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drowningbydegrees · 4 years ago

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As it turns out, falling into bed with your very best friend who you are privately very much in love with isn't nearly so nerve wracking as waking up with them the morning after.

Read on AO3

He can’t remember the last time waking up was a remotely soothing experience. Geralt’s sleep muzzy mind has no other word for the body plastered against his front from shoulder to hip, the steady heartbeat against his palm where his hand is splayed out across someone’s chest. His nose is tucked against the nape of someone’s neck, and the scent is far too familiar to be jarring.

“Jaskier,” he rumbles quietly, his mouth miles ahead of the rest of him. The quiet, absent pleasure of waking up tangled with someone who smells sleepy and content and like they’re his leaves no room for reason. There’s no room for anything really, except to press a kiss to whatever patch of skin he can find, savoring the soft sigh it earns him.

Jaskier is… The night before rushes back to him, and Geralt almost jerks away, even though it would be entirely pointless to bother with that now. He cracks an eye open and is met with the disaster that Jaskier’s hair, mussed in the night by sleep, and by Geralt’s fingers buried in it before that. Even as worry begins to creep in, he sort of wants to do it again.

This isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. This probably isn’t even the hundredth time they’ve shared a bed. This is most definitely the first time they’ve done so with so little clothing between them, none to be exact. There’s only the blanket tucked around them both, warm and lovely and unexpectedly distressing.

Geralt isn’t sorry, per se. Jaskier’s chest rises and falls under Geralt’s palm in the slow rhythm of sleep. It’s the loveliest thing Geralt can remember waking up to, and therein lies the problem. An emotion fed only grows, and this unruly, sprawling affection is the worst offender. Stupidly, Geralt had thought getting this out of his system would quell it, but the longing reaches a fever pitch instead.

Jaskier is beautiful, all the more so for the way he shifts in his sleep, closing the gap Geralt has tried to put between them. Geralt could happily wake like this every day for the rest of his life, but it isn’t a fair thing to ask of someone who flits from one love to the next like a butterfly between flowers. He will not trap Jaskier in this just because he happens to be besotted. Somehow, the resolve not to try to keep this does nothing to ease the guilt welling up that he wants to in the first place.

Nothing Jaskier said the night before conveyed meaning beyond a playful desire to tumble into bed together. Moving the target now would only be cruel. He should be rolling out of bed, hastening them back to normal. He should be proving that this has done nothing to harm their friendship. It isn’t Jaskier’s fault, after all, the way Geralt wants to breathe him in and kiss him senseless and forget the rest of the world until the innkeeper boots them out.

“Geralt?” Jaskier startles the witcher from his worries, wriggling impossibly closer and laying a palm over his knuckles. “You okay?”

“Thinking,” Geralt replies vaguely.

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” Jaskier teases, still warm and lethargic with sleep. Geralt almost manages to take advantage of the levity of the moment and extricate himself, but before he can, Jaskier rolls over so they’re nearly nose to nose. His fingers cradle Geralt’s cheek and any attempt to escape now would just be graceless. “What about?”

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer, so he only hums noncommittally and hopes Jaskier will let it lie. Of course, Jaskier being Jaskier, does no such thing. He takes advantage of the change in positions to tangle his legs up with Geralt. “I can’t tell you to knock it off if you don’t tell me what it is.”

“We should get going.” Geralt tries once more to escape, frowning when Jaskier shows no sign of releasing him. It’s silly of course. Jaskier couldn’t hope to hold him here if Geralt was set on leaving. He just can’t actually make himself do it.

“Was it that bad a night?” It’s an easy opening, an invitation to stray back to their usual banter, but Geralt gets no further than a raised eyebrow before Jaskier is clasping a hand over the witcher’s mouth. “Wait. Don’t answer that or I might have to smother you with a pillow and that’ll just be unfortunate for both of us.”

Right there, with Jaskier smiling at him, Geralt can almost believe they’re going to survive this. Almost, but almost still leaves a distance he cannot cross. As soon as Jaskier pulls his hand back from Geralt’s mouth, the witcher opens it. “They’re not going to let us sleep in forever.”

“They might if I convince them to let me play again this evening. We could move on tomorrow,” Jaskier ventures, but something in Geralt’s face must give him pause. “Oh do not look at me like that. The world isn’t going to end just because you stop to take a breath once in a while, Geralt.”

“That’s not…” Geralt starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. There are no words that convey the razor wire sensation of facing down the impermanence of Jaskier’s affections, of realizing how deeply his own feelings run far too late.

“Shh.” Geralt knew what to do with impulse, with Jaskier’s mouth crashing into his, with Jaskier’s hands scrabbling at him to shed his clothes. He doesn’t know what to do with the tender, intentional way Jaskier regards him this morning, lips pressing to the witcher’s brow and lingering afterwards. Does it mean something, or does Jaskier grant all his lovers this subdued, aimless devotion? Lust was so much simpler than this aching sort of affection that puts down roots even as Geralt tries to burn it away.

Geralt doesn’t precisely surrender, but he resigns himself to the lazy attention Jaskier is so determined to lavish on him. If he lets Jaskier turn him away later instead of now, there will be at least this one pleasant thing to remember. So he doesn’t complain at Jaskier’s fingers combing through his hair, or the bard’s body pressed warmly to his. If every touch feels like a harbinger of their demise, it’s still hard to let go of.

He almost passes things off as okay, he thinks, until Jaskier kisses him. It’s a brief thing, immediately withdrawn. “Geralt?”

If realizing the hopeless situation he’s stumbled into was uncomfortable, the idea of talking about it is nothing short of torture.

“Well, you haven’t shoved me out of bed yet, so you’re not mad. Talk to me,” Jaskier coaxes, his expression so openly concerned and affectionate, Geralt could scream.

“It’s no-” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shut him up with a theatrically sour look.

“I swear if you say nothing,” Jaskier threatens aimlessly, an easy smile on his lips, but underneath, Geralt can hear the way his anxious heart threatens to vibrate right out of his chest.

“I don’t know what this is,” Geralt admits because that, at least, is safe. It’s nothing about how he feels in relation to anything. It’s nothing about the want that simmers under the surface despite his guilt.

Jaskier’s brows scrunch in a way that would be endearing if the entire ordeal didn’t feel so fraught already. “I don’t think I follow. I mean, I know having a conversation isn’t your usual wheelhouse, but it’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

“Not. That.” Geralt bites the words out, tight and clipped while he gathers his frayed nerves enough to explain. “You’re not in the habit of keeping people. I don’t know what you want.”

For just a second, Jaskier looks like he’s been struck and Geralt wants desperately to take the whole thing back. But the bard’s expression smooths out and then twists up in a wry smile. “Of course I don’t. What would I even do? Drag someone else along on our travels?”

There’s a point Jaskier is making. It’s right there. He knows it is, but it eludes Geralt anyway. “You could have stayed somewhere if there was someone you wanted to stick around for.”

Jaskier laughs, just a giggle at first, and then so hard that even his efforts to bury his face against Geralt’s shoulder do nothing to stifle it. “You are absolutely right. I could fall completely and utterly in love with someone and choose to stick around.”

“I don’t see how that’s funny,” Geralt says flatly, staring at the far wall of their room. The urge to curl around Jaskier and forget the whole stupid conversation in strong, and maybe he’d have been better off doing that in the first place, but he doesn’t surrender to it.

“Well, you’re one of the smartest people I know, so these moments where you decide to be an absolute idiot happen to be hilarious,” Jaskier teases. The bard must take pity, because his palm slides to cradle Geralt’s jaw, and Jaskier puts himself right at eye level where the witcher can’t look away. “Don’t you realize? I fell in love with someone, and I chose to stick around. It happened ages ago.”

Geralt has long since given up on trying to anticipate what Jaskier will say to any given prompt, but that is… somehow not even on the same continent as anything he might have expected. “What?”

“You really are determined to make this as difficult and stressful for me as possible, aren’t you?” Jaskier asks. There’s a tightness around his eyes when he looks at Geralt, leaving the witcher with the awful realization that Jaskier must be flying as blind as he is. He’s probably as unsure of Geralt’s intent as Geralt is of his. And yet… “I chose you, you ridiculous man. I always choose you.”

That… that explains a lot, actually. Geralt swallows thickly as Jaskier’s nose bumps against his. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

“Ah yes. ‘Hello my very dear emotionally… hampered witcher who will sometimes, on a very good day, admit that we are friends. Would it it complicate things overly much if I also happened to be completely, utterly in love with you?’” Jaskier huffs out a helpless, almost panicky sort of laugh. “Tell me Geralt, is there any time in the last few years where that would have gone well?”

Years? Now, confronted with the full force of it, Geralt isn’t sure how he even missed it last night, let alone for so long. Now that he knows it’s always been a bit painfully obvious. And much as he’d like to, he can’t really argue against Jaskier’s point that it probably wouldn’t have gone well to say so. “What changed?”

Jaskier sighs in that dramatic, overdone way he tends to when he’s being asked what he thinks is an exceedingly silly question. “You did.”

“Hmm.” Geralt doesn’t comment and Jaskier doesn’t press for further conversation. It’s peaceful, this thing blossoming between them, now that his most immediate concerns have been silenced.

That Jaskier laid his heart on the line and asked for nothing back isn’t lost on Geralt though. The words catch and stick on his throat, so Geralt writes them into the tender way he traces the curve of Jaskier’s spine with his fingertips. He presses them against Jaskier’s lips, jaw, throat with lazy, lingering kisses.

“So tell me-” Jaskier starts, the words interrupted by a soft sigh as Geralt’s thumb skims the divot of his hip. It’s an unmistakably promising sound all by itself, even ignoring that delightful way Jaskier presses into the touch. He finishes his thought, but it’s unmistakably breathless. “What are you thinking now?”

The recognition that this isn’t some fluke settles warmly around him. This could be always. There are so few things a witcher really keeps, but for now he’s willing to entertain the notion that this might be one of them.

“I’m thinking…” Geralt mumbles against the side of Jaskier’s neck, delighting in the way the bard’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug. “That maybe we’ll leave tomorrow.”

#geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #gerlion #the witcher #my fic #They're both dumb and I love them #They may not have been remotely related to what I meant to write this month #But hey I posted stuff three days in a row and it's not even Nano month yet

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lambden · 3 years ago

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What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—”

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

“I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble.

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

��Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human.

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music.

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

---

South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?

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oidheadh-con-culainn · 3 years ago

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What are the major details that confused you about the Hound blurb? The major one that stood put to me was the "way of the farmer opposed to the sword" thing which felt very...un-Cú Chulainn. Also, if you don't mind expanding further, which details didn't you question/be confused by?

and also for anon:

okay so it is like. 2am so there are not going to be any sources here but i can't sleep so here goes!! i will go through this blurb line by line and give youse my thoughts

In 50 BCE,

reasonable. this is roughly the right time period for when the ulster cycle is set. maybe marginally earlier than i'd place cú chulainn, but i'm talking a few years, nothing to get worked up about.

Morrigan, the goddess of war,

fine. normally i'm wary of pantheonising impulses with regard to irish characters (almost none of them can be identified as a god of anything in particular, it doesn't work like that) but tbh the morrigan is like, the most plausible exception to that, so whatever. normally her name has the definite article attached to it because it's kind of a species term as well but whatevs.

has become restless as a long-lasting peace settles over Ireland.

dubious. closest i can think of to peace being reference in any texts is togail bruidne da derga talking about conaire mor's reign being like, prosperous and peaceful and whatever, and even there you've got díberg (plundering/reaving) which is what eventually fucks him over and starts the otherworldly hell spiral situation. that's roughly the right period here but conaire's doom proves you don't have to do much to nudge peace into war, and connacht and ulster are at each other's throats for years before cú chulainn comes on the scene anyway

Deciding the time of peace must end, she chooses Setanta, the nephew of the king of the north, to become her ward.

hmm. i mean. like, this isn't the WEIRDEST choice they could have made. it's still completely made-up, don't get me wrong -- cú chulainn has a lot of different foster parents in different texts and they don't agree with each other but none of them ever mentions the morrígan. but like, they do have a connection of some sort, as evidenced by their conversations. and there's that one moment in the r1 boyhood deeds where little cú chulainn is out on the battlefield and hears her (not sure which name is used here) calling out to him and it like. motivates him to do some deeds or whatever, and i guess you could extrapolate that into some kind of teaching capacity.

so like. could be weirder. if you're gonna pick anyone, you could do worse. still seems weird to me! but not on its own a major issue, i could get past this and consider it a Fun But Unorthodox Creative Decision

(the fact that she tries to seduce him in the táin probably wouldn't get in the way of this considering sleeping with his teachers/foster-mothers is far from unheard of where cú chulainn is concerned)

After a young Setanta slays the demon-hound of Cullan, he becomes known as Cú Cullan—The Hound of Cullan.

weird spelling choices, they could have at least bothered to use the genitive properly. also the hound isn't a demon, it's a ferocious watchdog -- making it sound all Otherworldly and Hellish like this kinda confuses the issue of why he would need to take its place. he needs to take its place because the cattle and people still need protecting because it is a watchdog!! but whatevs, again, it's a brief summary so they can't exactly give us all the details and this is not actively objectionable

As Cú Cullan grows older, it is apparent that an extraordinary power lies within him … and a great darkness.

ugh boring. this makes it sound like he's going to be ~tortured~ and angsty about it. give me an unapologetic murder teen please. is the ríastrad dark? sure i guess, if you're going to be boring about it. it's more like, grotesque neon in my head

When he chooses the quiet life of a farmer over the sword,

this would fucking never happen on like five different levels. obviously like anyone who has ever read anything about cú chulainn can see that this is not in his nature. he is never going to choose a quiet life. this is the kid who tricked his way into taking arms before everyone thought he was ready. also juxtaposed with the "darkness" comment makes it sound like he would Angst his way into this quiet life which. again. have you seen this kid. he is an unapologetic murder teen

the only thing i can think of that might make him temporarily want to walk away is connla's death which... depends where you position that in the timeline really, he does seem a bit fucked up by it and maybe he'd want a holiday although i can see that lasting precisely 5 minutes before someone pissed him off enough for him to murder them. but if he's being raised by the morrígan i can't see him going to train with scáthach so then he'd never meet aífe and therefore connla would never be born so that wouldn't happen. so like. whatever.

but also like. he would not become a farmer. he just wouldn't! it doesn't work! the ireland of the stories is super hierarchical, right? and this blurb has already fucking told us that he's the king's nephew (canon) so we can tell that being a farmer is Not His Place. when we see upper class figures becoming menial labourers in texts, like in cath maige tuired, it's because Things Are Fucked, Shit's Gone Wrong. people don't just decide to change their entire social class on a whim lmfao

if cú chulainn really wanted to turn his back on being a warrior he could probably make recourse to certain other Suitable Professions ... his grandad's a druid so he might have a route into that, though his dad's not so that might fuck things up a bit bc it's one of those things that's usually inherited. he does give "wisdom" in at least one text though and we also know he can write (he carves riddles in ogham in the táin) and he composes verses on various occasions so idk, maybe something in a poetic direction, though again, usually requires two generations of inheritance to be a real poet and not just a lower-class bard. warrior's kinda the main thing he's got open to him tbh. but farming? i'm not a legal expert but as far as i'm aware based on what i have read, that would fuck shit up

more likely an upset cú chulainn would just go off in search of an adventure somewhere conveniently far away until he'd calmed down (alba, or the tyrrhenian sea, or -- if we're going to get early modern about it -- somewhere like india, which frequently gets thrown into the texts with absolutely no cultural context and it's always hilarious)

Morrigan, angry at the betrayal,

of the entire social order, yes,

instigates an invasion of his homeland

i mean. if they intend this to be the táin then.... táin bó regamna does kinda make the morrígan responsible for it? not in the sense of triggering the pillow talk argument that it's in the book of leinster -- it's her getting up to her usual cow-nicking behaviours for shits and giggles. [note to readers: it is probably for more than shits and giggles but did i mention it's 2am]

but all in all, not particularly out of character that she would be at least some way responsible for this so i can vibe with this. echtra nerai also supports the TBR explanation with her fucking around with otherworldly cows and pissing people off so, yeah, whatever. the morrígan engineered this. sure.

and Cú Cullan must challenge fate itself

this is probably a controversial stance but fate feels like a difficult concept to apply to medieval irish texts. like are people sometimes Doomed? yes. there are prophecies, there are gessi, there's all manner of otherworldly fuckery that can trip you up. is that the same thing as fate? no idea. considering cú chulainn comes out alive from the táin though and his doom prophecies don't catch up to him for like, at least another decade, maybe 16 years depending on who you listen to, hard to see how that would apply here

to keep the goddess at bay.

again like she IS causing fuckery in the táin but also it's like... one time. really not the main character. but she or maybe just some crows, hard to say, do get implicated in the death tale so maybe they're doing what people often do and conflating the two? even though there's like 10-16 years in between them?

anyway as you can see i don’t think it’s wholly terrible / i’m not completely thinkshaming it. like, having cú chulainn raised by the morrígan is unorthodox but it could be a fun and creative direction so i don't object to it. making cú chulainn get sad about murder and choose to be a farmer is just fucking laughable tho, and makes me doubt their characterisations in general. so that's offputting and would probably make me think twice about buying it, if that had ever been on the cards.*

and of course sure, their cú chulainn can be a Sad Boy Who Likes Sheep, but that means he's not the cú chulainn of medieval irish lit / irish myth, because that cú chulainn is a feral murder teen who keeps killing his friends and also is way too high social status to ever be a farmer, and whose only relationship to livestock is as the watchdog who kills anyone trying to harm them (which is an important role on a farm! but like. not the same thing as Being A Farmer. mostly because it involves more murder and is essentially just an extension of his role as a warrior. or rather the other way around. he promises to protect mag muirthemne as a watchdog and this like. gets extended into him becoming its sole defender)

this has been my analysis of this blurb i hope you enjoyed it

it's now 2.30am i should try and sleep now that i've exorcised a few thoughts from my head

*as i mentioned in the tags of my other post, i don't tend to read graphic novels due to disability stuff. they're much harder for me to understand and follow than prose, to the point where some are incomprehensible, so i don't really enjoy them. there are a few i've read, but they tend to be short ones, and i'm usually not reading them in order, just admiring the art separately from the text. so it's unlikely i would read a graphic novel of this size anyway.

#cu chulainn #hound #hound graphic novel #answered #oddnub-eye #anonymous #irish mythology #medieval irish #tain bo cuailnge

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years ago

Text

To give without knowing (12/?)

word count: ~10k

read on AO3

previous / next / masterpost

content warning: self-deprication, fear of abandonment

The tap room was smaller and quieter than the average one Geralt encountered on the Path. It was a nice change. People enjoying their quiet meant that Jaskier didn’t leave Geralt’s side too often to play and when he did, he was not once met with angry criticism or things being thrown at him.

Right now, Geralt was leaning back on the bench at the edge of the room, watching Jaskier perform with a quiet smile that no one but Jaskier would notice.

Jaskier was sitting perched on top of a table with some sailors banging on the surface in rhythm of the sea shanty they had requested. Today must be one of the rare days that they asked for more music than usual. Perhaps as a last farewell before going back to sea the next day.

Whatever the reason, Geralt didn’t complain, not when Jaskier had found such an appreciative audience.

This was so different from how Jaskier usually performed, but it was obvious that Jaskier was enjoying himself. His face was flushed and every once in a while he interrupted his singing and let one of the sailors improvise a new verse. As he sang foreign songs of sailors longing for their loves they had left behind on land, he kept glancing at Geralt.

It sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine and he couldn’t have torn his eyes away from Jaskier if he had wanted to.

Geralt wasn’t foolish enough to let himself believe that this eye contact meant anything. Jaskier just wanted to share this happy moment with his friend, nothing more. And it should have been enough, really. But there was no harm in imagining that there was more to it. If Geralt’s eyes lingered on the curve of Jaskier’s smile a little too long while he imagined what it would feel like to taste that smile, no one needed to know. Jaskier would never need to find out that for just this moment, Geralt let himself dream that maybe Jaskier wanted to kiss Geralt until his perpetual scowl turned into a smile of his own.

With the way Jaskier’s eyes were shining with joy when they found Geralt, it wasn’t hard to pretend that Jaskier didn’t want to ever look away from him.

But he did.

Vaguely, Geralt was aware of the door opening. It didn’t really matter until Jaskier’s eyes drifted to whoever had wandered in. His entire face lit up with the brightest smile and something cold settled in Geralt’s stomach. He had gotten too used to that smile being directed at only him that he had forgotten what it felt like to see Jaskier look at someone else like that.

Without meaning to, he turned to follow Jaskier’s gaze. The pit in his stomach grew when his eyes landed on the woman. There was no reason for him to scowl at her and will her to go away, but apparently the selfish part of him that wanted to keep Jaskier’s smiles to himself didn’t need a reason.

He wanted to get up, to disrupt Jaskier’s song and ask him to leave; anything to stop him from talking to her.

But as he watched the woman return Jaskier’s smile and wave at him, Geralt knew that it was already too late.

Which was fine. Geralt had no right to stop Jaskier from talking to others, especially not when the sight of them evidently made him happy.

Even in the dim light of the tap room, Geralt could see the woman’s strikingly blue eyes that were almost as bright as Jaskier’s. At least that was true for the one eye Geralt could see. The other one was hidden behind a strand of light blond hair that fell into her face. It was the sort of thing that Jaskier would be able to sing countless ballads about. The sort of thing he would take as a temptation. In his mind Geralt could already see Jaskier brushing the hair behind the woman’s ear before leaning in for a kiss.

Geralt’s insides twisted, even though he told himself that his worries were unfunded and unfair. Jaskier was just greeting her, nothing more. Even if he did kiss her, it was none of Geralt’s concern. Jaskier could kiss whomever he wanted. What was it any of Geralt’s business if that was anyone but him?

Despite his pathetic attempts to calm himself, the twist in his gut didn’t go away. His treacherous thoughts were bad enough, but the reality of the situation was so much worse.

Jaskier stopped playing mid-song. Jaskier never interrupted a performance – except, of course, for when Geralt came into a room bleeding and covered in monster innards, but that hardly counted. It wasn’t as if any attention would stay on Jaskier if Geralt appeared like that.

Now, though, Jaskier jumped from his spot on the table and left the sailors to continue the song on their own. He swung his lute onto his back and spread his arms wide as he walked towards the woman with purpose.

“A sight for sore eyes,” he declared with a grin.

Before Jaskier could reach her, she rolled her pretty eyes at him. “Don’t think you can distract me with compliments from the fact that you stopped playing as soon as I came in.” She quirked an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Scared I’d leave again if I had to listen to you sing?”

Geralt’s frown deepened with every word and he gripped the edge of the table tightly to stop himself from getting up and putting himself between Jaskier and the woman who dared to insult him like that. Jaskier could handle insults well enough on his own, but that didn’t chance the fact that Geralt’s insides twisted at her words. Just moments ago, Jaskier had been brimming with happiness. He had been so excited about learning those new songs and having appreciative company to sing with.

Geralt’s chest clenched at the thought of Jaskier’s face falling at the woman’s words.

But Jaskier’s face didn’t fall. His shoulders didn’t slump and he didn’t turn tail in dejection. Instead he threw his head back with a hearty laugh, as comfortable as if he had known the woman for years. As if her words hadn’t been insults at all but intimate teasing, not unlike the way Geralt bantered with Jaskier whenever he asked him for a review for his songs. But that was their thing.

Once Jaskier’s laughter subsided, he breached the last bit of distance between himself and the woman and pulled her into a tight hug, kissing her cheeks.

Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier’s face when he pulled back, but he was certain he knew exactly how Jaskier looked at the woman. It must be the same way he had looked at countless other pretty people. The same way that Geralt looked at Jaskier.

Except contrary to Geralt, Jaskier was allowed to admire, to touch, to kiss.

This was... This was fine. Good even. Jaskier shouldn't have to admire from afar. He deserved to be happy. And oh, he looked so happy right at this moment.

And Geralt... He was happy for Jaskier. It didn't matter that his smile had turned into a thin-lipped line or that his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his own skin painfully.

When Jaskier gestured over to him and took the woman by the hand to lead her to Geralt's table, he forced himself to relax. He didn't know what to feel. A part of him was preening with satisfaction because Jaskier had remembered him even though he had the attention of a beautiful woman on him. Another bigger part of him wished Jaskier could have forgotten about him and went somewhere else instead. He dreaded what was surely to come. It was one thing to know what Jaskier was up to while he was out of sight. It was something else entirely having to sit at the same table and bear witness to how Jaskier looked at and touched someone else into he was Geralt longed for.

An ugly green-eyed beast reared its head inside Geralt’s chest and it took all of his willpower to stop himself from scowling at the woman who sat down next to Jaskier, opposite of Geralt.

Jaskier deserves to be happy. He repeated over and over in his mind. I can't scare her off. She’ll be gone by tomorrow morning anyway.

“Geralt, this is Essi. The second-best bard on the continent,” He gave Essi a playful smirk that only got wider when she elbowed him in the ribs, “and a dear friend of mine.”

Geralt’s clenched fists relaxed and the frown slowly disappeared from his face. Of course. She was a friend. Not everyone Jaskier met was someone he’d want to kiss – Geralt was living proof of that. The hint of a real smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. It was nice to meet a friend of Jaskier’s instead of an old lover for once.

Evidently encouraged by Geralt’s smile, Jaskier added, “Maybe you’ve even heard of her before? Though probably under a different name. She goes by Little Eye, for obvious reasons. She might be the second-best bard, but alas, even I can’t pretend that she isn’t the one with the prettiest eyes.”

Geralt almost opened his mouth to protest, when he froze. It was – no. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be her.

With all his might, Geralt tried to keep the memory out of his mind, but the lines Jaskier had sung so many times, praising his beloved and longing for them – for her – came back to him unbidden.

Lines about blazing eyes that were beautiful enough that Jaskier wanted to spend all day looking into them.

How often had Geralt scoffed at those verses, not only out of jealousy? He had always thought that no pair of eyes could be remarkable enough for Jaskier to fall for them so deeply. But now here he was, attempting to make his friend blush with sweet words about her eyes.

He looked at Essi more closely, desperate to find something that would disprove his dreadful suspicion.

But Essi’s blond hair could surely be described as moonlight-strands and the way she moved was undoubtedly graceful, maybe even as deadly elegant and dancelike as Jaskier called it in his song. Jaskier’s rhymes for his beloved spoke of bravery and kindness. Certainly, no one who willingly followed Jaskier to sit at the same table as a witcher could be anything other than brave and kind.

With every second spend trying to find some flaw in Essi, some hint that she couldn’t be the one Jaskier had yearned for for who knew how long, Geralt only found more and more evidence – more and more reason for Jaskier to be fascinated by her, to adore her.

In one word, Essi was beautiful. Exactly the type of person Jaskier would fall in love with with naught but a glance. Geralt had seen such a thing happen countless times before, but foolishly he had hoped that he wouldn’t have to witness it again. Now that he knew what it felt like to fall in love, he didn’t think he would be able to bear seeing Jaskier do so again.

There had been verses about gentle and talented hands that created the most wonderful things– and what hands could be gentler than those of a bard who was able to create music out of thin air? After all, Geralt had stared at such hands before, craving their touch. Why wouldn’t Jaskier do the same?

And what better reason to come to the coast than to finally find the woman he had been singing about for months?

As if Jaskier had read Geralt’s thoughts, he said, “I’ve been meaning to visit her for ages.”

Essi lifted one perfect eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so? I was under the impression that you were avoiding me. Or rather, you were avoiding introducing me to your companion.”

Jaskier spluttered something unintelligible and rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t deny the accusation. Geralt’s heart dropped. He knew that Jaskier enjoyed his company, but he also had other people that were important to him. Loved ones that evidently he hadn’t been able to see in a long time because of Geralt.

Was it because despite liking spending time with Geralt, he was ashamed to be seen with him? Surely there was a difference between appearing together in towns were no one knew them personally and showing his friends who he was travelling with. Or had Jaskier hesitated to let Geralt meet his friends because he knew that Geralt would make them feel uncomfortable?

Hadn’t Geralt known that all along? That his looming presence was the thing that kept Jaskier’s beloved away from him?

Whatever the reason, Geralt had been the one who had kept Jaskier away from people that were important to Jaskier, even without meaning to.

He couldn’t ruin this for him, not again, not now, not when he had been so happy to see Essi.

Geralt couldn’t bring himself to thaw his smile, but he nodded at Essi in greeting. She didn’t seem to mind his rudeness. As if Geralt’s behaviour was perfectly normal and polite, she leaned forward and looked at him with barely concealed interest.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to meet you." Her cocked her head to the side and the strand of her fell away from her face. "You know, Jaskier normally doesn't hesitate to talk about the people he lo-"

Before she could finish that sentence, Jaskier cut in. "Ah, Essi, dear, could we maybe talk about that later?" His eyes darted between Geralt and Essi, while he tried and failed to look nonchalant. "Somewhere a little more private? Alone?"

Jaskier wasn't especially subtle in telling Geralt that he and Essi would need a room later nor was this his best attempt at flirting. If Geralt hadn't known any better, he'd even say that he wasn't flirting at all.

Except that Jaskier flirted with everyone. Almost everyone.

Perhaps he had known and courted Essi for long enough that there was no more need for subtlety. She certainly didn't seem to mind the clumsiness of it, if the widening of her grin was any indication.

"By the way, Jaskier, you're looking gorgeous today, as always." Jaskier gave her a confused look, but then he blanched and gave her the tiniest but still empathetic shake of the head that she ignored. "Wouldn't you agree, Geralt?"

Geralt's throat went dry. He couldn't - what was he supposed to say? He couldn't very well tell her the truth, that there was nothing as beautiful as when Jaskier laughed and that he didn't want to ever look away from his eyes when they sparkled with joy. He couldn't say that. Not to Jaskier and certainly not to the woman who probably got to see his smiles far more often than Geralt did.

So instead he just let out a grunt that came out more strangled than it should have. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Jaskier's shoulders fall, probably in relief that Geralt hadn't said anything incriminating.

Geralt didn't want to know how Jaskier would react if he had told him the truth.

Essi didn't seem to mind Geralt's non-answer. She was clearly having the time of her life watching Geralt squirm uncomfortably, for her attention didn't drift back to Jaskier as it should.

"So, Geralt, tell me about what it's like travelling with Jaskier. It must be wonderful to spend so much time with him. Surely something one would want to do for the rest of their life?"

It was wonderful. The best thing that had ever happened to Geralt. And lately, ever since Jaskier had started talking of how he would stay with Geralt, he has started to hope that he could have this. That he could keep Jaskier by his side for the rest of his life.

Now he wasn't so sure anymore. When Jaskier has said those things, there had been no pretty woman sitting next to him, implying that he could stay with her instead.

Geralt's jaw clenched and he did his best to ignore the sound of Jaskier drumming a nervous rhythm onto his own thigh.

He swallowed thickly and searched for what he could say that was close enough to the truth but far enough that it wouldn't make Jaskier uncomfortable in the presence of his conquest.

"It's... different. I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

How could he, when all he had known before were cold, quiet, lonely nights and sneers, shouts and stones?

Despite his best efforts to keep his tone neutral, his voice must have shown some of what he felt, for Jaskier let out a shuddering breath and Essi’s brows furrowed.

"That's it? Different?" she asked in disappointment. "But different how? What are the best parts of being with Jaskier? What do you love most about him? I'm sure there is a lot to love after all and –“

"Essi," Jaskier said quietly and his face was unreadable as he placed a hand on her arm. "Please." Something shifted in her expression. It became soft and almost protective. She put her hand on Jaskier's hand gave it a gentle squeeze as she nodded.

With seemingly no trouble at all, she steered the conversation in a different direction, but Geralt paid no attention to it. His mind was too preoccupied with the question that had sounded so innocent and that was so impossible to answer at the same time.

There was too much that he loved about Jaskier. The way he leaned against him while laughing about a particularly bad joke. The way he would quiet down when he noticed that Geralt needed it. The way he was dishevelled in the mornings, uncaring that he didn't look as perfect as he normally did. To Geralt he did then too. Maybe even more so than when he dressed up for balls or banquets. It wasn't Geralt's favourite part of travelling with Jaskier - it was impossible to pick just one - but the way Jaskier would blink up at Geralt in the mornings, maybe grumble a bit as he hid under the covers, might just be Geralt's favourite part of each day.

It made Geralt want to brush his ruffled hair out of his face and kiss him.

Gods, how Geralt wanted to kiss him. In the mornings when they were both barely awake, when his eyes shone during a performance, when it was just the two of them in a quiet forest clearing, when they were surrounded by other people and Jaskier was the only safety beside him.

It was just a fantasy - an impossible one at that, now more so than ever - but Geralt treasured it, even if all he could do was watch Jaskier and admire him from afar even as they were sat right next to each other. Even so, Geralt knew he wasn't allowed to look at Jaskier in the way he wanted to. In the way everyone else was allowed to, those people who might give Jaskier coy smiles and openly admiring glances until in return Jaskier gifted them with a kiss and his love.

Geralt wanted that. He wanted it so much it hurt.

But maybe he had something even better. Because Jaskier didn't stay with his lovers. They didn't keep his kisses and undivided attention for long.

Geralt, however, Geralt has had Jaskier by his side for years. No matter how alluring a lover was or how much they begged Jaskier to stay with them, he would always return to Geralt.

Some days, this knowledge was the only thing keeping Geralt's chest from splitting wide open when he watched Jaskier approach someone else with a smile and the clear intention to charm and fall in love. Knowing that Jaskier always came back, even though all Geralt could offer was friendship and a hard Path, might be what Geralt loved the most about Jaskier. It wasn't much but it had always been enough, just how Geralt for some inexplicable reason had always been enough for Jaskier to return to.

Except now it - he - might not be enough anymore. Jaskier obviously knew Essi, had clearly held her dear for a long while. And he had come back to her. From the way he looked at her now and joked with her easily, Geralt was sure that Jaskier would happily return to her again and again. Worse even, with his song Jaskier had unmistakably declared that he would want to stay with her forever.

Would Geralt now become one in a long line of people left behind heartbroken by Jaskier while he stayed with someone he held more dear, forgetting all about him?

Geralt had thought having to watch Jaskier fall in love would have been hard, but this was so much more painful. Jaskier was already in love. Maybe even with one who would finally drive him from Geralt's side.

Essi was stunning. She clearly was talented, if the way Jaskier had praised her before was any indication. She was someone Jaskier might just stay in love with.

Cold dread pooled in Geralt's stomach. It was just as clear that Essi loved Jaskier - and how could she not? She knew that Jaskier was beautiful, she already imagined living with him forever, just like Geralt did. Except he was sure that Jaskier wasn't imagining living with him forever, no matter what he said. With Essi however...

Geralt wanted him to stay. No matter how selfish and unfair, he wanted Jaskier to never leave him.

"And this is the first one I found after the bear broke."

Jaskier's voice tore Geralt out of his thoughts. His eyes left Jaskier's face just long enough to see that he had taken out the wooden bird Geralt had carved so many months ago. Essi's eyes widened.

"You found two of them?" she asked, her voice full of wonder. She hesitated for a heartbeat, asking Jaskier for permission with her eyes before she reverently touched the bird. Something inside Geralt grew hot and acidic at the sight. Luckily, Essi didn't notice. "They are so rare! Most people are lucky if they find one."

Jaskier's smile became smug and his lifted his chin. "Oh, my darling Essi, I have found far more than two. The others are in my room. I just like having the bird with me for good luck while I sing."

"How... Jaskier that's incredible." She took a sidelong glance at Geralt. "Is it because you're travelling together? A witcher and a bard, that must be something the fae would find interesting."

Jaskier hesitated before sharing a knowing look with Geralt, though Geralt couldn't figure out for the life of him what exactly that look was supposed to mean, what secret knowledge they were supposed to share.

"Well, I can't really tell why I'm getting all those gifts. But they appear more often when Geralt is happy. Or they seem to make him happier after I got them."

Essi's lips twitched. "Better keep him happy then."

Jaskier blushed furiously but didn't respond.

He didn't need to. Geralt spoke up before Jaskier could even think about opening his mouth.

"It's not about me. Those are for Jaskier and only him. To make him happy, not me."

Both bards looked at him dumbfounded for a second. Essi was the first to get a grip of herself, turning her attention back to the bird in Jaskier's hands. Jaskier on the other hand kept his eyes on Geralt, an unreadable expression on his face that made Geralt want to lean forward and trace the small crease between his brows with his fingers until it disappeared under his tender ministrations.

"Have you ever found any carvings, Geralt?" Essi asked him curiously.

He shook his head, grateful for the excuse to avert his eyes from Jaskier's burning gaze, though simultaneously he mourned the loss.

"I have no need for them. Witchers don't need luck. We don't get gifts." With a hint of bitterness, the next words slipped out before he could stop himself, "We don't get to have beautiful things."

He forced himself not to look at Jaskier at those last words. It didn't help that he heard his soft gasp anyway and that Jaskier's hand found his where it was balled to a fist in the table. He relaxed under the almost tender touch and it took all of his will power not to turn his hand and intertwine their fingers.

When he met Essi’s eyes, he tensed. There was something in the way she looked at him that unnerved him. Her eyes drifted to where Jaskier was touching him and then back to his face, searching. Then, her eyes widened in recognition and Geralt’s stomach dropped.

She knew. Somehow she knew what he felt for Jaskier.

Cold sweat tickled down his neck and he forced himself to pull his hand away from Jaskier’s touch despite how desperately he wanted to keep him close. With Essi watching him like a hawk, he knew he wasn’t allowed to indulge in this hopeless fantasy anymore. He wouldn’t hinder Jaskier’s happiness with Essi by making her think Jaskier would stay with someone like him. He wished Jaskier would want to. He wished Jaskier’s assurances that he did could be believed. And he had believed them. He had trusted Jaskier; he still did.

And maybe that was the problem. Jaskier had promised Geralt he’d stay by his side. Geralt didn’t doubt he had meant it. But now…either Jaskier would break his word and Geralt’s heart or he would keep his word and break his own heart.

Geralt knew which one he preferred.

When he had first heard the song about Essi, he had been torn about what he’d do if he ever met the object of Jaskier’s love. If he was being honest with himself, he still didn’t have a clear answer. A part of him still wanted to make sure Jaskier would stay with him. Another part that put a heaviness into his chest knew that he wouldn’t be able to do that. Maybe he wouldn’t be strong enough to tell Essi to confess her love to Jaskier, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything to keep them apart.

He wanted Jaskier to be with him, more than anything, but not at the cost of his happiness. Geralt couldn’t be Jaskier’s happiness. But maybe Essi could.

So Geralt plastered the hints of a smile on his face, trying desperately to ignore the way Jaskier’s face fell when Geralt pulled away from him and turned the conversation and Jaskier’s focus back to Essi where it belonged.

Too bad the only thing Geralt could think to say, was still related to his own aching heart.

“Have you ever found one of the fae-gifts?”

He cursed his own words as soon as they had left his lips. He didn’t know what answer he feared more. It was irrational and petty, but he didn’t want Essi to have one of his carvings. For years it had been none of his concern who kept hold of them, but now it seemed to be of utmost importance that Essi didn’t have one of them.

But maybe worse than that would be if she had never found any. True, Jaskier was protective of his collection, but he had given away the sheep to someone who was practically a stranger. There was no guarantee he would hesitate to give one of his animals to Essi.

Perhaps the bird, to compliment her undoubtedly beautiful singing voice. Or maybe he would give her the cat and make a play of words on a cat chasing a songbird or something of the sense. Surely not the fish, because Geralt couldn’t for the life of him figure out a way in which Jaskier could possibly give Horse to Essi without it coming across as an insult. The same was true for the snake.

Geralt’s stomach churned. He couldn’t even bring himself to think of the possibility that Jaskier might give away the wolf. The mere idea was enough for nausea to rise up in him.

So lost in his own thoughts, Geralt barely caught Essi’s reply.

“Sadly not. Not all of us can get so lucky as Jaskier.” She grinned at Geralt as if they were friends, as if she wasn’t about to take the most important person in Geralt’s life away from him. “Then again, he needs all the luck he can get and then some.”

Jaskier squawked in indignation, utterly undignified in the particular way he normally only was when Geralt complained teasingly about his music. “Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?” He huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, but after a brief pause and a glance at Geralt that Geralt tried his best not to read anything into, Jaskier’s eyes softened. “I believe I can count myself very lucky. Probably the luckiest man on the continent.”

Geralt snorted before he could stop himself. The very notion of Jaskier being lucky was ridiculous. Jaskier didn’t need luck. He was charming and talented and beautiful. He had earned every single good thing that had befallen him.

Geralt on the other hand still didn’t have the slightest clue what had earned him Jaskier’s presence in his life. Out of the two of them, Geralt had no doubt that he was the lucky one.

Thankfully, before Geralt had a chance to run his mouth and voice any of his incriminating thoughts, the sailors from before called out for another song.

Jaskier looked at Geralt as if asking for permission to get up and play again. Geralt did his best to give him a look that conveyed that he was good enough and needn’t fear playing in front of Essi despite her teasing. It must have worked, for Jaskier picked up his lute again before turning to Essi.

"Will you join me?" The teasing twinkle was back in his eyes. "Play a little duet to determine once and for all which one of us is better?"

Essi snorted, her lips curling up. "I think we both know who is superior." She waved him off with a hand and a mischievous grin. "You go play first. I wouldn't want to take all the glory away from you without giving you a chance to get some applause first."

Jaskier hesitated, his eyes darting between Geralt and Essi.

"Fine," he sighed eventually when the shouts demanding another song continued. "Be nice, Essi."

"I always am."

It was strange that Jaskier didn't warn Geralt to not scare her off. Maybe he didn't think it would be of any use. After all, he had known Jaskier for long enough to know that Geralt's attempts at being nice weren't very successful most of the time.

Jaskier bit his lip for a second and looked down at the bird he had still clutched in his hand. Geralt's insides twisted. Any moment now Jaskier would hand the figure to Essi.

He didn't. Instead he held it out to Geralt, as if it was the most natural thing; as if there wasn't a pretty woman right next to him who would love to hold the figure in her hand.

Geralt's heart stuttered in his chest and he had to will it to slow back down when Jaskier gave him an indecipherable look.

"Take care of the songbird?"

Geralt enclosed the bird with both of his hands and his fingers brushed against Jaskier's as he slowly let go.

"I always do." Geralt's voice was more serious than the situation called for, but for whatever reason, Jaskier approved, for he gave Geralt one of his brilliant smiles before he left, a song already on his lips.

A lump formed in Geralt's throat as he watched Jaskier take his place in the middle of the room once more. His attention was so fixated on Jaskier that it took him embarrassingly long to notice Essi scrutinizing him curiously with her chin propped up on her hand.

When he finally noticed, she lifted an eyebrow knowingly and her lips twitched.

"Oh, don't let me stop you from watching him," she teased. "He is a bit pretty, isn't he?"

Geralt didn't reply, not knowing what kind of answer would be acceptable.

Still, something must have shown on his face, for something shifted in Essi's expression. Her gaze dropped to the songbird held carefully in Geralt's hands.

"He seems to think you need luck talking to me," she said with a nod to the bird.

Geralt's brows rose. "Do I?"

He was sure that he already knew the answer.

"That really depends."

Dread pooled in Geralt's stomach. "On what?"

"On whether or not you're planning on hurting him." Essi's eyes narrowed and the easy smile from before fell away, revealing a calm sort of sternness that would have intimidated any man who wasn't used to facing worse than an angry woman. It might even come close to the look Vesemir got before scolding the younger wolves. "Because if you do hurt him, no amount of luck in the world will keep you safe."

The words were clearly meant as a threat, but something unwound in Geralt's chest. "He's really important to you, isn't he?" he asked quietly. "You won't let anything happen to him?"

"Never," she said heatedly. "I'd fight the world before I'd let him get hurt. I'll fight you if you ever so much as think about hurting him."

"I won't," Geralt said and it felt like a confession.

He didn't have Essi's empathetic words, but he had this certainty in his chest that whatever he did, he would do everything in his power to keep Jaskier safe. Then again, travelling with Geralt was the most dangerous thing Jaskier could do. Even if Geralt would never hurt him, he couldn't promise that no harm would come to Jaskier as long as he was with Geralt.

A wry smile twisted Geralt's lips. "But I don't think you'll have to worry. We both know he won't be travelling with me for much longer."

Not if he could be with Essi instead. Geralt didn’t want to think about this possibility, but it wouldn't be fair towards Jaskier to drag him away from her. Geralt wouldn't stand in Jaskier's way, even if it led him away from Geralt.

"Why?" Essi asked with sudden urgency. "For years Jaskier had only talked about you but he refused to let me meet you. Why now? What has changed between the two of you?"

Geralt faltered at the question. His mind was racing, trying to come up with an answer, but he found none. Nothing had changed with Jaskier. He had been happy as ever.

It was true, he had sung more of those yearning love songs but that wasn't anything irregular. Nothing in his behaviour had even hinted at him wanting to leave Geralt anytime soon. If anything, he had been more adamant than ever to stay, touching him with increasing confidence and laughing with him more carefree than ever.

So if Jaskier hadn't changed that only left one conclusion. The problem wasn't Jaskier's changed feelings, it was Geralt's.

Though they hadn't exactly changed either. Geralt had just finally realised what had been there all along. He had finally found a word to the feeling that had been creeping up on him and ensnared him without him realising or resisting.

But Geralt had thought... He hadn't behaved any differently, had he? He hadn't said anything to let his secret slip and he hadn't let his eyes and hands wander to Jaskier too often. Or maybe he had?

He must have done something wrong to tip Jaskier off.

Fear's icy claws plunged into Geralt's chest. Jaskier knew. Of course he did. He sang about love and yearning constantly. If anyone were able to recognise Geralt's emotions, it would be Jaskier. Perhaps he had even known for longer but had been able and willing to ignore it as long as Geralt hadn't acted on it. But now that Geralt knew what he felt as well, maybe Jaskier was uncomfortable being around him? It was one thing being a witcher's friend, but it wasn't unlikely that even Jaskier drew the line at being loved by one.

An abyss opened up in Geralt's chest. Was this truly it? He didn't want to believe it, but it was the only explanation he could come up with that made sense.

Judging from his songs, Jaskier had been yearning for Essi for a while now. So what better excuse to get away from Geralt than to pursue his own love? If Jaskier broke Geralt's heart in the process and made sure Geralt would stay away from him because of his hurt feelings, then that was just an added bonus. Perhaps he even wanted Geralt's protection to get to the coast, a convenient way to get there safely.

Geralt couldn't imagine that was it, didn't want to imagine. Jaskier was many things, but he wasn't cruel. He was Geralt's friend and Geralt trusted him.

Or perhaps this was Jaskier's way of being kind, of letting Geralt down gently? If Jaskier showed him now whom he had to compete with - as if Geralt could ever have any hope of winning Jaskier's heart even without competition - then surely Geralt would forget about his feelings before he'd do something stupid like confess his feelings and make them both uncomfortable and miserable.

Well, if that had been Jaskier's goal, he had failed. Though not too long ago Geralt himself had thought that he would be able to get rid of this ache in his chest when he saw Jaskier with his beloved, he now knew better. He wouldn't be able to forget this feeling, whether he had his heart broken or not. And he didn't want to forget. He'd rather watch Jaskier be in love and still admire how his eyes softened when he looked at his beloved than never feel that warmth in his chest again, however painful it was. Jaskier was too important for him to just forget.

But oh, how painful it was. Right at this moment, as Jaskier sang if love and the fear of loss, his eyes drifted over to them - no, not to them, to Essi - so full of longing and aching and love.

How could Geralt not recognise the look when it was the same one he gave Jaskier when he wouldn't notice? When it was how he wished he could look at Jaskier openly? When it was how he wanted Jaskier to look at him?

But he didn't. He never would. Geralt could fantasise all he wanted that he was the one Jaskier's eyes were resting on with so much wanting, but he knew it wasn't the truth. He knew the real object of Jaskier's longing was sitting right across from Geralt, still waiting for an answer she wouldn't receive from him.

Maybe she already knew. Judging from the way she looked between him and Jaskier there was no hiding from her. It didn't matter anyway. Geralt knew he stood no chance against her. He was no threat to someone like her.

She must be aware of that too, for her eyes crinkled with a smile that unnerved Geralt more than any threat could.

“It must be the fae-gifts,” Geralt blurted out. It was an obvious and pitiful attempt to distract from what he felt, but it was better than letting the truth hang between them. It was better than giving Essi the chance to say it out loud. “He started finding them in spring. He said that those who find them will find their true love within a year.” And evidently Jaskier had known perfectly well where exactly he had to search for his love to find her.

Something shifted in Essi’s expression and for a moment she looked like she wanted to say something before her mouth snapped shut. There was a question in her eyes, then a realisation.

Geralt’s stomach sank and he was left feeling cold.

Essi hadn’t known. Somehow, through some miracle, she hadn’t known what Jaskier felt for her, even though his affection was as clear as day to anyone who bothered to look at him for longer than a second.

And now Geralt had brought forth her realisation. He didn’t know what was worse; the guilt of taking away Jaskier’s chance to confess his feelings properly or the fact that she now focussed back on Jaskier, a determined look on her face and stood up.

“Excuse me,” she said, sounding not at all apologetic, “I believe it is time for me to join Jaskier.”

Geralt didn’t protest, though his fingers twitched to hold her back. Not that it would make a difference. It was already too late for him, whether Essi joined Jaskier or not.

Still, it was a special kind of torture watching her lean in close to Jaskier and whisper something in his ear that made his eyes widen and a blush spread across his cheeks.

Geralt’s mouth went dry when Essi started playing the intro of the next song while Jaskier still stood frozen, watching her, transfixed.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to understand this reaction. It wasn’t just that Essi was good, it was that the song she was playing was the song. The one about beautiful eyes and moonlit hair. The one about her.

Jaskier threw a helpless, almost panicked look over at Geralt who offered him an encouraging and apologetic smile that hopefully didn’t look as forced as it felt.

Jaskier accepted Geralt’s smile and silent apology with a small nod. Though he didn’t appear any less anxious, his voice was clear and full of feeling when he joined in the song, harmonising perfectly with Essi.

With a sudden jolt of his heart, a calm washed over Geralt that was almost enough to push the agonising burn in his chest away.

This was what Jaskier deserved, standing on stage with another bard. Someone who could be close to him and understand him in a way Geralt would never be able to. Someone who could compliment his voice with theirs just as they could give compliments to him; words that weren’t clumsy and almost insulting even as they were meant to make him feel appreciated. This wasn’t just what Jaskier had yearned for. It was what Jaskier deserved. Essi was.

They looked beautiful together. Like they belonged together. Whereas when Geralt stood next to Jaskier, the bard’s beauty only made Geralt’s flaws all the more apparent. No one would ever look at Geralt and think that he could belong to the beautiful, brilliant bard.

Essi however…she looked gorgeous. Someone Jaskier didn’t have to be ashamed of being seen with. As long as he was with her people would throw roses instead of stones and praise instead of insults.

Geralt averted his eyes. They fell on his own twisted reflection on a dirty window.

His jaw clenched. He wanted nothing more than to flee. He didn’t. There was no doubt that Jaskier would notice if Geralt stormed off, even if his eyes were trained on Essi and Geralt couldn’t risk ruining this moment for him.

When the song finally ended and the two bards returned to their table, Geralt let out a relieved sigh. Not that watching them touch and smile at each other this closely was any better.

But for some reason, Jaskier didn’t stay close to Essi. Instead he slid onto the bench next to Geralt, so close that their thighs were almost touching. Geralt had to resist the urge to breach the distance. It wouldn’t do to lean into him. Especially not now that Jaskier’s love was letting herself fall into a seat opposite him. Perhaps that was the reason why Jaskier had sat down next to Geralt; not to be close to him, but so he could better look at Essi. The gods knew she was more pleasing to look at than Geralt.

Especially now that she leaned forward and brushed the strand of hair behind her ear, revealing both of her sky-blue eyes that Jaskier was so enamoured with.

“So, Geralt,” she began and tipped her head to the side, “we need you to be our unbiased judge. Which one of us it better?”

Geralt risked a glance at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks were tinged with pink and his tongue darted out to lick over his lips, undoubtedly nervous that Geralt would say something wrong.

Geralt’s jaw worked as he frantically searched for an answer that would help Jaskier with Essi, even though a small treacherous voice in the back of his mind told him that this was his chance to say something that would let him keep Jaskier.

But that would never happen. Either he would lose Jaskier to Essi or he would drive him away by keeping him from his happiness. Either way he would lose him. The only difference was whether Jaskier would remember him with affection or disdain.

His hand clenched around the bird he was still holding onto tightly, as if it would fly away if Geralt weakened his grip. As if it was the most important thing in the world to keep for as long as he was allowed to. A poor substitute for the real songbird that was slipping through his fingers at this very moment.

“I think…” he said slowly, doing his best and failing miserably to avoid Jaskier’s anxiously expectant gaze, “I think that I might be the least unbiased person in this room.”

Essi’s smile grew wider. “You really like Jaskier’s singing, don’t you?”

Yes.

But Geralt was afraid that if he said as much as that one simple word, he wouldn’t be able to keep its true meaning out of his voice.

He plastered a sarcastic smile on his face, hoping against hope that it would be enough to fool the two masters of acting. “Maybe I’ve just heard him often enough to find him boring by now.”

“Boring!” Jaskier gasped in outrage and swatted Geralt’s chest. “How dare you accuse me of such a horrible thing.”

Jaskier’s indignation was familiar. Soothing.

Geralt’s smile became more real. “I said ‘maybe’.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him. “Nice try to save that. You still owe me a better apology.”

“Oh?” Geralt leaned closer to Jaskier. He pretended not to notice the way their shoulders brushed. “And what do you want me to do to make it up to you?”

“Oh, that’s easy, my friend. You already know what to do.” Jaskier lifted his chin, a triumphant smirk on his lips. It took all of Geralt’s strength not to let his eyes linger on his lips. “Give us an honest review. Three words or less.”

Us.

There it was again. That reminder that this wasn’t a moment Jaskier and Geralt shared. It was one that Geralt intruded on.

He drew back again, putting enough distance between himself and Jaskier so that they wouldn’t be able to touch accidentally.

“You’re good together,” he said in a hollow voice. Geralt swallowed thickly and pushed himself off the table. After a painful moment of hesitation, he let go of the songbird and put it on the table between the two bards. “So I’ll better leave you to it.”

Jaskier’s hand shot out and grabbed Geralt by the hand. “What do you – Geralt, where are you going?” Inexplicably, dejection flashed over Jaskier’s face and the fingers of his free hand started fidgeting. “I thought we wanted to go stargazing later?”

Geralt’s stomach twisted painfully as he gave Jaskier a meaningful look. “I don’t think I’m the one who wants to look at the stars with you.”

It was a lie. But Geralt had been telling a lot of them lately, whether with his words or by pretending with his actions. It was for the better. Geralt might want to spend the night with Jaskier looking at the stars and watch in wonder how Jaskier’s face shone in the pale moonlight, but Jaskier would be better off doing it with Essi who might find a way to describe to him how breath-taking he looked with the moonlight illuminating him.

Maybe when Jaskier left him, he would remember Geralt as the one who had helped him get into romantic situations with Essi. It wouldn’t have been romantic with Geralt. Jaskier wouldn’t have been as happy with him.

And perhaps there was a little pettiness involved as well as Geralt pulled his hand out of Jaskier’s grip and made his way to their room with pointed casualness.

As long as Geralt occupied their shared room, Jaskier wouldn’t bring Essi there to spend the night. It was a small consolation to know that they would go somewhere else to do what Geralt didn’t even want to imagine, but it was a consolation nonetheless.

It didn’t help keeping the images of the two bards together out of his head. All he could think about was Jaskier holding Essi in a lover’s embrace in a different room or maybe even underneath the moon. He would kiss her and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was, how perfect. Maybe he would even repeat the words of his song to her, intimately like a promise. And she would be allowed to return those words to him. She would be allowed to run her fingers down his back and pull him ever closer.

All the while Geralt would be alone in this room that was too big for one person. He stared at the bed in disdain and let himself fall onto it. It was too big. Too cold. Too empty. He should have shared it with Jaskier. They should have traded jokes and whispered stories before falling asleep within reach of each other and maybe entangling their limps as they slept.

Perhaps, if Geralt was lucky, Jaskier wouldn’t stay the night with Essi. Maybe after they were done, he would come back here and Geralt would get to hold him again, despite him smelling of Essi and the joy Geralt couldn’t give him.

It was a stupid thought. Jaskier wouldn’t return. He would spend the night with his love and in the morning he would only come to Geralt to tell him that he would stay with Essi.

It had been a while since Jaskier had last sought out company for a night. Geralt had known, of course, that it had only been a matter of time until Jaskier fell into bed with someone again. The thought hadn’t bothered him. Too much. But now, with her, it was different. From the way Jaskier had sung about her, his beloved wasn’t someone he’d forget after a night. She was someone he wanted to be with for as long as he’d allow him to.

Despite himself, despite his aching heart, Geralt hoped that Essi would keep him forever. She would keep his heart safe and if there was one person Geralt trusted to keep Jaskier happy, it was this woman who had threatened a witcher should he harm Jaskier.

A long breath that was almost a groan left Geralt and got lost in the too quiet room. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as if that could stop the pictures of Jaskier and Essi intertwined from forming in his mind.

It felt like hours of restless tossing and turning until he finally sat up. As much as he had wanted to find refuge in this room, it now felt suffocating to him.

Surely by now Jaskier and Essi won’t be downstairs anymore. They must have either found a bed to fall into or gone to the beach to look at the stars, like Geralt had planned on doing with Jaskier.

But wherever they were, there was little to no chance that Geralt would come across them. There would be no harm in going to the stables to clear his head talking to Roach. Or in trying to get drunk instead and dulling his thoughts until none of the ache and the poisonous images of Jaskier looking lovingly at Essi were left.

He shouldn’t have hoped that it would be so easy. Too lost in his own glum thoughts, Geralt didn’t notice Jaskier’s familiar heartbeat in the tap room until it was already too late.

Geralt should leave. But his body wouldn’t obey him. He stood transfixed in the shadows at the edge of the room and stared at Jaskier and Essi who sat in an even more secluded corner than before. Jaskier leaned heavily against Essi who whispered soothing nothings into his ears and petted his hair comfortingly. Lovingly.

Geralt’s stomach churned at the sight.

He knew he shouldn’t listen in. He didn’t want to.

But the look on Jaskier’s face was so strange. Geralt would call it heartbroken if he hadn’t known any better. Maybe it was just a trick of the dim light, but Geralt could have sworn that his eyes were red-rimmed. There was no reason for Jaskier to look like that. Geralt had left him alone with his love, he had made sure they could have a romantic night together. He had done all that he could. Jaskier should be happy.

Evidently, he was not.

“Thank you for listening.” Geralt had to strain his ears to hear the words Jaskier muttered into Essi’s shoulder. His voice sounded tight and choked. “I really needed this. It feels good to finally tell someone.”

“Why not tell him?”

Geralt’s breath got stuck in his throat at Essi’s words. It was the same question prodding at his own mind. Why hadn’t Jaskier come to him to talk about what bothered him so much? Geralt knew he was horrible at giving advice, but surely Jaskier knew that he cared. Surely, he knew that he could trust Geralt.

Then again, could he really? After all, wasn’t Geralt eavesdropping on him at this very moment? Hadn’t he toyed with the thought of whisking Jaskier away from his beloved?

“You know I can’t. He’s…he wouldn’t want to hear something like that.”

Geralt’s chest tightened and he had to press himself against the wall to not do something stupid like cross the room and assure Jaskier that he would listen to him, that he always would be there for him when Jaskier needed him.

“I think he’d listen to you,” Essi said softly and brushed Jaskier’s hair out of his forehead. Gently she lifted his chin so that he would look up at her. “You said you were friends, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We are,” Jaskier’s voice broke off. Their faces were so close and Jaskier looked so desperate. “But, Essi, I’m in love.”

He sounded so broken, so hopeless.

Geralt didn’t want her to say it back. He didn’t think he could bear it if she did, if he had to watch Jaskier’s face light up at her confession and kiss her.

What Essi said instead was worse.

“You always are.”

Essi smiled and Geralt’s blood turned to ice. She wasn’t taking Jaskier seriously. Yes, Geralt too had been consoling himself with the knowledge that Jaskier’s loves were fleeting more often than not, but he wasn’t the one Jaskier was in love with. If he was, he would treasure every second he was granted being loved by Jaskier, however briefly. And Essi who had Jaskier’s love, who had his trust, who had said she’d fight the world to keep him from hurting… she was breaking his heart.

“Not like this.” Jaskier looked so lost. So small. And yet, despite Essi’s dismissal, a bittersweet smile danced across his lips. “It has never been this beautiful. It had never hurt like this. Gods, it hurts. I’ve been in love for years and sometimes I think it might be requited, but then…we could be watching the stars right now. And instead I am a mess sobbing at your shoulder.” His voice became quiet enough that even Geralt could barely hear his next words. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll fall out of love again.” Words meant to soothe made Jaskier wince like they were cutting into him like a knife.

“I don’t want to.” With a jolt, Jaskier sat up straight and stared at her imploringly, begging her to understand. “This time it’s different. I want to stay and I want to love and I…I don’t want to ruin what we have. It’s too important to me.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” Essi cupped his face with her hands, stroking tenderly across his cheeks with her thumbs. “I promise you. You are one of the most amazing people I know. You are a wonderful bard and an even better friend. Anyone who wouldn’t love you back would be a fool. You know how important you are to me. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I promise.”

Jaskier was quiet for such a long time that Geralt began to wonder whether he would speak up again at all. A hint of hope flickered across Jaskier’s face and his voice wavered when he asked, “How could I not ruin it?”

“You could just say it.”

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh and a sour grimace twisted his lips. “What, just like that? I should just say I love you?” He shook his head and his smile became softer again. Geralt couldn’t see it from where he was, but he could have sworn that Jaskier’s eyes would be full of fondness as he looked at Essi now. “That’s not enough. That doesn’t even come close to what I feel. I want to say so much more. Words aren’t enough for this.”

Essi tilted her head to the side and one of her hands wandered back to Jaskier’s hair. “Why don’t you show it then?”

Geralt couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch this anymore. He wouldn’t be able to bear watching Jaskier follow Essi’s advice. He couldn’t watch them kiss.

For once in his life, he wished that his heart was truly as hard as people said. Then at least it couldn’t shatter as it did now.

How foolish he had been to think that the ache in his chest would ever go away. Geralt doubted he would ever be rid of it. Perhaps it would be the only thing he would get to keep of Jaskier; a painful memory of what he had lost, of what had never been his to begin with.

Without another look at Jaskier, he pushed himself off the wall and fled.

---

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years ago

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holly's august extravaganza day 29: can you beat back the night?

for @girlwhowasntthere - i know you said i didn't have to write this one but i really wanted to, and i hope i did your prompt some justice! thanks @221bsunsettowers for the beta!

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: be careful what you wish for

ao3 | 1.3k | hurt jaskier, protective geralt, vague references to murder and implied torture

He misses the bard. Geralt won’t admit it, not even to Roach, but he misses him. After months—years—of Jaskier’s constant chatter and the sound of his lute, the silence, once valued above all else, is too much. He fills it by talking to Roach, and tries to ignore the way he sometimes waits for a reply, for a brief moment, forgetting.

It’s been months since the dragon, since Geralt lost both Yennefer and Jaskier in one fell swoop. He’s cursed himself many times over for the words he said—to both of them—and cursed himself more for the mistakes he made to get in this position in the first place.

This is the lot of Witchers, to be alone. He accepted that many years ago, longer than he cares to recall.

So why, then, does he still listen for Jaskier’s voice in every tavern he passes? Why, then, does he look for lilac eyes and a flash of magic around every corner?

Of course, the silence that surrounds him isn’t true silence. It’s the sound of birds in the sky, it’s the raucous laughter of drunks in the villages, it’s the scuff of his boots against dirt roads. Background noise, yet still it grates on him.

Worse, though, are the songs. They’re everywhere, known by the entire world, so it seems, and Geralt can’t go anywhere without being confronted by one. After all that time, he learned to recognise Jaskier’s style even if the words were not sung by him, and it is torture to hear them now and not have Jaskier grinning smugly at him from across the table.

Geralt had hated that expression. It seems impossible that he misses it now—but then, once upon a time, it had seemed impossible that he could ever enjoy the bard’s company.

How wrong he was.

How wrong he had been.

The town he finds himself in nearly a year after the incident is subdued, which isn’t so unusual anymore. Geralt has heard all about the growing threats from Nilfgaard, though he tries to keep himself out of these matters. He has his job, and politics mean little and less in comparison.

The hunt had been simple, over in mere moments, but still, Geralt is in need of food and a drink, so he steers Roach to the closest tavern. It’s the most lively looking thing in the village; smoke pours from the chimney, a yellow light spills onto the flagstones outside, and quiet music accompanied by louder cheers reach Geralt’s ears.

He curses under his breath; there’s no chance he’ll be able to pass as just another traveller here. But his options are few, so Geralt clenches his jaw and shoves the door open, pushing past village folk to get to the bar.

“An ale,” he grunts, ignoring the bartender’s wide-eyed gaze as it flicks from his sword to his hair to the pendant hanging around his neck. “And whatever shit you’re serving tonight; I don’t care as long as it’s edible.”

Even then, Geralt would probably still eat it—good food is a rarity on the road, and edible is usually the best he gets. The bartender doesn’t say anything in reply; he just nods, still with that idiotic look on his face, and scurries away, presumably to let everyone else in the tavern know that the fucking White Wolf is here.

He sighs and stomps to a table in the corner, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, even if it is slightly redundant by now. But, at this point, Geralt will take what he can get, and even a semblance of anonymity is better than none.

The food takes its time arriving, and Geralt is on his third flagon of ale before it finally shows up, accompanied by several apologies from the server. He ignores her in favour of his drink, then tosses more coin than the slop she’s placed in front of him is worth in her direction, in the hope that it gets her to leave him alone quicker.

It works, thank fuck. With luck, that’ll be the last time anyone in here bothers him, and he can leave before someone gets ideas and decides to approach him.

There’s a commotion at the front then the music suddenly gets louder, and Geralt drops his spoon back into his bowl with an annoyed growl. He’s halfway to standing, food be damned, when his ears catch the lyrics and, fuck.

It’s that fucking song, and Geralt is willing to bet everything he owns that they’re playing it because of him. Well, he’ll show them just how much he appreciates it.

Toss a coin to your Witcher,

If he had a crown for every time he hears that, he’d have more money than he’s ever seen in his life.

O, Valley of Plenty,

There’s something… Geralt frowns and stops in his tracks, something nagging at the back of his mind.

O, Valley of Plenty,

That voice…

He turns to the stage, elbowing through the crowd until he comes face to face with—

“Fuck.”

It’s Jaskier.

Geralt hadn’t planned on murdering anyone tonight, but one look at Jaskier’s battered face and sunken expression has him seriously reconsidering. The thought of turning around and leaving does briefly cross his mind, but Jaskier was his friend, once, and the sight of him now bears little resemblance to the man who had travelled with him those months ago.

It pulls oddly at Geralt’s heart, but he chooses to focus on the rage welling in his mind; rage that the loud, brash Jaskier he’d known had been reduced to this despondent, lifeless shell of a man.

The music screeches to an unpleasant halt as he steps up onto the makeshift stage, fiercely glaring at all those around him. Jaskier won’t look at him, which Geralt might understand, if it weren’t so violently against who the bard usually is.

“Who do you work for?” he growls lowly. When there’s no response, he makes a show of placing his hand on the sword at his hip, shifting his stance threateningly. He doesn’t raise his voice when he next speaks, but the other musicians flinch anyway. “Who?”

One of the musicians opens his mouth, but the voice that comes out is not his own, but Jaskier’s. “You should be more careful, Geralt.”

Geralt whips around, frowning at Jaskier. He’s staring down at his lute, plucking idly at the strings, his gaze seeming a million miles away. If Geralt hadn’t heard it with his own ears, he wouldn’t believe he’d spoken. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Words are powerful; I thought I’d taught you that.”

Jaskier still isn’t making sense, and Geralt wonders—not for the first time—if he’s lost his mind. He doesn’t have to wonder for long, however, as Jaskier’s next words throw everything into a horrific light.

“You should be careful what you wish for.”

And Geralt remembers the djinn, the three scars that still line his wrist, the cruel words he spat at Jaskier that day on the mountain.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Not a wish, not exactly, but close enough. Geralt isn’t fool enough to believe it the work of some djinn or another—he’s more inclined to label it a mere coincidence—but he feels the guilt regardless.

He may as well have wished it, after all; he had abandoned Jaskier on that mountain, miles from any town or village, with who knows what type of creatures and monsters around. Jaskier, alone with naught but his lute, would have stood little chance against anyone who wished him harm.

And the worst monsters, Geralt knows, are people.

“I will fix this,” he promises, then strides out of the tavern, intent on his task.

It takes less than a few hours for him to track down the man who took Jaskier, and mere seconds to dispatch him.

Geralt takes Jaskier from that town that same night, and he swears to them both they he’ll never let someone harm him again.

#bad things happen bingo #the witcher #the witcher fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher netflix #holly's august extravaganza #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing #girlwhowasntthere

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years ago

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Heartbreak and Heroics

A/N: This is the product of a conversation or two that I’ve had with @thatfluffybabyduck and let me just tell you. I love it. Thank you so much babe for all the amazing conversations we have!! Just a little reminder that if you want to be on any of my taglists, the link is here. Here is my masterlist if you want anymore dad!witchers content. And requests are open!

Warnings: none that I know of, there’s heartbreak, angsty teenage shit, protective!dad!Geralt, protective!uncle!witchers and feral!uncle!bard.

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: Nothing breaks the White Wolf’s heart more than witnessing his daughter go through her first heartbreak.

***

The door to the house slammed shut.

You lifted your head, expecting to scold Lambert or Geralt for slamming the door. Instead, you found your daughter unlacing her boots.

“Lana, don’t slam that door. I get on your father and uncle all the time about it.” You looked back down to the book in your hands.

“Boys are stupid.” She muttered, ripping off her boot and throwing it towards the door.

“What’s with the bad attitude, kid?” Lambert asked. He sat at the table with Eskel, Geralt, and Jaskier, quietly carrying a conversation.

“Because boys are stupid and I hate them!” Lana raised her voice, though the anger quickly fizzled into sadness.

You could see the tears in her eyes and hear her voice catch in her throat.

She stomped all the way to her room, closing the door roughly behind herself.

“What was that about?” Eskel asked, brows drawn together in concern.

You looked to your husband to gauge his reaction. Geralt was looking down the hall, his broad shoulders rigid with worry.

“I’ll go check on her.” You quietly told the witchers and bard.

Your book was left on the counter and you padded across the room and down the hall. You stopped just outside of Lana’s room to knock softly on the door.

“Love? It’s me.”

“Go away!”

Your chest tightened hearing her distressed voice.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Lana, love?”

“Leave me alone!”

A hand on your arm made you jump. You hadn’t heard Geralt get up from the table and follow you down the hall.

“What do you think has happened?” He quietly asked you, fearing that the thoughts that clouded his mind were too dark to be true.

“I’m not sure.” You shook your head, taking his hand from your arm to hold him. You turned your head back to Lana’s door. “She sounds really upset.”

“She’s crying.” He frowned. He let out a breath through his nose and knocked on the door. “Little dove? We’re all worried about you.”

There was silence.

Geralt stepped towards you, his arms wrapping around you to give you a hug you needed. You tucked your face into his chest.

“I’ll get her to talk.” He quietly promised you, kissing the top of your head. You squeezed him then retreated to the main room.

Geralt watched you go, gold eyes following your every move. Once you were seated at the table where he had previously been, he looked back to Lana’s door. He knocked twice more.

“Please, little dove. Open the door.”

“No, daddy.” Her voice was muffled as if she was stuffing her face into pillows. “Go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere, not until you tell me what is wrong.” He moved to lean his head against the door, closing his eyes as he sent a prayer to the gods that everything would be okay. “Come on, sweet girl. Open up, please. I’m worried about you.”

There were a few moments of silence and then there was movement. The door opened and Geralt looked down at his daughter. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and flushed red to match her watery eyes.

The witcher had never seen his little girl look so sad and the sight broke his heart.

“Can I come in?” He asked her, his gravelly voice soft and gentle.

She nodded and went back to her bed, curling up into a ball on the mattress.

Geralt pushed the door shut behind himself then went to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Little dove, what happened?” He reached out to place his hand upon her shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk.” She whispered, shaking her head.

“Do you want me to hold you?” Geralt offered.

A heartbeat passed and then she was crawling into his lap. His arms engulfed her, promising to always protect her from the cruelty from the outside world. She tucked her head beneath his chin, fingers gripping his tunic. He could feel her heart racing so fast and hear every breath that caught in her throat. Her tears were warm and damp as they stained his shirt.

Geralt rested his chin upon her head, eyes closing as he tightened his grip on his daughter.

Minutes passed before her heart calmed down. Once it was back to a steady pace, Geralt decided to try to see what it was that had upset her so greatly.

“What happened, little dove? What’s got you crying so much?”

“I-I saw Halden kissing another girl.” Her voice was muffled but it was easy to understand her.

It took a few moments for Geralt to remember who Halden was. He was a boy that Lana was courting. The two had only been talking for a few weeks but Geralt knew how much she adored him.

“I’m so sorry, little dove.” Geralt gently brushed his hand over her hair.

“I just- I really liked him, daddy. He was always so sweet and so nice. But I guess I-I just am not good enough for him.”

“Don’t ever say that Lana.” Geralt pulled away from her, taking her head away from his chest. He held two fingers underneath her chin, making the young girl look up at him. “You are brilliant and you’re beautiful. You are good enough. It’s him that isn’t. He isn’t worth your tears, little dove.”

“But I-I liked- Daddy, I really liked him.” A sob broke up her words. She reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I know you did, my love.” Geralt’s heart broke at the sight of Lana’s eyes red and filled with tears, her cheeks flushed and her bottom lip quivering. “But believe me when I tell you that you deserve better. You deserve more than anything he has to offer.”

Lana nodded her head, eyes flickering down to the medallion hanging on his chest. The silver color was a stark contrast to his white top. Geralt almost smiled a little. You always looked down at his medallion when you were thinking too.

“Daddy?” Her brows drew together softly. She looked up at him through wet lashes. “Why didn’t he want me?”

Geralt had felt pain before. He’d survived the life and body altering trials. He had nearly died on more than one occasion. He had lost those close to him. But seeing his little girl look up at him with saddened eyes and such a heartbroken look, he swore he’d never felt anything similar to the pain he felt then and there.

He was helpless. There was nothing he could do to take her pain away, to ease her suffering, to hide her from the cruel boy who betrayed her trust.

“Because he didn’t see how lucky he was to have you.” Geralt pulled her back into his arms, holding her a little tighter than what was probably necessary. If only he could keep her there forever in the safety of his arms. “He wouldn’t know something good if it hit him in his damned face.”

A few minutes passed as Geralt held Lana, listening to her sniffles and little cries as he rubbed her back and kissed her head.

Then, there was a knock on the door. Geralt lifted his head, ready to fight whoever would dare to interrupt the moment between him and his daughter.

The door opened and Jaskier poked his head inside. Lana lifted her head from Geralt’s chest and wiped her tears.

“Hello, love.” He smiled at her, then his eyes flickered back to Geralt. “Y/N sent me in. Just wanted me to make sure everything was okay.”

“Hi, Uncle Jaskier.” Lana sniffled, shifting around in Geralt’s lap a little bit.

“Why are you crying, dear heart?” Jaskier stepped into the room, placing his lute against the side of the bed.

“Why don’t you talk to him while I go…. go see your mother?” Geralt suggested, rubbing Lana’s side.

She nodded and climbed off of his lap, wrapping her arms around herself as she sat on the bed on her knees.

Geralt and Jaskier shared a small look before Geralt left the room, closing the door behind himself.

In the hallway right outside of Lana’s room were Eskel and Lambert. Both leaned against either side of the hall. Eskel had his arms crossed and Lambert’s hands were stuffed into his pockets. You stood at the end of the hallway, your arms crossed but one hand to your lips.

When you saw your husband, you moved towards him.

He was stiff and tense, his jaw locked and his eyes darkened as his eyes passed over you.

“Geralt-,” You tried to stop him but he moved past you, heading straight for the front door. “Geralt!”

“Not now, Y/N.”

“No, you aren’t leaving this house until you’ve calmed down.” You put your hand on his arm, stopping him.

He turned to face you, running his hand over his face.

“That bastard- He kissed another girl.”

“I know. Eskel told me everything.” You spoke quietly.

The quiet witcher had told you what Lana was upset about the second she told Geralt. His enhanced hearing allowed him to hear through the walls of your home.

“I am angry too, but you cannot act out on your anger, Geralt.” You brought your hand up to his chest. “If you do, you will lose me and Lana. Harming a child for being stupid will only hurt us in the long run.”

“She’s in there crying over him, Y/N!” Geralt raised his voice just slightly.

“I know, and I want nothing more than to make him regret ever thinking about hurting her. But imagine how Lana would feel knowing her father was hanged because of her heartbreak.” You searched his eyes.

You knew very well that if any harm came to the boy, your husband would be killed for it. The town hated him as it was. They just wanted an excuse to get rid of him and they’d gladly use Halden to get what they wanted.

“Go sit in the kitchen. Calm down. Collect yourself.” You brushed your fingers across his jaw. “I want to go see her.”

Geralt grunted but did as you told, moving towards the kitchen.

As you passed Lambert and Eskel, you stopped.

“Don’t let him leave this house. If he tries, do whatever is needed to make him stop.” You met Eskel’s gaze. He nodded and continued down the hall.

For once, Lambert was silent. He followed his brother, shaking his head. He wanted to beat up the little twerp who messed with his niece, but he didn’t want Geralt to get into trouble for any of it. He’d find another way to get his revenge.

You knocked lightly on the door and then opened it.

Jaskier sat on Lana’s bed with his arms around her. She was next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He had been humming quietly to her, wanting to get her mind off of her troubles.

When Lana’s eyes found you, her face crinkled up as a new wave of tears came forth in her eyes. She climbed out of the bed and threw herself into your arms. Your arms wrapped around her torso, holding her close and rubbing her back.

“My sweet girl.” You murmured, kissing the top of her head.

She buried her nose in your hair, squeezing you tightly.

“I don’t know what to do, mom.” She cried, shaking her head as best as she could. “I-I don’t know what to do.”

“I will tell you what to do, love.” You released her from your grasp but still held her hand, guiding her over to her bed. She sat between you and Jaskier. While you held her hand, Jaskier put his arm around her shoulders. “I know you really liked Halden, Lana. But he is the worst kind of boy you could possibly come across. He’s charming and nice on the surface, but beneath those pretty eyes and that charming smile, he’s ugly. Kissing another when you two are courting is completely unacceptable. That kind of boy isn’t the kind you waste your precious tears on, my sweet girl.”

You wiped her cheeks.

“You are far too brilliant and beautiful and kind hearted to ever cry over someone like that, Lana.” Jaskier assured her. She smiled just a little. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this, dear heart, but unfortunately, this is something that everyone goes through.”

“Did you?” Lana crinkled her brows together. Jaskier nodded his head. Then your daughter turned her head to look at you.

“Oh, it happened to me a handful of times.” You sighed. “It hurt each and every time, but I reminded myself that I would find the one when the time was right. And that’s when your father came into the picture. The rest is history.”

Lana looked down at her hands.

“I just…. I don’t understand. He said he liked me. He said I was…. He said I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.”

“While he is an absolute ass, I am very positive he was telling the truth when he said you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.” Jaskier told her. She smiled shyly.

“Why don’t we go get some tea?” You suggested, squeezing her hand.

She nodded and followed you out of the room.

In the kitchen, Lana sat down at the table with Jaskier on one side of her. Geralt was no longer at the table but instead stood near the fireplace, eyes focused downwards on to the flames.

As you passed him to retrieve the tea kettle, you place your hand on the small of his back. He turned his head to look at you.

“All will be okay, love.” You assured him quietly, knowing that look on his face. “She isn’t physically hurt or in danger.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“I know.” You held the hot kettle in one hand and used your other to rub your husband’s arm. “But that just means there is nothing you can do to help her. This is something she has to do on her own.”

He grunted, unhappy with your words and how true they were.

You went back to the table to begin making tea.

Geralt’s eats picked up on something. It was a heartbeat and footsteps approaching the front door of his home. He knew that heartbeat. He’d heard it once or twice. It was Halden.

Lambert noticed the way Geralt tensed up and started to move towards the door. He rubbed his hands together and stood to his feet.

“Let the fun begin.”

You looked up upon hearing the young witcher. You saw Geralt moving towards the door, his hands in fists by his sides.

“Jaskier, could you please?” You gestured to the kettle. He nodded and took your place while you went to your husband.

Just as you were reaching him, he opened the front door.

“Good evening, sir.” Hayden spoke. He stood about a foot shorter than Geralt and lankier than anyone Geralt had ever seen. His shaggy blonde hair was swept out of his eyes.

You slipped between Geralt’s large frame and the door, knowing it was best to be in front of Geralt rather than behind him.

“Geralt.” You warned him, looking up at your witcher. His eyes were dark and set on the young boy behind you. “Eskel-,”

“I’m fine.” Geralt spoke through his teeth. He didn’t mean to direct his anger towards you.

You caught sight of Eskel lingering just behind the White Wolf.

You turned your attention back to Halden.

“Is Lana home? We had plans to meet up in town but she never showed.”

Geralt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This prick- after kissing another girl -was wanting to hang out with his daughter?

What bothered the witcher the most was this boy’s boldness. He was looking Geralt in the eyes as if he did nothing wrong.

Geralt’s jaw is clenched together so tightly he thinks he might break his teeth. But his teeth are of little concern at the moment.

“Hello, Halden.” You greeted him. You knew if your husband spoke, the very fragile environment would shatter and he might attack. “I’m afraid Lana’s feeling a little under the weather right now. She was upset about something. Do you know what it is that could’ve upset her?”

Halden crinkled his brows together and glanced down, thinking hard about the answer to that.

“No, ma’am. Not that I know of.”

You let out a soft sigh through your nose, crossing your arms. You heard what sounded like a growl come from your husband’s chest.

In the house, Jaskier had been listening to the whole thing from the kitchen. With the door being open, it was hard not to hear.

“Is this little bastard really playing stupid?” The bard looked from Lambert to Eskel and then to his niece. She was still at the table, her head hung and lip quivering as she tried to hold back the tears.

Jaskier started to move towards the door, ready to start the very fight you were preventing. Eskel stopped Jaskier, stepping in front of him.

“Eskel, come on! Just let me-,”

“No, Jaskier. This is for Geralt and Y/N to handle.”

You looked over your shoulder, peering into the house to see what the commotion was.

“Shut the door, Geralt.” You quietly directed him.

He did as you told, stepping completely out of the house.

“What did you do to my daughter?” The witcher asked, his low and deep voice threatening. His lip curled into a snarl as he glared down at the child before him.

He knew what had happened but he wanted Halden to come clean, to admit to what he did wrong.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir-,”

“Like hell you do!” Geralt stepped forward but you were there to stop him.

The door behind Geralt opened and your daughter slipped past him. You could see the fire in her gaze, the anger raging within her.

You grabbed her arm before she could get too close to Halden.

“You were kissing Maria!” Lana shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I saw you by the lake with her! You had your hands on her, Halden!”

“When?”

“Earlier today!” Lana’s voice cracked and she quit trying to pull away from you. You refused to let her go, fearing she’d be unpredictable like her father when she was angry. “I-I saw you, Halden! I saw you.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I mean, it’s not like we were that serious anyways.”

Lana brought her hand up to cover her mouth, shaking her head.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve being such an ass in front of us.” You snapped, anger seeping into your veins.

“I didn’t think she’d be serious about it!”

“You told me-You told me that I was important to you!” Lana cried.

“And who was the foolish one for thinking that?” Halden tilted his head to the side a little. “I mean, look at you. You aren’t even that pretty.”

You stepped forward but Geralt had his hand on your arm, keeping you from getting close to the child.

“Y/N, take Lana inside.” Geralt said, urging you to move back to him.

With your jaw locked, you turned your head to look at your daughter. Her hand was over her mouth as she was crying once again.

You went to her side, wrapping an arm around her and guiding her into the house.

Once the door closed, Geralt grabbed Halden’s shoulder and practically threw him into the front door.

Halden opened his mouth to say something but Geralt stepped closer to him, putting his hulking body within inches of the teenager’s. The witcher leaned down, hands clenched in fists at his sides to keep from harming the boy.

“You are so very lucky, boy.” He spoke through his teeth, darkened yellow eyes glaring down at him. “If it weren’t for Lana and Y/N, you’d be a rotting corpse in the river right now.”

Halden swallowed hard, fear finding its home in his bones.

“If I so much as catch your scent anywhere near her or if I learn that you’ve even laid your eyes upon my daughter, I will show you just why they call my kind beasts.” Geralt wanted nothing more than to make this boy’s life hell, but he wasn’t willing to risk the livelihood of his wife and daughter. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

Halden was hastily moving around Geralt and sprinting down the street.

The witcher ran a hand over his face, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself. When he was sure he had his anger in control, he moved into the house.

“Could always let me and Jaskier go give him a little scare.” Lambert muttered from where he stood near the door.

Geralt shook his head, eyes flickering around the room until he found you. You sat at the table with Lana. She was between you and Jaskier. She leaned against your shoulder, her eyes closed and her hair mostly in her face. Jaskier held her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles as he hummed to her.

Your eyes found your husband. You crinkled your brows together just slightly, questioning him if everything was okay. He nodded and moved to your side. He leaned down to kiss your cheek and rub your shoulder. Then he moved to his daughter next. He kissed the top of her head.

“I love you, little dove.” He murmured against her head.

“Love you too, daddy.”

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#dad!geralt #dad!witchers #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia #the witcher #geralt #henry cavill #oneshot #queenxxxsupreme

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moonlights-inkwell · 4 years ago

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And Me Wearing Your Clothes

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,992

Summary: A creature in the woods is killing village girls in the woods, but to keep you safe Jaskier volunteers himself, and one of your dresses as bait instead.

A/N: This one probably needs some level of explanation. So, Joey wears a dress on the cover of The Horror and The Wild, and it has lived rent free in my mind since I first saw it so I had to get around to writing Jaskier in a dress eventually. Also, I know I’ve used Little Miss as a pet name for the reader in fics before, but don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it’s because of the song Little Miss Why So, which the title is also taken from- Just in case anyone was wondering where the fuck I pulled that from.

There’s some mild smutty elements in this too. No explicit smut in this chapter, but this is gonna wind up being a two-parter anyway, so you’ll get the explicit stuff later. It’s worth noting that this is chronologically the first part of my whole series with Jaskier, at least so far- so sorry for any confusion.

When Geralt had informed you that there was a job in a village not far from where you had set up camp, you had been more grateful of it than you would admit out loud. Villages mean inns, taverns and a chance to sleep on something that isn’t dirt, but the way the white-haired man looks at you lets you know this won’t be as easy a job as you could hope for.

“Small village, no inns or taverns, less than a hundred and fifty or so people- less by the day.” He sighs and heaves himself off of Roach to sit on a felled tree by the fire.

“Less by the day?” You raise an eyebrow. Little places such as these tend to have smaller problems, thieving little creatures, the occasional Doppler; but Geralt’s words make it all too obvious to you that the diminishing population isn’t just because people are leaving for somewhere that actually has a place to drink.

“They say there's something in the woods.” He says, as if that’s all the explanation that you require. It takes a second of looking at him pointedly for him to realise you need more information than just that. “Sounded like an Aswang from what they said. Been snatching up local girls, sucking them dry and leaving the bodies to be found come morning.”

Talking to The White Wolf is a Sisyphean struggle; so often it's like drawing blood from a stone, but on the days he decides to speak you can barely understand what he's saying. Not for the first time, you consider simply pretending to know what he means, to act sage and wise, but think better of it all too quickly.

“The bloody hell is an Aswang?” A fair question in your eyes, but the man sighs. You think, on occasion, Geralt forgets that just a few years ago you were just a barmaid with a love of brawling, not some monster hunter with dreams of Glory. Not that there’s much glory in your hunts, just bruises and wounds, limps that last too long and perpetually sore back, even if the occasional song comes from it.

“A type of vampire.” He clarifies. “Dangerous. Normally have a taste for pregnant women and baby blood, seems this one has a taste for any woman it can get its hands on.” That makes your blood run cold. Travelling with the Witcher and his Bard has been the first time in your life where you’ve been free from the limitations of your sex, but the way those amber eyes are watching you now has you suddenly all too aware of yourself.

“A taste for women? Why, Geralt, that’s a very tasteful way of describing yourself in a brothel.” A voice pipes up from behind you, causing you to jump. Jaskier. You thought him still asleep, he'd slept poorly the night before, but if the tiredness lacing his voice is any indication, he's only recently been roused.

“Not now, Bard.” Geralt growls out, but the bard just chuckles and gets to his feet, leaves crunching underfoot as he walks up behind you and settles at your side, a hand pressed to your lower back. Warm, especially through the thin material of your blouse.

“Oh, Geralt, a smile won’t kill you.” He trills and in spite of how serious you know the situation to be, your lips turn up in a far too easy smile. It does just as quickly though, when you realise that Geralt is still looking at you.

“...You want me as bait.” It comes out less as a question and more as a statement as your own eyes meet amber. Geralt doesn’t say a word and you look down. It’s not meant as an insult, and you know that, but it stings none the less; hurts to be asked to be less useful on account of having a cunt. He's asking you to make yourself weak, it’s a request that should be seen as an honour, a few minutes of acting like something you aren't to spare the lives of those girls in the village, but instead it leaves a sour taste in your mouth- like talking a gulp of milk only to discover it's curdled on your tongue.

The hand at the base of your spine rises quickly and rests on the curve of your back as Jaskier seems to realise what you just said.

“Bait?” He sounds as incredulous as you feel. “For what?”

“Vampire.” Geralt says crudely, “It's it targeting women.”

“And you want to send Little Miss in there as bait?” Jaskier snaps back at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you'll be plucked away without a second’s notice. This, this concern is all too welcome, and you glance at Jaskier from the corner of your eye. His clothes are still crumpled from sleep, but he's pushing himself up to his full height as if he expects that to intimidate a Witcher. It’s a foolish endeavour, but gods how you appreciate it.

“She can handle it,” is all the response that is given, which only sends the man beside you into further ramblings.

“She can handle it? She could fucking die, Geralt!” His voice raises, and you're quite sure he’s forcibly making his voice lower to try and sound less emotional about this. “You want to send her in, I’m betting almost completely unharmed, to act as a lure for a blood sucking creature of the night!”

You should feel insulted, to be talked about as if you aren’t there, but now you’re far too focused on the hand resting on you to focus on much else. Early spring's chill is still in the air, making the bard seem warmer than be likely is; and which is the cause of the goosepimpling of your skin is a mystery. Since the bard and yourself started your... entanglement, even the lightest most mundane touch has seemed like lightning crackling through your body. Entanglement is one way of describing it. Really, all that has happened has been kissing- the sort that start as barely more than a brush of lips and don't stop until it turns to heavy breathing and you removing yourself from the situation before you can do something you may regret.

He's always been a mother hen, flapping about to stitch whatever wounds he can and forcing you to seek out healers when he feels it more extreme than a simple slice, but you've no doubt that this concern is coming from a more selfish place than simply wanting you safe. The grip of your shirt is all the confirmation you need.

“It only attacks women, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out slowly, as if teaching an especially slow child. “And unless you’ve a secret to share, Little Miss is the only woman we have.” The pet name comes out in a patronisingly saccharine tone that makes you turn your eyes to the ground.

“I would sooner go out there in a dress myself than let you put her in harm's way for no good reason!” Jaskier shouts back at him, sending your eyes up to meet the Witcher's, when you catch sight of something rare. A smile.

This is a bad idea.

Awful idea. Terrible. Quite possibly the worst idea that the three of you could have come up with, and the fact that Geralt is allowing it to go forward is a mystery.

Well. Not a mystery. Geralt, for all his attempts at stoicism and claims of emotionlessness, has a sick sense of humour: and a chance to humiliate the Bard who interrupts his silence with every passing second must have been more tempting to him than you ever could have anticipated. You, on the other hand, were less keen. Especially when informed by Geralt that Jaskier would need to borrow your only dress for this humiliation tactic. It had taken an hour and a half for it to be taken from you, and it was only really able to be taken because Jaskier had pulled you into a kiss unexpectedly, causing you to drop the dress to wind your arms about his neck. A genius manipulation, really. Should have seen it coming.

It'll never succeed though

Jaskier is perhaps more attuned to his feminine side than many men; His love of scented bathing oils and ointments for his hands, fine clothes and penchant for the dramatics spring to mind, but there's no way that he could be mistaken for a woman unless this Aswang has incredibly poor eyesight. Sweet smells and minor theatrics do not a woman make, even in a borrowed dress. You sit by the fire pit, poking, poking, poking at the burning logs with a long enough stick that you don’t risk your hands with each jab.

Geralt won’t even let you help him set up the trap, and all at once you’re reminded of your girlhood; how the boys in your little home town had allowed you to play knights and dragons with them, only to have you act as Princess. You had always hated it, sat stock still and aloft chairs stacked like a tower for hours while the boys would tumble around fighting each other, roaring and crawling, stabbing and calling in their presence until it was finally time to rescue you- always long after you had grown resentful of your place waiting. You wanted to nothing more than to pick up one of those wooden swords and take part properly, but every time you had asked you had been told that there are no female knights, only princesses. You would always run home to your mother to complain only to be tapped lightly on the nose and told what an honour it is to be picked as a Princess, and given a bowl of peas to de-shell for supper. It didn’t feel like an honour then to sit around feeling useless, and it doesn’t feel any better now. The only respite that comes is from the jabbing and stabbing of the logs.

“I think they’re dead, Little Miss.” Jaskier speaks in your ear, sending you to the ground in shock. The self-pitying had ensured that you hadn’t heard him coming, and he laughs. Chuckles that drip honey have you look up at the bard, ready to curse him for frightening you, but the words wither away on your tongue. Your lip trembles and you drink him in.

With you on the ground, he looks so much bigger than he already is but that isn’t what has you tongue tied, no, not at all; it’s the dress. It’s white, and you always thought it made you look sickly, but on him it’s almost otherworldly, like something you might see on a god, flowing in a wind you hadn't felt before he reappeared. It’s beautiful. He's beautiful. The fabric clings to his pectorals and tapers in at his waist and you realise something that has never struck you before: Jaskier is muscular. Not to the extent of Geralt, but muscular none the less, the muscles of his arms thickening as he crosses his arms across his chest, which only accentuated the sculpture of his pectorals and the dark thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of the gown. Tanned skin all but glows in the light of the flames, given richer colour by the stark and almost holy white gown, giving him the illusion of something more than just your bard; some manifestation of Apollo, youthful and beautiful, still grinning that boyish grin, looking for all the world both like he has spent his whole life lounging about and spent it in fields to develop those muscles. Logically, you know he must be muscular, spends his days walking across the continent, carrying bags and bedrolls and whatever can’t, or won’t, be carried by Roach but it catches you off guard. You've always considered him a dainty flower of a man, always singing, always strumming, but now you're confronted with the reality of the situation, Jaskier is all sinewy muscle and dark hair and truly, you’ve no idea how patterned doublets and a lute have kept this reality a mystery to you. He’s beautiful, always beautiful, but this is something else entirely. Beauty implies something entirely understandable. This is otherworldly, incomprehensible in how it makes both so much and so little sense all at once. Your throat is dry and you take a deep gulp of air and struggle to find the words to say and settle on a soft little,

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He smirks, eyebrow raising as he offers out a hand to you. “Does it not look nice? Do I not look like a delicate lady in need of protection?” He teases, skin around his eyes crinkling with his grin.

“You look better in it than I do.” Your voice comes out weak, and he smiles and tugs you to your feet once you take his hand. “Though you are perhaps the hairiest delicate maiden around here.”

“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Dear Heart.” He says tenderly and cups your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He calls that space Your Kiss, as if a kiss is a part of your body rather than something people give each other. “You look beautiful in everything and anything- and nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at that, smirking slightly at the comment. “Not that I know what you look like naked! Not that I haven’t thought about you like that, unless that makes you uncomfortable-" He rambles, cheeks flushed a pretty sort of pink, so you lean in and peck his lips.

“It looks much better on you, Dandelion.” You say decidedly, settling on the balls of your feet. “Though I rather think it isn’t complete.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks and watches you as you scramble through your bag and pull free two small pencils before settling yourself on the ground and tapping on the log. It takes a second, but he does sit, eyeing the pencils like they might be weapons. “Are you going to stab those into my feet, so I walk in a womanlier way?”

“...Is womanlier even a word, Bard?” You tease, trying desperately to avoid the hand attempting to swat at your head for questioning his obviously superior understanding of language. “And no. Not at all, they’re cosmetics.”

“Cosmetics?” He repeats and watches you as you grab one of the pencils and a dagger, carving at the wood until it is sharp enough for you.

“You do understand women put products on their faces to look prettier, don’t you?”

“You don’t,” He snaps back at you, indignant that you would even question his understanding of the fairer sex. “You’re all bare and natural, and look all the prettier for it, like a rose.” A hand moves forward and cups your cheek, you can feel every callous and scar that riddles his skin. He’s trying to avoid you putting the makeup on him, but just for now, you allow yourself the indulgence. It’s only dusk. Geralt said that the plan won’t need to be enacted until close to midnight and he has yet to even return from his setting of the trap; a little time to take pleasure from something as simple as the man who kisses you having a hand on your cheek. “Beautiful, fresh like a daisy and lovelier than the month of May...” He continues, hand shifting a little forward so that his fingers bury themselves in your hair, causing you to lean towards him, head shifting into the touch- reminding you all too much of the little cat who used to come begging for scraps when your mother and you would eat outside in the warmer months. It’s a strange thing to catch your attention so, but now that the thought has entered your mind, you cannot help but wonder if your mother has been feeding the tiny little beast in your absence-

“Little One?” Jaskier says gently, snapping you free of your thoughts, you’ve no idea how long you’ve been thinking, but it was clearly long enough that the man before you has noticed it.

“...Yes?”

“I asked if I could kiss you.” Can I kiss you? Although you’ve never been someone with much interest in the romantics, you’ve never so much as kissed a man before you met Jaskier, you’re quite sure that men don’t normally ask if they can kiss you. Most that you’ve seen interacting with women simply crash their mouths on their partner’s, breeching their mouths with their tongues like they’re stabbing a creature that means them harm. But Jaskier asks. He means to ensure that you are always completely comfortable with his touching you, to make sure you know that if you have no interest in this contact that it will stop. He won’t push. It’s enough to make your lips turn up in a tiny little smile and you nod, leaning towards him and resting hands on his knees, lips puckered tight and eyes falling shut, and he chuckles. “Melitele, Dear Heart, relax your lips, you aren’t trying to pierce my lips with yours.” He lets his thumb glide across your lower lip, causing you, quite instinctively to relax your lips. “There we are.” A rush of pleasure overtakes you, making you shiver and heading straight to your core. Simple praise is all it takes from him to make you unsure of yourself, and want to do anything to please him, so when he pulls you up gently and settles you on his knees, you do so without complaint, and as if as a means of rewarding you, kisses you softly.

In the months since the two of you have begun this not-quite courtship you’ve grown more accustomed to kissing him than you ever would have anticipated. It happens so often that it’s almost strange to you. He kisses you as a means of waking you, kisses the back of your hand to reassure you, kisses the back of your neck when he passes you, hell; you’re more than a little sure he kisses you sometimes just to annoy Geralt. It feels so natural to you now, to have his mouth on yours, moving languidly like the rest of the world does not exist. He kisses like he’s afraid he might hurt you, all gentle touches and reassuring rubs of thumb against flesh. He knows that you’ve never so much as kissed a man before him and seems to take some pleasure in that- not in the kind of way that the boys at home seemed to when talking about deflowering some virginal girl, but in a way that he seems to enjoy teaching you something about intimacy, or at least this version of it. He acts for all the world like some sort of teacher, gently reassuring you when you go wrong and guiding you back on track, and you preen under the attention. He never pushes, never asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, and it’s far more appreciated than you will ever say, even if in the last few weeks you have found yourself wanting... more.

His lips are wind-chapped but somehow soft, and press into yours so softly, hand curved around your cheek and guiding you to tilt your head slightly, so you follow his lead, reciprocating the kiss as sweetly as you can, winding fingers around his wrist to hold it in place. The kiss is chaste, with no sign of moving beyond just the plush push of lips on lips but still, this position makes it feel more intimate than it has any right to; sat on his legs, your own parted and on either side, and the dress makes it more intimate still. In his doublet and trousers, the only warmth you feel from him while kissing comes from his hands and face, but now with so much skin exposed it’s seemingly coming from all around you, seeping through the fabric beneath you, from the arms extended in front of you, from a heart beating so close but so out of reach. The fire roaring just behind you is hardly helping the situation. Jaskier hums softly against your lips, little more than a vibration, but it makes you smile. Even when kissing he makes noise; he cannot bare to be silent, relish in the sounds of nature, no, he simply must make noise. It’s lovely really, such consistency is hard to find, especially on the road, but Jaskier is consistent. It takes a little more bravery than it should to swipe the tip of your tongue across the seam of his lips and the movement seems to shock the bard, who ceases his kissing for just a second before opening his mouth slightly and dragging his tongue across your own. Normally you would wait for him to deepen a kiss but with him looking the way he does, and the overwhelming need developing between your legs, you cannot continue this lazy sort of kiss as you normally might. No. Now, you need something more than this innocence. So, you shuffle closer to him, legs tightening around his and both hands moving to wind around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your own bravery seems to have inspired some in Jaskier too, so he wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you even closer still, tongue lathering over your own before his teeth drag across it and then bites gently. It makes you shiver, letting out a quiet moan which brings a moan out of him too. Not too long after that he pulls back and heaves a deep breath while you pant, head tilting back.

“That was new.” He laughs, fingers tracing circles into your back.

“What can I say? That dress really does look good on you.” You respond with a chuckle before leaning forward again, this time to mouth at his throat. You feel Jaskier gasp before you hear it, the skin of his neck going taut beneath your lips.

“Dear Heart,” He starts, and the pet name does nothing but make your heart race, “If you don’t stop soon, we’re going to have a... well, an issue.” He stammers out, and you pull back immediately, eyes wide with worry. Had you been too intense in taking your own pleasure from this situation that you had missed some clear hint of his that he was uninterested in going further? He goes to such painstaking lengths to ensure your comfort and you feel like you’ve encroached on his.

“An issue?” The words come out shaky, and you try to shift yourself back from him, but he holds you still. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to upset you-”

“You haven’t. Gods, Dear Heart, I think you could stab me, and I would still thank you.” He says, still rubbing those reassuring circles into your back. “You’re just. You’re...” Jaskier stops and seems to deliberate his next few words, “You’re exciting me, that’s all.” That makes you blink. He doesn’t look all that excited to you, if anything he just seems to be riding the same high he always is after kissing turns a little more passionate, pupils blown wide and lips pink and plush from kissing, but he doesn’t look excited. Your confusion must be visible because Jaskier sighs, muttering something under his breath before his hand creeps higher toward your shoulder blades. “You’re making me hard.” He says, the words said carefully as if afraid he might upset you.

“Har- Oh. Oh!” Realisation hits you all at once and your eyes dart down to his lap, suddenly seeing the tent in the dress that certainly hadn’t been there when you first settled on him. It was mere centimetres away from your core when you were kissing him, and you hadn’t even noticed. It’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen someone be hard, even if it is completely covered up, and the knowledge that it was you who has done this to him fills you with pride. You’ve never really considered yourself the kind of person to have that kind of power over a person, you only ever really feel powerful in a fight, but the feeling overtaking you now feels like power. With nothing more than a mouth and tongue, you’ve affected him in this way. "I wouldn’t call that an issue.”

He blinks at you, lips slightly parted and he looks you up and down. For the first time, you wonder if he’s thinking of other trysts, where it was him in shirt and trousers on top of some woman in a dress who is falling apart at next to nothing. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth, but the feeling of power is more overwhelming than any insecurity.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Little Miss.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’ve never seemed interested in... progressing.” He’s being careful not to say anything he thinks might offend you. Jaskier is never one to mince words, but your virginity seems to have him somewhat uncomfortable when it comes to what language to approach sex with. You aren’t a child, and used to work in a tavern, you’ve heard all too many terms for sex; shagging, fucking, making the beast with two backs, a labour for Venus, but Jaskier calls it Progressing. Like it’s travelling, moving from one destination to another, from kissing to something else entirely. It’s quaint coming from a man who you’ve heard sing songs about receiving hand-jobs. “I don’t want to push you into anything you might not be comfortable doing, Little Miss, I don’t want you to feel pressured by me or this or anything-”

“I’m interested in progressing.” You cut him off, a little too eagerly. “Truly, I am. I just. Haven’t done anything like this before. So, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, you know. I couldn’t just... I don’t know. Ask you to take my virginity.” Jaskier chokes a little at the words.

“I wouldn’t be taking anything.”

“But I do want you to.”

“I don’t mean in terms of... not wanting to. I do. Melitele’s tits, I’d crawl over shards of glass just to put my mouth on you, Darling. I just mean, I wouldn’t be taking anything from you. There’s nothing to take. You would just be someone who has been intimate instead of someone who hasn’t. You don’t lose anything.”

Your heart, something in the back of your mind says coyly, you’ll lose your heart to him if you allow yourself to be breeched by him, he’ll take it unknowingly and not be able to give it back to you. Each step, each breath, each blink and each song, he will have your heart entirely and there will be nothing you can do to have it returned. He’s had so many lovers before, it’s unlikely he’ll give his heart to you in return for you giving him your own- and it won’t be because he’s cruel or unfeeling, it will be because Bards give their heart to anyone who hears their song, and there isn’t enough of it left for you. He’s entirely enough for you, but you will never be entirely enough for him.

“If I lose nothing by it then why are we discussing it instead of... progressing?” You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from saying shagging. Fucking. Anything but this dance around what it is that the two of you clearly want.

“Because I want you to understand.” He says, and it sounds like a plea. “I want you to know that you don’t lose a thing, and I want you to be doing this because you want to do it, not because you feel like you ought because I’m hard or because you feel you owe it to me. I want you to do this because you want this, and because you want me.”

Because you want me. It makes you falter for a second. Of course, you want him, you wouldn’t kiss him if you didn’t. Your heart aches at the thought of someone kissing or sleeping with him and not wanting him, using him and discarding him afterwards.

“Of course, I want you, Jask.” Your voice is little more than a whisper.

“I mean it, Little Miss. If I do this, I won’t want for another person in my life, I won’t be able to not think of you, and if you’re doing this out of obligation and not because you want me, it will kill me.” He continues, the hand on your back moving up still until it’s buried entirely in your hair, twisting and feeling about your scalp like the answer to every question he will ever ask is written in your hair. “If this is only for once, I cannot do it. It would kill me to know how it feels to be inside you, to feel at one with you, and know you don’t ever intend to do it again. I care far too much for you to do a thing like that.”

“Jaskier...”

“I admit, I have a... reputation for leaving a string of not-quite-crying lovers behind me, but I cannot add you to that list. I won’t. And I refuse to spend the rest of our days together writing melancholic songs about how I want you, desire you, crave you, only to know you only have eyes for others, I would sooner-”

You can see by the impassioned look in his eyes that he has so much more to say, but can’t bear to hear anymore, for fear of fooling yourself that the beautiful man in front of you loves you. So instead, you reach down and wind your fingers around his member and relish in how his words choke to a halt and he lets out a sweet sigh.

“I don’t want to sleep with you once either, and your former lovers and I have nothing in common. For one, I’m not married, and two, I want you Jaskier. Not reprieve from some small pricked husband. I want to have sex with you because I want you, I care about you.” I love you; your mind screams the words you don’t dare say. It’s enough though. Enough for Jaskier to smile and move both hands around your waist once more and gently lay you on the floor beside the fire, hair fanning out like a halo among leaves and grass.

“I. I had intended this to have a more romantic location.” He admits to you as he parts your legs and settles on his knees in the space he has made. “Some inn, where I could strew some petals about, draw you a bath, sing a song.”

“I don’t need petals or poetry or baths.” You smile at him, but he shakes his head with an affectionate smile,

“It’s not about need, Darling, it’s about what you deserve. And you deserve to be treated like a princess.”

“In that dress I rather think you’re more the princess out of the two of us.” Out of the dress too. You’re rougher than any woman should be, and if your mother could see you now, you’d be pulled by your ear off to be told how good and proper ladies dress and behave- you find yourself covered in monster gore more often than you would like to, and have taken to wearing darker colours so that the dirt on them doesn’t show quite as much, but Jaskier with his sweet voice and fineries? He’s a crown away from being a prince, the sort who appear in every story you were told as a child who could fix any maiden’s problems with a kiss that would end in happily ever after.

A cough draws the both of you from each other and you turn your head to see Geralt and realise the light purple sky of dusk has been replaced with the near pitch of somewhere closer to when your plan needs to take place. He looks as uncomfortable at finding you as you feel at being caught. You feel like a child whose mother has caught you doing something they expressly told you not to do, and the fear of whatever comment he shall make keeps you from laughing at the mental image of Geralt dressed as some mother, in a drab old dress and dirtied up apron, flour dusted about his face, still world weary and with his swords strapped to his back.

“...Aswang will be here soon.” The Witcher says, and you’re grateful he’s decided not to address what he had walked in on. “We need our... beautiful woman to be wandering in the woods.” He gestures with a movement of his head to Jaskier to come towards you, and the bard does, albeit slowly, remove himself from the spot between your thighs. Geralt’s stoic face might be enough to fool most people who don’t know him, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. He’s glad he called Jaskier’s bluff on the dress, this story will never make its way into a song for the sake of Jaskier’s ego but will be brought out by Geralt at any and every ball that he is dragged to from now on. His fictional tale of the Bard being castrated by an unfortunate kick to the bollocks by an Ox as a child will now be replaced with an honest account of the esteemed bard Jaskier having volunteered himself- seemingly at random- to serve as bait in a dress for a very dangerous beast. You think he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the dress, but Geralt very clearly sees it as funny. Men are strange. It’s just a dress, and a dress that makes him look far more attractive than any fine suit or set of armour ever could, so what is so funny about it. The Witcher says your name and you look up at him and nod. “Stay here.”

“But-”

“Hopefully the ‘fair maiden’ is enough to get the Aswang. If it sees an actual woman, it’ll attack it and not try to attack him. I’d prefer not to have to carry your corpse back to your village. It would be a long journey.” He’s being facetious, at least you hope, but you nod anyway. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

“Stay here, it’ll all be over soon.” Jaskier tells you, smiling that disarming smile he uses to try and charm more coin from locals.

“But the memory of you in a dress will live on.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smirk from his face, which makes Jaskier’s face morph between anger and confusion quickly before settling on incredulousness.

“No one is to hear of this Geralt. Geralt! Do you hear me? No. One. Geralt!” His protests increase as the White Wolf begins to trek back into the thicket of trees, Jaskier following behind him and shouting all the while.

“Jaskier!” You call to him, and the complaints die as he turns to face you. “Please, please be careful.”

“I promise, Dear Heart. I will be fine.”

Somehow, you don’t quite believe him as he disappears into the trees to join Geralt at his trap, leaving you alone with only the fire and the moon for company. Eyes turn up towards the full, round beacon of light, the only break in the darkness overhead with no stars to join her. You aren’t religious, and don’t believe in worship or prayer but now, tonight, you close your eyes and breathe deeply. You trust in the moon more than you trust Geralt and Jaskier not to take any unnecessary risks,

“Please keep him safe for me. Please.”

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier smut #the witcher imagine

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fanficsforheartandsoul · 4 years ago

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The Dragonborn | M!Reader x Geralt of Rivia | Part I

Just an idea I had after reading an awesome story by @waiting4inspiration

Notes: I never finished Skyrim. Also, many things I’ve written here are based on The Witcher 3 game, since the lore of the Series is not covering everything. Also, also, this story is inspired by a headcanon of mine about the Dragonborn. I will elaborate further in the next part :)

Fandoms: The Witcher (TV Series), The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim

Warnings: Non-Canon Story, Swearing, Gore, Slight OOC

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier meet a stranger in the woods while on the hunt for a special monster. They decide to team up but neither does Geralt realize that his prey is close to him nor does the stranger notice he's the one being hunted...

Word Count: 5785

Taglist: @yes-captainstark @stuckupstucky

If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name!

Please note that The Witcher is supposed to be around the Middle-Age. Homophobia existed.

Part II

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He definitely had to rethink his decisions when it came to helping villagers.

Geralt usually never hunted monsters that weren't on the information boards in towns, but when he heard the rumors in the tavern and the worried glances from every villager, he made an exception—something he regretted now.

He wanted Jaskier to stay at the tavern, but the bard was stubborn and just tagged along into the forest.

"Don't worry, Geralt. I won't get in your way."

The witcher didn't say it out loud, but that wasn't exactly why he wanted him to stay behind. Hunts with unknown monsters were dangerous even for an experienced monster slayer like him.

The Butcher of Blaviken couldn't prepare his silver sword with special oils since he didn't know what he would encounter. But from the rumors he had heard, the monster seemed to be a draconide, so Geralt used some strengthening potion on himself.

He didn't find any other clues, and the whole search for information hadn't helped at all. So he decided to just go for it. He would probably regret it later, but when did he not?

And now here they were. In the middle of a dark forest. It was almost nighttime, and Geralt and Jaskier hadn't found shit.

The witcher had left his horse in the stable of the village's tavern because the forest was close, and he didn't want Roach to get hurt in case the draconide wanted her as food.

So they had to carry everything by themselves. Thankfully, Jaskier insisted on taking their sleeping blankets and food rations.

"You know this could be a great opportunity for a new song. An unknown monster to slay, a dark and eerie forest, the Butcher of Blaviken..."

The bard appeared to be as lively as ever, Geralt on the other hand couldn't share his excitement. In fact, every muscle in his body was tense, and he concentrated hard on his hearing. The forest was whispering, and he heard a twig snap in front of them.

"...be something along the lines of Slay-"

"Shhhh."

The bard's expression changed, and he stopped talking immediately. The witcher unsheathed his sword and listened intensely.

There it was again. A shuffle in the bushes, the crunch of fallen leaves. A presence coming towards them. His shoulders tightened, ready to attack when the bushes parted, and a man tumbled before their feet.

"Oh, greetings, strangers."

Jaskier just stared at the newcomer while Geralt pointed his sword at his neck. The man was wearing the strangest armor he had ever seen. It was black with blood-red features and had pointy shoulder pauldrons.

It gave the man an intimidating aura, and the large scars in his face didn't help. But the way he greeted them and how he awkwardly scratched his head in uncertainty, made him look less dangerous. Oh, and the fact that his sword was sheathed.

"Wha-what an odd turn of events," commented Jaskier, who tried to hide the fact that his legs almost gave out when the stranger had appeared before them.

Geralt studied the man with a strange feeling in his chest. He could sense it. Something was strange about him. Maybe it was his accent, or the foreign armor, or how he looked completely calm when a blade was pointed at his throat.

"Do you not know what lurks in this forest at night?"

His tone was harsh, the stranger slightly agitated him, although the witcher didn't know why. The other just watched him for a few seconds, his e/c eyes scanning him. A shiver ran down Geralt's spine.

"I'm hunting."

Jaskier seemed to feel the strange atmosphere between the two because he said with a light undertone:

"Well, we do too."

The witcher gave him an angry look, but the bard looked purposely in another direction to avoid his disapproving eyes. The stranger's expression turned somber when he heard these words, and Geralt furrowed his eyebrows, this fellow was definitely strange.

"I assume you're a witcher?"

His voice was missing any disgust or contempt which surprised him. Geralt didn't respond, but he didn't have to because Jaskier, the babbler, took the word, as always.

"Yes! He is Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. And I am his humble friend, Jaskier, who tells the world his noble deeds. And who are you?"

The stranger seemed stunned by Jaskier's cheerful behavior, but then he returned the smile and bowed a little. It looked weird with his intimidating armor. Geralt squinted his eyes. Was this man a fool? His adam's apple almost touched his sword now.

"Call me Y/N. I do not have a last name, but I come from Keizaal, a faraway land. And I’ve been staying here in the forest for a few weeks in a hut half a mile from here."

Keizaal? The witcher had never heard of it before, and it disturbed him. All the studying he had to do when he was younger, but the homeland of this person was unknown to him.

Geralt examined the man closer. For someone who apparently stayed in the forest for a long time, he looked a little too clean. But maybe people from Keizaal had a different washing methods. His thoughts trailed off.

"A pleasure to meet you, Y/N," replied Jaskier and bowed in return, he gave Geralt a look and the witcher only hummed, although lowering his sword.

"What are you hunting if I may ask?" requested the h/c haired man while he absently watched how the moon appeared in the sky over the tree line. It was fully night now, and Jaskier unconsciously took a step closer to Geralt. The witcher had no problems seeing in the dark, and the stranger didn't appear to either.

"None of your concern."

Once again, he gave the man the cold shoulder, but Y/N ignored it. He only raised an eyebrow and grinned slightly. Surprisingly, it made Geralt's blood boil. That bastard's presence was bothersome.

"It looks like we need to part ways again, but it was a pleasant surprise to meet the witcher everyone is talking about."

He tensed at the mocking undertone.

What was that supposed to mea-

A scream disrupted the three of them, and both Geralt and Y/N turned around to see from where the sound came from.

"Jaskier," grunted the witcher, and the bard stepped behind him.

"The Nightwraith," murmured the foreigner, and his head whipped around to him.

"How do you know that?"

Geralt's voice was sharp and menacing, but Y/N didn't respond, he unsheathed his sword and swung it in his hand with practiced ease. His defensive stance screamed mighty warrior, and a shiver once again ran down Geralt's spine.

What is this strange feeling?

He could hear Jaskier's heart pounding fast with the help of his increased hearing. The foreigner's heartbeat, on the other hand, was calm and steady as ever.

"It might be best if you protect your companion."

These words were the last ones of the stranger before he disappeared through the bushes.

"What are you doing?!" shouted Geralt, but Y/N was already gone.

The man ran until he confirmed that the distance between him and the two others was big enough. He clenched his hand and concentrated on his Magicka. The spell for detecting any undead engulfed his eyes, and he saw the Nightwraith 30 meters in front of him. The ghost looked straight at him and once again screamed like bloody murder.

"What a shame that the ghosts here cannot be captured in soul gems..."

Y/N grimaced and decided to attack first. As long as the spell was activated, he was able see the monster even when she was in her ethereal form. It would decrease her chance of escaping and attacking the witcher and the bard. So he decided to charge.

"WULD NAH KEST"

A whipping sound erupted, and a familiar feeling washed over him as he dashed towards the Nightwraith with inhumane speed. The creature screeched in surprise and pain as soon as his enchanted ebony sword hit her. He understood the confusion of the ghost, his weapon was not from this world, and neither was he. That's why he was able to harm her even when she was in immaterial form.

He had fought against thousands of monsters, slew giants, trolls, werewolves, and even daedras. And obviously dragons. A mere ghost like the Nightwraith was nothing for him.

He slashed the monster's gown, and the cloth sizzled and turned to ash when the ebony touched it.

She tried to fight back, raised her clawed hand in an attempt to attack his head, which was the only part of Y/N's body that wasn't covered by his armor, but her claws didn't connect. His sword impaled her rotten body, and a howl full of agony erupted from her mouth.

A tremor in her body and the lack of physical resistance to his sword showed him that she was about to split into three copies of herself, but he wouldn't let her do that. The man shifted, ignoring how her body disappeared and then turned around to face her petty trick.

A fiery heat crept up his throat, and the ground shook slightly when he shouted:

"YOL TOOR SHUL"

The copies that appeared behind him got engulfed in green flames and turned to dust. With a twirl of his hand, Y/N rammed his sword inside the original Nightwraith's skull, who emerged from the left.

A wail escaped from the monster's lips when her body too exploded in green flames and vanished.

The man's legs buckled under him, and he had to use his sword as support not to fall.

Using two shouts so quickly after another had always weakened him. Even when his body began to adapt to his soul. Slowly he sat down on the moss-covered ground and took a deep breath. Exhaustion washed over him like a wave and he huffed.

Maybe they had heard the Nightwraith's dying scream because he could listen to fast footsteps approaching him. He only glanced into their direction, and when he saw that the witcher and the bard looked unscathed, he sighed in relief.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!"

Geralt of Rivia was fuming, he could smell it, and his voice clearly gave it away.

"I was trained to kill monsters; I am a witcher! Did you believe a mere human could kill a Nightwraith?! Be happy you didn't find it. It would have torn you to shreds!"

When he heard the insult, his eyes twitched, and he closed them. It wasn't a good idea to show them to the angry witcher at the moment.

After so many years with his dragon soul, which prolonged his life, his body began to go through chances. His pupils turning to slits when he was agitated was one example.

The fact that the bard had watched the white-haired man with a surprised expression showed him that he wouldn't normally react this strongly. Y/N shifted, and the clinking of his armor drowned out his scornful snort.

"Well, I am quite happy because I was indeed able to kill her."

He didn't see the witcher's expression, but the silence said enough. The corner of his lips twitched, and when his eyes stopped hurting slightly, he opened them again and stared into Geralt's yellow ones.

"But I'm exhausted now. I don't think I can stand up and return to my hut."

Jaskier exhaled through his nose and muttered: "with this armor, no wonder." The bard turned to face his companion, and they held a short silent conversation before he set down his lute next to Y/N and said with a lively voice:

"Well, since it's already night, let's camp here together."

"NO!" yelled both of the armed men at the same time. Geralt glared at him, and the other returned it with a scowl.

Jaskier eyed his partner suspiciously and then turned to the h/c haired man who's intense stare made him unconsciously lick his lips. Oh, he saw what this was.

"Come on. We cannot leave Y/N alone out here if he isn’t even able to stand up. We will light a fire and give you some of our food."

In the end, they both complied even though not without grunting and murmuring curses under their breath. Geralt lit the branches he gathered while Y/N peeled off his armor with skillful efficiency. His clothes underneath looked elegant, but they were dirty and had brown stains, which most likely were blood.

Jaskier prepared some bread and cheese that they had taken from the tavern back at the village and then sat on his sleeping blanket. The witcher watched as the foreigner and the bard started a conversation.

"How far away is Keizaal? I never heard of it."

The man took some time before he replied.

"I had to cross the ocean for a year to get to you."

"A year?! Mercy! Did you hear that, Geralt?"

He only grunted. Skellige was already so far away, how many miles had the man traveled to get here? That fact impressed him a little, but he didn't show it and just continued stacking the branches he collected.

"You look skilled with the sword..."

Y/N looked at his strange weapon, and Geralt couldn't help himself to listen carefully when the other began to talk about his life.

"From where I come from, men have no choice but to learn how to fight. There was a civil war when I first came to Keizaal, or Skyrim how the natives call it. I had to pick sides, and many people relied on me. Fights with monsters like the Nightwraith", he pointed to the heap of dust a few meters away from their camp, "happened daily. Your continent and Redania is similar to Keizaal in that matter. You can die anytime. If you're not careful."

The man had a longing in his voice when he spoke of his homeland, and his silhouette looked lonely. Then he laughed, but it sounded bitter.

"Oh, but there's one difference to your land. We had dragons."

Geralt stood up and turned to face the man.

"We have dragons too."

Y/N shook his head and dismissed the comment with his hand.

"I mean real dragons, not your pathetic lindworms. The first time I met one, fire rained down on earth, and a whole town was burned to ashes. Keizaal was in the claws of terror for years. His name was Alduin, the World Eater."

Jaskier's jaw dropped, and he grabbed his lute.

"Tell me more! I get inspiration from stories!"

The h/c haired man shifted to sit more comfortably and then started to tell the story of the most significant threat Keizaal had ever faced.

"...and that's how the Dragonborn slew Alduin and returned to Keizaal."

Jaskier's eyes were beaming, and his face showed a slightly scary expression, but Geralt knew that the bard just imagined all the things the warrior had told them.

"And then? What happened to him? I mean, you should know, you said you were his friend."

Y/N grimaced and let his rough fingers travel across his blade. He looked like he didn't want to talk about it, but in the end, the man sighed and just said:

"His dragon soul was too much for his human body, and he slowly turned into a dovah. His humanity was gone, and only a violent beast stayed. His other companions and I had to kill him."

Geralt noticed the pain in his eyes, and he felt bad for the man who had lost his best friend. Y/N lifted his head and realized that the witcher was looking at him. He turned away in slight embarrassment.

"We should sleep now. I will stay on watch first."

The Butcher of Blaviken only nodded, and Jaskier sighed.

"Then, I will take the next shift."

He didn't like taking the last shift, but Geralt didn't say anything and just laid down on his blanket, facing away from the two others.

Dovahkiin. It really sounded strange. The fact that there was a place out there so different from everything he had ever known... It intrigued Geralt. Y/N seemed to have been bound to fate, too, at least in a way.

He regretted yelling at the man, but at that time, he had really believed that he was just some fool who tried to boast about his skills. But Y/N had indeed killed the Nightwraith. Geralt had seen the remains.

He looked at the shadow of the foreigner that danced on the trunk of a tree close to him. Since he wasn't wearing his intimidating armor anymore, he just looked like a normal man, who had seen too many people die and fought against too many demons.

Just like me.

He felt a strange bond between himself and Y/N, and he decided to try and be a little friendlier tomorrow.

He closed his eyes, and the only thing he heard before he fell asleep was the steady breaths of Jaskier, the man humming and the fire's crackle.

Hands touched his shoulders. They were rough and big. Geralt shivered when they traveled across his back and all the scars he had received from his life as a witcher. "What are you doing?" he asked when he could feel a breath on his neck. "We are the same," replied a deep voice, and it sounded raspy. He wanted to turn around, but somehow he couldn't. "The same?" He stopped short when a warm body pressed against his back. The person snaked their arms around his torso and touched his chest. Geralt felt heat creeping up his body. Laying in the arms of this person, he felt safe but also slightly uneasy. His heart skipped a beat when two lips touched his neck. They were rough, but the kiss felt like a feather. The other person's breath tickled his skin, and he shivered, although it was pleasant. "Both of us are monsters." The hands on his chest suddenly began to claw into his skin and ripped deep wounds into his flesh. He began to scream.

"..ralt, Geralt! Wake up!"

He jolted awake and found himself staring into Jaskier's worried face.

He grunted "what's going on?" his voice deep from sleeping, and the bard bit his lip.

"Y/N went to take a piss, but he hasn't returned, and I heard a roar, a thunderous roar."

Geralt sat up and rubbed his eyes with one hand. His forehead was damp from sweating so much, and he cursed the person of his dream.

"He didn't run away?"

Jaskier shook his head and pointed to the armor next to the warrior's blanket.

"He woke me up for my shift and then said he would be right back. He wasn't even wearing his boots."

He didn't miss the worried undertone of his friend, and Geralt sighed deeply.

"I'll go look for him. Stay here. Don't let the fire die out and call out to me if something approaches the camp!"

The bard was definitely not happy with being left behind, but he knew that was better for all of them. He wasn't much of a help, not when it came to killing monsters. And the thing he had heard out there was definitely one.

Geralt took both of his swords and sheathed the one made out of steel. With the silver sword in his hand, he began to walk into the direction Jaskier had pointed to.

He saw the footsteps on the ground, leaving a trail of dark spots on the dewy moss. He followed them, and they led quite far away from their camp to a tree from where he could smell the stench of piss. He wrinkled his nose and searched for other tracks, but there weren't any.

"What in the worl-"

He was still able to turn his head around, but he couldn't avoid a black thing that slammed into him at full speed.

The witcher was sent flying, and when he crashed on the ground, it took his breath away and caused his vision to turn black for a few seconds. A roar shook the earth and the trees as if there were an earthquake and a storm at the same time. His ears rang and he lost focus for a second.

A shadow cast over him and Geralt's blood froze when he saw two rows of gigantic sharp teeth with a blurry vision. An orange glow appeared, and he could feel the heat radiating. He threw himself to the side; any second later, he would have been turned into roasted meat.

His instincts told him to run, and he did. Shameful, but a witcher knew when his opponent was too strong. He still couldn't see properly, his head was ringing painfully, and his ribs and chest felt like they would explode, but fear carried him forward.

Thundering footsteps could be heard behind him, and a roar erupted again from the beast's throat that pursued him. It shook him to the core, and he was sure that this was the monster the villagers had talked about. The beast was growling, and he paused mentally. Did this thing just say something?

Geralt took a step forward, but there was no ground underneath his foot, and he tumbled down a steep hill. Stones dug into his back, branches tore his undershirt, and his head hit a bolder. It felt like his energy was sucked away. Everything turned black.

"I found him!"

Y/N informed Jaskier and rushed down the small hill into the dry riverbed where an unconscious witcher laid. He knelt and checked Geralt's pulse. It was slow and slightly weak but there. He searched with his hands for any severe wounds, but besides the nasty gash on his temple, he was fine. Or that's all he could see for now.

He pushed the shirt of the Butcher of Blaviken up and touched his torso. He was correct. There were some bruises right over his ribs. Fortunately, nothing seemed broken. He pushed and felt around some more until he heard a cough, and he stiffened.

"What.. uhm, what are you doing?"

The bard's voice sounded suspiciously like he was grinning, and Y/N clenched his teeth in annoyance.

"He bruised his ribs. It will probably hurt for a while. We should take care of his temple wound."

Jaskier whistled, which caused him to furrow his eyes, but he didn't say anything; instead, he stood up and roughly grabbed the witcher and threw him with ease over his shoulder. Y/N turned and left the bard standing there with a gaping mouth. What a hassle.

It had been strange. When the man had woken up six hours ago, he had laid somewhere in the forest, his enchanted shirt torn at the back, and his hands and feet were dirty. His fingernails were stained black because of the earth under them, and he had a raspy throat. He had no memory of what had happened.

The sky was still dark, and next to Y/N laid a fallen tree that looked like it had been broken in the middle with force. Wood splinters surrounded him.

He had used one of his spells to find the way back to the camp, where he found Jaskier alone and scared shitless.

"You're alive!" was his greeting.

The bard told him how Geralt went looking for him, and breathlessly explained that he hadn't come back. He thought the warrior from Keizaal had died.

Y/N luckily didn't, and they decided to look for the witcher in the morning. Or he decided, Jaskier was firmly against it, but when he taunted the bard to search by himself, he gave in quietly. He knew that it was safer for both of them.

While he waited with sweaty hands, Y/N realized something and discreetly changed his torn shirt. He also wondered how his enchanted clothes could be damaged to such extremity.

When the sun rose, they had begun searching, which led up to now.

"Isn't he heavy?"

Jaskier's question made him chuckle.

"Try lifting my armor. If you're not strong in Keizaal, you'll die before you can hear the end of the Dragonborn song."

The bard suddenly grabbed his arm, and Y/N stopped walking. Jaskier's eyes were wide, and his face had a pleading look when he practically yelled:

"A song? Sing it to me, please!"

He blinked slowly. When was the last time someone asked him to do that? Was it 50, no 80 years ago? He didn't remember.

The ring on the necklace he wore around his neck seemed to burn his skin, and a pair of eyes flashed before him. It had been so many years, and his heart still hadn't let him go.

"I can't sing well... But if you really want me to..."

The smaller man nodded profusely.

"Yes! Absolutely. Please."

Y/N needed a moment to translate the text and remember the tune, then be began:

"Our hero, our hero

Claims a warrior's heart

I tell you, I tell you

The Dragonborn comes..."

Geralt woke up 2 hours later. His head was still pounding, and his ribs also hurt, which was strange. Did his healing abilities not work? And where was his undershirt? Why was his head bandaged? He looked at the crowns of the trees and pondered for a moment. What happened?

"You’re awake?"

He turned his head and stared into the e/c eyes of the foreign warrior. His hair fell into his face, and Geralt thought that the scars in Y/N's face must have really hurt. Somehow he was relieved that the man was alive.

"What happened to the monster?"

Y/N furrowed his brows. He didn't seem to know what he was talking about. Slowly he sat up, and a groan escaped his lips when his chest protested.

"You should be careful, nothing's broken, but bruises can hurt anyway."

Geralt scoffed. "I had to endure worse things."

Then he paused. That's not what he wanted to say. Didn't he decide to be friendlier?

The warrior didn't reply, but his shoulders stiffened, and he realized that he might really be a little too unfriendly. But he was a man anyway, so why did it even matter? Maybe he got a concussion after that fall.

"Did you find me?"

He changed the topic, and when Y/N nodded, he looked away and hummed.

"Thank you."

He only received a pat on the back, and Geralt's heart skipped a beat. The man's hand felt like the one's from his dream. Was he thinking about Y/-

What a stupid thought. The witcher shifted and turned to face the fire where Jaskier sat and roasted a rabbit.

"Oh my, I had thought it before, but seeing you now... you look like shit if I'm allowed to say."

You already did.

"Well, you try and get chased by a fire-spitting beast."

The bard paused and exchanged a look with Y/N. He wondered when they got so close. Could people consider this to be close? Exchanging knowing looks? Geralt had no idea. He didn't even know why that mattered. Maybe he had really hit his head a little too hard.

"So that's what happened? You ran away?"

Jaskier was as considerate as ever. He clenched his jaw and then relaxed. Might as well tell the truth.

"Yes... I think that thing is completely different from anything I've ever hunted before. I wasn't able to see it properly, but it spitted fire and walked on two legs. The latter would suggest a wyvern, but the fire doesn't, and another thing was strange... I think it spoke? It said Gaan Vah Haas or something like that."

Y/N suddenly coughed. Both their heads turned to the h/c haired man.

"Gaan Lah Haas? Are you sure?!"

Geralt nodded, and the eyes of the man suddenly beamed. He blinked. The way the man's eyes turned into crescents had something... captivating.

His brain sputtered. He could only nod some more, his mind too focused on the strange thoughts.

"Do you perhaps know something about this beast?"

Jaskier continued to turn the rabbit over the fire, but his eyes were fixed on Y/N, who was silent for a while before answering.

"Truth be told, I only came here because I was searching for someone from Keizaal. He disappeared, and I was put in charge of bringing him back."

This new information made him regain focus.

"Are you implying the thing that chased me and tormented the villagers is the one you're looking for? It may have had two legs, but it definitely wasn't human."

The man shook his head and pulled a satchel out of nowhere. He put his hand inside, and Jaskier's eyes almost popped out when his arm entirely disappeared as if the satchel was much bigger than it looked. He retracted his hand and conjured a red scale. It was gigantic.

"This..." began Y/N, and his eyes held a look of melancholy, "is one of his scales. He's a dragon. Like Alduin."

The bard was still in shock about the magic satchel, while Geralt studied the scale from afar. It had a vibrating red color and beautiful iridescence. When the beast had chased him, he didn't see exactly what color it had, but if it’s scales were such a vibrant color, he would have surely noticed, right?

"A dragon from Keizaal?"

He received a nod.

"And you have to bring it back?"

"His name is Odahviing, and he's harmless. Also, yes, I have to bring him back."

"The thing out there definitely tried to kill me, I don't know about you, but that doesn't look harmless to me."

Y/N's expression turned dark.

"He's mostly harmless. But that's why I have to bring him back."

Truthfully, he was spouting horseshit.

All the things he had said up to this point, about his life in Keizaal, his journey, all were lies. He didn't travel a year to get to this continent, or more like this world. He walked through a goddamn portal and arrived in the middle of some forest he had never seen before.

Had he not met a kind but old soul who took him in and helped him, Y/N would have probably gone crazy. Or maybe he already did. After all these years, he wasn't so sure if that wasn't already the case.

Furthermore, he wasn't the Dragonborn's companion, no, he was him.

Or had been. He wasn't anymore.

After all, Alduin's death was 130 years ago, and everyone who knew his real story was already dead. Only his friends from the Mer side had remained. And Paarthurnax and also Odahviing.

Using his friend's name felt like a betrayal. But he couldn't really explain the portal thing without telling Geralt and Jaskier that he was the Archmage of Winterhold and he already said that the Dragonborn held that title, so...

That was also why he didn’t heal the wound of the other man although he really wanted to. He somehow couldn’t bear the thought of the witcher hurting.

Y/N used his friend as an excuse to not hurt the dragon.

He decided to spin a story around it.

Well, it was only half a lie. The thing that attacked the Butcher of Blaviken appeared to be a dragon from his world. The shout that Geralt had heard and obviously also had to endure was proof enough.

It was the Thu'um with which a dragon could drain the vitality of their prey. If Y/N had to guess, that was why they had to bandage his head wound and why the witcher's healing abilities weren't working for the time being. Besides the fact that the shout was otherworldly magic.

But what he didn't know was how a dovah from Keizaal could come to this world. The portal he walked through had appeared in the middle of the woods, but he had slain all the dragons after Alduin's death, so it didn't make sense.

Well, he would probably find out the truth in the next few days. And when he found the dragon, he would just ask them. They would probably also be the key for him to return home.

Y/N slightly paused. Did he even want to go back to Keizaal?

Most of his friends had already left for Sovngarde, and the ones who remained had been troubled by the personality changes he had gone through after his lover’s death.

Would they be happy if he returned?

Maybe I should stay... There's so much to learn about this continent and its inhabitants.

His eyes traveled to the witcher.

He would think about this later. The most important thing right now was to capture the dovah so that they could interrogate them.

"My job is usually to kill monsters. Not capture them."

The white-haired man pulled him out of his thoughts.

Y/N searched his eyes, and his heart stung a little when he realized once more how similar Geralt's yellow eyes were to Farkas's when he had turned into a werewolf. It devastated him but also drew him to the witcher.

Geralt was grumpy. Just like his love had been often. Talos, his heart...

"If I plead, will you not kill him? Or do I have to toss you a coin?"

The remark made Jaskier beam, and he grinned a little.

The bard was the complete opposite of the witcher. Maybe that was the reason why they were friends. Although it did look like the brown-haired man would just hang onto the other if he wanted to or not.

"You know the song?"

"Of course I do, there's not one tavern where I haven't heard it."

"You do not have to plead nor give me money. As long as that... as long as he stops terrorizing the villagers, I'll try not to kill him."

Geralt's voice sounded once again harsh, but Y/N could feel his sincere feelings, and he smiled at him.

"Thank you."

A silence fell over them, and Y/N was pleasantly surprised when the witcher returned his smile with a small but existing one. His heart skipped a beat, but he ignored it.

The atmosphere around them was peaceful for the first time they had met, but Jaskier interrupted it:

"So am I correct when I say that you just teamed up to capture this Odahviing? Oh, heavens, I just received your inspiration for a new song!"

While he grabbed his lute and began to mutter things along the lines of "Two warriors so great" and "Once upon a time, two monster hunters met and became friends," Geralt and Y/N exchanged a look and rolled their eyes simultaneously.

Maybe they would indeed become friends.

________

Wuld Nah Kest = Whirlwind Sprint (A shout that grants the ability to dash rapidly forward.)

Yol Toor Shul = Fire Breath (A shout that allows one to breathe a forceful blast of fire.)

Part II

215 notes · View notes