#jaskier just SO fucking frustrated because he's good at being a bard it turns out!! saved geralt's rep and everything!!

[tears-and-smiles-ao3]

Petals In A Storm

Chapter 2: Back on the beaten track

Fic masterpost

Jaskier shivered as the cool light of dawn peeked through the cell’s only window, high up on the wall. His hands were wrapped tight around his middle, trying to keep the heat in, but he was still freezing. Teeth chattering, he grimaced. This was a new low, even for him.

His face had cuts from when the guard had thrown him into the cell, slamming against the uneven stone floor. They stung now in the frigid air of early morning and he winced, but worse still was the smell from the soiled straw that covered the ground.

“Fucking, fuck,” Jaskier swore, curling deeper into himself. His muscles ached from lying on the floor all night and he was incredibly bored. His only company were three mice who snuggled into him for warmth. He hoped they got it, because he certainly wasn’t.

He was humming a tune, just trying to keep his mind busy, when a new guard came to take over from the night shift. He heard them talking about him, the awful names they called him, laughing at him. He shut his eyes tight and hummed louder, trying to ignore the painful words they said.

He was just about managing it when something heavy clanged off the jail bars.

“Shut up, tramp,” the new guard yelled. Jaskier grumbled, misery setting in deeper while watching the guard look at him with disgust. Their eyes locked for a moment before the guard sneered and turned around, making another rude joke at his expense.

Fucking typical. It had been a long night already and now he was forced to listen to this incessant gibbering. He pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes in frustration.

*

Sleep had come for him eventually. The sheer exhaustion he felt was enough to knock him out for a few hours.

Now as he opened his eyes, he saw a thin ray of sunlight over in the far corner. The mice had already left him, scampering about the cell and squeaking loudly.

It was quieter outside, enough that crawling across the floor towards the patch of light felt deafening, but even feeling the slim rays of sun against his face was enough to lift his spirits a little.

He had no idea how long he was supposed to stay here. When he’d been led away to a cell for the night previously, the guards had kicked him out in the morning. It seemed being too drunk or getting into a fight wasn’t viewed as negatively as having sex out in the street.

Jaskier swore under his breath, bemoaning his situation, when he heard a familiar voice.

“Are you holding Jaskier the bard here?” Sam’s sweet voice rang out through the prison and Jaskier jumped up, brushing his clothes to get rid of the straw and dust from the ground.

When he saw Sam’s face peek through the jail bars, his heart skipped a beat. He’d never been so glad to see him, even though it had only been one night. One night apart had been too hard to handle.

“Sam,” he called out, rushing to the gate. He saw his baker smile, looking relieved to see him, then frowned as he took in his face. Jaskier leaned against the bars, reaching out his hand towards him.

“Get back in there,” the nasty morning guard snapped, throwing a hardened roll at him and Jaskier pulled his arm back as if he had been stung. His eyes swivelled from Sam to the guard, then back at Sam, wondering what would happen next.

“If I were you, I would leave this dirty peasant alone, good sir,” chimed the guard. “He’s been whoring himself out, that one. Best find yourself someone who is loyal.”

Jaskier lowered his eyes to the ground and swallowed hard. It was true, Sam could do much better than him. He had been taking far too many risks lately and it was inevitable that he would end up locked up permanently at some point, but he wasn’t a whore. It was just that he liked sex and the opportunities were there.

Sam wasn’t looking at him when Jaskier flickered his eyes back up. No, instead Sam was staring at the guard with a look that Jaskier had never seen on his face before.

“What charge is Jaskier held on?” he growled.

The guard snorted. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because he doesn’t belong in this cell.”

Another snort. “You really don’t know how much of a dirty little tramp he is. Out in the back alleys, servicing men like a woman. Best off without him.”

“I know about the sex. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Are you a pervert, too?”

“Leave him out of it,” Jaskier yelled, his blood fizzing in his veins. “Sam is a good man. He doesn’t need your tongue.”

“You,” the guard said, stalking towards him, “shouldn’t have a tongue at all.”

“Enough,” yelled another familiar voice, and Jaskier had to snap his head around to be certain of the owner.

There at the door stood Geralt, clad in his usual black armour and clothing. He had a look of rage on his face. His silver hair glimmered despite the dull light of the room and his sword was already in hand, ready for battle. He twirled the handle around lightly in warning while staring down the guard.

“Mr Witcher,” the guard practically sang. He turned in his seat to look at him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Geralt huffed, his hands twitching around the hilt of his blade. “I believe you have someone that I need.”

“What? Him?” the guard guffawed.

“Yes.” The witcher’s eyes bored into the guard as he used his sword to point towards the cell. “Open the door, good man, and I’ll forget all about this.”

“Not gonna happen.” The guard folded his arms across his chest, a smug look on his face.

The witcher’s mouth twitched. He tilted his head to the right and looked at the guard for a second, then walked purposefully over to him, his eyes narrowed. He looked exactly as scary as you’d expect a witcher to look and Jaskier could see the guard tremble more with each step Geralt took.

The guard fell out of his seat, the chair thudding against the stone floor while he scrambled backwards until he hit the wall behind him.

“Okay, okay. Have these,” he said, throwing the keys at the witcher. “Just- don’t hurt me.”

Geralt caught the keys easily and his whole body language changed. Gone was the hard determination and anger on his face. He lowered his sword, nodding to the guard before turning around and walking over to unlock the cell.

The door creaked open and Jaskier just looked at it, shocked that this was really happening. That Geralt, the man who had dismissed him so easily on the mountain, was now here and looking at him like he had most springs when they met up on the road or some town. It was like nothing had changed, that it hadn’t been two years since Jaskier had seen him.

He looked at Geralt, wondering what to say, when Sam spoke instead.

“Come here,” he said to Jaskier, opening his arms wide.

Jaskier didn’t say anything, just ran towards Sam and hugged him tight.

*

It took all he had in him to pull back from Sam’s warm embrace and look at Geralt. When he did, he saw that the witcher’s brows were quirked as if he didn’t understand.

“Um, this is Sam,” Jaskier said, “my partner.”

Geralt hummed, eyes swivelling between them. Jaskier assumed his mind was processing this new development, but then he spoke,

“I need your help.”

The words echoed around the room and Jaskier stood there with his mouth gaped open for a second, then shut it tight with a click. Of course, this is why Geralt was here. Why hadn’t he expected something like this?

“I’m- I just need to talk to Sam,” Jaskier muttered, voice almost a whisper. He looked at Sam and felt his breath hitch. He hadn’t realised till last night just how much he could miss Sam, even if they had only been apart for a night, but now they were going to be separated for months. His heart ached at the thought.

They looked at each other for a beat, then Sam stepped forward towards Geralt.

“Why do you need him?” he asked, putting his arm out in front of Jaskier as if creating a barrier between him and the witcher.

Geralt’s gaze flickered between Jaskier and Sam again, finally settling on Sam.

“People who know me are being hunted. I need to make sure they don’t get Jaskier.”

That got Jaskier’s attention. If people were after him, who else would they be after?

“What about Sam?” Jaskier cried out, his eyes wide. “Is he also in danger?”

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “I’m not sure. Probably not.”

“And yet you think I am in danger. I’m not a witcher. Why does anyone want me?”

“They want anyone who knows me. I’d rather you came with me but I won’t force you.” Then he turned to Sam and said, “You can come with us, too.”

That got Jaskier’s attention. “I’m sorry, what? Sam is a baker. He doesn’t belong on the road.”

Geralt let his eye roam over Sam appraisingly, but seemed happy with him. He gave a short hum then said, “We won’t be on the road for long. I’ll wait outside for you.”

After he had walked out the door, Sam grabbed Jaskier’s hand and pulled it to his chest. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Jaskier asked, feeling like all his composure had left him. “What about this? This shitshow that’s happening right here. Here comes Geralt, knight in shining black armour, just to yank me out of our life here because apparently I’m in danger, whatever that actually means. No one is after me or I would have seen them. I have survived just fine for the last two years, haven’t I? Haven’t I?”

He was panting hard, he knew. He was not okay, which is why Sam was looking at him with those soft, sad eyes of his.

“Are you sure you are not in danger? Why would the witcher say this if it wasn’t true? Has he ever lied before?”

“No,” Jaskier admitted, then closed his eyes for a moment. “But…your job, your life here.”

“If it keeps us both safe, it doesn’t compare. You know that.”

Jaskier took a sharp inhale of breath and then dropped his eyes to the floor. How did he deserve this man? It was something he had been wondering since they first got together and even though he had accepted that Sam loved him, had said so often enough, he couldn’t believe he’d follow him to the ends of the continent.

“You would throw away your life for me? That doesn’t seem fair.”

Sam smiled at him, rubbing his thumb against his cheek. “I love you and, while it will be difficult to live on the road, I wouldn’t want to stay here without you. Also, if I’m potentially in danger of being kidnapped, I don’t want to face that alone.”

Jaskier looked up at Sam. His eyes were shining. He reached forward, mirroring Sam’s hold on him, looking into his eyes and seeing only pure love.

The guard in the corner coughed. “Erm, so, if you could just leave before my boss comes in.”

*

Jaskier squinted as he walked out into the bright light of midday, his eyes struggling to adjust that he almost banged right into Geralt.

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered, holding his hands above his eyes. “Didn’t realise how dull that prison cell was.”

Sam came up right behind him, grabbing his hand. “Come on, we’ve got to pack.”

“Yes, right. I need my lute. I hope it’s still in the tavern. Oh and my money for the night” Jaskier exclaimed. He risked a glance at Geralt, noticing he was following them, his eyes watching them with little interest.

At the crossroads, Sam broke away to go back to the house while Jaskier and the witcher walked towards the tavern.

“Where’s Roach?” Jaskier asked when it was just the two of them, because he just had to jump right in. He saw Geralt’s face do something complicated, like he was remembering something painful, but also like he had no idea what to say.

“You know, out of the two of you, she was the talker. Did she miss me? I bet she did.” Jaskier kept talking, sing-songing his way through this one-sided conversation. It had been a while since he’d had to accommodate someone as silent and brooding as the witcher. He had missed it, in a way.

Who was he kidding, being in Geralt’s company again sent his insides into a tizzy, like they had been rearranged and not where they should be anymore. His breath was short; feeling like a weight was on his chest. His gut was squeezing in anxiety, as if he was wearing a corset. It was like when he had been in his early teens waiting to go on stage and sing the night away in hopes of finding fame and fortune.

He’d found some of that in recent years. His muse, his sullen and annoying muse, had been the one to raise him to fame, his songs now known across the continent. It had been his dream, a stupid, hallow dream that bore no fruit.

When they reached the tavern, it was quiet inside. Only a few early customers, the kind that nursed their drinks all day long avoiding their real lives. They all scattered into the quieter corners as Geralt walked in behind Jaskier.

The barkeep just watched Jaskier walk across the room, a surly look on his face.

“Um, is my lute still about? And my hat with coin?” Jaskier asked, cautiously. The barkeep nodded and leaned down underneath the bar. First came the hat, bulging with coin. Then came the lute, which the barkeep kept in his hand. Jaskier reached out to take it from his hands, but the man didn’t let go.

“Heard about what happened last night. Rough time of it lately, eh?”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked from his lute up towards the barkeep, noting that he looked genuinely concerned. “Em, yes. Something like that.”

“Is he the one?” The barkeep nodded his head towards the witcher, who stood awkwardly by the door, his hands fidgeting by his side.

“The one what?”

“The one you sing about. Your lost love. He’s not what I imagined, but it makes sense, I suppose.”

Jaskier grit his teeth together, his eyes flashing momentarily with an anger he couldn’t explain. “That song could be about anybody.”

“Whatever you say, dear bard. Want a drink before tonight’s show?” The barkeep said, finally letting go of the lute. Jaskier wrapped his arms around it, turning to leave.

“Um, no. No drink and sadly no show.” Then he stormed past Geralt, not even looking him in the eye.

*

“What was that about?” Geralt asked, his voice still as gloomy as in all of Jaskier’s dreams. He trudged after Jaskier while they walked briskly through the alleyways towards Sam’s house.

“Do we really have time to talk about it? We’ve got to get going, I assume,” Jaskier said sourly. He wasn’t upset with Geralt. Well, he was, but not about this. Right now, he was upset that everyone thought they knew more about his life, his feelings, than he did. Yes, that was the problem.

He flounced down the road and, thankfully, the witcher didn’t ask him any more questions.

*

Sam was in the bedroom when he arrived home. He had two packs on the bed, almost full already with several changes of clothes. He gave a soft smile when he saw Jaskier.

“You got your lute. That’s good. What else do we need to pack, my love?”

Jaskier rummaged through his bag. “Uh, we should get some dried foods from the kitchen and that water skin. A bedroll. Oh, and some soap, too.”

Sam gave Jaskier’s arm a squeeze, then he rushed off to gather everything up.

*

About half an hour later, they were packed and Sam had tended to Jaskier’s cuts on his face. Then they were walking towards the south city gate, overladen with their bags like a couple of pack horses. It was then that Jaskier realised that there was still no Roach in sight.

“Geralt,” he began, a little hesitant of the answer. “Just where is Roach?”

“She’s dead,” Geralt said, like he was telling the time or commenting on the weather.

Jaskier’s feet ground to a halt. “What? Why? When? How?”

“It was a monster. She didn’t suffer long.”

Jaskier baulked. He felt sick. Bile rose in his throat at the thought that Roach, lovely and patient Roach, was no more.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” he managed to say. Sam had wrapped an arm around him, his fingers gently running in soothing circles along his arm.

Geralt didn’t answer, just hummed and kept on walking.

“Geralt. Geralt, tell me what happened.”

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Okay so here's a lil' prompt for you

How about some rough foreplay between a jealous Geralt and Jaskier being all "fucking finally you dumb sack of potatoes"

my darling nonie, thank you for your patience, im sorry it took me so long to get my writing vibes back, but we're finally back in business!

Warnings: horny, lil bitey/manhandle-y but nothing past netflix canon consistent roughness, grumpy dumb geralt and jaskier doing his best to get him to use words, lol and swearing.

_________________

“You don’t scare me, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed, leaning back against the footboard of Geralt’s bed. They’d been sitting on the floor by the fire in his room for hours now, enjoying the warmth and reveling in the rest that the last few weeks of winter provided. Geralt, of course, had been getting a little antsy, ready to pack up and go, but also reluctant. So of course he had expressed this by being a bit of an asshole.

“I don’t want you scared…” he grumbled, picking at a hangnail and feeling a little bit like an idiot. He couldn’t exactly tell Jaskier how he wanted him, and that was probably the most frustrating thing on his mind that night. No matter what, he was going to keep the bard around as long as Jaskier would suffer his foul moods and emotional illiteracy. But it hurt to have him so close but so far out of his reach and he was constantly angry with himself for continuing to want.

“Then how do you want me? Hm?” Jaskier asked, flailing his arms about, expressing nearly as much frustration as Geralt felt, “Are you looking for a fight? Someone to hold your hand? Would you like me tied up instead? For fucks sake Geralt just fucking spit it out.”

Clenching his jaw, Geralt growled as he did his best not to picture his best friend tied up and desperate for him, “No.”

Jaskier got up on his knees and shuffled a little closer to where Geralt was leaning against the opposite wall, looking something like a praying monk, “Mellitelle, Geralt. I don’t think I can get it through your thick skull that I will absolutely not run and hide or abandon you if you tell me what you’re thinking. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Especially if it’s uncomfortable.”

As Geralt tried to find a way out of the corner he’d backed himself into with words satisfactory to the bard, he made the mistake of glancing at him. Jaskier looked like a romanticized painting in the firelight. His hair glowed in an orangish warmth and the low golden tones made his blue eyes sparkle even in the fading light. It really wasn’t fair. How the hell was Geralt supposed to say anything other than what he truly wanted?

Fear. Fear of rejection, or worse, of Jaskier, thinking it was some ridiculous joke and laughing him off like that couldn’t possibly be what has Geralt so worked up. That was plenty to keep Geralt from telling him exactly what he felt and thought. So he stayed quiet.

“You absolute-” Jaskier grumbled, almost to himself before starting in on a lecture, with animated hands and everything, “Here I am, quite literally on my fucking knees asking you to tell me what’s bothering you - which appears to be about me, so I think I have a right to know- and you just fucking look at me. What the ever-loving fuck makes you think I’m shivering my ass off in this haunted keep for, not getting laid in a warm castle - or even by your brothers down the hall- for anything other than a pathetic devotion to your grumpy ass?! Are you blind? Are you really so self-loathing? Do you just not care? For fuck’s sake, Geralt. Tell me so I can make it better because I’m not allowed to make the leap here! I’m not a sorceress! I can’t just probe your mind to-”

Geralt lunged, not a single thought in his head, just a frustrated need to tell Jaskier what he meant and an inability to do so with words. ‘The first leap..’ Fuck he hoped he’d read that right. If years traveling with the bard and constantly unraveling his riddles was anything to go by, he absolutely had. But the chance of rejection still hung in the air and pushed him near the edge of tears.

His hands gripped the front of Jaskier’s chemise and yanked him closer, so he was almost hovering over Geralt, and he recklessly mashed their lips together. Jaskier had to brace himself on Geralt’s shoulder and for a moment the witcher was terrified he was being pushed away. He was about to let go and quite literally tuck tail and run when Jaskier’s other hand laced its way through the hair at the back of his neck and tilted his head for him, deepening their kiss and adding a little intent to the passion.

Geralt groaned and hauled Jaskier up with him as he clambered to his knees, only breaking the kiss out of necessity but sealing their lips together whenever he could. He’d been given permission. After years of wanting and wishing and guilt-ridden fantasy, he could finally taste what he’d been longing for and self-restraint was rather hard to come by. So he didn't bother.

He crushed Jaskier to himself, needing to know this was real, not just one of his many dreams. In turn, Jaskier hooked one leg around his hips, an awkward position for the two of them standing on their knees on the cold stone floor, but it spurred Geralt on nonetheless. He lifted one knee so the bard was practically sitting on his thigh and rose to stand, kissing and sucking dark red marks on the bard’s jawline and neck. Without a second thought, he used his momentum to slam Jaskier against the wall, trapping him against his own body. Exactly where he wanted him. The bard let loose a soft grunt on impact but dug his nails into Geralt’s back regardless.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmured before leaving a set of angry red crescent teeth marks on the bard’s exposed collar bone.

“None of that, I’m in heaven,” Jaskier gasped, rolling his hips against Geralt as he rested his head back against the wall, “Fucking finally.”

Geralt made a confused grunt, not entirely too concerned with the conversation as he worked on untucking Jaskier’s shirt, clumsily and forcefully yanking it over his head.

“You thick sack of potatoes, I’ve been flirting with you for years. Fucking claim me already,” Jaskier gasped, gripping Geralt’s hair and pulling him back to him in a punishing kiss.

If there’s one thing Geralt was good at, it was following orders. And he followed this particular order with hitherto unmatched enthusiasm, in Jaskier’s words, “going above and beyond the call of duty.”

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

Let It Be Me

Hello all! It’s finally time to post my Novigrad Exchange fic! Big thanks to @ohnomybreadsticks and @jaskiersvalley for taking the time to organize this! <3 And of course thanks again to Socks for the beta help <3 <3 

This is for the incredibly talented @journeythroughunknownlands

Geralt overdoses on potions and the most efficient way to burn them off is with an orgasm (or two... or more). Queue Jaskier, loyal best friend who is always willing to lend a helping hand (or other body part 😏). Seasoned with a hearty sprinkle of pining.

This will be cross posted on AO3 later today. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: frottage, blow jobs, anal sex, bottom Geralt, multiple orgasms, pining, requited feelings, happy/hopeful ending

3.9k words

-

Geralt felt the potions burning their way through his veins, lighting him on fire; he had taken too many. The endrega colony was much smaller than anticipated and the fight was much shorter than it would have been otherwise, far too short of a fight to help him burn off the toxins in his blood.

His skin felt pulled tight, and he knew just what he would look like. His paler than normal complexion would be marred with black veins, his eyes would look like pots of ink, the color of ichor, he would look every bit of the monster humans thought him to be.

Fuck, if he didn’t find a good way to let off some steam and work this out of his system, this would take hours to wear off. He was out of White Honey and didn’t have any honey suckle on hand to make more, and he doubted he would be able to find any.

Looking around the clearing he was in, he quickly dismissed the idea of getting himself off. He was painfully hard in his trousers, and a quick wank would be the most efficient way to burn through the toxins, but this wasn’t the place for it. There was far too much noise in this particular forest, making him wonder what curious creatures would come to investigate. He also didn’t bring any of his… toys with him. He didn’t need them, of course, but they made things a bit more enjoyable and typically sped up the process. No, he needed to get back to town and figure something else out. It was unlikely he would be able to find a whore willing to lay with him, no matter the coin offered, and he really didn’t have much to offer.

He could always try to sleep through it or take care of himself back in his room where his toys were, though that would mean making his way through the inn looking like he did, if the innkeep would even let him up to his room.

Sighing and deciding that he really had no good option, he turned, his trophies in hand, and began the trek through the dense trees back to town.

-

Geralt really should have stayed in the forest. He had known better but ignored the small voice in the back of his head trying to talk sense into him. Instead, he allowed himself to return to town despite everything he ever learned at Kaer Morhen, despite every bit of real-life experience reminding him that exposing himself to humans in this state was an awful idea.

If the toxins in his blood felt like fire, the horrified stares were even worse, like daggers stabbing into his already sensitive skin.

Thankfully, he managed to get to the inn without incident, despite the stares, despite the hatred and fear he could smell emanating from everyone he passed. And despite the shocking waves of pain and pleasure shooting through him as he walked with his erection straining against his trousers. The silence in the inn was unsettling though, all speech coming to a halt as he stepped through the door, and he had to push down a wave of embarrassment, knowing that everyone would be able to see his erection. Silence, though, meant he wasn’t being kicked out and allowed him to make his way up the stairs and to his room.

His room that he was sharing with Jaskier.

Fuck.

He hadn’t thought about it until he opened the door, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jaskier’s presence had become such a normal and routine part of his life that he hadn’t even thought about the bard being there, about having to deal with Jaskier in this state.

There was no way he would be able to stay in the room like this. He had to fight back his arousal for the bard in the best of times, and this couldn’t be called the best of anything. The bard’s scent was already one that intoxicated him, and now with all of his senses heightened, there would be no way he could stay in the room with him, it would be pure torture if he tried. Quickly making up his mind as Jaskier stared at him in surprise, Geralt stomped across the room to grab his bag of toys, there was no chance he would be able to ride this out with Jaskier not even ten feet away, smelling and looking the way he did.

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s voice clearly, though his racing mind couldn’t parse out the words. He could smell the bard’s confusion, hear it in the tone of his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to even grunt out an explanation as he made his way back to the door. All Geralt could focus on was the sudden need to go back out to the woods and take care of himself. It had been a long while since he had last gotten the opportunity to use some of his favorite toys, so he might as well make the best of an awful situation.

As he reached for the knob on the door, he felt a sudden tug on the bag in his hand and he spun around just as it ripped, the contents spilling on the floor. Geralt couldn’t think of a time in which he had more desperately wished it was true what they say about witchers, that they felt no emotions. Geralt let out a frustrated growl, the absolute mortification within him warring with the anger he was feeling at Jaskier for trying to stop him just led to more desperation for a fix to his situation. He had just wanted to escape the inn and take care of himself, solve the problem in the relative privacy of the woods, but no, nothing ever went that simply for him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was tentative in a way that it normally wasn’t, far more hesitant than the rather direct bard ever bothered being. Geralt’s eyes snapped up to meet Jaskier’s as the witcher willed himself to remain calm. He was sure his face would be turning red from embarrassment if it wasn’t for the poison affecting his complexion and he sent off a silent thanks to whoever was listening that at least he was spared from that.

“Geralt? Are you okay?”

Geralt wasn’t sure he understood what Jaskier was asking. He had expected Jaskier to be more afraid of him in this state, having never seen his reaction to taking potions before, and far more concerned by the toys now scattered across the floor, rather than if he was okay.

“Fine,” he finally grunted out, hoping Jaskier would stop looking at him with such concern. It wasn’t a look that he needed directed at him, he would be fine if he could just leave.

“Fine?” Jaskier squeaked, “You don’t look fine! You look like you’re dying! Geralt, are you poisoned? Are you dying? Can I help? What do I need to do?”

Taking a deep breath and nearly choking on the scent of the bard, even more overwhelming this close, Geralt finally managed to motion to the floor, littered with his rather extensive collection, “Potions. Those… help.” There was no way he would be able to say more, not about this subject, not in his current state. Possibly not ever. 

He watched as Jaskier stared at him consideringly before looking down at the floor, and then back up at Geralt. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, but Geralt didn’t know how to explain it any better.

Jaskier reached up, touching at Geralt’s face hesitantly, “This is because of your potions?” Geralt nodded, leaning into the touch. It was just this side of too much but it felt so good.

Humming softly, Jaskier glanced back at the floor, “And those… help?”

Geralt nodded again, still relishing in the contact of Jaskier’s hand pressing gently against his face. There were so many feelings thrumming through him, embarrassment and worry and arousal but Jaskier’s touch seemed to almost calm them. Unfortunately, it seemed that it couldn’t last and Jaskier pulled away, making Geralt whimper at the loss.

“How do they help?” Jaskier asked as he knelt down in front of Geralt. The witcher watched in horror as Jaskier meticulously gathered the contents of the now destroyed bag before placing them on the small table in their room. “Is it something about the toys themselves? Or is it just the… result.”

Geralt could feel his throat closing up as he choked out, “Result.”

Watching Geralt closely, Jaskier made his way back across the room, concern still written clearly across his features, “Where were you going?”

“Woods.”

“Do you… normally take care of this in the woods?”

“Yes,” Geralt felt just as weak as his voice sounded suddenly, he felt exposed like a raw nerve and it hurt.

“Can I help you?”

Geralt felt his entire body seize up as his mind slowly caught up with Jaskier’s question. Letting out a whine, he found himself reaching out for Jaskier before he even knew what he was doing, before he had even made a conscious decision.

Jaskier stepped closer, allowing himself to be wrapped in Geralt’s arms as the witcher buried his face in Jaskier’s neck. The bard smelled so fucking good and Geralt wanted this so badly, had wanted it for years. But Jaskier didn’t, surely. Geralt should let go.

But Jaskier’s hands were suddenly trailing up and down Geralt’s back comfortingly, and Geralt couldn’t let go, it felt amazing, like nothing he had ever allowed himself to experience before, and he couldn’t give it up. With any luck, the bard wouldn’t hate him for his actions tomorrow.

Inhaling deeply and letting the bard’s scent wash over him, Geralt made up his mind. He would get whatever he could from Jaskier tonight and then spend the rest of his life making it up to the bard.

He felt Jaskier start to pull back and he only gripped harder, clenching Jaskier’s doublet in his hands. Jaskier made a soft sound, “Hey, it’s okay, but we should take this over to the bed, okay?”

Geralt could hear the logic in Jaskier’s words, but he didn’t want to let go. Instead, he shuffled forward slowly, his face still buried in Jaskier’s neck, until he could feel the impact as the back of Jaskier’s knees hit the mattress. He urged Jaskier back on the bed, settling himself into Jaskier’s side, still hiding his face.

Jaskier’s hands began running through Geralt’s hair, making the witcher let out a purr and Jaskier chuckle, “I always knew you liked your hair played with. Is this what you want, darling? To lay here and cuddle until you feel better? Or do you want more?” Geralt didn’t think he would ever want to let go, but he needed more. As nice as this felt, he could still feel his cock, hard and heavy and uncomfortably pressed against his pants.

Whispering his answer, Geralt practically begged for more.

Suddenly, Geralt found himself on his back, Jaskier hovering over him. The bard’s scent was now tinged heavily with his own arousal and Geralt couldn’t hold back another whine as he bucked his hips, seeking friction. Jaskier smirked down at him, lowering his body until they were pressed against each other. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s own hardness pressed against his and he groaned out at the sensation. How many nights had he dreamed of this same thing? Of being pressed up underneath Jaskier, desperate for pleasure to be wrung from him, at the mercy of Jaskier’s talented hands.

And mouth.

Gods, he’d had so many fantasies about the bard’s mouth, taking him apart, bringing him damn near to tears. And now here he was, with all of those fantasies in arms reach. His lust had completely fogged his brain, completely overpowering the potion-induced fire in his veins, replacing it with an even more powerful burn.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jaskier asked, his voice low.

All Geralt could do was nod, his hips still grinding up desperately into Jaskier’s. The fire was raging inside him now, completely overwhelming him. He wasn’t sure exactly how Jaskier managed to get both of their clothes off, but the next thing he knew they were pressed together, skin to skin. Geralt was crying out from the sensations, both too much and not enough, as Jaskier kept talking to him. The whispered words doused the fire just for a moment until Jaskier’s lips chased his words, reigniting the fire to burn even brighter. Geralt had never understood poets when they said they had found themselves out of their mind with pleasure but then again, he had never experienced this.

He was unbelievably hard, his cock ached and throbbed where it lay, pressed between him and Jaskier. It could have been seconds or hours that he spent rocking against Jaskier for friction before he found himself so very close to the edge of orgasm.

Jaskier licked a stripe up Geralt’s neck to nip at his ear, “That’s right, Geralt, take what you need. You look so beautiful like this, just take what you need.” It was Jaskier’s words, whispered like a filthy secret in his ear, that finally tipped him over just as he asked, “Are you going to cum for me?”

Geralt let out a mewl as his body shook under Jaskier, his orgasm hot and intense, feeling as though it may never end. He felt hazy almost, the once intense fire settling down to a manageable smolder even as Jaskier trailed kisses down his body. Watching closely, Geralt found himself enraptured at the man above him, groaning as Jaskier continued down, licking up Geralt’s spend as he went. 

“Fuck, Jask,” he gasped out as the bard continued on, his tongue lapping at Geralt’s still hard cock.

The bard smirked, “Ready for another round so soon?”

“The… potions. They keep me… excited.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to work them out of your system.”

Any response Geralt might have thought of was lost as Jaskier promptly wrapped his lips around the head of Geralt’s cock. Geralt could barely stop himself from thrusting forward, fucking into Jaskier’s mouth. It looks so pretty, stretched obscenely around Geralt as he bobbed up and down.

Geralt gasped as he felt a finger probing at his hole, circling it slowly, applying a slight pressure but never pushing in. Just as suddenly as the contact had started, it stopped, Jaskier pulling his mouth away as well, making him keen, his arms already reaching toward the bard, desperate. “It’s okay, darling. Let me just get some oil, okay? This will be much more enjoyable that way.”

Oil. Right. If he was going to be fucked, then oil would make it better. That made perfect sense to Geralt, but still he followed Jaskier’s form greedily and he hurried over to the odds and ends now strewn across the table in their room, picking up a small bottle, and heading back over to the bed, a small smile on his face as he positioned himself between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt made a satisfied noise as Jaskier set a hand on his thigh, stroking up and down, “Is this what you want darling, what you need? Want me to fuck you?”

“Please.” The plea was ripped from Geralt’s throat almost as if it weren’t him speaking. But it was him and he had never before felt so desperate. He wanted Jaskier fucking into him, wanted their bodies writhing together. He wanted the best kind of fire back, lust and passion burning his veins as he looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Fuck.

Thankfully, Jaskier needed nothing more from Geralt, and wasted no time, slicking his fingers and going back to toying with him, “Look at you, so needy for this, I bet I could slip right into you with no prep.”

Fuck, Geralt couldn’t help but groan, “Please, anything, please.”

“Shh it’s okay, soon. I want to make this good for you,” Jaskier’s voice was soft as he leaned forward, locking his lips with Geralt’s as he pushed a finger inside. He hadn’t been wrong, Geralt took the finger easily, more than ready for the feeling. Rocking his hips, Geralt searched for more.

Pulling back and smiling at Geralt, Jaskier’s eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way that always made Geralt want to smile with him. “Are you feeling good? Ready for more?”

Geralt tried to speak, he really did, but all that came out was a needy sound as he ground down on Jaskier’s hand.

“I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you.” Soon after, Jaskier was pressing another finger inside him, thrusting in and out and it was so good Geralt could do nothing but pant and whine as he moved in time with Jaskier, seeking his own pleasure.

It was so good but it was still just a tease of what was to come.

“Jaskier, please, fuck. Fuck me.”

“Okay, just one last thing.” Before Geralt could even register the sentence, Jaskier had leaned down, wrapping his lips around Geralt’s cock again, just as he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside him.

Geralt cried out, his body shaking as he came so hard he saw stars. Relaxing back onto the bed, Geralt whimpered helplessly as Jaskier released him, his fingers slipping from his hole.

“Do you still want more?”

Opening his eyes was a struggle but he managed after a moment, shooting a glare at Jaskier, “Fuck me.”

Jaskier chuckled, “Alright, alright, I’ll get on with it, then.”

Geralt watched in a daze as Jaskier pumped his own cock, covering it with slick. The man was large and it would certainly be a stretch. His own cock was already hard again, twitching as he thought about how good that would feel inside of him. Moving forward, Jaskier lined up and began to push in, gasping as he did so.

It had been so long since Geralt had been fucked. Typically when he was out wandering the continent, all he had with him to relieve this particular want was his bag of toys, and fuck it felt so much better when it was the real thing.

Geralt watched as Jaskier sunk into him, their hips meeting softly as Jaskier panted above him. The stretch was amazing, just the right amount of pressure to make it overwhelmingly good. Geralt tried to stay still, he did, but after a while he had to move. The roll of his hips pulled a grunt from Jaskier as he threw his head back in pleasure.

“Just a moment, fuck, you’re tight.” Jaskier was breathless, gasping out his words, sweat beading on his brow.

Geralt had never seen him look more amazing.

Jaskier began thrusting in and out of him slowly, the burn of the stretch and the feeling of fullness sending sparks of pleasure through Geralt. It wasn’t long before Jaskier sped up, shifting more until finally, he moved just right, drawing a yelp out of Geralt as he hit his prostate. A smirk lit up Jaskier’s face as he pulled out and thrust back in, his aim precise as he once again hit that same spot again and again. The bard kept going, sending Geralt into a frenzy of begging and crying out. The fingers of Geralt’s hand were threaded with Jaskier’s, held down above his head. Geralt’s other hand was gripping at Jaskier’s back, his fingers digging into the soft skin as Jaskier kept thrusting.

“Won't- last,” Jaskier gasped, his free hand coming up to wrap around Geralt’s cock.

It was likely only seconds but it felt like hours when finally he felt himself falling again, his orgasm rushing through him, his body relaxing into a boneless mess as Jaskier thrust once, twice more, freezing his motions and shaking as he spent inside of Geralt, finally collapsing on top of him.

“I don’t know if I can move,” Jaskier said, his voice muffled from where he had buried his head in Geralt’s chest.

“Mmm. Don’t.”

“Okay.”

And then Geralt was asleep.

-

The first thing Geralt noticed was how dry his mouth was. It wasn’t unusual, not after a hunt. His potions would have that effect on him most of the time, particularly if he struggled with burning them off. He went to shift, suddenly noticing the heavy weight on top of him. Opening his eyes, Geralt couldn’t see anything but a mop of brown hair. Inhaling deeply as he tried to gain awareness of his surroundings, he was assaulted with the scent of Jaskier and himself and sex.

Oh fuck.

Geralt shifted slightly under Jaskier, making the bard startle awake on top of him. Jaskier seemed to gain awareness quickly, rolling off of Geralt quickly, his cheeks blooming a brilliant red on his otherwise pale face.

“Ah,” Jaskier cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room, “good morning. I trust you’re feeling better.”

Geralt nodded, sitting up and reaching for the pitcher beside the bed, drinking straight from it. He felt some of the water spill out, dripping down his naked chest, but paid it no mind as he tried to wash the dryness from his throat.

Fuck. He really came back to the inn with potions burning through him and let himself fuck Jaskier. Well, let himself be fucked by Jaskier. Well… begged to be fucked by Jaskier.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Putting down the now empty pitcher, Geralt shot a furtive look at Jaskier, feeling the guilt pooling in his stomach. Jaskier was loyal to a fault, something Geralt had taken for granted for so long, and now here he was, after a night of going out of his way doing something he had no interest in doing, looking at Geralt with nothing but concern for the witcher. Jaskier was too good for Geralt, he didn’t deserve to have to deal with situations like this.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier looked taken aback, “For what?”

“Making you feel like you had to help me last night. I appreciate it but… I’m sorry.”

“I… Geralt I offered to help. I never felt obligated and you never did anything to make me.”

It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it? Geralt’s needs had been far more than anyone could be expected to help with. Jaskier should have sent him on his way and spared himself the trouble.

“Geralt?” Jaskier said softly, moving closer and reaching up to cup Geralt’s cheek, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’m glad I could help you.”

Whether it was the earnest sound of Jaskier’s voice or maybe just Geralt’s need to believe that someone really did want to be there for him, he was unsure. All he knew was that he never wanted to break Jaskier’s gaze. His eyes were so incredibly blue, bright pools of crystal clear water begging for someone to dive in and Geralt found himself ready to jump. 

Before he noticed what was happening, Geralt had already leaned into Jaskier, making his eyes widen, surprise written across his face. But he didn’t pull back. No, Jaskier’s eyes flicked down to Geralt’s lips before once again meeting Geralt’s gaze. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was him or Jaskier that initiated the all encompassing kiss that followed, all he knew was it was something he had wanted for so long and felt so right.

Maybe, next time potions were burning through his veins and he wanted to crawl out of his skin, Jaskier would meet him and apply this affection like a balm, soothing Geralt in a way he had never before experienced. Maybe from this moment forward, he wouldn’t wait for Jaskier to realize he deserved better and move on. Maybe, just maybe, Geralt had really found happiness.

-

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[rebrandedbard]

could I get 49 for the prompts pleaseeee? (:

*weeping* Em, I love you, defending my honour, giving me a way out. You’ve spared me my dignity.

49. “Well this is awkward ...”

WC:  2106

Tidings and Tarradiddles

Jaskier returns to Posada and his path crosses with Geralt’s once more after the unfortunate affair on The Mountain™

-

How was it? Truly, how was it that of all places on the great, wide Continent, Geralt should come to take a contract in Posada, at the farthest of reaches, after months and months of separation, on the one day Jaskier should be in town? And how was it that he’d come the only hour Jaskier had lingered for a drink? It was too great a coincidence, and Jaskier would not give Destiny the credit. She’d not earned the right to claim it. Jaskier scorned her and had stripped her of the right to interfere in any of his further adventures. After all, Geralt had blamed him for her follies—follies which, by rights, Geralt had brought upon himself in the first place.

Even so, he could feel Destiny’s audaciously long and twitchy nose poking about his business the moment Geralt walked through the tavern door. Jaskier huddled in his corner, hoping the shadows were darker than they had been the day he’d found Geralt hunched beneath them. He ought to have known better than to come in the first place. There had been a whole flock of magpies in the middle of the bridge leading into town—a tiding of magpies. Detestable harbinger of tidings, foul and fair. They’d startled at the sight of him and alighted once more on the tavern roof. But he’d ignored their superstitious warning.

Of course the shadows were of no use to him. The moment Geralt stepped inside, Jaskier saw him twitch, cocking an ear his direction. Probably heard the familiar grinding of his teeth: an annoying habit he so often complained of. Jaskier curled up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller to blend in with his surroundings.

For once, it was not so difficult. He’d grown out his hair, had even maintained a healthy bit of scruff on his face in keeping with the stylings of his fellow tavern-goers. He was tired and worn, but above all, he was plain. He no longer wore bright colors, standing out like a beacon in the dark of night. He wore his linen dyed a plain, sensible, muted green. The jerkin on his back was brown and of a practical fit. Altogether, it did not so much scream of sensibility as it mumbled. If he kept his head low enough, he might pass as just another local come in for a pint.

But he was not just another local.

Geralt stopped before his table, standing at Jaskier’s elbow. The click of metal upon the table made Jaskier look up from his drink. It was a coin, spinning round and round. It wobbled and fell on its face, the etching of a worn coat of arms before him.

“Will … will you sing for us, bard?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stared at the coin. His ears began to fill with cotton, a faint ringing in them. A flash of hot blood coursed through him and he ground his teeth to a halt. He knew this was Geralt’s way of easing into things, working towards something, whether or not an apology was waiting at the end. He knew this was Geralt offering him an out. It was distant. Impersonal. But even in the depths of his rage, Geralt had called him by name. To call him bard and toss a coin to him like some stranger now … it flamed something red and barbaric to life under his skin. He was so deafened by the blood in his ears, he did not hear the approach of the figure standing at Geralt’s side.

“Well, this is awkward,” Jaskier sneered. He picked up the coin, twiddling it between his fingers. Putting up an impassive mask, he juggled the coin over his knuckles in his best impressive manner, as if it were nothing but a worthless toy. “You see,” he said, “I’m not a bard.”

Geralt was quiet a moment. Jaskier could feel his eyes roaming over him. It raised his hackles to know what Geralt must see: the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of age now more pronounced with exhaustion, crow’s feet so defined they might as well have been dug by the claws of vultures. And then, Geralt must have taken notice at last. Gone were the bold silhouettes and blinding colors, gone were the perfumes and oils—but there was one thing more important than all the rest that was missing.

“Your lute,” Geralt said.

There it was. “Gave it up this very afternoon,” Jaskier replied. He slapped the coin down on the table and leaned back, snatching up his half-empty mug. “I travelled a long way to return it home; Filavandrel has it now.”

He took a drink, still avoiding eyes contact. He continued, mumbling over the rim of his mug. “Had a visit. They’re doing better than they were when last we met. I helped them dig rocks from their crop fields for an hour or two. Figured as long as I was shovelling things, I might as well master the art. Use it productively.”

He was being petty. He knew he was, but by the gods, he’d earned it.

When at last he looked up, he did so because he saw a hint of blue beside the table. The potmaid had been wearing a blue dress, and he thought he now saw his escape. He slid his mug to the edge of the table and lifted his head to ask for it to be taken away when he saw a familiar pair of green eyes looking back at him.

“Cirilla?” he asked, surprised. He blinked at the princess, who looked down at the table as his eyes fell upon her. He remembered her as someone taller, regal head held high, smiling, her hair half up in decorative braids and twists. This was not a princess before him, but a girl: her hood casting shadows upon her hollow face. It seemed wrong. She had always been a girl, but a girl with a name. This creature before him stood as a reflection of himself, a thing wishing to hide away, nothing more than a shell.

She glanced up at him, then down once more. Slowly she raised her hand to the table and placed it over the coin. She pushed it towards him with a quiet slide, then dropped her hand once more. “He said you sing wonderful,” she muttered, as if she had not heard him singing in Cintra’s court nearly every midsummer since birth.

Jaskier’s voice stuck in his throat. The memory of a song sat heavy on his tongue. “I … I don’t sing anymore,” he grit out. He turned to look away again, staring at the crack between his bench and the wall. “Can’t sing without music anyway. Might as well be poetry.”

Having no music left him exposed. There was nothing to lift him up, nor anything to hide behind. He could sing among the crowd and raise his voice to join a drinking song, but there was something vulnerable about singing alone. Who sang among bar patrons without some barrier? Even the drunks had their drink to shield them.

He saw Geralt shift out of the corner of his eye. Something new slid across the table, stopping just short of his hand. He looked and saw one of his old notebooks.

“You write good poetry,” Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffed and picked up the notebook. “If there were anything in this worth keeping, I would have remembered to bring it with me when I went down the mountain.” He flipped through the pages, then let the notebook flop back on the table. “You obviously have poor taste,” he huffed.

Without warning, Geralt picked up the notebook and thwacked him on top of his head with the cover.

“Gah! Hey!” Jaskier shouted. He stood up and snatched the book back, smacking Geralt’s arm with it. “What in fuck’s name did you do that for, you brute!”

But he’d looked at Geralt, forgetting to snub him if only a moment. And Geralt plucked the book from his hand with an upward quirk of the lips. “It’s worth keeping,” he said. He handed the book to Ciri, who clutched it tight to her chest in agreement, but still, she looked at Geralt with a stern expression.

“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” she scolded.

Geralt’s eyes rolled back and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not to me.”

Geralt opened his eyes. He looked at Jaskier, opening his mouth to speak once more. But the look on Jaskier’s face stopped him. Instead, he turned to the door, stalking quickly across the room, words aborted on his tongue.

Jaskier gaped.

“Geralt!” Ciri called. “Where are you going?”

“Just wait here.”

“Geralt!”

“Dinner. I’ll be back in the hour.”

Ciri threw up her hands and dropped onto the opposite bench. She slammed Jaskier’s notebook down on the table and crossed her arms over it. She groaned in frustration, then turned her head to look out at the tavern floor.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she grumbled.

Jaskier looked between her and the door, feeling quite at a loss. “No,” he replied.

“Then you can eat Geralt’s share.” She rummaged in her cloak and pushed a little drawstring bag into his hands. “Here, he left me his purse.”

“And left you from the look of things. Shall I charge him for babysitting?”

“Do. And order another drink.”

Jaskier snorted. “Trying to get me to stay?” He wasn’t so irresponsible as to leave a child alone, even with the threat of Geralt’s return. He didn’t need to be persuaded.

“No. Punishing him for running out; you get his drink into the bargain. Think of it as sending him to bed without supper.”

“I’ll drink to that. It’s the least of the punishments I could inflict.”

They both chuckled mildly at that. A bit of the dense atmosphere lifted and they shared a look. Jaskier cleared his throat and waved for the potmaid. He ordered fare for the two of them, a mug of ale for himself, and a cup of small beer for Ciri. Once they’d both had a bite, they began talking. They traded stories: how Ciri came to Geralt’s care, and what Jaskier had been doing since the separation. Though the conversation was tense, it felt … good … to have a bit of company. He’d been worried since word of the fall of Cintra had reached him. At least Destiny had brought Ciri to Geralt safely. He hoped Destiny would be kind to her where it had failed him.

Jaskier startled when Geralt returned. He’d crept up so silently. Jaskier had been listening to Ciri describe her most recent success in outdoor cooking and hadn’t noticed the movement beside him. Geralt set the lute on the table in front of Jaskier’s empty plate with a sudden thunk, not a word of explanation. He stood there silently, holding the lute upright by its neck.

No one spoke.

Jaskier simply stared at it, felt Geralt stare at him. But this time, he refused to look up. Slowly, Geralt lay the lute down on the table, then slipped away. A minute passed, everything still and quiet. Then, Jaskier peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw Geralt nudge Ciri, nodding his head toward the door.

Ciri looked at Jaskier, her brow anxious and furrowed. She clutched her cup, nearly finished, her plate barren. He could see her mind at work, trying to find an excuse to stay. But she set her cup down obediently. As she turned to stand, she left the notebook behind. Eyes downcast, she slumped to her feet. Geralt held out his hand for her, no longer looking at Jaskier. The moment Geralt’s back was turned, Jaskier felt a cold panic run through him.

“Wait!” he said, fumbling to his feet.

Geralt froze, turning his head back slightly to listen.

But for what? Jaskier reached out, hesitating. He picked up his lute, finding the coin beneath it. The noise made Geralt turn back and Jaskier met his eye. He’d never seen Geralt look so blank, completely unreadable.

Jaskier slung the strap of the lute over his head. He pushed the coin deliberately into his pocket and braced his hands on the strings. When he looked at Geralt again, there was the barest crack in his armour, and hope shined dimly through. Jaskier smiled. It was a timid thing, but he still remembered how it was done.

“You asked for a song,” he said.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[dapandapod]

Lambert needs a hug

@permanently-exhausted-bitch I don’t even know if you remember prompting me this for almost over a year ago, but it has finally been written! And finished! And even beta read by the wonderful @jaskierswolf! 

Sorry it took so long and thank you for giving something to write when ideas ran low!

Warning: Lambert is very drunk. And Aiden reads a steamy book. That is about it.  Oh, and swearing, because come on, it’s Lambert.

Please enjoy!

On Ao3 here!

Everything is shit. Shit, shit, shit. The trees are wobbly, the ground seems to be unconvinced of its firmness, and Lambert's own sense of balance seems to be taking a break.

It all comes down to one thing, if one were to think about it:

Lambert is drunk off his ass.

There are of course reasons that Lambert is drunk today. This is not his normal state; certainly not. It’s far too expensive to be drunk on a regular basis, or rather stay drunk, if you are here to mark words. Getting drunk is easy, but the alcohol just burns right out of his system. The curse and the blessing of fast metabolism and poison immunity. Yes, staying drunk takes hard work.

He is not sure where he is going, but he sure as hell is not staying at the keep. It’s barely past noon, the sun is peeking out behind dark heavy clouds. You can still see patches of snow here and there, the ground wet and frozen in all it’s early spring glory. Anger thrums through his veins, no matter where he goes, what he does, it’s always there.

It’s frustrating. He takes a swig at the bottle he brought with him, leaning his head so far back he almost loses his balance.

The gods' damned bottle is empty.

He tosses it carelessly away from him, disgusted with it’s betrayal.

“Lambert?” the bottle asks him. Wait, no, not the bottle. That sounded like the bard Geralt drags with him everywhere. Lamber squints, willing the trees to be still long enough that he can locate the voice.

A very, very tiny version of a cliff juts out in the gently leaning slope. On it, despite snow and ice and slush, sits the bard and Geralt, the first one sending him a confused look, the other a confused frown. What is there to be confused about?

“Jas-...Jaslert?” Lambert asks, and then breaks out in giggles. This is why alcohol is fun, he can make angry giggles. “Jaslert. That’s tha best.. Best thing I evher said.”

“I agree,” Geralt said with a smirk. Bastard.

“What are you up to?” asks the bard, Jas-something, ever pleasant.

“‘M drunk,” Lambert tells him, how is that not obvious?

“Yes, but why?”

Ah, the lovely why.

“Wude,” Lambert mutters, then turns and walks away. He doesn’t want to talk about why, that is so rude of the bard. Here he thought Jaskier (JASKIER! That's it!) had manners.

You drink to forget why you are drinking, why the fuck else?

“I'm betting Aiden. Or Vesemir.”

The forbidden names. Charge.

Lamber twists around, infinitely more graceful than that stupid cat swaggering around up in that fucking keep, and pounces.

Not at all like a cat, thank you very much.

Geralt catches him, interestingly enough, how did he see that coming? They fall back to the stone, which for some reason is pleasantly warm despite the season. Geralt is such a cheat. They wrestle for a while, Lambert baring all of his pretty teeth.When he tries to bite Geralt, it seems that whitehaired pompous arse has had enough of Lambert’s struggles. Thick, stupid arms wrap around him, trapping his own arms uselessly at his sides. Geralt holds him still by pressing Lambert against him. Like he weighs nothing.

So fucking undignified. He strains against the hold, feelin all blood rush to his face in effort to break free, but Jaskier just laughs. He leans forward and pets his head like he is a dog.

“So feisty,” Jaskier chuckles, and scratches behind his ear.

Alright, just because that feels nice it doesn’t mean he is a dog. Right?

“Jus’ because that feel nicies doesn’t mean I'm a dog,” Lambert squeezes out.

“Absolutely,” Jaskier agrees, agreeably, still scratching behind his ear. “Is that why you are angry?”

So what if Lambert relaxes in Geralt's grip? It’s got nothing to do with anything.

“No.”

“So yes. Want to talk about it?” Jaskier asks him, now petting his hair instead. Geralt doesn’t let go, and Lambert totally isn’t happy about that. At all.

Lambert stays silent and lets the petting continue. He is helpless, restrained and tortured. He can endure. Also, the trees seem to be dancing, and it is a bit funny to look at.

“So no. Want me to keep petting you?”

“Tortururer,” Lambert mutters. Close enough.

“So yes. Geralt, did I tell you about that time when-” and Jaskier goes on to completely ignore him. He touches his hair, his ears, pinching his very cold nose, how very dare he do that actually. But Lambert is stuck, can’t fight it, and so the stupid, evil, meanie, tortururer bard keeps doing it.

He is not taking comfort from this; not at all.

They sit there for a long time, enjoying the cold sunlight while it lasts. Jaskier rambles on and Geralt is slowly lowering Lambert towards the stone, but not letting go of him.

“Jaslet? How’s the stone warm?” Lambert asks the both of them.

“Oh, it’s brilliant!” Jaskier beams, pinching Lambert's face together so that his lips sticks out in a pout. Geralt grumbles somewhere above him, and that usually means that he is embarrassed. Nice.

“The stone was all covered in ice and snow and stuff, and Geralt did this sign thingy with his hands and blasted fire all over it. Such a gentleman.”

Ohohohoo, Geralt is going to hear this. The alcohol is leaving him, damn it all, and the nausea and headache is settling in.

“Well. How about we return to the keep?” Geralt suggests, tightening his grip on Lambert.

“Oh, splendid idea!” Jaskier abandons Lambert's face, clapping his hands together. “We should let the kitty-cat take up the cuddling.”

“What? No!” Lambert protests, legs kicking uselessly as Geralt stands up and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Oh yes!” Jaskier smirks, and how did Lambert ever think this man was agreeable? Evil, meanie bard.

“Evil, meanie bard!” Lambert complains, his headache not getting better at all from being upside down and his nausea being a right pain with Geralt's shoulder in his abdomen.

They don’t care in the least about what Lambert thinks.

Jaskier opens the door to the 'kittycats' room, and Geralt tosses Lambert on the bed where said kittycat currently is reading a book. Aidens knees are fucking hard.

“Cuddle him. He’s sad,” Geralt tells Aiden, and Jaskier smirks behind his back.

“I'm not sad!!” Lambert protests, trying to detangle himself from kittycat limbs.

“Aiden. Cuddle. Now. Or I won’t get you the second volume of the steamy book you are reading,” Jaskier threatens and Aiden gasps.

“You wouldn’t!” And wow, feels nice to be wanted. Lambert makes an attempt to crawl away, he is sure there is some booze in Eskel’s room. He is always hiding the good stuff in the chest under the window.

“Oh no you don’t” Aiden catches him, and it seems it is the second time today Lambert is losing a wrestling match. “I am so getting the next volume. Cuddle me, you prick!”

The ‘why’ Jaskier was asking about before?

This may or may not have been a part of why Lambert was angry. He doesn’t know how to ask for things. It may or may not also be the reason why he is “losing” the match.

Maybe the booze can wait.

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel. [ Pt. 8 ]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: Tissaia de Vries pays you a visit and you are met with a startling revelation that can change your life, and the Witcher's forever. How are the two of you going to act upon it?

Warnings: None

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

"Why won't this fucking spell let me in?" Jaskier whined; in frustration, having tried for perhaps the tenth time to step into your chambers, but the spell that Yennefer had placed, had not allowed him to enter. And even Geralt, for that matter. Geralt had already experienced it once, and his sensible self didn't try it again, but Jaskier was headstrong, not wanting to stop trying until he had found a way to break that spell.

"Jaskier, let it go. Will you let her rest? Yen's put the spell to protect [Y/N]." Geralt tried to intervene, but the bard threw out both his hands in the air; dramatically and glared at him.

"I mean her no harm, Geralt. I'm sure you are very much aware of that. I love that woman."

Although Geralt knew that Jaskier meant it entirely in a platonic way; given the fact that the two of you had developed a deep rooted friendship ever since the whole knock you up with the Witcher baby drama had begun; a part inside of him flared with jealousy.

Jaskier, on the other hand felt guilt pierce through his heart, ever since he had found out exactly what had happened through Geralt. A part of it was his fault— although the entire conversation in the celebration revolving around Henrik had been a sodden joke from his end, because he had seen Henrik's eyes on her; he had never thought he would go to this extent. He felt guilty, finding himself responsible to a limit for what you had gone through, and he had to talk to you, get it off his chest; but the damn spell.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier from the collar of his shirt and began dragging him away from your room, without muttering a word, when finally, you emerged from your chambers, your eyes sullen, sleep deprived and deep dark bags already formed under them.

"Geralt, [Y/N]—" Jaskier tried pulling his shirt off the Witcher's clutches, trying to bring to a halt to the Witcher's dragging, "—Gods, you're such a big grizzly bear, would you look? She is here."

Geralt's head turned towards you and he let Jaskier go, his facial expressions changing almost instantly, from cold and unemotional to soft, and concerned; the second his eyes landed on you. You looked like a wreck, and Geralt mentally cursed himself, and his inability in that minute to reach out and provide you with comfort, or anything that could make you feel better, made him feel worse.

Instead, he decided to keep quiet, and let the bard talk to you instead, as he was already hovering around you, like a mother hen, concerned.

"[Y/N], I'm really sorry, I didn't know, I had no idea he was such a pervert, I swear to the Gods, had I known, I wouldn't have made those jokes—" he began, and you gave him a weak smile, reaching out and letting your hand rest against the side of his arm, aware of Geralt's eyes fixed on the exchange between the two of you.

"You had no idea, Jaskier. Stop beating yourself up, I'm alright."

Jaskier looked visibly relaxed upon hearing those words although he still wasn't entirely convinced, but decided not to push you any further.

"Would you like some breakfast? I'll ask someone to bring something up here for you," Jaskier asked softly, to which you simply shook your head, and turned to Geralt.

"I want to go home, Geralt. If you don't mind, can you arrange for a horse for me?"

Geralt stiffened when he was addressed directly, and he immediately nodded swiping his palm over his jaw and looked at you, "Give me some time, I'll arrange it."

"Thank you, Geralt," you whispered, giving him a meagre smile, before the smile was overshadowed by a painful look in your eyes, and Geralt forced himself to look away as he left you alone with the bard.

The bard did leave you alone shortly, with a promise to come back with a plate full of bread and ham for you; and you conceded because, as much as it pained you to think of it, you did want to be left alone, and this was the only way to make the hovering bard leave.

You were thankful you didn't see the sorceress all day, for you weren't ready to deal with her. But, you were shocked to have a visitor on your door, and a person you had least expected to see— Tissaia de Vries. When she stepped into your bed chambers, Yennefer's spell being no barrier for her, you weren't surprised, because you knew who she was.

"My name is Tissaia de Vries—"

"I know who you are, you are a member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, you are a powerful sorceress who created Yennefer of Vengerberg," you stood up from the side of your bed, your palms reflexively fixing on your bump as you stepped closer to the woman, eyeing her carefully from the corner of your eye. You noticed her lips curl into a smile, and she nodded, bringing her palms together and rubbing them lightly.

"Indeed, but the girl grew her wings, and she flew away."

You watched, noting how her smile faltered for a bit, and her eyes grew distant, as though she was suddenly plagued by certain memories, before she blinked, and turned towards you again; smiling at the curiousity that laced the features of your face.

"You must have questions."

"Yes, what do you want?" You pointed out, bluntly, without leaving a room for any further blabbering.

"Straight to the point, I see. Which is good. Saves me the effort, and the time," she slowly stepped closer, her head turning slightly to look for any unwanted ears out in the hallway prying into the conversation. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed your wrist, although the grip was light; as she pulled you towards her, so her lips were lined to your ears.

"Yennefer hasn't been entirely honest with you. There are a lot of things you don't know, and you must know," you blinked, listening to her as she continued, "Now this mansion has ears, but if you wish to know more come find me, child. I will be at the tavern in the village below, just until dawn tomorrow."

Sneaking out of the mansion in the death of the night was easier than you had thought it would. Your face was almost covered, the cloak wrapped around your body, covering your face partially as you hurried down the secluded street of the village. You had walked for over a kilometer, and hadn't experienced anything dangerous so far, and you were thankful for it.

The village lights were finally in sight, and you breathed a sigh of relief, when someone caught your arm and pulled you to the side of the road. He pulled off the cloak off your face; and you were met with the Witcher's golden orbs, his lips pressed together in a firm line, that only told you that he wasn't happy with the way you had sneaked out.

"You followed me. All the way."

His nose twitched, and he let go off your arm, your fingers feeling tingling due to the lack of his touch.

"I wanted to see how reckless or stupid you could get," he mumbled, his voice raspy.

"And?" You parted your lips to let out your breath, still looking at him.

"You like to play with fire."

You rolled your eyes, and turned away as you began walking towards the village once more, and Geralt cursed under his breath, before he began following you.

"You think you can just leave in the middle of the night? I am arranging for you to leave, but like a normal human being, in the light of the day."

You let out a snort; your pace slowing down a bit to let the Witcher catch up with you, but you didn't stop walking. You turned your head slightly to look at him, "I'm not leaving, Geralt. I knew you were following me. I saw you."

Geralt's lips twitched, almost faintly but you caught it before he looked at you with all seriousness again.

"I'm sure you didn't want to just go out for a walk."

"Well—" Your hand flew to the back of your head, as you scratched it lightly, and pulled your gaze away. The village was already upon you. "— You wouldn't exactly have let me if I had asked for your permission."

"Fair."

Your eyes spotted the tavern, and a rush of adrenaline surged through you. You wouldn't lie; you were curious as to what was it that Tissaia knew, and you didn't.

"It's funny, Witcher, you barely used to say words to me. Look at you now."

He grunted in response to you, his own eyes now having captured the destination where you were headed; the tavern.

"The tavern?"

You ignored him as you stepped into the tavern, and your nose immediately scrunched upwards, as the horrid smell of ale; too much of it, filled in your nostrils. Ignoring the pang to throw up, your eyes began looking for Tissaia until you spotted her, sitting at the back, at a farther end, smiling and watching you. It was as though she knew you were coming.

"Tissaia de Vries?" Geralt mumbled, and you nodded. Before he could even stop you, you were striding towards her. He decided to simply follow you, now that he was here with you. It was better to keep his eye on you, in case she decided to pull up an antic.

"I see you're not alone, [Y/N]. Witcher." The sorceress nodded her head in his direction and motioned for the two of you to sit down on a bench in front of her. You looked at Geralt, and he craned his neck slightly, his eyes darting around, scanning the tavern for anything unusual, while you sat down. In a minute, he sat down too, the bench now feeling cramped with his massive frame just next to yours.

"Tell me what you told me earlier. About what Yennefer hid from me."

Geralt tensed beside you and you chose deliberately not to look at him, at the mention of her name, keeping your eyes fixed on the sorceress in front of you.

"I think it's time, Geralt. Yennefer's been keeping things from you, I thought you would have understood, but unfortunately—"

"Tissaia, I don't understand what game you are playing," Geralt leaned forward, his palm placed on the table, his eyes narrowed at her, his shoulders tense.

"Geralt," you whispered, "let her speak."

The White Wolf grumbled under his breath, but didn't say anything else. His shoulders remained tense, heat radiating from his body; that you could feel but you were too curious to listen to the sorceress to feel any different.

"There are certain spells that can take a human's life," Tissaia began, her solemn eyes now fixed on you, "they are strong enough to destroy a human body. Because a human body isn't strong enough to take it." She leaned forward, letting her elbows rest against the table as she picked a piece of red meat and tossed it into her mouth, chewing on it and swallowing it. "The point is, the spell that Yennefer used, to grow his child within you wasn't an ordinary spell. No human can endure the power of that spell, and come out unscathed. You did."

You turned towards Geralt and shot him a look, before turning back to the sorceress again, "I don't get it. I survived the spell. Which is why this happened," your hand flew to your belly, and you looked down at your stomach, feeling Geralt's gaze on it too, before the two of you turned towards her again and she nodded.

"You think it was a mere coincidence that Yennefer picked you, out of all the women in the world, to carry that baby?" She pointed to your stomach.

"I needed the coin."

"The coin was a facade, child."

She turned towards the Witcher and he blinked, "You didn't know it too, Wolf. She never mentioned [Y/N] before, did she? I doubt it. Yennefer never betrays her own plans."

"Get to the fucking point, Tissaia," Geralt growled, and you shifted uncomfortably towards him, agreeing with him on this. Tissaia was making you uncomfortable.

"Twenty five years back, Queen Calanthe gave birth to a girl, this was before Pavetta was born. Someone stole the baby the night she was born, but they never found her."

"I think we should leave." Geralt intervened.

You turned towards Geralt, confused and helpless, before turning back to the sorceress again.

"That baby had the Elder Blood running through her veins. She had immense power, power that could disrupt everything around her by just one scream from her throat."

"What happened to the baby?" You asked; your heart thumping wildly against your chest.

"That baby grew up until Yennefer of Vengerberg found her in Redania, and a Witcher put his child in her."

Tissaia found herself a smile, you couldn't help but gasp, and Geralt just deadpanned, "Well, fuck."

"You're telling me that I'm the Princess of Cintra? Gods you must be mistaken, I don't know anything about magic. I'm just a commoner that got trapped by these two for coin." You turned towards him, giving him a glare, and he grunted in response.

"You were never trapped, you chose to do it."

"You think Yennefer wants to be a mother?" Tissaia spoke again, but this time, her eyes were on Geralt. You glanced from him to her, and then back, until you had your eyes fixed on his uncomfortable form. His fingers had clenched into a fist. "Combine the Elder blood, with a Witcher's blood. No sorceress is powerful enough against that baby." She pointed towards your stomach, and instinctively, your palm flew towards it, trying to shield your bump from the woman's eyes. You felt Geralt stiffen too; as he shifted towards you, his own protective side spilling out at those words as he glanced at you.

"If you knew your lover well, White Wolf, you would have known. Her lust for power would never end. She wants that baby because that baby is the key for her to slide to the top."

Geralt swallowed thickly. His palm came to rest against the table in front of him, his grip tightening over it, his knuckles almost turning white. He knew Yennefer was power hungry; but never had he realized that her hunger was now out of control. He felt stupid now, and more than stupid, he felt relentless rage, because she had played him. All this while, he thought that she wanted his child— but all she wanted was a Witcher's child, mixed with the Elder Blood, so she could have, for herself, the most powerful magic yielder in the form of a child.

"It wasn't a coincidence then, that Yennefer wanted me to carry this baby," you whispered to Geralt who just looked at you blankly. You then turned to Tissaia, who tossed a piece of red meat into her mouth once again, her eyes fixed on you, "What power does Yennefer have over me?"

She smirked slightly, as though she had thought about this quite a lot.

"Well, your powers need to be harnessed, which is why she has an edge over you. Once you do learn to harness your powers, Yennefer wouldn't be a problem." She suddenly closed her eyes, and her lips started moving as she began chanting something and your eyebrow shot up. Within seconds, she was already done. "She wouldn't be able to track you for a while. You can go wherever you want. The effect of the spell should last five to six days."

Somewhere outside, a rooster suddenly crowed, signalling that it was morning. Tissaia de Vries suddenly lowered her cloak so that it covered her face.

"It's dawn, I will take your leave, [Y/N]. Find me whenever you need me," You watched, numbly, only nodding your head at her as she stood up, and placed her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it lightly until she was already out of sight. You kept sitting there, bellowed in silence, both of you breathing laboured, lost in your own thoughts.

Geralt finally pulled you out of your thoughts, "A Princess? I need a fucking drink."

Geralt stood up and walked away, to get himself a drink. You just kept staring at him, too shocked to even react, or process anything. This was all too much to process in a single night. You were a Princess, and not just any Princess, you had Elder Blood running through your veins.

Your baby —

You pressed your palm to your mouth, rather abruptly and stood up, dashing towards the exit of the tavern.

Geralt's head shot towards you like missile as he watched you leave.

You ran outside, Geralt's heavy footsteps racing behind you as you bent over in a corner and began throwing up.

Geralt's warm palm fixed on your lower back; and you felt him pull your hair away from your face, holding them up for you while his other hand ran soothing circles over your lower back.

You weakly stood up straighter, but your legs suddenly felt weak which is why you held on to the wall for support, as you wiped the corners of your mouth with your sleeve.

"Too much information for one night," You muttered in a low voice, your eyes not meeting Geralt's.

"Not the only one," Geralt responded, his lips twitching with humour, but that immediately washed away when you tried taking a step towards him but found yourself unable to hold yourself on your feet. He reached out, grabbing you by your shoulders to steady you to your feet.

Finally, letting out a soft exhale, the Witcher bent, and lifted you up in his arms, almost effortlessly, his hand holding you from the base of your thighs. Your hand wrapped around the Witcher's neck almost reflexively, as he held you against his chest and began walking back.

The first few minutes were quiet, until you finally spoke— your fingers unknowingly playing with the Witcher's hair.

"This complicates things."

He hummed in response but chose to stay quiet; so you continued.

"Where does this leave you, Geralt? Because I have .. already made up my mind."

A silence took over the two of you, causing you to flick your gaze to the side of his face. His lips were pursed together, as though he was thinking. You didn't stop toying with the strands of his hair, and neither did he stop you. Finally, he exhaled, and craned his neck slightly lower so he could look at you.

"And what did you decide?"

You bit the insides of your cheeks nervously. Geralt had been nice to you, until today, if you were to ignore the first few weeks you had known him. You had seen the change in the man; having grown from cold to lukewarm towards you, but that didn't mean you didn't know what Yennefer meant to him. Now, would Geralt really let you go? Especially.. if you were carrying his baby?

"I .. I want to go home.. to Cintra.. I want to see my mother, I want to.. see my kingdom, and I want to learn to harness .. my magic.." You whispered.

Geralt nodded, but he didn't reply.

He slowly let you down, and you looked up to realize that you had been so distracted talking to Geralt, you hadn't realized that you were standing on the bottom most step that led to the sorceress' mansion.

"I won't stop you."

You abruptly stopped walking when you heard those words, your legs almost freezing when you felt that he wasn't behind you anymore. You turned back around to find him standing on the bottom most step while you had already made your way to the door.

"Thank you, Geralt. For everything."

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @miss-emilia-cavill @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @fanaticnae @kmuir1 @little-jana @pineapplemama @auds24 @sassy-pelican @bitchynicole @cavillsim @ragamuffin285 @hista-girl @oliviali0930 @introvertedmouse @madbaddic7ed @libbymouse @nerra75 @maxineswritingcenter @superawesomegeek @waifu4lifeu @funalpaca @petitefirecracker10 @marantha @vikingsbifrost @babypink224221

Want to be added to the list? Plz let me know via my ask box, inbox or comments. ✨

[abluescarfonwaston]

I’d know him blind

It didn’t come all at once. He’d really thought they’d made it out unscathed. That the box he’d opened in that mage’s abandoned laboratory hadn’t worked.

As they walked back thick fog rolled in. Obscuring the sky. The path ahead. The trees aside them. Even dimming Geralt and Roach a few paces ahead into off grey.

He jogged closer to them. Geralt gave him a look.

“What? Sorry I don’t want to get lost.”

“Why would you get lost?”

“Because?” He waved at the thick grey mist around them. “The fog Geralt? Not all of us can follow a scent trail. Even if it’s yours.” He fanned the thick smell of Geralt’s sweat away.

He stopped. Turned to him.

“Theirs’s no fog Jaskier.” Grabbed his face. Studying his eyes as the fog rolled in thicker. Obscuring even Roach right behind him. “It’s clear out.”

“Oh.” His hands started shaking and his eyes grew hot. “Then I suppose we have a problem.”

And Geralt’s face; hard and angry and concerned disappeared into the grey.

 “Ah Master Witcher! Master Bard! Haven’t touched your room!” Something wooshed past his ear. Jangled at his side as Geralt moved oddly next to him.

“Thanks.” Geralt grunted moving him through the bar.

“Ah! Master bard!” Footsteps. Creaking wood. People talking. It was. It was a lot and nothing at all because he had no idea where or what or who it was. “You’ll be playing for us tonight yes? Dinner and a bath as agreed?”

“No.” Geralt growled. “He won’t.”

“Of course!” He agreed over top him. “I will however need a stage,” He didn’t remember if the bar had one. He preferred not to use them anyway. Moving through the crowds instead. But he doubted it did. “Or a chair at least. Our little adventure has left me a bit short sighted.” He grinned at where he hoped the man was.

There was a lull. Where the only noise was the bar. He shifted his feet.

“He’s blind.” Geralt said finally. He leaned a little harder into his solid mass. Steady and warm and there.

“Temporarily!” He quickly assured. The arm not wrapped around Geralt’s flapped. Smacking sharply into something. “Ow.”

“Oh!” The barkeep Seemed startled. He was further to the left than he’d thought. “We’ll set something up then! I hope you make a hasty recovery Master bard!”

“Jaskier is fine.” He assured. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” Geralt pulled him from the bar.

 “Why’d you agree to play!” Geralt snapped at him after he’d been deposited on the bed.

“I don’t need eyes to play and sing Geralt. What? Am I supposed to just sit in this tiny room and twiddle my thumbs all week?” He yelled into the darkness.

Geralt exhaled with a forced slowness. “I need to go return this.” Metal sliding on metal. The chain of the necklace they’d been sent to retrieve. That had been locked in the box he’d opened. Very cleverly he had thought. “Stay.”

“Stay!” He barked. “I’m not a fucking dog!” He yelled at after him as the door closed and his footsteps faded away.

Something creaked. He flinched away from it.

The bed was firm under him. The blanket decent but not soft.

He drummed his fingers on his leg.

Someone walked passed the room.

He grabbed the blanket and found the wall. Carefully followed it into the corner. Curled up there with the blanket around him.

He couldn’t read. Write. There was no one to talk to anymore. Just him and the grey darkness.

He hoped if someone came into their room they wouldn’t spot him. Because he couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. Not that he was particularly good at that normally. But he couldn’t tell if he was hidden. Because he couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see.

Geralt was gone and he couldn’t see and every time something made a sound he couldn’t identify he flinched.

Temporary. Should only last a week. Geralt assured.

But Geralt didn’t know that much about magic. Or he might have been lying. To keep him from panicking.

He was panicking now. But there was no one there to see. So he let himself.

And when he was too exhausted to panic more he fell asleep and he hardly noticed the difference because everything was dark anyway.

 Someone was moving in the room.

He shoved himself into the corner tighter as the footsteps creaked the floorboards and he breathed in to scream-

His nose filled with the musk of onion and sweat.

He relaxed in a boneless heap. “You scared me Geralt. I thought you were a thief or something.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Unidentifiable ruffling joined his voice. “If you’re going to play you should go down soon.”

“Right.” He stood. Throwing the blanket in the direction of the bed. “Where’s my lute?”

There was the familiar sound of Geralt’s feet softly hitting the wood even in his boots. Far too delicate steps for a man of his size. He exhaled, the terror receding with the recognition of each step. It was gently placed in his outstretched hands.

He traced the wood. Her finish. Ran his fingers down her strings.

She was familiar. Safe. He didn’t need to see to know her.

“Alright. Help your best friend down the stairs will you?”

“We’re not friends.” He grumbled as he did exactly that.

 Playing was wonderful. Even if he couldn’t dance with the songs. Move with them. Smile and wink effectively to charm the audience of their earnings.

The after was less fun.

People approaching. There was too much random noise to figure out who they were or where exactly they were. Talking to him. He chatted back. He always loved a conversation.

It was harder when he couldn’t see them. Judge how he was coming off aside from their tone of voice and words.

Something touched his knee.

He leaped back. Knocking the chair out from under him. Tripping on it as he backed away.

There were people asking him all kinds of questions at once and reaching out to touch him and-

Geralt’s hand wrapped around his bicep. The exact shape and warmth and way he always did. Hauling him up and away from the crowded room.

“Show’s over.” He growled.

He clung to Geralt as he was hauled from the room. Thrown over his shoulder.

He couldn’t keep track of the room or the people in it or where they were going. His eyes searched the darkness uselessly.

But the leather was familiar under his fingers.

The movement of it steadying.

Something creaked.

“Stop grabbing my ass Jaskier.”

“Wha- is that what this is?” He moved his hands slightly to better feel the muscle moving under the leather. “It’s very lovely. A lovely bottom.”

The world spun and the bed creaked under him as he was roughly dropped into it.

There were several moments of silence. He wondered if Geralt was glaring at him since he clearly wasn’t putting his Lute away for him.

“I know this might come as a shock to you but I can’t actually see you right now so whatever lecture you’re trying to impart with a stern face,” He demonstrated the expected face, “and disappointed eyes I can’t actually see. So they’re actually even less effective than normal. So there.”

“I.” A pause. “You panicked. Why?”

He grimaced into the pillow. Schooled his face and rolled onto his side. Propped his face on his palm facing Geralt’s general direction.

“I didn’t panic.” He scoffed and shook his head. “You kidnapped me from my adoring fans! Very rude Geralt.”

“You fell out of your chair.”

“Sabotage!” He said too quickly. “I was knocked out of my chair!”

“No you weren’t.”

“Are you telling the story or am I?”

“Tell it right then.” He growled.

His smile partially collapsed. It was a silly thing to have panicked over. He knew that. People touched him all the time.

He raised and lowered a shoulder casually rebuilding the easy smile. “Someone touched me and I over reacted. What a shame too. I’ve heard having sex blindfolded really ups the thrill of it and-“

“Stop.” Geralt groaned.

He barreled on anyway. “If anything doing it blind has to be its own experience. Really maximizing the sensory deprivation.” He rolled onto his back. “Put my lute away and come to bed. What are you doing? Standing there like a statue all night? Is that the plan? You are no longer allowed to make plans if that’s the case.”

He heard the quiet thump of her being hung up by the doorway. The soft padding of Geralt’s feet on the wood. He scooched over on the bed for him.

Geralt didn’t get in.

He frowned and pat the mattress obligingly.

“I touched you without asking too.”

He turned to him. The grey was almost black. So it was likely dark out. “So?”

Unhelpful silence.

He patted the bed again. “Either talk or lie down you broody old man.”

The bed creaked slightly. “I’m getting in.”

He snorted. “Gathered that thank you.”

A short huff of frustration. “Don’t want you to panic again.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well excuse me for wanting to know who’s touching me before they do.”

“I wasn’t-“ The bed creaked forebodingly. Hopefully it would stay in one piece. That had been an issue at some of the cheaper inns they’d stayed at.

He popped off his doublet and loosened the drawstring of his pants. He waited to hear the familiar sound of Geralt shuffling out of his leathers.

His side remained eerily silent.

“What are you doing- Sleeping in your clothing tonight? We don’t do laundry enough as it is. Don’t make it worse.”

“I didn’t.” An irritated sigh. He stared judgingly in his direction. “Fine.”

The familiar sound of Geralt struggling out of his deliciously form fitting pants.

He wrangled the blankets over him as he tossed his trousers aside.

“Geralt?”

“What?” Came the grit out reply.

“Stop being weird. I’m blind not glass.”

“I don’t need you screaming bloody murder into my ear if I roll over.”

He reached out into the darkness and grabbed for the irritating bastard.

“That’s my pec Jaskier.”

“You certain?” He fondled it a bit more. “Damn I forget how muscular you are sometimes.”

His hand was knocked away as he laughed. Quickly grabbed the offending arm in his before it could escape.

“It’s fine Geralt. I know you in the dark just fine. It’s not like I can normally see you once the lights go out anyway.”

A quite inhale and exhale.

Geralt shuffled closer. He curled into Geralt’s chest.

“Besides.” He yawned and draped an arm over him. “I don’t need to see you to know it’s you.”

I knew you by the way your feet hit the ground and your hand felt around my arm. He didn’t say. I know you by the way the leather moves over your muscles and you exhale.

Geralt snorted disbelievingly.

“It’s true.” He tucked a leg between Geralt’s and nuzzled himself to a comfortable position. “You’ve got a pretty strong smell.”

[imnotwolverine]

Wolfie’s Fic Recs | Anguish and Angst

ANGUISH AND ANGST FICS - Ready for some tear jerkers? Not-so-sweet dreams are made of these fics, so get your tissues and comfort blanket ready. 

🖐 WARNING: NSFW + anxiety inducing content beneath the cut 🖐

Break-ups & Heartbreak

@emyearns probably knows exactly what my first breakup looked like, because.. *ugly cries*. Get your tissues ready for Ghost Of You. [Mike x reader]

August sees the one who got away in No More Tears by @littlefreya [August Walker x OFC] - And I love-love-love that this is written from August’s POV! ❤️

Wearing a man’s sweater gets a whole different meaning after reading this heartbreaking fic by @emyearns. Coffee and Ink [Walter x OFC] 

Ready for some songfic breakup sadness? #11 Captain Sy by @onlyhenrys [Syverson x reader]

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Unrequited Love

Sy’s being a fool and he realises it too late. Soldier On by me. [Syverson x reader]

Henry’s a dick in this one. And you simply had Enough of always being there at the ready as his best friend. By @the-soot-sprite [Henry Cavill x reader]

Would you walk out that door? This angsty prompt’s got you all kinds of frustrated. By @onlyhenrys

I wasn’t sure whether to place this here. But a child’s love is love too. Geralt secretly watches a family have a picnic and the kid is apparently not afraid of monsters. Highway to Hell by @wendimydarling [Geralt of Rivia] 

Let’s take a little bit of a breather with a mildly angsty, but mostly very fluffy fic of friends-taking-way-too-fucking-long-to-become-lovers. Stolen Kisses by @the-soot-sprite [Henry Cavill x OFC]

This fic is probably the pinnacle of unrequited love; it’s got slow-burn, angst-turns-fluff-in-the-end and Henry being an utter fool in the love department. (Ps. I haven’t completely caught up with this fic, so NO SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS DAMNIT!)  Chances by @foodieforthoughts [Henry Cavill x OFC]

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Nightmares & PTSD

If you want angsty dreams followed by hot, craving smut; Stay and read this fic. By me [Henry Cavill x reader]

Waking up in a hospital bed with a strange man beside you. It’s a setup I wish was a full length fic, but alas..Short but mighty. Emotion challenge - Anxious by @onlyhenrys [Walter Marshall + reader]

Nightmares wake August, but you're there to guard him when the storms outside and in get too dark. Prompt with August by @onlyhenrys [August Walker x reader]

More nightmares are kept at bay in this gorgeous little fic by @littlefreya. Angel Can You Hold Me [August Walker x OFC]

More nightmare-having bulky dudes? Marshall’s life isn’t all roses and sunshine, even when he’s caught a pretty thing in his bed. Can’t You Stay A Little Longer by @onlyhenrys [Walter Marshall x reader]

The more cutting the hurt of your past, the harder it is to open up to new people. Henry has walked on eggshells, but now finally wants to know what’s up. And if words can’t form on lips, perhaps they can..on fingertips. Please Don’t Leave Me by @wendimydarling [Henry Cavill x reader]

--

It’s a Hard Knock Life

I can’t be the only LotR-nerd who got elf!Geralt vibes when watching the Witcher. So let me give you some impossible love, anguish and Middle Earth hardships in When In Dreams [elf!Geralt x human!OFC] 

You’re not sure whether Charles will return, so the last few hours with him are Sad indeed. By @onlyhenrys [Charles Brandon x reader]

We’re all having a hard knock life with the pandemic going on. So let Marshall give you some sweet care in Pandemic Anxieties by @promptandpros [Walter Marshall x reader]

Between the lines of smoking hot Superman sex, you’ll feel bad for him. Because as morning comes, life goes on. Alone. On the road. Where he hopes he’ll find yet another hot shower and a bed for the night. Convenience by @wendimydarling [Clark Kent x OFC]

Had a bad day? Henry will give you clear instructions on how to relax in: Your Voice by @peachyvulpixie [Henry Cavill x reader]

You play with the locket to your heart when Walter returns, gunpowder in the air. Despite your anniversary and all things good, you just know something’s up with him. Unnamed Marshall piece by @writernerd23 [Walter Marshall x reader]

Falling Again follows struggling AU!Henry dad as the bills keep piling and life just won’t feel the way it did when his wife was still around. By @deathonyourtongue​ [AU!Henry Cavill] 

--

Depression & Body Consciousness 

Depression is a bitch, but Henry isn’t. When Words Fail, he’s there. By @princess-of-riviaa [Henry Cavill x reader]

Failing to conceive is painful, terrible, heartbreaking. And unfortunately not even the big bear can’t make it better. Feeling Challenge: Sad by @meowpurrbooks [Henry Cavill x reader]

More conceiving sadness is there in Negative, by @oddduckthatgirl -- some Christmasses just truly suck. [Henry Cavill x reader]

The loss of your husband still crushes you and his best friend, Syverson, even a year after his passing. Get your tissues ready, because this is one big ol’ tearjerker; A Soldier’s Heart by @onlyhenrys [late husband x reader + Captain Syverson]

You feel like the new life within you is the last thing Napoleon wants in his life. A Mistake by @coloraturadiva [Napoleon Solo x reader]

Good love is accepting that change is part of life. And loving one-self is often the hardest, especially when those changes seem to pry you apart from Henry. Comfort by @promptandpros [Henry Cavill x reader]

An insecure woman meets a man in the club. But this man’s not like the others, not one bit. Unexpected by @nuggsmum​ [August Walker x OFC]

Sometimes even burrito blankets can’t give you comfort. Nor your favourite show, nor anything really. Depression truly is a bitch, especially when Henry’s away. Stuck In Your Head by @inlovewithhisblueeyes [Henry Cavill x reader]

Faye’s text messages in this fic still crack me up every time, though they sure make for a stark contrast to the burned latkes and big tear fest -- it’s a good thing Marshall is a big fluffy care bear. The Great Jewish Cook-off by @inlovewithhisblueeyes [Walter Marshall x reader]

--

Corruption & Death

Walking on woodland trails you find something naive to Corrupt. By @emyearns. [angel!Mike x reader]

August has died many deaths, but still he craves One More Time - just so he can be with her. By @thetaoofzoe [August Walker x OFC] 

Our great master of angst and death suffers, and makes the world suffer, once more. There Cannot Be Peace by @killjoy-assbutt-1112 [August Walker x reader]

Okay, so this one’s on AO3, but I’ve loved it ever since first reading it. Geralt hears of Jaskier’s death and realizes a thing or two as he tries to come to terms with it all. It’s Like I’ve Gone Off To The Coast by adhdbuck [Geralt + Jaskier] 

Napoleon finds himself in a hospital, not sure what to feel as he waits for doctors to give him news. The News. Any news. Grief by @promptandpros [Napoleon Solo x OFC]

The king of corruption is defiling an angel without wings in Black Tears, by @littlefreya [August Walker x OFC]

When death comes knocking, Geralt realises his annoying bard isn’t one he wants to lose. Did You Mean It by @thecomfortofoldstorries​ [Geralt x Jaskier]

Sometimes good things come to an end, but Henry just doesn’t want it. Not even when the doctors are losing hope. The Call: Irresistible You by @angrythingstarlight [Henry Cavill x OFC]

August Walker is the perfect kind of nightmare material. Especially in this terribly hot angsty smut piece by @hope-to-hell: Dream State [August Walker x reader]

This gorgeous impressionistic piece includes raspberry mousse, blood, scarred hands and August Walker. Into The Storm by @hope-to-hell [August Walker x OFC]

--

Need a little lift-me-up after all these tear jerkers? Short Sweets is a fic rec list with a bunch of completely innocent and utterly lovely fics which will keep the bad dreams at bay ❤️

--

If you have any good recommendations that fit in this list, please add in the comments or reblog! 

( Fan art by me 😊)

[contemplativepancakes]

not if it’s you

4k post mountain hurt/comfort fix it with gratuitous eskel for @witcher-and-his-bard . read on ao3 here!

Jaskier strums his lute idly, drumming his fingers on the base. He clears his throat before he starts tapping his foot on the wooden floor. Geralt is sure they can hear it four days down. He knows that if he prods Jaskier, he’ll just clam up and spend another three days working towards whatever he wants to say, though, so Geralt just lets him fidget.

To Geralt’s frustration, Jaskier doesn’t broach whatever topic has him worked up that day, or the next, or the one after that, and eventually, Geralt doesn’t think about it anymore. It must not have been important, never mind the fact that anything Jaskier says is inherently important to him.

 Geralt lets himself get swept up in the wave that is Yennefer, in that someone like her could ever desire someone like him. Geralt doesn’t know what she sees, still doesn’t even know why Jaskier sticks around, and he at least has a little more to offer him than he does to Yen.

And so, when Yennefer pushes him away, he pushes right back, on the one person that’s still convinced he isn’t completely full of shit. It won’t take long for Geralt to right that wrong; it’s not like he deserves that anyway. The words tumble from Geralt’s lips, each one making Jaskier’s face twist more and more.

Geralt thinks it might be the most he’s ever said to Jaskier all in one go, and that—that thought hurts.

Geralt turns his back so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier.

“Right. Right, then.” Jaskier clears his throat, says something about the others. “I’ll... see you around, Geralt.”

There’s hesitation on the tip of his tongue, and it sounds like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t, he just turns and goes.

It must not have been important, Geralt thinks.

-

Geralt barely makes it to the winter. He’s about felled on three contracts that normally would have been nothing to sneeze at, but he just…can’t think. He can’t focus on what he’s doing, now that this is all he’s good for again. Just someone to slay monsters for people who don’t appreciate it, with no one to even limp back to at the end of the day.

Geralt combs a hand through Roach’s mane, determined not to bring her down with his melancholy mood. Besides, he’ll be at Kaer Morhen in a few days, and he’s sure everything will look brighter around his family and with his belly full. There’s something about a pitiful looking witcher that doesn’t inspire very much generosity by those setting the contracts, and Geralt can’t muster the will to argue with them about it.

He takes what he’s given. It’s when he got greedy and wanted too much that things started to fall apart, after all.

When he makes it to the keep, Vesemir comes out to greet him, concern twisting his face as he walks with Geralt to the stables. Geralt is sure he reeks; he hasn’t taken a bath in weeks and the emotions wafting off of him can’t be of the pleasant variety, but Vesemir doesn’t comment, just begins to brush Roach down as Geralt takes off her tack.

They stay silent all throughout finishing Roach’s care, until Geralt is triple checking that there’s nothing stuck in her hooves because he’s trying to delay any uncomfortable conversations.

Vesemir clears his throat. “Supper should be ready. You need to eat more.”

Geralt breathes a sigh of relief and follows him into the keep.

The warm air hits him in the face, oppressively stuffy, as he trails behind Vesemir to the kitchen. When he was still young, they used to sit in the dining room, laughter and chatter drifting through the crowded hall and drowning out the clink of cutlery, but now there’s only silence that does nothing to ease Geralt’s nerves.

He hadn’t realized he was so nervous to see his brothers until now. He’s not sure if he wants them to say something or nothing at all; each is its own special brand of depressing. Maybe Geralt is typically so morose anyway they won’t notice anything is amiss.

Geralt forces himself to eat, each bite turning into sawdust in his mouth, but he swallows it down despite that. Eskel gives him a scrutinizing look over the rim of his glass, but he doesn’t say anything. Lambert is too distracted in kicking Aiden under the table, and he’s barely said ten words to Geralt since he got here.

Geralt sighs.

-

Later, Eskel finds him.

Eskel comes into his room without knocking, and Geralt turns around to give him a half hearted snarl. Eskel rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Who says anything is wrong?”

Eskel wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”

“Well, no one asked you to be in my room. You’re welcome to leave at any time.”

“Was it some villagers? Because I can go back and show them what an actual scary witcher looks like, gods know you’re too soft to get anywhere approaching intimidating.”

Geralt attempts a half hearted grin and hums. Eskel flops back on the bed, his hand coming up to itch at his face. “Not villagers, then. Your humans?”

Geralt grunts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So it is, then. Yennefer?”

Geralt walks over to the bed and shoves Eskel over to something resembling just one half before dropping down beside him. He kicks at Eskel’s legs to get them out of his space.

“Triss? Jaskier?”

Geralt rolls over and buries his head into a pillow.

He tenses when Eskel’s broad hands land on his shoulders. Eskel pauses, waiting for his permission, so Geralt relaxes his muscles, softening under Eskel’s touch. He rubs the knots out of Geralt’s back, digging in with his thumbs, until Geralt is a motionless pile of goo. He’s not sure he could move even if a monster came crashing in through the window.  

“Ready to talk yet?” Eskel murmurs.

“It’s—nothing is going right.”

Eskel hums. “Welcome to the life of a witcher. I hadn’t realized this was new for you.”

Geralt rolls over onto his back, looking over at Eskel to where he’s splayed out beside him. He considers the way Eskel’s mouth is turned down and reaches out to trace Eskel’s scars with his fingertips. Eskel turns his head away, but Geralt presses closer to him and plants a kiss on his jaw.

“Geralt,” Eskel says in warning, but Geralt would really like to just not think right now.

“Please?”

Eskel softens. Geralt so rarely lets himself ask for anything, and he knows Eskel understands the significance. Eskel turns towards him and wraps his arms around Geralt, tucking Geralt’s head under his chin. He pokes at Geralt’s chest. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Geralt presses kisses along Eskel’s collarbone, not saying anything beyond a grunt. 

Eskel sighs and lets Geralt kiss him, their mouths meeting in something soft and sad.

Eskel opens to him, and Geralt lets the desire lick its way up his belly to settle somewhere in his chest. Eskel tugs Geralt's shirt off, and Geralt does the same for him, rubbing a hand across Eskel's torso and admiring how solid he is, his thumb tracing a jagged scar across Eskel’s pectoral. 

Eskel just looks at his ribs protruding through his skin and frowns, so Geralt does his best to distract him. "Come here," he mutters, pulling Eskel into another kiss.

Eskel's hands slide their way up his torso, brushing across his nipples and landing on his biceps and squeezing. Geralt knows that's one part of him that hasn't wasted away, at least. The soft layers are always the first to go when times are lean. Geralt's largely used to it, but it hasn't been this bad in a while. Certainly not since Jaskier had started traveling with him.

Geralt attempts to force his brain to stop thinking about Jaskier out of sheer willpower, but it evades his best efforts.

He drags his fingertips over Eskel's skin, trying to ground himself. He slides them from the smooth expanse of Eskel's forearms to his calloused palms, remembering how Eskel's rough hands feel around his cock.

He does not make any comparisons to Jaskier's clever fingers.

Geralt rolls them over, positioning himself on top as he deepens the kiss, making it as sloppy as he can and trying to lose himself in the sensation.

Unfortunately for him, witchers aren't meant to lose themselves in anything, their senses too sharp to ever truly be able to focus on just one thing. Geralt can hear Lambert and Aiden arguing three doors down, and he can smell the contentedness dripping off Vesemir at having them all there, mixed with just the slightest bit of sour worry. Geralt tries to ignore that last part.

"Hey," Eskel whispers. "You okay?"

"Mm," Geralt says, burying his face in Eskel's neck. "Peachy."

"Liar," Eskel replies, but it's without heat, and he coaxes Geralt back out of his neck and into another kiss.

Geralt slides his hands down Eskel's torso, unknotting his trouser ties and tugging them off. Eskel does the same for him, stripping them both out of their small clothes until his half hard cock is pressed against Geralt's bare skin.

Geralt reaches down between them and takes Eskel in hand, stroking him to full hardness and enjoying the sound of the rumbling coming from Eskel's chest.

Eskel raises a gentle hand to frame Geralt's face, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone before moving on to tucking a strand of hair being Geralt's ear.

Geralt swallows hard at the tenderness of it all. There's a burning in his chest, climbing up his ribcage and threatening to consume him, that he doesn't want to examine too closely.

Geralt jacks Eskel faster, but Eskel puts his hand on Geralt's and slows the movement. "We have time," he says.

Geralt lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. They have time. Frankly, too damn much of it, if you ask Geralt.

He's distracted by Eskel moving away from him, sitting up to rummage through the stand next to the bed. He comes back with oil and settles back on the bed, slicking his fingers and reaching behind himself.

Geralt shuts his eyes for a moment, trying not to let himself be dragged down by the overwhelming scent and sight of Eskel this close to him and opening himself up for Geralt.

"Fuck, Eskel," he moans.

"Like what you see?" Eskel asks, turning his head away.

Geralt puts his fingers on Eskel's chin and tilts his head back. "Yes."

Eskel’s eyes dart down, but Geralt's gaze stays fixed on him, tracking the microexpressions of pleasure on Eskel's face until he leans forward to kiss him again, Eskel's lips warm and soft on his own.

Eventually, Eskel puts a hand on Geralt's chest, and Geralt pulls away in question.

Eskel pushes Geralt back, guiding him to lay down before wiping his hand on the bed spread. Geralt makes an indignant noise. "You doing my washing?"

"It's going to get a lot dirtier than that, don't worry," Eskel says with a wink.

Geralt gives him an exasperated eye roll, but it's lost when Eskel grips the base of his cock and sinks down on it.

Geralt inhales a sharp breath, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him as Eskel starts to ride him.

"Just let me take care of you," he whispers, so Geralt does.

-

After, Eskel rolls off of him, laying on the lumpy mattress beside Geralt. They stay in silence for quite a while, until Eskel finally says. “So it’s Jaskier, then?”

Geralt grunts and shoves at Eskel’s shoulder, but Eskel just gives him a self satisfied smirk before sobering again. “Neither one of us deserves second best, Geralt.”

“So you’ve...you’ve found someone, then?”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe. For now.”

There’s a knife digging under his rib cage. Eskel’s never had someone serious before, at least not that he’s told Geralt about. It hurts more than Geralt can explain, and he wonders if Eskel feels this way about him. Neither one of them have any claim to the other, but—they do, a little. It’d been just them for so long.

When Geralt couldn’t even find a whore who would touch him because no coin purse could ever begin to outweigh their fear and disgust at witchers, Eskel had been there, waiting for Geralt at Kaer Morhen. And now, who knows if Eskel will even return next winter. Maybe he’ll bring his lover. Geralt feels sick.

Eskel must be able to sense Geralt’s thoughts spiraling because he tugs him closer, combing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt lets the motion soothe him to sleep.

-

Geralt spends the rest of the winter keeping everyone at arm’s length. No one moreso than Eskel. He pretends not to see the hurt looks Eskel gives him, but Geralt just—he can’t. At least he had pushed Yennefer and Jaskier away all by himself. Eskel left him of his own volition.

Logically, Geralt knows that isn’t fair, that he’s holding Eskel to a higher standard than he holds himself, but he can’t help the way it feels like someone ripped an arrow right out of him, the head catching on ragged flesh as it comes out and makes everything worse.

By the time the snow in the pass has melted, Geralt is practically climbing the walls. He makes himself seek Eskel out before he leaves. Eskel looks surprised to see him, and Geralt’s sure he thought Geralt was going to leave without so much as a goodbye. Geralt gives Eskel a rough hug. “I’m happy for you,” he says.

When they pull away, Eskel looks at him closely. “Take care of yourself. I’m gonna kick your ass at gwent next winter.”

This startles a laugh out of Geralt. “Keep dreaming.”

-

As he mounts Roach to leave the keep, he looks to the horizon. He pats Roach’s neck and resolves to make it to next winter, for Eskel, if no one else.

And so, irony decides to slap him in the face. He agrees to take a contract for a graveir that has been terrorizing the woods just outside of a village. Geralt makes his preparations, but he’s not too concerned about a singular graveir. Sure, they can be dangerous if they get the jump on him, but he’s not going to let that happen.

Famous last words.

The first problem is that it’s not a graveir; it’s a leshen. Geralt curses as he scrambles back from it, rotting flesh peeling away from the deer skull that it calls a head. Geralt’s not sure how the villagers managed to skip this little detail, and his mind is coming up blank for ideas on how to get out of this. Leshens are ancient and not easy to kill at the best of times. Unprepared and on the defensive is hardly an ideal circumstance.

Geralt knows he’s not going to be able to kill it, but he might be able to reason with it. Leshen are intelligent, so Geralt steels his nerves and sheathes his sword, holding out his hands.

“I’m sorry—” is all he gets out before the leshen lashes out with one of it’s branched arms and catches him hard in the side.

Geralt hisses in pain and drops to his knees, clutching at his side. He looks up at the leshen, trying to think of something, anything, that’s going to get him out of this predicament alive, but he draws a blank.

The leshen bludgeons him again, and he doesn’t think about anything else for quite a while.

-

“Geralt? Gods, Geralt!”

-

When Geralt wakes up, he thinks he must be dead. It’s the only reasonable explanation. If he had survived his encounter with the leshen, he would be lying on the hard ground with no less than four tiny rocks or twigs digging into his back, but he’s on a soft mattress. And it smells like...Jaskier?

Yes, this definitely isn’t real.

Geralt keeps his eyes shut as he registers the details and slowly fills in the world around him.

Jaskier is picking at his nails in a chair next to the bed, and there’s a clock slowly ticking on the wall. Jaskier sighs and tugs at the blanket covering Geralt, pulling it from his shoulders to rest just beneath Geralt’s chin.

Geralt finally surmises that he must not be dead, because if he were, all of these sounds and smells wouldn’t be grating so much on his senses.

He lets Jaskier’s fidgeting go on for three more minutes before he finally darts out a hand from underneath the blankets to take hold of Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier’s pulse ratchets up, and Geralt draws his hand back like he’s been burned. Jaskier has been drenched in the scent of fear ever since Geralt had gained enough consciousness to register the smell, and Geralt hates it.

He never wants Jaskier to smell like that, and the thought that he’s causing it? Well, it’s not a pleasant one. Jaskier had never been frightened of him before, but Geralt supposes he can’t expect everything to simply go back to the way it was before, even if desperately wants it to.

“Stay still, please,” Geralt scrapes out finally, and Jaskier stops his fiddling immediately.

“Oh, I’m,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “sorry. Your ears must be very sensitive right now.”

Geralt grunts in vague agreement, and some of the fear scent mellows out into something more resembling worry. Honestly, in this state, Jaskier could probably fight him off without too much of an issue, so he’s not sure what exactly he has to be worried about.

-

Jaskier stares at Geralt’s peaceful profile. The lines on his face have smoothed out in sleep, and his chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Jaskier lets out a deep sigh and scrubs his hands over his face. He was never enough for Geralt the first time around, so he doesn’t know why he thinks this time will be any different.

Just because, what? Because he saved Geralt this time instead of the other way around? Well, only about eleven more times to go and then they’ll be even.

Jaskier pulls out his notebook and flips to a page near the beginning. He runs his fingers over the words that have been smudged by age and tears, tapping his nails on the curves of the letters. He bites his lip as he looks back up at Geralt before closing the book again. Geralt wouldn’t have wanted this then, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want it right now.

The best thing Jaskier could do for him would be to leave, but Jaskier is selfish, and he needs to see that Geralt is going to wake up again for himself.

He’d been scared out of his wits earlier; sure that this time he’d finally lost it and he’d started to hallucinate while he had stumbled around in the woods. There had been a resounding crash, so Jaskier had gone to check it out, and he could almost hear Geralt berating him for his nonexistent survival instincts.

Jaskier had found Geralt, his white hair haloed around his head and still convinced he was seeing things. When he had sunk to his knees beside Geralt’s still form and reached out a hand, Geralt was solid and real and bloody, so Jaskier had panicked.

He didn’t know what to do, so he flitted his hands over Geralt until he found where the blood was sluggishly seeping from and pressed down hard. He tried to ignore his shaky hands, but it was hard to do when the bottles he fumbled from Geralt’s pack clinked together incessantly.

He almost dropped one, and upon closer examination, it looked like the one Geralt always took when he would come back wounded. Jaskier knew he shouldn’t try to make an unconscious person drink anything, but Geralt was looking dangerously paler by the second, and he didn’t see any other options. He lifted Geralt’s head up and pulled him into his lap, supporting his head as he tipped the bottle’s contents between Geralt’s lips.

Somehow, Jaskier had flagged down a cart that was passing not too far from where they were on a trail and had convinced the driver to help them. He’s sure he looked quite the sight, Geralt’s blood all over his doublet, but there must have been enough genuine panic in his voice to get the point across.

And now they’re here, Geralt taking rattling breaths as he sleeps. Geralt had wanted destiny to take him off his hands, but Jaskier…

He must be a glutton for punishment, because he can’t bring himself to leave Geralt’s side.

-

Geralt wakes again to a soft humming, and he cracks his eyes open to be surprised that Jaskier is still here. He allows himself to hope for a moment that maybe all isn’t lost before he quashes it. It’s more likely Jaskier was just waiting for him to wake up so he could tell him off to his face.

Geralt heaves himself to a sitting position, and Jaskier rushes over to him. “Easy!”

Geralt leans back against the headboard and prods his side. It feels slightly tender, but not anywhere near as bad as it was before.

“How long have I been asleep?” Geralt croaks.

Jaskier shrugs. “A day? Not long.”

“Healed up well.”

Jaskier eyes him. “Well, you have a stunningly handsome nurse to thank for that.”

“Well, where’s he at?” Geralt asks, before he can’t help himself and a chuckle escapes his lips.

Jaskier shoves at him, and for a second, everything is right again, exactly back to the way things were before. But Geralt can’t stop the tightening of his features after the jostling, and Jaskier takes immediate note. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

“Fine,” Geralt grits out. Jaskier’s already spent too long taking care of him as is.

“Oh.” Jaskier sits back down in the chair next to him.

Geralt waits for the beratement, the anger about why Jaskier wasted years of his life on him, but it doesn’t come.

And so Geralt is forced to make the first move. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was cruel, and you didn’t—you never deserved that.”

Jaskier looks over at him in surprise, and it twists Geralt’s insides to see Jaskier looking at him like that over a simple apology.

“It turns out bards aren’t very successful when they’ve lost their muse,” Jaskier finally says, and Geralt stops to look at him.

Jaskier’s clothes hang off of him, and their once vibrant color seems muted. In fact, Geralt thinks he recognizes that shirt, and it’s certainly not like Jaskier to wear the same clothes season after season.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again. He’s not sure how to say anything else.

Jaskier puts one of his hands over Geralt’s, and Geralt shakes his head. “Jask, you deserve someone who’ll treat you like you deserve.”

Jaskier straightens up and arches an eyebrow. “You’re not up for the challenge?”

“Witchers, we can’t—”

“Bullshit,” Jaskier interrupts.

“What?”

“Bullshit. Whatever you were about to say, that you can’t feel, or whatever. Bull. Shit.”

Geralt’s taken aback. He clears his throat. “You’re right.”

Jaskier was clearly expecting more resistance, so he deflates a little at Geralt’s words.

“I missed you,” Geralt says.

“Like a sore thumb, I’m sure.”

Geralt huffs. “No, I really missed you.”

Jaskier looks at his hands, picking at a hangnail. “I missed you, too.”

Geralt’s not quite sure why, or what exactly there was to miss, but he won’t ask any questions and risk Jaskier changing his mind.

“I wrote you a song,” Jaskier blurts. “Before. All of this. But. I still mean it.”

Geralt’s heart breaks. “Will I have heard it anywhere?”

Jaskier clears his throat. “No, no. It was just for you. I haven’t played it for an audience.”

Geralt hums. “Well, I can’t imagine I won’t like it.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet, Geralt. Whatever happened to a fillingless pie?”

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry,” he says again.

He’ll say it however many times Jaskier needs to hear it. A flush rises to Jaskier’s cheeks. He takes a page from Geralt’s book. “Hmm.”

“If it comes from you, I’m going to like it. Even if it’s terrible.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “That makes no sense.”

“It’s a gift,” Geralt says. “What’s not to like?”

Jaskier huffs and shakes his head in exasperation. Geralt is no clearer now than he was before.

He pulls out his lute and tunes it, even though it was perfectly tuned just two nights ago before he performed. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, and he resolutely ignores them. Finally, he begins to play and sing along. He hasn’t let himself play this particular song in months. Everytime he tried, it was like ripping off a scab and pouring white gull on the wound.

Which, yes, he got to experience once when Geralt was convinced a nasty gash on his leg was infected. Jaskier maintains Geralt was just being an over concerned brooding hen, but he can’t say the attention wasn’t nice.

His voice is a little rusty from the disuse, but it quickly flakes off with the way Geralt is looking at him. It’s a measured look, one Jaskier’s not used to. Attention is fleeting when he performs, with people flitting back to talk to their companions, or eat their meal, but Geralt hasn’t taken his eyes off of him.

Jaskier stumbles over the next line, cursing himself, but he quickly recovers and goes on to finish the song.

When he’s done, he chances a glance back at Geralt. He licks his lips, finding them suddenly terribly dry. “Three words or less?”

Geralt gives him an impossibly soft look. “I loved it.”

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Geralt hates Novigrad. The people here are short-sighted and stubborn and don't care to learn any way than their own. Which means it's a bad place for anyone who's different - especially a Witcher. Even the Elves here hate him. The dwarves are a little better, but Geralt puts that down to Zoltan's influence rather than any learned compassion.

Today, the entire city could burn around him and Geralt would probably smile. It's the first day they've been back in civilization in weeks, which is the only reason they're in Novigrad to begin with. Oxenfurt is an extra day's travelling and both he and Jaskier are in need of a bath and a warm meal that doesn't taste like smoke. And good company, if he's lucky. Jaskier, he knows, will be gone for the night - it's easy enough for him to find a bed to warm in any city they visit - but Geralt is already dreading his visit to the brothel.

Passiflora is the only place that will take him any more, and then he's sure it's only because he and Jaskier know Marquise Serenity personally. He's been told in no uncertain terms that he's not welcome in the others. On occasion, there will be a lone girl waiting at the Golden Sturgeon, but it's always a gamble whether she's a prostitute or a pickpocket in disguise.

And if, by chance, he's welcomed inside, it's always a toss-up whether any of the girls will take him, then even less likely is that he'll get what he really wants. Geralt can't even count how many years he's been settling for sex that's only halfways satisfying - and paying for it, at that. Because those who do show an interest - falsified, or no - take one look at his cock and want to ride it or want him to fuck them with it and Geralt takes what he can get. He never asks for a man and he never asks anyone to fuck him, even though he'd be willing to pay extra for it.

But these past few weeks have been exhausting and the wear of being achingly aroused every night and not finding any satisfaction is getting old. He wants and he's not getting it from where he wants, so he'll try his luck at the brothel.

It doesn't go well.

He's had his eye on someone since he walked in - a slim, dark-haired man with bright eyes and bows on his trousers. When Geralt arrived, he was talking animatedly with another man and something about him reminds him of Jaskier. He shouldn’t approach for that exact reason, but he wants to. If he can’t have what he really wants, this is the next best thing.

He's only just approached the young man when a firm hand closes around his bicep. Geralt turns, instinctively ready to defend himself and the guard backs down.

"Only the women," he warns and Geralt sighs. They're protecting their men, he knows; he can't imagine a lot of men who fuck men are gentle when they're paying for it. In fact, he's heard stories first hand, so he can hardly blame them. And when a raven-haired woman approaches, stroking his arm and promising to take care of him, Geralt relents yet again.

She's soft under him and fucking her is better than his hand alone, but it's nothing like what he wants. It doesn't last long and Geralt makes sure she comes before he leaves, but as he heads out into the street he's feeling worse.

He resigns himself to another night of lying awake wondering who Jaskier is with this time - if he's lucky. If he's not, he won't have to wonder. Inn walls aren't thick and it's nothing for him to pick up on Jaskier's voice after years of attuning himself to it. Another reason he doesn't like towns; he's nearly always forced to listen to Jaskier getting off with whichever lucky bastard catches his eye.

It could be him, he thinks sometimes, but even Jaskier isn't that tolerant. He would probably be disgusted if he knew the things Geralt thought about him, the things he does lying awake and listening to him fuck someone else. And Geralt couldn't blame him for any of it. Shame and guilt rise in him even thinking about it now.

Guilt-ridden and miserable, Geralt makes his way back to the inn. At least he won't have to worry about Jaskier finding out about this because he'll be off somewhere else finding his own enjoyment. It's not that he would mock him for striking out, but sometimes Jaskier's protectiveness of him is overbearing when Geralt would rather just forget about something altogether. And this is definitely one of those things he'd like to pretend never happened.

The innkeeper follows him with his eyes as Geralt makes his way up to their room and he's acutely aware of the impact Jaskier's presence has on his life. No one trusts him without the bard at his side to sweet talk them and convince them that Geralt isn't a threat. Alone in a city, he feels unprotected and open and raw. Even the walk to their room feels far further than it did this afternoon.

But when he shoves the door in and stomps into the room, Jaskier is sitting there waiting for him. Alone, which is unexpected.

"Geralt?" he asks, "Is everything alright?"

Fuck. This is the last thing he wanted to happen. He was so sure Jaskier would be out enjoying himself that he never planned for the eventuality that he would just be here.

"Fine," he mumbles, dropping onto the stiff mattress. What he wants now is a hot bath and sleep, not an interrogation, but neither a bath nor sleep seems likely now. After a moment, Jaskier comes and settles behind him on the bed.

"Did they turn you away?" he asks gently.

Geralt huffs but can't bring himself to turn around as he mumbles a no. It's not a lie, not when there are times he's been barred from entering brothels altogether. Behind him, Jaskier huffs, clearly unimpressed and Geralt is expecting him to launch into one of his rants about respecting Witchers, but he doesn't. Instead, Jaskier's hands come up to hover above his shoulders.

"Can I?" he asks and Geralt grunts in lieu of response. Jaskier takes it as a yes, sliding his hands over Geralt's shoulders with a hum of disapproval. His fingertips press into a knot and Geralt forces himself to relax as Jaskier works it out.

"Was it the woman you saw then?"

"No," Geralt says a little too quickly before realizing that's not going to be a good enough answer for Jaskier. "She was fine."

"Fine isn't good, Geralt. Especially when you're paying for good. Was she too handsy?" he asks.

Geralt can feel the irritation creeping up his spine and he wants to rip out of Jaskier's hands and flee from the room. He wants to leave the inn altogether and forget and Jaskier would be okay here if he left and went to sleep in the forest tonight. It's a bit of a walk, but with Roach he could find somewhere to sleep before it gets too late.

Jaskier's hands lift from his shoulders and Geralt turns to look at him.

"Too timid?" Jaskier suggests.

Geralt looks away. Even if he could find the words to tell Jaskier what went wrong, he wouldn't. How do you tell someone you wanted to fuck a man who reminded you of them, regardless of how the situation went down. He still wanted it, still wanted Jaskier, but was willing to settle for the next best thing.

"You can tell me," Jaskier whispers and Geralt can feel his body shift closer so he's almost right against him. Geralt's shoulders slump and he can feel the fight leave him.

"Nothing really," he mumbles, "just not what I wanted." Even as he's saying the words, he curses himself for being too candid with Jaskier, but the idiot bard has a way of pulling things out of him whether he wants to admit it or not.

"Anything I can help you with?" he offers. Geralt's breath catches and he's certain it's obvious enough that Jaskier can hear it. Geralt says nothing. "Whatever it is you're after, I promise you it's not new to me."

Even in Geralt's wildest fantasies, he's never considered outright asking Jaskier for what he wants. But Jaskier's voice is so soft and genuine in his ear and right now, a small part of him wants to. It's been so long and Jaskier is offering. But he can't and he won't.

Jaskier, however, is not one to give up so easily.

The hands on Geralt’s shoulders slip forward, playing along his collarbone over the fabric of his shirt and Geralt does his best not to let it get to him, but it's hard. Jaskier's touch has always been a curse for him, softer and kinder than he deserves and yet something of a constant in his life, doing his best to test Geralt's patience and resolve. And he's treading into dangerous territory here. Geralt is already pent up and frustrated and likely to do something stupid to keep Jaskier from touching too much.

Jaskier is his only friend and Geralt won't betray that trust under any circumstances; he can't bear to lose the one person who treats him like a regular man. But Jaskier has never been one for worrying about things like sex and the consequences of who you sleep with and maybe-. No. He can’t.

"Tell me what you want darling, I'll be happy to help. Do you want me to touch you?" Geralt's pulse quickens but he says nothing. He doesn't want to encourage this and he knows Jaskier will only go so far without his explicit permission. "I could use my mouth. I'm very good with my mouth."

Geralt has no doubts about that and his blood rushes south remarkably quickly at the prospect. He's overheard Jaskier's lovers praising his mouth and he knows for a fact that Jaskier can make a man come with his tongue alone. And that's an incredibly tempting prospect.

"Or if you don't want me to touch you, I could talk you through it," he pauses and Geralt can feel Jaskier's breath against his ear, hot and damp as he leans in and whispers, "I know you're good at taking instructions." Fuck.

Jaskier's voice vibrates through his body and Geralt has to try harder than he should to keep from reacting. When he doesn't respond, Jaskier continues. His hands fall from Geralt's shoulders, settling on his hips.

"Or maybe that's not what you want," he muses, slipping his hands up Geralt's sides, "I know you like being touched, even if you pretend not to, hm? Maybe you could fuck me. Would you like that?" Geralt's breath is unsteady despite his best efforts, his traitorous cock pressing hard against his thigh.

"Gods, I bet you'd fuck me so well, wouldn't you?" Jaskier hums and brings his hands around to Geralt's back, sliding up to his shoulders. His thumb brushes against Geralt's neck and Geralt's eyes drop shut. Any given day, he thinks, if Jaskier genuinely wanted him to, he would. But this isn't like that and Geralt is stronger than his desires.

"Geralt," Jaskier chides, the soft lilt in his voice replaced with soft frustration. "You don't have to hold back like this. It's just me," he adds, softer again. "After everything we've been through, this would hardly be a hardship for me.”

“I know you,” he continues, his voice a light hum, “you get all quiet when I’m right. When you want something but you don’t think you deserve it.”

But- Geralt thinks, and Jaskier shifts behind him, pulling his mind back to the present. Geralt finds himself leaning when Jaskier pulls away, seeking the warmth of his chest. There's a light huff of a laugh and then Jaskier is behind him again, thighs pressing in on either side of Geralt's hips, hot breath in his hair. On his knees, Geralt realizes.

"What if I fuck you?" Jaskier asks, fingers slipping around the front of Geralt's neck to tip his head back. Unbidden, a soft sound escapes Geralt's throat and it doesn't escape Jaskier's attention. "Oh. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Mm, darling, I bet you'd make the sweetest sounds with my cock inside you. You'd look so pretty laid out for me- or maybe I'd have you in my lap so I can see your face."

Geralt can feel his composure slip with every word as Jaskier describes in detail all the ways he would fuck him. This isn't normal, he realizes, and maybe it is just Jaskier being himself and being very liberal about who he has sex with, but Geralt doesn't have sex with his friends. Well, he tries not to. Currently, Jaskier is making it difficult for him to say no, even if he knows he should.

And Jaskier is still mumbling against his ear all the filthy things he wants to do to him- and Geralt's thoughts come to a halt at that. The idea that Jaskier wants any of this is absurd to him and yet. Jaskier huffs softly against the side of his neck , pressing his nose behind Geralt's ear. His hands slip over his hips, down his thighs to push them apart and his hand is so close to his cock. If he moved, even just an inch, Jaskier's thumb would rub against him, but he knows if that happened, it would be the end of any discussion.

"Jaskier," he breathes. His head drops back against Jaskier's shoulder inadvertently. Already, he's barely in control of his own body and he realizes somewhere deep in the back of his mind that he wouldn't lose control so easily if he didn't want this so badly.

"Tell me," Jaskier hums, skirting the bulge of Geralt's erection with his thumb, "I'll give you anything you want. Or tell me no and I'll stop." Somehow, the prospect of Jaskier's hands leaving him is worse than whatever repercussions they might face otherwise.

Jaskier's nose presses against the back of his head and Geralt can't find the words to tell him no, wouldn't want to if he could. When Jaskier's fingers brush over his cock, Geralt groans out loud. Jaskier is pressed right against his back now, and he drops his head, nosing at Geralt's neck.

"What do you say, darling? Do you want that?" he pushes his hands down Geralt's stomach, hesitating at the hem of his trousers to give him a chance to say no. A chance to stop this. But Geralt is too far gone now to think about telling him no and Jaskier's hand is a soft relief where it slips down to palm over his clothed cock.

Geralt grits his teeth and bites his tongue as Jaskier squeezes around him; he's not used to being in a place where he's comfortable making too much noise, and most of his lovers prefer him quiet anyway. But Jaskier is different and Geralt should have known.

"You don't have to try so hard, Geralt. You don't have to hold back any longer, it's just me and I want to hear you." He presses his lips to Geralt's neck and lifts his hands to tug at his shirt.

Jaskier makes quick work of getting him out of his clothes and once Geralt is naked, and only feeling a little bit exposed, he lays down on his stomach. But Jaskier quickly eases his discomfort, climbing back up on the bed and settling himself between Geralt's legs. His hands run up the backs of his thighs and Jaskier sighs.

"I was right," he hums, "you look so good like this." His hands move up, squeezing Geralt's ass and his cock aches under him. Jaskier's fingers are so close to where he wants them, just one little move and he could be inside him.

Then all at once, he's gone and. Geralt looks up and finds him crouched over their packs, digging through one of them until he pulls a small bottle out and rises to his feet.

Geralt has seen him naked before, of course, it's inevitable when you travel with someone for as long as they have. But this is different. Jaskier is hard, first of all, which isn't something Geralt expected to have quite the effect on him that it does. His cock juts from his body, curling up like an invitation and Geralt has never wanted to touch someone so badly in his life.

Jaskier catches him watching and crosses back toward the bed. One hand drops to Geralt's ass, squeezing firmly before slipping up his back. He pushes Geralt's hair back from his face, brushing his fingers down his cheek and smiles at him.

"How could anyone not love you?" he whispers, taking in Geralt's confused expression, "you're so beautiful. So good for me, Geralt." Geralt's eyes snap up to his immediately. Oh, that's something. Jaskier just grins at him and climbs back up onto the bed behind him.

Geralt turns his face into his pillow as soft lips press against his calves. He stiffens at the intimacy of it, but Jaskier soothes him with soft touches and even softer kisses that creep slowly up the backs of his legs. When he reaches the swell of his ass, Jaskier’s fingers dig into his skin, squeezing and pushing Geralt's cheeks apart. Geralt's done this before with other men who meant significantly less to him than Jaskier does, so he's not quite sure what makes him anxious about it now. Maybe because it's been so long since or maybe because this is a huge step in their relationship that he never would have made otherwise.

But whatever it is, Jaskier is efficient at helping him relax again, leaning over and breathing soft words into his ear. Geralt knows he doesn't deserve them, that Jaskier is just trying to placate him, but when Jaskier’s cock settles against the back of his thigh, Geralt can almost believe it. Tentatively, he pushes back against him, letting Jaskier's cock slip between his thighs and he gets an appreciative groan in response. Jaskier drops his head, pressing a kiss between Geralt's shoulders.

"That's it, love."

Jaskier runs his hands down his back, settling again between his knees and Geralt feels his breath before anything else, hot against his skin. Then Jaskier's mouth is on him and Geralt sinks into the bed, pressing his hips back. He feels the huff of Jaskier's laugh, but it doesn't stop him from running his tongue over him, pressing against his hole. Geralt moans despite himself, trying hard to remember that he doesn't have to be quiet.

It proves to be difficult as Jaskier's tongue pushes into him and the sounds fall from his lips unbidden. But he's allowed, he reminds himself, no one is going to hear him but Jaskier and he's safe here with Jaskier.

His tongue pushes deeper and Geralt's thighs part seemingly of their own volition to give him better access and Jaskier appreciates it if the way he hums around Geralt's hole is any indication. It spurs him forward if nothing else and Geralt's cock jerks beneath him, neglected and aching.

When Jaskier gets his fingers involved, he goes slow at first, running one slick finger around his hole before pushing in. And Geralt groans into the pillow. One of Jaskier's fingers is the same damn size as his tongue and he tells him exactly that. Jaskier just huffs and kisses his back, pushing his finger into him before drawing back and adding a second. But Geralt is already keyed up beyond words and he doesn't have the patience for slow and steady. He pushes his hips back with a needy moan and Jaskier doesn't hold back.

He slicks both fingers and pushes into him, thrusting a couple of times before pushing deep and seeking out that spot inside him. Geralt shudders with the first pass of his fingers and Jaskier is persistent, rubbing up and thrusting against that spot until Geralt is arching off the bed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his skin.

"Fuck Geralt," Jaskier breathes, readjusting to lean on his elbow. He bites the flesh of Geralt's ass and kisses the marks from his teeth. "You have no idea what you do to me," he huffs, his words muffled by Geralt's skin, "I can't believe no one will have you like this, you look so good, so good for me."

"You don't mean that," Geralt mumbles, but Jaskier climbs up over him, his fingers still buried as deep as they'll go and he presses his mouth to the back of Geralt's neck.

"I do. You're beautiful," he breathes, "you're a good man, Geralt. You're soft and kind and caring, even if you pretend not to be. And you deserve to know that. You deserve so much more than what you get out of life. Let me give it to you."

Geralt is torn between horrific embarrassment and a surge of arousal because if anyone's opinion actually matters to him, it's Jaskier's. Something warm blooms in his chest and he sighs as Jaskier kisses his neck.

"Let me show you how much I want you," he hums. He withdraws and thrusts in again, quickly picking up the pace until Geralt is moaning obscenely under him, canting his hips into the mattress because he can't help himself any longer. All the while, Jaskier's voice is in his ear, whispering sweet things that he wants so badly to believe.

"Beautiful," he whispers, "perfect. Mine." The last one slips out much more quietly than the rest and Geralt isn't sure he's supposed to hear it but it does something to him that he can't quite explain. And more than ever, he wants to be good for Jaskier, wants to be soft and kind and beautiful and more than that, he wants to be his.

Never once does Geralt ask for anything, but Jaskier seems to know exactly what he wants and Geralt might think he was reading his mind if he didn't know better. He doesn't let up until Geralt's panting turns to muffled warnings, his hips pressed up impatiently.

"Jask-" he mumbles and Jaskier hums against him, panting hard.

"Do you want to come like this?" he asks.

"Want your cock," Geralt huffs and Jaskier lets out a low, desperate groan against his shoulder.

"Fuck, I've waited a long time to hear you say that." Jaskier's fingers slip from his body and he grips Gerlt's hips with both hands. Breathing hard, he kisses his way down Geralt's back, sitting back to kneel between his thighs. He shuffles for a moment before pressing his cock into the cleft of his ass and Geralt thrusts his hips back in his impatience.

Jaskier's cock feels better than it has any right to and Geralt knows he shouldn't be so needy when Jaskier is trying to help, but he's waited so long for this. And he's wanted Jaskier for even longer than that. Jaskier slicks him up with two fingers before working over his cock. Geralt can hear the slick slide of skin on skin and he turns to try and see him, craning his neck, but all he can see is Jaskier's arm moving. He grumbles in disappointment, but Jaskier just pushes his cheeks apart and presses between them.

His cock is slick and hard as it presses into Geralt's body and he shuts his eyes, arching his back with a soft groan. Jaskier gives him a moment to adjust but Geralt takes him easily, lust and impatience winning out over caution and he rocks his hips back onto Jaskier before he's even fully inside.

"Oh, fuck," Jaskier gasps. He surges forward, catching himself with one hand as the other smoothes up Geralt's spine. "You really wanted this, didn't you?"

Heat prickles at the back of Geralt's neck and he’s thankful for his hair covering the only part of his face that isn't pressed into the pillow. He shouldn't want this, shouldn't want Jaskier, but-

"Why didn't you just ask me?" He asks. Geralt grumbles at him and Jaskier leans low over him. "Don't be embarrassed, love, you're incredible like this." He presses his nose to Geralt's ear, humming softly. "I've never wanted you more."

He gives a quick thrust of his hips and a whole other kind of heat licks up Geralt's spine. Just the thought that Jaskier wants him at all, in any context is enough to have him breathless, but then Jaskier pushes all the way into him and Geralt very nearly whimpers. Then he pulls out completely and Geralt leans up to look at him, worried he did something wrong.

But Jaskier has his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and the look he gives Geralt is hot and oddly possessive. He shuffles back out of the way of Geralt's legs and gently nudges his hip, gesturing for him to roll over. And Geralt isn't about to deny him anything when he looks like that, so he readjusts, propping himself up on his arms. He doesn't miss the way Jaskier's eyes roam over his body before he's shuffling close again, shoving his knees under Geralt's thighs and pressing him back against the mattress.

This time, when Jaskier sinks into him, he doesn't hesitate and Geralt's glad to be on his back where he can watch Jaskier's face as he squeezes around him. Jaskier keeps one hand on Geralt's hip as he rocks into him, using the other to map out his chest and waist, fingers slipping lightly over places Geralt didn't even realize were sensitive like that. But what's worse is his voice, constantly telling Geralt how good he is and Geralt wants so badly to believe him. The words sear through him like hot iron and he thought that with all his training and composure it would take more than a couple of words to take him down, but he's learning he was very wrong about that.

Jaskier falls into an easy rhythm, his words equally as arousing as the cock slipping in and out of him, and Geralt reaches for him, aching to touch. Jaskier wraps both arms around his waist and hauls him up into his lap, letting the fingers of one hand slip down to where his cock presses into Geralt's body. Geralt just looks at him with wide eyes and Jaskier grins back at him.

"I'm stronger than I look," he whispers. He shifts under Geralt and gives a sharp thrust of his hips, hitting that spot inside him again and Geralt drops forward against him, pressing his head into Jaskier's shoulder.

"Oh," he moans, shifting to wrap his legs around Jaskier's waist.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt huffs a muffled mmhm, reaching back to brace himself on Jaskier's knees. "Good. So good for me." He slips his hands down to Geralt's hips, holding him steady as he rocks up into him and Geralt lets himself relax into it.

Jaskier doesn't expect anything from him, wants to fuck him, wants to make him feel good and Geralt lets him for maybe the first time in his life, surrendering control entirely to someone else. Because he trusts Jaskier and because Jaskier does make him feel good, mumbling that he's doing so well and just like that, darling. And when he gets his hand down between them, clever fingers winding around his cock, Geralt almost comes undone right there. His hips buck hard into the dry heat of Jaskier's palm, shaky as he withdraws and pushes forward again with intent.

Jaskier pauses then leans forward over him, pressing their foreheads together. The angle is awkward, and a little uncomfortable, but Jaskier lays him down again, stroking him slowly as he works his hips quickly. Jaskier holds him down and fucks him hard, snapping his hips hard as Geralt mumbles into his neck, nearly incomprehensible. When Geralt comes it's with soft wine, too overwhelmed for anything more than that.

Jaskier continues, fucking him through the aftershocks, pressed up against Geralt's chest with his legs around his ankles. And when he comes, he presses his face into Geralt's shoulder and Geralt runs his fingers through his hair, still unable to speak.

After a moment, Jaskier pulls out and Geralt shifts a little unwilling to admit how much he dislikes losing the feeling of Jaskier's cock inside him. He's not entirely sure what to do with himself now because this was never supposed to happen between them. It was a fantasy - a very far-fetched one, at that - and yet, here they are, Jaskier sweaty and panting next to him and so beautiful Geralt can't help but smile despite his bewilderment.

He's trying to consider what to say - should he thank him? - when Jaskier pushes himself back into a sitting position and moves to lift Geralt's head gently into his lap. He brushes his fingertips along his cheek, runs his fingers through his hair, and Geralt finds himself worrying less. His eyes are heavy, his body still thrumming with a pleasant numbness and Jaskier's fingers are soothing.

"You can sleep," Jaskier whispers, "I've never minded if a lover falls asleep on me, just means they enjoyed themselves."

A lover. Geralt turns the words over in his head and decides he likes the way they fit. Likes the idea of being Jaskier's lover. Blinking up at him, Geralt reaches up, curling his fingers around the back of Jaskier's neck and guiding him down. It has to be an uncomfortable angle for Jaskier, but he doesn't complain or pull back and when their lips brush together, he lets out a soft little sound and shifts to adjust his position. His mouth is soft and wanting and his fingers slip around the back of Geralt's head to keep him close.

And then, seemingly in an instant, it's over and Geralt is left staring up at him, unsure all over again. But Jaskier smiles at him and brushes his thumb over Geralt's cheek.

"You really are so beautiful," he mumbles, as though to himself. "I don't deserve you." Geralt huffs and turns away from him, but Jaskier just tips his head back. "I want you to know you can ask me for anything. I wish you'd come to me earlier, you shouldn't have to suffer because of the ignorance of others."

"I'm not going to do that to you-"

Jaskier laughs, soft and gentle. "Do that to me?" he asks incredulously, "darling I've been waiting my whole life to hear you say you want me. You could come back every night and climb into bed with me and I'd still want more."

He's not sure why exactly, but Geralt blurts out, "he reminded me of you."

"What?"

"The whore. The reason I was... irritable when I came back. They wouldn't let me talk to him, but he reminded me of you."

"Oh? You went to a prostitute who reminded you of me?" Geralt mumbles but doesn't confirm nor deny. "Geralt I love you, truly, but you are a bit daft sometimes. Why on earth wouldn't you just come to me in the first place."

His heart beats much faster than it should and Geralt does everything he can to ignore the nonchalance with which Jaskier says he loves him - because the idea is absurd. "I didn't think you'd want me."

"I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you, all dark and moody in your corner." He flashes a smile and Geralt turns away to keep from saying too much. Jaskier ducks down and kisses his cheek. "But sleep now, we can talk about it in the morning."

Geralt forces back the urge to protest, to assure Jaskier that he's wrong about him. But he knows it wouldn't do him any good and Jaskier is persistent - maybe there is something to the things he's always saying. Geralt settles, lets the stress seep out of his body as Jaskier's hands move over his shoulders. He shuts his eyes but still manages to pull Jaskier down into a soft, slow kiss.

It lasts longer this time. Jaskier doesn't pull away despite the discomfort he must be feeling and if anything, when Geralt hesitates, when he gives him a chance to stop, Jaskier presses forward. And Geralt thinks, as Jaskier's tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, that if the next couple of days are like this, the rest of their stay in Novigrad might not be so bad.

[write-ur-wrongs]

Thank you @itsjammin for the request! I didn’t fully proof-read this one so please forgive any grammatical errors!! I hope you like it !!

Geralt x reader where she’s having a really bad panic attack and Geralt’s not sure how he can help and he just holds her and helps her through it cradling her in his arms and just gently rocking her. After she’s calmed down, he just kisses her forehead and traces patterns on her back and just lots of fluff please!

Trigger warning: Anxiety / panic attack. 

_________________________________________________

You were fine. You’re breathing and you weren’t bleeding and you’re fine. You closed your hands into tight fists in an attempt to ground yourself, digging your nails into your palms as you breathed out slowly through your nose. You felt the weight of your legs on the fallen tree beneath you, pushed your toes into the tip of your shoes and felt the pressure you created. Slowly, you relaxed your fists and rested your open hands on your thighs, feeling the blood rush back into palms. The tiny crescent moon indents in your palm stung dully.

You weren’t injured. You weren’t in danger of being injured. You were fine.

Geralt was watching you wearily from across the crackling fire, his steaming mug of broth hovering inches from his face. You had been balling your hands into fists, knuckles white, and relaxing them slowly on repeat for too long now. He looked over at Jaskier quizzically, a brow raised, but the bard merely mirrored his confusion, returning the look with wide eyes and an animated shrug.

You were normally a steady presence in the group, matching Geralt in energy level and Jaskier in wit. They’d known you for over a year now and had only ever seen you in that light; steady with a silver tongue. Tonight, however, was a completely different story. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened today; you had travelled a peaceful route and stopped in a nice clearing. No one had crossed you and Geralt sensed no threat in the surrounding area. And yet, there you sat, breathing slowly but with great effort, empty eyes looking out at nothing while your forehead was creased with worry.

Geralt wanted to know what was up, but he was no wordsmith. Huffing slightly, he looked at the bard pointedly and jerked his head in your direction, silently begging Jaskier to ask you what was wrong.

Jaskier might be good with words, but never when the situation truly called for it. He could banter with the best of them and diffuse tension with ease, but you were giving off such a distressing energy, he didn’t dare say anything unsure of what you’d do once the tension in you boiled over.

As such, he shook his head wildly and pointed at Geralt while mouthing, “You ask her!”

The two men mimed wildly to one another, both desperate to have the other take charge, oblivious to the fact that you had transitioned from the desperate-to-keep-a-steady-breath phase and into the weight-on-my-chest-is-suffocating-me phase of your episode.  

Jaskier won out though, when he threw a torn piece of bread a the Witcher’s head. With a low grunt, Geralt gingerly placed his mug down and clasped his hands together and leaned over, bracing himself.

He cleared his throat a couple times before hesitantly muttering his question. Unfortunately, his noble attempt fell on death ears.

All you could hear was a dull ringing coupled with the amplified sounds of your body; every breath was deafening, your heartbeat was so loud you felt it in your ears, and you swore you could hear your bones creaking in their joints.

You hated this; all of it. You hated that you couldn’t identify the cause of your panic. That rationally, you knew nothing was wrong, but that wasn’t enough to keep you from spiraling as you were. Normally you could feel these episodes coming and stop them before the settled in full. Your mother had taught you countless coping methods and the healers you met along your travels helped you immensely; especially as new triggers made themselves known to you.

Yet nothing had happened, really. Geralt was a little colder than usual, and he did snap at you quite harshly but that wasn’t new. It was an occupational hazard. Jaskier had been moodier as of late, probably because Geralt snapped at him too, but they’re always squabbling and reconciling. It was their way.

You didn’t see this one coming. At the first sign of trouble, you grounded yourself and counted your breaths. When that didn’t work, you counted things around you; five conifers, three boulders, fifteen pinecones on the floor, and so on. But it didn’t work. You had even pulled out your vial of herbs – all to no avail.

Nothing was helping and everything was too loud. You were in pain but nothing actually hurt. The weight of your body against your bones was crushing but you felt like a ghost.

Oblivious to your internal struggle and unimpressed with the Witcher’s feeble attempt, Jaskier rolled his eyes at Geralt and whipped another piece of bread at him. Frustrated and frazzled, Geralt threw the bread back to the bard with force, shot him a death glare, and wiped his sweaty palms on the top of his legs before trying again.

“Y/N... hm… how –”

“I’m fine!” you barked, although your voice wavered in a way that clearly indicated you were far from fine.

Geralt looked to Jaskier in desperation, not wanting to have to try again, but Jaskier was already up and walking backwards towards Roach, mouthing ‘sorry’ and ‘good luck’ as he washed his hands of the whole affair.

Geralt rolled his eyes and muttered a quiet, ‘fuck’, before getting up to cross the fire and settle beside you uncomfortably.

The moment you realized Geralt had come to your side, your chin wobbled and you felt tears prickle at your eyes. You brought your hands up to your face and swiped at your tears quickly, doing your best to regain control.

Seeing you up close – how your jaw never relaxed, how you couldn’t sit still, the way you dragged the nail of your index finger down the side of your thumbs, seemingly unaware of the angry red lines you left behind – his heart broke.

“Come ‘ere,” he said, pulling you towards him.

Feeling his strong arms wrap themselves around you brought your tears to the surface in an instant. Before either of you could process what was happening, you were sobbing freely into his broad chest, hands grabbing at him desperately for comfort.

You cried for what felt like forever, raw and ragged sobs shaking you to your core. But no matter how deeply you surrendered into your panic, Geralt never wavered. He rocked you slowly, stroking your back softly. Every now and then he’d murmur words of encouragement into your hair and, despite all odds, you found that the low rumble of his voice comforted you greatly.

After some time, your sobs turned into whimpers, and your whimpers into choppy breaths. All the while, Geralt never released his hold on you. Only when he felt your heartrate return to normal did he lessen his grip and pull back to look down at you, smoothing back your hair.

“What –”

“I’m –”

You both laughed awkwardly into the sudden silence and waited for the other to go on. After a beat, Geralt tried again.

“Please –”

“Geralt –” you interrupted once more, shaking your head at the cyclical turn your conversation had taken.

“Y/N, you go.” He said softly, still drawing loopy shapes onto your back with his fingers.

“Oh Gods,” you breathed shakily, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“No, no,” he shushed, placing gentle kisses along your temple, “Y/N you have no reason to be apologizing.”

“Geralt, look at me!? I’m a mess,” you blurt, “and I’ve scared Jaskier.”

“Jaskier,” he replied with a small smile, “is a fool. He’ll be fine.”

“That might be worse! He’ll never let me live this down.” You say, your head in your hands. Geralt laughed softly at this, and gave your back a few comforting pats before holding you tightly and pulling you closer to him.

“If he dares,” he murmured in mock seriousness, his smile giving him away, “then I will kill him.”

“Geralt! Then who would write all those songs about you?” you said, turning back and smacking him playfully on his chest.

“Preferably no one,” he answered, face soft with laughter while his eyes remained trained on you, watching closely to ensure you were doing okay.

“Oh, you’d miss it, you big vanity.” You laughed, swiping at the last of the tears on your face and moving to stand up.

“Y/N… wait,” he said, reaching for your wrist and gently pulling you back down. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said, settling back down at his side, “Truly, I’m fine.”

Geralt let out a low, ‘hm’, in response, and looked at you dubiously, still acutely aware of your heightened heartrate.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, accepting that you couldn’t lie to him about this, “but I will be.” When he didn’t look convinced, you placed your hands on his arms and gave him what you hoped was a convincing look. “I promise, Geralt. I’m okay.”

He clenched his jaw tightly and breathe a sigh through his nose before speaking again.

“You didn’t just scare Jaskier tonight,” he said, slowly and with care, “you scared me too.”

You quickly cast your eyes downward, feeling shame prickle harshly at your chest. Geralt saw you bring the nails of your index finger to your thumb, ready to start your rhythmic stabbing once more, and hastily brought your shaky hands into his.

“Don’t punish yourself like this,” he whispered, rubbing his rough thumb over the tops of your fingers, “just talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say, honestly,” you said, refusing to bring your eyes up to his. “I can normally manage by myself, I don’t,” you stopped to take a steadying breath, and Geralt responded in kind by holding your hands a little tighter, “I don’t know what was different this time. I’m… I’m -”

“Only human?”

“Gross,” you said, pulling one of your hands free so you could wipe your face, “and unfair.”

“Maybe so, but Y/N, I’m serious,” he said, putting his hands gently under your chin to bring your eyes up to his, “if you ever feel like you’re losing control again, you can come to me.”

“Yeah?” you asked, your voice small.

“Always.” He said, pulling your face towards him so he could lay another gentle kiss onto your forehead. “No matter what.”

At this, you allowed yourself to melt into his arms once more, letting his slow, steady, heartbeats soothe you as he continued to draw shapes on your back. 

[fourmarkdove]

Fawn - Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |  Part 4 |  Part 5 | Part 6 | Masterlist

Title: Fawn - Part 3

Words: 3.2k

Summary: Yennefer confirms Geralt’s suspicions and a rift is created between you and the White Wolf. Angst. Suggested smut. Fluff. Hurt/comfort.

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, miscarriage, abortion. If you’re triggered PLEASE skip ahead. Please check out the trigger warnings (tw:) in the tags!

A/N: Don’t blame me. It was that fricking wish! I’m not happy about it, either, but it’s canon. Comments welcome. Thanks for reading as always!

Like an expectant father waiting outside the delivery room, Jaskier paced just outside the tent while Geralt sharpened his sword near the fire.

“No. Get out before I portal you away,” Yennefer demanded yet again when the bard poked his head in and asked for an update. 

“She’ll come out when she’s ready,” the burly Witcher grunted. Another plume of purple smoke rose from the tent door and static sizzled inside. Jaskier began thinking of a verse that needed to rhyme with “plume.”

Wiping her hands, she emerged and motioned at Jaskier: “Watch her. Geralt, you’re with me.”

Sauntering across the way to her own much larger, and much more richly furnished tent, Geralt followed behind like a puppy.

“Well?”

“Well? Well, I saved her life, darling,” the raven haired woman smirked, turning to face him once they reached the foot of her lavish bed. Tossing aside the cloth, she twirled a finger and a dozen candles lit around the space.

He was not impressed by simple tricks. “What happened? It wasn’t just poison, was it? It was a curse.”

“Yes, my love,” she sighed, bored with conversation, so she lifted his shirt and ran both hands up his muscular torso, making the tense fibers just under his skin twitch. “I lifted it though.”

Craning his neck low, he crushed his mouth to her plump lips. The relief and gratitude expressed in his kiss melted when feral heat took over. They were souls bound together by a wish he made years ago to save her life. As such they were drawn time and again to this exact moment.

She moaned, tugging at the ties on his breeches pressed against her stomach. Biting down on his bottom lip suddenly, she flattened her palms to his chest and pushed him back to the bed, intent on climbing him and claiming payment for a job well done.

*

“So she’ll be able to travel soon?” Geralt huffed lazily, one arm under his head on the pillow. 

“You’re really taking her back to her father?” Yennefer sighed, playing with the glistening sweat droplets along the center of his chest.

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, if you do travel with her just have her take it easy the next few days.”

“Why?” He arched an eyebrow down at the naked woman still tangled up with him under the sheets.

“Well, she’s with child, Geralt. But the child is much smaller than it should be. She probably needs to see a real healer to have it dealt with anyway - given the circumstances.”

His brow furrowed sharply and he gripped her upper arms, dragging her off of him as he sat up. “Dealt with...?”

She sighed, running the back of her fingers down the sinews of his forearm. “Mm. She told me who the father is. I just went to his wedding just last month. It's a bad idea to show your new bride your bastard child. So yes… dealt with.”

“Wedding?” he mirrored, breaking into a cold sweat. “Did you tell her this?”

Yennefer shrugged and rolled over. “I alluded to it. Hmm. You know she may not need a healer on second thought. Baby isn’t well. Body might try to reject it after this, so watch for - where are you going?”

Stepping into his breeches, he glanced over his shoulder at the raven haired woman lounging in bed still. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Why? Did you want to attend with me? The food was decent but the wine was weak. I so would have loved to have dressed you, though.”

His frustrated growl was not lost on her but she didn’t budge by the threatening sound of it. “She told me where you met. Geralt, I said I’d try to save her life but she’s your whore. I’ve done more than enough here, my love. If you leave this tent tonight, I’ll be gone by daybreak.”

He didn’t even have his pants tied before he stalked out of the tent barefoot into the dewy grass. Jaskier heard him coming from his own cot opposite yours. Finding it quite impossible to sleep anyway, he met the Witcher at the tent flap opening.

“That witch gave her something to sleep but it’s not quite doing its job,” the bard forewarned, touching Geralt’s shoulder. He held his friend back just a moment longer to catch his golden-eyed attention. “It’s not you she’s been calling for.” 

Jaskier excused himself, ducking past his friend breathing hard with his jaw clenched. Every muscle up the back of his legs and across his spine snapped into tension; the coppery scent of bloody cloths left on the table sent his senses into a frenzy the moment he stepped inside.

“N… no… n...” you moaned in your fitful sleep, writhing and grasping at the pillow under your head.

Cat eyes dilated in the near dark, his attention drew to the shadow of your body tucked under a thin blanket. In two strides, he dropped by your side and dragged the tear-soaked hair from sticking to your cheeks. 

Your head rocked back and forth on the pillow, your expression wrought with grief, one hand grasping at nothing but air until his fingers closed over it. 

He lifted his brows in the center, anguish lining his forehead. Your breathing came in hiccups, clearly crying in your nightmare.

“Wake up, little fawn,” he rumbled, pulling deep from within to sound calm so as not to frighten you. “Come on, wake up.”

“Ah…” Your legs shifted under the blanket and you inhaled deeply.

Your wet eyelashes flashed open, revealing still slightly ink-stained black tears rolling down your cheeks. “Where is he? Where’s Acheros?”

Rolling his eyes at the sound of his name, Geralt backed up into the shadow of a tent peg. “That’s a good fucking question.”

“Why did he leave me in that horrible place?” You pressed, eyes bleary from tears, pain and exhaustion.

“Hmm,” he grunted, sitting back against the other cot.

“He said he’d always come find me. ‘Nothing in all of eternity could keep us apart,’ he said.”

Another frustrated grunt as Geralt sat back. As Jaskier stoked the flames of the fire outside, the walls of the canvas tent illuminated with flicks of orange light.

You stayed silent a long time, letting the length and breadth seep into your conscious thought. Curling up on yourself, you rolled over into the tent wall and away from the brutish man sitting in silence across from you. “Is it true? Did he - get married - without me?”

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed in the affirmative, dropping his head back as the reflected orange flames danced on the ceiling. He cursed under his breath. 

There is a screech a striga makes when you deliver that final death strike straight through its heart; the sound is horrendous up close. Because of their circulation system, it takes them a moment to go, all the while realizing they’ve met their end. And then there is the soft little squeak of a rabbit as its neck is being broken. It doesn’t understand what is happening to it and doesn’t expect the end.

Neither startled cry at their moment of death is as difficult to listen to as your trembling gasp and wailing sob at the exact moment your heart broke in two.

Snarling his upper lip in disgust, he planted a fist on the ground to stand up, but stilled hearing you speak into your own hands.

“But… this is his child. And... I’m his.”

“Fuck.” Geralt replanted himself and sighed harshly, rubbing his rough thumb of one hand into the palm of another.

“What?” you shuddered, glancing over your shoulder. “But I love him...”

“You’ve said,” he husked, glancing at the exit with an arched brow and a changed mind. Waking you from that nightmare, he actually considered taking you in his arms and comforting you with all of the strength he had in him. He was not particularly given to tender moments, but if you’d have asked, even whimpered, anything at all, he’d have moved heaven and earth to shelter you.

You turned away from his frustrated growling. “Where is he? He should be here.”

With a huff of rage, he lifted to his feet and took the one large step to the door. Rolling over, your torso twisted and you yelped at the sharp pain. “Ah - fuck! What -“

“You were very sick,” he oversimplified, glancing behind his shoulder. “Yennefer…”

“Yennefer? She says she’s the ‘Love of your life’? I thought I was dreaming but she’s really real?”

“You should know Yennefer saved YOUR life.”

You mewled, ripped the covers down your thighs and tugged at your torn shirt, trying to find the source of the overwhelming pain.

Setting his jaw, he breathed deep and clenched his fist to keep from absolutely roaring at you. “You wouldn’t have survived - to be reunited with whoever this arsehole is, since that’s clearly all you can think about.”

It was neither his tone nor his words that shook you, rather the ache in your belly. “Something feels wrong.”

“As it should. Sleep.”

“Fuck you,” you spat holding your middle, getting up onto your feet much more slowly than he did. Bumping chests, you glared up at him. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew and you didn’t say a damn thing.”

Nostrils flared, patience dwindling, he looked over your head; he knew the second he glanced down and saw the pain in your eyes, it’d just add fuel to his  fire and one of the two of you needed to be levelheaded. 

“Not for certain until Yen told me a few minutes ago. Although I had suspected something like this when you told the story yesterday.”

Suddenly alert, you bolted toward the tent flap, but a heavy arm across the front of your shoulders blocked your way. Desperately, you reached both hands out. “Please! I need to go home. I just need to see him. He’ll explain and fix it.” 

Your pained gaze finally lifted to his, digging your fingernails into his forearm locked across your chest.

His sharp gaze narrowed. “There’s a reason he didn’t come back for you. Showing up on his doorstep, now, won’t produce the results you want, I guarantee you.”

“But - I did everything I was told to do,” you gasped, blinking back tears that spilled down your cheeks anyway. Dropping your head, the tears dripped freely onto the ground. Tilting your shoulders just slightly into him, you bumped your forehead against his chest and stayed like that a long while.

“I hate you...” you sniffled and hiccupped, speaking slowly, clearly drained.

“Mmph.” He grunted, holding the back of your bare neck.

The rage had worn around the edges like two fighters in the last round dragging their feet; both of you were slow to swing back.

“Come on,” he encouraged as gently as he could muster, thumbing behind your neck. “Lie down.”

He sighed, glancing down at your trembling, balled up fist thumping against his chest.

“I-I h-hate y-“ you sobbed, nosing into his chest. “I h-aate-“

“I know,” he grumbled, closing his hand around your fist. “You hate me.”

He rested his chin on your head and carded his fingers through your hair. Feverish tears eventually gave way to panting, then to soft breaths against his skin.

“What am I going to do?” you croaked, dragging your fingertips down his spine, releasing the muscles you’d been clawing into. “I don’t know what to do.”

“The first thing you’re going to do is get some rest,” he graveled overhead. Not giving you a second to protest, he collected your wrists from behind his hips and drew you back to your cot, throwing open the covers with his free hand.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you whined, giving him a side eyed glance.

“Lie down and count geese then,” he huffed, clearly not budging on it.

With a long sigh, you crawled in and curled up, pressing your face down into the pillow. Your eyes closed when the blanket rugged up over your shoulders.

Hearing your voice just barely mumbling into your pillow, he came down onto a knee and tilted his head. 

“Hmm?” he graveled just above a whisper. “You don’t mean that. … No, you don’t. … Hm? Fine, I will. Sleep.”

Settling down cross legged, he reached over the short expanse between you and the edge of the cot. As promised, he smoothed over your hair, and hummed a deeply soothing tune, the one he’d sometimes hum to Roach when she was being groomed. 

Tag Team: @ly--canthrope​ @marswritings​ @fire-in-her-veinz​ @thiclikeh0ney @uncoolcloudyhead​ @michelle-1185​ @boop-le-snoot​ @tearsontape13​ @confusinglump​ @mary-ann84​ @the-soot-sprite @wanderingsoulcelticheart @henry-cavill-obsessed​ @ruthoakenshield​ @nerra75​ @raspberrydreamclouds​

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |  Part 4 |  Part 5 | Part 6 | Masterlist

[rebrandedbard]

20 for the sentence prompts? (The "you need to wake up") Or 50 if you're not feeling it/that's already been asked.

Oh hon, believe me: my ask box is empty as the Arizona desert and I’m feeling anything y’all are willing to send lmao. There are no repeat prompts.

20. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

tw: cave-in, near-death experience, blood, punctured lung

WC:  1310

And since she asked to be included, @stinastar​

To Gift A Name

Geralt and the bard take a contract in a mine that quickly takes a turn for the worst. Geralt finally learns the bard’s name.

-

Canaries and coal mines; he ought to have remembered. Canaries, canaries, canaries and their bright singing. Why did men bring such bright creatures down into the desolate darkness deep below in the dungeons of the earth? It was not for the company, nor in appreciation for their cheerful chirping. They brought them along to die, their death a warning of impending disaster. And here this little bird had been whistling, twittering, flittering, singing—! Humming and strumming his merry way at Geralt’s side, making all of life a song for months. No matter what Geralt tried, he could not shut the damn bard up for love or money.

But now the bard was silent.

“Bard!” Geralt called. The fool had been too loud, doing scales to listen to his echo singing back to him down the empty shaft. Geralt had sent him away to investigate the mine himself, wishing to come out of this contract with his head on his shoulders. A golem. He’d seen the evidence of it already, felt the static of power in the air. He didn’t need another head to worry about, especially not one so up in the clouds it had no sense of self-preservation.

And the senseless fool had followed after anyway, sneaking so far into the twisted caves that it would be impossible to send him back alone. So he’d stayed close by Geralt, whispering in his ear all the while despite Geralt’s many attempts to convey the seriousness of the threat and his need to stay quiet.

“Bard!” he called again. “Damn you, answer me!”

The golem had caught them by surprise, bursting from the wall of a tunnel. Being made of the very same rock as made the walls of the mine, it had blended in all too perfectly with its surroundings. It had knocked the bard aside with a single blow. Geralt had cast a barrier and picked the bard up, pushing him into the nearest alcove, shouted for him to retreat as far as he could. He’d then lured the beast away, giving the fool what time he could to get away. It had been a hard fight; golems were one of the contracts witchers hoped not to face more than once a decade or so. The caverns shook, rocks tumbled from the walls and whole tunnels caved in. When he’d seen the beast slain, he’d gone looking for the bard again, but try as he might, he found no trace of him.

Geralt cupped his hands again, but drew a halted breath. “B—!” He swallowed his cry in frustration. “Fuck,” he muttered. He couldn’t remember the bastard’s name. He’d tried so hard to ignore it, to ensure it never made a place in his head. To give something a name was to become attached, and he’d been doing his best to keep the man at arm’s length, send him off somewhere for so long. Lot of good that did.

He turned once more, heart stuttering in his chest as he raised his hands and yelled, “Bard!” His call echoed through the long chamber, and he could hear the panicked tone shouted back at him over and over, as if from the voice of a stranger. “Idiot, where are you!” And even ‘idiot’ held familiarity. Attachment.

From somewhere behind, he heard the slightest shift in the rock. And a muffled wheeze.

Geralt tore back down the mine, following after the sound. He could smell it now: anxious sweat, and more chillingly, a note of blood. He’d almost passed the rock pile when he caught the edge of a tattered blue sleeve among the rubble.

At once, he took to his knees, digging furiously at the pile, casting rocks carelessly behind. A pale face emerged, covered in streaks of clay dust, eyes closed. The wheeze of his breathing was faint beneath the weight of the rocks, but still there. He was alive.

“Listen to me, bard. I’ll get you out, just stay with me. Just breathe.”

He cleared his neck, his chest, until he could see the barest movement. But there was very little movement to be seen, each rise and fall of his chest shallower than the last. The scent of blood was stronger now, and at last, Geralt uncovered the source.

A stave splintered from the support in the wall had run itself through his chest. The blood flowed in time with his breathing—a punctured lung from the look of it. He won’t be able to sing, Geralt thought. If he lived—he would live—it would be some weeks before he could sing comfortably, even with a healer’s care.

At a loss for what to do, Geralt continued to uncover the bard. He broke off the bulk of the stave, doing his best not to jostle the end lodged in the man’s chest, but he was losing too much blood. It was a risk, but he removed the stave in full. Desperate, he cast a sign and pressed his burning hand to the wound, sealing it shut. What worried him most was that the bard made not a single grunt of pain throughout.

Geralt patted his face. “Come on, wake up,” he hissed. He watched as the head lolled beneath his touch.

His heart was racing. He picked up the bard, a bright thing now torn and dulled. Such a thing did not belong here in the dark. Nothing so gentle belonged on this path. He knew. He knew and yet he did not try so hard as he pretended. He’d kept the man at arm’s length with a lonely fist gripped in that fancy doublet, afraid of his leaving.

“Of all the times to listen to me …” Geralt pressed his head to the bard’s shoulder. He’d asked him to leave so many times. But not now. Not like this.

I don’t need a barker. And he did not. But what he did need was him. He needed that voice to fill the silence, to follow by his side, smiling, caring, bringing light to his empty days. He needed him. There was no facing the path alone, however much he’d lied to himself.

“You need to wake up,” he whispered, clutching the little songbird to his chest. You need to. Because I need you. Because I can’t do this without you.”

He rocked slightly, fingers petting the bard’s soft hair as he held him close, face pressed to his shoulder. “Don’t leave me like this, bard,” he said. “Don’t leave …”

“… ‘skier …”

Geralt froze. He pulled away, having felt warm breath on his neck.

Blue eyes smiled weakly back at him. “Jaskier,” the bard repeated, the word so very small, too weak to even echo. He spoke again, breath strained, wheezing slightly. “For the … hundredth time. It’s Jaskier. Not bard.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

The bard smiled and closed his eyes. “Sounds good. Was waiting … for that.”

“You’re going to be alright, Jaskier. I’m taking you to a healer. Just stay with me.”

“I will. Witcher,” he teased. “Fi—finally made your mind up? To keep me?”

Geralt stood carefully, Jaskier cradled in his arms. “Save your breath. You may not have much left if you prattle on.”

Jaskier chuckled, coughing wet, deep in his chest. He winced, but his mischievous smirk remained intact. “Bossy,” he mumbled. “Like that.”

“Jaskier.”

“Don’t scold, Geralt. ’M wounded.”

Geralt sighed, but the weight on his heart had lifted. He stepped carefully over the wrecked remains of the tunnel wall and headed back toward the entrance of the mine, following the track marks of the carts along the floor. The golem would fetch a good price: enough to pay the healer with some left over. It would afford them fine treatment, a comfortable stay.

His bard would sing again.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[myidlehand]

Unspoken Apologies

(post mountain fix it. Hurt/Comfort, shirt and cute. Just two idiot friends trying to keep being idiot friends or Jaskier finds Geralt waiting for him after the fight) (also on AO3).

The trip down the mountain is not fun, even with the dwarves' company and by the time Jaskier gets to the inn, he's exhausted. He slowly goes up the stairs, only to find Geralt sitting on the floor in front of the door to their room.

Geralt has only one leg folded, his knee against his chest, and rubbing his face with his hand. When he hears Jaskier he turns his head upward, looking at the bard. He looks tired, Jaskier notes.

"Why are you here?" Jaskier asks, a little annoyed but secretly relieved to see the Witcher. 

There's so many things Geralt wants to answer but nothing feels right. So instead he only replies:

"You've got the key to our room."

They both know Geralt doesn't need any of the things he left there. If he did, then he wouldn't have left them in the room with Jaskier's stuff. The possibility that it would be stolen was too high, even with the room paid for the next couple of days. He doesn't need the book he's read six times already or the scarf Jaskier gifted him eight years ago that he insists he doesn't need but always somehow ends up wearing when the weather turns chilly. It's just an excuse and Jaskier sees right through it.

"Could have broken the door." Jaskier says, producing the key from his pocket. It feels hot in his hand, he's been fidgeting with it the entire trip back from the peak.

"It's a good door, doesn't seem fair."

Geralt gets up to take a step out of Jaskier's way. Jaskier pats the door slightly.

"Yeah well, sometimes good things still end up broken", he adds before turning the key and opening the door.

 

His eyes meet Geralt's. They both know they fucked up. Jaskier had poor timing and shouldn't have poked Geralt. He knew the Witcher's mood could be volatile, especially when it came to Yennefer and he knew he might have been a little insensitive. He shouldn't have spoken when he did. Sometimes his mouth runs faster than his brain. Or so he's been told.

Geralt knows he has been unfair to Jaskier too. The bard is often childish, manipulative and selfish, sometimes using his relationship to Geralt to better his own life. But Geralt also knows Jaskier has never done anything to hurt him on purpose. Jaskier might often end up in hot waters because of his own stupidity but Geralt is always ready to jump right after him. Jaskier isn't a bad friend, he genuinely loves Geralt. He just doesn't always think first. Geralt needed to take it out on someone and Jaskier just happened to be right there.

They both look at each other for a bit, both feeling uncomfortable and stupid for fighting because they have strong tempers. Not that Jaskier had said anything really. Jaskier knows Geralt panicked after losing Yennefer and needed to take back control of the situation by venting his frustration on him. Maybe not the best reaction ever but that's what they have to work with.

Jaskier sights and breaks first, as he often did when they were arguing.

"Come on, I need some sleep and that bed seems very inviting after the dirty uneven ground last night. Honestly, it was so steep I thought I was going to slip right off the mountain!" He says, taking off his dirty doublet as soon as he enters the room.

"Don't you want to eat before bed? I had all our rations." Geralt asks, taking his pack off the floor and following the bard inside.

"The dwarves gave me some bread but since you're buying, I'll take dessert too. Oh and since you'll be downstairs, order us a bath too, darling. I'm filthy!" Jaskier replies, back turned to Geralt, stretching lazily in front of the window.

Geralt smiles softly, relieved to see things going back to normal. They know each other well enough that an apology isn't necessary to say out loud but it still feels good to know Jaskier understands why he reacted the way he did. It would probably come up later but Jaskier being comfortable around him again tells Geralt that for now they are okay, he is forgiven.

[pherryt]

A Curse Upon All Bards...

So first off - my daughter is evil. She got “There’s Always a Reason” stuck in my head, about a bothersome bard and the warrior and sorceress duo who are frustrated with him beyond all reason. Sadly, I can only remember just the one section:

“A curse upon all bards, another on their tongues, A double curse upon their songs, I swear. A triple curse upon this fool who chose to sing of us! If I could catch that Leslac, I would skin him then and there!”

But it was more than enough to apparently inspire a bit of something.

This is also after the realization some months back that “The Leslac Version” (which is hilarious and I love) is quite literally Jaskier singing his version of events while Geralt keeps trying to correct him.

So anyway, here’s the bit of something I came up with, 783 words total.

         ***

When Geralt had finally asked Jaskier to come home with him to Kaer Morhen -to which the bard had very enthusiastically said yes - the last thing he’d expected was to walk into Eskel and Lambert having an argument.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Lambert was always an argumentative fuck, and a bit of prankster. He loved to stir shit up, and throughout the winter the three younger witchers – and occasionally their guests – would wind up rolling around on the floor, throwing punches, pulling hair and even biting. Vesemir would grumble, but he’d step over the squabbling pile of witchers and go about his day as if nothing untoward were happening.

So no, Geralt wasn’t exactly expecting the others to be on their best behavior just because he was bringing the bard home, finally. Not that they had known he intended to do that this year. Still. He just… hadn’t expected the cause of their argument to be about the bard.

Lambert was fully worked up by the time Geralt and Jaskier arrived, cursing all bards, their songs, and - specifically – Jaskier. Because while there were others that sang Jaskier’s songs, none other had dared to write about witchers to begin with.

Eskel, Geralt was glad to note, was trying to be the reasonable one, trying to talk Lambert down from his rant.

“You can’t deny it’s a catchy tune,” Eskel pointed out.

Lambert glared. “I’m so sick of that song…” he mumbled. “If I have to hear it one more time, I’m going to find that bard myself and flay him alive.”

“But, think about all the good these songs have been for our reputation!” Eskel said. Beside Geralt, Jaskier preened. “Not being chased out of towns, cheated as often by the alderman, or turned away from the whor –“

Lambert’s snort interrupted Eskel.

“Our reputation? Oh sure, sure, sure, our reputation. Well, what about all the folks who approach us, expecting us to be their knights in shining armor, and us walking away unpaid because of course we’ll rid them of the monsters for free! We’re the fucking friends to humanity!” Lambert growled. “I can’t replace my armor when no one’s willing to pay, and then I’ll just be a dead witcher. And what good will that do to anyone?”

Eskel blinked, nodding slowly as if agreeing to Lambert’s side. If Eskel was coming around to Lambert’s way of thinking, he and Jaskier were fucked. Geralt was just thinking that this might be the best time to beat a hasty retreat and get Jaskier to safety when a hand came down on his and Jaskier’s shoulders and Vesemir’s voice rumbled out.

“Ah, you’re home,” Vesemir said. The hand on Geralt’s shoulder squeezed almost painfully. Beside him Jaskier was wincing from a similar grip. “And with a guest, no less. You made it just in time. Storm coming down the mountain tonight. Gonna be a big one.”

Meaning, Geralt realized as Vesemir propelled them both out of the doorway and into the main hall, that there was no turning back now. They were stuck here. Here, where everyone was glaring at him and his bard.

Well.

Fuck.

 Bonus – Dramatic Jaskier

“But the song literally says ‘Toss a coin’!!” Jaskier shouted over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt spirited him away deeper into the keep. “Why are you blaming me for the tight wallets of the continent? Really? Me?! When I have been encouraging them to send money your way!”

The other witchers were still glaring after them and Jaskier wasn’t too sure they wouldn’t up and follow anyways. He bounced on Geralt’s shoulder with every step, but with the excellent training at Oxenfurt, Jaskier still had the breath to continue, and he did. Loudly.

“It’s not my fault the general populace is stupid! I mean, we already knew it, treating you all they way they were in the first place! Excuse ME for trying to make it better! But yeah, good, yeah, go after the poor bard doing a good deed instead of the villagers who try to take advantage of you! You don’t like my songs? Well, let’s see if you change your tune when I write ones about-”

Geralt’s hand landed on his ass with a sharp, calculated smack. “Don’t antagonize them, Jaskier. Besides, any defaming songs about a pair of witchers will just come back to haunt all the rest of us.”

“Oh, you ruin all my fun,” Jaskier pouted, leaning his head on his hand and digging his elbow just a little bit into Geralt’s back. He stuck his tongue out at the witchers one last time before they were whisked out of sight by Geralt turning a corner.

[mollymawkwrites]

My lovely friend @simplymyselff requested Jaskier hitting Geralt with his lute (maybe because he was afraid of him being a ghost) and patching him up because he feels guilty, so this is my attempt at it. Enjoy! CW: minor injury, blood, terminal stupidity from both of the boys.

There is someone in Jaskier’s chambers.

He woke up with a start a minute ago when a crashing noise broke the silence of the late evening. From his bed, he could see the window in the tiny living room of his student lodgings gaping open, the panes gently swaying with the light breeze of the summer night. He’s sure he closed it before going to bed; some drunkards had been belting out sea shanties in the street below and he needed to get some sleep before tomorrow’s exams.

There had been a quick scuffle, and then nothing, but Jaskier can see a large shadow moving in his living room from where he’s pressed against the wall now, his heart beating wildly. The light of the almost full moon bathes the room in an ethereal atmosphere, and the silhouette is moving from one side of his tiny living room to the other, silent. Slowly, it approaches the open door of Jaskier’s bedroom, and all he sees is a flash of white before he grabs the nearest object and swings with all his might towards the tall figure. It might not be of any use against a ghostly apparition, but Julian Alfred Pankratz is not going down without a fight.

There is a splintering of wood, a discordant twang, and a loud and heartfelt “Fuck!” that is definitely not at all ghostly, before Jaskier is thrown against the wall by a strong arm.

The most terrifying man Jaskier has ever met is snarling right to his face, a hand splayed across his chest to keep him still and a blade teasing at his neck. Pale hair form a halo around his head in the moonlight, and a pair of yellow slitted eyes are glaring at Jaskier with rage. Blood is running down the man’s face, dripping down his chin and onto the dark, studded armour cutting quite an impressive figure. It tells a lot about Jaskier that even in the throes of terror, he can’t help but remark how devastatingly handsome the man is.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man growls, and his voice is just as sexy terrifying than the rest of him.

“Who- what- excuse me?” Jaskier sputters, caught off guard by the stupid question. “I live here!”

“Why did you attack me?” The hand against Jaskier’s chest presses harder, and he feels his ribs start to protest against the weight.

“You just broke into my lodgings! I thought you were a ghost!” His voice definitely does not come out in a squeak.

The man’s glare doesn’t abate, but he does release Jaskier and sheathes the wicked-looking knife back into the holster on his hip. Jaskier flinches when he raises a hand, but it is only to prod at the gash on his forehead that is still oozing blood sluggishly. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to make sure! You could- you could have been a thief! You could still be a thief! What are you doing in my chambers?”

“Hm. ‘m a Witcher. There’s a spirit in your flat.”

“You just said ghosts weren’t real,” Jaskier definitely squeaks this time.

“Not a ghost. A godling.”

“... a what?”

“A godling. A mischievous spirit, like a lutin. Harmless, though it can play some mean tricks. I was trying to bargain with her to leave the city when she bolted and slipped in your flat. I followed her, but she must have hidden somewhere.”

“Oh gods,” Jaskier moans. “Am I going to be haunted? I really don’t need that, I’m in the middle of my end of term exams…”

“No, she slipped away when you… distracted me. It’s unlikely she’ll be back. I just hope she’ll follow my advice, or she might meet people who are less inclined to let her find a nice forest or swamp to settle.”

“Oh. Well, you shouldn’t break into people’s homes in the middle of the night. Unless it’s really important, I guess.” Jaskier looks down at his hand still clutching his makeshift weapon, and lets out a wail that has the Witcher taking a step back in startled concern. “My lute! I broke my lute!”

The wrecked instrument is nothing more than a pile of kindling, strings and pieces of the body still hanging sadly from the neck.

“I hum… I think I should leave you to it,” the Witcher is looking increasingly uncomfortable as Jaskier falls to his knees and cradles the broken instrument to his chest.

Jaskier raises his head and narrows his eyes at him. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah. You threw a fucking lute at me.”

“Don’t remind me. You need to tend to that wound. You’re bleeding all over my rug.”

“It’s a head wound. It always bleeds a lot.”

“Well, I’m not gonna risk you fainting from blood loss because I attacked you. Though I had a good reason to.”

“I’m okay. It’ll stop eventually.”

“This is nowhere near reassuring.” Jaskier declares cheerfully as he rises from the floor, broken lute forgotten. “Let me help with it, at least. As an apology.”

The Witcher makes a face like he wants to say no, but Jaskier is already lighting the candles on his desk and unearthing the poorly equipped medical kit he never uses himself, except for pain relief medicine after drinking too much wine.

“Come on, sit down, let me give that a look,” Jaskier ushers his patient towards the bed, and the Witcher looks utterly confused and out of place but complies, sitting with his hands on his lap and his hunched shoulders failing to make him look smaller than he is.

Silence falls upon them as Jaskier cleans the wound with unpracticed but careful movements, and he becomes increasingly aware of the level of closeness their position demands. Jaskier is standing between the Witcher’s open legs, one hand cradling the man’s head while the other dabs a wet cloth over his bloody hairline. The student finds himself blushing furiously, thankful that the other man is oblivious to his current predicament, staring right ahead of himself, which happens to be the open collar of Jaskier’s light nightgown.

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher says as Jaskier turns to trade the bloodied cloth for the little jar of balm he uses when he cuts himself with snapping lute strings. He looks back at the Witcher in surprise, but the man keeps his gaze down as he answers Jaskier’s silent question. “For your lute. I’m sorry it’s broken. I can pay for a new one.”

A wave of fondness for the weird man leaves Jaskier rather breathless. He hides it behind a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s okay, really. I got it in a game of Gwent last year. At least it wasn’t my lucky lute, and it never made a great sound anyway.”

“How many lutes do you own?” The Witcher asks with an arched eyebrow, raising his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes for the first time since he sat down, which causes the student to smear balm all across the man’s forehead.

“Let me think… there’s the one I use for classes, the fancy one for formal events, the one I take for gigs in taverns… my first lute, which is also my lucky lute… that’s four. Five, if you count the one I’m still mourning.”

“Why the fuck do you need so many lutes.”

“So I don’t find myself without one when I use them as weapons against thick-headed Witchers,” Jaskier deadpans. “Can you imagine a bard without an instrument? That’d be utterly ridiculous. Why the fuck do you need two swords?”

“Some monsters require silver. Others require steel.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully as he applies the last of the balm to the already healing gash. “Well, yes, I guess that makes sense.”

He steps away to clean his hands in the little basin he keeps on the vanity in his bedroom, and immediately misses the warmth the man radiates. When he turns back, drying his hands on his own nightgown, he finds the Witcher standing in the middle of the room, looking unsure as to what to do now. Jaskier wishes he had an excuse to keep the man from leaving.

“Well, my friend, I think you’ll survive this terrible wound,” he says instead, stepping closer and patting the man’s breastplate awkwardly.

The Witcher hums, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and he raises his own hand to trap Jaskier’s against his chest. “What would I have done without you. My hero.” His voice drips with sarcasm, but it has Jaskier’s heart beating wildly beneath his ribcage. After a slightly too long silence, the Witcher steps away, back into the living room where the window is still letting in the warm summer breeze. “Maybe… I mean, we could…” The man pauses, a frustrated crease to his brow as he tries to find the right words. “I might come back. To check on you. Make sure the godling hasn’t come back to… haunt you.” He finishes with uncertainty, then curses under his breath. Once again, fondness seizes Jaskier’s heart, and he smiles softly in the darkness of his living room.

“I would love that.”

The man’s shoulders sag with relief, and he turns towards the window, swinging a leg over the ledge. It’s all very romantic, Jaskier thinks. Like one of those books Priscilla likes to say are terribly cliché. He quite likes it, though. “Wait!” He calls before the man jumps from his window. The Witcher turns to look at him, his eyes reflecting the light of the moon, and Jaskier finds himself breathless for the second… no, third time in the evening. “What’s your name?”

“Geralt,” the man offers after a second.

“Well,” Jaskier scrambles for something to say, trying to stretch the surreal moment as much as possible. “Use the door next time, Geralt.”

This has Geralt smiling for real this time. It’s more of a smirk, to be honest. But it suits him nonetheless. “I will,” he says, and jumps, disappearing from Jaskier’s life as quickly as he stumbled into it.