#mentions of witchers back at kaer morhen having me grin

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p. 7

(There's coloring pages for this fic in my ko-fi shop now!)

Jaskier sighed, his face softening. “I am your friend, Aiden. I know we haven't been traveling together for long, so it might not mean that much to you yet, but I am your friend and I protect my friends, Aiden. That's the only important thing right now.” The Cat stared at him with a horrified frown on his pretty face. But unable to accept the bard's sketchy reply, he started to argue, “That is not an answer! Look at you, fucking- look at what you've done! I have never met any creature with such destructive power!”

“I am not a monster, Aiden!” Jaskier gasped, suddenly feeling just as frightened as the witcher in front of him. “I'm not some creature from your bestiary that you're hired to kill because I go about eating children for breakfast!”

Almost immediately after realizing the words that had left his mouth, Aiden wanted to apologize for them. Just how many times had he been on the other end of this exact same conversation? How many times did he have to justify his mere existence, simply because he was a witcher, a Cat Witcher of all things? How many times had people turned on him after they'd seen him fight, after they'd seen him fall into a haze of blood lust? How many times had friends betrayed him before?

And what kind of monster had tears in their eyes after being accused of such things? Aiden felt like an awful person. “I- I'm sorry, Jaskier, you're right, it's just-” he couldn't help but to take a glance at their surroundings; the destruction and chaos left behind. Next to him Jaskier sniffled and willed his tears away. “I know. It can be a lot, I'm sorry if I scared you, sunshine, but I promise- I would never hurt you. I'm a protector, not a fighter.” Aiden sighed before rubbing at his tired eye to further ease the stinging. “Alright, dandelion, I will trust you to protect me then,” he said, certainly not expecting Jaskier to fall around his neck and hug him tightly. “Thank you.”

Later, Aiden watched with a mix of apprehension and curios fascination as the bard walked around the soldiers' campsite and cleaned up a big portion of the mess he had made, to prevent attracting necrophages and the like. The Cat was entirely intrigued by the fact that Jaskier, who was more than a head smaller than him and had the slim physique one would expect from a traveling bard, seemed to posses the strength of a full grown, healthy witcher. Though, he wouldn't doubt Jaskier being even stronger than that. “Can you carry a horse?” Aiden blurted out, without really thinking about it too much. The bard froze on the spot, both hands full of several heavy metal pieces that were part of the redanian armor. He looked at Aiden, then at the four horses that were now calmly resting a bit further away from their initial spot, then back at Aiden. “Why would I carry a horse?”

The witcher snorted, “It's not about the why, it's about the ifs and coulds.” Jaskier blinked at him once, twice, before shaking his head and returning to his task. “If I ever feel the desire to carry a horse around for fun, you will be the first to know.”

“That's all I ask for,” Aiden grinned, for now satisfied with simply watching Jaskier flutter around the camp like a little bird. Every now and then the bard would find something worthwhile and place it either near their packs or right into Aiden's lap, like the sword he had mentioned earlier, a new, clean tunic, or a pair of sturdy leather boots that fit him surprisingly well. It didn't take long until the bard had them both cleaned up and wearing two new outfits. Although Aiden wasn't exactly comfortable with the distinctive lack of armor, the bard was quick to reassure him that that was taken care of as well, he just wanted Aiden's injuries to fully heal this time around, before making him carry any extra weight. Which made sense, even if it left Aiden feeling weirdly exposed.

Not that Jaskier was looking any different. Somehow the bard was wearing even less than him. Whereas Aiden's short sleeved honey colored tunic could still be worn in town without leading to some sort of kerfuffle caused by public indecency, Jaskier had somehow managed to squeeze himself in a sleeveless, skin tight garment that would have Aiden drooling, had it been his lover Lambert in front of him. Though, he admitted he had stared at Jaskier for quite a bit, when the bard had walked back towards his resting place. When he asked the bard about it, Jaskier proudly declared that it was his own design. Of course it was, Aiden thought with fond exasperation.

“Now, I don't think you'll object to us heading further east into the forest before we make camp, given the whole,” Jaskier waved his hands in a way that indicated the entirety of their surroundings, “situation.” Aiden chuckled, “Can't say I'm fond of the idea of cuddling.”

“Oh gods, no,” the bard shuddered before extending his hand to help Aiden up. He accepted without hesitating. “Alright then, now we just have to decide which horses we will take with us.”

Jaskier gasped, looking at the witcher in shock. “Which ones? Aiden, no.”

Somehow the witcher had a bad feeling about this.

“Aiden, they're friends. We can't separate friends, that would be cruel.”

“You can't be serious about this.”

“They'd make a nice present for Vesemir, don't you think?”

“Jaskier.”

or: how many horses will the author have to draw? (why am I doing this again😳)

please like and reblog if you voted

✨🌿🌼✨

"But they're friends Aiden", Jaskier said with the biggest, most adorable puppydog eyes, knowing full well that Aiden still felt guilty about earlier. (Such an evil little man ❤)

If you have any ideas on what J might've looted in camp lmk!

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currently 4 of you need to check their tag settings

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[shy-urban-hobbit]

🖤 and/or 💛 with lambert/aiden from the kissing list please :3

I went with 💛 - reunion kiss for this one 😁😁

"Alright, what the fuck is wrong?" Geralt asked, reminding himself to put his ale back on the table calmly rather than slamming it down like he really wanted to (two Witchers in the inn was already drawing enough attention without making it look like a fight was about to break out between them), having finally reached the end of his tether.

"Nothing. Besides the usual." Lambert answered sulkily, trying to glare a hole into the table top, only pausing when his eyes would flick up to the door briefly when someone new entered, arms tightly folded across his chest. Those four words the first response he'd given all evening that hadn't been monosyllables at best or a grunt of acknowledgement at worst.

Geralt felt his eye twitch. His little brother was acting every bit the surly teenager he'd once been. Even back then, getting him to open up about anything had been akin to pulling teeth, worse even - at least pulling teeth yielded some results.

"We only left Kaer Morhen three months ago, things can't be that bad already?" He cajoled, hoping Lambert would let something slip.

"Well, maybe I'm just having truly shit luck." Lambert drained his tankard before standing, "I'm going to bed."

Geralt watched the others retreating form. Some things the youngest Witcher felt deeper than any of them, no matter how much he tried to brush them off.

Lambert's mood hadn't improved the next morning. If anything, it seemed to worsen after Geralt mentioned he was heading in the same direction as him on his way to meet Jaskier. By mid afternoon, Geralt was ready to shove Lambert's face in the next pile of horse dung they came across after he snapped at him for breathing too loudly. It didn't escape his attention that Lambert kept scanning the road and not just in casual observation - he was actively looking out for something, but every time Geralt tried to ask Lambert would either just growl at him or spur his horse a little further ahead in the on road equivalent of slamming his door in Geralt's face. Not that Geralt minded that much, the constant, acrid stench of Lambert's negative emotions was starting to put both him and Roach on edge.

After a night spent in the woods with separate camps, the two Wolves arrived in Ellander and at the temple of Melitele, where the White Wolf was due to meet his bard. Lambert found himself tagging along to say hello to Nenneke, he'd always found her fearlessness on calling bullshit when she smelt it refreshing (plus, watching her treat Geralt like an errant child would never not be funny). He couldn't quite discern the look she threw him when she informed them Jaskier hadn't arrived yet, although her "Jealousy is unbecoming on anybody. Including a Witcher." helped shed some light.

Luckily, Geralt saw fit to drag him out into the gardens before he started asking questions.

"Is that why you've had a stick up your arse, you're jealous of me and Jaskier?"

"Don't talk shit." Lambert snapped, "I didn't even know you were meeting him until you told me."

"And it was after that you went from a dragon with a sore head to one with a full on fucking migraine."

"It's my business, and shockingly it's got fuck all to do with you and your peacock. So why don't you just-"

"Geralt!"

Both of them turned at the yell, Geralt to be greeted by the sight of his bard waving at him and Lambert by a blur that slammed into him with enough force to knock him onto his back with an "Oof!" that was swallowed up by a pair of soft, chapped lips, an agile tongue dipping in cheekily when Lambert's lips parted in a smile once he realised who exactly had attacked him.

"Hello, you." Aiden said, grinning down at him once they parted. Not that Lambert was letting him go very far, his arms locked around the others back.

"You're late." Lambert said simply, " I waited for you as long as I was able but you never showed. So I started moving, hoping I'd run into you on the road but everywhere I tried...I was starting to think..." He squeezed Aiden in lieu of finishing his sentence, the other rubbed his nose against Lambert's in the way the Wolf recognised as him offering a silent apology.

"Well, glad to see you know each other already. No awkward introductions necessary." Jaskier chirped, sounding amused.

Lambert wouldn't say that exactly. He chanced a look at Geralt who looked positively dumbstruck as he stared down at them both, his sword half drawn, frozen in the act of coming to the others aid.

"And I'm afraid that's partly my doing. Aiden and that infallible Witcher timing saved me from a rather unfortunate encounter with some giant centipede thingy. Unfortunately, he didn't come out of it unscathed and far be it for me to leave my rescuer bleeding out on the roadside."

"For a troubadour, you make quite the competent healer." Aiden broke in, lifting his head at Lambert's gentle insistence as he checked him over for evidence of new injuries.

"Twenty years of practice, dear." Jaskier threw a meaningful look at Geralt, "He offered to escort me the rest of the way when we found out we were heading in the same direction."

Lambert finally relinquished his grip enough to let Aiden stand, taking the offered hand and watching Geralt warily for the moment he knew was coming since the word "Witcher" had flown from Jaskier's mouth.

Geralt had absolutely no idea what had been used to turn this strange Witchers eyes that almost luminous green rather than the traditional yellow and orange hues. He was almost of a height with Lambert when they both stood. His armour was light, leaving the arms bare apart from a set of plain leather gauntlets, the scars criss-crossing dark skin proudly on display and around his neck...

Geralt's fingers twitched towards his weapons in the same moment Lambert took half a step forwards, subtly placing himself slightly in front of the Cat, the two of them locking eyes in a silent conversation. Everything seemed to be holding its breath. Aiden kept his mouth shut, the slight ocean salt tang of apprehension present for those who could smell it and even Jaskier had fallen silent, his usual fresh apple and rain scent turning slightly rotten in his confusion as he looked between the three of them.

Geralt was the first to look away, "Well met Aiden. Lambert, make sure you say goodbye before you move on." He started herding Jaskier away, his eyes screaming that this "Goodbye" was going to include getting some answers. Lambert groaned.

"I recognise what that look means. Could've gone worse though." Aiden said, wrapping his arms around Lambert in a proper hug.

The Wolf shrugged, "Fuck him. He's got the messiest love life out of all of us, he's in no position to lecture me about you. Now c'mere."

He pulled Aiden into another kiss, putting his all into it now that he wasn't caught off guard.

"I really am sorry I made you worry, Pup."

"Let's find an empty room and you can make it up to me."

[cosmos-coma]

Our furnace is broken and I am covering myself in blankets to help get warm, can you write something about snuggling for warmth with Eskel on those cold Kaer Morhen nights

Winters Cold Embrace

A/N: I hope your furnace gets fixed soon! its a short funny little thing that I hope makes you at least chuckle

Pairing: Eskel x Reader

Words:~430

Warnings: Language

____________________

The fall had been fine, it was chilly but not too cold- more crisp than anything. But now it was full-blown winter in the keep and right now it fucking sucked. 

The keep was already old and falling apart, but the past few days have been putting it to the test. It's been snowing light flakes of and on, but the real heavy hitter was the wind. It was bitterly cold and was working at widening the cracks of the keep and it slipped into every nook and cranny. 

“F-F-Fu-FUCK, it’s cold as Lebioda’s balls in here… maybe? He might have been a eunuch…” you rambled out from beneath your pile of blankets- peeking out from a little fold just big enough to see through. 

Eskel laughed as he came into view, peeking into the little eye slot you had made. “He definitely was not.” 

“What? Did you know him personally?” you asked peeking your head further out of the blankets to see the warm food he carried. You made quick work of sneaking your arm out and grabbing one of the sandwiches he had on the plate. 

“No, but I feel like it would’ve been mentioned a bit more if he was.” Your witcher commented with a residual chuckle. “Now, can I get in on the cocoon? Even witchers get cold…” He said and began unwrapping your layers of blankets. 

“Please join me,  you’re my personal space heater…” you said through a mouthful of sandwich as you shifted over to make room.

“Gods, you just never stop being sexy, huh?” He grinned and climbed into the space you'd made for him, quickly pulling you to his lap. 

You laughed and wiped your mouth, curling into the radiant heat that was just rolling off his body. A content hum rumbled in your chest as his arms wrapped around you and pulled the blankets back into their proper place. 

“On a positive note-” he started, changing subjects, “- Vesemir is mixing up a big batch of mortar  right now, and when it's ready my brothers and I will go and patch up some of the cracks- starting with the rooms.”

“Oh, I’ve never loved you more…” You said with a sigh of relief as you pressed a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you so much for taking care of me. I guess I don’t do the cold too well…“ you said with a slight frown to your expression. 

His large hand rubbed warmth into your side and drew you ever closer. “Of course…. I’ll always be here, warmth or cold”.

_________________

Taglist: @open--till--midnight @writingmysanity @dark-academia-slut

[agoracactus]

Home Sweet Home

this is set after Geralt got his estate in Toussaint. absolutely love that place, everything is so pretty and vibrant there

and its just nice to know that after all his adventures he got a place to call home and some ppl to take care of him. enjoy!

Warning: lack of proofreading as it is very late now lol i just wanna get this out

Pairing: Geralt x F!reader

Word count: 830

§ Shortly after receiving Corvo Bianco §

You had a soothing bath after an extremely long day, and were comfortably lying in bed. You had your legs up against the wall, with a pillow under your head, feeling warm and sleepy.

Geralt walked out from behind the screen. He stopped, stared for a second, and decided he didn't want to know.

"Did the water get cold?" you watched him throwing the towel over the screen.

"No." he buttoned up his shirt.

"Can't believe the enchanted tub Yen gave us really worked." you said, while massaging your legs.

"Hmm." he sat down on his side of the bed.

"You should join me." you turned your head to look at him.

"...What?" "Put your legs up like this." "Why?" "Well, I heard that it helps with leg swelling." "My legs don't swell." "...Is that supposed to be a flex?" you raised your eyebrow, "C'mon! It wouldn't hurt to try! Plus, it would be too late when your legs do swell." you tugged on the bottom of his shirt, "Who knows, it might happen tomorrow? You are getting old."

He grunted, but complied.

"See? Not too bad right?" you grinned.

Another grunt.

"And apparently it works better with massages." you sat up, and started squeezing his calves, "It helps with blood flow, and gravity would help bring the waste back to your torso so your body can clean that dirty blood." "Hmm."

You stopped, "Are you upset about me calling you old?"

He sighed, "No." "Ok." you gave him a kiss on the cheek, and lay back down again with your legs up against the wall.

After a short silence- "Mr. Barnabas asked me what he should call me."

"...What has he been calling you then?" "Miss." you said with a dissatisfied tone. "What's wrong with miss?" "It doesn't sound right, sounds like I'm way too young. If Ciri could be called miss, calling me miss would be too weird." "...Alright."

"I doubt he would be ok with calling me by my first name- not to mention calling me Master..." you pressed your feet against the cool wall.

"Madam?" Geralt suggested.

"Meh, too old. Madam is what you call someone rich with no kids, having 2 cats and 3 dogs and a dead husband." you waved your hand, "And she either is the nicest person or the worst, no in between."

"Hmm." Geralt had both of his hands on his stomach, fingers laced together, "Lady?"

"Well lady doesn't sound too bad." you nodded, "Classy, elegant... It also sounds like you're having an affair with me and let me move in against your poor wife's will."

"...You'd rather be my mistress?"

"Are you asking me to marry you?" "No, I'm simply explaining to you, lady can be used for married couples as well." "Sounds like a proposal to me." "It is not." "So you don't wanna marry me?"

"..." He gave you a look. "Now you're just teasing me."

"Ahh, quick learner are we?" you grinned.

"I was one of the best in Kaer Morhen." he bragged.

"Well then you should also learn, that I'll be happier if you let me tease you."

He smiled, took your hand in his and gently pressed his lips upon your knuckles, "I'll keep that in mind, my lady."

§ After a long time §

You hopped off your horse, handing the rein to the stable boy.

"Thank you Gautbert." you said, staring pulling the knot on your cloak loose.

"My lady." Barnabas-Basil Foulty greeted you at the door, "How was the journey?" "It's ok, I'm just glad it only took a couple of days. It would seem that I can only sleep well in my own bed now." you jokingly said. "I'm glad that the trip went well. Master Garelt came home just now." Foulty opened the door for you.

"Already?" you quickly walked in.

Pushing open the bedroom door, you were met with the fresh scent of soap. The white hair witcher was standing by the feet of the bed, drying his hair with a towel.

"Hey you're home early!" you nearly jumped into his arms, before giving him a peck on the lips, "...I miss you." you nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

"I miss you too." he held you tightly.

"...You smell nice!" you pulled away slightly to look at him more properly, even though you were only apart for two weeks.

"Wanted to look fresh for you." "Aww... And you cut yourself?" your thumb brushed over the side of his jaw. "I was in a rush." he shrugged. "Aren't you adorable." you kissed him again.

He pressed on the back of your neck, deepening the kiss, tongue grazing past yours. You happily gave in to his yearning.

"...Eager huh?" you broke away for air, eyes meeting his.

"I missed you a lot." he shrugged again, unapologetic.

You couldn't help but grin widely, "Well, we should see what we could do about that."

[bethdutten]

trust me

geralt x reader

part one / two / three

summary: Before the birth of the first half-Witcher in the history of the Continent, Geralt takes you to the safest place for the remaining months-- Kaer Morhen. You meet Eskel, who makes you think of your future differently. You begin to fear for what happens once you have brought a half-Witcher, half-human into the world. 

words: 3.5k oops

warnings: ok so a little bit different?? angst!! I brought my baby Eskel back and nothing bad ever happens to him. It’s like Eskel-heavy in the first half. I keep trying to wrap these up and y’all request more and I love it

Geralt took you back to Kaer Morhen when you were about 7 months pregnant. It was early, and Geralt left soon after to continue what he could before the snow came; he wanted to get as much coin as he could before the baby arrived.

Vesemir was away, too-- on some quest of his own, you supposed. Geralt promised to be back before the birth, and you didn’t mind a little alone time, either. Once the baby was born, you knew there wouldn’t be a second to yourself for quite awhile. 

You rested, and cleaned, and messed around in the kitchen with what you had available. The baby was moving a lot more as you approached your last month. You rubbed your stomach absentmindedly as you tended to the fire in the main hall, eyes transfixed on the flames. Would this child have abilities like Geralt? What mutations would be in its blood? And how much of you would it have?

As you were lost in thought, a loud slam of the doors caused you to jump almost out of your skin, leaning back against the wall with a hand on your chest.

“Hello?”

A man had entered, the hood of his cloak covering his face. Geralt? you wondered.

But this man wasn’t as tall, and walked differently than your Geralt. As he pulled the hood back, the first thing you noticed was the scars that marred his face, turning the corner of his lips almost into a snarl. But he was smiling.

“You must be Geralt’s woman!” 

You knew by his easy arrival and the medallion around his neck that this was a Witcher; most likely one of Geralt’s brothers you had not met last time. “I am, and you are?”

The man pretended to be hurt, holding a hand to his heart in a mock cry. “He does not speak of me daily on your travels? Damn him, and here I thought for sure he would be naming his child after me.” He’d reached you now, that smile back on his face that dripped mirth. “I’m Eskel.”

Before you could reply, he picked you up in a sweeping hug, and you squeaked in surprise. His laugh vibrated through his chest until he carefully put you down.

“I apologize, don’t want to hurt my favourite niece or nephew,” Eskel grinned, and you tried not to stare at his scars. All of Geralt’s were so well hidden-- you wondered what it was like for the Witchers who had to so publicly wear the evidence of what they survived every day. 

“Favorite?” you inquired, quirking a brow. You liked this man already.

Eskel laughed, walking over to the fire you had been trying to coax back to life. With a simple gesture of his hands, the fire roared greatly, and the heat began to spread through the room immediately. “Fair, my only niece or nephew. Guess that’s the unique part of it. Special one, they’ll have an army of Witchers to keep them safe.”

You sighed, slipping into a chair close to the fire. “Not the only unique part.” 

Eskel glanced over to you. “Give me a second to drop my things off and get Scorpion settled. I’ll make you some food and tell you all the embarrassing stories about Geralt.”

You laughed. After a month of being completely alone, you were ready for some company again. And Eskel was great company-- apparently, him and Geralt had crossed paths not too long ago and Geralt had mentioned that you were here until the baby was born. He’d asked Eskel to check in on you as he finished a few more jobs. 

You sat for hours, trading stories of Geralt. Eskel told you about when they were younger, and you told him about the adventures you had before the pregnancy. It seemed Eskel was trying to avoid looking at your belly as much as you were avoiding staring at his scars.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he’d murmured, after the ale was almost finished and the sun had long set. His eyes had landed on your stomach once again, an almost reverent look in his eyes. “Geralt is the one to find out if Witchers really can be parents. First with his Child Surprise, now with a half-Witcher and you.”

You nodded, your hand coming down to cup your belly. A small kick to your hand made you smile. “He will be a great father. He already is, to Cirilla.”

Eskel nodded, his eyes drifting over to the fireplace. “I would have wanted to be a father, I think. If we didn’t have the choice taken from us. There was a woman, once. I loved her more than anything in the entire world. And if she had not been killed, maybe I would have taken her to find that mage you two ran into.”

You frown, reaching a hand out hesitantly to rest on top of where his was on the table. “I’m sorry.” You’d just met him, but he felt like family already.

He just sighed, giving you a tight smile, the scar at the corner of his lips tugging. “That’s why Witchers aren’t supposed to feel, right? When you’re not human and you get attached to a human, bad things happen.”

You pulled your hand back as his words sunk in, swallowing. “Right.”

Eskel seemed to notice his mistake, turning to you and scratching at the scars on his face nervously. “Not that bad things will happen to you and Geralt. I just mean, the life we live, it’s... dangerous. But he would never let anything happen to you.”

You shifted in your seat, avoiding his eyes. “Is that what you told the woman you loved?”

The silence stretched out for awhile. You knew the answer. Rising to your feet, you gave a nod to Eskel and gestured towards your room. “Good night, Eskel. I will sleep better knowing someone else is here until Geralt arrives.”

But your sleep was restless; images of all the times Geralt has gotten injured over the years playing over in your mind. The incident in the town where the men tried to take your unborn child from inside you. All the other threats people have made since then. Geralt always protected you, and took care of you-- but what happens if just once, he wasn’t there? 

The next morning, snow was finally beginning to fall outside. You hoped Geralt would be back soon-- if only to keep repeating the things you often forgot when you began to panic. 

Eskel was making things entertaining, at least-- he’d shown you how to shoot a bow and arrow (which Geralt refused to do, even when you weren’t with child), and let you hang out with his horse. He did the cooking, now, something you were eternally grateful for.

One particularly cold night, you were both curled up in front of the fire under fur blankets, listening to the crackle of the wood and the wind outside the keep. 

“Could I...” Eskel asked, his eyes lingering on your belly as you laid on your side with the blankets draped around your shoulders. You nodded, sitting up and shuffling closer to him, before taking his hand and resting it on the side of your stomach.

Like clockwork, the baby kicked in that exact spot. You laughed at the look of amazement on Eskel’s face-- you assumed he’d probably never felt a baby kick inside its mother before, perhaps not even been this close to a pregnant woman. Witchers tended to frighten off most people, and it was unlikely Kaer Morhen had ever witnessed one. 

“He likes you already,” you grinned, keeping your hand on top of Eskel’s as he continued to gaze open-mouthed as the baby moved a bit more underneath his palm. 

He smiled, those yellow eyes moving up to meet yours. “Damn straight, he likes me. I’m his favourite uncle.”

This close, you could make out small details in his marred flesh that you couldn’t from farther away; a smaller, almost imperceptible scar that branched off from the largest one, a sunburst of scarring under his eye that was almost geometrical. Your free hand moved up before you could overthink it, the same question on your lips as he had uttered a moment ago.

“Could I...?”

Eskel nodded slowly, and you carefully traced a finger from the scar that cut through his lips, across his cheek, and into his hairline. The others that crossed it were just as deep, and you felt the way he flinched slightly every time you touched a new one.

You ended on the one below his eye, your thumb brushing against the raised edges before your palm just rested on the side of his face, feeling it all. You must have looked a sight to anyone looking in-- a Witcher with a hand on the pregnant belly of a woman tracing the scars on his face. 

You both pulled away at the same time-- not hurriedly, but softly, like breaking a slow spell. You gave him a smile, the fire casting flickering shadow over his face that did little to mask the blush on his cheeks. 

“You think it’s a boy?” Eskel asked quietly, and you nodded, remembering Ciri’s curiosity at the beginning of the pregnancy.

“Yes, I do. He’s strong, like his father.”

Eskel grinned, shrugging. “Eskel Jr., it is. Hopefully he doesn’t have too much of his father’s face, yikes.”

You shoved at Eskel’s shoulder teasingly, rolling your eyes. “That will go over well with Gera-- ow.”

A sharp pain suddenly shot through your abdomen, radiating through your back. Your hand flew down to your stomach, waving your hand in Eskel’s direction as he went to help you stand up. “No, no, it’s fine, I just--”

The pain got worse, somehow, and you let out a piercing cry, now accepting Eskel’s hand as he offering it. Only, you just squeezed it hard enough to break a normal man’s bones until the wave of pain passed.

“Shit, no, it’s too early,” you bit out, holding back a whimper as the pain continue to hit you every few minutes. Tears came to your eyes as you realized Geralt wasn’t here, and he thought he had another month...

“Are you...? Oh, fuck,” Eskel’s eyes widened as he realized this was more than just your usual aches and pains. He frantically glanced around the room. “Okay, uh-- this is the first time I’ve been within five feet of a pregnant woman, okay? Is there something I should be..?”

You closed your eyes, keeping a tight grip on Eskel’s hand as you tried to remember all the things Geralt told you. I love you. You can do this. You are strong enough to bring this baby into the world, you were built for this.

You swallowed, shakily raising to your feet and leaning heavily on Eskel. “Just... just get a bath ready for me, please.” You’d learned as much from a local midwife in one of the towns you were passing through about water births as you could, and although you wanted Geralt to be here, holding your hand-- you didn’t actually need him. He would most likely be panicking even more than Eskel was right now.

“Okay, yes, I can do that, you just-- you just gotta let go of my hand, love.” he winced as you finally released your grip with a mumbled sorry, taking a seat on the nearest chair.

This was it. This was happening.

Eskel was by your side the entire time. It was like instincts took over-- you knew when to breathe and when to push, and the baby seemed to want to come out. You didn’t even want to begin to think about all the possible complications that could have happened; somehow, three hours later, you were laying in bed with an impossible small baby boy bundled in your arms, in a blanket Eskel had found for you.

The storm continued to rage on outside for the entire night, but you hardly paid it any mind, too focused on the tiny baby fussing slightly in your hold. You adjusted the blanket around him, cooing quietly as he opened his eyes and gave you another glance of those beautiful, golden eyes. Eskel had laughed when he first saw them, and you had cried in joy. 

But he had your hair, ten fingers and ten toes. Eskel commented that his heartbeat was a little bit slower than normal, but not as slow as other Witchers. 

You’d never felt so much love in your entire life.

A quiet knock on the door broke you from your trance, but your eyes couldn’t seem to pull away from the sleeping baby on your arms. 

“My love.”

Your eyes snapped towards the door, expecting Eskel and hearing the voice you had been missing since he’d left you here. Geralt was standing in the doorway, eyes locked on the bundle in your arms as he made his way into the room. He collapsed onto his knees beside the bed, breathing out, “Look what you did.”

You let out a choked-off laugh, the hand not cradling your baby coming up to run your fingers through Geralt’s hair. “What we did.”

Geralt hesitantly reached out and brushed his finger over the chubby cheek of his son, letting out a breath. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. Fuck, I felt something last night, I tried to get here as soon as I could--”

“Shh,” you cut him off, shifting the baby in your arms as you sat up slightly. “Come here, hold your son. He’s healthy, I’m okay.”

Nodding, Geralt slowly got to his feet and got into bed with you, an arm behind your shoulders as he pulled you both into his arms. You settled in with your head on his chest, both of you looking down at your baby. 

“Eskel did well, you know. I hope childbirth didn’t scare him away from me forever, I’d like to thank him for everything he did.”

Geralt chuckled, his free hand moving down to hold the baby closer to your own chest. “I’m grateful you had someone, even if it was that asshole. I’m sure he’ll only ask for naming rights in return.”

“He already has.” You both laughed, the sounds jostling the baby enough to wake him slightly. He shifted, letting out a quiet yawn as his eyes blinked open to stare up at his parents for interrupting his sleep.

You felt more than heard Geralt’s gasp as he caught sight of his son’s eyes for the first time. The baby settled easily enough, and you tilted your head up to catch Geralt’s eyes, those yellow-hued irises mirrored so perfectly.

“Are you upset that he has them?” you asked quietly, wondering what he thought. You loved them-- you know you’ll always look at your child and see his father, those eyes that became your favourite color the moment you met Geralt.

But they had a different meaning to Geralt. The result of a mutation, a screaming sign that your son would always be different. Like Eskel’s scars, those eyes were proof of the Witcher in him. 

“No, not upset,” Geralt eventually answered, his hand moving to your jaw and cupping your face. “It just-- that’s my son. No mistaking that.”

You smiled, leaning up and kissing him for the first time in months. He tasted the same, the kiss sweet and languid like a welcome home. 

Geralt pulled away and rested his forehead on yours with a sigh. When he looked back down at the tiny, tiny baby in your arms, he had a look of contemplation on his face. “Time will tell what else he has inherited. Perhaps he will be stronger than others, be able to survive the cold easily, survive on less food and water--”

“Geralt, you make it sound like we’re leaving him in a basket in the middle of the woods,” you chastised with a frown, his fears beginning to bleed into your bliss. This was supposed to be a happy moment-- why was he trying to ruin it?

“Is Ciri around? I want her to meet her brother. And tell Eskel to come as well, I have a lot to thank him for.” You let your son grab onto one of your fingers in his sleep, his tiny hand barely able to grasp around it completely. It was a dismissal, and Geralt rose with a sigh. As happy as you were to finally see him, you weren’t going to let his mood ruin the first hours of your son’s life.

The next few days went well. Geralt said little but did whatever you asked; rubbing your sore feet, waking in the night to change the baby, holding you tightly as you dozed off in front of the fire with your son in your arms. The other Witchers came rolling in, all their moods lightened by the presence of the baby. Eskel rarely left your side, and you think he truly was worried he would lose his ‘favourite uncle’ position if the others got more time with the baby.

You named him Torval, after the lake where you met the mage that made his conception possible. As the days turned to weeks, you found yourself wondering what would happen after the winter was over, and it became time to go back on the Path-- would Geralt and Ciri want you and the baby dragging them down, trailing after them, possibly putting them in danger?

Tonight, Geralt was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, Tor sleeping against his chest. He’d been told by Lambert that apparently skin-to-skin contact between babies and their parents encouraged bonding. You finished brushing through your hair, glancing over at the man you loved and the child you made together.

The baby looked so small against the broad span of Geralt’s chest; the hand he had rested on his back engulfed him completely. He was so fragile, even at almost two months old. There was no place for that small, innocent baby in that world, even if he did have some other mutations in his genes--

“My love, why are you crying?” Geralt asked, brows furrowed as he stared over at you. 

You startled, hastily swiping at the tears running down your cheeks; you hadn't even realized. “Nothing, just-- he’s just growing so fast. Feels like yesterday he was still inside me.”

Geralt saw right through it. He stood carefully, placing Tor down in the bassinet Coen had crafted not long after he arrived, and bundling him up again before he came over to you.

Taking your hand, he pulled you to the bed again as you took the baby’s spot against his chest, Geralt’s hand coming up to play with your hair as he held you close.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart.”

“What are we doing?” you whispered, trying to hold back tears now. “In a few months, we won’t have a roomful of Witchers to watch him. It’ll just be you, and you’ll be fighting monsters, and watching Ciri, and me, and the baby, and yourself...”

Geralt sighed, tangling his legs with yours. His heart beat slowly beneath your ear. “We could always bring Eskel along to babysit.”

You smacked at Geralt’s pec, earning you a dry chuckle. “I’m serious, Geralt. We didn’t fucking think this through. And now I just brought one more weakness into your life, and if anything ever happens to him, or Ciri, or you, because of it--”

“Enough.” Geralt’s voice took you by surprise, and the gentle caressing of your hair turned into a sharp tug. He jerked your face up to meet his eyes, and you let out a slight whimper-- not of fear, but of need. You loved when Geralt got assertive like this.  “I am going to protect you and the baby with my life. I have trained Ciri well, and she can do the same. And I love you so fucking much, for giving me my family. I will never regret that.”

Your mouth fell open wantonly, and you felt the warmth between your thighs for the first time since you gave birth. Geralt’s eyes had turned almost completely black as he bared his teeth, growling, “Do you trust me?”

You nodded weakly. Geralt was more gentle than usual that night; but he kissed every single one of your stretch marks, worshipped all the changes pregnancy had on your body, never for a second made you feel like he wanted you any less now. You managed to keep quiet the entire time, silent cries of ecstasy for the sake of the sleeping baby and the rest of the occupants of the keep. But Geralt made you come four times before you practically passed out in exhaustion.

The next morning, you came down with Geralt, with your baby in your arms, looking up at him with a warm smile as he gave you a kiss before going off to find Vesemir. You kissed the top of Ciri’s head before passing your son off to Eskel, tucking into your breakfast and feeling eternally gratefully that you had the most perfect family you could ever have dreamed of. 

[kueble]

Covered in My Marks

Written as part of the Witcher Writers Unite for Ukraine fundraiser.

Explicit. Warnings: biting (mild blood mention). 2,300 words.

Geraskier

---

The tavern isn't overly crowded, but there are enough people paying attention to him that Jaskier puts on a brilliant show. He steers clear of newer songs and sticks with the classics and a few well-known dirty ones. It's only been a month or so since this - whatever this crazy thing might be - with Geralt started, and he doesn't want to ruin it before it starts. They're alone for the first time since leaving Kaer Morhen, having dropped Yennefer and Ciri with Triss. It feels like coming home, just the two of them and Roach (though a slightly different version) on the road again. As Jaskier wraps up his set, he catches Geralt's eyes from the table in the back and sends him a wink before saying his goodbyes to the crowd.

And this, this is completely different. He's still not used to Geralt smiling back when he grins from across the room, even going so far as to tip his mug in salutation. He can feel his cheeks heating up, and suddenly it's like he's a young lad back at Oxenfurt, tripping over himself while he flirts with his fellow students. There's something about getting everything he's ever wanted that keeps him on his toes, always waiting for Geralt to change his mind. Maybe someday he'll believe the soft words shared between the sheets, but he's not letting his guard down yet. No, Geralt has hurt him plenty already, and he's doing his best to stay practical with this. Jaskier knows he's a fantastic lover, can play his partner's desire as easily as a lute, but he's not used to being kept around. He can't get his hopes up just to have his whole world come crashing down again.

So he doesn't do what past Jaskier would have done - rush right over to his witcher - but makes sure to stop by the bar and talk to the villagers. He's becoming more of a known entity, and he loves meeting people who have heard his songs before. He slings his lute case over his shoulder and sidles up at the bar, right next to a man who immediately shoves a mug of ale into his hands.

"An absolute pleasure! Such a rare thing to see a seasoned bard out this far. Thank you for such a lovely night!" the man says, clapping a hand on Jaskier's shoulder and squeezing it tightly. He's perhaps a bit too close, but sometimes fans get excited. Jaskier nods in thanks and takes a long pull of his drink, letting the hoppy ale soothe his tired throat.

"Always love to hear from a fan," Jaskier beams at him, and the man looks flustered. He starts chattering about Jaskier's history, and it's quite clear he knows a lot about him. It's a sign of how far he's come in the world, how well his hard work and talent has served him, and Jaskier grins widely at the man. He's still getting used to being recognized like this, and it turns out the man owns a book of his poetry. Jaskier can feel himself flushing at the title, one of his filthier anthologies, and suddenly he realizes just how close the stranger is to him.

"I'd be open to a private reading, if you know what I mean," he says with a leer, and Jaskier feels the ale rising up in the back of his throat. He hides his grimace behind the mug and takes a slight step backwards.

"Perhaps the next time we come through, but I'm afraid I've got to return to my companion lest he think I've wandered off again," Jaskier tells him, laughing nervously as the man steps even closer to him, refusing to let him slide away. The room is suddenly hot, and sweat starts beading at the back of his neck. He sucks in a deep breath, and the man seems to mistake it for interest, leaning closer with a smirk.

"I've heard tales of more than just your music," he says gruffly, winking as he reaches out and wraps a heavy hand around Jaskier's upper arm. He flinches, but the man holds him tightly, fingers squeezing even as he tries to pull back. "Why don't we head upstairs and you can show me just how talented that mouth is."

"Terribly sorry, but you've heard wrong," Jaskier manages to grunt out. He's not a weak man, but this stranger is as strong as a witcher, and he is just not letting go. Jaskier tugs at his arm, spilling beer onto the floor, and still goes nowhere. A chill of fear runs down his spine, and he turns to look for Geralt, hoping he's noticed the altercation.

Thankfully, Geralt is already on his way over, his boots thumping as he stomps towards them. He spreads out, like a bird opening its wings, and uses his full size to overshadow the man. He doesn't bother talking first, just shoves at the center of the man's chest, slamming him against the bar and breaking his hold on Jaskier's arm. "He said no," Geralt growls, and the man starts nodding, holding out his hands in defense. As much as Jaskier would love to see Geralt give the man the beating he so rightfully deserves, he deserves a bed tonight, and they can't get kicked out now.

"It's fine," Jaskier says, tugging Geralt's elbow to get his attention. "No need to cause a scene. Let's just head up to the room."

"Apologize."

"I'm sorry! Won't happen again!" the man rushes out, and Jaskier nods sharply.

"See that it doesn't," Geralt says, his voice deep enough that Jaskier can feel it in his gut. He's even more eager to get back to their room now and practically drags Geralt away by the collar. He can feel the tension coming off Geralt in waves, and hopes there's a way to focus all that energy into something a bit more fun. By the time they slam the door behind them, he's buzzing with excitement himself.

"Well that was certainly something, wasn't it?" he asks before peeling out of his doublet. He's about to take his chemise off when Geralt crowds him up against the table, tilting his head as he looks down at his arm.

"He hurt you," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier can feel the anger in his voice.

"Yes, I fear it will bruise, but I've had worse," he tries to shrug it off, but Geralt won't let him.

"Let me see," he orders, and Jaskier tugs his chemise over his head, wincing when Geralt takes hold of him and inspects his bicep. He looks down and can already see a bruise forming. Several, actually, in the shape of fingers around his arm. He swallows thickly, looking away before his arm starts to sting more than it already does.

"I'm going back down there," Geralt grumbles, but Jaskier reaches out and pulls him close, stopping him from moving.

"Darling, stop. I promise you that it's not worth it," he says gently.

"He hurt you," Geralt says again, his voice cracking as he slumps against Jaskier's chest. He presses his face against Jaskier's throat, breathing deeply while Jaskier holds him. "I don't like seeing you marked up like this. Not from someone like that."

"Well, maybe you should cover them with your marks, then," Jaskier challenges, and Geralt hides a gasp against his skin. Jaskier smirks, knowing he finally found the way to turn the tide, and Geralt takes a shaky breath before pulling back to look at him.

"Do you want that? To be covered in my marks?" he asks slowly, and Jaskier shivers under the intensity of his gaze.

"More than anything," he whispers. "Claim me, Geralt. I'm yours for the taking."

"Mine," Geralt grunts before surging forward and crushing their mouths together.

At first it's too rough, too unaligned, and Jaskier can feel just how desperate Geralt is even though they haven't started yet. He cups Geralt's face, nipping at his lower lip before kissing him again. This time they fit together like a lock and key, mouths sliding against each other as Geralt licks the seam of Jaskier's lips. He opens for him, moaning as Geralt deepens the kiss and starts pushing him towards the bed. By the time they reach it, his laces are halfway undone and Geralt is rutting against his thigh, whining deep in his chest. Jaskier cries out as he's tossed on the bed, giggling as he tries to shove his trousers off and they get caught on his boots.

"You're a mess," Geralt chuckles, before dropping to his knees and tugging at Jaskier's boots. He's about to defend his honor, but then Geralt turns and nips at his inner thigh, and Jaskier loses the ability to form words. He slams back against the bed, hips bucking as Geralt sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin. He hardly registers his boots coming off, but suddenly he's fully naked and Geralt is standing up and grinning smugly down at him.

He doesn't even bother getting undressed, just climbs onto the bed and picks up Jaskier, manhandling him up to the head of it. A surge of heat rushes through him, and he feels almost small as Geralt moves him exactly where he wants him. He straddles Jaskier, grinding down against his leaking cock, his leather armor streaked and wet by the time he sits back on his heels. Jaskier reaches for him, but Geralt shakes his head and brings his hands up above his head before grunting out a rough, "Keep them here."

"Yeah, yes...anything," Jaskier mumbles, head going fuzzy as Geralt takes control. This isn't what he'd imagined would happen after the altercation downstairs, but he's definitely on board. He tries to buck his hips, but Geralt just growls, stopping him mid movement. "Got it, I can play nice," he drawls out, and Geralt just leers down at him. He can feel his gaze down to his bones, and his prick twitches against his thigh.

"Mine," Geralt repeats, and Jaskier nods frantically, hoping he might finally get Geralt's hands on him. He's only slightly disappointed when instead Geralt leans down and mouths at the bruises forming around his bicep. "Only mine," he adds before raking his teeth over the marks.

Jaskier shivers in anticipation, already trembling though he's barely been touched. Fuck, he wished Geralt owned him, only wanted him. Maybe he's not lying? Maybe this is all more real than Jaskier ever thought it would be? Those thoughts are shoved out of his head the second Geralt bites him, his fangs almost breaking skin. He keens, leaning into the touch but somehow managing to keep his hands above his head. Geralt reaches out and palms his cheek, petting him as he moves from one bruise to the next, covering the stranger's marks with his own.

His cock is so hard it's throbbing, leaking steadily and making a mess of him. Jaskier whines, clasping his hands together to keep from reaching out and touching Geralt. His bicep is on fire, the heady mix of pleasure and pain burning in just the right way. Geralt shifts, straddling one thigh, and starts rocking gently against him. He can feel the hard press of his prick through the leather, and Jaskier knows they're both close.

"Geralt, please...fuck," Jaskier manages to choke out, his words failing as his body buzzes. "Need, please. Fuck, let me come."

Geralt is merciful, reaching down to wrap his calloused fingers around Jaskier's cock. He pumps him slowly, mouthing at the fresh bite marks on his arm while he does. Jaskier is close - so fucking close - and Geralt works him just how he likes it. He falls apart when Geralt kisses the deepest bite and thumbs the wet head of his cock. Body arching, he shouts Geralt's name as he spills over his hand. Geralt works him through it, murmuring praise against his skin while he jerks him roughly, perfectly.

By the time he can think again, Geralt is already standing up to find a rag to wipe him down with. He sits up and tilts his head at him before asking, "What about you?"

"Not necessary," Geralt mumbles, cheeks reddening as he sends Jaskier a sheepish look. And fuck if that isn't just the hottest thing that's ever happened to him. Geralt came in his trousers like a young lad just from jerking him off. Melitele's tits, he's in love.

"Grab the slick on your way back to bed," Jaskier tells him, and Geralt looks confused, but he rifles through his bag to find it. He's probably thrown because, yeah, they've gotten off a lot, but never twice in one night. It's been hard finding time while traveling with others, and sneaking away for blowjobs by the riverbank doesn't lend itself to more than one round. Geralt slides into bed, and looks like he's about to speak, so Jaskier cuts him off. "I just figured it might be a good time to admit that I'm madly in love with you," he whispers, heart hammering in his chest.

"Me too," Geralt says quickly, and then they're kissing again. It's softer this time, for all that Jaskier is still covered in his own spend. He takes his time, laying back and dragging Geralt down on top of him. They spend ages trading lazy kisses, hands trailing over sweat-slicked skin. Soon he'll beg Geralt to open him up and fuck him, braced against the headboard while Geralt claims him yet again. After all, he has a lot of blank canvas that needs to be marked up.

---

NSFW tags: @tothedesert @mayastormborn @feraljaskier @allinthebones @selectivegeekwithstandards @trickstermoose67 @dapandapod @theweirdlynx @tedrakitty @sharinalein @iamaqt314 @silvermintnightprincess @honeysuckletook @rockysstupidity @live-long-and-trek-on @larawrmonster @thesynysterunknown @rebard-main @gryffinqueen-blog @fangirleaconmigo @mothmanismyuncle @fontegagrilledcheese @thestarkwinter @lokibus @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @221birl1823 @strippiluolamies @concussed-dragon @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @clarebear66 @feral-jaskier @hayleynzlive @answrs @jaskierswolf @holymotherwolf @thisislisa

If you’d like to be added/removed, please let me know.  Thank you!

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

I have no idea what this is!! 1k words of post-everything Yen & Jask under the cut.

Warnings for mentions of past self-harm.

She finds him perched on the ruins of the high stone bridge beyond the walls of Kaer Morhen. His legs dangle from the collapsed brickwork, his hair and the tails of his coat fluttering in the breeze.

He looks like he could just— slide away, and be lost to the wind. Like if he slipped, he’d catch the air and fly, not fall—

But he would fall, if he was to slip. Purple and red and gold tangled and broken against the snow.

She sits beside him, letting her feet hang beside his.

“Witch,” he says, softly.

“Bard.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“So,” Jaskier says finally, his breath fogging the air, “Did you and Geralt work it all ou—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He snaps his mouth shut. “Right.”

The wind whistles around them, through the broken battlements. Inside the keep, Yennefer can hear the sound of the remaining witchers sorting through the debris of their keep; removing the dead.

“How are—” Jaskier starts. He gestures at her wrists. “Are they—”

Yen pulls her sleeves up. The evidence of her desperate act to save Ciri has now vanished, but the scars from her youth in Aretuza remain.

“Gone,” she says, simply.

“But—” He glances at the marks, frowning.

“Old,” she says, cutting off as she rolls her sleeves back down. “Very old.”

“Oh.” He looks away. “Sorry. I didn’t realise.”

Yen shakes her head with a wry smile. “Like I said, they’re old. I don’t need your pity for something that happened before you were born.”

Jaskier hesitates. He looks away, out at the swirling snow.

“Not pity,” he says, eventually. “I understand.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but his uncharacteristic silence speaks for itself. She nods, just once, and joins him in peering out at the blighted landscape ahead of them.

“So where—”

“Yen—”

They speak over each other, their voices cutting through the wind. He stops, and looks at her, encouraging her to continue. After a beat, she does.

“Where will you be heading now?” She says. “Or will you stay?”

Jaskier gives her that same grin he does so often. It twists his face; it does not reach his eyes.

“I’d actually been wondering…”

Yen purses her lips. Is he going to ask to stay? Part of her wants him to, so she can say no.

Part of her wants him to, so she can say yes.

“Now you’ve got your chaos back,” he says, carefully, “you can create portals again. Right?”

“I can.”

“Can you… get me out of here?”

Oh. Yen’s hands press against the snow-covered stone, the thick flakes bunching between her fingers.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere.”

“You’ll need to be a little more precise than that, unless you want me to dump you in a lake.”

Jaskier shrugs, as if to say a lake would be preferable to here.

“I could send you to Cintra,” she says. “Or Oxenfurt. Or—” she pauses. “Or home. Lettenhove?”

Now he truly does look at her. “You know.”

“I did a little digging. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Hah.” He laughs, but it's hollow. “No. Not there. Just…” he sighs. His hair falls into his eyes, and he makes no attempts to move it. “I don’t belong here, Yen. I’ve no chaos. I’ve no powers, or skills. I’ve not even got a fucking—” his voice cracks, for the first time since arriving in Kaer Morhen. “I’ve not even got a fucking lute.”

Yen remembers what he’d said to her, when they’d assumed they’d never see each other again. About his muse, and his one skill—and what would happen if he lost it.

“You can buy a new lute, Jaskier.”

He shakes his head. “I can. But I’m not sure I will.”

“So… where will you go? Novigrad? Just be—” she can’t quite bring herself to say it with a straight face. “Normal?”

When he looks at her again, he wears a matching expression of amusement. “I’m not sure I know how.”

“No,” she agrees. “I can’t quite picture it, somehow.”

Snow swirls around them. A storm, it seems, is heading down from the mountain top. After a few minutes, Jaskier rises to his feet. He reaches his hand out towards her. Yen takes it, and allows him to pull her up beside him.

“I’m not made for this,” he says, looking not at her, but past her, at the space above her shoulder. “None of this. Can't you just— send me away? Somewhere else?"

Yen watches him. She knows there are other worlds out there. Other places. She’s seen the worst of them now; she has no desire to see another.

“It doesn’t work like that,” she says.

“No?” Jaskier chuckles, sadly. “Shame. Well I’ll just… I’ll just slide down this mountain, too.”

He turns to leave, boots crunching in the fresh snow.

“Jaskier—”

Yen speaks before she realises what she’s doing. Jaskier pauses. He turns, and snow clings to his hair.

“You surely don’t intend to leave me alone in this den of arseholes and unwashed bastards?”

An eyebrow raises. Something like a smile flicks briefly across his face.

“Those are strong complaints coming from a woman who was living in a sewer before she found me.”

“Hiding in a sewer.” Yen steps forwards till they’re boot-to-boot. “I’m not sure Lambert has bathed since last winter.”

Jaskier’s expression cracks. “You could scrape the grime off with a fingernail.”

“You’d be lucky if it was just grime.”

Jaskier grins. “You know you don’t have to stay,” he says.

She thinks of Ciri. “You know I do.”

He straightens his lapels. He sets his shoulders.

“Well,” he says, as if concluding a drawn-out argument. “I suppose— these are new boots. The grip is shocking.”

“Is that so?”

“And frankly I’ve no desire to get eaten by some ravenous creature while half-buried in a snowdrift.”

“Sounds fair.”

“So… I suppose I can stay.” He looks up at the turbulent sky. “Until I decide where to go. And then you—” he taps at her shoulder “—Can whisk up one of your portals and get me the fuck out of here.”

“Sure,” she says. “Or I can portal you into a lake. The offer still stands.”

Jaskier glances over his shoulder. The gates of the keep are opening; Geralt stands between the wooden doors. He looks at them before quickly turning away.

Jaskier turns back, lips tight.

“I’ll think about it”

[queenxxxsupreme]

What's Lost Cannot Be Found, But Can Be Forged (Netflix!Eskel)

A/N: This is sort of that 2 version of that ask about Eskel seeing reader vulnerable :) and I totally might be making Triss and Yenn and reader way too sistery but I love Yenn and show!Triss way too much and that scene in s2 where the sorceress are bonding by the hot spring thing just after Yenn gets back ugh idc fight me

Warnings: nothing outside of canon, blood, mentions of death, injuries, angsty

Word Count: 4.0k

Summary: The witcher sees a side of you that he's never seen, and he isn't sure how to react.

Note: If you haven't already, I would strongly recommend reading the previous parts to the Witcher and the Witch universe. In order, they are To Any Semblance of Touch | Down A Chilling Hall, A Fire Grows (contains smut) | To Survive is To Suffer | To Follow the Heat of the Flame | Sober Thoughts Spoken by Intoxicated Lips

Triss murmured something under her breath to Yennefer, nodding in the direction of the two doors you had just walked through.

The sorceresses sat in the library with Vesemir, Eskel, and Geralt, assisting the witchers in updating a few books. Well, Triss was helping. Yennefer provided her company. She didn’t like the busy work of going through old texts and correcting what was previously believed to be true.

Yennefer’s eyes flickered up to find you, a grin pulling at her red stained lips.

You were in a black dress with dark green accents that fit your form in the most flattering way. A gray fur cloak rested around your shoulders. Your hair was fixed and done nicely, much nicer in fact than you usually ever did when just lingering around Kaer Morhen.

“Have you got somewhere important to be. Y/N?”

You met her violet gaze, smiling just a little. She knew very well what today was, she was only teasing you.

Geralt and Vesemir only briefly looked at you, both greeting you as they returned to the book they were focused on. Eskel, however, lost his will to help his brother and mentor.

“Well don’t you just look like a treat.” He sat back in his seat, eyeing your entire outfit but your bust in particular captured his attention.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, witcher.” You told him. You looked back to Triss and Yennefer. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

“More like we’ll see you at sunrise.” Triss giggled, looking over to Yennefer.

“Where are you going, Y/N?” Vesemir asked you.

“Um, I am going out for a bit. I’d rather not share my location, no offense to any of you.” You brushed your hands over your skirt absentmindedly.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He raised a brow.

“I’ll be fine.” You nodded your head.

“Who have you given your location to this year?” Triss asked.

“If anything happens to me and I haven’t made contact with that person by the time I’ve told them I would, they know what to do.” You assured her with a little shake of your head.

You trusted your fellow mages, and you trusted the witchers to an extent. But you weren’t willing to openly tell everyone where it was you were traveling to.

Your eyes briefly met Eskel’s before a portal opened behind you.

“Which of you did she tell?” Geralt looked between Triss and Yennefer.

“She didn’t speak a word to me about it.” Triss held her hands up.

Yennefer leaned back in her seat, violet eyes settling on the dark haired witcher that sat at the end of the table.

“Where is she going, Eskel?”

He furrowed his brow.

“Why the hell do you think she told me anything?”

“Because you two share a bond or sorts.”

“A bond.” He repeated, almost scoffing at the word. Eskel didn’t like to be put on the spot in front of everyone. “Sure, Yennefer. If that’s what you’d like to call a good fuck now and again, then we do share a bond.”

“Watch how you speak of her.” Triss cautioned him. Eskel glared at her for a moment.

“You two seem to know more about where she’s going than I do. Giggling like little school girls.”

Yennefer sighed through her nose as she conjured up a glass of juice. She didn’t want to carry on the conversation with Eskel. He was rather insufferable.

Triss shook her head and went back to her book.

After a little while, Vesemir left to refill the jug of ale for the witchers.

“Do you know where she went, Geralt?” Eskel asked his brother.

“Once a year, Y/N meets up with a mage.”

“Geralt!” Triss looked across the table at the White Wolf.

“If she wanted Eskel to know, she would have told him.” Yennefer snapped.

“It does no harm to let him know who she is going to see. It isn’t like I’m revealing the name of the mage. She’s never told me who it was anyways.”

“Because of this exact reason!”

“Yennefer, come on.”

Eskel rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He chose to ignore the sorceresses and continued asking Geralt questions.

“Do you know anything about the mage?”

“Only that he’s from Rinde.”

“Fuck, Geralt. You’re useless.”

“If you’ve got nothing with Y/N but ‘a good fuck,’ why do you care so much about who she’s seeing?” Yennefer tilted her head to the side a little.

“Because she’s only got the biggest fucking bounty on her head in all the Continent. And she’s untraceable– which I think is complete bullshit. Someone should be able to track her.”

“One could try to, but she has a talisman that causes magic to go haywire if anyone tries to do so.” Triss explained. “So, if I were to try to track her right now, the spell could backfire and leave me with burned eyes or turning myself into some sort of beast. The results could even be lethal.”

“But why would she risk her life to go see someone when she knows it could lead to imprisonment?” Eskel tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “She’s smarter than that.”

“The mage is her former partner.” Triss spoke quietly.

Yennefer sighed heavily, shaking her head.

“He deserves to know, Yenn.”

“She can tell him when she wants to tell him.”

Triss waved off Yennefer’s irritation, though she understood why the sorceress was unhappy with her.

“Partner?” Eskel repeated. “Like…. Like a business associate?”

“No, you idiot.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “A lover.”

Eskel fell silent. Just like that, the witcher didn’t want to know any more about where you had gone.

He left the library without saying a word to anyone, his heavy footsteps echoing off of the stone walls and high ceilings.

“Perhaps you could try to be a bit more sensitive, Yenn.” Triss stood up.

“Just as he is?”

Triss left the library and hurried to catch up with Eskel.

“Eskel! Wait a moment!”

“What do you want, Marigold?”

“To talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Well, I do.” She glanced over to him out of the corner of her eyes. “Have either of you admitted your feelings for one another? And don’t you try to tell me there are no feelings there because I can feel them when you both are in the same room.”

Eskel hesitated to answer. He didn’t want to admit anything out loud, fearing that whatever relationship had been brewing would crumble.

“Why do they meet once a year?”

“Just to reconnect, to see what the other has been up to since they last saw each other."

“Why aren’t they together anymore?”

“Their duties got between them. Y/N busied herself with the Cravarian court, and Maksim was holding a position in Redania at the time. Now I believe he’s a scholar and teaches at Ban Ard.”

“Did she love him, Triss?"

“She did, yes.” The sorceress smiled, nodding her head.

“And they still didn’t work out?”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough. I think it would be best to talk to her about what troubles you when she returns, Eskel.”

“If she returns.” He muttered, storming away from the mage.

***

Later That Evening

In the Great Hall, Coen, Eskel, and Lambert played a card game while Triss and Vesemir chatted further down the table from them. Sitting at their own table were Geralt and Yennefer.

It had been a long day and everyone was just about ready to turn in when there was a sudden rumble outside that sounded similar to thunder.

Geralt lifted his gaze, turning his head to look towards the doors.

“What the fuck was that?” Lambert asked.

Just as everyone was beginning to stand up, a portal opened, and you stepped through. You didn't even make it two steps before you collapsed to your knees.

“Y/N!” Triss gasped.

Your dress showed signs of having sustained injuries. The material was slashed and torn in multiple places. One of your sleeves was ripped and torn. Your hair was no longer nice and neat, but messy and falling out of the style you’d put it into that morning. A cut above your eyebrow was bleeding enough to leave a blood trail down the side of your face and your nose was bleeding too, though that was from the overuse of your chaos.

Before anyone else could get to you, Eskel was by your side. You had already forced yourself to your feet, brushing your hair back as best as you could.

“What the hell happened to you?” He held your arm and your waist to make sure you were steady on your feet.

Your eyes were red and full of tears as you looked at him. But you didn’t really look at him. It was like you were looking through him. Your eyes were empty, emotionless.

“Her hands.” Triss murmured. "Oh gods."

Yennefer took your hand and flipped it over to examine your palm. Your skin was scorched and blistered.

“Bring her to a seat. Don’t make her stand.” Vesemir told them.

“Come sit, Y/N.” Triss encouraged, placing her hand on the small of your back.

You had been unaware of what was going on for the last few minutes, unable to process things fast enough. That was, until Triss tried to guide you towards one of the tables.

Then everything began to hit you like a stone wall.

“No!” You ripped your arm out of Triss’s grip and pushed yourself away from her and Eskel. You were too crowded in the center of them. You were trapped.

Silence fell around the room. Your eyes flickered from person to person, realizing everyone was watching you carefully.

“Y/N, what happened?” Geralt asked calmly.

You turned your head to him. The lump in your throat made it hard to breathe. You couldn't take a breath. You couldn’t even exhale. The weight on your chest wasn’t helping either. It seemed to grow and grow by the minute.

Yennefer read your thoughts first, a solemn expression crossing her face.

“Go on, boys.” She waved the wolves away. “Go back to playing your games. Leave us to tend to our sister.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Coen muttered, swatting a hand at her. Lambert and Coen returned to their game, but Eskel wasn’t as easy to persuade.

“Let’s take you to your room, Y/N.” Yennefer nodded towards the doors.

You watched her start for the door, thankful that she wasn’t putting her hands on you.

“What’s the matter, Yennefer?” Triss furrowed her brow.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh gods, Y/N. I’m so sorry.” Triss brought her hands up to her heart.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head lightly.

***

Eskel paced the length of the Great Hall, his fists clenched tightly by his sides.

“You’re going to walk a trench into the floor, wolf.” Vesemir told him. “She’ll be fine.”

“Y/N’s strong as piss.” Lambert nodded. “Nothin’s likely to take her out.”

Eskel ignored his brother, letting out an irritated grunt.

The doors at the end of the hall opened and in walked Yennefer.

“How is Y/N?” Geralt crossed his arms.

Eskel stopped pacing, choosing instead to turn and face the mage.

“She’s alright. Triss is with her.”

“Did she say what happened?” Coen asked.

“Just that there were two roach-hounds. She didn’t provide details."

"Was all of that blood on her hers?" Lambert raised his brows.

"No, at least not most of it. Most of it belonged to the mage she went to see. Maksym Zoric.”

“Do you think he was going to give Y/N over to the North?” Eskel leaned against the table with his hands.

“I highly doubt it. Maksym is a– was a noble man. Very honest. The hounds were more than likely sent to find him. All you would have to do to know about his affiliation with Y/N is ask the right people or know either of them." Yennefer clasped her hands together and looked around the room for a moment, then her eyes landed on Geralt. “I am going to Beauclair. That’s where she met with Zoric.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not. Y/N was adamant on retrieving his body to bury him and she's in no position to do it herself."

“Well aren’t you just a lovely friend.” Lambert grunted.

With a wave of her hand, Yennefer made the tankard in front of him spill, causing the contents to soak his shirt and trousers.

“I’ll go with you.” Geralt offered, rising to his feet.

***

Eskel was just about to knock on the door to your room when it opened, and Triss appeared.

“Eskel.” She gave him a little smile.

“Marigold.” He looked over her head in an attempt to look into your room. “How is she?”

“She’s…. alright. I don’t know that she’s wanting company right now.”

“I just wanted to make sure….” He trailed off. “Is there anything she needs?”

“Um, I was just about to run to the kitchen and–,”

Triss stopped upon hearing you move around behind her.

“You can open the door, Triss.”

She opened the door, allowing Eskel to have a look at you.

You were dressed in a loose-fitting light gray nightgown. Your hair had been braided back– something Triss had done for you no doubt. The sleeves of the gown fell off of your shoulders, but you didn’t seem to care enough to fix it.

“I can go fetch your tea.” Triss offered, taking a few steps out of the door.

Eskel watched her disappear down the hall before his eyes found you.

You weren’t looking at him anymore. Your eyes focused on the floor in front of him. Your arms were tucked in close to your body, but your hands were kept from touching anything. Your palms were bandaged, leading Eskel to believe that the burns had not been able to be healed by either of the sorceresses.

It almost scared him how quick you were to zone out, how easy it was for you to just slip away from him.

Tears pooled in your eyes, and you sniffled.

“Y/N.” He spoke softly.

You blinked as you looked up, causing the tears to leave your eyes and create warm trails down your cheeks.

“What happened to your hands?” He moved towards you, taking slow and cautious steps. He wasn’t sure how you would react to his closeness. He had never seen you this way before and he wasn’t sure how you’d react if he got any closer.

You watched as the witcher reached out for you, his fingertips gently trailing over the back of your trembling hands as he cupped each of them.

“I-I couldn’t stop them without– without fire.” Your voice was raspy.

“The roach-hounds?”

You nodded your head, your brow furrowing and your face contorting as you began to cry.

“Did they hurt you?”

They had hurt you, and they had done so in the worst way possible. They had taken the first man you loved, the only man you had ever truly loved.

You shook your head softly as an answer. He meant physically, and you knew that. They had managed to cut you in a few different places, but those places were healed by Triss, so it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“I’m sorry…. I’m sorry that you lost him.” Eskel murmured.

You held your breath for a few moments, closing your eyes.

“I can hear it still.” Your hands trembled in his hold. “The– The sound of him choking on his own blood. I-I should’ve been able to save him. But my magic– I had used nearly all of it to stop those beasts. I couldn’t stop the bleeding–,”

“That’s enough.” He stopped you, his voice soft but firm. “Your heart is about to burst out of your chest. You’ve got so much adrenaline in you right now that I’m sure everyone in the hall can smell it. You need to rest.”

You shook your head, opening your eyes and turning your head to look at something other than him. You couldn’t look at him.

“I-I can’t– I can’t close my eyes. Not right now.”

“You have to try, doll.” Eskel took one hand and brushed his fingers over your hair. “Just lay down for a little bit. You need to rest.”

He began to coax you towards the bed, moving his hand down to the small of your back.

Much to his surprise, you didn’t put up a fight. You didn’t feel like you could. You were exhausted. Your entire body hurt in a way that you hadn’t felt in a long time. The pain was bone-deep and nauseating. You wondered if it was from using fire magic, if it had been almost enough to kill you. Or if perhaps this was the feeling of grief settling into your bones.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, almost sighing out in the relief your legs felt.

Eskel turned to get the chair that sat at your vanity, but you thought he was leaving. You grabbed his arm, fingers clasping the sleeve of his shirt rather desperately.

He furrowed his brow, blue eyes finding yours.

“Stay, please.”

“I was just going to get the chair.”

“Lay with me…. Would you lay with me?”

“Of course. You get comfortable first.” He began to kick off his boots as he waited for you to get into bed.

You laid down on the single bed, trying to give him as much room as you possibly could. You would have conjured up a bigger bed any other day, but the very thought of using your magic was enough to make you sick.

Eskel pulled the covers over you to ensure that you stayed as warm as possible, and then he climbed on top of the covers himself. He would more than likely get too hot underneath them himself, so he wanted to make sure you would be comfortable should you fall asleep.

After a bit of moving around and adjusting, the witcher settled on his back and you made yourself as comfortable as possible tucked into his side. He held you close with one arm, allowing you to place your head on his chest.

“Did someone tell you who he was?” Your eyes focused on the wolf medallion.

“Just that he was a mage…. That you were with him.”

“I haven’t been with him for years. We were…. It was complicated. I-I can’t tell you now about it but maybe with time.” You wiped your cheek with one shaky hand.

“It’s in the past, witch.” Eskel spoke softly, focusing his eyes on the ceiling. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.”

You were thankful that he understood.

***

Within a few hours, you had drifted off to sleep.

Eskel remained awake, brushing his fingers along your arm. You had placed that arm across his chest, your hand turned up as to not let your palm accidentally rub anything.

The witcher listened to your heart beating, counting the second between every breath you took.

Your heart started to beat a little faster and you shifted just a bit. Your eyebrows furrowed together, and your lips parted.

“Y/N.” Eskel murmured your name.

Your hand turned over and your fingers clasped a fistful of his shirt with no regard for your injured palm. You cried out softly as if the action hurt, but that didn’t stop you from still holding his shirt.

“Run.” You uttered out through parted lips. Moments later, you sucked in a shaky breath.

Eskel realized then that you were sleeping.

“Doll, wake up.” His hand trailed down to your back where he could then shake you gently.

Tears began to trail down your cheeks.

“Y/N.” He said your name firmly this time, hoping to rouse you from whatever nightmare plagued your sleep.

You jolted, eyes opening suddenly. You released Eskel’s shirt, wincing and hissing at the stinging pain in your palm.

“Fuck.”

“Easy, doll.” Eskel reached out for your hand, wanting to make sure you were alright, but you jerked your hand away.

You wiped your cheeks, confused by the tears that dampened your hand. As you sat up, so did he.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Fuck off, witcher.” You bit, irritated, upset, and frankly overwhelmed with everything. Having just been woken up by Eskel with a terrible pain in your palm, wet cheeks, and a heavy weight on your chest, you didn’t know what to do. You weren’t sure what to make of the situation.

Eskel pressed his lips together in a firm line, watching you as you moved your fingers just a little.

It was painful to move your fingers, to cause any sort of disruption to your burnt palm.

You wiped your cheeks again and let out a small breath.

“I…. I’m sorry.” You apologized.

Eskel said nothing.

You looked over to him, finding his blue eyes.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. I woke you up because I was afraid you were hurting yourself. Your hands aren’t very…. They aren’t good right now.”

“They’re fucking useless.” You muttered, shaking your head.

“With time, they’ll get better.” Eskel said.

You looked around the room for a moment before your eyes settled on the fire. Just looking at the flames made your palms burn.

Quickly, you looked away, bringing your hands closer to your body.

“The roach-hounds killed so many people in Beauclair.” Your voice was quiet. “Innocent people. They-They were trying to get to me, and those people were just in their way…. I tried to reason with it earlier, that their deaths were for something, but in the end Maksym died. Those people died for nothing.”

“Not for nothing. You’re still here.”

You closed your eyes momentarily, shaking your head.

“That means nothing.”

“It means something to some of us here.” Eskel wanted to tell you the truth, that it meant more to him to have you here and alive with him than anything in the world. He’d watch a hundred people die if it meant that you’d live.

You looked down at your hands. The bandages were a nuisance, and you were annoyed with them already.

“I’m tired of the death around me, Eskel. Ever since Branimor…. It seems like death is all I am capable of.”

“Everything that happens is not without cause.” Eskel shifted around on the bed so he could lay back on the pillows. “Destiny is a very real thing, and she can be a cruel beast.”

You looked at him for a few moments, smiling softly.

“I never would’ve thought you’d be the kind to believe in destiny.”

“Destiny gave me this beauty.” He gestured to the scarred right side of his face, a grin pulling at that same gnarled side of his lips. “Do you believe in destiny, witch?”

You were quiet for a few moments.

“I’m not sure, witcher.” You murmured. “With all that she’s put me through, I don’t think I want to believe anymore. I don’t know what she has in store for me.”

“Perhaps your future is brighter than your past.” Eskel raised his brows.

“You’re quite the optimist.”

Now it was his turn to look at you silently. The smile slowly fell from his lips. His tongue came out to wet his bottom lip as his mouth suddenly became dry.

It was a good time for him to tell you just how glad he was that you had returned alive, that you were safe and sound in Kaer Morhen once more. It was perhaps the best time to tell you that nothing made him more optimistic than the idea of getting at least the rest of the winter with you– as long as you didn’t leave the keep again and no one else was lucky in their search for you.

“You should try to rest again. A pretty witch like you still needs her beauty sleep.”

You settled down next to him, opting to let him hold you this time. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping, but this was the most comfortable position, nonetheless.

Taglist will be reblogged because tumblr hates me :)

[witchersgoldenbard]

My sweet darling @mayastormborn asked for some nonverbal Geralt:

Some non-verbal Geralt during winter, and they all allow him to just *be*? No one asks him anything, they just bring him some of his safe-foods and a drink and top it up through the day. Any conversation is through gestures though as little as possible

Well, sweetness, I hope this little thing brings you some comfort and is somewhere near what you had in mind 💕👉👈 (tho it’s not and I will try again)

1.8k words, no warnings except the obvious

No Words Required

When Geralt wakes up with the first light, the weak rays of the winter sun slowly but stubbornly bringing a new day to Kaer Morhen, he knows it is one of those days that will have to remain silent on his part. Usually, he would turn to Jaskier beside him and press a kiss to his brow to wish him a good morning, but the very thought of talking is almost enough to quicken his heartbeat and make his hands shake. No talking, then.

He closes his eyes again and tries to fall back to sleep, maybe he just needs to start this day over. He doesn’t dare to hope, but it might be worth a try.

Despite giving it another chance, his tongue still feels too heavy in his mouth when he opens his eyes again, the world around him still blurry and sharp-edged at the same time. So Geralt has no option but to accept his fate. At least for today. Only for today, he hopes.

“Good morning, my love,” comes Jaskier’s tired voice from beside him, and Geralt thanks the Gods he doesn’t believe in that he can still find happiness in this familiar tone. Grateful that not all his senses are set to overwhelm him today.

He turns to smile at Jaskier, who waits a moment, gives him a chance to say the words he doesn’t have the strength to utter today. Wants to force himself to say, but his heart, his hands, his head, they all deny him. Warn him.

And Jaskier only softens his smile and asks, as quietly as he can, “Silence day?”

Bless him. Bless this man, this wonderful man, for understanding. For knowing him well enough, for seeing, for asking.

Geralt nods, but reaches out to hold Jaskier’s hand with only a slight tremble in his fingers, afraid to find that touch will be denied, too. But the warmth of Jaskier’s skin feels good, the softness under his fingers bringing its usual comfort, and Geralt smiles at the bard’s hands.

“Touch and noise still fine, darling?” Jaskier asks anyway, despite seeing the smile he is wearing. Always asking, always reassuring. Always loving and caring. Always there.

Geralt nods and taps Jaskier’s hand twice, too.

“Would you like me to tell the others?”

Geralt hesitates, quickly calculating if he has enough strength to grunt and hum his way through the day, make enough noise for them to let it pass. But it feels wrong, and he knows they don’t judge. They all have these days, even Jaskier, and it’s always better if everyone knows.

So he nods and is rewarded with a gentle smile.

“Wonderful. And this is going to be the last complex question of the day, I know they’re hard, but technically it’s still yes-or-no? Really, it will depend on your response, uhm—“

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand and regards him with an amused smile. He loves this man so much, how could he not smile even when the world is heavy around him?

“Right, sorry,” Jaskier mumbles and sits up, scratching the back of his head and looking at Geralt. “Is there anything you need? Except to not talk, and possibly the usual, you know. Anything you need, right now?”

The hand still wrapped around Jaskier’s wrist gives Geralt perfect leverage to just pull and have Jaskier land on top of him with an undignified squawk. The bard chuckles as he lies on top of Geralt, their warm chests pressed together like they were made for just this.

Jaskier hums the moment Geralt’s arms wrap around his middle, keeping the warm and comforting weight on top of him. Let the world be heavy, he thinks. I am safe right here.

“I’ve got you, love,” Jaskier promises. “And you’ve got this.”

***

The first time Geralt goes nonverbal around him, it’s a few weeks after Posada. They are returning from a contract, off to find the alderman to receive their well-deserved coin. Jaskier is prattling on about heroics and monsters and witchers, only interrupting his enthusiastic monologues to hum a tune, trying for a melody and always discarding it immediately.

He has grown used to silence beside him, looming and annoyed and stoic. Hums, at most, though they are always more like grunts, noncommittal and monotonous.

But then, suddenly, the hums stop and the Witcher’s ever-focused eyes have lost some of their shine. Jaskier notices these things — of course he does, he’s an artist after all! And Geralt has pretty eyes. But that’s beside the point.

“Geralt?” he asks, stopping in his tracks and watching the Witcher beside him. The same Witcher who doesn’t even notice that he stopped walking, eyes on the road before him, seemingly lost in thought.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls again. Still no reply, but the Witcher finally stops. Stands. Looks at him over his shoulder. His eyes still not entirely right, and Jaskier doubts it comes from the various potions he has had last night.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, and Geralt glances around after a second, hand moving to his sword. Good, Jaskier thinks, he’s not completely out of it. “No,” he says and takes a step forward, noticing the sudden tension between Geralt’s shoulders. He stops. “No, I mean… With you. Are you alright?”

Geralt frowns. Well, at least there’s a constant for you.

“Are you okay, Geralt?” he asks again, gentler but really starting to worry.

Another frown, but this time followed by a nod. Which is not very reassuring. Jaskier might not know him well, but he knows right then that he’s lying. He lets it go, though, and they make their way to the town, easily finding the alderman.

A wretched man who only wants to give them half their payment, but Geralt doesn’t seem inclined to argue. Jaskier frowns and gives the alderman a piece of his mind, making a whole scene for everyone around to hear. “And if the Witchers on the whole Continent might hear from the White Wolf’s bard that you betray them, that your hand doesn’t fulfill what your tongue promises, maybe you shall surrender to the monsters then. Leshen and whatever so pleases shall feast on you, maybe that will be the day you wish you had paid the White Wolf what he was promised and more!”

Needless to say, they leave with more coin than expected, and Jaskier can’t wipe the smug grin off his face.

Geralt smiles at him for the first time, then, over their small campfire, and Jaskier smiles back.

“Is speaking hard for you today?” he finally dares to ask.

Geralt stares at him. Nods.

Jaskier nods back. Grins.

“Well, good thing you have me then, isn’t it? A bard to yell at stupid people for you. We’ll make a great team, you’ll see.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything to that, obviously. But even the next day, when the first thing he does is insult Jaskier’s fashion sense, he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t deny it. And Jaskier is sure he didn’t imagine that small smile that could have meant Maybe you are right.

Either way, he was.

***

Jaskier leaves the bed before Geralt, promising to bring him breakfast.

“You still have three other meals you can try to leave bed for, let’s have breakfast here,” Jaskier argues with a grin and a fine that brooks no room for discussion even if Geralt were up for it.

And so, they have breakfast in bed. It’s warm and comfortable and Jaskier chatters away, not expecting a response in any way. Perfect background noise, taking away the sharp edges of his surroundings, making everything a little less overwhelming and oppressive. Jaskier knows his place in the network of Geralt’s nonverbal days as he talks, keeping his voice down and calm and so, so warm. Familiar.

It almost makes him feel normal. It definitely makes him feel safe.

When he finally has enough strength to leave bed, they make their ways downstairs to sit by the hearth. Geralt has found that the warmth helps, brings him physical comfort when there is nothing else to ground him.

“Good to see you, pup,” Vesemir says and claps a broad hand on Geralt’s shoulder after looking at Jaskier for a second. Geralt smiles.

Pup. Vesemir only calls them that on the heavy days, and it’s a constant that always helps them through the worst of it.

Life still happens around him, everyone has their own tasks, and where he’s sitting in the middle of it all, he feels like he still gets to be a part of it.

There are warm foods throughout the day and a jug of something hot and spiced always appears by his side. Geralt is not completely sure how the time passes, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Lambert is sat beside him, silent, offering his company. If Geralt leans into him and Lambert leans back, well, then that’s between them.

What matters is Eskel who lies down on the fur beside the hearth and gently pulls Geralt to lie on top of him, head on his broad chest, careful hand running through his silver hair. He talks, though all Geralt feels is the rumbling of his chest.

It’s all that matters.

***

The first time it happens around Eskel, they’re both still pups. Barely grown into Witchers yet.

“There are worse things than not talking, Geralt,” Eskel tells him, Geralt’s head resting on his shoulders. “I know it’s scary. It feels like there’s nothing worse. But it doesn’t make you any less of a Witcher. Or any less Geralt. You’re still the White Wolf, even if you can’t howl. I’ll howl for you, Wolf,” he promises with a kiss to his cheek. “And when the day comes, you’ll do the same for me. Because it happens. And it fucking sucks, but you’ve got this, okay? And I’ve got you.”

Geralt nods into Eskel’s shoulder and tries not to feel pathetic that the only sounds the world gets to hear from him that day are his sobs.

***

But Eskel was right then and is still right now. They’ve got each other and they take care of each other. Howl and fight and protect each other.

They do the same for Lambert on his heavy days.

And for Jaskier, years and years and years later.

For Ciri and Yennefer and everyone who needs it.

That’s what family does. Nothing has to change on the days you can’t talk, on the days that words fail you. There are always people to yell at the world for you, to wrap you in a hug and tell you everything you need to hear. Even Witchers can have that.

And Geralt has a whole family now to tell him: “You’ve got this. And we’ve got you.”

It’s really all that matters.

[julek]

read on ao3

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice calls through the noise of the streets, making him turn. He’s wearing a long coat, blue like the ocean and trimmed with white fur, and is graciously carrying a remarkable amount of shopping bags in his arms as the door to the luthier’s shop closes behind him. “Fancy meeting you here, my friend.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow as Jaskier falls into step beside him. “Bard,” he nods.

“What are you doing here, of all places?” He gestures with an armful of satchel and lute, a bright pink notebook peeking out of one of his bags.

“Provisions,” Geralt says, eyeing his, for once, almost overflowing bag. “I’m stocking up. Heading North soon.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and the feather on his — rather ridiculous, if you ask Geralt — matching blue hat falls just shy of his eyes, clear and bright in the midday sun. “What a funny coincidence.”

Geralt hums. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier playfully swats Geralt’s shoulder, and he’s so pleased with himself Geralt can almost smell it. “Why, it must be fate,” he says dreamily. “I’m also heading North myself!”

“How come?”

“Well,” Jaskier begins, and his tone indicates there’s a story to be told, and no, Geralt, you won’t be getting out of it, as he loops his arm around Geralt’s, “as it turns out, I was invited to take up residence in a castle for the winter.”

“Really?” Geralt asks conversationally, his eyes discreetly scanning the price of rolled oats as they stroll across the market street.

“Really,” Jaskier confirms. His eyes also wander around, trailing after a shiny pendant by a stall. He shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. “An acquaintance of mine realized he and his family would well benefit from my presence this season.”

“Hmm.” Geralt clicks his tongue at the outrageous number scribbled on the price tag of a deck of Gwent cards. Soul-sucking bastards. “And they’re paying you how much?”

Jaskier splutters, not-so-playfully swatting Geralt’s shoulder. “How dare you imply such a thing! I do not sell my company, no matter what one talentless wastrel Valdo Marx may tell you. Of course they’ve invited me as a friend— I’m basically part of the family by now. They’ve been insisting I visit them for years.”

“And this... friend of yours,” Geralt says distractedly, scanning a pair of leather boots on sale. They’re too thin. “How come I’ve never heard of them?”

“Oh, he’s just shy. Or so he says— you should see him drunk.” He takes some inexistent lint off his coat. “He’s addicted to his work — though sometimes he’ll indulge in some small luxuries. Card games and bubble baths, you see.”

“Hmm.” Geralt offers his coin to a merchant for some fresh thyme. “He sounds interesting.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no. He thinks he’s a big deal, you know— carries himself with importance and purpose, but he’s actually quite dull. You see, he practically had to beg me to come with him this winter.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Jaskier continues, carrying Geralt over to a stand with dried flowers and notebooks on it. “So sad, indeed — he was so worried I’d turn him down.” He inspects some dried lavender. “Showered me with praise and gifts.”

“Huh,” Geralt says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why’d you accept, then? If he’s such a drag?”

“Well...” Jaskier considers, his face scrunched up, the way he does when he’s thinking. “He’s awfully sweet, you know. So attentive, so caring... he’s always there for me.”

“Sounds like a good guy, then.”

“Mmm— hey!” Jaskier exclaims as he’s steered away from an enticing stand full of books. He scowls at Geralt. “He can be an arse, actually. I forgot to mention that bit.”

Geralt smirks. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, inspecting his nails as Geralt checks the price of a tall bottle of Skelligan rum. “You are not the one about to spend four months holed up with him, locked away in a freezing fortress.”

“You’re right,” Geralt agrees. “But there’s this one idiot my brothers are forcing me to take to Kaer Morhen with me, so I understand your pain.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes so hard they’re almost closed. “Really!” He says, yanking Geralt by the arm with more force than necessary as they continue to walk through the market stalls. “He sure must be wonderful, if your brothers are so adamant about having him there.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Their judgment is clouded. Too many potions can do that to a Witcher.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Jaskier says under his breath. “Why don’t you just ditch this lovely, handsome, sorely misunderstood friend of yours? Why not leave him behind?”

They’ve reached the end of the square, the murmur of the market now behind them. “Well,” Geralt begins, and his tone indicates that they’ll have to leave soon, and no, Jaskier, we can’t stay another day, as he turns to look at Jaskier, “Unfortunately,” he moves forward, until their noses are brushing, “I’m in love with him.”

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, his breath warm against Geralt’s cheek, lips curled around a smile. “Well, I couldn’t possibly blame you. The man does sound marvelous.”

Geralt slips his hands around Jaskier’s waist, his fingers playing with the fur of his coat. Roach’s waiting for them — he can hear the impatient stomping of her feet in her stall across the street.

He smiles. “He is,” he murmurs, “even though I’ll have to hire four mules and a cart just to carry his doublets.”

“And hats, dear,” Jaskier adds with a grin.

“Oh, yes. And hats.” Geralt nudges his nose against Jaskier’s, reveling in the way it makes him laugh. It tickles, he’d told him once. “Too bad you’ll be locked away with your boring friend. You won’t be able to meet mine.”

A cart drives by, bringing Jaskier closer into Geralt’s touch. Tipping his hat back, he wraps his arms over the Witcher’s shoulders. “Well…” He sighs, like it’s such a hardship to be enveloped in Geralt’s warmth. “Maybe I was a bit harsh on him. He’s quite lovely, in truth.”

The air is thick with the scent of fresh bread from the nearby bakery. “He is, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, coy. “He’ll even hire four mules and a cart, just to carry my doublets.”

“And hats,” Geralt reminds him.

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says with a giggle. “I’m rather glad he invited me to come with him, you know. I’ve got something important to tell him.”

“Yeah?” Geralt squeezes his waist. “And what’s that?”

Jaskier licks his lips. “That I’m in love with him, too.”

Geralt can’t contain his smile as he leans forward and kisses him, sweet and soft. Jaskier tastes like honey — probably from licking it off his fingers from those pastries Geralt bought for him early in the morning, as bait to get him out of bed — and he sighs happily into his mouth.

“Well,” he says when they part, flattening his palms on the front of Geralt’s armour. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time together.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees. “You too.”

Jaskier kisses him one more time, a quick peck to his lips. “Take care. And do give your friend my regards. I hope to meet him someday.”

“Will do,” Geralt says solemnly.

They look at each other for a minute, a staring contest gone to waste as Jaskier’s lips curl around an unbidden smile. Geralt can’t help but mirror him.

“So,” he says brightly, taking Geralt’s hand in his own and starting toward the stables. His eyes gleam and Geralt loves him. “Do we have enough carrots and apples for Roach for the way up? I don’t want her taking it out on my hair, Geralt, you know how she gets…”

[asweetprologue]

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@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Favorite Food Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out. ao3

The small cheesecloth package that was dropped in front of him wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the way that Jaskier hovered as Geralt picked it up was.

“What’s this?” he grunted, sniffing the air subtly. The little package smelled like honey and flour and cream, and the thick, sweet smell of-- “Are those dates?” He pulled the cheesecloth off to reveal a neat little tart, gently browned on the edges, about the size of his palm.

“It is!” Jaskier leaned over him slightly, his arms holding several more packages. He continued, sounding a little nervous. “I know you don’t usually enjoy sweets, but I know the dates are your favorite. Must feed that witcher metabolism, no?”

“No,” Geralt eyed the tart. “Our metabolism is more efficient, not faster.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, deflating slightly. “Well, if you don’t want it I guess I can--”

“How did you know that date was my favorite?” Geralt interrupted, looking back up at Jaskier. Oddly, he could see the bard color slightly at the question, an appealing pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“You bought a jar of jam from that merchant from Toussaint, remember? You never buy jam, unless it’s for me, so I assumed you must have a preference for it. I mean, unless you don’t, which is fine, I can… Well, not eat it, I hate dates, but I’m sure I can find some mangy child to give it to, or a dog, or something. Do you hate it? You hate it.”

Geralt picked up the tart and bit into it, giving Jaskier a raised eyebrow. It was honestly more of a miniature pie than a tart, the flaky crust filled with dates and prunes covered in a custardy filling, sweetened through with honey. The flavors burst across his tongue, the tart still warm. Jaskier must have picked it up at the market and come directly here to give it to him. Geralt swallowed the first bite, looking into Jaskier’s apprehensive face, and said, “Thanks.”

Jaskier visibly relaxed, shuffling onto the bench across from Geralt and beginning to relay the events of the morning market. Geralt hummed where he was meant to and sipped his watered down ale and ate his tart. If Jaskier noticed his absent mindedness, he said nothing.

Jaskier… knew what his favorite fruit was. The knowledge should not have come as a shock, Geralt knew. Jaskier was often getting him gifts - oil for Roach’s tack, new clothes when Geralt’s last threadbare shirt gave out, potion ingredients when he ran low. Sometimes he bought Geralt useless things, little bobbles or trinkets he saw that he thought Geralt might like or find amusing, and Geralt kept them safely at the bottom of his bag, or in his room at Kaer Morhen. He cherished those things, things that told him Jaskier thought about him when he wasn’t near. It was nice, to be thought of.

But for some reason this little gift felt different. Jaskier had known his favorite food, and Geralt had never told him. Dates weren’t particularly common in the North, and it was rare that they were far south enough to meet merchants who carried them up from Nilfgaard. Geralt could remember when he’d bought the jam, hoping it would last him a while, but he couldn’t recall a single other time in recent memory that he’d eaten dates, or even mentioned them. He didn’t tend to wallow on things that were unavailable to him.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier as he spun a tale about haggling in the square. No, Geralt didn’t make a habit of wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Still, there was a problem at hand, one he had to solve. Jaskier knew Geralt’s favorite food. He might know Geralt’s favorite everything. Did he know that Geralt’s favorite color was blue, the wide, free color of the sky on the first day of spring? Did he know that Geralt’s favorite thing to drink wasn’t wine or vodka, but warm honeyed milk like his mother made when he couldn’t sleep as a tiny child? He certainly knew that Geralt liked the scent of chamomile and sage best in his bathwater, and that he preferred cotton shirts over linen, and that he would pick a song with a sad ending over a happy one. If he’d been paying this much attention, there was probably quite a lot that Jaskier knew about him, without Geralt having said a word.

And he didn’t know a thing about Jaskier.

What was Jaskier’s favorite color? Was it blue, like the doublets he so often wore, or was that just to match his eyes? Did he really like wine the best, or did he just like it better than ale? What was his favorite season? His favorite weather? Did he go to Oxenfurt every winter because it was where he could find work, or did he prefer Novigrad, or Vizima? Geralt could tell how Jaskier was going to react every time someone recognized him on the street, anytime a young lad or lass winked at him, even what he might say if Geralt gave the right sort of hum. But he didn’t know much about him, at the end of the day.

He needed to find out. As they packed up their belongings and set out on the road once again, leaving the small town behind them, Geralt ruminated on what could be done to rectify this situation. He couldn’t very well just ask Jaskier about all these things. After all, Jaskier had figured it all out with nary a word from Geralt. He didn’t need to ask; he was paying attention. Which made Geralt’s chest feel oddly warm and heavy, knowing that Jaskier was watching him, paying heed to his reactions and filing them away. Maybe it should have felt invasive, to know that he was being read so easily without his knowing, but instead it just felt… nice. To be known.

He wanted Jaskier to feel known too. He wanted to know Jaskier.

He would start small. Jaskier had given him food, something he knew Geralt would like. It couldn’t be that difficult to figure out what Jaskier liked. Geralt could start bringing him small things, pass it off as returning the favor, and guage Jaskier’s reaction. It would be simple, he mused, eying Jaskier from atop Roach as they walked side by side. His hair was mussed slightly from sleep, still, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it before heading out for the day. No one to impress, Geralt guessed, just the two of them and the road. He liked Jaskier this way, less pinned up and proper, more open. Letting Geralt see him without all of his armor, because that’s what it was, as surely as the leather on Geralt’s back was his. Right now, Jaskier was an open book. All Geralt had to do was pay enough attention to read him.

*

It was not easy to figure out what Jaskier liked.

The problem, Geralt quickly found, was that Jaskier was enthusiastic about almost everything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he disliked something, he made his distaste abundantly clear. He was dramatic, which should have made it even easier to determine what delighted him the most. Geralt expected that, when he found it, poetic stanzas would be flowing like wine from Jaskier’s tongue, praising whatever it was. He had no reason to expect Jaskier to be subtle about his preferences.

And he wasn’t. The issue was that he seemed to react with the exact same level of excitement about everything Geralt brought him. On the first day they arrived in a new town, Geralt went to the market and brought Jaskier a small basket of strawberries, which Jaskier enthused over for half the morning. Geralt was pleased. Maybe it had been that easy, and he’d intuitively known what Jaskier liked. Maybe he had unconsciously been paying attention all along. He congratulated himself on figuring out at least one piece of the puzzle, and began thinking about how he might approach the next step.

But then he unthinkingly bought Jaskier a few sweetbreads when he was out the next day getting lunch. He’d been getting himself some, he thought of Jaskier sitting in their shared room, composing a ballad about the hunt Geralt had been on the night previously. He’d brought him the extra meats, and Jaskier had nearly the same reaction. Gushing over the gift, thanking Geralt for thinking of him. Lamenting his own forgetfulness, for getting so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat, as Geralt expected he might have. And Geralt was confused, because he didn’t think a few offal from a market stall in a half pint city in Velen was what Jaskier would like. Certainly not something he could call a favorite.

But he’d reacted the same to the sweetbreads as the berries. So Geralt was back to square one.

He reevaluated his metrics. So Jaskier reacted that way to anything he liked, apparently. It was odd; Geralt had seen Jaskier enthusiastically dig into a wide variety of foods over the years, but he didn’t praise them and rave about them the way he had done the berries and the meats. So he must have legitimately enjoyed both of them more than he would any old dish. But neither of them had seemed to outweigh the other. He still didn’t know what Jaskier liked best.

Over the next several weeks of their travel, Geralt bought Jaskier enough tortas and crepes and stews that he knew it was boarding on suspicious behavior. If it was any other situation, any other two people, he knew it might come off like courtship. Every time he offered Jaskier some new morsel, he could feel the back of his neck grow hot at the implications. But Jaskier only ever grinned in delight at whatever Geralt offered him, flushed and pleased no more or less than he had been at all the others. If he suspected any sort of foul play, he never said anything.

It was infuriating. After three weeks of spending more coin that he cared to count at markets and roadside stalls and taverns, he was no closer to figuring out Jaskier’s favorite food than he had been at the outset. It all seemed to go over well, which was gratifying, but he couldn’t tell what Jaskier liked the most of it all. Maybe he just wasn’t as good at reading Jaskier as he thought. He’d thought he was a master of it, at this point - he could tell when Jaskier was tired during a performance, even though his smile never flagged; he could tell when Jaskier was being dramatic about an injury and when he was actually in pain; he could tell the difference between righteous anger versus petty versus hurt. In most respects he felt like Jaskier was an open book, but there was nothing in his reactions to Geralt’s gifts that said he was anything less than entirely pleased to receive them.

He was running out of ideas. Giving Jaskier gifts one at a time was clearly not working; either none of them were right, or Geralt was misremembering Jaskier’s enthusiasm for the ones in the past. He needed to give Jaskier a selection and see for himself what was best, side by side.

It took another week to plan, mostly due to location. They needed to stay in one place for a few days, so that Geralt could collect the things he would need, and it was rare that the two of them were in one town for more than a day. Large contracts were few and far between, and it never took Geralt more than a single night to clear out some ghouls or drowners from an area.

As luck would have it, however, they were only a few days out from Carreras. Geralt pointed them in that direction, claiming that they would likely be able to find multiple contracts in one place there, and that Jaskier could take a few days to play for their small selection of inns and taverns. It wasn’t entirely a lie; there probably would be more contracts posted in a larger settlement, which would mean a solid few jobs to refill Geralt’s pockets. He would need the extra coin to execute his plan.

The first two days of their stay were filled mostly with real work. The city had been having issues with contaminated water, which sent Geralt out to investigate all the wells, and by the time he found the drowner that had fallen into the water supply a full day had passed. He was able to fill another two contracts on their second day, but the triple confrontations over less than 48 hours left him feeling bruised and exhausted.

It was Jaskier who suggested it, in the end. Pulling a comb through Geralt’s hair as the witcher let himself soak in the bath, Jaskier said, “What if we stayed for an extra day or two? The crowds have been good, and Barclay - the innkeeper, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him - he offered us a discount if I play tonight and tomorrow.” His hand fell to Geralt’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “You could… take a few days.”

It had been his plan to stay, but Geralt felt an ache behind his breastbone at Jaskier’s careful suggestion. Always trying to take care of him, as if Geralt were someone who needed protecting, someone who deserved something like a vacation. He didn’t think he did, but it was nice, as always, to think that Jaskier cared. “Hmm,” was all he said, a soft sound of agreement. His eyes slipped shut as he basked in the quiet content of Jaskier’s company, and they said nothing else on the matter.

The next day he felt rejuvenated, the burn of overexertion in his muscles faded after a hard night’s sleep. Jaskier had played after getting him out of the bath and settled into bed, but he’d returned later, smelling of sweat and rosemary and catgut. Geralt had slept well with his solid weight by his side, pressed into the too-slim bed.

He spent most of the day preparing. The market was busy and bursting when he found it in the afternoon, though not as packed as he was used to seeing in larger settlements like Novigrad. There was a bakery on the corner from which the rich scent of fresh bread spilled out into the square, and the people at the stalls were standing around amiably, chatting about local affairs and peddling their individual wares to one and other. It was a homey little trade network, and despite his strangeness, Geralt didn’t feel unwelcome.

He made several minor purchases before he found his way to the bakery. It wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared, and he waited until the one or two customers before him had made their way out. The woman working the counter was twig thin despite her occupation, thin blonde hair tied up away from her face and covered by a light cloth, probably to keep flour out of it. Her eyes were blue, pale as diamonds. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier’s were nicer.

He made her nervous, it was easy to see, but she quickly warmed to him when he told her what he was looking for. Whether it was his gold that excited her or his plan, he couldn’t say, but regardless she helped him pick out his desired items with enthusiasm.

“If you’re planning to use them later tonight, I can make up a basket and have it ready for you. So nothing goes cold,” she explained, her forearms resting on the counter. “The pies are really best that way.”

Geralt nodded, and handed over her coin.

Jaskier would be back soon from where he was playing the lunch crowd at one of the taverns. Geralt rushed back to their room and put the purchases he had with him at the bottom of his pack, a blanket spread over them. Jaskier returned not fifteen minutes later, flushed and grinning. A successful performance, then. Good. When Jaskier was in a good mood he was more amenable to doing what Geralt said. “When do you play this evening?” Geralt asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his sword at the small table they’d been provided.

Jaskier set his lute case down gently against the wall and then flung off his doublet with much less care, flopping down on to the bed. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, though the image that awaited him - Jaskier, spread out, his shirt falling open to reveal the smooth line of his throat and his sharp collar bones - burned against the back of his eyes anyways. “Not until nightfall,” Jaskier answered with a content sigh. “After the dinner crowd. Why? Do you have plans?”

“Do you remember where we stopped on the first day, the hill just before town? By the brook.” He set his steel sword aside and reached for the silver, which was the one that truly needed attention. So many contracts in a row had left her chipped in a few places, and dull all around. Geralt set his whetstone down, but didn’t draw it across the blade yet. Waiting for Jaskier’s answer. He felt his stomach twist with something like nerves, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t anything risky, anything that Jaskier would read into - probably. Probably.

“Sure,” Jaskier answered easily.

“Can you meet me there?” Geralt asked. “An hour or so before you have to play?”

He heard Jaskier sit up, could feel the bard looking at him curiously. His gaze warmed the side of Geralt’s face, and he refused to look up and meet those bright blue eyes. “Did something happen? Do we need to get out of town?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, amusement bubbling up within him. “No. Nothing bad. Just… meet me?”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, long enough that Geralt gave up and turned to look at him. He was regarding Geralt with a curious expression, almost guarded. But all he said was, “Alright. I can do that.”

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and returned to his task.

*

He left before Jaskier, stating the need to drop by the herbalist's shop and that if he wasn’t back - as he didn’t intend to be - that Jaskier should go to the meeting place on his own. Geralt made his own way back to the bakery, where his basket of goods was waiting as promised. He tipped the girl well, and set out with his pack containing the blanket and other purchases on his shoulder, and the basket on his arm.

It was a nice evening, warm and thick with the last hints of summer. It would be fall soon; he could taste it in the faint hint of decay that lingered on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath of the air beyond the city. But for now it was still hot enough during the day that the evenings were comfortable. Geralt found his way back along the road to where they’d stopped to water Roach at the nearby stream, just before the landscape dropped down into the shallow valley that held the large town. He made his way off the path, far enough away that they wouldn’t be obvious from the road, to a raised patch of earth that looked down over the fields as they spread out below. It was a lovely sight, the landscape rich in the evening light, the dying sun casting the rooftops of the city in rich gold. Jaskier would appreciate the scenery, at least.

Geralt quickly set up, laying out the blanket and pulling out the supplies from the basket. He’d maybe gone slightly overboard. There was a meat pie, several stuffed rolls, a hearty cabbage stew in two small bowls kept covered by plates tied to them; a loaf of fresh rye bread, with cheese and jam and honey to go with it; berries and apples with cream; a plethora of desserts, including an entire apple pie, along with little marzipan candies and several little cakes. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As he laid out item after item, Geralt felt unease stir within him. It was too much, he realized, seeing it all together. That had been his goal, after all, to see Jaskier eat as many things as possible, to get a sense, at least, of where his preferences lay. But this was overwhelming. Jaskier would realize something was amiss. A picnic, laid out in perfect detail, in the warm light of the evening, fields spread out beyond them and the forest to their back. It was obviously, sickeningly romantic, he realized. So very obviously beyond what one might do to spend an hour eating dinner with a friend. Panic rose in his throat, choking him, and he grabbed one of the wine bottles, thinking to put it away. If he could put some of it back, maybe it wouldn’t look so much like--

“Geralt?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting the desire to curse, and turned around. He hoped none of his apprehension showed on his face.

Jaskier was a few feet away, carrying nothing but his lute on his back. He was looking down at the spread with a shocked expression, eyebrows pulled up nearly into his hairline and eyes open wide. “What’s… all this?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Dinner,” Geralt grunted, putting the wine bottle down. In for a penny, he thought grimly.

He watched several different expressions flicker across Jaskier’s face, too quick to parse. For a moment Geralt thought he looked almost… sad, or maybe anxious, but then he broke into a wide grin. The honest delight pouring off of him made Geralt let out a slight sigh, relief blooming in his chest. “Oh, well isn’t this just wondrous,” Jaskier laughed. He pulled his lute from his shoulder and set it in the grass beside the blanket, and folded himself down amongst Geralt’s offerings. A hand reached up towards him. “Are you going to join me?” Jaskier asked, raising a playful eyebrow. Geralt grumbled, but carefully sat down next to the bard and began dishing out the food.

It was good, all of it, but Geralt hardly paid it any mind, focused entirely on Jaskier’s reactions. The constant flow of conversation was interrupted every time Jaskier took a bite of something new - “This is delicious, have you tried this yet?” and “We must find out what spices they used for this stew, it’s absolutely the best I’ve had in months” and “Geralt, where did you find marzipan? Look at these little things, the details are impressive.” Throughout it all, Geralt watched his face, listened to his words, paid attention to what he returned to and what he didn’t.

And by the end, he was ready to tear his hair out.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy everything. He finished every helping he took, praised every dish, thanked Geralt for each and every selection he’d made. Even with so many choices, it didn’t seem to matter. Jaskier liked them all, but Geralt couldn’t tell what he liked the best. Not the way Jaskier apparently could do for him.

Finally Jaskier flopped back into the grass, one hand on his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve been so full in years,” he groaned, staring up at the sky with heavy eyelids. “Probably since the last banquet I played at. You really outdid yourself, my dear.”

Fuck it. He had to ask. “Anything you liked in particular?”

Jaskier hummed, closing his eyes. “Mm, how could I choose? Everything was so lovely.”

Frustration clawed at him. Before he could stop himself, Geralt heard himself ask, “Do you even have a favorite food?”

Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to--

“Oh, I don’t know if I have a favorite favorite,” Jaskier droned, blinking his eyes open to peer up at the sky again, this time with a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s just such a range, you know. I suppose when it comes to desserts, there’s these custards that they make in Toussaint, have you had them? Tiny things, very sweet, with saffron and cinnamon. Delicious. We’ll have to get some next we go so far south.”

Geralt was hardly listening, even though he knew that had been the entire point. He’d failed. Jaskier had told him the answer to his question, which meant he was never going to have the chance to prove that he could learn Jaskier as Jaskier had learned him. He couldn’t prove his friendship, his affection, through his actions. Jaskier would never be interested in Geralt the way that Geralt was in him, but he’d hoped he could at least let some of his true feelings bleed into his actions, into the careful way he paid attention. Jaskier had already done so as nothing more than Geralt’s friend. Now he would never be able to pay him back in kind, not truly.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him, brow furrowed curiously. He must have been silent for too long. Geralt quickly schooled his features into neutrality, but some of his distress must have peaked through, because Jaskier frowned at him. Geralt could feel the incoming conversation before Jaskier even opened his mouth. He tried to get ahead of it, talking over the beginning of Jaskier’s soft inquiry. “We should head back,” he grunted, rising abruptly to his feet. “You have to play.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, in a tone that made Geralt’s stomach fill with dread. That was Jaskier’s no nonsense, absolutely-you-will-not-be-getting-out-of-this tone. He turned back towards Jaskier, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The bard had clamoured to his feet when Geralt stood up, and was now stepping around the blanket towards him. Geralt wanted to retreat further, to shove the remains of the picnic back in his bag and hide the evidence, but he knew it wouldn’t save him. He was being too obvious, and Jaskier knew him too well.

The bard eyed him suspiciously, but there was a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, this time a bit softer. “I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“We… It was. It was nice. I just think it’s time to go.” Jaskier gave him a shrewd look. Not buying it then. Geralt sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s not you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jaskier chuckled. The sound was thin, like that was exactly what he had been worried about. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I wondered if-- Well. But if it’s not about me, it’s something else? Are you trying to butter me up for something? Is there a big scary adventure you’re about to tell me I’m not allowed to come on?” His gaze turned sharp again, but this time there was something like fear underneath it. “Are you leaving me behind?”

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his hands rising in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving you, Jaskier, I swear it. It’s just…” He petered off, unsure how to continue. How to explain.

“It’s just what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why have you been so damnably nice to me lately? Are you dying?” His eyes widened. “Am I dying?”

“No, Jaskier, of course not, just--”

“Then why the gifts?” Jaskier spread his hands around their little picnic, an easy example of exactly what he was talking about.

Geralt’s resistance shattered. “I was trying to figure you out,” he snapped. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You know everything about me. You pay attention, even when I don’t say anything. You knew I liked dates because I bought jam months ago. You know me better than anyone, but I don’t know you. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or your favorite color, or what you like to wear, or what your favorite kinds of songs are, or your favorite season. I’ve been looking. I tried to figure it out, I tried to bring things I thought you would like and see what you liked best, but it seems like you like everything. You don’t always… say what you mean. I can’t tell when you’re faking and when you’re not.” Geralt was tense, fists clenched at his sides, jaw hard. He knew he looked angry. Jaskier probably thought he was mad at him, for some reason, but all Geralt felt was fear. He wasn’t good enough. Jaskier had to see that now. Geralt had known him for years, and he couldn’t even say whether Jaskier preferred blueberry jam to strawberry. What kind of friend was he?

A hand took his, gently pulling his fingers apart. He jerked his head over to stare as Jaskier stepped forward to slip their fingers together, squeezing softly. When he looked up, Jaskier was regarding him fondly.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he said. “I wear the silk doublets a lot, because they’re in fashion, but I prefer a linen shirt because it’s not as sweaty. I like songs about adventure, but books about romance.” His other hand lifted to brush a bit of hair away from where it was stuck to Geralt’s warm cheek. His expression was difficult to look at, earnest and painfully affectionate. Geralt was trapped by those blue eyes, like falling into a clear sky. “And my favorite season is spring. You could have just asked.”

Geralt swallowed. “You never had to. I just didn’t want you to… I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay attention.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, laughing a little, “I know you’re not always paying attention. I’m talking constantly. There’s a lot to keep up with. I know you tune me out most of the time, it’s fine.”

“I’m still paying attention to you,” Geralt insisted, because it was important, critical that Jaskier know that even when he wasn’t listening, he was still attuned to Jaskier. His presence, his voice, the sound of his heartbeat always in the back of Geralt’s mind. Whenever the bard was around he could scarcely focus on anything else.

“Knowing my favorite color or food or what have you isn’t what proves that you’re my friend,” Jaskier said, still smiling. “You know me. It’s alright.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you didn’t like the things I brought you?” Geralt asked, feeling unmoored. “You acted like you loved everything.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his chuckle was nervous. The hand he held in Geralt’s was sweaty, and his heartbeat, always in Geralt’s ears, was a bit fast. “Well, they were from you,” he said with a half shrug. “Of course I loved them.”

“But they weren’t--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier interrupted, soft but firm. There was a slight, bitter twist in his lips that Geralt wanted to wipe away. “I just… like to know that you’re thinking of me.”

They were standing so close together. Jaskier’s hand was in his, palm to sweaty palm. They were nearly of a height, but Jaskier was just the tiniest bit shorter, so he had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. Now it was Jaskier who was tense, his shoulders squared as if to absorb a blow. He nervously dragged his teeth over his lower lip, leaving the hint of an impression in the soft flesh. Geralt watched raptly, swallowing against the urge to soothe the spot with his tongue. “I’m always thinking of you,” he finally said.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and Geralt watched as his eyes dropped down to flicker over Geralt’s mouth before they dragged back up to meet his gaze again. “When I saw all of it spread out like that, I thought maybe it meant something,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, helplessly. He lifted the hand not clutched in Jaskier’s toward his neck, tracing his fingers along the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s other hand came up to fist in Geralt’s shirt, inhaling sharply at his touch. It was an intoxicating sound, making his head spin more than the bottle of wine they’d consumed between them.

“Did it mean something more?” Jaskier pleaded, his eyes bright. His hand clutched at the fabric over Geralt’s heart, the fingers between his own tightening in a deathgrip. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of their lips, opening for Geralt easily and without hesitation. He tasted like sweet white wine and meat pie and marzipan, and Geralt greedily mined the flavors from Jaskier’s tongue. He tried to pour all of the things he found himself unable to say into the press of his teeth against Jaskier’s lip, into the flick of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the way his fingers tangled delicately in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier gave as good as he got, humming encouragingly into Geralt’s mouth and hauling him closer by the hand in his shirt. He didn’t release Geralt’s hand from where he held it in his own, and Geralt made no move to extract himself.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting against Geralt’s lips as he set their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and Geralt watched them flicker open, savoring the dazed expression on his face. “I think I’m going to be late to play that show,” Jaskier rasped, and a thrill went through Geralt at the sound. And indeed, the sun had begun to set, dipping over the edge of the mountains in the far, far distance, coloring the air around them in rich purples and reds. Jaskier’s face was soft and ethereal in the glow, and Geralt never wanted to let him go, never wanted to leave this moment.

“Why spring?” Geralt found himself asking.

Jaskier smiled, and his face softened even further. “Because it’s when I get to see you again, of course. You should have known all along; you’re my favorite.”

It was a corny sentiment, and by Jaskier’s grin he knew it, but Geralt couldn’t help the way it warmed him up from the inside out, radiating out from within him and making his lips pull into an answering grin. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier again, and again, and a third time, in quick succession, each more soft and lingering than the last. When he was finished Jaskier had that dazed looking expression back on his face, and Geralt decided it was a good look on him. “Want to know something?” he asked, teasing. Jaskier nodded, the hand on Geralt’s chest snaking up to wrap around his neck, holding the both of them close. Geralt leaned in to press his lips just behind Jaskier’s ear, to press his secret against the soft skin there.

“You’re my favorite too,” he rumbled, and Jaskier laughed, bright and joyful, and both of them knew that it was true.

~

This is my last s&s fic!! So excited to be done with the challenge, and happy that I was able to finish! Thank you to all those who encouraged me over the last two months, your kind words and support mean more than I could say <3

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

[thearvariblues]

Has Someone Died or What?

An Eskel Fix-It crack we all defnitely need after Season 2.

Please note that I have NOT watched Season 2, and I’m not planning to, but I made my dear, dear friend spoil everything to me.

This fic can also be found on AO3. ;)

*

The courtyard of Kaer Morhen is empty when the two Witchers walk inside with a horse in tow. The smaller of the Witchers looks around, taking in his surroundings, and inhales deeply.

“What a shithole,” he says.

“Hey,” the taller one, the one with a big scar covering almost half of his face, protests, sounding mildly offended. “I know it doesn’t look its best, but it’s still home, you know?”

“What a nice, homely shithole,” the smaller Witcher smirks, playing with a strand of his long black hair that’s pulled up in a high ponytail.

The taller one chuckles.

“Oh, yes. I can see why Lambert likes you,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m extremely good at sucking cock.”

“I can definitely see why Lambert likes you,” the taller one laughs before shouting, “Lambert! Hey, Lambert! Your big brother’s back home and he’s brought you a gift!”

Nothing. Only silence.

“Weird,” the smaller one frowns. “Where’s everyone?”

“No idea. Training, perhaps. Or hunting. Or drinking. Come on. I’ll show you the main hall and then I’ll come back to take care of my horse. Sooner or later, someone will show up.”

“Right. Lead the way, please.”

*

“All right, boys!” Lambert announces, flinging the big door of the main hall open. “Let’s drink again, to honor our dear… Kitty!”

The small Witcher who’s sitting on one of the benches looks up sharply from his mug of ale and grins.

“Wolfie!” he screams. The mug clatters to the floor as the man jumps up and sprints to the group of Witchers, throwing himself straight into Lambert’s arms. “I’m so glad to see you, you prick!”

“Aiden,” Lambert grins, catching the smaller Witcher without much effort and letting himself to be kissed and hugged. “What the fuck are you doing here, you asshole?”

“I told you I would come, didn’t I? Told you I would find a way. No Cats allowed, my ass! I’m here, it’s snowing, good luck trying to kick me out now, you bitch! Oh, hi. You must be Geralt,” he says, looking over Lambert’s shoulder. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Lamb?” Geralt growls, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah, uhm. I’ve never mentioned my dear friend Aiden, have I? Well, this is Aiden, everyone, and yes, he’s kind of a, well… Cat. But he’s a nice Cat. Hasn’t tried to kill me once.”

“Impossible,” Coën states. “Even I try to kill you at least once every winter.”

“Try once a week,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.

“Assholes,” Lambert grunts, still not letting go of his dear… friend. “Oh, this winter is gonna be fun, Kitty! But I still don’t understand how the fuck did you get here?”

“How do you think? I brought him here,” a voice behind the group says, and this time it’s Aiden clattering to the floor with a squeak and a string of swearwords as Lambert drops him in shock.

The whole group of Witchers turns around to stare at the tall man standing behind them, rubbing his hands on his trousers.

“What?” he says, blinking. “That’s how you welcome a brother home? Why are you all staring at me like this? Has someone died or what?”

“Yeah,” Lambert nods. “You did.”

Eskel blinks again, even more confused this time around.

“Come again?” he says.

*

Eskel looks down at the (slightly nibbled-on) body on the ground with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at the four Witchers standing in front of him with sheepish looks on their faces.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “it doesn’t even look like me.”

“It kind of does look like you,” Aiden, an extra Witcher Eskel wasn’t frowning at, says. “Just kind of… wrong, I mean?”

“Not helping, Kitty,” Lambert mutters.

“And judging by what you said, it didn’t act like me, either. And none of you noticed? None of you trained Witchers thought something was amiss, eh? Were you drunk or high on drugs or what?”

“Well… Yes?” Coën shrugs.

“I’m offended, you know? Offended. That you thought that might be me.”

“Eskel…” Geralt murmurs.

“Especially you. Aren’t we brothers, Geralt? Aren’t we the closest?”

“Now you’re just being dramatic, Esk,” Lambert comments.

“And you, Vesemir?” Eskel scoffs. “Not even you noticed?”

“I’d like to mention. In my defense,” Lambert says, raising his hand. “That I didn’t even interact with… this thing… that much, as I’ve spent most of the evening with the whores he brought.”

“Oh, so that’s why you smell like a whorehouse!” Aiden beams. “I’ve been wondering.”

“I don’t think it was such a good idea to tell him that, Lambchop,” Coën says. “Should we just leave your body here when he’s done with you?”

“No, don’t worry, it’s fine!” Aiden chuckles. “We have an open relationship. That reminds me, Wolfie! I gotta tell you about this bard I’ve slept with a few weeks ago. Completely insane. The second he learned I was a Witcher, he was dragging me into his room. He was really gorgeous, so I didn’t protest much, of course…”

“Not at all, knowing you,” Lambert snorts. “You never protest when it comes to sex.”

“Oh, my Wolfie knows me all too well…” Aiden grins.

“Wasn’t the bard wearing a dark red leather coat?” Eskel says. “And a hat?”

“Yes, that was him! So he got you too?”

“Saw my medallion and climbed me like a tree,” Eskel nods. He pauses, frowns and looks down at the body by his feet. “No pun intended.”

“Brown hair? Blue eyes? Lovely muscles?” Coën chuckles. “Very determined to get into my pants. What was his name again? Began with–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt squeaks, his eyes wide with shock.

“No, that wasn’t it. Julian! Ha. He called himself Julian!”

“As in Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove?” Lambert asks, barely containing his laughter.

Geralt whines, slumping to the ground.

“You know what?” he murmurs. “Leave me here. Leave me here with my poor dead brother…”

“I feel the need to mention that your brother is alive and standing right here,” Eskel says.

Aiden lifts an eyebrow at Lambert, who leans in to whisper something in his ear.

“Fine. Then leave me here to rot with… Whatever this is,” Geralt says as Aiden tries to stifle his laughter by burying his teeth in Lambert’s arm.

“No, thank you. Come on. Get up, you big drama queen,” Eskel sighs, wraps his arms around Geralt’s torso and helps him to get back on his feet.

“Jaskier. Jaskier…” Geralt sniffs.

“You know what, Aiden?” Lambert snorts. “I really think you should have brought the bard along with you. Could have been a very amusing winter.”

“Damn. Didn’t occur to me,” Aiden frowns. “Next winter, perhaps?”

“If you think you’re gonna be invited back, Kitty,” Lambert grins, wrapping an arm around Aiden’s waist. “Come on. Let’s drink to celebrate Eskel’s undeath. And then fuck to celebrate the fact that my Kitty’s here with me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whimpers, sagging in Eskel’s arms like a sack of turnips.

“Well, at least we know that Geralt is definitely Geralt,” Coën chuckles, throwing one of Geralt’s arms around his shoulders to help Eskel bear his weight. “Really sorry for not noticing you weren’t, by the way. In my defense, the whores were really kind of distracting.”

“Idiots,” Eskel mutters and rolls his eyes. “All of my brothers are idiots.”

[hum-my-name]

Happy Birthday, Witch

A lopsided cake rests on Yennefer’s kitchen table, dripping with honey and cinnamon. A parchment rests beside it, folded to display Jaskier’s fancy scrawls of “Happy Birthday, Witch.” The W twists oddly in the top left corner, and Yennefer can see where the ink blotted when Jaskier decided upon the insult rather than one of his many endearments.

<>

Yennefer gets spoiled on her birthday

4k words ~ Yenskier (Yennefer/Jaskier) ~ NSFW

For @witcher-bows-and-arrows (Prompt: Spoil)

Read on AO3 or continue below

A lopsided cake rests on Yennefer’s kitchen table, dripping with honey and cinnamon. A parchment rests beside it, folded to display Jaskier’s fancy scrawls of “Happy Birthday, Witch.” The W twists oddly in the top left corner, and Yennefer can see where the ink blotted when Jaskier decided upon the insult rather than one of his many endearments.

Yennefer dips her finger into the honey pooling near the base of the cake. Her touch lingers there, hesitating, before bringing it up to her mouth.

It’s sweet— the gesture as well as the flavor.

She hadn’t realized the bard had been taking notes when she’d mentioned her birthday last month, the two of them parting from Geralt as he took Ciri back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Jaskier had intended to leave for Oxenfurt, returning to his Sandpiper duties for as long as he can, but Yennefer’s memories of Rience had her tugging at his sleeve, imploring him to stay with her at one of her safe houses.

“You don’t want me to be alone on my birthday, do you?” She’d asked— and, well, that had been that. A soft manipulation for his poet’s heart; he’d sighed and asked for the specific date before giving in with a shake of his head. Honestly, she’d expected him to forget about it.

Now, though, a cake sits before her. A card rests beside it.

And Jaskier emerges from around the corner, sugar sticking to his cheeks. He’s still in his sleep clothes, an oversized white shirt Yennefer had found for him early in their travels together— soft and cream-colored, small flowers embroidered upon the collar and sleeves. He’d teased her for her new sentimental nature but, Yennefer swears, he wears this shirt more than any other.

“Maybe I just wanted you to shut up about missing your pretty clothes,” Yennefer had said. She left out the bit where she liked the idea of him wearing something she chose; she can barely admit as much to herself.

It’s easier to admit, though, when Jaskier stretches his arms above his head and smiles lazily, eyes watching her hopefully— such a tender gaze, she fears it could break her.

“Yennefer,” he says as though savoring her name on his lips, slow and drawn out. “If you say one thing about not appreciating that cake, I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again. I know it may not be what you’re used to— I know how you like your luxuries— but we’ve got limited supplies if you haven’t noticed, and I did my best to—”

“Shush,” Yennefer cuts him off, moving to run her hands through her hair, halting when she remembers the honey still on her fingertip.

Jaskier reaches for her, pushing loose strands behind her ear with a gentle touch. It shouldn’t have the effect it does, warming her cheeks and fluttering through her chest with a traitorous want. He bites his lip and watches her closely.

“Is it too much?” He asks. “Not enough?”

“It’s—” Yennefer hesitates, refusing to cower away from his gaze. “It’s more than I’ve ever had before. My birth wasn’t exactly one to celebrate when I was younger— and Aretuza doesn’t particularly care for its daughters.”

“Oh, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, softer than before. His expression shifts into something Yennefer refuses to read, refuses to feel moved by. But he grins and he turns, never looking away even as his hands fiddle with the cake at his side. “You deserve to be spoiled on a day like this.”

Sticky honey fingers and a piece of cake meet Yennefer’s lips. Yennefer opens her mouth, allowing Jaskier to place it upon her tongue as though feeding her something blessed. The cinnamon spices melt into sweet bursts of sugar and warmth. Yennefer can’t help her soft hum of satisfaction, and Jaskier’s eyes brighten at the sound. He feeds her another piece, larger this time, and honey sticks to the side of her mouth. Yennefer chews slowly, considering Jaskier before her.

He’s grown so handsome in their time apart. He’s always had his subtle charms, the way his hair swooped across his brow and how bright blue eyes would peek out from beneath them. But he’d been a boy, a flirt, and he’d always looked at her as though she was something he couldn’t figure out. Now, though he still seems like he doesn’t know how to break past her walls, he looks like he wants to learn how.

Gods, but he’s every kind of unfair. Willing and wanting and wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Yennefer doesn’t realize she’s reaching for him until she has his cheek against his palm.

“There’s honey on your lips,” Jaskier says. Despite the softness of his tone, something glints within his eyes, and Yennefer finds herself wondering how deep such mischief can go.

She’s the one to lean forward, to pull him close, his jaw cupped in the palm of her hand. She says nothing as she directs his kiss to the corner of her mouth, his tongue swiping over the drops of sugar left behind. It’s warm, sudden— and, then, he shifts and it’s a proper kiss, a meeting of their mouths with a moan caught in the back of Yennefer’s throat.

Curiosity melts into desire in Yennefer’s body, and she wraps her hands in Jaskier’s shirt to keep him in place. He descends upon her with a kiss that feels like a present, like he’s waiting for her to unwrap him and take him apart, like he’s offering every breath left in his lungs— every drop of blood, every heartbeat destiny’s granted him. When she pulls away, gasping, it’s like she’s still breathing him in.

Jaskier’s hands cradle the back of her head and, slowly, he slips his fingers down her spine, toying with the ties of her dress. Yennefer shudders against his touch but he doesn’t react, doesn’t tease as she might have expected.

“Let me take care of you today,” he says with such soft eyes. “Let me give you everything you wish— everything you deserve.”

Only a lifetime of practice keeps Yennefer from revealing how her heart beats so frantically within her chest at the sound of such simple words; but Jaskier— simple, human Jaskier— has eyes that shine when he asks for her permission, eyes that brighten and glimmer and expose every thought within his mind. Yennefer breathes in, breathes out; she wants to stay calm, wants to think things through, wants—

Fuck it. She knows what she wants.

“Yes, Jaskier,” she says, still so close that she can see Jaskier blink at the feeling of her breath across his face. “Yes.”

If Yennefer could immortalize Jaskier’s expression upon a painting, she would. Cheeks flushed and lips damp, eyes wide as his tongue peeks from the corner of his mouth to lick at the honey he’s stolen from Yennefer. The sight of him brings a new kind of smile to Yennefer’s face.

Their second kiss is nothing like the first. There’s nothing slow about it, nothing gentle or hesitant. It’s sudden want and desperation, Yennefer tangling her hands in Jaskier’s ridiculous hair and smirking when he whines at her touch. It’s hungry and it’s searching, mouths parted and lips swollen. Yennefer whines, pressing her body to his— already, she can feel his cock stirring to life against her, and her own body reacts with pleasant warmth between her legs. She tries to push him against the counter, to slot their legs together, but Jaskier stills her with a soft sound, his eyes full of other plans.

He fumbles with Yennefer’s dress, bunching the fabric in his hands as he lifts her skirts to bundle around her waist. Yennefer gasps as Jaskier reaches for her cunt, fingers slipping along her lips with a teasing kind of tenderness. Jaskier smirks at the sound, his thumb brushing along her body until settling upon her clit. Yennefer tugs at Jaskier’s hair, uncaring for her own roughness in her desperation for him to please her. She kisses him again, harder than before, and Jaskier kisses back with just as much force.

Nothing, Yennefer swears, has ever felt quite like this before. Nothing has felt like Jaskier’s mouth on her lips, his hands on her body, his fingers tempting pleasure out of her very being. Yennefer pushes towards him— closer, closer, but never close enough— whining as she feels herself teetering towards that overwhelming edge. She burns, needing and wanting more with every breath, but Jaskier keeps his pace steady, rubbing and stroking as she dampens against his fingertips. Slow and deliberate, more controlled than she’d know to expect from him. She’d call it cruel if it wasn’t so good.

Jaskier looks just as wrecked as she feels when she pulls back from their kiss, properly looking at him. Hair in disarray, cheeks still burning as he bites at kiss-slick lips. Against Yennefer’s side, his cock presses against her through his loose trousers, hard and begging to be touched. Like this, Yennefer wants to hear how it would sound for him to cry out her name— how it would sound for her to have him for as long as she wants him, to ruin him again and again.

Yennefer wonders if he can see that want in her eyes, if that’s why his breaths suddenly shake and his hands lose their steadiness until they still.

“Whatever you want,” he gasps.

It’s less of a promise and more of a plea, a request for her to give in to whatever insane little ideas and desires she has. Yennefer doesn’t bother responding with anything more than a smile.

“So,” Jaskier says, schooling his features into something less desperate than before, “if you’ll allow me…”

He trails off. For a moment, all they do is watch each other— learning, asking and granting permission, understanding and seeing more than anyone’s ever seen. And Jaskier’s eyes light with brilliant comprehension, overwhelming want. He smiles— and he lifts Yennefer with surprisingly strong arms beneath her arse, pulling her into the air so quickly it’s like she’s flying. Swept off her feet, floating in the air— she protests weakly, batting at Jaskier’s shoulders until he settles her onto the table beside her cake.

Yennefer huffs and shoves the cake away from their activities, but she’s not distracted by it for long. It’s her turn to smile as Jaskier sinks to his knees on the floor before her. For a moment, that’s all he does— rest between her legs with his head tilted up, eyes soft as they watch her every movement. But, then, his fingers fiddle with her skirts again and he moves forward, ducking his head as Yennefer takes the fabric from him, lifting it high so she can watch as he presses his mouth to her core.

It’s hot and wet all at once, his tongue and his breath drawing tiny whimpers from Yennefer’s throat. The table’s low enough for him to easily reach her, to hold onto her thighs as he eats her out. He works a hand closer, fingers slipping alongside his tongue, and he strokes inside her with steady motions. The first lick against her clit has Yennefer dizzy, spinning and huffing for breath; she spreads her legs further, urging him closer.

Her hand finds brown strands of hair, digging into his head as she presses into his mouth. Jaskier laughs against her— the bastard— but he quickens his pace, sucking and licking and sighing with each exhale. With a satisfied hum, he lifts his head just once to look up at her from beneath his lashes, face flushed with lust and a joyful sort of wanting.

Gods, Yennefer knew Jaskier was pretty, but she doubts he’d ever look lovelier than he does right now. Her arousal’s clear on his lips and chin, a shining layer sweeter than any honey. Yennefer wants to reach for him, to grip his chin and force him back down, to have him finish what he’s so teasingly started. But, beneath the desire for control, she wants to let him do as he said— to spoil her, to give her pleasure without being forced. She wants to know what it’s like to bed someone who looks at her like Jaskier’s looking at her right now— like he exists only to bring her satisfaction, to make her gasp and moan and nothing else.

Jaskier returns between her legs, and Yennefer’s core rushes with waves of heat. She moans, legs crossing behind Jaskier’s back to keep him in place, breath hitching as she nears her release. Knowing how close she must be, Jaskier doubles his efforts— a few more fingers fit inside, his mouth closing fully around her clit now as she jerks and cries out.

The heat of his mouth, the sensation of his fingers— all of it combines into a crashing blow of pleasure, her hips jerking as her orgasm overtakes her with a sudden strike. Jaskier doesn’t miss a single beat, continuing to work her through it with his hands and mouth, drawing it out for as long as he can.

When he pulls away, Yennefer already misses his touch.

Slowly, Jaskier rises to his feet. Taking Yennefer’s hand into his own, he helps steady her when she drops from the table. Her legs weak and shaking, he wraps an arm around her waist, kissing into her hair and bearing her weight.

“My room or yours?” He asks.

Yennefer laughs, breathless. “You know my bed is nicer.”

Before they take a step in that direction, Yennefer allows her dress to fall from her body completely, the dark fabric crumpling on the floor. Jaskier’s hands hover around her, ready to help her the moment she needs it. Yennefer, though, only grins gently at him and takes his hand again, the two of them wandering towards her room.

They don’t waste time once they enter her room. Upon reaching the bed, falling upon it with Yennefer half in Jaskier’s lap, Yennefer rests a hand on his shoulder and licks her lips in an unspoken invitation. They kiss, as hasty and hungry as before, chasing one another with grunts and gasps. When Yenenfer forces herself to pull away, a thin line of saliva still connects them.

“Here we are,” Yennefer says, adjusting away from Jaskier so she can sink back onto the mattress.

“Here we are, indeed.” Jaskier’s voice gentles, a quiet response as he straddles her waist.

Yennefer reaches for him, stroking his jaw and cupping his chin. Jaskier holds her wrist in place near his lips, watching her as he kisses each fingertip— from her fingertips to her palm, to her wrist and arm and—

And he kisses across her skin, leaning closer with each brush of his lips until he presses to her neck with shuddering breaths. His body nearly covers hers, coating her in his warmth and presence. He lifts his head as he kisses her jaw with light, ticklish pecks, and his eyes burn with desire and determination.

“Well, what are you planning for me, bard?” Yennefer asks. “Don’t make me read your mind to find out.”

There it is, that look Yennefer likes on him so much.

“Don’t pout,” she says, brushing her thumb over his lip.

The bed dips as Jaskier sits back to remove his clothing. With the barest hint of a smile, Yennefer allows him to make it a show for her, revealing smooth skin with each piece of fabric tossed carelessly aside. Yennefer runs her fingers over his stomach once he’s fully bare, and Jaskier jolts at her touch.

Jaskier approaches her again, his knees on either side of her hips with his hands stroking her chest.

“I want to take you apart until you know nothing but how nice you feel,” he promises. “I want to treat you in every way you deserve.”

And what a treat, indeed. When Yennefer imagined the bard in bed— back when they were petty rivals, competing for attention that hardly mattered in the end— she ungraciously offered the imagery of a man who wouldn’t wish to do the work, who’d maybe make some flirtatious compliments but, in the end, hope for his partner to finish them both. His current willingness to take that effort away, though, causes Yennefer to trust him with the control, to savor the feeling of someone caring for her simply because they wish to do so.

“If that’s what you want,” Yennefer says with slow words. “I’m happy to oblige.”

“Thank goodness,” Jaskier laughs, but it’s so terribly warm. Yennefer grins and lies back, waiting.

Jaskier reaches for his cock— red and hard, impatient and telling of just how desperate he must be. He doesn’t bother making a show of this, spreading precum across his length as he watches Yennefer, eyes dark and heavy. He twitches into his own hold, soft whines escaping his throat. When he deems himself ready, he shifts between Yennefer’s legs, lining himself slowly and steadily— he meets her eyes, and then he pushes in.

They moan as one, reaching for the warmth of each other’s bodies, and, after a brief moment, Jaskier rolls his hips against Yennefer as she wraps her legs around him. He increases his pace gradually but not slowly, rocking against her. Yennefer lets her eyes fall shut as Jaskier thrusts deeper inside her, sinking within her. Her head falls back against the pillow as she moans, and her hands find Jaskier’s shoulders, holding tight.

When she opens her eyes again, she groans, meeting Jaskier’s eyes as he raises a hand to his own chest, running through the thick plethora of hair there, pinching at his nipples with whining breaths. He moves closer to Yennefer, and her lips can just reach his neck. She kisses and she bites and she notes how he shudders against her— so sensitive, so reactive.

Minutes pass in a blissful haze, but Jaskier never once loses his rhythm— the benefit of bedding a bard, she supposes. His movements slow only when Yennefer rolls against him, allowing her to draw this out, allowing her to dictate their pace. Gods, but Yennefer wants to burrow inside his body, to curl around this pleasure they share, to purr and coo and hoard it all for her own. She bites his neck again, directing his face towards her with a hand wrapped in his hair.

“I’d have you here every day if you’d let me,” she whispers, fingers digging into his skin when he jerks at her soothing voice. “It’s a crime, bard, that you saved all this for something as foolish as a birthday.”

But the bard, for once, seems to fail in his search for words, muttering something incoherent beneath his breath. Yennefer laughs and his face grows red.

“Perhaps I just needed the right motivation,” he muses, and his teasing tone does nothing to lessen the adoring look in his eyes as he moves over Yennefer.

“Is that so?” Yennefer asks with a dangerous sharpness at the edge of each word. She offers him no chance to respond before snaking her arm behind him, dipping her fingers until she can brush against his hole. He jerks, unwillingly, and Yennefer gasps at the sudden deepness of the thrust. She teases again for the same reaction— again, and again.

“Interesting, bardling,” Yennefer says. “I’ll remember that for your birthday, don’t worry.”

From above her, Jaskier beams as though pleased with himself. He continues to thrust into Yennefer, his pace stuttering into something uncontrolled when she takes her fingers into her mouth and then shoves the wet digits into his hole. Yennefer could watch him for hours, could tease him for longer, but even she loses her composure when he reaches a hand between them, his thumb flicking over her clit. Beautiful, unescapable bliss captures the two of them, and Yennefer bites her lip before she does something stupid like say she cares about the bard.

It doesn’t take long for Yennefer to feel that all-consuming heat building within her body, pressing against each surface of her being as though, at any moment, it may explode. She grips Jaskier tighter and grinds back against him, meeting each of his frantic thrusts. They only grow more erratic as time goes on, pushing and pulling as one, as certain as the waves moving at the call of the moon. Seconds don’t simply drag on— they create worlds within each moment, lifetimes within each minute. Yennefer nears her release the way a maddened horse nears the edge of a cliff.

Yennefer climaxes with a ragged cry, her body flushing with heat and arching against the sheets, shoving her closer and closer to Jaskier. It’s a crushing feeling— an all-encompassing flood of pleasure and satisfaction, thrumming from her core to her chest to every piece of her body. Her nails leave long, pink lines down Jaskier’s skin as she claws at him, gasping and whining and swearing in a way unbecoming of any proper lady. Jaskier follows after, spilling with a drawn-out groan of his own. He collapses half on top of Yennefer, softening inside her.

For a moment, they just lay there, floating in their hazy bliss. Yennefer’s eyes flutter with content tiredness, and she’s only vaguely aware of Jaskier as he pulls out with a stuttering sigh. He moves to lay beside her, looking just as pleased as she feels. They lock eyes and Jaskier grants her a smile she’s rarely seen on him before; it’s something shy and half-hidden, endearingly awkward in its timidity.

“Happy birthday, Yennefer,” he whispers.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Yennefer says, returning his small grin. Jaskier watches her for a moment longer— and she watches the way his eyes shift minutely, regarding her lips and her cheeks and her sweat-soaked skin. He hums softly to himself, shaking his head.

“I’ll prepare a bath for us,” Jaskier says. “That is, if you think you’re up for it.”

“You’ve never prepared a bath in your life,” Yennefer teases, turning to laugh into her pillow. “Wait a while longer and then I’ll help you magic it up.”

“Not really a gift if you’re doing the work,” Jaskier says, raising an eyebrow.

“You did enough work already,” Yennefer says. “And, if you really feel bad, you can make up for it by washing my hair.”

And Jaskier smiles without complaint.

They don’t move until a few minutes later, laughing quietly about the new knots in Yennefer’s hair and the swollen state of Jaskier’s mouth. Yennefer ushers Jaskier towards the bathroom, the tub already filled with clean water— with a wave of Yennefer’s hand, it ripples and steams. Not meant for more than Yennefer, it takes some time for the two of them to fit inside it, but they manage with their legs half-tangled together. Neither complains— like this, Yennefer’s back pressed to Jaskier’s chest, it’s easier for him to reach for her soaps and lather it into her hair.

He massages her scalp long after soothing the knots out of her hair, and Yennefer leans into him with her eyes closed.

“If I fall asleep in here,” Yennefer says, her head resting against his shoulder, “I’m counting on you carrying me out.”

“I was already planning on it,” Jaskier says— and it sounds like a tender promise rather than a tease.

With a tired chuckle, Yennefer allows Jaskier to lift her from the tub, an arm under her legs and the other wrapped around her back. With a kiss against his collarbone, Yennefer’s magic runs across their bodies, drying them as he carries her back to the bedroom. The bed’s a mess— unmade and smelling of their activities— but the blankets are soft when Jaskier sets her on a cleaner area; the pillows are fluffed when Jaskier settles one beneath her head.

And it’s warm, so warm, when Jaskier curls around her.

Though sleep tugs at her mind, Yennefer uses the last of her energy to shift closer to Jaskier, facing him. She drags the blanket over them, sighing in comfort. Jaskier brushes his fingers through her hair, following the locks until resting his hand on her back, drawing her closer still.

“I know it’s just the morning but, I hope you’ve had a pleasant birthday, all the same.” Even with her eyes closed, Yennefer can hear the smile in Jaskier’s voice.

Yennefer smiles, too, feeling safe in the way she can hide her face against Jaskier’s chest.

“It’s perhaps the best I’ve had yet,” she says— and, with a blooming spiral of affection within her heart— she realizes just how much she means it.

[jaskiersvalley]

Your safari au. Please. I need it. Water my crops with tigers and hyenas and witchers. Grabby hands and pleading faces in abundance here.

You are after my heart, Nonnie. And considering I've only talked about the Safari AU on Novigrad, I will happily assume you're lurking on there and I love you for it. Tweaked a little to add in a hyena just for you.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Taking over a park was no easy feat, especially not when it came with a reputation like Nilfgaard had. Eskel scratched his head as he poured over the various financial reports, wondering just how much of it could be trusted. The problem was Nilfgaard had been a shining beacon in the animal conservation world, exceptional facilities, high enrichment for the animals and a successful rehabilitation rate. If there was ever an animal in need of a place, Nilfgaard had been first choice for years. All that came tumbling down in light of the revelation that Nilfgaard had been trading illegally, their animals sold to private owners as exotic pets or, even worse, hunters who wanted a guaranteed, easy kill. The place had been shut down immediately, a skeleton crew kept on to tend to the animals but nothing more. Management was on trial and Kaer Morhen had won the bid to take over. Though small and mostly unknown, nobody else had wanted to touch the remnants of Nilfgaard so they were quite uncontested in their bid. What had seemed like a good idea at the time, an noble because it was in the interest of the animals, now was an absolute headache.

Between the three of them, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert could split most of the urgent work. They had Jaskier working on rebranding, Yennefer managing the board and Vesemir as the head. It left them free to run the day to day of the park, learning the animals as well as the people who they had kept on. But they were going to need more people to actually help the place flourish and regain its standing in the community. Which meant asking the heads of departments for who should be kept on and what roles to recruit for from scratch. The easy ones were things like hospitality, Zoltan had a firm grip on the needs of the park and its visitors, knew all the catering firms and how to run a tight ship. So it was one less headache for them. Eredin had stepped up as Head of Security readily once it was proven he had no knowledge of the animal smuggling. Again, his familiarity with the park was a boon, as were his connections, putting together a security team that could be trusted. Much more messy was the animal welfare section. Fringilla, much like Eredin, had stepped up to become interim Head Zookeeper and was doing her best. While they were understaffed, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert helped out where they could but much of their time was spent getting to know the routine of the park and its many animals.

"We need to know who we can trust," Lambert grumbled, leaning over the table where they had personnel files open. "It's impossible to know who was in on things and who wasn't."

Though, in all likelihood, none of the lower level workers knew that when they helped usher one of their beloved animals into a crate, they weren't sending them off to another facility or a happily ever after. But it was something they just couldn't risk.

"May I?" Fringilla asked, eyes roving over all the files. At Geralt's gesture, she began pulling some of them out. "You'll want Triss, she was a vet here, promote her to senior or chief or whatever you call it. She's solid. And Sabrina, she's great, works well with Triss. Retain Istredd, Mousesack, Calanthe and Eist too. oh, and Letho for the reptile house." As she spoke, she kept looking with a small frown.

"Missing someone?" Eskel asked. Nodding, Fringilla frowned. Without much care for manners, she walked to the cupboards and began pulling out files until she hit the folder of resignations and terminations. From there, she pulled out one last file.

"You'll want him."

The folder was taken from her and the three peered at it with varying levels of frowns.

"You want us to hire someone who was terminated for gross misconduct? Whose notes suggest he abused animals and has blacklisted from working with animals?"

"No. I want you to meet the whistle-blower. Cahir's the one who found out about the trafficking and reported it. Nilfgaard didn't take kindly to it and retaliated."

Not sold on the idea, Lambert crossed his arms over his chest. "His file doesn't look exceptional. Personally, if he applied for a job, I'm not sure he shines enough to even be called in for an interview."

It was a sentiment echoed by the other two and Fringilla had to fight to hold back a sneer. "Invite him in and judge for yourselves. Just because his record doesn't have a quantifiable or gradable measure of commitment doesn't mean he won't be fantastic. If we ever have a new animal in that doesn't need to stay hospitalised, I wouldn't want anyone but Cahir to help settle it in. Especially the younger ones and babies."

Against their better judgement, the three decided to follow Fringilla's advice and e-mailed Cahir an interview offer. The reply was terse but assured them that he would be there at the agreed time.

First impressions were, to put gently, not great. Cahir looked rumpled, bags under his eyes and his attitude was rather sullen. It didn't bode well as they sat in the office, Cahir an odd mix of defiant and subservient. At least Fringilla had the grace to push the interview forward as much as she could until even she sighed and leaned back.

"Why don't we walk through some of the enclosures? Make sure you still remember what's where."

As they walked, Eskel ended up next to Cahir, who seemed content to not talk. That didn't stop Eskel from trying to initiate conversation.

"So, what have you been doing in the three months since you left here?"

"Tried to survive."

The blunt answer had Eskel blinking, there were many things he expected but not that. "Oh?"

For the first time Cahir actually looked at him, sadness bleeding through his half glare. "I used to live on site, worked for Nilfgaard from the age of 15, took a full time post at 18 and moved into the small cottage in the southern corner of the land. They fired me, I lost everything."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Eskel tried to figure out just how much of Cahir's so story was an exaggeration. "Have you been living with friends then?"

"For a few weeks, yeah." Cahir actually scoffed. "I've been trying to get a job and living in a hostel off savings. Turns out, only having in-house qualifications does not bode well for prospects in the world at large."

Fringilla led them into an enclosure where the grass was high. From the looks and smells, Eskel would have guessed it was a tiger's habitat but he wasn't familiar enough with the park yet to know. He would have hesitated going in, especially in a group like they were but Eskel had to trust Fringilla as she came to a stop and they stood in a loose circle.

The house Cahir had mentioned was one Eskel was familiar with. They had often wondered why it was empty yet well kept. It had felt like a life interrupted when they had a look round, nothing personal there yet it didn't have the empty, unlived-in feel of a show home. In a way, Eskel was regretting just how poorly Cahir's interview was going because he could easily see them offering his house back as part of a contract.

"So why are we here?" Lambert's words broke Eskel's reverie. "I thought we wanted to go on a walk."

It was by pure chance that Eskel caught Fringilla's smirk at Cahir and the slightest softening of that stern expression in return. Clicking his tongue, Cahir shot Lambert a look. "Tell me, have you ever been stalked by a tiger before?"

"No."

"You sure about that?" Cahir clicked his tongue twice and the world burst into motion. From the long grass a tiger pounced and Eskel was not ashamed to admit he let out a surprised yell. He wasn't the only one though, Lambert gasping, hand at his mouth and shoulders up as the tiger took Cahir out. They went tumbling and only Geralt looked like he might lurch into action, taking half a step towards the animal and Cahir. It would have been hopeless though, the two were wrestling on the ground until Cahir was on his back, tiger hunched above him.

The first thing Eskel noticed was how Cahir's face was creased into a happy grin. He looked younger, relaxed and happy ever as the tiger licked a large stripe from jaw, up his chin to his hairline. All Cahir did was laugh.

"Yes, yes, I missed you too, Princess," he said. fingers loosened from the fur in the tiger's neck and petted along her nose with the ease of familiarity.

"What the actual fuck?!" Lambert all but screeched. "What the fuckity fucking fuck?"

Eskel had the sense to look to Fringilla for answers, even if he wanted to watch Cahir with the tiger. The change in the man wasn't something he could have predicted. Gone was the sullen, defensive and standoffish air, replaced by an easy smile and a look of serene happiness as Cahir looked at the tiger, checking her over out of habit, muttering about dirty ears and mucky paws as he went.

"That is what you won't ever learn from a CV and qualifications," Fringilla said. She was absolutely looking smug. "Princess came to us at 9 months old, from a circus. Had terrible separation anxiety and a host of other issues too. She wasn't doing well despite our best efforts. At least, not until Cahir took her home and cared for her during the nights rather than leave her in a hospital cage. He introduced her to independence, slept out in the open with her for a few weeks when she was ready to transition to outdoors." Much more quietly, she added, "She's not the only animal he'd done that for. To find out some of his beloved children have been sold hit him hard. I don't think I'd ever seen him cry before then."

Turning back, Eskel watched as Cahir was sat on the ground, tiger with her back to him. The slightly strained "oh no you don't" from Cahir was lost as the tiger pushed up onto her hind legs and flopped backwards. Had she been smaller, Cahir would have probably caught her like a baby. As it was, he grunted as the weight crashed across his legs and he had a happily chuffing tiger's belly to tickle.

"I assume you'd vouch for him?" Geralt asked.

"In a heartbeat." Fringilla grinned at Cahir but it was lost on him, so focused on Princess as he was. The others might as well have stopped existing. That was the moment Eskel knew his heart was in danger. It didn't get easier as time went on. Hiring Cahir was proving to be a good decision. He just got on with the work, never finding anything distasteful or below him to do. If it needed doing, he got it done.

Over time he opened up too, Eskel found himself wandering down to the southern corner of the park to the little house that was now full of life. He got used to Cahir usually having a baby or two in his care. Sometimes he babysat for Letho's hatchlings, content to have baby snakes trying to look around his arms as they learned how to cope with being handled. The friendship between the two was one Eskel couldn't claim to understand but they seemed to make it work.

"Knock knock," he announced himself by the open back door.

"Come on in," Cahir called as he wandered out of the kitchen. "I'm just finishing making dinner, care to join me?"

That was new too, Cahir was inviting Eskel into his life more and more. It made Eskel feel even better about what he was planning to ask at Fringilla's instructions.

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. There's a new arrival that we think will need your assistance."

Cahir cocked an eyebrow and held up an empty plate in question again. At Eskel's nod he began loading. "Anything you can tell me about it?"

"Not much. Private collector got raided, had a few animals in his less than tender care."

"So they'll be part socialised, part traumatised. I can work with that."

Somehow, Eskel had no doubts about that. But he was holding back some information because Fringilla had told him to keep it a surprise. The next morning the transport van rolled in, a small group of them ready to handle the newest arrivals. There were a couple of pythons for Letho to bring into his fold, a parrot for Guxart to train into swearing. Last was a large crate. As interesting as it was, Eskel's eyes were on Cahir, the way his nostrils flared as he caught scent of the hyena. The box opened and the animal cautiously peered out.

"Dave!" Cahir exclaimed, all semblance of quiet professionalism gone as he hopped off the top of the crate he'd helped open.

If his reaction had been exuberant, it was nothing compared to the hyena's. They collided next to the box, all over each other.

"I missed you buddy." There were tears running down Cahir's cheeks as Dave alternated between butting into him and running tight, excited circles around him before settling down and trying to bodily press into him. Glancing up, Cahir gave Fringilla a wobbly smile. "How did you find her?"

Her? Last Eskel checked, Dave was a male name. Still, he wasn't going to interrupt the tender reunion with such a dumb question.

"She was part of a collector's hoard. Didn't have the right permits so he was made to give her up to those who could offer her proper care."

A broken "thank you" was whispered in her direction before Cahir buried his face in the hyena's neck. Eskel watched with so many questions. Thankfully Fringilla didn't miss that fact.

"She was born in captivity, originally assumed to be a boy, needed to be hand reared after mum rejected her. She never understood that she wasn't human and as a result has spent most of her life living with Cahir. We've tried so often to introduce her to a pack but she never took to them, content to stay with them for a day, two at a push before she starts pining. When Nilfgaard sold her, that's when Cahir got suspicious, did some digging and realised she hadn't gone to another park. So Dave is a catalyst for this whole fiasco if you will."

Watching them, Eskel nodded. He had a hyena to befriend if he wanted to keep Cahir in his life it would seem.

[wherethewordsare]

Sign Sealed and Delivered

Part 2 to This Fic Here

It had been easy for Jaskier really. There were so few people in the world that he had truly trusted, but giving Geralt his cloak had felt as natural as breathing. He knew what his clan would say if they knew, the traditions that he was breaking by giving his cloak so freely to not just a land walker, but a witcher, a monster hunter, would have been beyond scandal. He just hoped that some part of Geralt didn’t realize what Jaskier had truly done.

It wasn’t every day you asked a witcher to accept a betrothal pact.

He had never felt safer though once Geralt held his cloak, knowing that as long as he lived, the cloak would be kept safe. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the way Geralt had asked him to return to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter.

“I want to keep it there. I don’t feel right traveling with it. What if something were to happen? You’d be at risk as long as I was?” There was a worry to the crease of his brow that softened Jaskier to near puddy. “But I want you to know that it’s safe. It only makes sense that you come with me.”

“Of course I know it’ll be safe, dear heart, that’s why I gave it to you,” Jaskier laughed, hoping that the heat he felt in his face wasn’t showing too much.

“Please?” Geralt asked softly. His hand twitched on his thigh as they sat by the fire, the autumn settling in around them.

Jaskier looked over and nearly lost his breath. Golden eyes stared back at him with a warmth he hadn’t been expecting. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come with you.”

That was how Jaskier found himself following his witcher up into the mountains as the first frosts clung to their bedrolls each morning. After the first particularly cold night, Jaskier woke up to find Geralt slipping into his bedroll and wrapping an arm around him.

“‘S cold, and it’s only going to get colder,” was his only explanation as he settled in against Jaskier’s back. It made sense to stay together for warmth and it wouldn’t be the first time but something felt different about this time that Jaskier couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Geralt’s hand splayed over his ribs like he wanted to keep him safe. Maybe it was the way his cold nose buried into Jaskier’s nape.

It became a routine quickly for them to share a bedroll, to walk a bit closer along the path up, for Geralt to give small reassuring touches to Jaskier’s arm or the small of his back when the ground grew uneven.

Once Jaskier’s feet found a patch of ice before his eyes could and he would have been flung down into the slush of mud had Geralt not grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close. They stood like that for a moment, Geralt looking particularly smug and ready to say something to match the mischief in his eyes.

“Not a word, witcher, or so help me, only one of us is making it to this keep of yours,” Jaskier sniffed, righting himself though Geralt still had yet to let go.

“Hmm.” Geralt kept his council but still smirked as they continued their way. He hadn’t mounted Roach once since they had set off, keeping beside Jaskier the entire trek. He pointed out species of trees and roots that only grew on the mountain, ones that he used for certain potions, ones Eskel used for cooking, and ones Lambert used for other purposes that made him scrunch his nose.

“We have narcotics in Oxenfurt, Geralt. I’m not some naive village waif you’ve picked up along the way,” Jaskier only laughed when Geralt shot him a look. “Oh please, Remember when you picked me up just outside of Foam that one year and I stuffed myself on those rolls from the market?”

Geralt stopped walking, looking around him as if he had just noticed where he was. “This was a mistake. I realize you and Lambert should never meet. I won’t survive the winter.” He looked almost forlorn though the corners of his mouth tilted slightly.

“Sorry, was that a joke? Are you making jokes right now? Who is this? Where is my Geralt, hmm?” Jaskier was still laughing though fairly winded as they hiked the steep incline. But then Geralt was looking at him, his eyes soft and the smile almost fond.

“Your Geralt, hmm?” He took a long stride ahead of Jaskier before reaching back and offering him a hand up. Roach was wandering up the hill slightly ahead of them, sure of the path she was taking.

Jaskier snorted, looking away. He felt caught somehow though, as a selkie, he had already given himself away if Geralt knew. Did Geralt know? There was no way he could know. Selkies weren’t exactly common anymore, and on top of that, they made a habit of staying clear of land usually.

After that, they had found it hard to keep a conversation going. Jaskier had been surprised to find that Geralt became such a conversationalist. He wondered if it had to do with them getting closer and closer to his home. When they finally arrived Geralt looked at him, almost grinning before walking down the slope. He must have seen someone Jaskier couldn’t because he was shouting for someone.

Another witcher appeared. “Well, pretty boy, finally made-” The witcher stopped, looking at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow disappearing into his dark hair. “Well, hello there. Geralt didn’t mention his bard was-” he didn’t get to finish the statement as Geralt’s fist connected with his stomach.

“Good to see another year hasn’t done anything about that mouth, Lambert,” Geralt grumbled as Lambert heaved, still bent over. It suddenly dawned on Jaskier that that time outside of Posada, Geralt may have held back some.

“Leave off of him, Geralt. He’s just mad his cat isn’t here.” Another witcher appeared at the gate, a series of scars across his face.

It happened so quickly. One second the three of them were standing there, nearly perfectly still, the next there was a brawl spilling out into the courtyard beyond them. There were curses and fists thrown in every direction. Jaskier simply looked at Roach who laid her ears flat and huffed, otherwise unbothered.

“What have I walked into, Roachie girl?” He looked around and could make out the stable. “I think this might take a moment. Let’s get you seen to.”

Jaskier led Roach away from the courtyard and into the stable, finding a clean stall for her alongside three other horses. Looking around he noticed that there had been room enough for many more but otherwise, the stables were empty.

“I guess when there aren’t many witcher’s left, there isn’t need for witcher steeds, hmm?” He said softly, undoing her tack. He had watched Geralt do this enough times that it was easy to get her settled though she would nip at him unless he bribed her. “You can’t keep doing this to me. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“You do that by yourself, plenty, Bard.” Geralt deadpanned from the door. “Move over, you’ve missed a good portion of her flank.” He took the brush from Jaskier but didn’t push him away, letting him stay in the small space. His face was a mess of mud and blood and marks.

“You win?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so, but the season has just started. I’ll get Eskel back,” He mused, brushing down Roach. She knew better than to nip at him for sugar. Jaskier gave her some anyways.

“Got to stop spoiling her, Jask,” Geralt sighed but he didn’t make an effort to stop him. He picked up their bags, carefully slinging the one with Jaskier’s cloak in it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you-” He licked his lips and looked down for a moment. “Come on.”

Jaskier followed him, his eyes not being able to take in enough at once. The hall though in a state of disrepair still held the ghosts of its grandeur. They went in near silence, Geralt only turning every so often to make sure Jaskier was still following. There had been a handful of times when he had to stop to wait for him. The walls were nearly a maze, and the stairs didn’t seem to have a rhythm or reason to them. After several flights, they stopped outside a large door and Geralt set their bags down.

“If you don’t want to stay here, I can find somewhere else. I just thought since-” He didn’t say anything else, pushing the door open slowly and sliding in before Jaskier. He stepped back to let Jaskier look around, taking in the simple four poster bed, the little bit of furniture, the large bay window that looked out over the mountains.

On the mantle a few small personal objects made up the only decoration of the place. It took him a moment but Jaskier recognized a few of them. There was the small wood carved wolf’s head he had given Geralt during a festival years ago, an ornate flask that Geralt said wasn’t practical but apparently hadn’t tossed away like Jaskier had suspected. There was a pressed flower laying on a book, the bright blue of the bloom faded slightly but Jaskier thought it looked familiar.

“This is your room,” he realized, whirling around and taking in the large bed again and Geralt still standing by the door. He hadn’t set his bags down just yet, watching Jaskier.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“You want me to stay here, in your room,” Jaskier’s heart pounded against his ribs so hard he knew Geralt could hear it.

“Yes,” Geralt looked down, frowning.

“With you?” It was too much to hope for but he had to hear it.

“There’s another room down the hall if you would rather. You don’t need-”

“I’d love to, Geralt. I mean, stay here. With you, if you’d-” something bubbled up in his chest, light and floating like sea foam. The room already tasted like him. “If you’d have me, of course.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, only set his bags down finally and began to unpack. Jaskier made himself comfortable on the bed, watching as potions and clothes made their way to where they belonged. Their kettle and pots were hung by the hearth and Jaskier’s things seemed to be put away along side Geralt’s. The last bag was placed beside Jaskier and he knew what was in it.

“I could keep it here, if this is where you think it would be safest,” Geralt almost whispered. His thighs were pressed against the bed and he hovered over Jaskier slightly.

Jaskier bit his lip, knowing full well that laughing was not the response here. He reached up tentatively, his hand wrapping around Geralt’s wrist as he slowly pulled him down. He kept his fingers loose so as to not make the witcher feel trapped. “Geralt,” he said softly, shifting up on his knees, they were nearly chest to chest now. “I know I’m safest where you are.”

He let Geralt close the distance between them, his mouth slotting against Jaskier’s in a firm line, crowding him back onto the bed. Jaskier let himself be maneuvered, the laughter he had been holding back spilling over, bright and warm and safe as Geralt wrapped his arms around him.

The mattress wasn’t the most comfortable and the furs needed airing out and they both still had weeks of travel clinging to their clothes but Geralt was kissing him breathless and the ache he had been carrying for well over a decade finally slipped away from his chest.

Finally Geralt pulled away, his hand sliding up to trace along Jaskier’s brow, fingers brushing back his fringe. “I’m going to earn that trust, over and over,” his arm still around Jaskier’s middle gave him a light squeeze and he dipped down to press another kiss to his face before sliding out of his arms again.

Jaskier made an indignant sound in protest which only made the witcher chuckle. “Oh no, you don’t! Years I’ve been waiting for this! Where do you think you’re going?” He groused, reaching for Geralt again.

“Dinner,” Geralt hummed smugly.

At the mention of food, Jaskier’s stomach growled and he flopped back into the pillows with a groan.

“Come on, I got to tell the others I came home with a seal-wife.”

Geralt caught the pillow that came flying at the back of his head with very little effort and it only made Jaskier more petulant as he tried to burrow down into the musty furs. “Go to land, Jaskier, it’ll be fun, Jaskier. Fall for an ass hole of a witcher, Jaskier,” he muttered but he couldn’t help the smile that was threatening to split his cheeks.

There would be time enough for the other things he wanted. For now, Jaskier could sit through dinner with witchers and know that he was safe and wanted but still free.

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 4/5 - AO3 - Previous - Next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

CW: Mentions of sex and implied sexual content

_______

“What?!” Geralt stared at Jaskier, who had one hand on his hips and the other flailing through the air like a wet fish. The last hour had been a whirlwind of emotions and Geralt was struggling to keep up. First, Eskel and Lambert’s teasing over Jaskier, which had practically given away his true feelings, and then Jaskier running off to his room, stinking of fear and regret… now this? Whatever this was supposed to be.

“We’ll tell the others that I was just being dramatic, I’m a bard after all,” Jaskier explained, a picture of nonchalance as he flicked his hand in the air, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s inner crisis.

They stared at each other, both stubborn as mules, neither willing to back down, until Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have got to be joking.”

“Nope!” Jaskier trilled, popping the ‘p’ and winking at Geralt as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The bard’s mood swings were difficult to keep up with on the best of days but Geralt felt like he was stuck in a storm, not too dissimilar to the burst of magic that Pavetta had created all those years ago. He couldn’t move forward. He couldn’t move back. No, he was just a boat on the waves, being pulled by the currents of Jaskier’s tide.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled, not quite believing that he was about to agree to this. “Fine. How do we do this?”

Jaskier glanced at the bed. “Is it squeaky?”

“What?”

“The bed? Is it squeaky?”

This was ridiculous, but it was too late to back out now. He’d started this after all, dragging Jaskier all the way up this godforsaken mountain, to a crumbly keep in the middle of a harsh winter. The least he could do was let Jaskier have his fun. He would just have to hope that he didn’t get aroused and make it awkward for both of them. Well, Geralt supposed he could just blame it on the circumstances and weather the inevitable teasing from the bard. “No,” he admitted.

“So… how much will they be able to hear?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head, his hand still resting on his hip in a way that was just so entirely Jaskier.

“What?”

“Gods, Geralt. It’s like blood from a stone! Vesemir said witchers have good hearing. So our conversation now? Is that safe from prying ears?”

Geralt frowned, focussing his witcher senses. The extra set of mutagens had given him an edge over the others and from their room he could just about hear a faint murmur of voices but he couldn’t make out any words, or even who was talking. So he nodded. “We’re fine.”

“And what if we start shouting?”

“Less fine.”

Jaskier smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his tongue flicked out between his teeth, dragging along his lips slowly. Geralt was entranced. The air grew heavy between them and Geralt felt as if Jaskier was trying to seduce him for real, not for some silly game to trick the other witchers. A heat pooled in his core as Jaskier’s eyes roamed over his body, the same way they did when Jaskier was trying to lure some unexpecting fool into his bed.

Only now Geralt was the fool.

And it was working.

“What about moaning?” Jaskier purred, closing the gap between them, his hands splayed on Geralt’s chest. The bard’s gaze kept flicking down to Geralt’s lips, his fingers trailing along the crevices of Geralt’s heavy jumper.

Geralt swallowed, his mouth feeling too dry. What the fuck was Jaskier trying to acheive? The idiot had definitely said pretend to have sex… hadn’t he?

“Jask,” he murmured, a low warning. This had gone on long enough, and Geralt’s control was beginning to crumble. He wanted nothing more than to take the bard into his arms, to kiss that stupid grin off his face. To wreck those pretty lips that had teased him with every lick for years, with no idea of how badly it was affecting him.

“Yes, darling?” Jaskier whispered, standing so close that his breath was tickling, warm against Geralt’s skin.

The sweet scent of arousal was wafting off of the bard in waves, making Geralt feel heady, and the world seemed to fade around them until it was just the pair of them. It reminded him of their first kiss, a trial unlike any other in Geralt’s life, one to see whether they’d even have a chance of pulling off this crazy scheme, just because they hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter.

Because Geralt hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter. Every year they separated, Geralt felt like he was leaving a little more of his soul behind until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Rather than admitting the truth to Jaskier, and actually confessing his feelings, he’d been a coward. So they were pretending to be in love. Chaste kisses, fake touches, lies.

It was all lies.

By gods, he wanted it to be real.

He took a deep breath through his mouth, trying to clear his head of Jaskier’s scent. “How do we fake it?”

Jaskier’s flirtatious facade dropped, for barely a second but Geralt still saw it. He knew the bard too well to miss the subtle change in his expression, but Jaskier was an expert, a trained actor, and he masked his mistake well. For anyone else it would have worked. He plastered a grin on his face, clearing his throat as he stood back away from Geralt. Ringed fingers patted awkwardly on Geralt’s chest as the distance grew between them. “Fake it, yes. Well, I was. I was thinking some jumping on the bed, moaning, grunting, maybe some dirty talk,” Jaskier laughed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that was completely ridiculous but unbearably endearing, and Geralt wanted Jaskier back in his space. The distance was too much.

And then an idea struck him. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, tilting his head and smirking at the bard. “Won’t work.”

“Oh yeah, and how would you know?”

“I told you, we can smell it.”

“Smell… sex?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide, a bright pink flush colouring his cheeks. His mouth dropped open as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Ah. Right then… well, umm. We don’t. We don’t have to…”

“They’ll wonder why, you said yourself,” Geralt murmured, once again closing the gap between them, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and running his thumb through the bristles of stubble on his jaw. The bard seemed to freeze under his touch, staring back at Geralt, his mouth dropped open, and that crackling spark between them was back, licking across Geralt’s skin. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat, a flicker of anxiety squeezing in his chest. It would be hard to explain this as just friendly banter should Jaskier reject him now.

“You want to?”

Geralt tilted his head. “Do you want to?”

Jaskier barked a laugh, his fingers flexing and coming back to gripped at Geralt’s clothes. “Only if you want to. Oh for Melitele’s sake!”

The bard crashed their lips together in a kiss, his fingers cupping the nape of Geralt’s neck, holding him close. Geralt moaned into Jaskier’s mouth as his lips parted, allowing Geralt’s tongue to slip against his. One of Jaskier’s hands trailed down Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until the bard’s fingers gripped Geralt’s arse, pressing their bodies together. Arousal and lust filled the air around them in a cloud, sweet and intoxicating, more addictive than any drug. Geralt groaned into the kiss, breaking their lips apart so Jaskier could breathe, but never letting his lips leave Jaskier’s skin that was warm and salty on his tongue. He pressed kisses along Jaskier’s jaw, nuzzling his nose into the bard’s neck as he breathed in that delicious scent, sweet chamomile and an underlying musk. Jaskier whimpered, the sound creating a quiver of vibrations in his throat, tingling against Geralt’s lips.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, the name; a prayer as it rolled off his tongue, a whisper in the otherwise silent room. Geralt had never heard his name said in such a reverent manner, like he was all that mattered in the world. It was almost too much.

Witchers don’t feel.

Witchers can’t feel.

Witchers can’t fall in love.

Well, it seemed Geralt hadn’t gotten that memo when he was going through the trials. He loved, and he was so in love with this idiot that was in his arms.

Love.

Sweeter than honey.

Jaskier’s scent.

Geralt pulled back with a start, staring frantically at the bard as if he could figure everything out just by looking in those gorgeous cornflower blue eyes. It was no use, Jaskier was pouting up at him, confused and a little hurt, but there was no trace of love… not that Geralt knew what he was looking for. People looked at him with horror, fear, occasionally lust but never love. Would he even be able to tell?

“Geralt?”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier cupped his cheek, blue eyes searching and panicked. “Geralt, what’s going on? I’m not Yennefer, I can’t… I can’t read your mind. You need to talk to me, please.”

After taking a long breath, Geralt closed his eyes. “I-I… fuck.”

Jaskier’s fingers on his cheek moved, brushing a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ears, and there was a soft press of lips against his, gentle and grounding. Before it could get heated, Jaskier pulled away, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, and Geralt covered Jaskier’s hand with his own. The mood shifting from something hot and burning to something all the more intense, intimate. “It’s okay, dear heart, I understand.”

“But--”

“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, his breath hot against Geralt’s lips, and he said it so confidently, without any fear. There was no way those words could be taken any other way. Jaskier was in love with him.

Jaskier was in love with him.

Actually in love with him.

They were alone, no need to pretend or act or lie. This was all real, and Geralt suddenly understood why people said they were on top of the world. He felt invincible, with this delicate flower, so mortal and breakable, by his side. He could take on the most fearsome of monsters and be absolutely fine, as long as Jaskier loved him.

And that made him feel unreasonably angry. All the lies he’d been fed as a child. Love was a weakness to be exploited.

No.

Love was his strength, his greatest weapon.

“Geralt, darling…” Jaskier’s voice, low and warm like a summer’s day, snapped him from his thoughts. “I adore you but, but… can you let go?”

Geralt growled, blinking as he focussed back into the room. His fingers were digging into Jaskier’s hips, and judging by the look on the bard’s face, he was hurting him. “Shit, sorry.”

Thankfully, Jaskier just laughed, a beautiful musical sound that made warmth blossom in Geralt’s chest. “Oh darling, what is going on in there?” A long finger tapped Geralt right in the middle of his forehead, and then Jaskier placed a hand on his hip and cocked his head, a pout playing on his lips.

“Hmm, pondering on the subject of love.”

“Oh, ho, ho!” Jaskier giggled. “We shall make a poet out of you yet, witcher! And what is it about love that has got you all grumpy and scary face?”

“Witchers don’t love,” Geralt repeated the familiar words, though now they felt empty and bitter on his tongue.

Jaskier scoffed. “And yet… only significant others are allowed to Kaer Morhen? That’s still a load of bollocks, you know. As if our decades-long friendship isn’t more important than a quick summer fling.”

“But you love me.”

“Ah yes, but… oh shush. You know what I mean, Geralt!”

Geralt chuckled. “Hmm.”

“You. are. Terrible!” Jaskier snapped, clearly starting to spiral into one of his moods, but Geralt had a better idea. He scooped Jaskier up into his arms and over his shoulder in one swift movement. “Oi!”

“You talk too much.”

“And yet, you love me,” Jaskier trilled happily “Now, take me to bed, witcher. I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

Geralt chuckled, throwing Jaskier down onto the bed. The bard squeaked as he bounced on the mattress but soon regained his composure, tongue slipping between his lips as he gazed up at Geralt with a smirk. He looked beautiful, clothes already a mess and his hair tousled from their kisses and his own habit of messing it up when he got anxious. His cheeks were still a little blotchy from the earlier tears but there was no denying his beauty… almost elf like in his elegance. Geralt felt like he could stare at his bard for hours and never grow bored of the sight, but he was allowed to touch now, and that was just too tempting. Years of restraint, and now the chains were broken. He crawled onto the bed, resting between Jaskier’s spread legs and pressed their lips together, slow and lazy.

They had all night after all.