instruments

Geralt looked at Jaskier who was sitting in a corner of the room. They had traveled to Lettenhove because Jaskier wanted to visit his parents. It was his father’s 60s birthday and they wanted to celebrate. The bard had a weird instrument in his lap.

“What the fuck is that?” Geralt asked, squinting.

“Oh, that’s my Hurdy-Gurdy,” Jaskier explained. That definitely sounded like it was fake. There was no instrument called a Hurdy-Gurdy, that sounded too ridiculous.

“A what now?” Geralt asked.

“Hurdy-Gurdy. Great instrument. I love playing it. But it’s not as accepted as the lute in the common folk and I had to decide on one instrument to take with me, so the lute is my go to instrument. But I have a lot of others, I love to play,” Jaskier explained, as he continued to turn the crank.

“Looks complicated,” Geralt said, watching him play.

“Some people say it is, but I always had an easy time picking up instruments. I started collecting weird instruments as a child and started to teach them to myself.”

Of course, he had taught this stuff to himself. Geralt didn’t think he could have been surprised again, but here he was, gaping at Jaskier, mouth open, as the bard looked down again, focusing on playing the instrument with the absolutely fake sounding name.

Four: Languages

“Geralt look at this book,” Jaskier cried out excitedly while his nose was buried in an old book. Geralt stepped over to him to see what the bard had found. Geralt was sure he had never seen such symbols before but Jaskier’s eye movements suggested he was actually reading it.

“What is it?” Geralt asked.

“It’s from the Vran, it’s so interesting, describing their culture. I need to take this with me. They’re nearly extinct and this knowledge can not be lost,” Jaskier explained, nearly tripping over his own words in excitement.

“You can read the Vran language?” Geralt asked shocked. He didn’t think he had ever met someone being able to understand more then a couple of words. He himself had learned about three words and he usually was pretty good with languages but this was the hardest he had ever seen.

“Yeah of course I can. Reading is easy. I’m not good at talking, though, learned it through books, mostly self-taught. I could probably write it but if I would talk to them, they probably wouldn’t understand me,” he explained.

Learning a language from books was a lot of effort and being good enough to read a book in the language meant Jaskier must be pretty good at it.

“Look at this paragraph,” Jaskier said and held the book in front of Geralt’s face.

“I can’t read this,” Geralt admitted.

“What? I thought you were really good with languages,” Jaskier said and seemed seriously shocked.

“I am, but that’s one of the hardest languages on the continent and it’s spoken by a race that’s nearly extinct. As nice as it could be to learn it, it’s not practical. I would suggest to rather learn dwarven or nilfgaardian,” Geralt said. He had a pretty solid knowledge of both of the languages. Good enough to haggle with merchants and tell Emperor Emhyr to fuck off in his native language.

“Vaer'truov me, essea, vatt'ghern,” he replied.

“Impressive,” Geralt replied. He had not expected Jaskier to be able to speak nilfgaardian.

“I also speak vodyan,” Jaskier explained.

“Seriously? Why?” Geralt asked.

“I just think learning languages is fun.”

“Hmmm.”

---

Jaskier looked at Regis with wide eyes.

“You’re a vampire?” he blurted out. Geralt rolled his eyes. This was rather rude from the bard.

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, I can understand, if you rather not have anything to do with me anymore,” Regis answered. Geralt had to only take one look at the bard to know the opposite was the case, for some reason he was trembling with excitement. And suddenly a wave of words, Geralt did not understand left the bard’s mouth. Regis looked surprised at first but then a big smile manifested on his face and showed off his fangs and he replied, apparently in the same language. Geralt stared at them in confusion.

“Are you speaking the vampire language?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, it’s so refreshing to meet a human who speaks my language,” Regis said to Geralt then he turned to Jaskier. “You speak it quite well.”

“I had a lot of practice in a certain brothel in Vizima,” Jaskier answered.

In the following days, Geralt saw the both of them sitting together a lot, speaking a language, he didn’t understand. Maybe he should learn it, Regis was a close friend and it would be nice, being able to talk to him in his own language. He also felt a little left out.

Five: Potion making

“Geralt, what the fuck are you doing there?” Jaskier yelled. Geralt looked up startled.

“Making my potions?” he answered confused. Jaskier had seen him doing this countless of times.

“Like this?”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked.

“That’s how they taught you to make swallow in Kaer Morhen? Drowner brains? Really? That raises the toxicity way too much. What you need instead is the heart of the drowner. Same effect but much less toxic. You won’t feel as much like vomiting afterwards,” Jaskier explained.

“How the fuck do you know that again?” Geralt asked. What did a bard know about Witcher potions?

“I’ve known you for a long time now, I did some research over the winter. Found a lot of old books from various Witcher schools explaining stuff. You really should have communicated with the other schools more. The cats perfected that potion.”

“Did you find out something else I might not know,” Geralt asked squinting.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Jaskier declared and jumped up. Oh no, that could be a long lecture. Jaskier opened his saddlebag and retrieved a book. As he opened it Geralt saw, it was written in Jaskier’s handwriting.

“In here I collected everything noteworthy I found,” he declared and flipped through the pages. When he found what he’d been looking for he started to read. It was a part about potions, Geralt had no idea about all the possibilities.

Soon after he got to the next part, going deep into the history of Witchers. There was so much Geralt didn’t know. Much had been lost over the years and he couldn’t believe, Jaskier had managed to get all of this together.

It suddenly hit Geralt that Jaskier had spent his winters researching stuff about Geralt’s origins and also information to help him. He didn’t know how to deal with that kind of affection.

+ 1 Stupid

Geralt was limping up the stairs of the inn they were staying at. The damn griffin had buried its claws deep in Geralt’s thigh and he had wrapped some cloth around it to stop the blood from rushing out. He opened the door and nearly collapsed on the floor. Jaskier jumped up and caught him before he could hit the floor. He basically carried Geralt to the bed.

“Pull down your pants,” Jaskier demanded in a stern voice. “I need to have a look at it.” Geralt had learned to not argue with Jaskier about stuff like that and complied. Jaskier opened the knot, holding the cloth around Geralt’s thigh and removed it.

“Sheyss,” he muttered. Geralt grinned at the nilfgaardian swear. Jaskier tended to go through different languages whenever he started to swear.

“You need to be more careful, Geralt,” he scolded as he cleaned the wound. “That’s so fucking deep, if you were human you would have bled out from that.”

“Good thing I’m not human then,” Geralt answered. Jaskier didn’t answer that, he just got on, tending to the wound. Gentle fingers fluttering over Geralt’s skin.

When he was done, they sat on the bed, shoulders brushing each other.

“I can’t lose you, Geralt. Please, I couldn’t stand, sitting in some room in an inn, waiting for you just to realize, you won’t come back one day. I just can’t,” Jaskier mused.

“Why?” Geralt asked.

“Because I fucking love you,” Jaskier blurted out.

“What?” Geralt looked at Jaskier shocked.

“I love you, Geralt, haven’t you noticed? How can you not have noticed?”

“Why would you love me? That’s stupid,” Geralt answered.

“No, it’s fucking not,” Jaskier answered.

“It is. I can never give you a nice and quite life, always hunting monsters, always being an outcast, you fucking deserve better.”

“I don’t want better. There is nothing better for me. If you don’t love me back, that’s fine, but I still love you, always have.” Geralt looked at Jaskier, took in the honest glint in his eyes. Then he leaned forwards and pressed his lips against Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s arms flung around him and the bard nearly crawled into his lap, just stopped because he avoided touching Geralt’s injury.

“Stupid,” Geralt muttered against Jaskier’s lips.

“You’re stupid,” Jaskier answered, gently cradling Geralt’s cheek.

“I love you and if that’s stupid, then I will just have to live with being stupid,” he said.

#Geraskier #Geraskier fic #my writing #my Witcher writing #The Witcher #Geralt x Jaskier

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bigfan-fanfic · 2 years

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Can I get some fluff as they cope with you having to write a 12 page essay for your stupid history of beer class? Specially when that assignment is worth the entire grade of the 4 credit class (Currently suffering through that actually 🫠)

Conner

Barry

Ollie

Geralt

Conner is somewhat mystified and asks you to explain if you can, and in telling him about your sources and research, you get a whole other page adding in information you previously thought was off topic.

Barry nods - he was not a fan of writing essays back when he was doing college work - and while he enjoys organic chemistry, writing papers on it is ROUGH. He so knows how it is.

Ollie is gonna grab you and drag you away to give you a break. And totally kidding unless ask you if he can bribe your professor.

Geralt is a well-read man. He's educated and learned, way more than most people give him credit for. I can absolutely see him give a thoughtful grunt before getting up and bringing you back a new source that can absolutely alter your perception of the whole thing - like maybe he'll find a deep essay on the chemistry of beer and its assistance in discovering something else or other.

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mydarlingwitcher · 5 years

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Jaskier bribes Geralt into coming to one of his classes to show some point about how life on the road blah blah blahblah and Geralt just sits in Jaskier's chair glaring at all the giggling students, one of them even calls him Mr. Pankratz on their way out

First of all, I need you to know that when I read this in bed last night I snorted so loudly at Mr. Pankratz! You genius, you.

I wanted to write a short drabble about it, because the idea is just so good (and we’re all in love with the professor!Jaskier art, right?), then it somehow snowballed into a 1k ficlet. Because I have no control over my brain. So now let’s slap a very dignified title on this thing and call it a day lmao

Professor Pankratz brings his himbo husband to class

Geralt surprises Jaskier by travelling back from Kaer Morhen a fortnight earlier than planned.

Of course, when asked, he simply states that they’ve had a mild winter and there was no sense in loitering inside the castle walls when he could have picked up a few contracts along the way.

“Naturally.” Jaskier agrees with a knowing smile. For once, he refrains from calling the witcher out on his bullshit. That’s one of his many ways to show Geralt that he missed him, being mindful of the man’s appreciation for quiet after a taxing journey.

Just like Geralt is always more prone to soft touches and casual gestures of affection, after he’s been away from his lover for so long. It’s the sweetest thing, really. Like the first bite of a warm pastry filled with jam.

And not even Jaskier, for all his lyrical prose and dewy-eyed emotions, could have imagined a future like that for the both of them. But against all odds, it works. Summers circle back to misty autumns, icy winters give way to springs and their bond grows fonder, steadier and all the more fiery for it.

The bard doesn’t say much that night, but he does draw a hot bath for Geralt and he scrubs his back, unknotting the tension in those broad shoulders with a nimble touch born of intimacy.

“Hmm, I needed that” Geralt murmurs once he’s drying his hair with a towel that smells like lavender. It means thank you, but also come here.

They tumble into bed together not one minute later. It’s been four months and they’re eager, so thrilled to stroke and lick and bite, to plunge and sink deeper.

They’ve dreamt of this so many times.

After, when the window is cracked open and the smell of sex blends with their languid breaths, Jaskier rolls over and slings an arm across Geralt’s flank to draw him closer.

“Come teach my class with me tomorrow.” He whispers in the witcher’s ear. He’s sporting a neatly trimmed beard these days, and it tickles Geralt’s neck in the most tempting way.

Geralt chuckles dryly, but the lack of an immediate quip tells him that Jaskier is serious. It’s a little scary how often they can read their minds by now.

“Don’t think so. You’re the teacher, Jask. I’ve got nothing to tell them.”

“But you’re the reason I’m still alive and teaching in the first place. Besides, you can just sit there, look pretty and answer some questions. My students have heard a lot about you, they’ll adore you.”

“Jaskier, no, you know I don’t-”

“If you say yes now, I won’t ask you for another three years.”

Geralt considers it as Jaskier nips at the nape of his neck. “Deal.”

How awkward can it be anyway, the witcher asks himself as they walk inside a small classroom on the following morning.

Pretty fucking awkward, as it turns out.

“Good morning, professor!” A couple of students pipe up, before a dozen pairs of young and excitable eyes zero in on the massive, leather-clad man standing next to their teacher. Even without his swords, there’s no mistaking who he is.

“Melitele, is that-”

“It’s Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier’s muse!” Someone hisses with unabashed glee.

Geralt glares at them, wide-eyed and scowling, and they stare back. Trust a bunch of green singers and poets in training to call him, a witcher of Kaer Morhen, a blasted muse to his face.

“Yes, we have an acclaimed guest with us today, and I’m expecting you all to be on your best behaviour.” Jaskier announces with a flourish of his hand and a smile that’s equal parts dazzling and menacing.

And fuck it if that doesn’t turn Geralt on a little.

But this is decidedly not the time for it, so he dumps all of Jaskier’s books and scrolls on the desk and he just sit there, feeling very much like he’s trapped in a Kikimore’s nest.

Meanwhile, Jaskier prompty busies himself with returning the lastest assignments, taking the time to bestow a comment or two on each student. It’s clear that his pupils hold him in high regard, but they’re not afraid to interact with him.

Geralt remembers a couple of tales about Jaskier’s education, and how literacy was beaten into him with a stick, to quote the bard. It’s a thought that sits uneasy in his stomach, even now. Which is why he feels a surge of admiration witnessing his lover in his element.

He’s not playing the lute yet, but he’s composing a symphony nevertheless, carefully guiding and encouraging every young man and woman.

Then he launches into a full analysis of an epic poem and the merits of adapting a story to the metrics of a contemporary ballad, talking fast but never rambling, and no one is staring at the witcher anymore.

Geralt crosses his arms and listens, his cool exterior still in place, though Jaskier can definitely tell he’s amused. He flashes him a smug smile.

The class soon nears its end and Jaskier goes to stand behind Geralt, placing a hand on his shoulder. A couple of students most definitely mask an aww with the turn of a page or a cough.

“Now, as you’ve been such lively listeners, let’s see if our guest would like to, um” He tilts his head and meets Geralt’s wary gaze, “Answer a few questions, absolutely not related to his personal life?”

Four hands shoot up immediately. Geralt groans.

The questions are actually nothing like he expects.

“Did you ever meet Filavandrel again? Would you say your advice had some influence on his decision to change the rules of succession?”

“Was your life any different during the plague?”

“How does it feel to have inspired many tales that will live on as popular folklore?”

Geralt does his damnedest to give passable answers using as few words as possible. He’s sure no one is very impressed, but if they’re disappointed, they don’t show it. Smart brats.

As soon as Jaskier declares that their time is up, he stands up in one fluid motion and he heads towards the door with a brief “Hm. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Pankratz!” A girl answers politely. That stops him dead in his tracks.

Mr. Pankratz?

“What the fuck, Jaskier.” He mutters as he turns around and fixes his lover with a stunned glare. The man throws his head back and chortles, and the whole classroom bursts into laughter after that.

Geralt doesn’t remember ever blushing for such a trivial thing. For a second, he’s legitimately hoping some monster will emerge from a dark corner and swallow him whole.

Jaskier teases him about it later, but not that much. And he more than makes up for it when he drags Geralt to his chambers.

All in all, Geralt doesn’t regret visiting him in Oxenfurt. Quite the opposite.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #professor jaskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fandom #geraskier headcanon #a himbo and his sophisticated lover #this hashtag is stupid but it's staying #mydarlingwitcher

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artistsfuneral · 3 years

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So Jaskier, completely shitfaced, is sitting somewhere on the dirty floor near a tavern in Oxenfurt, when he meets Vesemir for the first time.

He instantly recognizes the old witcher and loudly calls him over, something along the lines of "Hey! Hey you- you, wolf! Papa wolf! Yeah, come on, I need to have a word with you about your son. The- the stupid one-"

Vesemir is obviously not amused, but he comes over nonetheless because for some reason that drunk kid knows him.

Then, Jaskier proceeds to ramble on about Geralt and it gets very close to trash talk, but Vesemir keeps his cool and reads in between the lines. What he finds out is this: Geralt - who up to this point had been his favorite - had somehow managed to break this poor kid's heart, not once, not twice but "at least five times". Said kid had apparently "spent more than half of his life" following his son like a lost puppy. He mumbles something about elves and djinns and then tells this elaborate tale of a golden dragon. "And then he left me on a fucking mountain!" Vesemir for his part would have not believed any of this, if the name Yennefer hadn't fallen. Many of the unreasonable things Geralt does are related to Yennefer.

The old witcher then takes a closer look at the sod on the floor and oh yes, didn't Geralt say something about a bard?

Then suddenly the kid stops mid sentence as if remembering something important. He waves at one of the other young men and loudly asks "Oi Mikael, is there- is there class tomorrow!?" Vesemir doesn't show it but he's kind of shocked. The drunk kid is clearly a student at the Academy, way too young to be traveling with a witcher. What ln earth is Geralt thinking?!

When the other man, for some reason looking as shocked as Vesemir feels, answers the kid's question with "yes", the bardling seems to sober up by a lot. He staggers up, wishes Vesemir a good night and starts to stumble towards Oxenfurt Academy, quickly followed by the other student.

The last thing Vesemir hears before they walk out of side is how the student asks the bard "Does that mean we won't have to write that test tomorrow, professor?"

Professor. Vesemir needs a break.

#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #jaskier #geraskier #witcher #vesemir #cw alcohol #tw alcohol #tw drunk

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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We all know that Geralt loves his bard, but do you think he finds it a bit funny when Dandelion’s students respectfully calls him “Master Dandelion” like he’s a very responsible and sensible person?

Hi Anon! Oh that’s a hilarious thought. Ok here’s how I would imagine it.

Geralt to other people when Dandelion isn’t around:

He’s a Master Tutor at Oxenfurt, you know. Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. Graduated with top marks, and he barely even studied.

Geralt to Dandelion’s students when Dandelion isn’t around:

He isn’t just your Tutor, you know. He is famous. Properly famous. Probably the most famous bard on the continent. Did you know that?

Gerald to other professors when Dandelion isn’t around:

My friend Dandelion is on the faculty here. They beg him to come lecture, but he always puts them off. I guess he finds it more interesting to run around with me. *shrugs smugly* Real world experience, you know. First hand knowledge. It probably makes his lectures just a little bit more interesting. A little more concrete and accurate.

Geralt to Nenneke: he’s a—-

Nenneke *sick of his shit*: I know, you’ve told me, a Master Tutor. He’s still an idiot.

Geralt, very pointedly, to the clerk at a campus bookshop who says he cannot sell Geralt the book he wants.

That man out there is on the faculty. *points at Dandelion, who is standing outside the shop doing something stupid like trying to take off his coat and getting tangled in it* HE is very fucking important. You’re lucky he’s even standing outside your shop. Are you sure you don’t want to sell me that book?

Geralt, alone with Dandelion:

*when Dandelion is drunkenly rambling pure bullshit* Ha! Is that what you teach your students, oh great Master Tutor? And I thought Oxenfurt was supposed to be a great bastion of learning. They should close that place down. Turn it into something useful, like public latrines. Then there’d be an explanation for why you talk nothing but utter shit.

*when Dandelion is obnoxiously psychoanalyzing him* They give those degrees to anyone don’t they? Random assholes just walking by on their way to take a piss get handed a *mocking voice* master of the seven liberal arts.

*when Dandelion admonishes him for some kind of careless behavior* Well I guess you should have taught me better, great Master Tutor. Maybe you aren’t such a great Master Tutor at all.

*when Dandelion is being irritating at a brothel* Be good, or they’re gonna make you master your own tutor. *looks very pleased with himself*

*when he is getting bad service at that campus bookshop so he goes outside to hiss at Dandelion*

What the fuck good is your fancy godsdamn degree if it can’t even get me the one book I want (the taxonomy of reptilian land monsters) at the campus godsdamn bookshop? Go tell that kid you’re on the faculty, or I’ll burn your degree for kindling. It’d be more useful warming my fingers so I can more comfortably pick my nose.

(And on and on)

#the witcher #my geraskier headcanons #my witcher headcanons #geralt of rivia #dandelion #thinking about dandelion yet again #Jaskier #gerlion #Geraskier #asks #my dumb headcanons #amusing myself here on this fine wednesday morning #i just may have pulled a little tiny bit on my own experience #as a first gen college student #who has family who is very very proud of me #but would be mortified to just directly tell me that #so they express it via roasting me #as it should be #i know exactly what they are trying to say

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dissidiawol · 3 years

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better luck next time to fans of rayman spyro crash bandicoot dante doomguy master chief kratos hatsune miku professor layton phoenix wright nagito komaeda joseph desaulnier waluigi agumon any yokai that isnt jibanyan team fortress 2 shantae shadow sonic.exe goku tetris block 2b parappa the rapper not geno hollow knight wonder red beat kiryu the dude from crazy taxi dylan merchant jowee hat kid someone from puyo puyo idk aiai monokuma not bandana waddle dee frisk sans kris chara mettaton touhou matsudoki ib the dude from chrono trigger ezio the dragonborn dio brando whirlm nights spore homer simpson samba de amigo scorpion garfield vault boy jet also from monkey ball stupid piece of shit blizzard bullshit a tamagotchi i guess alex the lion cookie run billy hatcher boozoo dr coyle the dude from angels of death poison raymond corpse party imposter the fall guy batman call of duty marx monika bath geralt im not saying fnaf leon kennedy pyramid head 999 borderlands ape escape bomberman lara croft gordon freeman chell rufus from deponia that big dog from the last guardian rhythm heaven cuphead bendy conker travis klonoa blinx gex aero the acro-bat awesome possum rocky rodent titus cool spot croc glover wild woody lucky zero the kamikaze squirrel ristar vibri bubsy radical rex pulseman gimmick ardy lightfoot sly cooper jak and daxter ratchet & clank alex kidd putt putt goemon earthworm jim jack frost amaterasu the binding of isaac solaire zagreus frogger battletoads qbert viewtiful joe and grand theft auto

#wilfre is an echo fighter for jowee btw

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dapandapod · 3 years

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Connecting dots

You have heard of truth spells. Now get ready for a lying curse!

Here on Ao3, where I think Im hiralious.

As per usual, things got way longer than I intended, please enjoy of the 2981 words of this stupid, in my opinion very funny and a lil antsy thing.

(repost because bot army found me and invaded and i got tired of blocking ten a day)

Geralt has seen a great deal of curses before.

Heck, he’seven been cursed before. Usually it is a truthteller one, a true classic, and no one thinks twice about it. Normally it’s easily solved after some awkward as fuck questions of some very intense teasing.

But this time there is something else going on.

Nothing he says is true.

Nothing.

Not the grass is green or the sky is blue. Not that his name is Geralt or that his favorite animals are bards.

(Bards are feral and therefore counts as animals. Not telling anyone they are his favorites though.)

It is one of those times where Geralt travels alone. Of course he does. So there is not anyone to notice, not really.

When they ask obvious things, of course he gets strange looks. It makes his life hella difficult when they ask him how much he wants to get paid, which usually end up giving him nothing. Or if they ask him if he is a witcher, and he ends up saying no.

Or on a memorable occasion, someone asks him if he eats children.

Which, of course he doesn’t.

So the curse makes him say yes. And he is chased out of the village with torches and pitchforks of doom.

On the bright side, the curse doesn’t stop him from asking questions to others. All of this could be funny. Some of it is, when people thinks he is being rude, sarcastic or joking. It could be, except Gealt prefers very much not to lie when he can.

He seeks help from a mage, but when he asks if he needs help Geralt ends up saying no. And the mage slams the door in his face.

Then his path crosses with Jaskier.

Which is both a relief and a fucking pain in the ass. Jaskier talks nonstop, he asks rhetorical questions all the time, and Geralt is trying his hardest to keep his mouth shut.

“I have heard that wyverns are not real dragons, Geralt. Is that really true?”

“No.” Geralt grits out. Fuck.

“I knew it! Because I read this poem you see and-”

Ugh.

“And then there was this old professor back in oxenfurt. I swear he has never seen a real drowner in his life. I have seen a great deal of them, no thanks to you my friend. I just don’t remember what color they have when they are young, would you fill me in here Geralt? I really would like to shut that old wheezer up.”

“Pink.”

Geralt is so frustrated. His frown is deeper set that ever before.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Huh! The more you know I suppose.” Jaskier muses, tapping a finger on his chin. “You are the expert after all.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes Geralt, this is not the time to be humble.”

“Yes it is.” Maybe, if he lies enough Jaskier will pick up on it.

But alas, Jaskier does what everyone else does.

“Geralt are you alright?”

Fuck.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” and oh Geralt wishes he would ask it another way.

“Yes.” He lies again. Jaskier studies him, sees his deep set frown, and lets it go.

Geralt would appreciate it any other night, but by now this is rather troublesome.

“Jaskier. I don’t need your help.” Fuck this is so frustrating.

“No, I get it Geralt. It’s alright, I will leave you be. I know I annoy you sometimes.”

“Yes you do.”

Fuck. FUCK.

The bard looks hurt and turns away. Geralt puts his head in his hands and groans. This is such a disaster.

They spend another few days awkwardly side by side.

It takes some time, but Geralt finally figures out a new strategy.

“Jaskier. I don’t want to ask you this.”

“…Alright?”

“If there was something… different with me, would you notice?” Geralt has been looking for a way to phrase this.

“I suppose? Oh no, is that why you were annoyed with me? Did you change your hair?”

“Yes. Fuck!” This is so fucking annoying. He wishes he could straight out say it, but no, why would any curse work like that?!

“You are joking right? You haven’t changed your hair in the last few decades I’ve been with you.”

Wait. Has it really been that long? Huh.

“I have.”

He really hasn’t. Maybe he should.

Is that the cost to make someone notice? Geralt sighs and looks up at the sky.

The clouds are hanging low and preparing for a real downpour. Maybe he can use that.

“Looks like the sun is coming out.” Geralt comments, looking intensely at Jaskier, hoping he will pick up on it.

“Really? Looks like rain to me.”

“Nah, I’m thinking snow tonight. It seems cold enough.”

It sure as hell doesn’t. It is in the middle of summer, and Jaskier sure is dumb if he isn’t picking up on this.

Jaskier is picking up on something, luckily.

He shifts and get right up in Geralt’s face. The bard smells nice, his intense stare is doing something to him.

“Do you want me to notice something Geralt?” Jaskier asks, studying him closely.

“No.” Geralt lies softly, heat rising to his cheeks.

It is interesting, because that is half lie, half truth. There are things he would rather Jaskier didn’t notice. Like the blush he is wearing right now for instance. Among other, similar things.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Geralt is trying to ignore how close the bard is, focusing on how to phrase himself.

“Don’t come closer.” Geralt all but whispers, hoping the bard doesn’t hear. It slips out, and he finds it hard to understand the rules of the curse.

Jaskiers eyebrow twitch and he leans back just a little.

How does he say this the easiest way?

“Roach is a goat.” Geralt begins. Swallows. Hoping Jaskier forgets his first statement. “Bunnies can fly. The sky is green.”

“Geralt? What?” Jaskier tilts his head in confusion.

“Ask me something.” Geralt says, he is starting to feel desperate. He must look like it too, because Jaskier is looking a bit worried.

“Alright? Uh… How many fingers am I holding up?” Jaskier holds up both hands.

“Two.” Geralt lies, and finally something clicks in Jaskiers head.

He hopes.

Or that was his neck doing something unholy when he straightened up. It didn’t sound good anyhow.

“Why are you lying Geralt?”

“I am telling the truth.”

“No you are not. What is my name?”

“Sandra.” Alright that is funny. Geralt smirks a little, finding himself hilarious. Jaskier lifts an eyebrow.

“I am guessing you asked me that for a reason, Geralt, please take this seriously. Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt says, and oh? That is interesting.

He does know, but at the same time, he guesses it depends on what the specific matter is. There is nothing wrong with him, more than the lying. There are things that trouble him, sure, but nothing ails him really.

“Alright. I really think it is going to rain, so lets find shelter for tonight, and then lets figure this out.” Jaskier says, and sure, that sounds very reasonable.

They find a small hut, probably just a place for a shepherd to sleep from time to time, but it suits them just fine.

They settle in, feeding Roach outside and brushing her down.

Geralt makes himself comfortable on the floor, partially because Jaskier becomes a right terror if he sleeps poorly and partially because there is no way he is going to share that small space with someone that smells that good.

The only reason Geralt is alive today is thanks to his self preservation.

(Also not true, most of the time it was Vesemir or Triss….)

Jaskier comes inside and settles opposite of Geralt on the bedroll, legs crossed and eyes lazerfocused.

“So.” Jaskier begins.

“So.” Geralt echoes with a soft smile.

Hopefully they will get this sorted out and Jaskier can do the speaking with the next mage or sorceress they come across.

“Let’s try to sort this out, this thing you won’t tell me. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but it seems important to you.”

Geralt shakes his head, even his body betraying him.

“What is it that you don’t want me to notice?”

Stupid fucking question Jaskier.

“My extra toes.” Geralt says sarcastically.

“You don’t have extra toes?” Jaskier asks with a frown. He has seen Geralts toes, but probably never counted them. Which makes sense, supposedly, that is a weird thing to do out of the blue.

“I do.” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.

“Alright, we are letting that go.”

Good boy, Geralt thinks. And then flushes, because that brings other scenarios to his mind.

“Why are you blushing?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head again.

Gosh, why does he keep doing that? Doesn’t he know how endearing that is?

“Because I’m warm.” Geralt lies, and thank fuck for lying and not truthing in this instance.

But it doesn’t help Jaskier figure things out at all, so…

“I want to cut my hair.” Geralt blurts, and only the thought of it stings. He cringes, despite the curse.

It really came down to the hair, huh?

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, lifting one perfect eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Like, right now? You want me to cut your hair?”

“No.” Oh shit. Oh fuck. Wait, he does? This is not… what he thought was going to happen here. He did not realize that himself.

“Make up your mind, stupid.” Jaskier says, shaking his head with a smile. “Why can’t you just tell me what you want me to figure out?”

Oh that is the real question right there. What will come out this time?

“Because I enjoy hiding things from you.”

“Oh. Geralt, that didn’t sound true at all.”

Geralt pointedly raises his eyebrows and hopes Jaskier will connect the dots.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows right back.

Idiot.

“Becaaauusseee?” Geralt asks, trying to make him think.

“Oh. Wait.” Geralt waits. “WAIT!”

Finally.

“Are you actually hiding something from me? Geralt. You hate lying. Why do you keep lying?”

“I tell you everything.” Geralt says and hmmm. “Hmmm.”

He does not like that reply.

“Was that a lie too? Geralt, are you compelled to lie? And if you are, we are circling back to that fucking statement later.”

“It wasn’t a lie.” Geralt is both relieved and scared out of his mind.

There are some questions he really doesn’t want Jaskier to ask when he figured it out.

“I guess you wouldn’t tell me if that’s so, thinking about it.”

Clever bard.

“Alright, so I am going to try to ask you a few things. Is that alright?”

Geralt is not sure how to respond to that, because of his previous thoughts. Humming and grunting seems to work, so he does that and let’s Jaskier make his own conclusions.

Which, to be fair, is actually often a bad idea.

“It should be things I know to be true. Alright, tell me this.”

Jaskier lifts his left hand.

“Which hand am I holding up?”

“Your right.”

“Hm. How many rings are on my fingers?”

“Four hundred.” Close enough. Jaskier has so many rings. Jaskier squints.

“How’s. My. Singing.” Jaskier asks, leaning forward.

Geralt isn’t scard of Jaskier. Not at all. But remember that thing about bards being feral?

Yeah, be very fucking careful. And of course this is what he would ask.

“Like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling.” Geralt lies.

It was a lie back then too.

Jaskiers mouth opens and closes.

“I fucking knew it!!” Jaskier looks smug as fuck and Geralt is both emberassed and relieved. He have been wanting to clear that up for a while, but he is not sure how nor if he would be believed.

“Sweet vindication!!”

Geralt gives Jaskier exactly three seconds to bask in it and then he flicks Jaskiers forehead.

“You done?”

“Almost. Alright yes, I’m done. Geralt, is this a curse?”

“No.”

“Huh. Do you know how to break it?”

“No.”

“Oh, that’s convenient. I’m guessing you won’t be able to tell me, but curse breaking sounds magical. Do we need to visit a magician?”

“No.” Geralt smirks, happy to finally be getting somewhere.

“Alright! I guess we know where we are headed tomorrow!”

Jaskier rises up and stretches. His tunic strains across his chest and Geralt gulps.

“Are you really alright with sleeping on the floor?” Jaskier asks, and fuck.

“Yes.” Geralt grits out and Jaskiers eyebrows rise up, slow down.

“Oh. Geralt my dear, you are allowed to tell me these things.”

Geralt looks away, embarrassed where he sits. Jaskier steps up to him, catches his chin and makes him look up and meet those blue eyes.

“Why haven’t you said something? Wait. That is not an easy question to reply to.”

Geralt does anyway.

“Because I don’t want to share it with you.”

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Geralt flinches back, Jaskiers mouth opens in surprise.

Time to flee. Time to fucking go.

Embarrassment and shame course through him, he rises up and storms out the door.

To Roach. To his safe place.

She startles when the door bangs open, trots a few steps away before she realizes it’s him. Then she stops and allows him close.

She is so wonderful.

One of the best Roaches he has ever had. He pets her fondly, trying to calm his racing head and heart. The first raindrop hits his skin, but both he and Roach ignore it.

“Geralt.” comes softly from the door behind him. “I won’t ask any more questions. Please come inside.”

Geralt breathes in the cool, humid air. Rain has a very nice smell.

Roach tires of him and walks away towards the trees to take shelter. Clever girl. Fine.

Geralt turns, his inside like a stirred ants nest, and looks at Jaskier across the distance.

“Come on.” Jaskier urges. “We need to get to sleep if we are going to travel all day tomorrow.”

Alright, fair. Geralt breathes in through his nose slowly and breathes out from his mouths.

Bards do not scare him.

He is fine.

He steps inside again. Jaskier stands by the wall waiting for him.

“Get on the bed. It’s not like we haven’t shared before. And it is much more comfortable than the floor.” Jaskier says with a careful smile. He seems nervous too.

They strip down to more sleep appropriate clothes. Geralt lets Jaskier climb in first, so that he can place himself between Jaskier and the door.

Just to be safe.

They lie down, back to back. It is quiet. The rain pattering on the roof above, the occasional dripping from where the roof is leaking.

Thankfully not above the bed though.

“Can I as you something?” Jaskier asks quietly behind him. Damnit. “I will respect it if you don’t want me to.”

“No.”

Yes. Fuck it all. He can barely lie to himself anymore.

“Thank you. Why do you keep pushing me away?”

That… is a very complicated question.

“That’s easy.” Geralt lies. “You stink.”

Wait. Did his brain just go with the literal reason? Not the emotional one? Handy. But also very unhandy.

Jaskier snorts in the darkness.

“You think I smell good?”

“No.”

Jaskier chuckles, and then Geralt can feel him shifting behind him.

“Really, it’s so typical for you. It takes getting cursed to talk about the important things, without talking about them.”

A hand presses against his back, sliding over his shoulder blade and across his side.

“Tell me if I’m overstepping.” Jaskier whispers, shuffling closer still and wraps his arms around him in a hug.

Geralt shivers, full body shivers. Jaskier is warm behind him, his forehead pressed against the back of Geralt’s head. Every puff of breath hits Geralt’s skin, and his nerves are tingling and he wants to run.

“For the record. I think you smell nice too. Good night Geralt.”

“Good morning.” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier chuckles.

The mage they find laughs.

Long and loud.

“Would you kindly stop laughing and fix this?!” Jaskier hisses, and Geralt stands quietly behind him. The mage wipes tears from their eyes and tries to catch their breath.

“That is the best thing I have heard all day. Lying curse! I need to do that too.”

“The fuck you will.” Jaskier growls.

Feral.

Geralt smirks where he stands behind his bard.

Well. Not really his bard. He would like him to be. It took him lying to everyone to stop lying to himself, it would seem. Interesting concept.

“You will lift this curse right this instant, or so help you I will shove my entire lute up your ass.” Jaskier growls.

The mage seems to realize the threat, finally, and takes a step back.

“Fine, fine, take it down a notch, bardling.” They say and roll their eyes. “Witcher, go sit in that bathtub while I fix the herbs. Yes, keep that stupid ab armor on. It is cursed as well.”

Geralt walks out of the mages house dripping wet, but a free man.

Jaskier waits for him with Roach on the outside, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Now that you don’t feel compelled to lie, would you mind us having a talk?” Jaskier asks him. “Don’t think I don’t remember you saying you are keeping things from me.”

Ah, shit. He had hoped Jaskier would forget about that one.

“Fine. But you have things you need to tell me too.” Geralt grumbles, trying to scare Jaskier away from it, squeezing out herbal water from his hair.

Jaskier walks real close to Geralt, right up in his face and winks.

“Oh, my sweet witcher. There are a great deal of things I would like to tell you too.”

Geralt gulps, blushes, and those ants in his chest are making a quick return.

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karolincki · 3 years

Text

There's a spider in my room (and it is really big)

Summary: Jaskier isn't a man who gets easily scared, so he should never have a problem with helping his daughter with anything, right?

Rating: t

Warnings: none

Wordcount: 1309

Written for my beloved @kingeomer happy birthday dear!

It was inspired by this post by @darkverrmin

Read here or on Ao3

Jaskier wasn’t a man who got scared easily.

He wasn’t scared of spiders or insects, he braved any heights and neither dogs or needles worried him in the slightest.

In his childhood he stood up against evil kings and pirates, he fought dragons and monsters. His most important act though and the one he was proudest of was that he stood up to the bullies on the playground who pushed Yennefer into the dirt. He attacked them with his wooden sword and threw mischievous glances at Yennefer when they were brought in front of the principal.

In his teenage years he wasn’t scared to do all the dumb teenager shit one could possibly come up with. He snorted any powdered substances he and his friends could get their fingers on, he climbed up the side of their school, and one time he broke into the principal's office to prove that Stregobor was embezzling money from the arts program.

At university he probably did more than one inadvisable drunken dare. Stealing the trophies off of Valdo and bringing them back with new embellishments, flirting with Professor deVries and somehow not getting his head bitten off, and jumping naked into the fountain, just to name a few. In his second year he channeled all that energy into helping an activist group, with whom he got into trouble with the police on the regular. But he just couldn’t let injustice stand. He would brave any repercussions thrown his way to help others in need.

Still, his greatest success had been when he had dared to approach the scary looking grad student when he had been nothing but a wee little freshman. Geralt, who featured in every freshman's wet dreams, with his bleached hair and an undercut, and always wearing a leather jacket, no matter if it was summer or winter, truly was a sight to behold. His emotional support cat Roach only helped his popularity. She sat on his shoulder when he walked over campus and Jaskier had immediately fallen in love when he had seen them for the first time. He had tried to shoot his shot the very first opportunity he got, but Geralt liked to hide in his lab, so that wasn’t an easy task. When Jaskier finally managed to approach him, Geralt had blushed horribly, but he said yes. It might have been because Roach had come to Jaskier for pets. He wouldn’t question Geralt’s decision making.

He admits he had been nervous when he had asked Geralt to marry him, but the smile and kiss he was rewarded with made all the worries disappear. Together with Geralt he became the proud father of a little girl and braved all the weirdnesses of fatherhood. He had delt with temper tantrums in the shopping isle and subjecting his hair to the biggest torture known to mankind: the suprisingly strong hands of a six year old girl. Ciri had no regard for customer comfort when she played hairdresser.

When Ciri had first come to them, she had been a shy girl, easily scared at night. The first few weeks she had slept every night in their bed, but under their care Ciri had grown into a strong and confident twelve year old, unafraid of anything, just like Jaskier had been. So it was rather surprising to be woken up by her at 2 am.

“Dad? There is a spider in my room.”

“What?” Jaskier opened one bleary eye. She hadn’t really woken him up for a stupid spider of all things?

“There’s a spider in my room and it is really big.”

Jaskier groaned into his pillow. He didn’t deserve this treatment. “Fuck, fine. I’m coming.”

When he managed to push himself up he saw Ciri looking at him with big round eyes. She didn’t look very scared like he expected her to, more like she was about to be a little shit.

“Swear jar, dad, we don’t use those words.”

Jaskier’s jaw fell down. “You little menace,” he hissed, “if you wake me up at ass crack in the night –”

Behind him Geralt groaned, an arm patting the empty space beside him.

Ciri giggled. "Quick, before the kraken gets you."

Jaskier huffed a laugh and pressed a kiss to Geralt's temple, while expertly dodging the wandering arm.

Outside of the bedroom, Ciri grabbed Jaskier's hand. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's alright princess, I will always come to help you."

"I would have woken up dad, but you know how deeply he sleeps."

Jaskier scoffed. He knew exactly how "deep" his husband's sleep was. Geralt had been pretending to be a heavy sleeper ever since they first had gotten together. But he wouldn't destroy Geralt's ruse now.

When they reached Ciri's room, she stopped. Jaskier raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"I'm not going back in while that spider is still in there. I'll block the exit, make sure it doesn't escape."

Jaskier snorted and patted Citi on the head. "Sure, you do that and I go dispose of that monster."

The lights were turned off in Ciri's room, so he flicked the head light on. He couldn't see a spider though. He looked into every corner, but no spider was to be found.

"Ciri, are you sure you saw a spider? I can't find –"

His breath caught in his throat as he finally spotted it.

—

Geralt was a light sleeper, but he hated talking when being sleepy. Therefore, ever since his childhood, he either only grunted his responses or just pretended to be asleep. It just felt more comfortable.

Tonight he had woken first from Ciri's light footsteps when she had gone to the kitchen. The grumbling helped with shooing Jaskier out of the room. He had been insanely pleased with the kiss he got. Jaskier should hurry up more, he wanted his husband back in his arms.

There were low murmurs in the hall, then silence. Suddenly he heard Jaskier rushing back.

"Geralt, Geralt darling, wake up," Jaskier said, his voice strained and slightly higher than usual. The bed dipped where he climbed on.

Geralt sighed. "Is it big?"

"Monstrous."

Geralt lifted his head from where he had buried it in Jaskier's pillow.

"Really, I've never seen one as huge as this one."

"Fine, I've got this."

He heaved himself out of bed and dragged his feet over to Ciri's room. He was sure that he looked like death warmed over, he just didn't do well without sleep.

Ciri stood beside the door, peeking into the room.

"It moved again. It's in the corner now."

Jaskier came running up behind him and pressed one of their biggest bowl into his hands.

"You're gonna need it."

Geralt just rolled his eyes at the theatrics of his family. He went into the room and froze.

In the corner to his right sat the biggest spider he had ever seen. It was hairy and so big he could see it's eyes and fangs. The bowl had not been an exaggeration. It might even be a bit small. He turned around to look at Jaskier and Ciri. They looked at him with big hopeful eyes and he knew he had to do this.

Slowly he crept forward. And then all hell broke loose.

The spider started moving towards him. Ciri screamed, Jaskier screamed, Geralt definitely didn't scream. In panic he threw the bowl on top of the spider as soon as it reached the ground. It hit the ground with a loud clang as it covered the entire spider. Jaskier rushed past him and slammed a heavy book on top of the bowl.

Heavy breathing, then silence.

They listened to the faint sounds of legs scratching against the bowl.

"What do we do now?"

"Call the exterminator in the morning."

"Can I sleep with you guys?"

"Yes...yes, of course princess."

#witcher #geralt #ciri #jaskier #karo writes

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a-kind-of-merry-war · 3 years

Text

Larking

People keep calling Jaskier “Lark”. It’s an odd nickname - one Geralt doesn’t understand. But he wants to. Of course, it’s only after he tries out the name himself that he realises what it really means. Based on this post.

5.3k words, rated E. Contains: pining, jealous!Geralt, nicknames, brothels and blowjobs.

Geralt can’t seem to keep track of the many names that follow his bard around. Jaskier - the name he gives himself. Julian Alfred Pankratz, his given name: according to him. Viscount de Lettenhove, officially, My Lord, if the occasion calls for it. In Oxenfurt he’s professor, in court, bard. He’s bard on Geralt’s lips, too, when he’s doing his utmost to be particularly irritating.

Geralt’s heard some far more tender nicknames escape the lips of Jaskier’s many lovers, the words gasped or moaned or screamed loud enough for Geralt to hear it through thin walls when coin has been plentiful enough for two separate rooms.

And... Lark. This one seems to have appeared from nowhere.

Jaskier is a singer, so it’s only right that he’s given a name for a bird. But Geralt, who’s spent nearly fifteen years at Jaskier’s side in one way or another, has never been fully convinced that his friends and accolades have chosen the right bird.

Larks are lovely, twittering, tuneful little things. This isn’t to say that Jaskier’s singing is bad: he’s certainly talented, skilled at his craft, but Geralt would be the first to admit that his songs are all crust and no filling: the skill is there, but the content is rather lacking.

Geralt is no musician, but one doesn’t travel for as long as he has without picking up a few things. Jaskier is skilled - his voice is clear and high and, Geralt supposes, it is beautiful, if that’s the sort of thing one goes in for. But Jaskier’s talent isn’t in the pitch or melody or how good the singing is, it’s in the way he sings. He packs the songs with emotion - his voice is a tool, and the thing that makes him exceptional is carried in his tone, his expression, the way you feel the words he sings.

But Jaskier is no lark. Larks are fluttering and dainty, and the casual observer might say the same of Jaskier, but Geralt knows it isn’t true - more of the same well-practiced act that’s part of all of his performances. He holds himself in a certain way, always moving and swooping and bowing, to hide his real height. He wears his waistlines high and his shoulders pinched and his doublets maddeningly unbuttoned to conceal the actual breadth of his shoulders, the coiled muscle of his arms. Jaskier is a great many things, but he is not dainty.

Geralt is uncomfortably aware of this.

Larks are well-known mimics, and when Geralt first finds himself with a noisy bard attached to his hip he wonders if this is the source of the nickname. It’s not unusual for bards - especially traveling ones, as Jaskier appears to be - to borrow songs from other players. Some are traded, some are free game, some are outright stolen. This maddening man, he thinks, clearly has no fear whatsoever - certainly no sense - so perhaps the name reflects a penchant for nicking other people’s work.

But that’s not it, either. They’ve been travelling together for eighteen months - long enough for Geralt to know about the nickname - when they encounter another bard in a tavern just outside Rinde. Geralt is immediately put in mind of stray cats as Jaskier bristles at the sight of the singer, clear competition for both attention and coin.

Geralt is unamused by the whole debacle, until the singer launches into a song that Geralt hasn’t heard before, and Jaskier reacts immediately, throwing himself across the stage. Later, when Geralt has pulled Jaskier away and is sitting beside him in their shared room, showing him the best way to bind a broken thumb and chastising him for his stupidity, Jaskier tells him the reason for his sudden fury.

“It’s not his song,” he huffs, wincing as Geralt splints the broken digit. “It’s my friend’s. She only performed it once, and he stole it.”

So it isn’t mimicry, then. Geralt buries that line of reasoning. There’s something twisting in his stomach, something like pride, at Jaskier’s virulent defense of his friend. The bard is too full of adrenaline to sleep, and they stay awake together till the early hours of the morning as Geralt shows him the proper way to punch someone without breaking his own thumb.

It’s the signing, Geralt decides. Not the quality - personally, he’s never much cared for lark song - but larks are famous for singing on the wing, and Jaskier is quite incapable of shutting up, even after they’ve been on the road for miles.

Geralt still doesn’t quite think it’s right, but it’s the best explanation he has every time they come across an acquaintance who looks Jaskier up and down and drawls Lark at him across a crowded tavern. Geralt wonders if it’s more about being a bird than the specific bird itself - but there’s half a dozen birds better suited to Jaskier’s nature.

When he’s angry, he’s like an enraged cockerel, all flying feathers and talons, incapable of registering his own size - or perhaps a robin, sweet on the outside but bloodthirsty beneath. When he’s preparing to perform, he’s like a preening lovebird, but when he’s on stage he’s no more than a strutting peacock, fanning his tail for all to see. Late at night, when everyone else is abed, he’s like a wide-eyed owl as he scribbles down lyrics before he lets himself sleep. He is not an early bird.

When he sleeps—

When Jaskier sleeps, be it on a pallet or in a bed or sprawled on his bedroll on the forest floor, his pink lips part and he makes the softest, fluttering cooing noise, like a—

The uncharitable part of Geralt wants to say it puts him in mind of a pigeon. But pressed against Jaskier’s back or keeping guard or peering at his milky moonlit skin, all he can think is dove.

Regardless. Jaskier is not Dove or Peacock or Robin or Lovebird. He’s not even Cock - even if he deserves it. He’s Lark.

What’s particularly strange, Geralt thinks, is that it isn’t everyone that calls him Lark. It appears to only be select people, people they run into in cities or towns or occasionally on the road. The name seems to be an indicator of a level of intimacy that Geralt himself has yet to reach.

That… does not make him jealous. He calls Jaskier his name, or Jask, or bard, and that’s fine. But… it’s been fifteen years. Nearly two decades. He doesn’t need the little casual intimacies that Jaskier shares with other people: he’s cagey enough with his own feelings, and it's only right that Jaskier responds in kind.

Geralt does not dwell on it. He tries not to dwell on it.

They’re in Oxenfurt - Geralt for a contract and Jaskier because he cannot resist any hunt that brings him back to the city - drinking in the tavern below their shared room, when a man Geralt doesn’t recognise approaches the table.

Jaskier clearly does recognise him. He sits a little straighter when he enters, edges a little closer to Geralt. The man spots him right away - it’s hard not to, when Jaskier’s dressed so gaudily all the time - and saunters over. He’s got long, blonde hair and the most ostentatious hat Geralt has ever seen, and he peers down at Jaskier through too-long lashes, lips pursed.

Geralt immediately knows he does not like this man, and stiffens on the bench, gripping his tankard a little tighter.

“Jaskier!” the intruder says, splaying his hands on the table, leaning above them. “How wonderful it is to see you.”

“Likewise,” says Jaskier, the picture of confidence. “It’s been… too long.”

The man grins, and Geralt feels like there’s something unspoken about this conversation that he’s missing out on.

“Far too long, Lark,” says the man, and Jaskier - Jaskier blushes. It creeps up the back of his neck and mottles his ears. He shoots a quick look at Geralt, his expression suddenly tight, before peering back at his friend.

“Indeed.”

“Oh, this is such good timing,” the man’s saying, “I’ve a party this evening and now I know you’re in the city… well, your presence will be greatly missed. Or are you…” his eyes dart between Jaskier and Geralt, “otherwise occupied?”

Jaskier hesitates. He peers towards Geralt, almost as if he’s seeking permission. Geralt shrugs.

“The contract will take all night,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. “You’re free to do as you please.”

It’s the truth - the notice he picked up outside the city indicated the creature he’s hunting is most active at night, and Jaskier will have the evening to himself. He does not particularly want Jaskier to spend all evening with this handsome, flirtatious man… but he won’t stop him, either.

Jaskier swallows, then turns back to his friend.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” he says, finally.

The man looks a little shocked. His eyes leap once more between bard and witcher, and then his expression smooths into that cool charm once more.

“Do,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

Geralt does not press the matter.

Later, Geralt prepares his swords while Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed, sorting potions on the sheet in front of him. He’s taken it upon himself to memorise Geralt’s alchemy supplies, scribbling notes on a little scrap of parchment with his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth. He scoops the bottles into his hands and passes them across.

“There,” he says, as Geralt shoves them into the bag on his hip. “But you’ll need to pick up more alcohest before we leave the city.”

Geralt doesn’t need to mentally note that down - he knows Jaskier has already scribbled the ingredient alongside the rest of the supplies they need to pick up before they leave, folded carefully on a torn-out page from his notebook.

There’s a long silence.

“Are you going to that party?” Geralt finally asks, willing himself to sound casual. It doesn’t matter, of course, what Jaskier gets up to without him here - but he has to know.

Jaskier shrugs noncommittally. “I, ah… haven’t decided. Erik’s very nice, of course, but he’s only after one thing.” He smiles. “And how can I possibly go and have fun while you’re out there battling some horrible beasty, hmm?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. That doesn’t appear to have stopped Jaskier before. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he says, fiddling with the final straps of his armour. “You’ll be bored.”

Another shrug. “I’ll find some way to spend the time, I’m sure.”

He probably will, Geralt knows, yet there’s still that little twist, that bite of jealousy. The man - Erik, apparently - had called Jaskier Lark. And suddenly it all felt very unfair. Who was this man, to have such closeness with Jaskier? No doubt some friend or lover, some accolade. After years travelling together, countless near-death experiences, sharing as many balls and banquets as evenings spent beneath the stars or huddling together in a freezing cave - does Geralt not deserve the same closeness?

Evidently he does not. But perhaps - perhaps he can suggest it. Perhaps he can lay that foundation. Jaskier sees him as a grumpy, moody witcher who likes to keep his feelings close to his chest. Perhaps he needs to show him that he can be more than that.

“I’ll see you later, then,” he says, hovering by the door. “Lark.”

He’s expecting a smile. Soft recognition. But Jaskier freezes and his eyes go wide and - gods - he’s blushing again, the start of a flush creeping up his chest, and the room suddenly smells of salt and adrenaline.

Fuck. Clearly Geralt has misjudged. Before he or Jaskier can say anything else, he rushes from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

The contract he’s been given leads him to a brothel near the river. Geralt often finds himself in these sorts of establishments - both as a witcher and a client - and oftentimes they treat him better than the lords and mayors who are usually bartering for his trade. The owner - a half-elf woman named Rose - greets him warmly and briskly leads him into an empty side room.

“There’s something in the roof,” she says, getting straight to the point. “We don’t know what it is, and I’m not sending anyone up there to find out.”

That’s another thing Geralt can always count on in a brothel - they don’t mince their words. It makes the job so much easier than trying to pull the truth from some quivering lordling.

“What sort of something?” He asks.

She gives him a withering look. “I told you,” she intones. “We don’t know. But it sounds big, and it’s scaring the customers away. There’s a rumour going around that the roof is haunted, so the only ones willing to use the sixth and seventh rooms are—” she cut herself off. “Irrelevant. We hear it moving around up there - it sounds heavy. Someone put boards up there before I bought the building, so it’s not walking around on bare beams. Sometimes we can hear…” she pauses again, searching for the right words. “Growling. Snarling. Like… an animal.”

“Any odd smells?”

She gives him another look. “Over the scent of oils and perfume and sex? We’re lucky if we can smell the wine, witcher.”

“What about missing people?”

She shakes her head. “We’ve had nothing like that. But…”

Geralt doesn’t respond, letting her continue unprompted.

“The building next door is empty. Has been for a while. And there’s always someone missing in Oxenfurt. I suspect something is living there, snatching people from the streets. In any case… I need it gone. Will you take a look?”

Of course he will. There’s no way up into the roof via the brothel, so instead he heads to the adjacent building, creeping in through a back door that’s half-fallen from its hinges. He already suspects what the creature might be before he even enters the building. When the smell of recently spilled blood hits him, his suspicions are confirmed.

This is far from the first vampire he’s taken down in Oxenfurt. The garkain puts up a good fight, but Geralt is well-prepared, and in the tiny shared attic space above the brothel and the abandoned building it's impossible for the creature to get the upper hand on him. There’s no room for it to launch a surprise attack, and soon the thing is dead. Geralt even manages to pull the corpse away before it starts to drip blood through the boards and into the rooms below.

If anyone is surprised by his rather dramatic appearance when he re-enters the brothel, they certainly don’t show it. He’s immediately led back into Rose’s side room by a pair of workers - a man and a woman - who, more than anything, seem keen on the gossip.

Rose’s nose crinkles as he enters, but she doesn’t say anything about the blood.

“It was a vampire,” says Geralt, hoping she’ll be thankful for the same frankness she gave him before.

“All I care about is that it’s dead.” She says, leaning on the table.

Geralt likes Rose. She’s not asking him unnecessary questions. “It’s dead.”

“Good. Thank you, witcher.” She hands him a heavy bag of coins. “We’re grateful for your help, you know. Very grateful.”

The man who’d seen Geralt in, now leaning against the back wall, raises his eyebrows and laughs. “So grateful,” he says, as his friend grins wolfishly.

“After a fight like that,” says the woman, peering at Geralt, “you look like you need to relax. Don’t you think?”

The man hums in agreement. “I always say,” he grins, “there’s nothing that rounds off a vampire hunt like a good larking.”

They both burst into laughter. Geralt blinks. And then, suddenly, something clicks into place.

“A what?” He says, feeling foolish.

“A larking,” the man repeats, slowly.

“Which is…?” Geralt isn’t entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

The woman giggles. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Geralt shrugs. “Oxenfurt slang appears to have passed me by.”

“He’s talking about sucking you off,” she says, bold as anything.

And… fuck. It’s not the bird. It’s never been the bird. Geralt is aware, vaguely, that something is expected of him and he’s standing there with his mouth hanging open and—

“Is that,” he manages, voice strained, “an Oxenfurt thing?”

The woman thinks. “Cidaris too,” she says, musing.

“I think it started in Kerack?” Says her friend. “I’ve only heard it on the Eastern coasts.” He peers at Geralt, eyebrows raised. “More interested in linguistics than carnal delights, witcher? We’ve got a poet upstairs, I’m sure she’d be very—”

“No,” Geralt says quickly - too quickly. “I mean,” he corrects himself, “I’m needed elsewhere this evening.”

They share a look but say nothing as Geralt thanks Rose once more for the payment and hurries from the building, mind racing. The cold Oxenfurt air feels good on his cheeks, and it’s taking the final dredges of his concentration to keep the flush that’s prickling on his chest from overwhelming him. He strides through the sidestreets, keeping his head down, barely looking where he’s going. People jump out of his way - but they do that anyway: he’s a witcher.

Lark. That’s why Jaskier had blushed at his friend in the tavern that afternoon. That’s why it seems that only a few people are allowed to use the name. It isn’t some soft, friendly affectation gifted only to the chosen few nor is it an indicator of intimacy that Geralt's been coveting so jealously, it’s...

Fuck.

Geralt is struck very suddenly with why, exactly, Jaskier has such a moniker. His concentration is shredded, now. His face burns.

He’s imagined Jaskier like that before. Of course he has. It’s impossible not to, however much he tries, however much he bundles his well-trained self control and attempts to stop himself. But his self control is never enough. It’s been worn down by fifteen years of infuriating closeness and shared bathwater and maddening, casual touches ignorant to the broiling effect they’re having on him.

Geralt has been balancing a fine line for years, now, walking a mountain path with a treacherous drop to either side. In one direction lies this grasping, grabbing feeling that settles in his stomach and sinks ever-lower, tempting him, teasing him. It’s the feeling that makes him press himself against those stupid, paper-thin walls when their purses are full and Jaskier’s whisked some darling away to his room and imagine, imagine what it could possibly be like.

And the other side… that side is worse, somehow. To fall into that ravine would be to open the crack in his chest, to prod at that feeling of jealousy and possessiveness and that long-tended hurt he’s felt all these years as he’s laboured under the impression that he’s excluded, somehow, barred from a final intimacy. He’s done well not to prod at it, for all these years, knowing full well that jealousy is just a mask for something else. Something more powerful.

The worst of it all, of course, is that he’s still jealous, and he hates it. He has no claim to Jaskier’s affections - be they friendly or amorous or lustful or somewhere in between - and he has no right behaving like he does.

But as far as Jaskier is concerned, he’s already staked a claim. How else could Jaskier have interpreted the way Geralt had spoken to him before he left? Geralt had told him he’d see him later, and he’d called him Lark. To Jaskier’s ears, there was only one possible thing he could have meant.

He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t meant it - not like that - not so boldly and so crudely and with so little space for Jaskier’s own feelings. Geralt would never demand, he’d never insist, never even imply without knowing that Jaskier feels the same, or at least thinking he feels the same.

What must Jaskier think of him, now? Geralt has been growing increasingly aware of his own poorly handled moods, his tempers and his constant attempts to build a barrier between them despite desperately wanting to be able to reach out. It’s why he called Jaskier that in the first place: he’d only been trying to pull that self-built barrier down.

Geralt strides beside the Pontar, mind racing, skin flushing, fingers tingling. There’s blood splattered on his face, dry and cracked, making him itch.

He keeps imagining it. It makes him feel like a monster - like he’s taking something that isn’t his. It makes his cock stir in his trousers anyway, and he barks a curse into the night air, making the few pedestrians out this late scatter.

By the time he finally makes it back to the room, he’s feeling taught, like a lute string ready to snap, twanging at the edges. He’s hoping that Jaskier has taken Erik up on his offer and will be absent from their shared room so he can slip into bed and fall asleep before he returns, staving off the inevitable and awkward conversation till the morning when he’s feeling less rattled.

He pushes open the door.

Jaskier has not taken up Erik on his offer.

In fact, he’s lounging on the bed reading a book, wearing nothing but an oversized, cream-coloured tunic and his smallclothes. His legs are crossed at the knee, one foot bouncing to an irregular beat. Geralt’s eyes can’t help but follow the movement.

Jaskier’s head snaps around at the sound of the door opening.

For a moment, Geralt considers the possibility of turning around and throwing himself into the Pontar.

“Geralt!” Jaskier spots the blood. He grimaces. “Urgh. You’ve got…” he gestures to his own face, closing the book against his lap.

Without saying anything, Geralt closes the door and walks across to the basin at the far end of the room. There’s a tiny, cracked mirror above the bowl and he wipes away the blood with a washcloth. The water is freezing cold against his burning skin.

Behind him, he can hear Jaskier drop his book to the floor. He can hear the quiet shff of the mattress moving as he stands. He can hear his bare feet padding across the wooden floorboards.

“Geralt—”

Geralt turns, and it spills out. “I didn’t know what it meant.”

Jaskier looks at him with a neat frown. “What what meant?”

“The name. Lark. I didn’t know.”

Realisation dawns slowly, Jaskier’s eyes going wide. “Oh.” He blinks. “And now… you do?”

“Now I do.”

“So…” Jaskier fiddles with the cuff of the tunic, self-consciously. “You weren’t suggesting—”

“No.”

Geralt cuts him off before he can say it. He’s not sure what he’d do if he actually heard Jaskier say it, if he heard him suggest the thing that’s been twisting around inside him for the past twenty minutes. Perish, probably.

Jaskier’s expression is - careful. He licks his lips, self-consciously, his mouth a neat line.

“I didn’t…” Geralt stops and starts, choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he says, finally. “Or make you feel like you… like we had to—” he can’t finish that thought, falling short before he can say what he means.

Jaskier blushes, the pink flush spreading up his chest and towards his ears.

“It’s quite alright,” he says. His tone is cheery, but it sounds a little false - a little pitched.

“It’s not…” Geralt sighs, then moves around him, starting to pull off his armour in an attempt to give himself something else to focus on. “It’s not alright. I don’t want you to think I’m forcing myself on you.”

Suddenly, Jaskier is behind him. He, too, reaches for the armour, slipping dexterous fingers under blood-coated buckles. He sniffs, but doesn’t complain.

“I didn’t think you were forcing anything,” he says, from somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder.

The first pauldron slips off.

“I’d never—” Geralt pauses as he tugs away the second pauldron, “I’d never ask that of you, Jask.”

There’s a tug over his shoulder as Jaskier unbuckles the clasps of his chestplate. The smallest pause - a lingering hand.

“Never?”

The chestplate comes away easily in Geralt’s hands. He turns, slowly, free of the constricting, blood-stained armour. Jaskier is staring at him, eyes shimmering, pupils wide. He licks his lips again. He’s close - far too close - and even in the low candlelight of the room his thin tunic is nearly translucent. There’s a scent dancing in the air between them - chamomile, orange blossom, and something spiced, edged with salt.

No, Geralt thinks. Not never.

“Not if I didn’t think you wanted it,” he says, horribly aware that he’s giving himself away - that he’s losing that tight grip of control.

Jaskier takes the chestplate from his hands, and Geralt finds that he isn’t resisting as their fingers brush. He leans the plate against the wall, then moves back, lip trapped beneath his teeth.

“And if I do want it?” He says, eyes flickering down to Geralt’s lips then back, meeting his gaze in a way that’s almost daring.

Geralt’s voice catches in his throat. His mouth has gone dry. “You don’t,” he says, simply.

“How do you know what I want?” Jaskier steps closer, and Geralt can smell the heat on him, “How do you know, if you’ve never asked?”

There’s no real answer to that, nothing Geralt can say, not when his heart is in his throat, not when Jaskier’s looking at him like that. Geralt thinks Jaskier will close the final gap - the last few inches between them - but he doesn’t. He stops.

“Do you want it?” Jaskier asks - quiet enough to almost be a whisper.

Geralt can still deny it. He can still take a step back. He can still leave. He can still throw himself into the Pontar, if he needs to. But that urge is gnawing at him, that fear, that deep-rooted understanding that Jaskier’s eager touch is not meant for him.

“You didn’t go to Erik’s party,” he says, much to Jaskier’s surprise.

“I…” Jaskier blinks, clearly thrown off. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Jaskier’s mouth twitches into a coy smirk. “I thought I got a better offer.”

Geralt can't stop himself - there’s no force on the Continent that could stop him leaning forwards and smothering that smug smile beneath his lips. Jaskier reacts immediately, looping his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulling himself closer like this is something he’s been waiting for - like an animal finally pouncing.

And with the ferocity with which Jaskier kisses him back - the way his hands tug at Geralt’s hair and the way he maneuvers them backwards until Geralt slams against the wall - Geralt realises that he has been waiting. They’ve been dancing around each other for years, like—

Like courting birds.

He doesn’t have a chance to chase that thought before Jaskier’s hands have made their way to his hips, his fingers pulling desperately at his waistband, fluttering against the leather. He pulls Geralt’s tunic away and slips both hands beneath the fabric at once, and Geralt gasps against his lips, suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of Jaskier’s fingers sliding against his skin, pressing into the curved lines of his hip bones.

Jaskier smiles, teasing even lower, and his palm slips over Geralt’s cock, already straining against his trousers. Geralt shudders at the touch, and Jaskier makes a pleased little noise against his lips, sliding his tongue into his mouth. He tastes of honey.

Geralt hums, chest tightening. “Jaskier…” he mutters, their lips pressed together. “Lark.”

The fluttering little laugh that escapes Jaskier’s lips is delicious, dripping into Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier pushes closer, and Geralt can feel his prick pressed stiffly against his thigh. It’s as easy as anything to grab Jaskier by the shoulders and spin him, so their positions are reversed, Jaskier’s back against the wall. It’s easier still for Geralt to slide his hand down Jaskier’s torso, bunching in the thin fabric of the tunic, before cupping him through his smallclothes.

Jaskier whines - a long, drawn out little moan - and it’s easiest of all for Geralt to drop to his knees between his feet, nuzzling his lips against Jaskier’s cock beneath the thin fabric. The cotton is already a little damp against his mouth, and Geralt presses a kiss there, feeling the delicious hardness beneath him.

He hooks his fingers into the neat bow keeping Jaskier’s smallclothes around his waist and looks up - a wordless question. Against the wall, Jaskier’s chest and face are flushed, his nipples dark and his eyes half-closed. But his expression, while clouded with lust and longing, is a little confused.

“Geralt—” he manages, breathlessly, “But… I thought—”

Geralt presses his thumbs into Jaskier's hips and kisses him again, and whatever Jaskier is about to say is cut off by another of those gorgeous whines.

“Is this not what you want?” Geralt asks, preparing to move away.

Jaskier’s hand is suddenly on the back of Geralt’s head. “Please,” he breathes.

It only takes a single, deft twist of Geralt’s fingers to untie the bow and dispatch Jaskier’s smallclothes. His cock is hard and hot beneath Geralt’s lips, and he can’t help but trail a little line of kisses up the shaft before taking it fully into his mouth, Jaskier bucking beneath him, gripping harder into his scalp.

Geralt works him eagerly, one hand wrapping around the base of Jaskier’s prick, tugging, while his lips stretch around his head. Jaskier is just as noisy as he always is - constantly muttering, soft gasps and moans and snatches of praise, Geralt’s name said in a dozen different ways as his breath catches and his orgasm builds.

Geralt presses his tongue to Jaskier’s prick, a long, languid movement, and somehow the bard stiffens even more beneath him before—

He makes a high, drawn-out noise - a trilling sound that’s almost melodic.

Lark. Geralt tries not to chuckle as Jaskier spills into his mouth.

They sprawl on the floor, propped against the wall. Jaskier leans his head on Geralt’s shoulder with a satiated, self-satisfied sigh. He takes a little breath. It’s a sound Geralt has learnt means he’s about to say something, but is taking a moment to gather himself first.

“What is it?” He says, before Jaskier can speak.

Jaskier laughs through his nose - a little huffing sound.

“Geralt,” he says slowly, one hand tracing little circles across Geralt’s chest atop his tunic. “The whole… the name, thing…”

“Yes?”

“You do realise how I earnt that nickname, right?”

Of course Geralt does. He can’t get the noise Jaskier made when he came out of his head - that singing note. Even thinking about it makes his cock twitch, ready for more.

“Because of—”

Jaskier speaks over him, in a bold rush. “It’s because I am exceptionally talented at sucking cock, Geralt.”

Geralt hesitates. “...What?”

Jaskier leans away from the wall a little, so he can look at him.

“Geralt,” he says, sternly. “Did you truly think that I gained that name, and my reputation, because I’m, what, very fond of getting sucked off?” His eyes sparkle. “Everyone likes getting their cock sucked, Geralt! It doesn’t make me special!”

That… makes a lot of sense. It makes an unreasonable amount of sense. “Oh.”

“You’re a darling,” Jaskier says, settling back down against Geralt’s chest. “Really. Anyone else would have rushed here willing and eager to sample my talents, but you? You just wanted to…” He sighs. “What did you want?”

“I wanted to see for myself why they call you Lark,” Geralt says.

“And you didn’t even get to see that.”

Jaskier smiles. He swallows. He licks his lips. His hand drifts lower - across Geralt’s stomach, towards his hips. His nails catch in the thin tunic, and Geralt shudders. Jaskier’s eyes sparkle.

“Would you like to see why they call me Lark, Geralt?”

He finally presses his hand to Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s breath catches in his lungs. Even through the fabric, the touch is almost too much. Jaskier squeezes - then reaches for the waistband of Geralt’s trousers, fingers digging into his skin.

“How about we get these off?” He says.

Geralt is only too happy to comply.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #old timey slang #check the ratings yo #though given the first post you all know what you're getting into #in which geralt is jealous that he cant use a nickname #and goes :C about it

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samstree · 3 years

Text

Just a Little Pretense

Jaskier and Geralt stage a fake breakup. Someone’s feelings get hurt for real.

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

AO3

“… It would be to take you off my hands!”

Geralt’s voice echoes in the ballroom, between the tall walls and the high ceiling. Everyone on the dance floor has fallen into silence. Even the band has stopped playing, their lead singer gaping with round eyes.

Jaskier blinks, impressed.

All the eyes are on the two of them. Jaskier’s back prickles with the gazes. As the fight escalated, more and more guests have stopped dancing just to eavesdrop on the witcher and the bard, the most peculiar couple in the room.

Which is just perfect. The more people witnessing their breakup, the more awkward it will be afterward, and the easier it will be to get out of this tedious party. And here Jaskier is, regretting ever having doubted his dear witcher’s ability to perform.

Who would have thought Geralt is a method actor? Drawing inspiration from a past argument is ingenious.

His old acting professor back in Oxenfurt would approve of this. The show is going swimmingly and he is pumped with adrenaline—maybe he should go back on stage one day, do a play or two.

But alas, he can muse the idea later. The show must go on.

“Really? Just like that?” Jaskier croaks, seemingly on the verge of crying. He’s not so bad himself, classically trained and everything. “Thirty years, Geralt. I followed you for thirty years, and just like that, you will kick me out of your life? Did I ever—” he breaks off with a whimper. “Did I ever mean anything to you? Or were you ready to cast me aside this whole time?”

A tear rolls down. His lips wobble. The crowd erupts in hushed murmurs and sympathetic sighs. The set-up, the build, everything has been perfect. Now the only thing left is for Geralt to break things off, and the two of them can ride into the metaphorical sunset and never see this court again.

Jaskier waits in anticipation, but his witcher opens his mouth.

And closes it.

Geralt looks as upset as he should, angry and torn and equally shocked, his golden eyes wide and his jaw clenched tight. It’s a nice picture to paint for the audience. They are supposedly having the biggest fight in their lives and his body language is very convincing.

More than convincing.

Except, it just might be … too convincing.

Wait—

Jaskier focuses on Geralt, who looks as if he wants to shrink into himself, his shoulders slumped and arms drawn in. He looks as if he’s waiting to be struck. Wait, something’s not right.

“I can’t do this.” A whisper leaves Geralt’s lips, small and achingly sad.

It’s not the line he’s supposed to say.

Geralt’s eyebrows droop ever so slightly, and there’s a flash of distress behind the molten gold. It’s gone in a second, hidden behind a façade of indifference.

The tells are subtle, near imperceivable to the untrained eye, but to Jaskier, they are clear as day—Geralt is hurt. For real.

Oh.

Fuck.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries, instantly snapped out of his character.

And yet, there’s no reply. Geralt lowers his head, turns around, and flees the scene within one heartbeat and the next. The crowd is too eager to make way for him.

“Shit,” Jaskier curses, ready to chase after Geralt, but the Countess de Stael appears out of nowhere with a flock of maids and positively blocks him in all directions. She’s eager to lament the loss of love and companionship, and to offer Jaskier a place at her court once again. Oh, shit.

Jaskier brushes her off, all the while painfully remembering he and Geralt’s goal from the beginning—to use the breakup as an excuse to get out of this place.

Well, the plan is shit. Is it too late to notice?

Weaving through dozens of nobles is a lot more difficult when they all want to extend sympathy, and Jaskier is only placating them absent-mindedly, faking regret and heartbreak. His mind is full of his witcher, who is either brooding or spiraling over the venom he spewed earlier.

The truth is, Jaskier has long forgotten about the mountain—not because it didn’t hurt. To be shunned by Geralt, blamed for everything, and denied friendship, was the worst thing to have happened to him at the time. It’s just that Jaskier has forgiven it, so long ago and so completely.

Jaskier cannot get to their room fast enough, and when he pushes open the door, the sight of Geralt’s dejected face is a stab through the chest. The witcher is perched on the bed, somehow looking a lot smaller than he is.

Jaskier never should have come up with the stupid fake breakup thing, never should have inadvertently reopened the old wound. They healed, together. They shouldn’t be hurting anymore.

“I explained. We can leave now,” Jaskier tires, but in fairness, he doesn’t remember what he said to the Countess. “Geralt?”

The witcher himself crosses his arms, hugging his midriff and avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “Good,” he answers curtly, shoulders still tense.

He looks angry, and when Geralt is angry, it’s most likely with himself. Oh, whatever heartbreak Jaskier acted out earlier, it’s not a match to a fraction of what he’s feeling now. It must be the one millionth time Geralt’s self-loathing has broken Jaskier’s heart, and it never gets easier, not when Jaskier caused it himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier desperately wants to wrap his arms around Geralt. So he does. He sits down on the bed and pulls his witcher into the biggest bear hug, which is returned immediately and so very tightly. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I fucked up, Geralt. I’m—”

“Don’t be.” Geralt buries his nose into Jaskier’s neck and shakes his head. “I never should have said those things, Jask. I should be the one apologizing. It was wrong and untrue and I would never abandon you. You are my best friend. How can I ever? Please, believe me…”

Geralt trails off, his hands rubbing circles into Jaskier’s back. Although it’s unclear who he’s trying to soothe.

“I know. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier murmurs, over and over again, sealing each reassurance with a kiss pressed into silver hair.

“I never meant it, Jask.”

“I know. It was fake. We were pretending.”

Geralt pulls away, golden eyes dead serious, pausing between every word. “I never meant it.”

Jaskier meets his gaze unwaveringly, with not an ounce of doubt. “I know.”

They stay there for a while, just holding each other. Geralt keeps sniffing Jaskier’s scent the same way he always does to check for injury or distress. He thinks he’s subtle, the sweet man, so Jaskier never mentions it.

Despite what an outsider might assume, Geralt is the sensitive one between the two. He’s so careful when it comes to their relationship, especially after the mountain and sometimes to his own detriment.

He’s so scared of hurting Jaskier again.

“I was an idiot for suggesting it,” Jaskier breaks the silence, nudging Geralt in the knee.

Geralt hums, lips pursed.

“Fake breakup is a terrible idea. Next time we’ll just grit our teeth and sit through the month-long party.”

Still, no smile.

“Alright, you win. Next time I won’t take you to a month-long party to start with.” Jaskier gently pats Geralt on the cheek. “For your delicate sensibilities, darling.”

Finally, finally, Geralt’s lips turn upwards, just a smidge.

“You are an idiot,” Geralt says, the crease between his brows fading. “Just…don’t make me make you cry again.”

Melting into the warmth welling up between his ribcage, Jaskier leans forward and presses a tiny kiss at his witcher’s forehead, so softly as if he’d break with any more force.

“Yes, dear.”

Being careless with Geralt’s heart is a mistake that Jaskier never wants to repeat. As he put a hand over his witcher’s languid heartbeat, Jaskier feels the soft thrumming against his palm, and realizes just how terribly he needs to guard it with the same care too. Against his frivolous self, and against the past that never seems to stop haunting them.

Because Jaskier needs this thing between them to work. If a faked breakup already seems unbearable, he shudders to imagine a real one.

A witcher’s life is already riddled with pain and sadness and could-have-beens. A poet would hate it if he added himself to the list.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #reverse trope #fake breakup #geralt x jaskier #post mountain #hurt/comfort #geralt of rivia is a sap #soft jaskier #jaskier is an idiot #don't mind him #established relationship

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

here's a prompt for you: adapt one of the cursed bibi & tina mini movies into a one shot, the more cursed the better

CYRILLE DU GOTTVERDAMMTES GENIE! this is loosely based on this masterpiece

"So you're going to take the contract? You're going to help us?"

"I will try." Geralt scowled down at the contract that had been posted on the notice board, before handing it to the professor. "But I'll need more information about the apparition. This just says it looks white. That could be anything."

The professor glanced nervously to the side and scratched his beard.

"Ah, you see, master witcher, there's really not much to its appearance. It's just... white."

"That's it?" Geralt crossed his arms in front of his chest. This was going to be a long day. He knew there was a reason why he had never come to Oxenfurt before. Everyone here was either too loud, too dramatic or too useless when it came to knowledge about monsters. Damn him for wanting to surprise Jaskier with a visit. He just hoped that the bard wouldn’t do anything stupid like try to use the knowledge he had gained on the Path to catch the ghost by himself.

"That's it," the professor said more firmly. "That is... It always appears on a horse, in case that's an important detail?"

"In case -" Geralt broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, before gesturing for the professor to continue. "Any other 'unimportant' details I should know about?"

"Well, the ghost shows up every night. It sings some truly haunting songs, threatens one of our guest professors and then it disappears again." The man nodded to himself, before perking up again. "Oh! And it only ever appears before the apartments of the poetry professors. Anyone else is spared the haunting."

Geralt's brows rose up and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He started to have a suspicion about what this ghost might be.

"I take it you have a professor by the name of Valdo Marx?"

"Yes!" The professor's eyes brightened. "Professor Marx has graced us with his presence for this semester. He is so busy normally, we are truly honoured that he chose to come. It's truly a shame that the hauntings started just when he arrived. We can only hope that he won't leave Oxenfurt for good after all this."

Geralt let out a deep sigh that spoke of years of suffering.

"Don't worry. I know exactly who your ghost is."

And oh, he was going to have fun exorcising this one.

The wind was howling through the streets of Oxenfurt. Geralt stood pressed against the wall of the poetry professors' accommodations. He was staring into the darkness of the alleyways leading here, listening for the treacherous sounds of the ghost horse.

"Is this really going to work?"

The woman's voice made Geralt turn around. Priscilla's arms were covered in goose flesh and she glanced around nervously. "I mean. Not that I question your methods, but are you sure you need us," she gestured towards Essi, who looked similarly cold and displeased about all this, "to help you? We don't really know much about ghosts."

"That much is obvious." Geralt lips twitched. "If you did, then you wouldn't have been frightened by this one. But you do know a thing or two about how to put on a good performance and that's exactly what I need to catch this ghost."

The bards exchanged a doubtful look, but then they got ready without further protest. Essi had to suppress a sneeze when she powdered her face and hair with flour and Priscilla slung her arms around herself to keep herself warm, once she shrugged off her coat, revealing a torn wedding dress, similar to one a Noonwraith would wear. They both donned dried flower crowns and made their faces look more hollow with dark paint.

"Perfect," Geralt said, once the bards were done putting on their costumes. The distant sound of hooves made him look up. The howling of the wind picked up, and a voice joined in the eerie sounds, chilling and cold.

“Valdo, Valdooo,” the voice sang, a breathy sound. Somewhere above them, Geralt could hear a sharp intake of breath, a curse and then a window being shut.

Beside Geralt, the bards shivered, shifting their weight and looking as if they were ready to bolt. Geralt held his hand up, a signal for the girls to wait.

The clip-clap of the hooves came nearer. Geralt’s eyes narrowed, as the figure rounded the corner and came into view. The horse was tall and black as the night and on top of it sat a figure clad completely in white.

“One more night and then I shall get you!” the voice called out. “Leave Oxenfurt or you’ll be doooooooomed!”

“Wait,” Essi said, blinking. “Is that - “ “Quiet,” Geralt hissed. He watched with bated breath as the figure came closer until it stopped right below Valdo Marx’s window.

“That’s not a ghost,” Priscilla whispered, quietly enough that the ghostly figure wouldn’t be able to hear. “That’s an idiot wearing a bedsheet.”

The figure began to sing, a dissonant, haunting song. A song, Geralt recognised from when it had been composed one quiet night, not too long ago.

“Not just any idiot.” A grin spread across Geralt’s face. “Are you ready?”

Essi and Priscilla nodded, and stepped out of the shadows.

The song leaving their lips was more dissonant even than that of the white figure. A small blast of Aard created a gust of wind, that made the women’s hair and dresses flutter ominously.

“You are dishonouring us,” Essi rasped, in a voice lower than her normal one, while Priscilla kept singing. “Pretending to be one of us….” She reached towards the white figure, forming claws with her fingers. “Now you shall truly become like us!”

A curse cut through the night, as the white figure startled. He tried to get his horse to flee, but the horse shied away from the two bards pretending to be wraiths, refusing to be controlled.

The scent of panic wafting off the figure stung in Geralt’s nose. His heart skipped a beat, as the horse reared up and the figure screamed in an all too familiar voice.

In one quick stride, Geralt was by the horse’s side, catching the rider just in time as he fell off the horse. The figure trashed in his grip, managing to twist himself into the bedsheet, which only made him panic more.

“Don’t hurt me!” He whimpered. “I - I know a witcher! If you hurt me, he will avenge me!”

Geralt snorted. He lifted one hand off the person in his arms just enough to cast Axii on the horse, calming it down. Then, he tore the bedsheet off the man.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut in fear. “Don’t -”

“I think… “ Geralt said slowly, smirking when Jaskier’s eyes shot open in surprise, “that I’ll need to give better accounts of my hunts after all, if you think that,” he nodded towards the bedsheet, “is an adequate ghost costume.”

“I - Geralt?” Jaskier gaped at him, then he twisted in his grip and pointed an accusatory finger at Essi and Pris. “And you! You traitors! I thought you were actual ghosts! ou scared me half to death.”

Priscilla shrugged. “That’s what you get for not telling us that you were the ‘ghost’ haunting the academy. You robbed us of our sleep for weeks.”

“And you robbed us of a lot of fun,” Essi added with a grin.

“Fun?” Jaskier repeated slowly.

“Of course. You’re not the only one who likes scaring Valdo. If we had known that there wasn’t anything to fear, we would have had the time of our lives watching him panic about a guy in a besheet.”

Another snort from Geralt made Jaskier look up at him. Only now, the bard seemed to be noticing that he was still being carried in the witcher’s arms. His cheeks turned bright red - invisible for anyone but a witcher - and scrambled out of Geralt’s hold.

“You know,” Geralt said, putting on a stern face as he crossed his arms in front of his chest menacingly, “that I took a contract to get rid of the unwanted guest haunting the academy.”

Jaskier hunched his shoulders and gave Geralt a pleading look, big eyes and all. “Don’t rat me out, please? I’ll lose my job and my good reputation if the other professors find out it was me.”

Geralt frowned down at him. “We both know that you will have to rectify your mistakes. I don’t take contracts lightly.”

Jaskier’s shoulders slumped. “What do you want me to do to make up for this then?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “I want you to help me on a contract. As far as I see, there’s still an unwanted guest residing here that we need to get rid of.” Geralt grinned, as he watched the realisation dawn on Jaskier’s face. “So how about you get a real ghost costume and we’ll give Valdo Marx a scare that will rid Oxenfurt of him for good?”

#this is so bad #possibly the worst thing ive ever written #i was so tempted to write a oneshot about the mini ep with the twin horses instead #or the one with the ren faire #they are all so brilliant #and they fit geraskier somewhat well #thank you for the prompt!#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #crack #fic #witcher #the witcher #my writing

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jaskierswolf · 2 years

Text

Take me back to the light

Written for @fontegagrilledcheese's flash fic challenge in @thepassifloradiscord server. Thank you to @reveniemus for emergency beta-ing for me! - AO3

Ship: Geraskier WC: 5.2k Prompt: Spring Break Summary: Jaskier returns to Lettenhove from Oxenfurt after finding out his father his sick. He's feeling broken and lost... when he meets Geralt on the beach

CW: Terminal illness (Jaskier's father not MCD), dark humour, suicide references

Jaskier sighed as he made his way towards the beach.

Transferring universities mid-year was not ideal, but his father, Alfred Pankratz, was sick. The doctors weren’t sure how long he had left to live and despite never having a healthy relationship with his father, Jaskier felt guilty. For the last five years he’d been travelling the Continent, looking for inspiration, looking for himself. He’d gone straight from his adventures to study at Oxenfurt and everything had been going just fine.

Until the call.

Of course, Jaskier didn’t need to transfer schools but his mother had begged and pleaded with him to come home. He had never had been able to say no to his mother, but gods, he missed his friends. He even missed his weird professors with their funny clothes and stupid breathing exercises. How many times had he walked into a class late just to find everyone lying on the floor, his professors sitting cross legged in the middle of the puddle of students, talking them through a guided meditation? Oxenfurt was a strange but wonderful place, full of amazing and talented actors and musicians and writers. It was the epicentre of creativity in the Continent, and yes, even Valdo Marx hadn’t been that bad. Although Jaskier would never admit it to the idiot’s face.

In the short time that he’d been at Oxenfurt University, their rivalry had become legendary. They were easily the top two in their classes and they famously hated each other. It was brilliant! And it did wonders for Jaskier’s inspiration. There was nothing like a competition to get the creative juices flowing.

But Jaskier had given all of that up to return home.

After many arguments with the faculty, his dreams of graduating from Oxenfurt had been flushed down the toilet. He would not be allowed back, they made that quite clear, but he simply couldn’t let his father die without being there. It wasn’t right. No matter how much he yearned for his broken dreams.

At least it was the holidays. The last thing he wanted right now was to dive back into inferior classes at Lettenhove University. As bored as he was, being thrown into the deep end, moving back home, getting his stuff back, starting new lectures, meeting new friends, pining and yearning for Oxenfurt, it would have been rough. Instead, he had spent the last few evenings drinking himself into a stupor, a lovely little pity party where he could pretend that he hadn’t thrown everything away for a man that didn’t even care about him. He could close his eyes, and forget that his father was dying. It was just a drunken night out and Valdo would be in his room by morning with pots and pans and a gods awful smirk on his face.

Except it wasn’t.

And Jaskier knew it wasn’t. It was all just a lie to stave off the crippling loneliness of being stuck in his childhood bedroom without his dearest friends.

Still, he was lonely and as the evenings began to get lighter, Jaskier decided that he was still allowed to get out of the house. His father may be sick but the Pankratz Manor was not Jaskier’s prison, no matter how much it might feel like it.

The air outside was cool despite the sun still making its way across the orange sky, and Jaskier had to wrap his arms around himself. His jacket, whilst stylish, was not very warm and he had completely misjudged the temperature. Unfortunately, he was still too stubborn to turn back. It was his first trip out of the house in days and he’d be damned if he gave up already. So he marched onwards towards the ocean; impatient for the feeling of freedom it would bring. His fingers buried into his pockets in a feeble attempt to push away the cold. They were bluish at the ends and almost burning cold, and he really, really, couldn’t afford to get frostbite even if Lettenhove University wasn’t quite as prestigious as Oxenfurt.

“Should have brought gloves,” he grumbled to himself and marched onwards towards the coast.

Above him the seagulls were crying out, loud squawking that grated against Jaskier’s nerves, and damn things were almost as big as dinosaurs. Gone were the blissful walks across campus where he could casually pick at his sandwiches. He knew from experience that these seagulls were brutal, and would absolutely steal his food from his hands. There was a scar on his palm from a very traumatic experience as a kid when he was attacked by a rather mean looking seagull who decided Jaskier’s chips looked too good to ignore.

“Bloody things,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the sky. The birds just screamed back in response, because of course it did. “Yeah, yeah. I see you, and the whole bloody Continent can hear you. Bet you’re the fucker that scarred me too.”

The beach was starting to sound like a terrible idea. It was too cold and too noisy, but oh how Jaskier yearned to watch the sunset, to feel the sand between his toes. Maybe he could build a campfire to keep warm? It had been years since he’d had to do that. Jaskier scrunched up his nose and he concentrated, his tongue flicking out between his lips. He was sure that he could remember the steps, and there was always driftwood washed up on the beach. Not to mention he’d already trudged halfway across town towards the shore, it would be a waste of time if he went back.

“Come on, Jask…”

Great, now he was just talking to himself. The first couple of times he could excuse but by the third time it was just a conversation and he couldn’t deny it. The first sign of madness although, Jaskier was pretty sure he’d blown past that years ago, but that was fine. Sanity was overrated anyway. He liked being a bit strange, and after a term at Oxenfurt he’d realised most creative types were sort of weird in their own ways. Jaskier just had a lovely dump on ADHD on top of that which just added an extra level… but that was fine.

So what if he didn’t quite understand social norms?

He just got excited and passionate about things, sue him, his parents were rich enough to deal with the consequences.

Parents.

Soon to be parent.

“Fuck!” he yelled, spinning around, his hands pulling at his hair. “Stupid, fucking, useless shit stain of a father. He just had to go and get sick, didn’t he? Oh shut up!” Jaskier scoffed at another seagull that waddled closer to him.

Kicking the ground, he stormed his way down to the shore, ready to lie face down in the waves despite the cold and just… not exist. He grumbled to himself the whole way until the sound of the ocean grew louder and the fresh taste of salty sea air. Immediately, Jaskier felt his sinuses clear as he took a deep breath, and a sense of calm washed over him.

He really did love the beach. For Jaskier it was the closest thing to flying, just staring at the great expanse of water. He could imagine mermaids, pirates, and all sorts of grand adventures! Most importantly the constant back and forth of the waves breaking against the sand did wonders for his tinnitus. He could think without his ears ringing, freeing up his brain for better things like lyrics and songs, or pointless facts about whatever instrument his ADHD had decided was his new thing. It was a delight!

Except he wasn’t alone…

Shit.

Fucking ballsacks! He’d really, really wanted to be alone. Okay yes he was cripplingly lonely but he was also overwhelmed by the noise in his parents house and the constant small talk or chattering about his father’s impending doom. There was absolutely no respect for the boundaries he tried to set regarding the topic for his own mental health and anxieties, and after years of having independence and space from his family… it was driving him mad. Jaskier craved silence, just to settle his mind, to stop his heart from racing.

But of course there were already people at the beach, even at that time of the evening. The joys of living in a student town he supposed. The next year he would find a flat near the university. There was no way he was doing three years of uni whilst living with his… his mother. Not his father.

Why did he keep forgetting that?

Sighing again, he kept his head down as he walked across the sand, slipping as it shifted under his feet. “Ah fucking bollocks!” he tripped and slid across the beach until he reached the water.

“You okay?” a gruff voice said from behind him and Jaskier squeaked, spinning around and almost falling on his arse.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Jaskier looked up to see the most gorgeous man he had ever seen in his entire life. Like holy fucking shit that just wasn’t fair. Never mind the sunsets that glittered over the sea… Jaskier could write an entire anthology of sonnets about this man’s eyes. Oh and his hair, like moonlight had poured over the man and woven itself into magical strands of silver hair and….

“Hi…” he breathed, unable to take his eyes off of this- this work of art!

How had he not noticed this beauty from a distance?

Perhaps spring break and Lettenhove wouldn’t be so terrible after all? There was still just over a week until term started back and if Jaskier could escape more often to meet this radiant god of a man… then well, it wasn’t his Oxenfurt dream but perhaps he could work on making a new dream?

Was it too quick to be falling in love with a stranger that he knew nothing about, least of all his name? Yes. Did he care? Not particular.

Jaskier was always one to fall in love at first sight. That was something he was used to, but the fun part for him was getting to know his new love, to explore all the little things that made them tick, to discover the personality behind the gorgeous exterior until they either burned brightly as a couple, or the flame died and Jaskier would move on to his next love, leaving a little bit of his heart behind.

The handsome stranger chuckled and tentatively let Jaskier go after making sure he could stand upright. “Hello, new to town?”

Shaking his head, Jaskier glanced back toward the seafront. Pankratz Manor stood proudly on the hill in the distance. “Nah, just been away for a while. My father…” Jaskier winced, he hadn’t meant to reveal so much so quickly. “I just transferred back to Lettenhove from Oxenfurt.”

“Oxenfurt?” One perfect silver eyebrow shot up and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

This was exactly what he’d been worried about. Nobody transferred away from Oxenfurt. It was highly competitive and one of the best Universities on the Continent. If you left it was because you couldn’t handle the pressures… a failure. Immediately, Jaskier was starting to grumble at his traitorous heart for hating him and always falling in love with jackasses. A pretty face was not a pretty soul, and yet here he was, shallow and hurting as always.

“What of it?” he snapped.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean anything. I’m Geralt, Vet Med.”

“Jaskier - arts… Music primarily but I’m taking Literature on the side. It was one course at Oxenfurt, but I’m making do.”

Fuck, he sounded bitter to his own ears. Well, there goes his spring break romance…

It was nice whilst it lasted.

“What year? My younger brother is studying music too, plays guitar,” Geralt hummed, seemingly not put off by Jaskier’s bad mood. “Could introduce you, if you’d like?”

Jaskier peered over Geralt’s shoulder at the group of burly men that were wrestling in the sand by a campfire. Narrowing his eyes, he considered the offer. Whilst he wasn’t really in the mood to be meeting new people, they did have a fire, and having a friend on his course was probably not a terrible idea if he could just think rationally for once in his damned life.

“First year?” he hummed and then took a deep breath, shaking out his shoulders.

There was no point moping. He was better than this, and at the very least he was an actor! Even if he didn’t feel like it then it could at least pretend to be better than this. Didn’t he come outside for a change of scenery? Wasn’t he dying of boredom in his bedroom? Rotting at the bottom of a cheap ass box of wine that would have his parents shuddering in fear. So he plastered on a fake smile that was probably fooling no one and clapped Geralt on the shoulder.

“Sorry, I’m being a complete bore, sulking about transferring probably.” Definitely. “That’s not your fault, thank you for catching me, Geralt?”

Geralt nodded, cocking his head and furrowing his brow.

“Excellent! And I would love to meet your brother! As long as he’s not a serial killer? Wait, are you a serial killer? This would be the perfect set up for a murder mystery, meeting a handsome stranger on the beach, offering to meet his possibly equally handsome brothers, and then betrayal! Our dashing young protagonist falls victim to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune… well… love… and then-”

“Jaskier!”

“Hello!” he grinned, cutting his story off with a sheepish smile. “Thanks, sorry… I- I tend to get carried away.”

“Handsome stranger?”

Oh cock.

“Would you believe me if I said artistic licence?” Jaskier asked, biting his lip as he gazed up at Geralt through his lashes.

“So now I’m ugly?”

Bastard. Geralt was a complete bastard, and Jaskier was doomed to die alone.

“You!” he gaped and poked Geralt in the chest. “You are messing with me!”

“You’re the flirt, not me.” Came Geralt’s response, his low chuckle doing all sorts of acrobatic things to Jaskier’s heart.

Seriously, it was bad enough that he looked like that, but he had the voice to match? That just wasn’t fair, and Jaskier was just a simple bisexual that fell in love too easily.

“I am an artist!” Jaskier snapped, pouting up at Geralt… well more across, but he kept slipping down into the sand, nearer to the waves making Geralt look taller than he was. Or did that just make Jaskier look shorter?

It didn’t matter.

“Is that what they call it now?”

“Oh you, you think you’re so funny,” Jaskier grumbled, ignoring the fact he already felt lighter than he had in days. “Come on, big guy, introduce me to your brother, and try not to murder me in the process. Do you have beer? It’s a uni party down the beach, you must have beer!”

“We have beer.”

“Brilliant! Lead the way oh mighty Geralt of Vet Med!”

“Rivia actually.”

Furrowing his brow, Jaskier turned to face Geralt with a tilt of his head. “Really? Your accent sounds more…”

“I was adopted.”

“Oh fun!” Jaskier laughed and slung his arm around Geralt’s as they made their way towards the campfire, and to the blessed heat that it would bring. Ooh maybe if he were lucky, Geralt would offer his coat which looked a lot warmer than Jaskier’s jacket, or perhaps they could snuggle up together and Jaskier could have a wonderful time pretending they were a couple.

Who knew? By the time classe started back maybe he wouldn’t have to pretend.

But! But he was getting ahead of himself.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Geralt’s brothers were a riot, and Jaskier found his bad mood melting away. His fake smiles became genuine and he laughed along with them as they teased Geralt for picking up a new friend so quickly. Apparently, despite a gruff exterior, people tended to gravitate towards Geralt, and Jaskier could totally understand why. Not only was he gorgeous, because he was… he really really was, but he was also kind. He hadn’t pushed when Jaskier clearly didn’t want to talk about Oxenfurt or his family, and he’d extended the hand of friendship when Jaskier was being a petulant child.

Kind and beautiful, and a total nerd.

Gods, Jaskier was fucked. Utterly fucked.

When Geralt started talking about his course, it was as if the rest of the world melted away. He was just as passionate about animals as Jaskier was about his music, and the soft smiles when Geralt spoke about his own horse, Roach, back home were just beautiful.

Jaskier didn’t even notice the sun setting beyond the ocean, too busy sharing tales and beers with this family that had seemingly adopted him. The fire crackled and the ash danced as they flew into the sky, swirling like fireflies in the dark. He sighed happily as he watched Lambert play his guitar. The music was heartwarming and pretty. Lambert was not quite as talented as Jaskier was but clearly he had skill. It was just nice not to be the one entertaining everyone for a change.

“What about you?” Eskel asked as he cracked open another beer. “Any pets?”

Thinking back to his poor dead plants on his windowsill at Oxenfurt, Jaskier grimaced. “Ah, no… not particularly skilled in keeping things alive. Not even my roommate could keep the plants alive after I’d touched them, and he was excellent at plants.”

“Not even a pet fish?” Lambert asked, not even skipping a beat in his chord changes, although he did glance down at the strings, his hair falling into his eyes.

Snuggling into Geralt’s side, Jaskier shook his head. “More of a people person, although I do love dogs. My cousins Essi and Ellen have a Golden Retriever and I adore him. Dogs are simple, you know? Unconditional love and all that, plus they are super cuddly.”

With a snort and a twang of guitar strings, Lambert laughed. “Seems you’re pretty cuddly as well. Hey, Geralt, looks like you found a stray dog on the beach instead of a human. Maybe he will love you unconditionally?”

Jaskier squeaked and buried his face in Geralt’s chest, not wanting anyone to see his blush. They were right, absolutely right. There was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that he could spend the rest of his pathetic life with Geralt, although realistically he knew that was his heart speaking not his head, but pretty, nerdy, strong man that was either comfortable enough in his sexuality to not care about cuddling another man, or… he was some sort of queer - either way Jaskier was weak.

“Beer please, or vodka… is there any vodka?” Jaskier mumbled. “And for the record… I’m cold blooded - practically a lizard. Geralt is just being a good vet and making sure my environmental needs are met.”

“You’ve played too much Planet Zoo,” Eskel laughed, pulling a hip flask from his jacket. “Careful, it’s strong. Lambert thought it would be a good idea to brew vodka in the bath.”

“It was a brilliant idea. You’re just a coward, Eskel.”

Staring suspiciously at the hip flask, Jaskier sniffed. Not that it did any good, all he could smell was the burning wood of the campfire. He glanced around at his new friends, three pairs of golden eyes watched him carefully, and he knew before he’d even taken a sip that he was going to regret it, but Jaskier had also survived a term at Oxenfurt. He could drink most people under the table and be back at it the next morning. Just how bad could the homemade vodka be?

The answer was really fucking terrible.

Jaskier spat the burning liquid out onto the sand. “Fucking Meletile Tits, Lambert! What the fuck is that? I am not drunk enough for that. Bloody hell, Geralt, have you tried this?”

“Regrettably.”

With a yell, Lambert ditched his guitar on the sand and charged. Both Geralt and Jaskier went flying backwards off the log they were perched on and the two brothers began to wrestle. Pouting, Jaskier stood up, brushing down his clothes and pulling the blanket around his shoulders. It wasn’t nearly as warm as cuddling Geralt, but having drunk a couple of cans of beer, he didn’t feel quite as frozen as he had when he arrived.

And it was nice; exactly what he’d always expected the holidays to be like at university. Just a group of friends relaxing on the beach with some booze and a bonfire. All it needed now was some marshmallows to roast, and maybe some drunken kisses… definitely drunken kisses. Gods, he so desperately wanted Geralt to kiss him.

But for now he was happy to just sit back and watch as he settled into the group of brothers.

It was a nice distraction from the shit show that was his life, and when the sun began to rise once more, Jaskier was pulled from his impromptu nap on Geralt’s shoulder by Lambert poking him in the side.

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine!”

“Hnnnng… no…” Jaskier whined, blinking wearily.

“Eskel has work in a few hours, so we need to get home before Dad kills us, but give Lover Boy your number and we can meet back here tonight if you’re free.”

“Not Lover Boy,” Jaskier’s pillow grumbled.

“Want my number or not?” he countered as he struggled to get up. “My first friends from the uni, and they don’t even want my number.”

“Dramatic little shit,” Geralt muttered but pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Keep the coat. You need it.”

“I-”

No. Don’t argue Jaskier. The coat was lovely and warm and it was Geralt’s. Despite the invitation to come back the next night, Jaskier wanted the excuse to see Geralt again… and again… and again.

Until they were completely inseparable and Jaskier knew him as well as the back of his hand. The love in his heart would grow from the infatuation into a deeper attraction, one with a solid foundation.

If only.

One day…

Maybe with Geralt, maybe with whoever caught his eye next. Jaskier was aware enough to know that he was as fickle in love as he was in everything else. Not a month before he was sure he would marry Valdo Marx, until the fucker had decided to date Jaskier’s cousin instead. Before that it was his college sweetheart, Virginia Stael.

Still, a life with Geralt seemed like a nice life. He would have a fun time with the in-laws at least, and maybe Geralt could help keep his plants alive. Ooh or even a dog!

It was a nice dream at least, and it started with putting Geralt’s name in his phone.

“Thank you, Geralt. I really needed this. You didn’t need to take a chance on a grumbly old shit like me,” Jaskier sighed, as they exchanged numbers. “I’m glad you did though.”

“Looked like you needed a break,” Geralt shrugged. “And I wasn’t sure if you were gonna wade straight into the ocean and never come back out.”

“Oh wow… that bad? And here I thought it was my ruggedly handsome face, or my quick wit, or oozing charm.”

“Nah, you looked like shit,” Geralt laughed, his fingers brushing against Jaskier’s wrist as they swapped back their phones.

“We told Geralt to leave you alone.” Picking up the beer cooler, Eskel smirked at his twin brother. “But this one just can’t ignore a soul in need.”

Which was just what Jaskier didn’t need to hear. Stupid, kind-hearted fool of a man. His poor heart was going to explode, but instead of melting into the sand, Jaskier just leaned in to brush his lips against Geralt’s cheek.

“My hero,” he whispered.

Then he turned and fled before he could embarrass himself any further. Reality called him. He needed food and water… and coffee. Gods, he needed so much coffee. His neck hurt from his awkwardly positioned nap and there was no way he would make it through the day without help, especially if he wanted to see Geralt again that night. Fuck, he hoped he could get away. There was a chance that his parents would insist that he stayed home. After all, he had returned home to spend time with his father before the end.

Thankfully, luck was on his side. Jaskier stumbled through the day in a sleepy haze, napping in the chair by his father’s bedside after playing a few of his latest compositions. For once he didn’t make snide comments about the music or the lyrics or Jaskier’s entire life, which was… worrying in its own right, but Jaskier felt more at peace with his decision to come home. Maybe they could repair their relationship before it was too late. That was definitely unexpected.

After dinner, Jaskier pulled on Geralt’s coat and slung his guitar case over his shoulders, sending off a quick text to Geralt to say he was heading out. In response, he got a quick “Ok” which… wasn’t the most eloquent but Jaskier took it to mean Geralt was also on his way. He hoped. It would be very embarrassing if he wasn’t.

But of course, Geralt was there, looking all handsome in a black shirt and jeans. He had no coat or jacket despite the cool evening, instead already poking at the bonfire. To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt was alone.

“No Eskel or Lambert tonight?”

“Apparently they had better places to be,” Geralt said with a shrug, rolling his eyes.

“Soooo… they are setting us up?”

“Yeah.”

It shouldn’t have made Jaskier as happy as it did, but hey he was a romantic at heart, and he really did like Geralt. A lovely evening spent with him by the sea, watching the sunset, maybe a romantic song or two. It could be the start of something really special.

“Is it working?” He asked with a wink as he settled down by the fire, pulling his guitar from its case.

“Hmm.”

The response didn’t exactly feel Jaskier with confidence, but the fond smile that Geralt gave him instead meant more than a thousand words so Jaskier tried to push down the feeling of rejection. Instead, he closed his eyes and plucked at the strings of his guitar until he was happy with the turning.

“Perfect pitch?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, umm… yeah. Yes. Very useful for guitar playing,” Jaskier winked and then gave the guitar a test strum. “Any requests?”

But Geralt shook his head, staring back into the fire with a sigh.

“Good, yeah, no that’s good.”

Was it good? Who knew, certainly not Jaskier, but it did mean he could pick something that he knew he could play well. Not that he wanted to impress Geralt, but he absolutely was trying to impress Geralt. Quickly thinking through his repertoire and peering at Geralt, Jaskier decided on one of his originals. It was catchy but not too pathetic, a hint of romanticism that should hopefully set the mood.

“Do you come here every night?” Jaskier asked as he played the introduction, repeating the sequence whilst he waited for Geralt’s response.

“During the holidays, yeah. Most weekends too.”

“You’re close with your family, yes?” Jaskier cocked his head.

“Yeah. When you come from nothing, family is all you have.”

After that Jaskier began to sing, quietly at first but gradually growing in confidence as Geralt sipped at the bottle of wine he’d brought to the beach. When he opened his eyes he found Geralt watching him reverently, golden eyes warm as he smiled faintly. It was peaceful and wonderful and bright. Gone were the worries of the day, and the more he played, the more Jaskier felt his anxiety melt away, into the sand ready to be washed away by the waves. When he finished the first song he took the wine bottle from Geralt. It was much nicer than Jaskier’s boxed wine but clearly still cheap… the life of students was glamorous.

By the time Jaskier started his second song the sun had almost dived below the horizon. He plucked at the strings, not bothering to sing along as he gazed out into the sea, then, sighing softly, he rested his guitar against his legs.

“Sit with me?”

Humming, Geralt stood up and made his way around the bonfire, plopping down next to Jaskier with a huff. Immediately, Jaskier snuggled up to him, watching the fire dance in front of them. Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and it all felt very cosy all of a sudden. For a heartbeat, Jaskier forgot that he wasn’t dating Geralt.

He swallowed as he realised that after all the talk of yesterday, it was his turn to open up, to bear his soul. Geralt and his brothers had accepted him - no questions asked, or at the very least surface questions only, but they had told him about their childhood, the good and the bad. In turn, Jaskier had deflected his way past most of the personal questions, not even revealing that he was the son of the most influential man in the town. He was just Jaskier, not Julian Alfred Pankratz, but it wasn’t enough anymore. After spending hours with Geralt and his family, they deserved better.

Maybe not everything..

But something..

So with a sigh, plucking idly at the strings of his guitar in his lap, he began to speak. “My father is dying. That’s why I came back.”

“Hmm?”

“From Oxenfurt. All my life I wanted to study there, but when my mum called, I couldn’t stay. It wasn’t right. So I gave up my childhood dream for him, for a chance to say goodbye. Spent the last few days drunk out of my mind or hungover… until I met you.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt’s arm tightened around him, pulling him closer, and it took every ounce of control not to completely fall apart right there and then.

“S’okay. Not your fault. I just wonder… Is Destiny real?”

Geralt chuckled, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple in lieu of answering.

“Because if I’d stayed at Oxenfurt… I would never have met you? And I’m really glad I met you Geralt. Sometimes Destiny brings people into your life when you need them most, and that’s you, for me. Which… ah bollocks. I’ve said too much. Too soon, but in my defence I am a poet? We do tend to romanticise things and the sunset is right there!”

“Jaskier!”

“I know! I know!” he giggled and pressed into Geralt’s side. “I fall in love too fast, sorry!”

“A little fast, yeah, but I happen to like it, you. It’s endearing.”

Jaskier blushed, smiling widely even as he shivered from the cold. “Oh.”

“A holiday romance…”

“Or more?” Jaskier pouted up and Geralt, but the bastard was just smirking. Fuck, Jaskier was going to have to get used to his sense of humour, the little shit. “Shall we start with a kiss?”

“Hmm.”

Another thing that Jaskier was going to have to learn to translate.

“I assume that’s a yes. Please say it’s a y-”

It was a yes. Geralt’s lips crashed against his and Jaskier melted with a sigh. There was still a week to go, but it was shaping up to be the best spring break of his life.

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @damnbert @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire @trickstermoose67 @alllthequeenshorses @skai6 @karolincki @eya-trying-to-function @stonedstargazer666 @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @geraltslastcoin @hot-multifandom-mess

#the witcher #geraskier #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #wolfie's witcher writing

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 3 years

Text

Without You

Prompt: Meeting after a long time apart

Pairing: Jaskier/Yennefer (background Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer)

Rating: M

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture; Presumed character death (no one is actually dead); Heavy drinking

Summary: Jaskier barely copes after word spreads that Yennefer has perished at Sodden Hill. But when Nilfgaard sets their sights of him, help comes from an unexpected place.

This was supposed to be a Wuv the Bard fic for @whataboutthebard, but it grew a whump, so I had to recategorize it. You can read it below or here on AO3.

The day before Oxenfurt’s winter term starts, Jaskier learns that Yennefer of Vengerberg perished defending Sodden Hill, going out in a blaze of glory that took an entire squadron of soldiers with her. It’s a death worthy of the most terrifying, wonderful woman he ever met, and he thinks he might be sick just thinking about it. He drinks far too much mead and sleeps through the first day of classes. It’s lucky that the dean is a friend and had met Yennefer when she visited Jaskier at Oxenfurt two winters before, because that’s the kind of infraction that could get a professor dismissed.

The news comes only days after Jaskier learns that the entire Cintran royal family, including little Princess Cirilla, was butchered during Nilfgaard’s invasion. Jaskier knows that Geralt was heading to Cintra to try and get to the princess before Nilfgaard did, but he has no way of knowing if Geralt also died in the invasion. He has a horrible feeling that if Princess Cirilla is dead, Geralt is too. There's no way his witcher would have let harm come to his child surprise while there was still breath in his lungs. He lays awake at night and tries not to imagine both of his lovers consumed by flames.

It’s a small comfort that Geralt came to see Jaskier in Oxenfurt before going to Cintra. They had the chance to apologize to each other for the stupid way they both acted during the dragon hunt and make amends for years of careless words and crossed boundaries. When they fell into bed afterwards, it almost felt like it had that first time, nearly two decades before.

“Let me come with you to Cintra,” Jaskier whispered afterwards. “I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I don’t want you anywhere near Nilfgaard. Or Calanthe, for that matter.”

“I can help. Calanthe won't listen to you, but she might heed me.”

"No," Geralt said firmly. "I won't risk you, Jask. Not for anything.”

Geralt was gone before Jaskier woke up the next morning. Jaskier is sure that his lover knew if he had stayed to say goodbye, Jaskier would have talked him into letting him come to Cintra, but that didn’t ease the sting. At least they had had a goodbye of sorts the night before.

But Jaskier never got a chance to say goodbye to Yennefer. He never saw her again after the dragon hunt, something that keeps him awake nearly as much as the thought of her burning up with her own power. If she died hating him…

Jaskier is so furious at himself, for not doing everything in his power to hold onto Geralt and Yennefer. He’s furious at Yennefer for walking away, not just from Geralt, but from him too. He’s furious at Geralt for pushing her away and for running off to Cintra and leaving Jaskier alone. Sometimes, he’s even furious at Princess Cirilla for drawing Geralt away, though that’s the kind of thought that only hits him when he’s deep in his cups. He’s not proud of it.

There’s nothing he can do to abate the well of grief and fury and desperate despair within him. He can’t even bring himself to sing about it.

***

He’s surprised that it takes a month for the dean to call him into his office. Sebastian and he have been friends since their schoolboy days and when Jaskier looks at the other man, he sees how his life could have turned out if he had done what his parents wanted him to do: marry a respectable woman, find a steady, stable job, have a few children to carry on the family name.

“Julian,” Sebastian says. “You know I consider you a friend.”

Jaskier’s head is pounding. He was at a tavern the night before when a bard began singing a ballad of the Fourteen of the Hill, as they’re calling the mages who perished at Sodden Hill. There was a verse about each of the Fourteen, and when she got to Yennefer’s name, Jaskier had to leave the tavern. He’s tried to write a dozen songs about Yennefer in the past month, and hasn’t been able to compose more than a few lines. That another bard, one that didn’t even know her, is the one telling her story hurts more than it should.

Sebastian’s expression is painfully kind. Jaskier would rather him be cruel. “But your conduct this term has been unacceptable. Being late to classes, not showing up for classes at all, coming to class reeking of alcohol—”

“I haven’t come to class drunk.” That’s one line Jaskier would never cross.

“But you have come to class hungover. You’re hungover now, aren’t you?”

Jaskier looks away, unable to meet his old friend’s eyes.

“I know how much she meant to you,” Sebastian says softly. “And I know you’re hurting. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I’ve gotten complaints about you from students, parents, and your fellow professors. This can’t go on.”

“Are you asking for my resignation, Sebastian?”

“Not yet.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m reassigning all your classes for the rest of the term. Take a couple of months to get your head back on straight. If you can pull yourself together by the spring, we can discuss you resuming teaching. If not…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to elaborate. Jaskier swallows. “I’ll pull myself together.”

It’s what Yennefer and Geralt would have wanted.

***

Jaskier is going to allow himself one more night to wallow in his grief and self-pity, he tells himself as he sits at the corner at his second-favorite tavern that night (the proprietor of his first favorite is concerned about the amount Jaskier has been drinking and refuses to serve him.) As he sits there, huddled in the shadows, he thinks of the first time he saw Geralt, brooding in the corner like the tragic hero of a storybook. Geralt would surely have something smug to say if he saw Jaskier brooding tragically. Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut at the thought of the little smirk on Geralt’s face.

“I love the way you sit in the corner and brood,” he would say in a terrible imitation of Jaskier’s voice. He always made Jaskier sound so much more high-pitched than he really is.

“Cheeky bastard,” Jaskier mumbles into his ale, startling the barmaid who’s clearing mugs away from the next table over. He offers her an apologetic smile.

Several hours and three ales later, the proprietor of his second-favorite tavern shows him the door. Luckily, the proprietor of this third-favorite tavern wouldn’t notice if he stripped naked and drank himself to death while singing Skelligan sea shanties in the corner, so Jaskier staggers down the road towards that fine establishment. He starts to hum to himself, but the only tune that comes to mind is “Her Sweet Kiss,” and even thinking about that song causes something sour to curdle inside him.

He stumbles over his own two feet and nearly falls, but a strong hand seizes him by the upper arm, keeping him upright. Beaming, Jaskier turns to his rescuer.

“Thank you, my fr—”

A hand slaps over his mouth. Jaskier only has time to register the pale, watery eyes of the hooded man in front of him before two fingers press against the underside of his chin and darkness overtakes him.

***

A bucket of cold water to his face rouses him an indeterminate amount of time later. Jaskier jerks awake, gasping. For a moment, he’s disoriented and outraged, until he registers the chains binding his wrists over his head and his ankles together. When he looks around, he finds himself in some kind of cellar, mostly empty except for a few crates and many cobwebs. And the three men standing in front of him.

“You’ve slept long enough, bardling,” the man in the middle, a weaselly, pale-eyed thing with a canny expression Jaskier doesn’t like, says.

Bardling.

“If you don’t stop humming and let me sleep, bardling, I’ll turn you into an eel.”

“Get over here and kiss me, bardling.”

“Harder, bardling. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaskier whispers, voice trembling.

The pale-eyed man laughs unpleasantly. “You’re not the one making demands here.”

Jaskier tries to draw himself up to his full height the best he can when he’s trussed up like a goose. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Rience,” the man says and Jaskier has the horrible thought that surely he wouldn’t be so open with his identity if he expected Jaskier to live through this encounter. “The names of my compatriots don’t matter.”

The other two men, who are both scowly and muscular in a way that makes Jaskier think of either mercenaries or soldiers, make no indication of whether or not this offends them.

“What do you want with me?” Jaskier demands.

“We’re looking for someone,” Rience says. “Two someones, actually. I think you might know where they are. Geralt of Rivia and Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. If someone is asking after Geralt and Cirilla, does that mean they’re alive? Does that mean they’re together? Did Geralt get to her in time? He recovers himself enough to say, “Princess Cirilla perished in Cintra, or so the rumors say. As for Geralt of Rivia… I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“Wrong. He visited you here in Oxenfurt right before Saovine.”

Jaskier swallows hard. “Ah, yes, I’d completely forgotten about that. How silly of me. In my defense, it’s been a very long—”

The sensation of a hand tightening around his throat hits him, but none of the three men are touching him. Jaskier gasps and sputters, drawing a laugh out of Rience and one of the soldiers. Eyes watering with lack of breath, Jaskier struggles against his chains. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that they’re just going to kill him and leave his body in this cellar to rot.

And then the pressure on his throat releases and Jaskier sucks in a sweet lungful of air, not even minding that it’s stale.

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” Rience asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not privy to his plans.”

“You’ve been his friend and lover for decades. Surely he told you where he was planning to take the girl.”

Geralt didn’t need to tell Jaskier. Knowing that the contents of his own mind aren’t safe from a sorcerer, Jaskier does everything in his power to not think about Kaer Morhen. “I don’t know.”

Rience steps close enough that Jaskier can smell his sour breath. “I can tear your mind apart, you little shit. I can dig through your thoughts until I know every single thing the witcher ever told you. But I’d much rather you tell me willingly. It’s the only way you’re going to walk away from here alive.”

“I don’t know anything,” Jaskier whispers.

Rience sighs. “I was hoping you’d be difficult. It’s more fun that way.”

When the first punch comes, Jaskier closes his eyes and thinks of Geralt and Yennefer.

***

The beating isn’t all that bad, all things considered. Yes, Jaskier is fairly certain his nose and several of his ribs are broken, but they haven’t brought out blades or braziers yet. Yet. When Rience and his lackeys leave him alone in the cellar, Jaskier sags, letting his shoulders heave with his pained breaths. If the chains weren’t holding him up, he would crumple to the ground in despair.

Jaskier is just a bard. He’s not a witcher or a sorceress. He’s not trained to withstand torture. He will break, he realizes. He will tell Rience everything he knows, no matter how hard he tries to stay strong. And then Rience will kill him and Jaskier’s last act on this mortal plane will be to betray the man he’s loved since he was eighteen.

Tremors wrack Jaskier’s body as terror and pain overwhelm him. It’s not fair that he learned that Geralt is alive at the same time that he’s about to lose his own life. It’s not fair that he’s going to be used against the love of his life in such a horrific fashion. It’s not fair that he’s going to go to his grave without ever seeing Geralt again and that Geralt will lose both him and Yennefer.

Jaskier is alone in the cellar for a long time, long enough for him to feel every ache and pain.

From upstairs, there’s a thump and a long, loud scream.

Jaskier’s head jerks up. Do they have another prisoner here? Who else in Oxenfurt could they have targeted to get to Geralt, or is their other victim some poor bystander that they came across? There’s another agonized scream, this one cut off, and Jaskier starts to shake harder. He doesn’t want to die. He’s so, so afraid of dying, of everything that makes him him being snuffed out, leaving only an empty husk of flesh and bone. But even more terrifying is the thought of all the hurt that will come first, of the crying and bleeding that he’ll have to endure before Rience ends things.

Footsteps sound of the stairs and Jaskier’s head jerks up to see a hooded figure descending into the cellar. They’re smaller than Rience or either of his compatriots, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Jaskier swallows around the knot of panic in his throat as the newcomer approaches him, their features obscured by the hood and the shadows of the cellar.

“I don’t know anything,” he says hoarsely. “You can do whatever you want to me and I still won’t know anything.”

The newcomer draws back their hood at the same time that Jaskier registers the smell of lilacs and gooseberries. He makes a punched-out noise at the sight of violet eyes that he didn’t ever think he would see again.

“A pretty illusion,” he tells the face of the woman he loves, voice trembling. “But Yennefer is dead. She died at Sodden Hill and you can wear her face all you want, but I still won’t know anything.”

“Jaskier—” the illusion starts to say.

Jaskier laughs as loudly and obnoxiously as he can when he’s trying not to breathe in too deeply. The scent of the false Yennefer makes him want to cry. “And you’ve already gotten it wrong. She never called me ‘Jaskier.’ No, I was ‘bard’ or ‘bardling’ or ‘you fucking idiot—’”

“For fuck’s sake, bardling. Pull yourself together!”

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. Strangely, it’s the harshness of her tone that convinces him. If Yennefer were to offer sweet words of comfort, to coo over his injuries and tell him that it would all be okay, then he would know for sure that the person standing in front of him wasn’t his sorceress. No mage trying to manipulate him into spilling his secrets would expect him to be comforted by the exasperation in her expression.

“Yenn?” he whispers.

Yennefer steps closer and he sees that she obviously hasn’t had a good time as of late. Her face is thinner and her nose has been broken at least once. Her hair is more bedraggled than he’s ever seen it and her dress and cloak clearly belong to a taller person; they drag on the ground behind her. There are dark shadows under her eyes. When she raises a hand to make the chains around his wrists and ankles fall away, he sees that there are hideous burn marks marring her own wrists.

Without the chains holding him up, Jaskier collapses into a heap on the ground. Looking up at Yennefer in disbelief, he says, “You…”

“Not here.” She grasps him by the shoulders and the next thing he knows, he’s being yanked through a portal.

***

It’s not the first time Yennefer has visited Jaskier at his faculty lodging in Oxenfurt. Two winters ago, she replaced his perfectly serviceable bed with an enormous, glorious feather mattress with silken sheets and a goose down comforter and they spent three days in the glamoured bed, lost in each other’s bodies. Now, she sits on the edge of his perfectly serviceable bed, wearing one of his old chemises and carefully avoiding looking at him as he wipes the blood and fear sweat from his face with a basin of water.

“You’re hurt.” He glances at the bruises dotting her legs.

She lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “Not badly.”

Jaskier nods, swallowing hard. He wants nothing more than to sink into her arms. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated; touching her was the most natural thing in the world. But that was before the mountain and the cruel, senseless things they said to each other. So he keeps himself on the other side of the room to mitigate temptation.

Outside, someone shouts. Jaskier flinches, even as the shout turns into laughter.

“Rience fled with his tail between his legs when I threw a fireball at him,” Yennefer says. “And his men are dead.”

“Imagining fleeing from a fireball. Fucking coward.” Jaskier splashes more water on his face. His hands are shaking. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“Geralt and the child surprise—”

“Safe. I’ve been having dreams about them. They’re at Kaer Morhen with his brothers.”

Jaskier lets out a long, slow breath of relief. When he first learned about the djinn wish that binds Geralt and Yennefer, he was so jealous and furious to learn that they have a bond that he’ll never come close to matching. Now, he’s just relieved that Yennefer can tell him that Geralt is alive and that he got to Cirilla in time. “Thank the gods.”

“I saw what Nilfgaard left of Cintra. Gods had nothing to do with it.”

Jaskier turns to face her, taking in her hollow eyes. “Where have you been? I heard you’d died at Sodden Hill. I…” He breaks off, because he feels pathetic admitting the depths of his grief this past month, the way he nearly drank away his career and his life.

Yennefer’s jaw clenches in a way that reminds him of Geralt, not that she would appreciate the comparison. “I was taken by Nilfgaard’s mage, Fringilla, right after the battle. I spent a month in captivity. They thought they could use me to lure Geralt out, that our connection would alert him to my predicament.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “Oh, fuck. Yenn…”

She shakes her head sharply, like she’s trying to shake off his sympathy. “When that didn’t work, they were planning to find you and torture his location out of you.”

Wincing, Jaskier touches his ribs. “Yeah, I figured that.”

“Fringilla put a spell on me that kept me docile,” Yennefer says softly. “It stopped me from wanting to escape and the dimeritium cuffs did the rest. But I heard her giving instructions to Rience. I knew the kind of man he is, how much he enjoys inflicting pain.” She touches the bump on the bridge of her nose almost absent-mindedly and Jaskier is suddenly flooded with the burning urge to track Rience down and eviscerate him. “I realized what he would do to you, bardling, and that knowledge broke through the haze. I had to get to you, no matter what it took.”

Jaskier can’t be on the other side of the room from her anymore. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he crosses the space between them, dropping down to his knees in front of her and taking her hands in his. They feel so fragile, her fingers thin and riddled with small cuts. “Yenn, I’m so sorry. The mountain—”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “I thought you were dead and the last conversation we’d ever had was a fight because I was too stupid and jealous about the djinn bond to see that you were hurting and—”

Yennefer pulls one hand from his grasp to cup his cheek in his hand. “That explains all the empty liquor bottles.”

Jaskier laughs without humor, feeling tears slipping out from behind his closed eyelids and down his cheeks. “I thought you were gone and Geralt too. I thought I lost both of you.”

“No, Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “You haven’t lost either of us. No matter what happens between Geralt and me, you won’t.”

Jaskier can’t hold back the tears anymore, so he buries his face into her lap and lets himself weep, letting out the grief and the terror and the pain. She doesn’t offer verbal assurances— if she did, he would really think this was a cruel trick of Rience’s— but she cards her fingers through his hair as gently as she would if they were lying in bed together. Jaskier cries until his eyes are sore and dry, but doesn’t lift his head from her lap. Part of him feels like the moment he stops touching her, she’ll vanish.

“I wore myself out portaling here and fighting Rience,” Yennefer says. Her voice would sound perfectly calm, if not for the faint tremor. “But tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do about your ribs. And then in a day or two, we can portal to Kaer Morhen to join Geralt.”

Jaskier lifts his head to meet her eyes. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think Kaer Morhen is the one place Nilfgaard won’t find us,” she says. “Once Rience stops smoldering, he’ll be back. I won’t leave you here for him to find.”

Jaskier shudders at the very thought. “But you and Geralt…”

“If it will keep you and Cirilla safe, we’ll figure things out.” She brushes his tears away with her thumb. “We can worry about Geralt and me after we’re safe in Kaer Morhen, bardling. Or as safe as anyone is in a crumbling old ruin.”

“At least I have you to stop the ceiling from collapsing on me.” He offers her a watery smile.

Her returning smile is a small, almost unsure thing. “You say that like I wouldn’t be the one bringing the ceiling down on top of you.”

“Ah, Yennefer.” Tentatively, he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “There’s the sweet disposition I missed so much.”

“Did you hit your head during your ordeal?”

“Most likely, yes.”

Yennefer squeezes his hand and pulls him up to sit on the bed next to her. “I missed you too, bardling.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and rests his chin on the top of her head. “Thank you for coming for me. I didn’t think anyone would.”

Yennefer leans against him, letting out a shaky little breath. “I’ll always come for you. So will Geralt. I’m sorry you doubted that.”

Jaskier puts his arms around her, the awkwardness of their separation pushed to the side, and lets himself hold her like he hasn’t in over a year, like he thought he never would again. Tomorrow, they’ll have to have a longer talk about the dragon hunt, the djinn wish, and Geralt. Apologies will need to be made and conversations about the future had. They’ll have to make their way to Kaer Morhen to reunite with Geralt and meet his child surprise. They’ll have to figure out what to do now that Nilfgaard is after both of them.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, Jaskier just wants to hold the woman he loves and forget everything else.

***

#the witcher #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing #what about the bard #whump the bard

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

Eskel is a Fanboy (Part 2, Electric Boogaloo)

This is a second part of this. Which in turn was inspired by this.

Please note, this is less funny and a little deeper than the first part, despite the title. Discussions of FEELINGS, hardcore, but also the trials. Brief mention of hypothermia.

Read it here on Ao3

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Geralt arrived late that year. Vesemir had been pacing the corridors, a worry line between his brows, for the last week. The snows were getting worse and worse and innocent snowflakes joined other completely harmless snowflakes until a very un-harmless amount of snow had piled on the track and the passes.

Lambert, alongside Aiden (another reason for the creases on Vesemir’s brow) lounged in the great hall, completely unconcerned.

“He’s stayed later and later every year,” Lambert said, lazily. “He keeps lingering with that bard of his. Why should this year be any different?” His eyes were half closed as Aiden played idly with his hair.

“If he doesn’t get here in the next two days he’ll be too late,” Vesemir snapped.

“I recognize I’m the outsider, here,” Aiden said. “But I don’t always winter with my troupe, and Lambert occasionally spends winters away...”

Eskel shook his head. The constant bickering was impacting his reading and he’d long ago marked his place in his book and set it aside. “Not Geralt,” he said with certainty. “He always winters at home.”

Aiden levelled a chilly, yellow gaze. “You love him.”

“He’s my brother in arms.”

“He’s special to you.”

Eskel wanted to growl and snap, but Aiden wasn’t saying it in a malicious way. There was no threat or accusation in his words. If there had been it would have been pure hypocrisy, what with the way Lambert currently lay in his lap. Eskel had spent a week pretending not to see the pairs’ furtive kisses.

“He is special to me,” Eskel said at last. “I found him, after his second trial, was given special allowance to be away from training to help him. Whatever happened, with the mutagens, he was deaf and blind for nearly two weeks. And had as much strength as a kitten.”

Vesemir’s pacing gained a sharper edge. “I wish I’d killed the mage that called for that second trial.” He said. Lambert and Eskel made eye contact, they were familiar with the self loathing in Vesemir’s voice. Lambert was angry at the world and his whole situation, but they had all forgiven Vesemir years ago. There was no choice but to mend bridges with a pack so small. Still, they rarely talked about it.

“You killed the mage that called for his third,” Eskel said, quietly.

Aiden’s head jerked up. He’d been a witcher, albeit a different school. He knew the trials, he knew the pain, but three trials... “They tried...?”

Eskel nodded his confirmation. “Geralt survived, and the mages who ran the trials wanted to see how many he could take.”

“So I split his throat on my knife,” Vesemir said. There was no satisfaction in his tone, but just an empty statement of action.

“I didn’t know it was you that killed the mage,” Lambert said. “I just knew one had been killed for the suggestion. I heard they made the witcher drink hemlock as punishment.” There was a warmer light of respect in Lambert’s eyes than usually shone there.

“They did,” Vesemir said. “It didn’t kill me.”

That was it for conversation that night, but Eskel went to bed thinking about Aiden’s words.

He’s special to you.

Geralt was special to him. There was an understanding, something gentle and kind between them. Geralt and Eskel lived their separate lives and had lovers and adventures. But for three months of the year they had each other.

Eskel had sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him. He never gave his heart to anyone. Sex meant nothing and love didn’t happen, and he could only love Geralt for three months at a time.

Except that wasn’t true at all, because of course Eskel loved Geralt all the time. It was only a softer kind of love than he read about in poetry. He didn’t need fiery passion and desperate declarations of love. He had a steady love for Geralt, as sure as the beating of his heart. It was as good a love story as any, but now Geralt had his bard and a tiny, hidden part of Eskel whispered “If Only.”

If only he and Geralt could lounge like Aiden and Lambert, to pet each others’ hair and share small kisses in the corners. If only Eskel really had Geralt for those three months. He had no doubt that the feelings were mutual, but something in their lives had been built apart, and it would take something powerful to shape them anew.

The next evening brought a blizzard. And Geralt.

It took both Aiden and Lambert to shut the door behind Geralt with the way the wind blew in around him. It curled and flickered shards of ice through the air that melted in the heat of the hall, dampening Geralt’s old, black cloak. Which he was holding around himself like a cocoon. Vesemir took Geralts cloak for him, which revealed what he’d been holding.

Huddled against Geralt, nose red and face pale, was a young man in a blue cloak.

Geralt bundled him in front of the fire without a word, pulling away the damp cloak and hanging it to dry. Vesemir brought blankets as Geralt pried the instrument case from the man’s hands.

A lute case.

Eskel’s pulse picked up. This was obviously the bard. This was Jaskier, Oxenfurt’s most prodigious poet. He’d studied with Rumi and Alighieri and Li Bai. In just a few years he’d reformed witchers’ reputations. They’d all been treated better these past few years. More money, less tar and feathers. Eskel went to sit beside Jaskier to beg him for stories but Geralt met his gaze, smiled softly, and shook his head.

Eskel restrained himself. Jaskier was clearly staving off shock from the cold, as well as hypothermia. Instead of doing what he really wanted to do (lay himself prone at Jaskier’s feet and worship his skill with words) he put on a kettle for tea.

Aiden and Lambert make eye contact with each other, nod to Geralt, and leave. Vesemir also makes a tactful retreat. This time was just for Eskel and Geralt. And the bard shivering on a pile of cushions next to the fire.

“He had a hard time on the Killer,” Geralt said, quietly.

“It’s called the Killer for a reason.”

“He begged me to come, I told him it would be too dangerous,” Geralt whispered. “He followed me and I couldn’t make him leave, that’s why I was late.”

“Vesemir’s been worried,” Eskel said, staring at the fire. He sat on the cushions, beside the bard, without taking his eyes from the coals. Geralt sat on the other side of Jaskier, rubbing carefully over the bard’s chilly hands, pulling off the woolen mittens and gently warming each knuckle.

“I had to go slower for him,” Geralt said. Between the two of them, the bard seemed mostly asleep. His eyelashes flickered on his cheeks, struggling to stay open.

“You can sleep,” Eskel whispered. “You’ll wake up, you’re cold but not in danger.” He took the other chilly hand. “Just sleep.”

Blue eyes slipped closed and Eskel took the kettle off the fire so it didn’t whistle.

“He was so desperate to be here, he wanted to see the Keep,” Geralt said. “And I wanted him to come. To meet you.”

“I did make you promise I’d get to meet him,” Eskel said, sitting back down and resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I think I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”

“That’s not why I wanted him to meet you,” Geralt said.

Eskel’s breath caught. They were talking about it, sort of. “I know,” he said.

The bard curled up a little, like a nautilus shell. Geralt lay down on the cushions behind him and Eskel made himself comfortable. Sleep and warmth and the smell of the pine fire lulled him slowly to sleep. Just as he was drifting off, Jaskier reached out in his sleep and placed one hand, less chilly than it was, on Eskel’s arm. It stayed there until the morning.

“So True Love’s Waste wasn’t inspired by a person?” Eskel asked over breakfast, mouth full of porridge.

Jaskier shook his head, gulping down hot tea. “No, I was out on a bender with some friends and we saw this washerwoman’s cat trying to catch a soap bubble, right?”

Eskel nodded, entranced.

“It was so totally focused on catching this soap bubble, it’s eyes were all wide and determined, like all it wanted was the bubble, but when it caught the bubble...”

“It popped,” Eskel laughed. “And you wrote a poem that has been deemed the best love poem of the last hundred years about it.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Art is more trite and derivative than people think.”

Eskel reached out and touched Jaskier’s wrist, looking into those heavily-lashed eyes. “Your work could never be called trite, or derivative.”

Behind Jaskier, Eskel saw something flash in Geralt’s eyes, and he stood from the table, clearing his plate, but then Jaskier was telling a story about Rumi, his former professor, and Eskel’s attention was diverted.

The next week passed in peace, for the most part. Repairs to the keep were ongoing, but halted when the snow was heavy. Vesemir kept them training and the library, neglected by all but Eskel, kept Jaskier busy. At mealtimes and in the evenings Eskel and Jaskier chatted about art and music and life on the Path. But Geralt was subdued, something tired and sad gleaming in his golden eyes. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he fled when Eskel tried.

It hurt, that Geralt suddenly wouldn’t talk to him, but Eskel knew the white wolf better than anyone, so he cornered him in the training yard one afternoon and pinned him down.

“Talk. To. Me,” he panted, grinding Geralt’s shoulders into the flagstones.

“Nothing to say,” Geralt grunted.

“Bullshit.”

“Nothing!”

“You keep hiding! It’s not nothing!”

Geralt kicked his feet up, flipping them both over and freeing himself. He stood over Eskel who was still laying on the ground. “You can have him,” he said, beginning to walk away.

Eskel snagged his ankle, bringing his idiot wolf down to the ground without remorse. “You’re stupid.”

“I’m not, he adores you. You have so much in common, it makes sense.”

Eskel remembered the conversation of the year before. Please don’t take my bard.

“I’m not taking your lover boy from you,” he snapped.

“He’s not my lover boy.”

“He would be if you would only ask him.”

“He deserves better.”

“He wants you.”

“He wants you,” Geralt howled. “He looks at you like you got out a ladder and personally nailed the moon to the sky. Every time you talk he hangs on your words.”

“He looks at you the same way,” Eskel said, quietly. “And I...” He paused. This was so close to the thing they never talked about.

“You don’t look at me that way,” Geralt whispered.

“But I feel it all the same.”

The admission rang in the empty training yard, despite it being barely a whisper.

“I want you to have him, to be with him, because the two of you are made for eachother. It was obvious to me before you’d even met. I just wish,” Geralt stopped, his voice growing tight.

“What do you wish?”

“I just hate that it hurts so much. I love you both, I do, so so much, and all I want is you two happy, and you’ll be happy together, but I just wish it didn’t cut me out.”

Eskel rolled over and bumped his forehead to Geralt’s. There were tear tracks in the dirt there. “It doesn’t have to. That’s a silly rule and you made it up for yourself. I love you both and he loves us both, so you can have us both.”

Geralt sat up, bringing Eskel with him, then pulled him into a kiss that burned. It was a simple press of their lips together but Eskel felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Oh,” came a quiet voice from the nearby doorway. Jaskier was standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “I’ll just--”

“Stay,” Eskel said, chuckling. He pulled Jaskier down to sit on the flagstones with them. “I think Geralt has something he wants to tell you.”

Geralt looked nervous. He swallowed a couple times, eyes darting over Jaskier’s face. “I...” He said. “Um, what Eskel means is that... um, I”

“Oh you great big oaf,” Eskel said. “Jaskier, he loves you, he’s absolutely mad about you. He just can’t say it because he loves me too and it’s taken him the better part of a century to tell me.”

Jaskier beamed, his blush growing. “And you?” he said.

“I’m not sure I love you yet,” Eskel said. “But I think I will.”

“I think I will too,” Jaskier said, then he leaned in and brushed a soft kiss to Eskel’s lips, off center, so it brushed his scar and part of his cheek too. Then he kissed Geralt the same way.

“Aiden’s going to be so pissed that he lost the bet,” Jaskier said, as if he hadn’t just rocked both witchers’ worlds with a mere kiss. “He bet Lambert you wouldn’t figure it out until next week.”

“You knew,” Eskel said, touching the tips of his fingers to where his face was still tingling from the kiss.

“They way Geralt talks about you, well...” Jaskier said, smiling at Geralt. “And then the way you talk about him,” he smiled at Eskel. “And the way you both look at me, I knew. I just wasn’t sure you knew.” His smile shifted into something bashful and a little insecure. It was an odd look on his normally confident face. “And it seemed too much to assume you both would really want me, I’m not all,” he gestured at his shoulders and arms, obviously comparing their builds.

Eskel couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. “We don’t care about that,” he said, carding his hand through Jaskier’s hair and revelling in the way the bard leaned into his touch. “I’ve seen Geralt with a face full of pimples, and I mean full, and that was back when he was calling himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. It isn’t about looks.” He trailed his eyes across Jaskier. “And even if it was we wouldn’t find you wanting.”

“He’s right,” Geralt said, pressing a little kiss right behind Jaskier’s ear. “We find nothing about you wanting.”

“You both are going to leave me wanting if you’re not careful,” Jaskier whined, borderline laciviously. He leaned back against Geralt and pulled Eskel closer, kissing Eskel’s cheek chastely in spite of his words. When he turned to kiss Geralt’s cheek too Eskel nuzzled closer, feeling Geralt’s arms pull him into the pair of them.

“You have to promise to write me into your poetry, after all this,” he said.

Jaskier laughed, head tilting back and eyes crinkling at the corners. “As if I haven’t already,” he whispered.

Three months later the great bard Jaskier debuted his latest poetry anthology. Silver and Steel was praised by academics across the continent, although the line about being eaten alive was highly debated. Jaskier’s sudden penchant for high collars might have answered the questions, but he wasn’t about to give away the secret.

#jaskel #geralt x jaskier x eskel #this is stupid but happy #less funny than the first bit #but more cute #the witcher #jaskier is a famous bard #eskel is his fanboy #geralt loves them both very much

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pri00r · 3 years

Text

Bruised Knuckles

Pairing : Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier

Warning(s) : Blood , Nosebleed, Someone breaking someone else nose (it’s Valdo , it’s worth it.)

Rating : General

Words count : 6900 (nice hehe)

Edit : Now with the "Read More" option

Geralt had been promised the best ale of Oxenfurt , instead he had gained first seat to a fight between two bards in the middle of a tavern and honestly what else did he expect after falling for Jaskier’s advices. Now they are in an alley screaming at each other and someone is about to say too much.

Geralt get to see Jaskier punch someone and be covered in blood , get yelled at and have a ”…oh-” moment.

Read on AO3

Geralt can’t help but blame himself for this whole mess.

No truly what a stupid idea it had been to listen to the bard. But he had just wanted to drink a few ales- no. Scratch that : one ale. Just one who wasn’t watered down or served in a dirty cup by a grunting barman as unwashed as his dishes.

So when it was almost time for him to go to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier to Oxenfurt , the bard had started to sing the praise (not literally , thanks Melitele ) of a small tavern hidden in the city , who always served the top shelf alcohol with no distinction on who was buying as long as they had the coin to pay for it. And in that case it was Jaskier who promised to pay for it.

So sue him for being weak once and wanting to treat himself to one thing before the long trek up the blue mountain to the Wolves’s keep.

And now if he could , he would have been willing to give good money to any mage or sorceress just to go back in time and stop himself.

Truly he should’ve known. He always did when things looked too good to be true : it was because it was often the case. But the constant babbling of his side-kick must’ve droned his sense of logic.

When they got to the city it was almost already dark out due to the approaching winter hours. They dropped their things at an inn (Geralt didn’t really understood why Jaskier insisted on taking a room with him since they were in Oxenfurt already but he said something about his professor quarter not being ready yet.) The stableboy had looked up at Roach with stars in his eyes , probably thinking that a horse who traveled with a witcher was much cooler than the old mares of the travelling merchants.

She was being brushed while munching on fresh grains almost immediately , already in her own little world and giving a look to Geralt that seemed to tell him to go away as it was her ”me time”.

And well she deserved as much so Geralt left her to her selfcare session , trusting the young boy to treat her well.

So they dropped their thing and headed toward the promising inn. And well…

”You brought me to a place called.. ‘The Gentle Duck’ ?” Geralt couldn’t have hidden his disapproval if he tried.

”Hush now Geralt !” Jaskier said ; he was wearing his luth on his back , a spring in his steps , clearly hoping to get a late night gig at this place.

”No matter the name this place is one of the best in the whole city ! The number of times I got drunk during my studies oh oh !” He had a faraway look in his eyes , clearly remembering younger days.

”I must’ve drank at least once in every joint of this city during my years here and I’m giving you the honor of trying the best of it all ! So yes the name might seem a bit.. juvenile , but I promise the quality of the alcohol will quickly make you forget all about it ! That’s a man promise.”

”Careful” Geralt chuckled. ”I’m a witcher , if this alcohol can make me forget something I might end up forgetting you first.”

Geralt easily dodged the smack Jaskier tried to land on his shoulder which only made him huff in annoyance. But the witcher could see that he wasn’t truly offended : even with frowning eyebrows , Jaskier couldn’t properly hide the smile on his face.

If he had been anyone else Geralt might have smiled too and kept on joking. But he was a witcher and he knew that it was a matter of great survival to never show weakness in front of this bard. At the risk of the memory being stored away in his mind and it being mentioned even months later.

(He had laughed once when Jaskier fell in that lake. It wasn’t even a full belly laugh but the bard milked the memory as much as he could in the following months.)

——-

Jaskier opened the doors of the establishment in a flourish. His smile didn’t even falter when it was clear a bard had already been hired for the night. His music wasn’t terrible but definitely forgettable , more here to set an ambiance than to make the crowd sing and dance.

The place wasn’t crowded to the brim but it certainly was filled. Geralt didn’t have to avoid any shoulders or elbows but only the waitresses passing by , arms filled with empty cups , plates and full pitchers. Apparently Jaskier wasn’t lying about the quality of the place if the scholars , students and other crowd of people all mixing here were to back up his claim.

And Jaskier took this place like a fish to water , waving at future coworkers for the upcoming semester at Oxenfurt or old students of his watching him with an admiration and respect Geralt will probably never get used to.

He fluttered around before walking directly toward the bar , Geralt not far behind. After all, it was Jaskier’s coin that was going to pay for the whole thing and he wasn’t going to wait for the bard to make his rounds to say hello to everyone before getting his promised drink.

As Jaskier was sweet talking the man behind the counter, (probably finally aware that Geralt intended to take full advantage of his purse for once) the wolf swept his eyes around the room out of habit and gave it a sniff. The place actually smelled…okay. There was no stable near to sour the smell in the air or drunkard puking on one of the walls. Actual dried bouquets of the last flowers of the season were hanging on some of the pillars giving off a pleasant but not overpowering scent. There also was a lantern hanging by a window slightly open to let it fresh air , in it a leftover lemon-grass scented candle to prevent the remaining bugs who still hadn’t died from the upcoming cold from coming in and bother the merry drunks.

And as soon as Geralt moved his eyes from all the little smelling decorations , he saw from the corner of his eyes a flurry of blond hair and blue cloth. Actually he would have smelled the person before seeing hadn’t it been for the dried flowers and candle masking it at first.

But then a strong perfume of lavender suddenly hit his nose as the figure got closer. It made him think about how Jaskier lost the habit of wearing such powerful perfume quite early in their travels together and he was secretly relieved.

”My, my, Julek !” the figure suddenly spoke. ”Had I known you’d already arrived here I would have never set foot in this place. I mean I know that the coin has to come from somewhere but I never thought they would lower themselves to such clientele !” the lavender-smelling-man said , a smug smile on his face barely hidden by the most obnoxious little mustache Geralt had ever seen in his life. It reminded him of a weasel and by the tone of his voice he clearly wasn’t so far off in his comparison.

Immediately Jaskier’s happy mood soured to a point where Geralt could smell it rolling out in waves out of the bardling. He hid it behind his own smile but Geralt could clearly see the murder in his eyes as he was sure the lavender-smelling-man could too.

”Valdo Marx ! It’s quite funny you would say such a thing , after all it seems to me that you were served alright. But what are you doing here so late in the season ?” Jaskier was leaning on the counter , he would have played the perfect concerned friend had it not been for his smug smile he wasn’t even trying to hide.

”You are usually already holed up in the first noble house that is willing to keep you for the winter. But.. since you’re here.. oh !” He made a pained noise like a condescending adult pretending to care about a child’s trouble. ”..it seems as if the Poviss accident really hurt your reputation then didn’t it ? Oh you poor thing.” The nickname was said in a honeyed voice dripping with faux-concern.

And whatever this Poviss Accident had been , the mention of it was enough to wipe the smug face of Valdo Marx whom Geralt finally took the time to look at head to toes.

Jaskier’s nemesis wasn’t wearing any instrument on him and yet he was the spitting image of a classic court bard. Up to the color of his doublet : a royal blue and if the witcher could trust his vague memories of what Jaskier had said about him , Valdo was the type of bard who would sing a song about any royal or noble willing to pay , no matter their reputation or recent political scandal.

Something Jaskier scoffed at , being censored and told what to sing meant you had just been good at finding the melody and that wasn't anything to be proud of.

He had mid-long straw colored hair that looked more brushed and cared for than those of most of the noble ladies Geralt ever met. And most importantly a stupid hat with the most ridiculous feather that was probably dyed as no creature alive arbored such colors.

And he also happened to be the bard Jaskier had tried to make drop dead the second he believed he had gained wishes during the whole Djinn debacle.

”Jaskier.” Geralt warned. He had come here for an ale not whatever…this was about to become. Which thinking now was probably a bad move as Valdo’s eyes were on him. To give him credit at this point he wasn’t reeking of fear…yet.

”Speaking of reputation : I see that you are still following the Butcher around like a lost pup. Tell me now, have you managed to write any good songs about swamps monsters lately ? After all this seems to be your weird obsession now.”

Jaskier frowned , clearly not taking lightly the jab at his choice for subject of writing.

”I’d rather write about the most hideous creature that whatever bland royalist bullshit you still manage to choke out. Come now Valérie at your age you should really consider finally doing something original in your life.”

Jaskier's voice had taken a sharp tone , the bard will to keep up decorum in public clearly thining. At least he wasn’t shouting to the man like Geralt had seen him do in the more backwater tavern when men criticized his songs.

As the thing started to clearly escalate and the promised ale never coming, Geralt finally noticed that people started to be paying attention, clearly eager to see what two bards fighting will end up looking like. He groaned internally , if at least he had gotten that ale before all of this happened.

”-quite the fucking audacity coming from a man who failed theory of music twice !”

And while he had been distracted the two bards were now raising their voices more and more while he had less and less patience. He finally put a hand on Jaskier's shoulder trying to turn him toward the bar.

Jaskier had gone from his relaxed stance against the counter to nearly nose to nose with his opponent; he had almost expected him to be tugging at his hair already.

”Ignore him, Jask , he is probably already drunk and not worth it.” By the smell he knew that the opposite bard was only buzzed and not that drunk but at this point he was willing to say anything to stop this from going too far. Jaskier huffed but was willing to stop giving Valdo the evil eye and went back toward the counter. That was of course without taking into consideration the fact that Valdo Marx wasn’t going to be very cooperative.

”You do well to walk away Julek at least I won’t have to see your ugly head ruining my drink.” Valdo scoffed.

And Jaskier the slippery bastard turned around in a gasp and pointed a finger toward the other man while Geralt quickly took a fistful of the back of his doublet clearly not in the mood to haul Jaskier back to the inn if he tried to start a bar fight.

"Me ? Ugly ? What a fucking joke coming from you ! Have you seen yourself lately ? You're so ugly , you make drowners and grave hags look hot !"

Valdo let out an offended squeak.

"You.. ! You take that back you bastard!" He scoffed "It's no wonder you would find those monsters attractive after all since..since you're already the witcher's whore !"

Geralt doesn't know how it happened -maybe it was the shock of the insult that let him lose his grip on the bard a little bit- but next thing he knew , Jaskier had crossed the room and punched Valdo Marx straight in the face. He heard a crunch and then blood started to gush on both the bards. Valdo let out a scream and clutched his nose while stumbling back , tripping on his own feet and falling on the ground , clearly not expecting their verbal jousting to come to such blows.

He wasn’t able to see how badly the nose was with all the blood coming out profusely and the bard not taking his hand off from it , trying still in shock to stop the bleeding.

Someone had gasped in the crowd and like wild animals , the blood got the attention of everyone in the room.

…yeah Geralt really wanted to go back in time right about now.

”What the fuck Julian !” Valdo hollered in genuine shock.

Jaskier just looked at his own fist : Valdo’s nose started to bleed as if he had a sliced neck, not just a nosebleed, it was like a bottle of sparkling red wine which had been shaken before being opened. And for a fleeting second Jaskier pulled a face , Geralt thought it was a grimace but instead realised it was some sort of smile.

But Jaskier’s face suddenly fell , probably realising only now how unfitting it was for a bard such as himself to break his opponent's nose using his ring-clad fist in public , quickly turned back and grabbed Geralt's arm, tugging him to run away with him.

”Fuck ! Fuck , fuck , fucking fuck-” he gasped.

Had Jaskier been anyone else trying to grab Geralt's arm and tug him away he would have failed miserably. He only moved because he allowed it. After all he was all muscles and if he wanted to, he could be impossible to move , like a tree taking roots.

He cast one last mournful look at a pitcher filled with ale in one of the waitress trays they passed and let himself be dragged out of the tavern and into a random alley.

No really he should have known this proposed ale was too good to be true.

_______

It's only after a few minutes of running that he noticed the weird noises that Jaskier was letting out. The idiot was probably hurt or worse : crying.

He was probably panicking from what he just did in front of his peers and future students , all because that stupid bastard had used Geralt against him. The white haired witcher then realised that out of all the insults it was this last one that broke the camel's back. Something he had noticed before already : Jaskier could be called a harlot by someone and still laugh and brush it off as if it was a joke between old friends , but the second Geralt was insulted in front of him he would gasp and start shouting back.

And now the wolf probably was going to have to deal with a sobbing bard and Gods above Geralt was too sober to even think about that.

"Jaskier stop…Jaskier !" Gerat said.

The witcher nearly tumbled into the bard back when he suddenly stopped , only avoiding it using his witcher reflexes. And that's when he realised that in between gasps of air , Jaskier had been laughing.

The front of his doublet and one of his fist still covered with the blood of his nemesis. Seeing the bard out of breath glowing under the moon , covered in blood and laughing hysterically made Geralt feel… something.

However he quickly brushed it off , secretly relieved that he wasn’t going to have to deal with the sobbing mess the bard could sometimes become. Years of companionship and everytime the bard would cry in front of him Geralt panicked like on his first contract , having no idea what to do.

”Did you see his face ?! And the noise that he made ?! He sounded like a squeaking frog !” Jaskier cackled while swiping the back of his hand on his chin to catch the pearls of sweat that started to form along his chin , effectively smudging even more blood on his face. And Gods why did it make Geralt feel like that ?

Geralt took in the bloody knuckles of the man in front of him. The ring on his fingers had probably hurt him nearly as much as it had hurted that other bastard’s face. They were in an alley without their pack so he couldn’t do much.

He took him by the elbow and directed him to sit on a barrel that had been left out in the street and was under relatively good moonlight. He had patted Jaskier's back pocket to find the cloth napkin he knew the young man always had on him. The man in question was even too out of it to make a joke about Geralt sudden groping.

After managing to catch Jaskier’s wrist and letting him use the other to gesticulate wildly as he rambled , he took off the rings that adorned his fingers. Jaskier usually never wore those on the road for obvious reasons but as soon as they passed Oxenfurt’s walls he started to feel safe and protected enough to parade around in his almost full glory.

”I’ve been walking in the forest with no one to appreciate my fine outfits except for you and Roach… well mostly Roach.” he had muttered. ”So excuse me for wanting to look presentable ! You never know when I will cross paths with an adoring fan !” he had said when he slipped the rings on his fingers in the middle of the busy streets.

Now dark bruises were already forming as well as a few open cuts covered in blood that certainly belonged to a bard , now to guess which one was a whole other thing. Geralt used the cloth to dab at the bruised knuckles to get the blood out of the way using some of the moonglow and his own witcher heightened senses. Well more like tried to as the bardling was clearly buzzing with adrenaline and not sitting still.

"Ye Gods ! When the others will hear about this ! Ah ah ah ! My heart is beating so fast ! I can feel it in my throat ! Does yours beat fast as well after a good fight ? Gosh the rush is just-"

"Your form was all wrong." Geralt grunted.

Jaskier stopped his flow of words.

"Pardon ?"

"Your form" Geralt insisted. "You didn't even put your thumb outside of your fist , you threw with your upper body not using a good stance. You could have cracked your thumb with how bad it was." He wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing on his current task.

Jaskier scoffed.

"Well as bad as it was I still managed to break that weasel nose so-"

"And why did you even do that ?" Geralt asked suddenly . He stopped dabbing at the knuckles and looked up at Jaskier.

And what a sight.

His cheeks were red from the running , his hair disheveled and he still was slightly short of breath. Geralt could smell the thin layer of sweat that had formed on his skin as well as the freckles and smudge of blood he had on his chin , at some point some of it even got on his lips making Geralt’s eyes spend a second too long on them.

"...because he insulted you." Jaskier answered almost shyly, noticing the look the man in front of him was giving him.

And at that Geralt had to stand up , letting go of the bloodied hand but still gripping the handkerchief.

"You always do that ! It's so stupid !" The wolf snapped.

For a second both stood still. Jaskier silent for the first time in minutes and Geralt trying and for once being the one failing to stop the flow of words trying to get out.

”I’m not.. I’m not some knight who needs his honor protected at all times, Jaskier ! You out of all people should know that and yet you keep doing … that ! Getting into fights with idiots ; you never defend yourself like that when someone insults your singing or yourself !” He almost wanted to ask why but something in him stopped him , probably feeling that somehow he couldn’t handle the answer.

Jaskier scoffed.

”Because there is no need ! I’m a bard , I ought to disturb some of the most bland and closed minded peasants or rightfully so piss off some husband whose wife I slept with !” Jaskier passed the hand that wasn’t bloody in his hair and the sweat caused them to stick out , really giving him the ruffled look and Gods- focus Geralt !

”But you , Geralt they keep saying all that bullshit about witchers and-”

”And it makes your song look bad doesn't it ?” Geralt interrupted.

Jaskier looked at him truly shocked for the first time tonight.

”What are you talking about ? Of course it’s not about that and you know it.” Jaskier said his brow frowned. Good at playing the confused one Geralt thought back.

This had been a thought that had been in the back of Geralt’s mind. He knew that Jaskier had to have an ulterior motive to keep travelling with him. Sure he never wrote anything that Geralt told him to keep secret but in the end the bard was probably just using him right ?

Had Geralt been paying attention he would’ve been able to smell that Jaskier wasn’t lying , actually he was smelling more and more angry but his mind was being louder than his logic , like it had been all night long.

”Oh please , the witcher you’ve written your song about and tried so badly to fix his terrible reputation is starting to get disliked again ? You can’t have that : would look bad for business doesn’t it ? ”Geralt let out a sharp humourless laugh.

”I’m willing to admit that the song might have helped a little but it would be annoying for you if I were to do anything to tarnish your hard work ! That’s why you’ve been defending my name so much : Would be terrible if people started to call me The Bu-”

Jaskier , who had been sitting on the old barrel in the alley suddenly rose and shoved one of his bloodied fingers into Geralt’s chest.

”Now you shut up , you moronic idiot ! For once in your life you are going to really really fucking listen to me.” Jaskier said and just like in the tavern , he had murder in his eyes and Geralt would never admit that he was troubled for a second to be the person whom that stare was directed to.

”I wrote that song because all the bullshit said about witcher was always that : bullshit. You save people from monsters and their own stupidity and yet you never get any thanks because of what ? You have shiny feline eyes and magic hand thingy ! Whatever ! What a big fucking deal ! There are knights out there who don’t know how to carry their sword better than they hold their own dick and with much more songs and tales told about them.” The bard was back to talking rapidly and waving his hands around in clear frustration. Mind you he was still covered in blood and his outfit all rumpled , it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that he looked somewhat… feral.

”Did you really think for a second that I would spend all of those years following you around to what ? Babysit you and make sure your stupid ass doesn’t ruin my song’s fame ? Have you even heard of my own reputation ? I’m the bard who sings about witchers and sorceresses falling in and out of love when all convention would want me to be singing about knights and noble ladies ! I chose to sing those stories instead the one I was fed over and over again in my youth , because I lo-” he coughed

”Because I admire you !” he ended up squeaking out.

Geralt tried to respond but Jaskier was going to finish his monologue.

”You speak in grunts and monosyllabic sounds and yet I've learned each and everyone of their meanings. I know which oil you prefer for your bath , in which bag to look in for your potions. Do you think I've learnt those things out of obligation ? At the risk of breaking your heart dear witcher I’ve had other muses , some of which I never took half the time to learn about as I did for you !

Those songs I've sang and the one yet to be sung , there are thousands of those ! From…from the way you like to talk to Roach or the squinting thing you do with your nose when you get in a room and smell it -and don’t fucking dare telling me you don’t do that !”

Jaskier was absolutely frantic , he knew that he was saying too much , that Geralt never took kindly to excessive displays of affection and or admiration. Years prior in their relationship he would’ve already tried to gag the bard to make him shut up two minutes into his word flow. But he just couldn’t stop , the adrenaline rush refusing to crash down. And by the Gods Geralt seemed glued in place too.

”So yes when someone insults you I see red , Geralt ! Because if only the world could see a fraction of the person you are under all that dark leather and monster guts they would see all the good ! You deserve so much more and sure I can’t change the world with song but I’ll be damned if I don’t fucking try !”

Geralt decided to try his best to ignore most of what he just heard , his mind racing so much. Jaskier was a liar , liar , liar. He must be , because no one would do this for a witcher…right ?

”And by changing the world you mean like punching every bigot you meet ? You could break your fingers and then what ? Huh ? No more songs for your songbird !” Geralt couldn't help the way his voice sounded. So cruel even to his own ears but he was defensive , never in all his long life someone tried to change anything just..for him.

Jaskier looked away first. He was getting tired , tired of screaming at a wall with the man behind it refusing to believe him no matter what.

”I could..still be useful you know.. even without my music.” he muttered. And Melitele’s tits Geralt hadn’t meant it like that.

”This isn't about you being useful Jaskier ! It’s about your survival ! You can’t just throw yourself in brawls , your good intention won’t change the fact that you can’t throw a punch for shit.” This was going so wrong and Geralt couldn’t stop. He was supposed to make the bard see reason , not insult him. But Jaskier couldn’t seem to stop himself either.

”Are you fucking kidding me ? You , the Geralt of bloody Rivia , giving me a lesson on self preservation ?” Jaskier forced a dry laugh. ”The man I had to tackle and bear-hug for twenty minutes last week so you would let me take a look at your shoulder to stitch up after that kikimorra’as attack ?”

”Oh please there was nothing bear-like about what you did , have you seen yourself ? And you want me to trust you with a needle ? Geralt answered , his blood starting to boil with how the shouting match was going.

”You bastard ! I learned to do that with Shani last winter !” Jaskier just about shouted at Geralt's face -and wait when did they get so close to each other ?

”Why would you even do that ?” Geralt asked genuinely surprised. Jaskier, no matter what he said, was always good at avoiding fights with monsters at least. The worst injury he had ever gotten was due to a Djinn and it wasn’t going to be criss cross stitches that would ever help with that.

Jaskier let out a guttural groan tugging at his own hair. Geralt couldn’t be this dense could he ? He had literally shouted his devotion to the man's face and it clearly barely made a dent in the witcher's thick skull.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He had laid it all out for Geralt to understand and yet here he was at the same point at the start of the whole fight : why was Jaskier doing all these things ? It was bloody obvious because Jaskier was obviously-

”BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU ! YOU DENSE FUCKING IDIOT !” The young man shouted.

Jaskier had fantasized about kissing Geralt. Of course he had ! Have you ever seen him ? Jaskier dreamt of kissing the man the minute he slid on the chair in front of the witcher in Posada twelve years ago. But it always had been just that : fantasies. He knew deep inside of him that it would never happen.

And so he dreamt : That after a vicious monster fight in which Jaskier barely escaped with his life , Geralt would realise how fleeting his human life was and declare his undying love here and there and kiss him until he could see stars.

Or at one of the banquets they would sometimes go , he would see Jaskier dancing with someone in the crowd and be overcome with jealousy. He would grab the man just to kiss him in a secret alcove.

That they would wake up together in the same bed like they already did thousands of times before , with a soft ray of sunlight covering them both in warmth. They would look into each other's eyes and just know. No words needed , just looks instead of words.

And all this daydreaming was sometimes the only thing that kept Jaskier going on the Path sometimes.

All those imaginary scenarios always had something in common : it would always end up in a kiss full of passion and love.

However as he looked at Geralt under the moonlight he only felt anger and exasperation. So maybe it was the idea that he had nothing to lose anymore that made him take a step forward as the white wolf was still taking in the sudden love confession and shove his hands in his hair. Nevermind that the movement made his bruised knuckles ache. Geralt quickly took Jaskier’s wrist in his hands, probably thinking that he was about to get attacked.

”I want to kiss you right now and if you don’t want it you can just shove me to the ground you stupid fuck.” Jaskier said in a voice thick with anger , still wanting to ask for permission even in all of this. Geralt let out a small gasp that the bard could only hear because of how close he was. When Geralt didn’t say anything , Jaskier growled.

”Usually people expect a response after that dear wolf.”

Geralt seemed to snap out of it and growled back : ”Fuck Jaskier- you speak too much , be useful with that mouth for once would you ?”

And so Jaskier did.

Him and Geralt were almost the same height but as Jaskier shoved him in the brick wall behind him and looked into his amber colored eyes, it was easy to feel like he was the one towering over him. And when he finally , finally , kissed him it was like a dam breaking.

So many years of pinning , and daydreaming and nothing could have prepared him for the wave of feeling that took Jaskier over. He had imagined soft lips , soft kisses and instead this kiss almost felt like a fight.

This definitely had more teeth than in his fantasies but he wasn’t complaining.

Both men groaned. Jaskier still had smudged blood on one his lip giving the kiss a coppery taste. The kiss was hard , Jaskier didn’t want to stop for one second even if he couldn’t breathe. He caught Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth to slightly nip at it and licked it just after. Meanwhile the witcher relaxed enough to let go of the bard wrist , instead he put one of his own hand near his neck , against his pulse point (he didn’t even need to feel it to know that Jaskier’s heart was beating like a hummingbird) and the other tugging his waist to bring him even closer.

Jaskier still broke the kiss first -damn his human lungs- to take a gulp of air but immediately went back with the hunger of a starving man. Some of the blood on his face had transferred into Geralt's already bruising lips and using his tongue he licked it off and started kissing his jaw instead.

”Fuck— Jaskier…” Geralt let out.

Jaskier scoffed.

”Certainly not darling : I haven’t been waiting to kiss you for so long just to bend over in the first dirty alley you find when you finally let me indulge.”

Geralt had to bite back a moan : he hadn’t meant it like that. But now the mental image didn’t want to leave him.

Jaskier meanwhile had gone from peppering kisses all over his jaw to his neck , getting dangerously close to his collarbone for someone who didn’t want to be fucked in a back alley.

”Gods Jask you-…you need to stop.” Geralt forced himself to say even if his whole body was screaming at him to keep going and going.

Jaskier to his credit as soon as he heard Geralt's request stopped , not without letting out a small whine before.

They both looked at each other panting : Geralt back against the wall , some strand of hair had fallen from his bun and almost hid his blown out pupils that glowed a warm amber.

Jaskier licked his lips to get the last trace of blood off of them , his lips red and bruised from the forceful kissing. He was blushing to the tips of his ears and his anger had settled down enough for him to start doubting his action.

What if Geralt regretted everything ? Oh Melitele’s tits he was about to get punched or worse Geralt was going to freak out and never talk to him again. Gosh he just had to ruin everything because of his stupid stupid crush and-

Probably seeing (and smelling) the fear that was forming at the pit of the bard’s stomach , Geralt moved his right hand from Jaskier's neck to his jaw to bring him close enough to kiss him again , much softer than before.

The bard eyelid fluttered before closing , wanting to feel this fully.

”Oh Geralt. ” he sighed in the kiss. He cupped the witcher's face in his hands.

”You are so gorgeous , my beautiful beautiful beloved.” Jaskier murmured against his lips. The fire inside of him had calmed down enough to just make him feel warm all over.

Geralt hummed but Jaskier started to think. He had never answered his confession. What truly were his feelings for him in all of this ? And secretly he knew that it would take more than his confession to have Geralt’s walls fully disappear. So he broke the kiss for a second time and looked the white wolf in the eye.

”I swear Geralt I- I’m not lying : I do love you oh so much my wolf. I would never lie to you about my feelings. Please you must trust me” Jaskier pleaded.

He knew the walls that Geralt put around himself , he witnessed some of them crumble just to be built back up immediately after. He was familiar with those which is why he knew that telling all of those things once sometimes wasn’t enough for him.

They had been friends for years for fuck sake and Geralt still tensed sometimes when Jaskier referred to him as such. He was like a frightened animal everytime he had to talk about his emotion but Jaskier knew that Geralt felt so much more that he pretended. You just had to know what to look for.

The way his eyes would slightly glaze over when remembering a fond moment with his brothers at Kaer Morhen , how he always made sure to give Jaskier the bigger part of a meal when they had to split it or without looking sometimes he would redirect Jaskier from wandering too far away by having Roach walk closer.

The way he looked at the remains of a grave hag , the body still covered in the traditional wedding garbs or at a ghoul he just killed, clearly not tall enough to be an adult.

He had lived for hundreds of years and saw many tragic things , the job required him to. So it was hard for him to see the good in the world , which was what Jaskier had tried so hard to make him see. Let it be by making them take the long road less travelled to pick up flowers or find fruits hanging from hidden trees.

Knowing every town festival and in which season they started so they could stay a day or two while the town was buzzing with an happy energy while putting up flowers everywhere and the smell of baked goods wafting through the household window.

”I know it’s not easy to trust my words so I shall repeat myself everyday if you let me-”

”Jaskier it’s okay” Geralt interrupted.

”I-… i’m not going to lie that it’s going to take me a while for this to truly sink in , I want to believe you so bad but.. well bad habits die hard I guess.” he gave a sad smile.

”I want… Well, I don’t really know what I want. You make me feel so.. weird and stupid sometimes and I can’t feel like that : I’m a witcher not a teenager. And yet , I want to kiss you , never stop and do so much more.”

Geralt truly didn’t know what he wanted , the idea of acting like a couple with Jaskier felt odd , weird even. But here : hidden in the dark , almost seemingly alone in the world he felt safe enough to mention the thing he wanted to indulge in with his songbird.

”But I feel like maybe … I kind of knew.” He continued ”I’m bad at noticing all the little things but they always stand out more after you leave. My pack is a mess after 3 days. Late nights are so silent and when I see a patch of flowers I know you love to braid in Roach’s hair my heart.. it does a thing…. Also you’re not very subtle when you’re drunk but well.. I just assumed that you were always like that with everyone.”

Drunk Jaskier was clingy as Geralt learned early in their travels : he wanted to hug and dance , use pet names left and right clearly to hide that he had no idea who he was talking to at the moment and mostly : be the big spoon in bed.

Jaskier started to blush again this time definitely out of embarrassment. He did get a little desperate a few years into their travels together and started using being drunk as an excuse sometimes to do things he knew Geralt would have never let him do while sober.

He tucked one of Geralt snow-white hair strands behind his ear.

”I will make you believe me Geralt , I promise I will : for you dear heart I would do anything…. Like break the nose of that stupid bard all over again. Well okay I will admit , it would also be for me a little bit” Jaskier chuckled.

And Geralt’s heart did the thing again when he heard the pet name Jaskier used , like it did everytime they were directed toward him.

He took Jaskier's bruised hand and kissed his knuckles gently.

”I think songbird… that if you keep doing it I might be able to believe you.” He said while looking at him in his cornflower eyes.

And Jaskier smiled at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world , as if just giving him permission to try was the most beautiful gift he ever gave him.

”Well I better get started soon and work hard because my Geralt : I love you so much my beautiful beautiful wolf” Jaskier murmured before finally kissing Geralt in the way he daydreamed : full of love and tenderness.

And maybe just maybe Geralt finally did as much , for he too had daydreamed about kissing the bard many times in the recent years. And he had to admit that right now in this alley under the moonlight , Jaskier was still smelling faintly of blood , his arm around his neck and yet he couldn't have daydreamed about anything better than this even if in the end he never got his ale.

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