#so does Geralt

[kuwdora]

WIP GAME tell me more about “witcher allergies” pls

Alright, so this is an idea/scene that I have that I haven’t put on AO3 yet cause part of me wants to include it in one of my longer Leshkel stories. But I probably should just leave this as a standalone scene since it’s pretty funny on it’s own. My Scrivener doc says I created this allergies file in January of last year. That’s how outstanding some of my WIPs are, omg. 😭

The idea is that you turn a mutated witcher into an ancient monster of the woods and that witcher-leshen pollen might affect the immune systems of only witchers. 🤧 And some witchers more than others. Here is a draft that's still rough but gets the point across. 😆 (yo it's scary to put my ideas into the light of day. Hope you like?? Want to see more? Let me know.)

Seasonal Allergies

TWN. post-Voleth Meir. Leshen Eskel AU

Gen, but implied Geralt/Eskel, maaaybe vaguely implied sex pollen.

~1300w

Jaskier reached the great hall and found Ciri and Yennefer sitting across the table from Geralt and Coen, chatting with one another. Coen was hunched over his bowl of food, looking utterly miserable like he hadn’t slept a wink, and Geralt looked like he was ready for a nap.

“Fancy meeting you all here for a spot of dinner,” Jaskier said. “Training going well?” Jaskier asked and Ciri nodded distantly.

Jaskier picked at his food and the loudest godsdamned sneeze he’d ever heard erupted from the table, startling him so much that he dropped his knife.

“Whaaat the!” he said, looking around the table.

Coen’s face was in his palms and the witcher sighed morosely. Jaskier eyed the tatter of scars on the man’s head, the slouch of his shoulders. The witcher sniffled. Sniffled.

“Are you sick?” he asked and Coen sighed again and leaned back to pull wadded linen from his thigh and blow his nose which surely looked like a yes.

“I thought witchers don’t get sick,” Ciri said.

“They don’t,” Jaskier said. He looked at Geralt. “In twenty years the only time I have seen this one sneeze was when he was clearing his nostrils of selkimore guts.”

Ciri pulled the spoon from her mouth and gently tapped it against her plate, her face twisting in thought. “My friends—the ones I used to play with on the streets when I back in Cintra—they used to have a rhyme whenever one of us got too sick to come out and play,” she said.

“Sixth sneeze, let me breathe, selkie please,” Ciri rhymed. She tapped out a beat on the table and Jaskier smiled a little, the pride warming his chest. He never thought it was the smartest or cleverest rhyme, but it had been memorable enough that she could recall it all these years later. Jaskier happily tucked that pride away.

“That was you?” Ciri asked, her eyes flicking from Geralt to Jaskier and back again. Jaskier grinned.

“Sure was,” he said. He was about to reminisce for her, but he glanced at who Geralt barely nodded, and Jaskier lost his train of thought. Geralt still looked half-asleep at the table.

Lambert came stomping his way over with his plate of food steaming mug. He looked far from sleepy.

“Fucken hells,” Lambert growled, obviously congested, and sat down on Jaskier’s other side. Jaskier recoiled when the ginger witcher wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“They’re allergies,” Yennefer said and that didn’t make a lick of sense to Jaskier. He looked at Lambert and back to Coen. Sickness didn’t make sense either, he supposed, but Geralt was still sitting there sleepy-eyed between the two of them.

“Witchers don’t have allergies,” he pointed out.

“It’s the pollen,” Yennefer said and Jaskier frowned again.

“What pollen? I haven’t sneezed since we got here,” Jaskier said and finally took his first bite of the stew. “And it’s the middle of winter.”

His stomach growled and Coen blew his nose on a rag. The sound made Jaskier lose his appetite.

Ciri looked between Coen and Lambert with an amused pity.

Yennefer, on the other hand, was looking at Geralt with a knowing twist to her lips and Jaskier was equal parts curious and confused.

“Jaskier, do you know what animal has the longest orgasm and how long they orgasm for?—And don’t bother saying claiming it’s you,” she said, preemptively rolling her eyes at hi.

“Isn’t it the goat? Because they’re horny. With the horns and,” Jaskier paused, eyeing Ciri for a moment, not sure what the protocol was for discussing animal genitalia and orgasms in front of a Princess. But Yennefer was the one who had asked, “the giant goat balls?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped in surprise again the force of Coen’s sneeze rocked their side of the bench.

“The average length of a pig’s orgasm is 30 minutes. It can sometimes last up to an hour and a half,” Yennefer said carefully, her eyes leveled on Geralt. Jaskier frowned and looked at Geralt who inhaled and he did sound a little congested now that Jaskier was listening.

“Okay… what’s that have to do with pollen in winter?” Jaskier said.

“The average pollenating season of most trees last anywhere between 2 to 5 months depending on the region,” Yennefer said just as Coen was blowing his nose again.

“That tree?” Jaskier eyed the medallion tree which looked quite dead to his eye, but then again he didn’t know much about trees.

“The tree,” Coen mumbled sadly, which was of no help to Jaskier.

“Eskel?” Ciri asked and Yennefer nodded.

“Uh,” Jaskier said and frowned. “What?”

“Eskel is part leshen,” Ciri said as it was obvious…which it was. “Leshen are part tree, part monster,” she added.

“There’s… leshen pollen. In the keep?” Jaskier asked and looked around. “Why aren’t we sneezing? Do you have allergies?” he asked Ciri and Ciri shrugged, showing no sniffle as far as he could see or hear.

Jaskier sniffed. “I’m inhaling leshen tree pollen now?” He couldn’t see any of it or smell it for that matter.

She nodded. “Didn’t they teach botany at Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asked.

“Wait… Pollen, tree. Seeds. Seeds spread their—seed to reproduce and—” Jaskier said and Yennefer’s grin broadened. Jaskier looked at the two witchers again, trying to connect the sneezy thoughts to Yen’s words. “Does that mean Eskel… is orgasming?”

“Fucken hells,” Lambert muttered.

Ciri looked amused and concerned and Yennefer was smiling behind her mug. Jaskier peered over at Geralt who was not sneezing, nor did he seem sniffly.

“Are you still immune?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt took a deep breath and looked over at Jaskier for the first time. It was a strange sight to behold: yellow eyes that were red-rimmed and almost puffy, but he was inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of the air. Like he was scenting blossoms in spring. Clear nostrils, but still affected somehow.

“No,” Geralt said and Yennefer cleared her throat.

“Geralt and Eskel have been working together understand his new leshen anatomy, haven’t you Geralt?” Yennefer asked. It was mild and leading in a way that Jaskier didn’t have to see the way she raised her eyebrows in mirth. Jaskier looked back at Geralt who avoided both Jaskier and Ciri’s eyes and instead ate another bite of food.

“The pollen shouldn’t bring anyone to harm,” Geralt said and took a bite of food, giving Yennefer a brief look that was both pleading and amused.

“Is it because you went through the Trials twice that it affects you differently?” Ciri asked.

“Different? Different how?” Jaskier asked and Yennefer’s smile grew. Before Jaskier could ask another six follow-up questions, the doors to the courtyard opened. He only managed to identify the approaching witcher as Tolbert from the axes hanging from his belt because his face was covered with an unusual helmet. There was a clear plate for his eyes and two knobs protruding from his face.

Lambert sat up so suddenly that Jaskier’s bowl rattled on the table and pointed a spoon at Tolbert. “Oi, where the fuck you get that contraption?”

Tolbert sat down next to Ciri but didn’t take the helmet off. On closer inspection it looked more like a mask with thick straps that kept it firmly attached to his face.

“Dwarf named Avlaf. S’what they use in Mahakham,” Tolbert said and his voice was thick and muffled. Lambert leaned forward, nearly twitching and tried to swipe it from Tolbert’s face. Tolbert punched Lambert in the elbow.

“Get your own. I found ‘im through a guard in Vergen. He’ll be able to pretty up your face,” Tolbert said and although half his words were muffled through the mask. Lambert cursed and knocked back half the stein of tea.

WIP Game List

@ghostinthelibrarywrites tagging you since you had also asked about my Leshkel fic in a previous ask!!

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 43

Geralt will never admit it, but he loves when he dreams. It's soft, and weak, and bordering on psychotic, and yet the dreams are the best thing to ever happen to him. It all started when he opened his eyes to find himself in a field of buttercups and dandelions, with a man stood in the middle, playing a tune on his lute. He was a young man, looked to be barely a man, in all honesty. He introduced himself as Jaskier and pestered Geralt the entire dream until he finally woke up. But every time he dreamt, he dreamt of Jaskier again, until he began to look forward to it, every night. It must be some sort of sick lucid dreaming, given that Jaskier also began to grow closer affections to Geralt. Geralt was quite good at dreaming if you ask him. Over the years, he imagined Jaskier differently. He grew into himself more. Looked more 'complete' in a way. More confident. Jaskier begins getting more and more affectionate, until one night he kisses Geralt. They do a lot more kissing from then on. They fuck, and cuddle, and Jaskier plays with Geralt's hair, and sings him songs, and they kiss, and laugh, and talk, and it's all in their sunny paradise. Geralt appreciates the relieve from the cruel realities of world every night. He thinks it must be a bad trait for a witcher, but he watches Jaskier laugh at his own joke for the fourth time that hour and realizes he doesn't really care if it makes him a worse witcher. It isn't until the night Jaskier mutters "Oh Geralt, how I wish you were real." that Geralt realizes their dreams might not be as fake as they had both apparently assumed.

[bluedillylee]

Geralt used a special witcher wrestling move!

It was super effective!

[ID: Jaskier and Geralt lay in bed next to each other. Jaskier can’t sleep and tosses and turns bothering Geralt who is trying to sleep. Geralt turns and flops on top of Jaskier telling him to stop moving. Jaskier’s eyes get big and he says “oh this is very nice” as he embraces Geralt. Last panel Jaskier is asleep with Geralt blushing as he’s laying on top of him. End ID]

[mechadria]

im honestly still just as wary about the next season of the witcher even after the table read -

because it was never about liam's acting skills.

do i think henry cavill was a spectacular match for geralt?

yeah. but not only because of his looks or his acting: he GOT geralt and the witcher in general. he's a massive nerd who knows the franchise like he wrote it himself and was a big reason (not the sole, but a big one) that the show kept on track and was even somewhat faithful to the original material.

but i don't believe cavill did a regé jean-page and like. left to seek stardom or whatever. this was a passion project too for him, you could tell.

no, I'm wary of the future of witcher because of the higher ups involved.

so what DID the people who disagreed so hard with him he quit the project do? well, they needed a 7000 word letter from joey batey and the fanbase pleading just to allow jaskier to be queer like he (pretty much) canonically is. didn't need incentive from anyone to create fake gay motives for the worse villain of the story, though. didn't need incentive to completely ruin one of the most beloved characters of the franchise, or let his actor get harassed on socials after the swap without ever saying shit.

i do not trust that these people, who have proven callous, arrogant and ignorant about both the source material and the opinions of the fanbase (and have made some choices nearing bigotry) and who disagreed so heavily with the actor who knew the source material best are capable of producing a good season 4. liam or no liam. am i hoping he's a good geralt? yes, the series and other actors don't deserve to have their performance harmed by him. can it be as good as the seasons cavill was in? for the reasons cited above: fuck no.

[spielzeugkaiser]

Lovechild AU idea: I would like to suggest adding Vespula and Radovid into the found family mix! Vespula has the aunt vibe of "I could never be mad at you sweetie, have a cookie, anyway, whAT THE FUCK JASKIER." (I know Yen probably has that role but the kid is allowed to have cool aunts) and Radovid probably bonded with him while he and Jaskier were dating, like out of all the people his dad dated, he's the stepparent he liked the most. Anyway, I'm just hashing out ideas bc I love those two and want to see our sweet baby boy interact with them!

[MASTERPOST] Oh gosh...

The thing is, I DON'T TRUST RADOVID AT ALL. not yet at least. So if he exists in this AU... they're not having a good time.

[thelostgirl21]

One thing I really want to see happen in Season 4...

Valdo Marx: Nice to see you again, Joseph!

Jaskier: *Heavy sigh* That's -

Yarpen: *Stepping in front of him protectively.* Julian Alfred Pankratz to you, you dying sounding beached whale! Only his friends call him Joseph!

Jaskier: Ah, actually, that's Jaskier.

Yarpen: *Dismissively.* Yeah, I KNOW.

Jaskier: *Getting all teary eyed.* I know you do.

[bilberry-jam]

A little fine liner Geralt in my smallest sketchbook :)

[hanzajesthanza]

“what does geralt get from that friendship…”

another post examining the weight of geralt and dandelion’s friendship… because i don’t think people recognize how painful and debilitating loneliness can become.

the witcher as a deconstruction of the genre takes fantasy tropes to their most logical ends—it asks us to consider what The Lone Swordsman feels, looks into the humanity in a Cold-Blooded Killer. and it turns out he’s not cold-blooded at all.

that despite some superhuman abilities, he laments and worries and curses himself, just like any other worker of any other profession. just as the farmer is scorched by the sun, the washerwoman’s back aches, and the scholar goes half-blind studying, a witcher deals with all of the pains and annoyances and dangers of his job in a mundanely human way.

but the farmer, the washerwoman, and the scholar have something the witcher does not have—they’ll always be seen as human and part of their society. at the end of the day after enduring all of their labor, they have their wife to caress, festivities to attend, and taverns to frequent. but for a witcher? after the killing is over, what does he have? no one and nothing. not even a thank you. he is met with fear and hatred everywhere he goes, baseless bigotry and dislike.

I did my job. I quickly learned how. I’d ride up to village enclosures or town pickets and wait. If they spat, cursed and threw stones, I rode away. If someone came out to give me a commission, I’d carry it out.

so he faces not just loneliness, but being deliberately ostracized and cast out from society. geralt can’t even find a polite word in most settlements, much less a friend.

‘(…) Tell me, where should I go? And for what? At least here some people have gathered with whom I have something to talk about. People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. (…)’

this kind of loneliness is not a mere inconvenience. it’s completely altering to your self-perception and ability to see the positive in the world.

each day is not lived, but endured.

day in, and day out—forced to the most difficult and lowest labor in order to survive, and knowing that were you to die, no one would search for your body, few would miss you, hell, they might even spit “good riddance”.

in this situation, to find a friend, is not only friendship, but a rescue.

without dandelion, geralt may have drowned—drowned in solitude, amidst a sea of strangeness.

‘(…) And I’m alone, completely alone, endlessly alone among the strange and hostile elements. Solitude amid a sea of strangeness. Don’t you dream of that?’

No, I don’t, he thought. I have it every day.

because dandelion is not only a bright soul, characteristic rippling laughter and the strum of a lute, but someone who will intently listen to geralt, someone who mutually enjoys his company.

‘(…) you almost jumped out of your pants with joy to have a companion. Until then, you only had your horse for company.’

someone who doesn’t see him as strange and at the fringes of society at all, but as an utterly normal man.

and doesn’t impose demeaning, sappy sympathy onto him, but sobering and realistic “quit your bullshit” which ridicules the very thought that he should internalize societal hatred.

Do you know what your problem is, Geralt? You think you’re different. (…) [You don’t understand that] for people who think clear-headedly you’re the most normal man under the sun, and they all wish that everybody was so normal. What of it that you have quicker reflexes than most and vertical pupils in sunlight? That you can see in the dark like a cat? That you know a few spells? Big deal.

dandelion isn’t “willing” to accept geralt for himself—he already has accepted him. and to him, it’s no difficulty, it’s nothing worth discussing, because he sees no abnormality and no strangeness in him.

while others “prefer the company of lepers to witchers,” dandelion has already offered geralt to share his room and board. not out of sympathetic pity, not out of fetishizing curiosity. because… they’re friends.

and what else does this friendship save him from?

not only from others, but from himself.

worse than enduring others’ apathy and hatred is one’s own thoughts—the darkness and negativity which builds from witnessing and experiencing such behavior.

dandelion’s ability to counter and dispel geralt’s pessimism and self-flagellating tendencies—again, not out of pity, but out of friendship—is undeniably invaluable. someone to rescue you from your darkest thoughts, when you begin to spiral.

and in this darkness, all you can do is cry. you cry, beg for someone to help you, please—

Help! Why doesn't anyone help me? Alone, weak, helpless – I can't move, can't force a sound from my constricted throat. Why does no one come to help me? I'm terrified!

to be alone, the saga reminds us, is worse than a death sentence. to be alone is to “perish; stabbed, beaten or kicked to death, defiled, like a toy passed from hand to hand.” to be alone is to suffer, and to be with someone is to save them from that suffering.

'(…) I wouldn't like anything bad to happen to you. I like you too much, owe you too much-'

'You've said that already. What do you owe me, Yennefer?'

The sorceress turned her head away, did not say anything for a while.

'You travelled with him,' she said finally. 'Thanks to you he was not alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him.'

it is true that geralt has saved dandelion countless times, helped him, gotten him out of some scrape… but to ask what did geralt get in return? are you kidding me?

did you ever consider that it is dandelion who saved geralt?

by being with him. by being by his side. by being his friend.

indeed, dandelion has rescued geralt, countless times, from the yawning jaws of endless loneliness. he’s helped him, chased away the danger of geralt’s own rumination. and he’s gotten him out of scrapes, his own insecurities and bitter helplessness.

so what does dandelion give geralt? what does geralt get from their friendship?

an amusing question. what one gets from friendship is the friendship itself. and that is more than enough.

[yeraskier]

thinking about how when geralt finally kills rience he won't just be protecting ciri, he'll also be avenging jaskier

[jaskiercommabard]

Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛

I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams. 

Not Jaskier.

It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice. 

Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest. 

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”

He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot. 

Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town. 

“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”

It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.

It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.

“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”

Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too. 

The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-

And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth. 

It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.

"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears. 

The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.

“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!” 

For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter. 

They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.

The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone. 

What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus. 

The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.

**

The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.

He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty. 

Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-

“In here, Geralt!”

In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own. 

“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”

His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.

“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”

Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer. 

“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway. 

There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over. 

The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.

“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.” 

The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.

“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.” 

“Jask. Stop.” 

Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms. 

He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further. 

After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.” 

“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster. 

“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-” 

He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.

Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.

“It had my voice.”

He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.

“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword. 

“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay. 

Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy. 

“Did you know?”

A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.

“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”

The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.

“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart. 

He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?

"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling. 

Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.

Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying. 

He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.

Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.

[reegis]

are you in any other fandoms than the Mechs 0:?

i feel like at least one of these is pretty obvious jsjsj i dont know how to like things a normal amount so it’s limited to only a few at a time

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 70

Jaskier is the worst roommate Geralt could ever ask for. He comes home at odd hours of the night, constantly makes noise and chatter, and he brings home random strangers almost every damn night. It'll be three in the morning when Jaskier stumbles in, drunk off his ass, heeled shoes loudly clicking against their floor as he meanders about, squinting and knocking things over. At least he has the decency to mumble "Sorry" every time he breaks something, but is he apologizing to Geralt, or apologizing to the damn mop? He talks to himself, he sings to himself, he sings as a hobby, he sings as a job, he plays his lute/guitar loudly all throughout the day and night, he even talks in his damn sleep. Constant humming, singing, talking, muttering, whispering. Hookups and flings and fuckbuddies galore, both women and men. Not that Geralt cares, it was just something he observed. They'd steal his food, or use up the shower when Geralt was meant to be getting ready for work, or they'd leave and keep the door unlocked. The worst was when Jaskier's bachelor of the night mistook Geralt's bedroom for Jaskier's bedroom and very happily cozied up and went to sleep in Geralt's bed. Naked. Geralt didn't even care if he was high, drunk, or just dumb, he threw him out all the same. When Geralt's girlfriend, Yennefer, breaks up with him, he is comforted by Jaskier of all people. Coming home tipsy and without a shirt, and yet still sitting down next to Geralt and giving him a thoughtful, long, deep pep-talk. Maybe he isn't all bad, after all. Geralt is the worst roommate Jaskier could ever ask for. Don't get Jaskier wrong, Geralt is unbelievably easy on the eyes, but that's pretty much all he has. Geralt always looms silently in the dark, offers brutal remarks at best and grunts at worst, and for some reason always has a little blood on him. It'll be three in the morning when Jaskier stumbles in, drunk off his ass, and Geralt will just walk out of the shadows with an insanely deep "Did you remember to lock the door?", scaring the bleeding daylights out of him! He walks quieter than a damn cat! He should wear a bell like one! Fuck's sakes! Geralt's ~lovely~ comments are always harsh but sadly never truly unprompted. Jaskier will get stuck on a line and ask aloud for help, momentarily forgetting his only recent company has been Geralt, and Geralt will sometimes oblige him with an answer, such as "Can you shut up for five minutes?" "It's too late for this shit." "I hate it." So on and so forth. Jaskier learns to stop asking... Mostly. Jaskier went to shave one time, and found blood in the sink. He looked over at Geralt and asked him if he had cut himself shaving. Geralt said no. Jaskier REASONABLY asked why there had been blood in the sink, and got the answer "Work." WORK?????? "And your job is what?! BLEEDING INTO SINKS!?" and yet Geralt was already walking out the door. But then one night he comes home, to find Geralt waiting for him - Silently, alone in the dark, just sat there. Like always. Weirdo. - demanding his half of the rent. Fuck. Fuck, Jaskier completely forgot- Jaskier starts panicking. He explains how he doesn't have the money, that some of his latest gigs have backed out on him or refused him pay for bullshit reasons and he didn't earn as much as he expected to, and begs to not be kicked out. He's surprised when Geralt calms him down from his spiral, and tells him to take a deep breath and wash away his tears - Shit, when did he start crying? - He comes back and Geralt sits him down and explains he'll cover the entire rent this month, his work had gone extra well recently. He knows what it's like for people to pull out pay or suddenly ignore your deal, and won't hold it against Jaskier, but expects him to be able to pay next time. Jaskier is so overjoyed he hugs Geralt. And Geralt lets him. Maybe he isn't all bad, after all.

[alcoholicweiwuxian]

i meant to mention this back when season three first came out but uh. i forgor. but. I think the third season of The Witcher really demonstrates how the presence of queerness does not negate the presence of queerbaiting, and that it can in fact be used as a method of sidestepping allegations of queerbaiting.

Like I know I'm not the only one who noticed how aggressively they "no homo" backpedaled the dynamic between Jaskier and Geralt. They did it in a way that was really aggressive and jarring too, like even if you saw zero queercoding you could tell the relationship dynamic was altered in a weird way. There was just such an absolute lack of subtlety with their no-homo'ing? like iirc there's straight up a scene where Jaskier pretty much explicitly is like "i could never see you romantically <3 we r suuuuch bros <3 best buds !" which was such a weirdly transparent attempt at shutting down the previous dynamic established between them.

What's especially wild to me is that in that season they changed the dynamic between Geralt and Jaskier so much that there really wasn't much going on ship-wise between them anyway, regardless of that weirdly explicit declaration of platonic-ness. They didn't even need to do all that !!!!

This weirdly aggressive and sudden change in dynamic at the same time as making Jaskier canonically bi was such a transparent attempt at escaping the queerbaiting allegations lol. Like it was like "yeah we wanna shut this down hard but people will get mad so. here's a canon queer character" lmao

idk. i feel like this may be something that's getting phased out as a tactic to a degree -- or rather, shifting its exact methodology -- but "escaping queerbaiting allegations by introducing a canon queer character" is definitely an established thing i see pretty often. I also think the shift in tactic (from introducing a new side character for that purpose, to canonizing a main character's queerness) isn't actually better when the intent remains the same. Idk ! I'd just be a lot less critical of Jaskier being canonically queer if it weren't so clearly linked to an attempt to sidestep queerbaiting allegations.

[charliespoorasshole]

geralt + yennefer: *parent mode activated*

[vulpinesaint]

listen i am geralt of rivia hater number one but one thing i actually CANNOT stand is when the fandom mischaracterizes him. took one look at this man who speaks very straight-forwardly and matter-of-fact and is a little recalcitrant with his words sometimes and went "haha he communicates in grunts! man who only says 'hm'!" and then won't even write him to speak in full fucking sentences. hello???? hello???????? yes the netflix show was a bad influence on everybody because they were trying too hard to depict geralt as a stoic manly badass but we CANNOT let that distract us from the REAL thing to make fun of geralt for. which are his Constant Unprovoked Monologues

[terenos]

very special addition in the next-gen update