florianniss

[florianniss]

A sunrise made for two

[florianniss]

anyway congrats ciri on becoming The witcher

[florianniss]

Coin, Peace, and Quiet - RatedE

For all his trepidation about her arrival, Geralt is genuinely pleased to see Triss.

“Hello, Geralt,” she smiles, offering her cheek and returning his embrace with grace.

“Thank you for coming,” he says into her ear. “Your service is needed more than you can imagine.”

Triss steps back. She looks different. Not only due to her longer hair and her mottled skin, but also inside her hollow eyes and the way she carries herself, too. The Witcher recognizes unhealed wounds when he sees them, but also when he doesn’t.

“Oh?” The Mage sounds surprised. “I imagine all you lonely old Witchers are doing a very good job bringing up a young lady togeth —“

Triss stops, because this is the moment Ciri strides into the room. She steals a tankard from a Brother and shoves two others aside to make room at the table. Then, without looking up, tears a chunk of meat right off the carcass and begins chewing with her mouth quite open.

Geralt and Triss share a knowing look. “I did try to warn you,” he says fondly.

The Mage smooths down the front of her dress and nods once. “Very well. Best introduce me now to avoid —“

“And what sort of enchanting visitor do we have here with us today?”

Jaskier has appeared out of nowhere. He bows low and takes Triss’ hand, kissing her knuckles before straightening to look into her eyes. He curls her fingers to his chest and turns on the charm. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove,” he croons, very nearly singing it. The blue of his eyes flash to Geralt, and he gives a roguish wink. “But you, my dear Lady, may call me Jaskier.”

“We all call you Jaskier, idiot!” someone shouts from the hall. Laughter erupts around them and Ciri’s attention is drawn.

The girl wipes her mouth with the bloodied sleeve of her blouse and pushes back from the table. She’s cautious as she approaches; at least Geralt has been able to teach her that.

“Ciri?” he says as she nears. “This is Triss Merigold.” He places a gentle hand on the middle of Triss’ back and catches Jaskier watching the movement. There’s a moment where the man opens his mouth to speak, then bites it back hard. Geralt makes a point to address it later; there is a method to this madness.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Triss says as she takes Ciri’s fingertips in her own. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Geralt.” She looks up at the Witcher with a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

Jaskier’s gaze moves between them as his head keeps still. There are calculations being made inside the man’s mind. Geralt can’t even imagine.

Ciri has been practicing her scowl. It’s more convincing than ever.

“Why is she here?” she asks, ignoring the Mage’s greeting and rounding on the Witcher. “Did you bring her to teach me how to be a lady? Because I’ve already got Jaskier for that.”

Jaskier comes out of a trance, posture straightening. “Yeah. She’s already got me for that.”

Geralt prays for an extra dose of patience. He hasn’t even made it past the introductions.

“No,” he assures, collecting Ciri’s elbow and pulling her to his side. “She’s here to teach you about Chaos. Her powers are more  — nuanced than mine.”

Triss laughs softly. Ciri frowns. Jaskier’s face is stone quiet, revealing nothing of what he’s thinking.

“But I don’t need to learn about —“

Geralt sighs and pushes Ciri onto Triss’s arm, sends them down the hallway without attempting to explain further. He and Jaskier watch their backs as they go. Ciri looks over her shoulder and Geralt knows there will be hell to pay. He’s just not that skilled at handling more than one dilemma at a time.

Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he finally speaks.

“You know each other well, then? You and Triss?”

Geralt does not turn his head. Instead, he waves for the man to join him at the nearest table.

“She saved my life,” he says once they are seated. He chances a glance and finds Jaskier looking horror-stricken, as if the bottom has fallen out of his stomach.

He recovers quickly, though.

“Oh. So, nothing important or anything,” he drawls, waving one elegant hand in the air as if dismissing a court. “Nothing that would bind the two of you together for eternity at any rate.”

Geralt sighs, again. He should have guessed there would be some residual hard feel —

But Jaskier is back to his usual bright, grinning self, and Geralt thinks he’s gotten it wrong, again.

“So she’s not off limits,” he says, elbowing Geralt with so much force it shifts him sideways. 

The Witcher’s been turned upside down within the spanse of a few minutes. He’s really not cut out for this socialization thing.

His friend is staring, waiting for an answer, and it would be very easy to just get on with it and let the inevitable take its course. Jaskier could open up his bag of tricks and woo the beautiful woman, and Geralt would be able to get some peace and quiet.

Except that’s not the kind of peace and quiet he desires.

“Listen,” Jaskier raises both hands and tucks his chin to his chest. “I’ll not step on toes if that’s how it is. I respect you too much.”

With that, Geralt is reminded why they’re even having this conversation. “And I respect you enough to tell you that she is not what she pretends to be.”

And Jaskier laughs. “I have no idea what that means, Witcher! I think you’ve been spending too much time with monsters. You’ve forgotten how to trust.”

He pulls Geralt into a sideways hug. There are pink flowers woven into his hair.

“Come on. I want to show you how much I’ve improved. Ciri even let me use the sharp blade this morning.”

Geralt concedes, follows Jaskier into the courtyard, all the while mulling over the concept of trust and its multiple facets.

Jaskier is right, of course, about the trust and about his improvement. He keeps his core flexible and shifts the bulk of his weight onto his quads. And even though his size has increased (he’s taken to carrying a shortsword strapped to his back, both for practice and for the additional weight), he’s lighter on his feet and much more confident. Geralt must remember to compliment Ciri on her teachings. It appears both have learned more than he originally thought.

“You didn’t trust me to do it,” Jaskier teases as he finishes the basic movements he and Ciri have been working on. His eyes are bright with success, and there is color in his cheeks that does not stem from the mountain winds. 

“Hm,” Geralt says, because it’s no good arguing with Jaskier when he gets like this. The man is happier than he’s been in months. 

They both are.

They circle each other as Jaskier begins to deviate into more complicated moves. Geralt meets him with every strike, amused at the enthusiasm with which his friend bounces on his heels. Jaskier’s mouth never ceases moving, and he’s spewing so much self-assurance that Geralt almost falls for it. It’s only when Jaskier lunges forward, and the Witcher has to ward off an actual strike to the throat that he understands.

Jaskier means to best him with distraction.

Vivid blue eyes hold his own as Jaskier leans into their connected swords. His grin is cocky and contagious.

“I’m disappointed in you, Witcher,” he laughs. 

It’s obvious that he’s not, but Geralt asks anyway. “And why is that?”

Geralt’s back foot is beginning to slide along the snowy ground as Jaskier holds his position. The man’s breath is coming faster now as he exerts a sustained amount of force.

Jaskier is smug, holding onto the answer until Geralt’s footing gives and he has to set both shoulders.

“You’ve forgotten what I taught you about being an annoying bastard.”

The Witcher hasn’t forgotten. He’s applying all of Jaskier’s methods, only in a different way. It’s much like toying with one’s prey before eating it, teasing out weaknesses. Geralt finds his mind and body rejuvenated and reacting positively. Sparring with Jaskier this way is —

“I am not going to talk a monster to death,” Geralt chides.

And the Witcher taps into his strength reserves and shoves Jaskier away.

“Again,” Geralt says, gruff but enthusiastic. 

Jaskier, taken aback, chest heaving, allows his sword to fall on the snow-packed ground.

He then proceeds to rip off his protective vest, to unlace his shirt, lifting them both over his head until he’s standing tall, vulnerable skin and muscle and flesh quivering with anticipation. Adrenaline pulses through him as if he’s drunk from a flask.

Jaskier crouches to retrieve his shortsword from the vest, deep, expressive eyes catching and keeping Geralt’s gaze. The flowers have fallen from his hair to the ground.

The Witcher is frozen in place and not thinking about the six different ways he could easily kill a man without armor. Instead, his mind is static, buzzing, swirling at the sight of Jaskier’s magnificent confidence.

“Come on, Witcher,” he says, swinging his weapon in an exploratory arc. “I know you’re holding back. Peel off that very thick, incredibly sexy armor and give me everything you’ve got.”

Something surges in Geralt’s chest, and he should be fighting against Jaskier’s mind weapon. The man knows how easy it would be for the Witcher to strike him down. But the temptation to bare his own body, to trust Jaskier just as much Jaskier trusts him, to engage in a battle of wits? Well, it’s —

It’s thrilling.

Jaskier watches with wide eyes as Geralt strips, mouth falling open when he’s not the only one braving the elements with sheer stupidity.

“Wow! I didn’t think that would work! I figured you’d —“

And he lets his guard down just enough for Geralt to take the available steps between them and knock Jaskier’s sword away.

It lands with a thud several yards behind them, and it’s Geralt who’s grinning now as he says, slowly, growling, “Close your mouth and pick up your sword and show me you can keep up.”

Jaskier moves so quickly that he renders Geralt impressed. He shakes out his shoulders, squares up, and says the only thing that a man with balls of steel would dare to a Witcher.

“Go on then.” A pause. A wink. The flash of white teeth. “Run me through. Stab me with your little sword. Thrust with all your might.”

Jaskier touches the tip of his sword to Geralt’s, then runs it down the edge, scraping metal as he works his way towards the hilt. It’s seductive and cocky and would likely be the death of anyone who wasn’t Jaskier. The Witcher, however, feels like he’s finally gotten his friend back. He gladly accepts the challenge.

They spar, joyous, Geralt most indeed pulling his strength, and Jaskier holding nothing back. They laugh when their footwork becomes a little too vigorous and the horses bolt from the stable. They grunt when the other lands an impressive strike against steel, as sparks fly in more ways than one. As Jaskier visibly tires but refuses to stand down, Geralt checks in and calls for time.

They rest. Steam rises from Jaskier’s slick body, his chest hair curly, nipples and cheeks bright red. His lungs drag in great gasps and he laughs, delight evident in every part of his being. 

It’s this overall picture that Geralt considers as he catalogs his own body’s response to their play. Mind racing, chest tight. Arm hair standing on end and blood roaring through his veins, filling him with a sense of accomplishment, causing his thighs to tingle and the ever-present urge behind his navel to swell to the point of pain.

Every inch of him is aroused, attention piqued and satisfied. Gone is the regret and sorrow and crushing sense of loss. In its place, he’s found something to fill the void.

He’s found Jaskier.

“All right, you, old man.” Jaskier straightens, stretching his back. His gloves creak on the handle of his sword as he takes another flirtatious swipe. “Ready to take me down and make me blush like a virgin?”

Geralt shakes his head, smiles, and Jaskier falls on his arse with the very first swing.

He lies back in the snow and roars. “I wasn’t ready, eager thing!”

Empowered and vibrating, looking down at the beauty that is a laughing, happy Jaskier, Geralt offers a hand to bring his friend to his feet. But the other man kicks out, swipes at the Witcher’s ankles, and he, too, goes down in a pile of hard-packed snow.

Jaskier reaches across Geralt’s heaving chest and fists his weapon away, all the while chuckling about distractions and how easy a target Geralt is. The Witcher joins Jaskier in a seated position. Legs crossed and knees touching, facing each other.

The words are out of his mouth before Geralt can think how to say them.

“You are ten times more worthy than any other,” he grins, hard as a rock between his thighs. “If anyone ever argues to the contrary, they will experience my blade.”

Jaskier, eyebrows shot skyward, lifts that adorable chin. “I hoped I’d be the only one to experience your blade, Geralt.”

There’s something electrical sparking between them, but before Geralt can get a handle on it, Jaskier drops back into his easy charm.

“You must want me to work on Ciri. Get her to listen to the Mage.”

Geralt hasn’t even thought of this, but now that Jaskier has said it, he realizes that’s exactly what it looks like.

“I didn’t mean to —“

Jaskier leans over, resting his palms on Geralt’s knees. He's ripe with sweat and excitement and that familiar bittersweet scent.

“You never mean to. That’s what’s so loveable about you, Witcher. It takes a man well-versed in grunting and swearing to get inside that thick skull of yours and discover that you’re just a softie.”

Geralt knows it to be true, knows it with all his heart that there has only been one other person to break through his defenses. And while Yen did it with sex and mystery and power and lack of fear, Jaskier did it without needing any of that.

“All right,” Jaskier says with finality. “I’m taking Roach to the spring. When I get back I expect you to be clean and dry and ready to take Tess away so I can have a father-daughter talk with Ciri.”

He pushes up. He brushes himself off. He smiles crookedly and oh, does Geralt want badly to follow him.

But he doesn’t. He sits on the ground as Jaskier dresses. And he watches his partner mount and disappear from the courtyard.

Read on AO3

[florianniss]

Some speedpaints

[florianniss]

Hey Az I was wondering if you could share some advice on how to keep loving writing even when it’s a commission or for patreon where people have expectations, and there’s the possibility of disappointing people or feeling pressure because there’s payment involved. I’ve always wanted to start taking commissions but I feel so guilty and stressed at the thought that someone might not like what I wrote for them. I’m also scared if I turned it into a job I might eventually resent writing if that makes sense. How do you keep your passion alive?? I feel like I’d crack 🖤🖤🖤

Hi lovely, this is a great question!! I think the best answer I can give is first, to be really, really sure you can write on demand and that there's space in your life to do so. If the answer to that is yes, then ask yourself if you're someone who is good at writing for Big Bangs/exchanges etc... The real Q to ask is, if something feels like homework, do you instinctively want to avoid it? Learning to write on demand is a hard curve for some. Ask yourself if your time is worth that and if so, how much is it worth? Know your value, and don't overextend yourself to make people extra happy if it costs you your own happiness. Ultimately, creativity should always be an act of joy and you should follow the good feeling wherever you can. I would definitely say set out clear guidelines and boundaries to give yourself to space/time you need to be in your creative zone. No one wants you to feel pressured because that will affect the quality of your work. What you're making is art. Art takes time. It's a good idea to find the balance you need to remove pressure but also to be able to write on demand. You come first.

✨🌈❤️🌈✨

P.S i highly recommend allowing yourself what @inklessletter and I are calling "Fuck It Fridays" which is a day to work on whatever our heart most desires, regardless of productivity/schedule. If you smother the flame, it's hard to get it lit once more. Keep your creativity fed, take excellent care of yourself and the balance you need to make it work will present itself.

[florianniss]

Coin, Peace, and Quiet

RatedE

“Jaskier,” he tries, collecting the man’s boots and crouching to shove them on. “Get up. I’ve got something to make you feel better.”

Jaskier does not get up. Instead, his hand appears from inside, just like the foot, palm facing up.

“Give it ‘ere,” he mumbles from deep within. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Smiling despite himself, Geralt hands over the vial, waiting as Jaskier scrabbles and untangles and his head is finally freed. His long hair is mashed against his cheek on one side and sticking up on the other. Blue eyes hide behind lids stuck closed with sleep. He downs the tonic in one go. Grimaces. Tips his head back and howls.

“Oh, Gods! Can’t you add some sweetener of some kind? Any kind? I’ve seen honeycombs in the lab! Don’t tell me you bastards literally have no taste.”

Geralt may have chuckled. Impossible to tell over the man’s caterwauling. He pushes to his feet and flings aside the furs. 

“Get up. I’ve something else that will help.”

Jaskier complains, loudly, as he follows Geralt out of the castle. He shields his eyes from the sunlight, throws his cloak over his face like a toddler woken from a nap. The tonic has cured him of sickness, both in stomach and head (mostly). Geralt doesn’t allow the man any pity as he hoists him onto Roach’s back.

“You expect me to be able to ride in my condition?”

Geralt mounts Vesemir’s horse, collects the reins, and clicks for Roach to follow. He says nothing other than ‘Hm’ as they trek across the mountainside.

His patience has begun to grow thin by the time they arrive, but he knows he will never lose it again. Jaskier is annoying and chatty and dramatic and foolish. But he is also brave and loyal and strangely alluring.

Geralt dismounts and ties the horses to a tree, then pushes Jaskier off Roach to the ground with a smile. The man lands in a pile of snow, surprised and disgusted. But as Geralt loosens the animals’ girths and removes saddles and straightens rugs over sweaty coats, Jaskier catches sight of the unfrozen water.

“Is that —?” He struggles to his feet, mouth wide open and blessedly silent. He takes a step away from the horses, then looks back, stunned. “Is that —?”

Geralt cannot help but laugh. “Take off your clothes and get in, you boozing sot. It’ll do you good to have a bath.”

Jaskier blinks for a few long seconds before enthusiastically ripping off his cloak and boots. He strips none too gracefully, nearly falls face first, naked, in the snow. But soon he’s tiptoeing painfully across the icy rocks and into the volcanic heated water of the hot spring.

Geralt does not shy from studying the man’s arse. It’s soft and jiggly in all the right places, hard and muscular everywhere else. This isn’t the first time they’ve bathed together, and it won’t be the last. It’s just the first time since Geralt’s epiphany.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh,” Jaskier moans as his tall, lithe body disappears beneath the surface. He sinks to his knees and water flows over the deep crevice in his back. “Oh, Witcher, you cruel, cruel monster you.” He turns. Water pools and eddies around him. “Why haven’t you brought us here before?”

Geralt pulls off his boots, discards the cloak and slides the shirt up and over his head. He collects Jaskier’s clothing into one arm with his own, following the trail to the water’s edge. The rocks are covered with thick layers of ice. Steam lifts from the spring’s surface. It slows as it rises, curling white around Jaskier’s head and shoulders. It causes his eyes to appear even more blue than ever, and halts Geralt’s forward progress for the pool.

Jaskier smiles, looking half-drunk still, taking in what he can of the Witcher’s exposed skin. His gaze ends at Geralt’s feet, bare in the snow, sunk to the ankles. It lingers there for a few moments before drifting back to Geralt’s face. His expression grows serious.

“No need for modesty, Geralt,” he says, averting his eyes. He swipes long fingers just under the surface of the water. “We’re friends. Aren’t we.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact. Jaskier has unequivocally forgiven him without Geralt saying the words aloud. 

The Witcher removes the rest of his clothing, lays everything out over the spread of his cloak in the snow. He joins Jaskier at the deepest part of the pool, keeping enough distance between them to allow Geralt to think. The acceptance in Jaskier’s voice is something he wasn’t prepared for. It will require taking a different path.

Ripples radiate outward from the former Bard’s body, chest heaving above water. A tentative smile returns to his face and he meets Geralt’s eyes without fear.

“Yes. Of course we’re friends,” the Witcher affirms. Something flutters inside his chest. Something else closes his throat.

Suddenly Geralt is very aware that what he feels for Jaskier is definitely not what he thought.

Read on AO3

[florianniss]

Classing The Witcher

Please note that I’m basing this mainly on the show, as I’ve never played the games and am only halfway through Sword of Destiny so can’t fully speak to the books. Due to the expansive cast, I’m also only classing the four main characters. If I started discussing how Calanthe was a barbarian, Mousesack a druid, Renfri a rouge, Fringilla a warlock, Cahir a paladin…yeah, we’d be here all day.  Anyways, here we go!

1. Geralt of Rivia

The thing with The Witcher is that translating the characters into DnD classes is almost too easy. I’m not trying to brag or anything, it’s just that this series is really, really compatible with a lot of aspects of Dungeons and Dragons. I mean, just look at the White Wolf himself. 

Geralt, along with every other witcher, is a bloodhunter. He is part of an ancient order that, in order to fight monsters, became somewhat monstrous themselves. Bloodhunters are feared, hated, and misunderstood by the general public, the same people they’ve dedicated their lives to protect. Geralt as a character was trained at the wolf school in Kaer Morhen, but as a DnD character, he’s part of the Order of the Mutant. These bloodhunters experiment with and take potions and elixirs to enhance themselves in combat, a process which tends to change them in strange and frightening ways. This all fits Geralt perfectly…perhaps too perfectly? Matt Mercer is a brilliant DM and worldbuilder, but in terms of inspiration for these aspects of the bloodhunter class he was not exactly subtle. 

2. Yennefer of Vengerberg 

Yennefer is a fascinating, complex character, someone who tries very hard to be the embodiment of true neutral but whose chaotic side just keeps coming through. While she does have a propensity for chaos, Yenn spent years studying and working hard for the impeccable skills and control that she has, which is why I’ve classed her as a wizard. Unlike her mentor Tissaia, who teaches from the perspective of the School of Enchantment, Yennefer is not actually most comfortable with spells that beguile and entrance (though she certainly tries to be, as is clearly demonstrated in episode 4). Rather, Yenn has a deep affinity for the School of Evocation. Whether it be directing blasts of lightning or creating a roiling storm of fire, Yennefer has a propensity for harnessing the chaos of the elements, often to devastating effects. 

3.  Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon (a.k.a. Ciri)

Ciri is an impressively powerful character build, even if the show has only begun to touch on the extent of her abilities. Even without study, Ciri is able to unleash powerful bouts of magic, though not consistently and not with any sort of control. Like Pavetta before her, Ciri is obviously a wild magic sorcerer. Ciri may have started the show as a low-level sorcerer from a noble background, but ever since the fall of Cintra, she has had to adapt to survive. Ciri quickly learned how to lie and be sneaky, and even started to learn how to fight (and I don’t doubt that Geralt will teach her even more.) While starting off as a sorcerer, Ciri has clearly begun the process of multiclassing into a rogue. It is still a bit too early to tell what sort of subclass she’ll fall into, but given her levels in sorcerer and Yennefer’s inevitable involvement in her life, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Ciri ends up as a very powerful Arcane Trickster, just as competent with her magic as she will be with her sword. 

4. Jaskier

Jaskier really is the quintessentially stereotypical DnD bard, isn’t he? The only thing he loves more than his various lovers and flirtations is the inspiration for music that they bring, and the only inspiration better than that comes from the stories of adventure and daring that he gets from his party, a.k.a. Geralt. (And if he makes some of it up, so what? A humble bard’s entitled to some embellishment along the way.) Jaskier may not be a traditional DnD bard in that he doesn’t cast spells or even really fight, but he is an adventurer through and through. In the books, Jaskier is even associated with higher education, and is seen not just as a musician, but as a scholar. This helps narrow down his bardic subclass, as every DnD bard is associated with a college. Jaskier could easily be a member of the College of Valor. Unlike most valor bards, Jaskier may not be great with a rapier, but above all, these bards prioritize finding and telling stories of great heroes and daring adventures, ensuring that the public does not forget these impressive deeds, all while cementing their own place in the lore. Toss a coin indeed.

[florianniss]

Jaskier is creeping in to ride Witcher.

[florianniss]

Just one bed.

reference : https://www.pinterest.co.kr/pin/813392382745616825/

[florianniss]

GERALT AND JASKIER ARE BACK BABY!!!!!!!

[florianniss]

hand slipped

[florianniss]

is the witcher fandom even on here? or existing beyond polish dads? idk but worth a try

[florianniss]

“We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.”

[florianniss]

Coin, Peace, and Quiet - RatedE

The day Ciri appears wearing a long, stately dress that Jaskier made for her, Geralt feels his world come crumbling down.

The other Witchers nearly trip over their jaws, gawking openly at the concerningly adult picture she makes. Geralt feels something rise in his belly as he watches eyes run the length of her torso. It’s not a particularly revealing gown, but it does let certain truths be known; she is no longer a child, and he knows exactly how that happened.

Jaskier preens like a peacock, but he’s the only one. Ciri, unsure, is looking at Geralt for approval. He tries very hard to hide the scowl most prominent on his face.

Before he can respond, the others are sneering. Calling her ‘princess,’ bowing too-low at her feet, laughing it off as a child’s harmless joke. Geralt can see very clearly that it is not.

He pushes the bench back and reaches around for his weapon, rising to cut out eyes if need be. But a strange thing happens. He’s outdrawn by two very determined, very stubborn people: Ciri, dagger gripped tightly in clenched fist, and Jaskier, quickly disarming and stealing a sword from the nearest Brother.

“Anyone who continues will have me to deal with,” Jaskier growls in a surprisingly decent mimicry of Geralt’s voice.

“And me,” Ciri adds, her pretty face gone stern with terrifying proportions. “I’ll send Whiskers to steal your magic.”

Geralt very slowly retakes his seat.

Vesemir appears from his chambers, interest drawn by the raised voices. He takes one look at the scene before him and spins to retreat.

Smart man. Geralt almost wishes to join him.

“That can’t happen,” someone shouts, like everyone in the room isn’t thinking the same thing. “It’s just a cat. Can’t do nothin’ to hurt us.”

Jaskier, sword at the ready, peers down the length of the blade and cackles. It’s very dramatic and most entertaining. “Are you prepared to test that theory? How do you know it’s not a monster masquerading as a cat? That it’s not here to kill you all in your sleep?”

“Hm,” Geralt hums, amused, and Jaskier’s eyes flash his way. He winks, unexpectedly cheeky. The Witcher has to look down or suffer the consequences of smiling when it is completely inappropriate.

The Witchers leave Ciri alone after that. Jaskier doesn’t fare as well. He’s taunted about doing women’s work, teased about his spools and measurements and needles. It’s all good fun, as told by the wide smile on the Tailor’s face. The performance he puts on almost convinces Geralt of it.

But when the ale begins to flow after supper to celebrate a hard day’s work hunting, and Jaskier throws a dagger with bullseye perfection at a jeering Brother’s seatback, Geralt sits a little taller and pays closer attention.

The man is drunk, and that’s what makes current matters alarming. Inebriated, Jaskier is a lover, not a fighter. Geralt has lost track of how many times the Bard left him brooding in the dark corner of a tavern to chase after a shapely round bottom, male or female no matter. And he never has to pay them; they come at him in waves.

The way things are going, it will be Witchers attacking him next.

Geralt bides his time, waiting until Ciri disappears into the kitchens to scavenge something for her evil pet with the ridiculous name. He pushes out of his seat and slowly works his way to the other end of the hall where Jaskier is retelling the tale of the sylvan and, accordingly, the elves.

“You should have seen it!” he rants, brandishing another dagger and waving it about. His big blue eyes are very expressive, his words slurred and actions delayed. “Eyes like the devil! Horns sharp enough to tear a man in two!”

Geralt sniffs as he thinks about the sad and sorry creature’s broken horn.

“And then!” Jaskier leans between two Brothers to steal a tankard. He swallows the entire thing in three gulps before anyone can stop him. Geralt finds himself impressed.

“And then!” He wipes the foam from his mouth and heaves aside the Witcher on his right, slamming the empty container back to the table. Witchers on either side scowl as their precious space is invaded. Both physical and mental. “And then the elves captured us and almost killed us and –”

Jaskier breaks off and draws in a breath, swallowing hard as he stares off into the distance. “And they destroyed my – my –”

Geralt recognizes his chance, and he pounces on it.

“Jaskier,” he gruffs, reaching in and grasping the man’s elbow. “Come with me.”

There are whoops and hollers up and down the table, cheers and jeers and loud clapping. Jaskier, snapping out of his reverie, believes it’s in response to his story. He takes several bows as Geralt drags him out of the main hall, heading to his room. The man is incorrigible.

They stumble down the icy corridors, Jaskier doing his unconscious best to upset Geralt’s balance. He’s got some new weight to him, and a fair bit of strength, too. Twice they crash into the stone walls and send debris skidding to the floor. It’s nothing like Geralt remembers from his experience hefting Jaskier around in the past.

Like how frail and still his young body was after the djinn. After Geralt had unknowingly wished the man silent and very nearly killed him.

It’s a long, long walk with his guilt to the other end of the castle.

They pass Ciri’s room and Geralt thinks he hears the sounds of singing, and he knows without a doubt that the girl who is no longer a girl but a young woman is serenading her cat.

Grumbling at the failed state of his evening, Geralt pushes Jaskier against the wall, pins him with one arm, and kicks the man’s door open. It’s warm inside, much more than any other room. It appears the fire had been lit and left to die, as evident by the glowing coals in the hearth. 

Jaskier has both hands wrapped around the Witcher’s forearm. He’s drooling slightly, eyes sliding sideways, head listing to one side. He murmurs something into the darkness, low and reverent and very Jaskier. Geralt is more gentle when he pulls the man inside.

The door closes behind them as if enchanted to do so. Jaskier is leaning on him fully now. The combined heat from the stifling room and his ward’s ale-addled skin is suffocating. Geralt dumps Jaskier onto the bedthings and slides hands onto his own hips, sighing.

He shakes his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jaskier pushes himself upright, braces on one locked wrist, and gazes up through tear-laden lashes. It’s either a belated reaction to the aborted tale of losing his lute, or easily-stirred emotions are beginning to leak from wide blue eyes.

“What am I doing?” he repeats, trying and failing thrice to sit at the edge of the bed. “What am I doing? You, of all people,” he shoves Geralt with impressive force, enough that the Witcher has to readjust his footing to avoid tipping backward. 

He’s doing his version of a scowl. “You, of all people, should know –” Jaskier hiccups “ – what I’m doing.”

There’s a challenge in there somewhere that Geralt only wishes to defuse.

“Hm. Should I?” He intends to placate the man until he grows tired and loses steam. Shouldn’t take long with how warm it is. With how drunk he is.

Geralt tips the end of a candle into the coals and is shocked at how angry Jaskier looks as it flares.

“I,” Jaskier announces, slapping a hand to his chest. He’s wearing a reinforced leather vest of his own making. It’s sturdy, tight-fitting, and makes for a fetching and useful piece of armor. Geralt means to ask him to make one for Ciri, and perhaps even for himself. It seems simultaneously lighter and stronger than what he’s used to.

“I am trying to prove myself worthy.”

Which makes perfect sense, if Geralt was to think of it before now. As it is, he hasn’t, so he risks lengthening their nonsensical conversation and asks:

“And why must you prove yourself worthy?”

To this, Jaskier puffs out his chest and throws up his nose. The thicker scruff on his face does indeed make his chin appear stronger.

“Worthy of carrying a sword,” he begins. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead in tiny dew droplets as he soliloquizes. “Worthy of participating in the hunt. Worthy of killing and skinning and gutting the animal to eat.”

Geralt sets the candle on the stones that keep the fire in place and thinks he knows where this is going.

Jaskier stands, leaning forward to catch Geralt’s shoulder to keep himself erect. “Worthy of joining a battle, no matter how many heads the monster has, nor how badly it smells, nor the state of its teeth or testicles or lack thereof.”

The addition of the candlelight brings Jaskier’s ruddy cheeks into clearer view. He’s going to be sick when he wakes the following day.

“Worthy,” he says as he shakes Geralt’s arm. “Worthy of riding the damn horse every once in a while!”

The truth: that’s where this is headed. If Jaskier doesn’t stop now, he’s going to regret it.

Geralt grips Jaskier’s upper arm, careful not to squeeze too tightly and cause harm. He’s going to have enough to get on with when everything is said and done. And Geralt doesn’t wish for him to leave in a fit.

“Jaskier –”

“Worthy enough,” Jaskier plows ahead, shaking himself free and almost catapulting himself forward, arse over teakettle. Geralt helps right him, keeping a closer distance now, just in case it happens again. 

“Worthy enough to be given a fucking chance!” 

He practically shouts it, making hard eye contact with zero fear. It’s another way he’s trying to prove that he isn’t afraid of Geralt.

“Jaskier –”

“Gods!” Jaskier shoves both palms into his eyes, grinding them as if he’s crushing herbs into stone. “Even the whores in the town below got a chance with you, Geralt!”

Geralt bites his tongue. It will do no good to strike out now. 

But Jaskier doesn’t follow the same rules. He pushes Geralt away, untangles himself without stumbling backward, and lays livid, hateful eyes on Geralt.

“What do I have to do? Pay?”

The Witcher growls a warning. They cannot, will not, be doing this. “Jaskier. Go to bed.”

Jaskier does no such thing. 

Instead, he swings with both fists, striking Geralt in the face with one and missing spectacularly with the other.

“'Jaskier, stay here.'” The man grits his teeth and mocks, struggling against Geralt’s hold. “'Jaskier, keep back!'”

Anger begins to well in Geralt’s own chest. But not because he’s upset with Jaskier. Poor fool has the right to speak his mind. No, it’s because he’s furious with himself for letting it get this bad.

“'Jaskier, I need you for comedic relief. Jaskier, I need you as wingman so I can slip my incredibly large cock into this dangerous and powerful harlot's dripping wet cunt!'”

Geralt feels the unfairness of it all. He’s right on all accounts.

“'Jaskier do this and this and this and never get anything in return except the meager scraps of a dead relationship with a crazy sexy witch!'”

Something disastrous churns in Geralt’s gut, and he feels his own fingers clench in fury as Jaskier beats his chest with clumsy fists.

He manages to get a hold of them both, tamping down on an impending explosion and fisting Jaskier’s wrists to each side.

“I wrote a song about you, Witcher,” he spits, and he’s really angry now. “I hear you're alive, how disappointing!”

Instead of singing, he’s shouting.

“I've also survived, no thanks to you!” A string of saliva drips off a quivering bottom lip.

“Did I not bring you some glee? Mister, oh, look at me!” 

Jaskier bites down on a stifled sob. “Now I'll burn all the memories of you. All those lonely miles that you ride. Now you'll walk with no one by your side.”

Some of the spitefulness dies as Jaskier’s voice wavers. “Did you ever even care? With your swords and your stupid hair?”

He cries at the word ‘stupid.’ Geralt’s stomach falls. There’s so much hurt.

And then, like a capricious mountain breeze, Jaskier laughs. “Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you.”

It crescendos to a peak, and Jaskier begins to fight again. He lurches forward and spits in Geralt’s face.

“At the end of my days when I'm through! No word that I've written will ring quite as true as ‘burn!’” 

Geralt’s resolve gives way as these words are spoken. He knows in his heart of hearts it was Jaskier’s final song.

The man, finally tapped out, exhausted, falls limp against Geralt’s chest. With all that bottled inside, with the explosive release, there is nothing left to give.

Throat blocked by confusion, head swarming with unkind but heartfelt words, Geralt pulls his greatest enemy close and calms him.

Jaskier sinks to the ground, but not before Geralt catches and lifts him, moves him gently to sit on the bed. Props him against the stone wall. Loosens and removes his leather tunic. Unties his shirt and trousers and removes his heavy boots.

Then Geralt lowers Jaskier’s head to the pile of furs and settles the enchanted (enchanting) man down.

Geralt sighs as he forces himself to linger on the former Bard’s face. Even under magical influence, he frowns. His brows nearly meet in the middle, and deep creases line his forehead. Geralt lifts a hand and attempts to smooth them out, to no avail.

Eighteen when they'd met, he still looks so young.

He very quickly, with frustration, struggles out of his boots and outer things, searching for relief from all this heat. But even without shirt and pants he’s left gasping for air. Gasping for relief.

There is no understandable reason why he crouches and then lies next to Jaskier. No sane explanation for how he brushes the man’s hair off sweaty skin. He should leave it. He should get on his horse and ride away, never to return. But Jaskier’s lips are moving, and the sweetness that comes forth is the songbird returned.

“Burn, butcher, burn,” he croons, raw and real and mournful. His eyes are closed and his body is lax, but his brain struggles on against the injustice he’s faced.

Geralt listens with racing heart as the man softly sings the refrain, over and over, until he runs out of air and the words fade to nothing.

“You hate me,” Geralt whispers, hoping Jaskier hears the apology within.

Jaskier nods. His mouth falls open and he exhales hot, hoppy breath against Geralt’s face. 

“I’ve never hated anyone more.”

It’s the moment Geralt has expected since they arrived. The lowest point for either of them. Even, he wagers, with the knowledge of Yen’s death.

“But,” Jaskier breathes, face finally relaxing, almost smiling as he nods off to sleep.

“I’ve never loved another more, either.”

Coin, Peace, and Quiet

[florianniss]

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Everywhere you go

Take a look at the five and ten, it's glistening once again

With candy canes and silver lanes that glow ✨🎶

[florianniss]

by Florianniss

“You!” a tall woman with long brown hair says. She’s unafraid, following a slew of other humans who have fallen victim to a certain ballad. “That your sorrel outside?”

The Witcher scowls. “Chestnut,” he corrects. This version of Roach does not have a flaxen mane and tail, nor a black point on her entire body. “Why?”

“Well, she’s broken the tie post and let all the other horses free. They’re in the stables attacking the grain barrel right now.”

Ciri catches Geralt’s eye and giggles. “Roach seeks a higher purpose too, it seems.”

Words: 2309, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, M/M, Multi

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Roach (The Witcher)

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg

Additional Tags: Post-Season 2 Episode 1, Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Apologies, Jaskier | Dandelion is So Done, Where do Witchers go in winter?, Angst and Romance, Epic Love, Roach is a trouble maker, Horses, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia

Read on Ao3

[florianniss]

“and if I have to crawl upon the floor, come crashing through your door.

baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore”