#Geraskier fanfiction

[gregre369]

Y’all ever been reading some fanfiction and you just randomly check back into reality. And realize you’ve been reading 100k words of domestic bliss and fluff about two make believe people. Like no action, no violence, no plot, just two people living their lives and having conversations about home renovations.

Does it make you question yourself…?

…cool me neither

[nezmar13]

“That's it, kitten. Just like that,” Geralt muttered softly, a small smile tugging at his lips as his omega adjusted to his length. His large hands gently grazed the creamy thighs straddling him, feeling them quiver as Jaskier fully seated himself on his lap. Leaning against the propped pillows, the alpha couldn´t get enough of the sight before him, deliciously arched back pushing forward a smooth chest, perked nipples just begging to be tasted. They were so close Geralt couldn´t resist bending down his head to nip at them with teeth, stroking them with his tongue in reward. A shuddered breath and Jaskier´s body tightening around him in response left him humming in satisfaction, his omega being so beautifully sensitive, so responsive.

“Sweet thing,” he whispered when Jaskier reached out, bracing himself on Geralt's chest as he slowly started to grind himself, his hips devilishly moving in circles leaving them both moaning from the sensation. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are right now? How breathtaking you look as you take your pleasure from me?”

There was no coherent response to that, just a startled cry as Geralt suddenly thrust into Jaskier´s welcoming heath. Hands finding their way to the almost dainty waist, grasping it tightly when the omega started to bounce on his alpha´s cock, sobbing so prettily as he took all of Geralt's length in him. 

It didn't take long for Geralt´s grasp on Jaskier´s waist to become bruising as his knot began to form, catching on the omega´s rim with every push. 

With one powerful thrust, Geralt´s knot snuggly locked him in his omega, making him rumble in pleasure. There was no better feeling than the one of completely filling his mate, stroking his prostate with every grind whilst the omega comes undone, crying so beautifully for his alpha.

“My little Lark.” 

Fanart included in the link below

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49731946/chapters/135328912

[bambirex]

Tell It With Your Heart

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 2,504

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️

It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe

Read on Ao3

**

Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.

It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.

It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.

That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.

It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.

When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.

But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.

Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.

"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.

"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.

*

The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.

They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.

Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.

"What about you?"

"Lie down, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.

"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.

"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."

"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"

Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.

It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.

*

"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."

"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.

"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.

They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.

"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.

He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

"What is it? Something for Roach?"

Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.

"It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.

"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."

Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.

He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.

"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."

"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."

*

Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.

He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.

Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.

He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.

"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."

"Did it help you create better?"

"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."

"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.

Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.

He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.

Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.

He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.

"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."

"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."

"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.

"Do you not want it?"

"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."

"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.

Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.

*

The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.

"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"

Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.

"And I'm only thirty-five!"

"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."

"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"

"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."

"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."

His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.

"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.

"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."

Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.

Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.

"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."

"You take care of me as well."

"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."

Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."

Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."

Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.

"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."

He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."

He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.

"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.

"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."

Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt an eternal summer

His summer

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Tags: feelings realisation

He doesn't want this summer to end.

Not that it had been any different from previous summers. It's still the two of them camping under the stars, the same as ever.

But something in Geralt has shifted. Something he can't explain.

He'd stopped grumbling whenever the bard sang, strumming his lute into the late hours of night.

He didn't complain when Jaskier grabbed a comb and teased out the knots in his hair, carefully braiding it down his back.

He even let the troubadour steal his food, wear his clothes and use his bags to bring along whatever unnecessary items he wanted to.

When Geralt glances up from poking the fire to look at Jaskier, he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.

The bard was screwing his face up, hand scratching his head while he pondered the lyrics for his next song.

The years had been kind to the bard. His features are still soft and full of youth despite the wilderness they frequent.

His eyes shine bright, day or night, but Geralt prefers seeing them right now, across a campfire when they flash at him, piercing and demanding.

"What are you thinking, my dear witcher," Jaskier purrs, setting his quill and notebook down on the log.

Geralt's eyes dart down, flickering back to the fire. That smile on his face threatens to spill out across his lips.

He can feel Jaskier walk around, coming up behind him. His knees drop, perching onto the edge of the stone that Geralt is sitting on. 

Jaskier's arms wrap around his neck.

"What's on your mind, love?" he whispers in his ear.

"Nothing," Geralt lies, like he always does.

Jaskier hums in a low voice, a mockery of all the times Geralt made that noise, clearly making a point.

In response, Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's. He wants to turn his head, to kiss him, but he doesn't move.

He can't lose this. These moments they have. He wants more, Melitele, how badly he wants more, but he's never had more. He won't push it.

"I was thinking, it's such a nice night, maybe we can put out bedrolls together and watch the stars after dinner."

Geralt nods his head, then feels his breath hitch as Jaskier brings his lips up to his cheek and places the softest peck against him.

Then he's gone, leaving him to go back to compose while Geralt cooks the rabbit.

He never wants this to end, and yet, as the summer leaves start to turn, he knows it will have to.

His heart aches in his chest at the thought of a winter without him, his bard, his companion, his shadow.

His love.

The thought crashes through him. That's the word. That's what Jaskier means to him: love.

He stands up, dropping his stick, and walks over to Jaskier.

The dirt beneath his feet crunches, but he doesn't hear it for the thumping of his blood pumping around his body.

He feels warm in a way he's never experienced, not even in the throes of passion with Yennefer, or at a brothel.

His fingers twitch, his body feeling heavy with each step.

Jaskier isn't even looking at him, furiously writing down words onto a page. Geralt's never looks at what he writes, but he likes the way he sprawls black ink across the pages.

He steps forward, his leg hitting Jaskier's knee.

There's a huff of protest from Jaskier for a second, then he's looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

The argument is over before it begins, because Geralt reaches out with his hands, cupping his face with one and holding onto his bicep with another, and then Jaskier is rising to meet him.

Those blue eyes sparkle in confusion. They dart back and forth, up and down, as if Geralt's expression will reveal the secret.

Geralt feels breathless, like the air is thin. He moves his other hand up Jaskier's arm, sliding up and behind his neck.

The bard's lips are parted, tempting Geralt to taste them. Jaskier peers up at him, blinking.

There's a brief pause, a moment while Geralt tries to commit this to memory.

Then he leans forward, bringing their lips together.

Jaskier whimpers at the touch, barely responding, then suddenly his hands clutch onto Geralt's shirt, pulling hard.

Their lips slide together, soft and tender. The taste of plum wine that Jaskier drank earlier while they were in town fills Geralt's senses.

This is the perfect moment, something that should never end.

Yet Jaskier pulls back, gasping for air for a second.

Those eyes shine, like they always do, and Jaskier bites his lips playfully, leaning his forehead against Geralt's.

"I have to ask something, Geralt, or I'm going to explode. And, please, I need you to answer me. How long have you wanted to do that?"

"Just…a while," he admits, giving a small shrug.

Jaskier splutters, slapping his arm. It doesn't hurt one bit.

"You…okay, fine. Tell me later. I just need you to kiss me again."

Their lips meet again, sending tingles of pleasure through Geralt. He feels himself melt into it, knowing deep in his bones that this is where he wants to be forever.

This right here is all he needs. Jaskier, his bard, his love, is his eternal summer.

[gabetheunknown]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Shani Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Shani (The Witcher), Rience (The Witcher), Essi Daven, Sabrina Glevissig, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), Age Difference, Professor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, College Student Jaskier | Dandelion, No beta we die like Henry Cavill's career Summary:

Jaskier recently started living on campus at Oxenfurt University. Studying liberal arts is his first step in becoming an artist. He struggles, not with his work, grade-wise, but concentrating has never proved harder when he sees his history professor for the first time.

Geralt soon finds out that this might be, in the few years he's been teaching at Oxenfurt, the smartest student he's ever taught. He's as annoyed as he is impressed.

Their bond grows when they set up a plan together to improve the academy's assessments.

Neither of them expect their lives to become so complicated in the span of only a few months.

[tears-and-smiles-ao3]

What my heart just yearns to say

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Tags: first kiss, caretaking, fluff

Summary: Geralt wants to tell Jaskier how he feels, but battles with his inner belief witchers shouldn't want the comfort of another. He cares for his bard the only way he thinks he's allowed until Jaskier forces a conversation between them.

Written for the prompt: kiss as comfort.

Read on Ao3.

[mothpiercings]

honestly netflix should get inexplicifics and penandinkprincess to write on twn like i’m so serious right now their fics r better than the actual show 😋

[geraskierficrecs]

Fic Searches

Hello friends! I'm working my way through asks and requests and could use some help to find the following fics:

bluepatrolkidscissors asked:

Hi Do you by any chance have the most recent copy of "we are known by the stories we share" by jskald (witcher fandom geraskier) .Thanks

linbrocky1221 asked:

Hi there! Do you know of any fics where Ciri is Jaskier and Geralt's biological daughter? And season 3 fics where Jaskier is the mom instead of the fun uncle?

catastrophe908 asked:

Hi! So I'm actually looking for like 4 different fics (all geraskier)

The first is set after the mountain breakup and Jask comes across another Witcher at the bottom - I think it had been Lambert? I do believe they went on a few adventures before Lambert took him to the keep, which Geralt was also there. I think he kind of joined him in trying to make Geralt jealous, but Lambert was on love with Aiden.

The second is a like non-human/creature Jask. He had died, then became an undead. We follow along as he rediscovers the world - almost like a child, relearning how to speak, sing, etc. I remember him trying to sing along with birds. There's another memorable scene in which Jaskier comes across a family, of course they're terrified, but the father seems to feel sympathy and guilt for running away.

The third is a modern au! I know that Roach was a van. I also believe Jaskier (now going by Julian) is a professor, meanwhile Geralt is still a witcher. They basically aged alongside the world, meaning they've been alive for quite some time, and yes, magical creatures exist. I believe what happened was that Jaskier had died and his body went missing from his resting place. Other details: I'm pretty sure that Geralt had like a villa in some town, of which Yen was mayor.

Finally... The fourth, Jaskier was slowly regressing in age. His memories, his physical body, all aging backwards - it ends at him finally reaching 18 again; having lost all memories of Geralt and their life together. (I'm pretty sure it was established relationship). Geralt just kind of had to watch helplessly. Maybe he tried to help him somehow, but I can't quite remember.

Thank you for the help!!

szpiko asked:

Hello i'd love an expert's help for finding fics that match the specific setting im looking for ( if theres any) noble-rich-boy-at-home Jaskier ( all proper but wants to break out, you know the stuff) AND/OR recovering Geralt

Thank you!!!

alpharitt asked:

I was looking for a fic. It's about jaskier getting into a fight with geralt and he leaves meets geralt again but it's not the real geralt it's a doppler and they both fall in love with each other. Can you help me find it please I've been looking for it all day

[handwrittenhello]

might've been a nightmare

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?” “And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?” Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.” “Hmm.” “Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?” “Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.” “Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

Geralt takes on a contract that will force him to answer one question: will he choose the fate of one, or the fate of many?

Rating: M Word Count: 9134 Tags: Horror, Suspense, Case Fic, Monster of the Week, Angst, Injury, Developing Relationship, Mystery, set nebulously s1, POV Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Humor, Banter, Soft Geralt of Rivia, (believe it or not despite those first few tags there ARE soft moments in this), Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Sacrifice, Jaskier Whump, Hurt Jaskier

read below, or here on ao3!

It was a swelteringly hot day. The height of summer in Velen was rarely pleasant, but a heat wave had been gripping the area for a few days now. Geralt subtly adjusted his armor in an attempt to allow a breeze to cool the sweat collecting on his back, but the air was deader than a necrophage’s dinner.

Any sane person would have long since abandoned their work in favor of taking a dip in a nearby pond, or napping under some shady trees. Geralt could afford no such luxury—there was always work to be done, and quickly in the summer, lest rotting corpses draw even more monsters to fight.

Jaskier, plodding along beside Roach, wiped sweat off his brow with a deep sigh. “Melitele’s heaving bosom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he groused. “What do you say to a break? Let the sun use up the worst of its ire while we regain some energy? Perhaps cool off in a nice stream?” he finished hopefully. His cheeks and tips of his ears were pink with the beginnings of a sunburn.

“There’s a contract waiting in Mulbrydale,” Geralt reminded him. “We can’t delay.”

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?”

“And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?”

Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.”

Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?”

“Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.”

“Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

“So that’s twenty-three more years of experience enjoying life than you!” Jaskier paused to drain his waterskin, wrinkling his nose at the tepidity. “Blech. Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“I’ll get you to be more selfish yet.” Jaskier wagged his finger at Geralt threateningly. “We’ll start small, and then before you know it you’ll have dropped the witchers-don’t-deserve-good-things act. Who knows, you might even dare to enjoy yourself now and then!”

Geralt only rewarded this with another hmm and handed Jaskier his own waterskin. Jaskier accepted, drinking deeply and wiping his mouth on his sleeve after.

“It’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you,” he finished, recapping the skin and handing it back to Geralt.

--

By the time they reached Mulbrydale, the sun had finally hidden itself behind the treetops, golden where it filtered through the leaves. Outside the town gates, a man hung lanterns to guide travelers in the coming darkness. “Ho, travelers!” he shouted when he saw them, raising a hand.

“Good evening, my good gentleman!” Jaskier cried back, as easy as breathing. Geralt would never know how he was able to flit among strangers so easily, how he fit in anywhere he went.

“Not as good as that, I’m afraid,” the man replied, drawing the gates open for them. “Best ye get a room at the inn and settle in quick, you hear?”

“What’s wrong?” Geralt rumbled, swinging his leg over Roach’s saddle and dismounting. He was quick to grab his swords as well, his palms itching in anticipation.

The man shook his head. “Couldn’t rightly put a name to it. People’re anxious, on edge. Won’t take too kindly to strangers making waves.”

Jaskier slung his lute case over to the side so the man could see it. “Ah, but do they know that the White Wolf has come to slay their beast? And that his loyal barker will regale them with the tale all night long should they wish? Come now, surely a little entertainment wouldn’t go amiss.”

The man shook his head. “I doubt you’d get more than sour looks out of this crowd, but on your own head be it.” He stepped aside to let them pass into town, and latched the gates closed after them.

Despite the early hour, not many people were out in the streets. There were no shrieks of children’s laughter, no wives gossiping over their washing, no farmers hauling home the day’s harvest.

“Lively place,” Jaskier muttered, kicking at a rock and sending it skidding down the dirt road. “What, did they all die of heatstroke today?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier was right���a town like this, though small, should have shown some signs of life. Spirits were usually high around midsummer—there ought to be festival preparations, or traders passing through, or even hog-wrestling competitions planned. Anything besides… this.

A dog came sniffing around the corner, nose pressed to the ground, ears back. When it saw them, walking along in its direction, it raised its head and growled, baring its teeth.

“Whoa there,” Jaskier laughed, throwing his hands up palms-forward. “What a good boy guarding his home,” he cooed. “We’re just passing by, don’t worry.”

The dog didn’t look convinced. It remained tense in its posture, hackles raised as they walked by—giving it a wide berth—and Geralt prepared to cast Axii should it attack.

It made no move towards them, and they were allowed to pass without incident.

“I’m normally good with animals,” Jaskier commented as they continued towards the inn, the Cock and Crow. It was lit brightly from within, the dull roar of overlapping voices drifting over on the wind—finally, a sign of life. “Maybe the poor thing’s been mistreated. That must be it.”

“I’ve seen you nearly get a hand taken off by the Baron of Vergen’s prized poodle,” Geralt remarked dryly. “You don’t remember?”

Jaskier flapped a hand. “Again, an anomaly. That thing was a vicious beast, Geralt, out for blood. Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. Cats Hate Me.”

“It’s the mutations,” Geralt replied wearily, as he did every time the topic cropped up in conversation. “They can sense it.”

“They can sense you’re a sourpuss, you mean,” Jaskier teased. “You and that big scary face of yours.”

Geralt glowered.

“Ooh, yeah, that one.”

Geralt glowered harder.

Jaskier cackled and ran ahead, bursting into the inn with a flourish. Geralt followed at a more sedate pace, taking Roach to the stables, and arriving just in time to see Jaskier shaking hands with the innkeeper. She tilted her head and Jaskier took the stage, launching into one of his newer songs almost immediately.

A few heads turned to look at the source of noise, but by and large the patrons largely ignored him. Jaskier, never one to let a tough crowd bother him, pressed on.

Geralt turned to the innkeep. “Two rooms, please.” With the pay from the contract coming, they could afford it.

She clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid we only have the one. Two beds, though, if you like.”

“Fine.” He counted out the requisite coin onto the rough wood of the countertop. “And two meals, please, and a pitcher of ale.”

She took the payment, biting on a coin to ensure it was real—which stung a little, as it always did, these reminders of their distrust in him—but accepted it without complaint, handing over a brass key hung on a leather cord.

“First room on the left up the stairs,” she directed him, “and Magda will have your meals in just a tick. Magda!” she shouted, and a young woman poked her head out from the back room. “Two meals, quick as you please.”

“Got it, Sal,” Magda replied, wiping her hands on her apron. Geralt sat at the bar to wait.

Jaskier had since transitioned to some of his older work, likely in hopes of winning the crowd over with tried-and-true hits, but still didn’t seem to be making much progress. His lute case, propped open on the floor in front of him, had naught but a few coppers in it. Geralt would describe the overall mood of the crowd as annoyed at best.

Underneath the din of Jaskier’s playing, Geralt caught a few murmurs with his superior hearing—fucking twit, awful noise, can’t he just fuck off. He frowned. Jaskier hadn’t met with a crowd this bad in years, not since gaining popularity by Geralt’s side.

Sal placed two plates in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. “Here you are,” she said, following it with a large pitcher of ale. “Bring the plates back to the kitchen when you’re done, Magda’s off for the night.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, digging into his food while it was still hot. It was alright—chicken with rosemary and garlic, spices he rarely found while foraging, but overcooked and dry. The potatoes were too salty for his taste, and the carrots not cooked enough.

But any food that he didn’t have to prepare himself was a luxury, so he ate it without complaint and until there was hardly a morsel left on his plate.

He restrained himself from sucking the marrow out of the chicken bones, too, aware that anyone who saw would be rightly disgusted. He was content, anyway, since food hadn’t been too hard to come by lately, not with the land so glutted in summer.

He nursed his ale while Jaskier sang, in a rare good mood for once, contrary to the atmosphere of the other patrons. He wouldn’t say he was disappointed, exactly, when Jaskier packed up early and joined him at the bar, but he supposed he could’ve borne a few more verses without complaint.

“Don’t know what has gotten into everyone,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, sliding onto a stool, just loud enough that only Geralt could hear him. “Is it me? Have I got something on my face?” He looked at Geralt so earnestly, painfully young in that moment.

“Spinach in your teeth,” Geralt said, instead of voicing any of that. Jaskier of course had no such thing—they hadn’t even eaten any spinach in the last few days—but Jaskier still spent an embarrassing amount of time fretting and trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the inn’s spoons.

Geralt left him to his meal and went to go brush down Roach. He really ought to have done it earlier, but the extra half hour or so of waiting wouldn’t kill her.

The process was soothing, almost as good as meditation at centering himself and winding down for the day. He left her with plenty of feed and fresh water and went back into the inn.

To his surprise, he was greeted with dark looks from a few of the patrons, though none dared to make a move against him. Unsettled, Geralt retreated quickly to their room, where he found Jaskier already unpacking.

“Geralt, have you seen my quill?” Jaskier asked him, without turning around. “I swear I left it in the same pocket as my notebook, but…” he trailed off, digging around in his pack.

“No. Keep track of your own shit, bard,” Geralt grunted, sitting down on the furthest bed and pulling off his boots. His socks reeked after a day sweating in the sun, so he quickly shoved them in his pack and pulled on a new pair. What he wouldn’t give for a wash, but it was too late for that, probably. He’d have one tomorrow, after completing the promised contract, anyway.

Jaskier puttered about for a good bit more, still looking for his quill, before Geralt sighed and relented to helping him. He wasn’t tired yet, anyway, and didn’t feel like uselessly sharpening his swords or sorting his already-sorted elixirs.

The sneaky quill was hiding exactly where Geralt suspected it would be, in Jaskier’s own pack, though of course he only found it after Geralt had emptied his entire pack too.

Jaskier smiled sheepishly and accepted it, rolling it between his fingers, and set immediately to scribbling in his notebook. He hadn’t even sat down properly, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with one leg half underneath him, boots shedding dirt and dust onto the blankets. Geralt sighed.

The scratching of Jaskier’s quill was almost soothing, Geralt long since used to the sound of it in the background. He doused one candle, leaving the other for Jaskier to see by, and undressed and climbed into bed. A full night’s sleep was invaluable when preparing for a hunt, and Geralt was eager to take advantage of it.

With the light of the rising moon filtering in between the shutters, and Jaskier’s breathless humming serenading him, Geralt dropped off to sleep.

--

The call of roosters at dawn roused him, his eyes opening easily and smoothly as if he’d simply been waiting to wake up. Jaskier, of course, slept right through it, as he was able to sleep through most anything, snoring away despite how he insisted I don’t snore, Geralt!

Geralt sighed and dressed, pulling his hair back into a tie to keep it out of his face. He really ought to have brushed it, to get some of the dirt and oils out and lessen the chances of a snarling tangle later, but couldn’t find the effort. Jaskier seemed to have made it his personal mission to take care of Geralt’s hair, anyway, and Geralt expected a thorough washing and maybe even a lecture later, regardless of if he brushed it or not.

He splashed cool water on his face from the basin against the wall, not bothering to pat it dry with a towel. He enjoyed the way it evaporated on his skin in the humid morning air. That done, he wandered downstairs to the kitchens, where Magda was stirring a large pot of oats over the hearth. “Morning, sir witcher,” she greeted him, wiping her brow dry with a cloth. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a few minutes, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said, stopping in the doorway. “Anything I can help with?”

“Mm, I’m almost done, but if you fancy any nuts or berries with it, there’s some in the cellar.” She nodded her head towards a trapdoor set into the floor.

Geralt climbed down into the cellar’s cool dryness, a welcome respite from the heat of the kitchen. The cellar was truly full to bursting, the village apparently having had a prosperous season so far, but it didn’t take too long to locate a jar of preserved peaches, Jaskier’s favorite, and a sack of walnuts. Prizes in hand, he returned to Magda, who was ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal each into bowls.

She added the fruit and nuts and handed two bowls to Geralt, who handed over a few coins in return. When Geralt opened the door to their room, Jaskier finally roused, though that was probably more the fault of the oats’ cinnamony aroma than anything else. “Mmph, is that breakfast I smell?” Jaskier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Geralt handed him his bowl, sitting down on his own bed to eat. The food was good, and filling. Jaskier yawned his way through his own bowl, still waking up, but by the time Geralt was done, he had revived a little. “What were you doing up so late?” Geralt asked neutrally. It was no business of his when Jaskier went to sleep, but normally the bard was more conscious of the time when he knew he would be coming along on a contract the next day.

“It wasn’t that late,” Jaskier protested. “Just didn’t sleep well, I suppose. We can’t all wake up at the crack of dawn looking fresh as a daisy, Geralt.”

Geralt, who had notably never resembled a daisy in his life, gave Jaskier a flat look. Jaskier grinned.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” Geralt ordered, snatching up Jaskier’s empty bowl. Jaskier got ready for the day—spending twice as much time doing his hair than anything else—while Geralt checked over his swords and elixirs.

When Jaskier finally declared himself fit for company—as if the workers at the quarry would care if his doublet were green or red—they set out on foot, leaving Roach behind for the day. Geralt was loath to work her harder than he had to in the summer heat.

The quarry was only a few miles from Mulbrydale, anyway, and it gave Geralt a chance to stretch his legs and warm up for the fight.

Jaskier walked beside him, composing some silly ode about the day—Geralt didn’t see any mares two abreast in the golden fields or orchards dripping with the ambrosia of summer, but they made it into his song anyway.

“Hoping to impress the miners?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier fiddled with the tuning pegs of his lute. “Maybe. They can’t be a worse crowd than last night,” he scoffed. “Besides, I find that the common folk appreciate songs that reflect the world they live in. It’s about finding beauty in one’s surroundings. I had a professor once who swore…”

Jaskier launched into a story, something about pastorals and creative license and natural rhyme schemes. Geralt let the words wash over him and trekked on.

The sun had fully risen by the time the tall spiked fence surrounding the quarry came into view. “That’s suitably menacing,” Jaskier commented. “Do you think it’s to keep something out, or to keep something in?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wild dogs roam these parts,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier scowled. “Oh, you’re no fun.”

“It’s not my job to entertain.” Geralt threw a pointed look at Jaskier. “Now come on.” He pushed open the gates, creaking on their hinges.

The quarry was a hive of activity, concentric rings of stone jutting down into the earth at lower and lower heights. Ladders and platforms adorned the quarry at odd intervals, with workers scurrying up and down and to and fro. It was a hive of activity, buoyed by the sounds of picks striking stone and echoing calls shouted among the miners.

Their arrival drew the attention of a grey-haired man stationed in a tall watchtower off of the main path. “Witcher!” he called, descending the ladder. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’m Eryk, the foreman of this quarry, and I’m mighty glad to have ye here.”

“You have a contract for me?” Geralt asked.

“Yessir. Come on, I’ll show ye.” Eryk gestured for them to follow. He led them down the spiraling path, descending deeper and deeper into the quarry, climbing up and down ladders with ease that belied his age.

As they passed, miners would stop their work and openly stare. Geralt, long since used to it, ignored it, though their gazes burned on the back of his neck.

“We’ve been hearin’ noises, you see,” Eryk said, hardly out of breath. “Always at night, after work ends for the day. We think they’re comin’ from the old shaft at the bottom of the pit.”

“Delightful,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt fought a small smile.

“Can you describe them?”

“It’s a howling of sorts, though I’ve lived in this area me whole life, and t’ain’t no dogs nor wolves sound like that.”

“Hmm. Seen any tracks, any evidence of a beast nearby? Maybe fur or droppings?”

Eryk shook his head. “Nothing, though I reckon ye’ve better eyes than us.”

“I’ll take a look,” Geralt promised.

They were almost to the bottom, now, the walls of the quarry towering high above them. Down here, the echoes of pickaxes and shovels were amplified, ringing in Geralt’s ears like an avalanche. Dust covered everything in a thin layer, raining down softly like snow.

“And to think I’d just washed my hair,” Jaskier mourned, ruffling it and undoing all the effort he’d put in that morning styling it. A small cloud of dust rained to the ground. “Just watch, soon I’ll—”

He cut off as a bit of the rock shelf fell away beneath him, sending him scrambling to the side in a bid to escape a nasty fall over the edge. Geralt wasn’t quick enough to catch him before his foot landed wrong, sliding on a piece of shale and wrenching his ankle the wrong direction. “Gah! Fuck!” Jaskier yelled, pinwheeling his arms to stay upright.

Geralt lurched forward, snagging him around the waist and setting him down on more solid ground. “Fuck,” Jaskier cursed again, leaning forward to pull off his boot. “That hurt,” he groused, poking at his ankle, which was already starting to swell up.

Geralt crouched down next to him and grabbed his ankle, pulling off his sock as he did.

“Stop, that hurts,” Jaskier complained, ineffectually batting Geralt’s prodding hands away. Geralt felt no bones out of place, no grinding of cartilage or sharp fragments.

“Just a sprain,” he said, setting Jaskier’s foot back down. “We’ll wrap it, though there’s no snow or ice nearby to slow the swelling.”

“Nonsense, I’m fine,” Jaskier protested, struggling to pull his sock and boot back on. He levered himself up to standing despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him seated, bracing himself on the witcher’s broad shoulder.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“It’s fine!” Jaskier insisted, waving both him and Eryk off, who had noticed the commotion and doubled back.

“I swear, this place must be cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “First Davy almost took an arm off. Then it was Niklas, with that concussion, and now this.”

Geralt frowned. “Cursed?” Could that explain the strange howls at night? “Have you noticed any magical effects?” His medallion wasn’t humming, but there could be any number of reasons for that…

“Ach, ‘twas only an expression. Truly, I think some beastie must haunt our mine. The rest is just plain bad luck.”

“Lady Luck can be a cruel mistress indeed,” Jaskier chimed in, limping forward. Geralt fought off a headache at the sight. “I’ve always been clumsy, though, my good friend here can attest to that—”

“Will you stop moving?” Geralt growled, catching Jaskier by the shoulder. “You have a sprained ankle. You need to sit or it’ll get worse.”

“And I told you I’m fine,” Jaskier snapped, whirling on Geralt. “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m a fragile doll, Master Witcher.” The vitriol in Jaskier’s words surprised Geralt. He pushed past Eryk and stomped off down the slope.

Geralt followed, and they soon arrived at the bottom of the pit. There was a small camp of sorts, with tents pitched in the middle surrounding a firepit, ringed by barrels and crates of supplies. Geralt counted seven smaller tents, and one bigger, sturdier structure behind the ring, tucked underneath some scaffolding. The ground was cracked and dry, though were it to rain, the dirt would quickly turn to sticky, sucking mud. There were planks of wood laid across the ground to walk on, uneven and rough.

Set against the nearest quarry face was the shaft Eryk had mentioned. It was barred with two doors made of wooden planks nailed sloppily together, which creaked on their hinges as Eryk unlocked and swung them open.

Inside was a typical mineshaft, dark, damp, and smelling slightly of burnt rock dust. But underneath, there was definitely the undercurrent of something rotting. Necrophages, definitely.

“I’m going in. Lock the doors behind me. They’ll be agitated, and you don’t want one getting out,” Geralt instructed, pulling a vial of Cat from his bag. He downed it in one, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through his veins as his vision sharpened and the shadows brightened. “Stay here.”

“Geralt—” Jaskier began, as if to follow Geralt.

“No,” Geralt growled. “It’ll be too dark to see anything, and you won’t get very far on that ankle. Stay. Here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode forth into the mineshaft, drawing his silver sword. The doors creaked shut behind him, plunging the mine into shadow.

Geralt kept his senses primed as he ventured forth, listening for any scrape of claws on stone or any scent of rotten meat. The tunnel split into two paths ahead; following his gut, Geralt took the left, which showed more condensation on the walls and sloped slightly downward.

The ground was worn smooth underneath his boots by years of miners treading over it, but when he concentrated, Geralt could pick out thin notches scored into the stone. Four deep furrows and a fifth shallow one set apart—the typical pattern of an alghoul’s claws.

And caught in patches here and there on the walls, little tufts of fur—dark, fully mature. Fuck. Alghouls were even more dangerous than garden-variety ghouls, their venom more potent and able to pierce a Quen shield easily with the ridge of spines on their backs.

Geralt dug in his pack for another vial, pulling out necrophage oil. He dripped it along his blade, coating the metal to weaken and poison the beasts. As prepared as he could be, Geralt crept forward down the tunnel.

As he rounded a final corner, he heard it: the rumbling growls of a sleeping alghoul. Its nest was up ahead. Geralt didn’t dare hope for an easy fight, but perhaps he could gain the advantage of surprise.

The alghoul didn’t rouse at his cautious approach—a good sign. It had gotten complacent down here, untouched by predators. Geralt raised his sword to strike.

Then—behind him. A slight shuffling, a small scrape of claws on stone was all the warning Geralt got as a second alghoul launched itself at him, a screaming growl tearing its way out of its maw.

Geralt swung his sword up just in time to deflect vicious claws slashing at his throat. He threw out an Aard with his dominant hand, knocking it backwards into the wall, stunning it just long enough for Geralt to whirl around again.

The other alghoul had been woken by the commotion, and attacked him with no less ferocity. One alghoul was difficult enough, but fending off two would be a challenge Geralt hadn’t had in a long while.

The fight was a blur. Geralt fell into rote patterns of slashing, blocking, dodging. What made it more difficult was fighting in such a confined space—there was scarcely ten feet of space between the walls of the tunnel, and the rocky ceiling wasn’t much taller than him. He had to be conscious of every single move, every foot he placed and every attack he made.

One lucky strike caught the female of the pair in the throat. Hot, sticky ichor burst forth from the wound, staining the ground and walls black. It shrieked and gurgled in pain, lashing out with the rage of a wild animal, but its strength rapidly failed.

The second one, enraged by the death of the first, redoubled its attacks. Geralt cast Quen right before its spines caught him in the face. His shield exploded and he got away with only a small nick over his eyebrow, and it gave him the opening to thrust his sword out and up into its soft belly, rending it open from groin to skull.

Its steaming innards billowed out, the stench of death rapidly filling the cavern. Geralt caught his breath, wiping sweat off his brow—the fight had been long, and even deep in here the heat of summer still penetrated.

He cut off the front claws of the two beasts as proof of his kill, then set about destroying their nest. A gruesome sight greeted him: a pile of bones, some animal, some human, most with bits of flesh still hanging off of them. It reeked like all necrophage dens did, and Geralt held his breath as he kicked away bones and set everything aflame with Igni.

His work done, Geralt hiked out of the mineshaft, his eyes slowly adjusting to the searing light of outside. Cat wore off shortly before he exited, a rare blessing not to have to fight off a headache as he talked to the contract giver.

Eryk and Jaskier were still waiting outside when he pushed the doors open, and had been joined by a small group of miners. All were sitting on assorted crates and boxes, dragged over to form a half-circle.

Jaskier, ever the entertainer, was in the middle of a story, complete with wild gestures and probably more than a few tall tales. As soon as Geralt approached, though, he paused, greeting him with a joyous “Geralt!”

“You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle,” Geralt huffed, throwing the alghoul claws at Eryk’s feet. “I killed the beasts. Two alghouls made a nest in the western tunnel. Shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Ye killed ‘em already, Master Witcher? My, ye work fast!” Eryk crowed, picking up the claws with interest and examining them. “Vicious beasties, they had to be, with knives like these!”

Either Eryk was genuinely impressed, which was exceedingly rare, or he was trying to stiff Geralt on payment and hoped that compliments would ease the sting. “We didn’t agree on a price beforehand.”

Eryk dropped the claws. “No. I didn’t think ye’d kill ‘em so fast, to be honest. What’s the going rate?”

Geralt hummed, tilting his head. “Normally I’d charge one-fifty for necrophages.”

“But?” Eryk prompted, savvy to the kind of hard bargain men on the Continent drove.

“But alghouls are much more dangerous, especially in pairs.” Geralt paused. “Three hundred.”

“I don’t have that kind of coin, Master Witcher, not with business so slow. Two hundred.”

“Two fifty,” Geralt acquiesced, which was what he’d been hoping for anyway.

“Deal.” They shook on it, Eryk grimacing slightly as some ichor rubbed off on him. He wiped his hand on his pants. “Thing is, though…”

Geralt sighed. “You don’t have the coin.” Of course.

“But I will!” Eryk promised. “There’s a shipment pickup tomorrow morning, a big order from Novigrad. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have yer coin for ye.”

As if Geralt had any other choice. And he’d so been looking forward to a hot bath paid for with his newfound wealth. “Fine,” he growled. “Tomorrow morning.” He turned to Jaskier. “Come on, bard.”

Jaskier limped his way over to Geralt. There was no way he could walk all the way back to the inn like that, and Geralt had little stamina left to carry him. Not to mention the indignity of it all, which Jaskier would surely protest.

An idea struck Geralt. “May he borrow a horse for the way back? He can’t walk on that.” Plus it would be insurance, an incentive to pay Geralt what he was owed the next day.

“Geralt, I’m fine—” interrupted Jaskier. Geralt ignored him.

Eryk frowned. “I’ve got but an old nag, not fit for much carryin’.”

“It’s not far. A few miles.”

“Fine, fine, but I’m not payin’ for ye to stable her.” He led Geralt and Jaskier to the side of the large cabin, where four horses were stabled. He had her saddled up quickly, and Geralt helped Jaskier into the saddle despite his protests. Once settled, he did look happier to be off his ankle. Geralt resolutely didn’t say I told you so.

Geralt led her up and out of the quarry while Jaskier rode, throwing goodbyes out to the miners. He’d made fast friends, it seemed.

It was late afternoon, nearly evening, by the time they arrived back at the inn, both their stomachs rumbling. In the excitement they’d both forgotten to eat lunch. When they got close to the inn, Jaskier dismounted, despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him on the horse. “I’ll see about a meal,” he said, shooing Geralt off to the stables.

Geralt hurriedly got the old nag settled and followed Jaskier into the Cock and Crow.

And just in time, because Jaskier, always pushing himself too far, reached his limit as he started up the stairs. “Shit,” he cursed as his leg buckled beneath him. Geralt caught him underneath the armpits and swung him up into a carry, ignoring his wriggling. “I can walk,” he said mulishly, just for appearance’s sake, because he very clearly could not.

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt returned bluntly, pushing open the door to their room and setting him on his bed.

He knelt and pulled off Jaskier’s boot, ignoring the way he pouted. It was a good thing Geralt had brought his pack with him; he reached in and pulled out some old but clean bandages.

“Aren’t you always telling me to be more careful with myself?” Geralt lectured as he wrapped Jaskier’s ankle. Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff.

“That’s different. You hunt monsters; I apparently have trouble even walking right.”

“It’s not,” Geralt argued. “A sprained ankle isn’t nothing, especially if you don’t treat it properly.” Surely Jaskier knew the dangers—permanent damage, or worse. And for a bard that made his living by walking around the Continent after Geralt… “What’s this about?”

Jaskier sighed and hung his head, caught out. “I didn’t want to be left behind,” he admitted. “I desperately need new material, especially if I’m to please such a fickle crowd as the one here.”

“Material for your songs? That’s why you’re being so stubborn?” Geralt could hardly believe it. He knew Jaskier went above and beyond for his craft, but this…

The thing was, Geralt was realizing, was that Jaskier wanted. He wanted to the point of idiocy sometimes, beyond all logic. He would injure himself further in a heartbeat, just to follow Geralt into dark places.

Selfish.

Geralt held his tongue and began wrapping Jaskier’s ankle, firm but gentle with his movements, despite how he wanted to shake some sense into the bard. Jaskier, in a rare show of wisdom, kept quiet, even when Geralt accidentally pulled too hard and jarred his ankle. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“’S okay,” Jaskier replied. “Thanks.”

“Keep your weight off it,” Geralt instructed, standing and brushing off his knees. “It’s the wrong season for ice or snow to bring the swelling down, but I may have enough herbs for a salve.”

“You don’t have to do that, it doesn’t hurt,” Jaskier said quickly.

Geralt gave him a flat look.

“Alright, it doesn’t hurt much,” he amended. “Besides, you need those for your potions and whatnot.”

Geralt ignored him—he was doing a lot of that lately, he realized—and rifled through his pack until he found the herbs he needed. Jaskier scribbled in his notebook as Geralt ground them up into a paste, tasting it himself afterwards to be sure he’d gotten the proportions correct. Then he scooped it up into a small tin he’d recently emptied out, screwing the lid on and tossing it into Jaskier’s lap after.

The bard fumbled to catch it, almost upturning his inkpot onto the bedcovers in the process. With a yelp he barely managed to catch both, throwing a look at Geralt that suggested he was unamused. Geralt grinned back.

He left Jaskier to his songwriting while he went downstairs to talk to Sal. She was running plates out to the patrons, looking thoroughly harried in the rush of the dinner hour. Geralt had wanted a bath, but decided to risk her ire by interrupting just then, and instead sat down at the bar to order a flagon of ale.

He let the scents of the kitchen and the noise of the crowd wash over him, sipping calmly at his ale almost as if in meditation. Normally a crowd like this would welcome Jaskier’s playing—Geralt wondered if he would risk facing them again tonight.

Likely not without new material, Geralt concluded, and ordered another ale.

In the corner, two men suddenly leapt to their feet. “You cheatin’ bastard!” yelled one, face red with rage, almost the same shade as his hair. “I want my money back!”

“Cheating? You’re the one that cheated, you lying fuck!” Saying so, he pulled his fist back and slugged the redheaded man in the nose. Geralt grimaced, his advanced hearing picking up the sound of cartilage breaking under the blow. Blood spurted forth.

Geralt made as if to get up, but was beaten by a broad-shouldered farmer intervening in the fight. “Stop it, you two! Brendan!” he hollered, catching another swing that was aimed for the redhead’s face. “What would your da say?”

Brendan shrugged the farmer off. “He wouldn’t say shit, because you”—he pointed an accusing finger at the redhead—“got him killed!” He lunged forward again, was only barely pulled back this time.

“That weren’t me, it were an accident!” the redhead protested, muffled through his hand covering his nose and mouth. “He just fell—”

“He worked at that quarry for fifteen years,” Brendan snarled. “He knew the paths like the back of his hand! He could climb them in his sleep!”

The quarry again. Eryk had mentioned accidents earlier, and Jaskier spraining his ankle… Geralt’s blood ran cold. Was it possible there was something more going on than just the alghoul infestation?

It was too late to return to the quarry, the sun already setting. When he went back tomorrow morning to return the nag and collect his payment, he would inquire further into these accidents, see if there actually was a curse laid on the place.

For now, he went back upstairs to join Jaskier for dinner, turning the day’s events over and over in his mind. Jaskier plucked away at his lute, shaping a new melody, bouncing lyrics off of Geralt, who honestly couldn’t tell the difference between most of the choices Jaskier offered. He lay on his bed and pretended to sleep.

Jaskier shook his head in response to Geralt’s grunts and scribbled notes in his notebook, before finally declaring his masterpiece complete.

“I couldn’t find very good rhymes for alghouls, so I don’t want to hear any criticism about my wordplay,” Jaskier warned, strumming the opening chords on his lute.

The song was catchy, Geralt had to admit. Even though he hadn’t seen the fight in the tunnel, Jaskier painted an exciting picture of Geralt slaying the ‘dual alghouls’, resulting in his glorious victory after only six verses.

“Bit too long,” Geralt offered when Jaskier was done.

“How would you know,” Jaskier grouched, cracking his fingers. “Thought you didn’t like music. Or my music, at least.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Bastard!” Jaskier yelped, throwing a pillow at Geralt’s head. “Take it back.”

“No,” Geralt grinned, easily dodging the pillow and the second one that followed.

“Take it back! Tell me my songs are the loveliest you’ve ever heard!” Jaskier insisted, clambering on top of Geralt and pinning him down by the shoulders.

Geralt deftly rolled them over, switching their positions so that Jaskier was beneath him and he had the advantage. “What are you gonna do now?”

“This,” Jaskier cried, craning his neck to lick Geralt’s hand.

Geralt didn’t react. He’d seen much, much worse. “Oh no,” he replied, deadpan. “Saliva. Disgusting. Whatever will I do.”

Jaskier slumped. “You could at least pretend I have some power over you. I deserve to win sometimes.”

“I’ll let you win when you earn it,” Geralt suggested, letting Jaskier up. “That’s better than a hollow victory.”

Jaskier snatched his pillows up off the ground, dusting them off imperiously. “Just wait, Geralt of Rivia. You won’t even see it coming,” he threatened.

“I live in fear every day of when it will happen.”

“Good,” Jaskier replied, then yawned. “I’m going to bed. Songwriting takes it right out of me.”

Geralt wished him a good night, not quite ready to go to bed himself just yet. He meditated to the sounds of Jaskier changing out of his doublet and trousers into sleep clothes and bedding down for the night, softening into his quiet snores.

Without meaning to, Geralt was soon lulled to sleep himself, still thinking about the quarry and its mishaps.

--

Jaskier claimed to be feeling much better in the morning, especially after applying some of Geralt’s salve and rewrapping his ankle.

Geralt wasn’t able to convince him to stay at the inn, despite his best efforts, and so Jaskier rode Roach back to the quarry while Geralt led the old nag. The heat had broken somewhat, and it was a pleasant morning for a walk.

Before they even reached the quarry, however, they were met with a man coming the opposite direction. When he saw them he stopped and waited for them to catch up. As they drew closer Geralt realized it was one of the men from the mines, a younger one—Tomas, he remembered.

“Good thing you’re here, witcher. I was sent to find you,” Tomas said, motioning for them to continue back to the quarry with him.

Somehow Geralt knew this was about more than simply his pay. “What happened?” he growled, spurring Roach into a faster walk.

“Ronan went missing last night. All his things are still here, but there’s no sign of him.”

“You checked inside the mine?”

The miner shook his head. “Folk’re too scared. There’s talk—accusations that you missed one yesterday.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt said stubbornly. He was sure of it, and even if he had, the nest was still destroyed. “Sure he didn’t just run off?”

“Ronan wouldn’t. He’s kept this job for ten years, almost. Longer ‘n I’ve been around, for sure. I can’t see why he’d give it up, especially without telling anyone.”

Ever eager to save Geralt’s reputation where he could, Jaskier leapt in. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it! And I know Geralt. He won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of it. Like a dog with a bone, that one. Or more of a wolf, really,” he cracked, winking. “In fact, you can tell your foreman that we won’t be accepting any form of payment until this is solved.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, as neutrally as he dared.

“Yes?” Jaskier blinked innocently at him.

Geralt sighed. “Take Roach and go back to the inn.” When Jaskier looked as if he were going to argue, Geralt cut him off. “I don’t want her anywhere near this.” Or you, he didn’t add, because Jaskier would get into a snit about Geralt patronizing him. “You want to help? This will help.”

Jaskier huffed, but dismounted and swapped horses with Geralt. “This won’t work every time, I hope you know,” he warned, slinging his lute onto his back. “I’m only agreeing to this because I’ve already gotten a song out of it.”

“Duly noted.” Geralt slapped Roach’s hind flank, sending her back down the road the way they’d come. He hoped the pit in his stomach that formed at seeing them go meant nothing.

He turned to the miner. “Show me where Ronan was last seen.”

--

Ronan bunked with his mining partner of six years, Marik, underneath a sturdy tarp against the western wall of the quarry. The men’s belongings were scattered in the manner of one without a permanent home but with too many possessions to keep tidy.

Tools in need of repair rested atop a barrel littered with candle stubs that sat between the two paillasses. Marik, it seemed, had a habit of whittling, judging by the small wood shavings that littered the corners and the row of small figurines that were displayed proudly on a small table to the side. Ronan’s side of the tent looked as if he’d just stepped out for a moment—blankets crumpled, a pair of dirty boots slumped beside the entrance.

“Marik would have seen him last,” Tomas volunteered. “I think he’s working on the south wall today—I can get him, if you like.”

“Please,” Geralt requested. There were very few clues here as to where Ronan could have gone. For all intents and purposes, it looked like he’d simply stepped out to piss in the middle of the night and never come back.

Tomas ran off. Geralt examined the dirt in front of the tent, keen witcher eyes searching for tracks that might tell him where the occupants had gone—but the quarry was a well-trafficked area, and the soil was too sandy and fine to hold tracks for long.

Tomas returned shortly with a red-haired man behind him, wiping sweat off his brow as he ducked under the tarp. “Master Witcher,” Marik greeted, dropping his pickaxe with a dull thud. “You can find Ronan, then? Or avenge the beastie what killed him?”

“I’ll try,” Geralt promised. “Tell me what happened last night.”

“Not much other’n usual, honestly. Went to bed ‘round when the moon was high, both of us. I dunno what time it were when I heard him get up, but it were late, I know that. Not a hint of light in the sky. I thought he were takin’ care of business, y’know, and tried to fall back asleep. But then I heard a scream—and it were no fox, no matter what they say. I know foxes, and it were no fox.”

Geralt frowned. Was it foolish to hope that he’d simply been dreaming? Or that Ronan had misstepped in the dark, twisted his ankle, and was waiting to be found somewhere unharmed?

“Did you see anything? Go looking for Ronan?”

Marik hung his head, skin coloring pink. “No,” he admitted, “too scared, I was. Thought it might come and get me if I moved.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt said awkwardly. “Can’t blame you.”

“I should’ve,” Marik moaned, and to Geralt’s horror, started to weep. Tomas pulled him close, guiding his head onto his shoulder. “I should’ve gone after him. He were my partner,” Marik sobbed.

Geralt gave them privacy and exited the tent, heading towards the tunnels. He cursed himself for not preparing more potions—he hadn’t expected another fight so soon, but any witcher worth his medallion should have been more prepared. He would have to make do with his swords.

Inside the mine there was no evidence of recent alghoul activity. No fresh claw marks, no pungent scent of rot, no picked-clean bones. The nest still lay destroyed, nothing more than burnt ashes. He nosed around the site for a few more minutes before giving up. Whatever had taken Ronan wasn’t around right now.

He hiked back out into sunlight, where he found Eryk waiting for him. The foreman wore a grimace and held a pouch in his hands, bulging with coin. Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“Witcher,” he greeted wearily. “More ghouls, then?” He shifted on his feet, coin purse clinking.

“Don’t see any necrophage activity. Nest’s still destroyed.”

“I can’t rightly pay two hundred and fifty crowns for a job not done.”

“Nor would I ask you to. How about half now—I need to restock on potion ingredients, pay for another night at the inn for me and my companion. I’ll see the job done, find whatever took Ronan, I swear by my guild.”

“You’re an honorable man, witcher. Here.” He measured out half the promised pay for Geralt, pocketing the other half. “Will ye stay tonight? We could use a watchman. And maybe yer eyes would catch things in the dark we can’t see.”

“Let me go back to town and prepare. I’ll be back by sundown,” Geralt agreed. He had already been planning to keep watch overnight, hoping his presence would prevent another man vanishing.

“Aye,” Eryk said, and left. His head was bowed, heavy with the weight of the situation. Geralt wished he could do more.

After leaving the quarry, he headed back to town, to the marketplace. He bought some more common herbs and ingredients there, counting out a good amount of Eryk’s coin. It was enough to make several elixirs, as long as he supplemented it with a few things from his own stores.

As he left the market, a sweet smell caught his nose, and he followed it to a squat building with a sign labeled BERELDA’S BREADS. A bakery.

Geralt hesitated, weighing the coin purse in his hand for a moment. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Jaskier’s words echoed in his head.

He ended up buying two sweet rolls, and a pouch of a half-dozen balls of fried dough when Berelda offered them at a discount, given it was so late in the day. “I’ll only throw them out tomorrow, better you have them,” she reasoned. He popped one in his mouth on his way back to the inn, savoring the way the sugar melted on his tongue and flooded his mouth with sweetness.

He wasn’t sure what had him in such a good mood—perhaps the fine weather, and the promise of a good mystery to mull over? Either way, it was dashed as soon as he got back to their shared room. He’d been—anticipating Jaskier’s reaction, almost eager to face both his endless questions about what he’d missed and his joy at being gifted a treat. And maybe a little bit of vindication, too, see, bard, I do know how to enjoy myself.

But when he pushed open the door and saw only Jaskier’s unmoving form tucked into bed, his stomach sank to the floor. No overexcited reaction to be found here.

Moreover, it was still light out—barely suppertime, by his reckoning. And the bard wasn’t usually one for naps.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking over to the bed and gently shaking his shoulder. His body jostled limply with the movement. Was he—? No, he was still breathing, just deeply asleep. Geralt checked, just to make sure. “Jaskier,” he called again, a little bit louder, and this time Jaskier groaned and buried his head into his pillow.

“What?” he asked, muffled by cloth.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“No,” he answered, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “I was just woken rather rudely. What time ‘s it?” Oh. Just dramatic, as always.

“A couple hours to sundown. Why were you napping?”

“Dunno, I was just tired,” Jaskier answered irritably, finally rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. He looked decidedly rumpled, with sheet prints all up and down his face and neck and his hair rather unflatteringly sticking out on one side. And his eyes had dark circles under them, when Geralt looked. “Will you let me sleep in peace now?”

“Have you eaten?” Geralt persisted. He suddenly felt foolish—he wasn’t some stupid idiot courting a lover, bringing home sweets in hopes of wooing his beloved. Witchers didn’t do things like that. “I bought bread,” he said lamely.

Jaskier didn’t answer, and instead threw an arm over his face. Fine. If he wanted to go without eating, Geralt would let him wake in the middle of the night starving. He was grown and could make his own decisions. Even if those decisions pointed to something more worrying than simply a cranky companion.

“I’m going back to the quarry tonight,” Geralt informed him, sitting down at the table with his potion ingredients. Silence followed. “You shouldn’t come.”

Still no answer. Either he was already asleep again, or he was ignoring Geralt. Whatever. Geralt set to brewing a few doses of Swallow, a healthy amount of Cat, and while those were simmering, he distilled some blade oils.

He fell into a light meditation until sundown, when he would return to the quarry. But when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Jaskier, out of bed now, standing in front of the window looking out.

“Stop walking on that ankle,” Geralt growled, fed up with the bard’s behavior.

He expected a reply of but the setting sun is so beautiful, such an alluring sight for a poet such as myself! or something equally inane, but Jaskier didn’t reply.

“The silent treatment? Really?” Geralt asked, standing up with the intent to make Jaskier sit down. But when he got closer, he realized that the bard wasn’t truly awake, his eyes half-lidded and unseeing. He swayed gently where he stood, uncaring of his swollen ankle or the cool breeze that skimmed along his collarbone and ruffled his hair.

Jaskier didn’t nap, nor did he sleepwalk, not in the five years Geralt had traveled with him. Something was very wrong. Geralt seized him by the shoulders. “Jaskier, wake up!” he almost shouted. Urgency curdled deep in his stomach.

Jaskier blinked slowly, once, twice, and then his eyes began to gain a little more life. “Hmm? Geralt?” he asked, coming fully awake. “Oh, fuck,” he cursed, and stumbled into Geralt, his ankle making its displeasure known.

Geralt caught him beneath the elbows, supporting his weight with ease. “Sit down,” he ordered, lowering Jaskier back onto the bed and kneeling in front of him.

“Was I… asleep?” Jaskier asked, having to clear his throat a couple times to get the grogginess out of his voice.

“You tell me,” Geralt replied, lifting Jaskier’s foot to check on his ankle. The bandage was loose, a swollen swath of black and blue peeking up around the edges. “Unless you thought this”—he held up Jaskier’s foot higher so he could see—“was a good idea?”

He winced. “Ow. No, I was dreaming…” he trailed off. His eyes were distant, unseeing. He sucked in a sudden breath as Geralt pressed too hard on a tender spot.

“Have you been applying your salve?”

“This morning, yes. Probably could do with another application.” He reached over to the table by the bedside, grabbing the tin of salve. He held still as Geralt unwound the bandage and spread some of the thick grease over the swollen area, finishing by redoing the bandage tightly. “Thank you. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“Dreaming of running from jealous spouses?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier huffed out a small laugh. “No, I don’t remember. It was dark, I think? It’s sort of fuzzy. I don’t really remember.”

Geralt wished he hadn’t promised to spend the night watching over the quarry. Someone should be here at the inn to make sure Jaskier didn’t go diving headfirst through any open windows while asleep.

“You know, I might go play. I’m feeling much better after that nap,” Jaskier proclaimed, as if he could read Geralt’s mind. “Oh, don’t give me that look. No dancing on tabletops for me. I’ll stay put in my seat, don’t worry.”

Geralt still doubted Jaskier’s ability to give a lowkey performance, but it wasn’t as if he could forbid the bard from playing. “Alright. I’m headed back to the quarry to keep watch overnight.”

“I hope that includes a significant increase in pay due to overtime. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably offered to do it for free. I know how you get with contracts like these.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Lock the door and window tonight in case you get up again.”

“Yes, mother,” Jaskier sighed. “Now help me up?”

***

link to chapter 2 will be added here soon!

[dancingwiththefae]

hi there! for the song fic thing, if you’re up to it, how about geraskier and stray italian greyhound by vienna teng?

Hi sorry this took a while <3

This song is great, the lyrics are so playful. I went more with the theme of the song for this one.

modern au, no warnings

wc: 1.1k

--------------------------------------------

Jaskier stared down at his coffee cup. He was running late but he couldn't bring himself to move any faster. He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings as he dragged his feet to work, too pre-occupied with how much he wanted to be going anywhere else. Which was probably why he crashed straight into the hulking mass in front of him. He let out a noise of surprise as he crashed into the man in front of him. When they pulled apart, Jaskier gasped in horror at the coffee drenching the man's shirt.

“Oh fuck. Oh gods. I'm so sorry-”

He looked up from the stain that was continuing to grow and suddenly words stopped. His mind halted in its tracks. Of course he ran straight into the most terrifying and attractive man he had ever seen. White hair pulled back into a bun. Warm, honey eyes that stared back at him in a frown. And Jaskier had gone and spilled coffee all down his shirt. Gods, he was such an idiot. He was either going to die of embarrassment or get a punch to the face and he wasn't sure which option was worse.

“I'll uh- I'll buy you a new shirt? Or something?” He checked the time in a panic. “Oh fuck I am so late. Just- just-”

He had no idea what to do. The man hadn't said a word but he also hadn't received a punch in the gut so that was something.

“Here.”

Jaskier shucked off his jacket and handed it over. With bemusement, the man took it. He looked it over before looking back at him. He huffed what Jaskier assumed to be in amusement and put it on. It was a little tight, and did not match his style at all, but at least it fit. And it hid the enormous stain decorating the front of his shirt.

“Suits you,” he couldn't help but comment. The barest hint of a smile appeared on the man's face and Jaskier wondered what he'd look like when he laughed.

“Give me your number.”

It was the first words he'd spoken and had caught Jaskier completely off-guard.

“What?”

The man sighed.

“Your number,” he repeated, “so I can return this.”

His voice was like gravel. He would be lying if he said it wasn't doing anything for him. It took him a moment to actually process what he had just said.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” He fished his phone out from his pocket. “I'm Jaskier, by the way.”

“Geralt.”

They exchanged numbers and then the next second Geralt was gone, off to continue his day while Jaskier stood there wondering what the hell had just happened. And then he remembered that he was exceptionally late.

He spent the rest of the day in a daze. He was sure people had spoken to him and he had responded, but he couldn't recall any of the conversation. His mind was firmly stuck on the events of the morning, cycling through embarrassment, excitement and the inconvenient urge to hit on him. Which was ridiculous, really. Sorry about your shirt, how about we go for a drink? No one in their right mind would go for that. Besides, he'd grown used to being alone.

***

“What are you wearing?”

Ciri spotted him as soon as he walked through the door, eyes raking over him with a confused amusement. With a huff, he unbuttoned the jacket and dropped it onto the sofa. Her amusement only grew when she spotted the sizeable stain he was sporting.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Language,” he scolded. “Some idiot ran into me on the way to work this morning.”

“And he gave you his jacket?” She queried, rubbing her thumb across the rainbow pin on the collar. It was the first time he really looked at it. Faded denim and covered in patches and pins that Geralt could only assume were bands that he had never heard of. It was- well, it suited the man he met this morning. It certainly wasn't his style. Too clean for a start.

“So, what did he look like? This idiot?”

Ciri held a smirk that was all too-knowing for a teenager.

“Tall, dark hair,” Geralt shrugged.

“Handsome?”

Handsome? He had only saw him for a few minutes at most. Though he did remember shockingly blue eyes that looked at him. Really looked at him. Most people averted their gaze around him. There was panic in them, but more so at the situation than directed at him. He remembered how his cheeks had flushed when he finally looked up at Geralt.

“He was...fine.”

“A compliment, coming from you,” Ciri replied with an arch of her brow.

“I'm not talking about this with you.” He wagged a finger at her and left the room to change.

***

It's Geralt. Are you free friday to return the jacket?

“Who are you texting?”

Ciri appeared from behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder at his phone. He covered it on instinct.

“Jaskier,” he replied, “about the jacket.”

“Oh, he has a name now, does he?”

Geralt rolled his eyes in response. Ciri didn't know what she was talking about. She'd obviously been reading too much fiction and now her head was filled with romance. And then Jaskier responded.

“I think he's flirting with me.” His voice didn't betray the mild panic that had set in but Ciri picked up on it anyway.

“So flirt back. What's the worst that could happen?” she teased gently.

Geralt stared down at the phone in his hand with a frown.

“You've been alone too long,” Ciri sighed, and left him to it.

Maybe he had. He was used to everything going a certain way. He was used to it just being himself and Ciri. To people judging him harshly by his appearance. And yet, here he was. Being flirted with by a complete fool who had quite literally crashed into his life. Geralt wasn't usually one for spontaneity. But maybe today he was.

***

It's Geralt. Are you free friday to return the jacket?

Jaskier stared at his phone, and then at the half empty wine bottle in front of him. Maybe if was in a clearer frame of mind he would have responded politely and a little more formally. However, he'd had a long day and was finally feeling relaxed, the warmth of the wine settling inside him. So instead, he decided to be bold.

Sure, I'm free. How about we grab some coffee too? I promise I won't spill it on you this time.

As soon as he sent it, he regretted it. Could he even joke about it? He didn't know this man, other than the one very brief and equally disastrous encounter when they met. Geralt might not see the funny side of it. There was no way he would agree.

Sure. I'll pay as long as I don't come home wearing it.

Well, that was something. He filled his glass with a small smile. He sat back in his chair and watched his phone light up with another text from Geralt. He couldn't wait for friday.

[icarustica]

u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u

77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo

(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)

tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)

♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥

“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar. 

Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.

Bard.

He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.

“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”

Geralt rose.

The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.

“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”

The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”

Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.

Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?

Why would there be a celebration in his honor?

His mind landed on the only possible answer.

Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.

The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.

“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.

Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.

“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.

He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”

“When?”

The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”

Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.

Geralt bowed his head a little. 

“Where are you going?”

“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”

She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”

“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”

And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.

What a lovely gift, for a lover.

What a dismal apology.

He continued on his way.

Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”

Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.

He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.

“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”

“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path. 

“No monster-slaying?”

“No.”

“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”

Geralt winced.

“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”

For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…

But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard. 

“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”

The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”

Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill. 

The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –

Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.

Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.

Jaskier…

Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.

Headstones.

Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.

He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.

Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.

Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father

Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me

Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon

Jaskier

Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.

JASKIER.

Bold letters.

Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.

Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.

Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.

His chest shook.

It felt like–

It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.

The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–

It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.

“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”

His speech.

He’d had a speech.

“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–

“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.

He owed him that.

He owed Jaskier dignity.

“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”

He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.

“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone. 

JASKIER.

He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”

He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”

Geralt swallowed.

“You deserve… me. If you want me.”

“Geralt?”

His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.

Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.

“Melitele, I–”

Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–

There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–

Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.

There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again. 

“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”

Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…

He was alive.

The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.

One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.

“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”

Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”

“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”

Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.

Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”

Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”

“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”

Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.

-♥icarusty

[nezmar13]

Taking care of his Witcher

New fic of Jaskier taking care of Geralt, even in the most of unconventional ways

Check it out at link below where is also the complete nsfw version of the fanart

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785

[bambirex]

geraskier, and the art of repairing cracks with gold?

Warnings: none

**

Jaskier was warm against his side.

It was a feeling that Geralt has known well, yet never experienced in such quantity. During their years of traveling together, they often ended up sharing a bed, and if those beds were a little narrow, they had to sleep close to each other. In those moments, Geralt felt the warmth of Jaskier's body against his.

But not like this, not tucked under his arm like he was now, his cheek resting against Geralt's chest. It was allowed now, to hold Jaskier close, to show him that he cared with his touch.

It was all Jaskier has wanted since decades, and Geralt has never dared giving it to him. Not until he's lost him, not until he's chased Jaskier away with his cruel words. They've parted, and then reunited, but nothing was the same. Something fundamental has broken between them: the trust, the familiarity, the understanding, all gone, all because Geralt couldn't appreciate what he had.

But he was different now; he's learned, he's grown, and he was fully ready to fix what was broken.

"This is nice," Jaskier commented against his chest softly. One hand sneaked around Geralt's waist, a light, familiar touch, giving Geralt hope that he wasn't the only one who believed they could return to how they once were.

"Never would have thought you to be a cuddler."

"I missed you," Geralt said earnestly. Taking care of Ciri has opened him up more and taught him to express his feelings. It was still not easy, and he still wasn't completely ready to say what he really felt, but he was willing to take the first steps. If being kind and honest with Jaskier meant he wouldn't lose him again, Geralt was more than ready to change.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier. I know I've said it before, but I really am. You deserve much better."

He felt Jaskier momentarily tense next to him. Geralt soothed a hand down his back. To calm Jaskier or himself, he wasn't sure.

"Do you think we can be alright again?"

Jaskier didn't reply for a while. He traced a finger over Geralt's chest, drawing a small pattern onto his skin. Geralt closed his eyes, his own hand resting on the small of Jaskier's back.

"I think we need to work on it," Jaskier replied after a while. He peered up at Geralt, his lashes fluttering softly. Geralt swallowed.

"Mostly you, to be honest. I can't be your doormat forever, Geralt. I'm tired. If you don't want me, I won't come crawling back and beg for your affection."

"You don't have to," Geralt promised. He brushed a stray piece of hair out of Jaskier's face, tucking it behind his ear. He felt the tension seep out of his body when Jaskier relaxed into his touch.

"I will do better, I promise."

Jaskier hummed. He hid his face in the crook of Geralt's neck, and Geralt could feel his smile against his skin.

"I think you've already started," Jaskier whispered. Geralt kissed the top of his head in response.

It won't be easy, Geralt knew that. There was a lot to repair, a lot to atone for. But as he felt the warmth and softness of Jaskier's body against his, the way his hair tickled his chin, and most of all how he accepted the new ways of affection that Geralt offered him, Geralt started to believe that maybe things weren't broken, just cracked.

And he was ready to fill in those cracks, at last.

[jaskierror]

in ways that can't be said — chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE — SNORES & SNORTS

Geralt, a very tired and very overworked librarian, finds an eccentrically dressed man asleep in the library right as they're about to close.

Jaskier, a very tired and very overworked educator at the local museum, accidentally falls asleep in a library whilst doing research for an upcoming exhibit and is awoken by a devastatingly attractive librarian.

---

By the time closing rolled around, Geralt really, truly, honestly just wanted to go home.

In general, Geralt preferred to not work closing shifts. The library stayed open until 7pm most evenings, but he liked to be home with Ciri as early as possible; Lambert was always happy to watch her until Geralt got off work, given that Lambert’s job in Dol Blathanna’s Public Works department wasn’t a traditional 9-to-5, but, well. Geralt missed his daughter, is all, and was perhaps a bit clingy when it came to her. Sue him for loving his kid.

Despite his reluctance to work past 5pm, Renfri had caught the flu, and Geralt had agreed to cover her shift while she recovered, meaning he would be at the library until about 7:30. Of course, by the time it was half past 5, he was itching to get home—by then, he would normally be pulling into his driveway in Upper Posada, and Ciri would be running outside to greet him while Lambert watched them with poorly disguised fondness from the front porch. He would pick his daughter up, balance her on his hip, ask her about her day at school and what she and her Uncle Lambert had been up to since she got home. He would get to kiss her on her forehead, and cook dinner (lately, she had become a big fan of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets), and—

Anyway. Enough of that.

The minutes and hours ticked by with relentless, deliberate slowness, and Geralt felt nothing but relief when it was finally,  finally time  to start closing. Zoltan offered to organize the information desk and the front seating areas while Geralt swept the shelves for any stragglers and re-shelved any books sitting around.

Geralt worked quickly, eager to finish up and return home—in the back of his mind, he wondered what Lambert and Ciri had eaten for dinner—and he was returning a book of traditional Temerian recipes to its rightful shelf when he heard…

Well.

It seemed to be somewhere between a snore and a snort, in all honesty, and Geralt could only sigh deeply and brace himself before rounding the corner.

He had been expecting any of a number of things, really. Typically, it was elderly people who would fall asleep at the tables, but in his years of working at the library, Geralt had practically seen it all.

Still, he was surprised when, in one of the cushioned wooden chairs, slumped down onto the round table and surrounded by a veritable pile of books, was a man with a mop of brown hair actively using an open book as a pillow. There was a peaceful expression on his face, features soft and neutral and relaxed, and he seemed to be drooling onto the book just a bit. His clothing was… colourful, mostly. He wore a pair of bright purple slacks and brown loafers. On top of a short-sleeved button down, he had on a sweater vest with a garish blue leaf pattern covering it. There was a well-made leather satchel slung over the back of his chair, and Geralt spotted an assortment of silver rings on his hand.

Right as Geralt finished looking him over, the man released another ungodly snore from deep within his chest, and Geralt had to resist the urge to snort in amusement as he walked over and shook the man gently by his shoulder. Almost immediately, he grumbled into the book and began to blink awake, and Geralt hastily removed his hand, waiting patiently as he got his wits about him.

After a quick stretch in his seat, the man twisted to face him, still blinking the tiredness from his eyes, and Geralt was shocked by just how blue they were as he stared up at Geralt. The man froze for a moment, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights, before he seemed to take in his surroundings and look properly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” the man grinned sheepishly, then paused to yawn and rub at his eye before continuing. “I must’ve fallen asleep. Do you, uh, happen to know what time it is?”

Geralt looked down at his watch, then back up at the man. “Five till seven.”

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, standing up. (Geralt was slightly ashamed to admit that he hadn’t realized until just then that the man was of a height with him.) He began hastily stacking books and piling some in his arms. “Is there still time to check these out? I can come back tomorrow if not, but I was really hoping that I—”

“Calm down,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow at the man’s hurried, panicked flurry of movement. “Go to the desk. Zoltan can help you. You can leave anything you’re not borrowing here.”

Relief and hope flashed though the man’s unnecessarily blue eyes. “You’re sure?”

Geralt just nodded stiffly, watching as the man thanked him profusely and gathered his things, carrying a handful of books with him as he rushed off toward the lobby. Once he’d disappeared and his shuffling footsteps faded out, Geralt rummaged through the rest of the titles he’d accumulated. They all seemed to be on art and music across the Continent—a book of Aedirnian folk songs, a history of Kerackian musical movements, an encyclopaedia of Kaedweni sculptors. Geralt hummed under his breath, then began the monotonous job of putting everything in its rightful place.

---

In his defense, Jaskier really hadn’t meant to fall asleep at the table.

Ever since he’d moved to Aedirn, he found himself exhausted more often than not. His life had consisted of a series of rather sporadic, spontaneous moves ever since he decided to leave his family home in Kerack to pursue the arts. He’d moved to Redania years ago to attend none other than Oxenfurt Academy, and had spent his summers gallivanting around the countryside with his schoolfriends. After three years of study, he graduated with degrees in Music Performance and Art History, and a year later, had earned a graduate degree as well. He had then promptly departed for a year of backpacking through Temeria, after which he’d returned to Oxenfurt to teach for a term. Most recently, he had uprooted his entire life to move to Dol Blathanna. He’d decided on a bit of a whim that he needed a change of pace—new places, new sights, new people. As soon as he had a job lined up as an educator and program developer at the Dol Blathanna’s Museum of Art and History—which, everyone had to admit, was truly a perfect fit for him—he had packed his things and been on his way.

That had been nearly two months ago, and Jaskier had been working overtime to establish a life for himself in the city. He’d always been a restless person, needing noise and hustle and bustle to keep himself sane, so he had signed a lease for a rather expensive apartment close to the city’s center. On the bright side, the location made his commute to work rather convenient, and he was near enough to nightlife that he had found a handful of bars and cafés he could play the occasional gig at. He’d also taken to offering music lessons on the weekends to help make ends meet. Between his musical pursuits, unpredictable work hours, and numerous side jobs, he was, well. Pretty tired, all things considered.

However, there was no time to rest! He had been tasked with a laundry list of assignments at work in order to prepare for the summer; the museum always put on educational programming and enrichment opportunities for children when schools were out of session, and Jaskier’s job was to propose and develop said programming. Thus, on one of his rare days off, he had gone to the library to do a bit of light research; he had a handful of ideas for some interactive exhibits, but he needed to flesh them out a bit more.

The research ended up being less light than he had planned, because of course it had, and soon enough, Jaskier had a pile of books around him. By the time he had finished flipping through the third book, he was becoming rather tired, and—

Okay, well. Look. Here’s the thing. Jaskier was tired, and he had been up until very early in the morning because he’d played a gig for some swanky hotel bar in the central business district, and the library was just cold enough that it was making him drowsy, and the sounds of people flipping through pages and trodding up and down the aisles was soothing him, and the books were, in all honesty, starting to bore him, and—

He fell asleep. He fell asleep, okay, and in his opinion, that was a very reasonable consequence given the clusterfuck of a headache his week had been.

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by a man gorgeous enough that Jaskier, for a brief moment, froze in place and forgot entirely where he was. (He froze, which he never does. Julian Alfred Pankratz does not freeze, gods dammit, but sweet Melitele, who could blame him? The man was stunning.) He was tall and broad-shouldered, his long white hair tied messily into an updo with a few strands framing his face; he had honey-golden eyes, a strong brow and nose and jawline, and a few faint scars decorating his face. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a very flattering pair of black jeans. He also, much to Jaskier’s embarrassment, had a name-tag; in large letters, it read GERALT RIVIA, and underneath, in smaller text, LIBRARIAN . The library’s logo was depicted to the left.

A very gorgeous man, and a librarian to boot? Unfair.

Though he tried to appear smooth and suave and generally like a competent, put-together adult, Jaskier knew he fumbled through his interaction with the man, and he felt a bit like a fool the entire time. As he practically scurried off with his handful of books, his face and neck warmed with embarrassment. At the desk, he found the “Zoltan” individual Geralt had spoken of, a short, stocky man with a mohawk and full beard, and Jaskier hurried through the transaction before practically fleeing from the library. It wasn’t until he had returned to his apartment nearly twenty minutes later that he finally felt like he could breathe again.

He went through his evening routine of taking a scalding hot shower, changing into pajamas, and lounging on his couch with leftover takeout and a glass of Est Est. (Est Est was definitely beyond what he could afford at the moment; that particular bottle had been a farewell gift from Essi.) As he ate and drank, he flipped through the books he had checked out and wrote out ideas, notes, and questions in his work notebook. And if he occasionally remembered his downright embarrassing encounter at the library and then buried his face in a pillow as he tried to emotionally recover, that was nobody’s business but his own.

As the hours passed and the clock crept closer to midnight, he’d come up with more questions than anything else, which was. A bit of an issue.

Even with his extensive studies in art history, Jaskier didn’t know as much about Aedirnian artistic customs—his studies had placed a focus on traditions in remote, mountainous regions of Redania and Kaedwen. He could talk for hours about the production of Redanian watercolour paints, and had quite literally co-written one of the most comprehensive books on Kaedweni folk music, but he’d wanted the museum’s summer programming to have an emphasis on local arts, which meant that he’d need some help.

He then realized that this probably meant asking one of his new coworkers for direction, which he would, to be quite frank, rather perish than do, because he felt that most of them already thought he was silly and foppish and deeply unserious, with the way he was always running to and fro with his head barely attached to his shoulders, never seen without a cup of coffee and bags under his eyes. However, it was either facing his coworkers, all of whom had chronic cases of stick-up-the-ass-itis, or… going back to the library, and potentially facing the tall-gorgeous-intimidating librarian again. (Geralt, his brain supplied helpfully.)

Neither option sounded particularly appealing, and both avenues would undoubtedly lead to Jaskier making a fool of himself, so he decided that he would simply go to the library as soon as it opened at nine in the morning; he severely doubted that the man would be working from nine to seven on a daily basis, so he was probably in the clear.

…Probably.

---

AN: hey y'all! hope you enjoy chapter 1!! keep up with me on my ao3, found +here, and my twitter @nottveth. chapters 2 and 3 are already written and posted on ao3, but will be updated here over the next few days.

[tears-and-smiles-ao3]

What He Deserves

Geraskier, rated T, cw: angst

Geralt stared at the Dandelion poking out through the slowly melting ice, and his heart sank.

Yet another reminder, a message from destiny herself.

Clenching his hands around Roach's reins, Geralt pulled his horse forward and away from the obnoxiously bright flower that reminded him of Jaskier.

You sent him away. Told him you didn't want him, that he was at fault for every wrong in your life.

He wasn't, though, and Geralt knew that. The only person at fault that day was him. Not Yen and certainly not Jaskier.

Melitele, Geralt missed him. Just like that sunshine personified flower, Jaskier could light up a room, fill any moment with so much chatter and laughter that Geralt couldn't help the small upturn in his lips.

You sent him away. You deserve to feel this pain and more.

Geralt swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He deserved this hurt. Gods, Jaskier should scream at him, tell him how shit of a friend he'd been.

He'd take anything if it meant Jaskier would be back in his life, but Geralt couldn't gather enough courage to face him.

Coward.

He was. He knew that inner voice was right. Maybe that's why he fought with destiny.

Roach huffed and Geralt's eyes snapped open. A cart laden with goods was up ahead, one of its wheels bent and twisted.

It couldn't be fixed, Geralt knew that without getting any closer, and he doubted the person would want a witcher's help, even if they are in the middle of nowhere.

Ask, you cretin.

Geralt sighed. Squaring his shoulders, he walked towards the cart with intentions of helping if asked.

The man had a mop of brown hair and a blue shirt. He cursed and kicked the dirt beside the cart. For a second, Geralt thought it was going to him, Jaskier, but why would the bard be a cart driver?

If it was him, would you just walk away like the monster you are?

That made Geralt stop still. Would he? If Jaskier was in danger, would he just walk away because it was too much for his heart to bear if he was rejected?

Always running away from your problems.

No. He wouldn't do that. He didn't want Jaskier to be hurt.

You did it anyway.

Yes, he did it anyway. Fuck.

Walking forward again, he watched the irate man kicking the cart.

Roach snorted, and Geralt had to agree. Kicking the thing wouldn't help. Not at all.

"Fucking piece of shit," the man grumbled under his breath. He leaned over the cart, head bowed and not paying any attention to the world around him.

When he finally notices that Geralt is right there beside him, he jumps, squeaking loudly.

"Holy- balls," the man swears. One of his hands rests above his heart as it thuds fast in his chest.

"Your wheel is broken," Geralt says, pointing at said thing like the man hadn't noticed.

"Bleeding tits, I know that," the man growls, kicking the wheel once more. "How on earth can I get everything to town before nightfall?"

Geralt frowned.

Sunset was in two hours.

The wheel was broken, it wasn't going anywhere. Not in its current state.

It needed something to keep the broken part from bending.

Geralt scratched his head, staring at the wood, while the man ranted in the background. Words bled into one another, with little room for breathing. It was impressive, even if Geralt couldn’t admit it.

It must've made something ping in his head, because suddenly he stood up, knowing exactly what to do.

He could use willow to twist in between the spokes. It wouldn't last long, and the cart would still lurch. He would have to walk beside the cart and adjust it as they went, but maybe it would keep it steady enough for the journey.

"I have an idea. I won't be long," Geralt said. It shut the man up, who looked at him like he was mad, but he nodded his understanding.

It was only when Geralt wandered over to the river, knife out to cut some willow branches, that he realised.

See how much you miss him. It would be him filling your life with endless chatter, and see how it helped today. You never should have sent him away.

Geralt dropped his head, staring at the muddy riverbank. He was a fool and a coward and he deserved every harsh word.

It was only the truth.

Stripping the willow branches was easy. Threading them through the wheel spokes wasn't hard either.

Persuading the man to move the cart and try it was, though. He folded his arms across his chest and outright refused.

"What if Maise here gets hurt?" the man pointed to his horse.

Geralt's eyebrows rose, but he accepted the man had a point.

"Roach will do it. Means I can walk beside her and make sure the wheel is okay."

He half assumed there would be more complaining, but now that Geralt was fully in charge of this expedition, and the man’s horse wasn't involved, he seemed content to walk ahead and lead them to town.

It was a long trip. Sunset had gone down ages ago, and they'd had to stop three times so far.

He could see the town ahead. Probably half an hour more to walk.

Roach was tired, and bored. Geralt couldn't blame his girl. Petting her mane, he urged her forward once more.

She grumbled, but Geralt slipped her a sugar lump and she went happily, smelling more in his pocket.

"That's it, girl. We are almost there," he said encouragingly.

It had been tough on her. He might have to stay in the town two nights to make sure Roach got enough of a rest.

The town gates came into view. The man dutifully ran forward, calling on the guards and explaining why they were late, and please open the gates, thank you.

Geralt was impressed. He was charming, like Jaskier.

Jaskier can do better than you.

Yes, he definitely could. It didn't stop Geralt's heart from hurting.

When the gates opened, Geralt was relieved. It would mean Roach could stay at a proper stable. She deserved it, even if he didn't deserve any comforts.

Once inside, the man directed them to his house. Geralt could have stood back and let the man empty his wares himself, but he just couldn't. He helped.

After that, the man led them to the centre of town, over to the woodworker. The shop wouldn't open till the morning, but the man pulled out the willow branches and the cart slumped once more.

"Can't be too careful," he explained.

It wasn't going anywhere. Anyone who tried would be heard a mile off in this quiet town.

"Is there a tavern? Stables?" Geralt asked.

"Yeah, up ahead," the man pointed northwards. "The Ice Maiden, a great tavern."

Geralt huffed a laugh, and the man patted him on his shoulder.

"Don't let the name fool ya, it's a great place. Very friendly. Come on, I'll show ya."

Nodding, Geralt walked behind the man, Roach in tow. It didn't take long to get there, lively music playing inside.

"Stables are round to the right. I'll let the innkeeper know you'll be needing a bed for the night."

"Thanks," Geralt said, nodding his head in agreement.

He found the stables easily. There was one stall left, so the place must be busy. A mark of a good tavern, but not one that would be quiet.

You liked the noise earlier.

He did. The noise had helped him think, and he had a lot of thinking to do.

Like, how could he apologise to Jaskier, let the bard rant and then allow him to walk away.

It was the only way Geralt could see it working. Any other ideas about the bard staying, or accepting his apology, seemed like fantasy.

You're a fool.

Swallowing hard, Geralt focused on getting Roach sorted. He gave her a few more sugar lumps and she settled, calmly grazing on the feed Geralt laid out.

He took his time, though he knew he shouldn't. The man might have persuaded the innkeeper, but when they saw he was a witcher, they might not feel as happy about letting him stay.

He couldn't put it off forever.

It was definitely times like this that Geralt missed Jaskier the most.

Walking round to the front door, Geralt almost wanted to be denied the luxury of a soft bed and be forced to sleep out in the stables near Roach.

Just at the door, Geralt stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He’d faced hate before. The worst that would happen wasn’t that bad, after all.

The music was muffled, a lulling sound that reminded him so much of Jaskier.

Of the sing-songy twit, as Yennefer had said one time.

The voice sounded so familiar. Geralt could almost let himself believe that it was his bard.

He’s not your bard.

He’s not. If he was at any point, he never would be again.

He’d fucked up. He deserved this pain. It was his to bear.

Sighing to himself, Geralt pushed open the door. The music hit him in the face like a ton of bricks.

There on the stage was Jaskier. His hair was longer. He was wearing a hat. Gone was his usual attire of bright colours, and instead he wore a burgundy coat and a gold waistcoat.

The bard danced around the tables, singing into people’s faces. The audience cheered, singing along with him, and Geralt could almost smile at seeing Jaskier in his element.

That was until he heard it.

“At the end of my days when I’m through

“No word that I’ve written will ring quite as true as ‘burn’

“‘Burn, butcher, burn’.”

No. Fuck. Jaskier couldn't be singing those words. He couldn't mean them.

He does. He means every single one of them because it’s what you are.

Geralt crumbled, his armour clanging against the stone and sawdust floor. The noise was deafening in his ears.

The singing stopped abruptly, but the music carried on for a few more beats. Then silence filled the space.

Someone was walking towards him. Someone was standing in front of him.

Geralt risked looking up into the blue eyes he knew he would meet.

Fuck, there was Jaskier, and there were tears in his eyes.

How could he have caused this? Why had he said those things to his bard?

You're pathetic. Snivelling on the ground when you should be kneeling, begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness you won't get, but have to ask for anyway.

Right. Geralt closed his eyes for a second, then got up onto his knees.

"Jaskier," he began, but he didn't get to say anything else.

"I'm not doing this here," Jaskier whispered loudly. "Get up."

Shaking his head, Geralt remained where he was, hand reaching up in pleading.

“Tell me to go, and I will.”

“Get up,” Jaskier hissed, leaning over and talking in a low voice directly into his ear. “I’ll tell you to go when I’m ready. Follow me.”

The bard didn’t wait for him to say anything. Jaskier just walked past him, like he meant nothing, and truly that is what he was worth.

Butcher. Killer. Monster.

He was all of them. Helping one man with his cart didn’t change what he’d done. It never would.

A public flogging is what he deserved. It wouldn’t hurt, not really, his healing wouldn’t allow for it to hurt much, but it would bring him low, where he belonged.

Everyone’s eyes were on him. He didn’t dare look up, but he could feel them on him. He stood up, eyes trained on the ground, and turned around.

That’s when the whispers started.

“It’s him. The one the bard sings about. Jaskier should throw him out on his ear.”

“I’d have kicked him out the second he stepped in, if I’d known. How can he hurt Jaskier that way?”

How, wasn’t the best question. He’d hurt Jaskier because nothing good or nice should ever be within his grasp. It all just turns to dust.

Why he’d hurt Jaskier, well, he knew the answer to that, too.

Geralt kept on walking, letting the whispers fill his mind. When he got to the stairs, he looked up and there was Jaskier.

His sad eyes. A distressed look on his face.

Jaskier turned, walking up the stairs. Geralt followed him, every step creaking unbearably as they made their ascent. It felt like it took forever, like the whole world had ended and it was just Jaskier, unbelievably, and him at the end of time.

Fanciful nonsense.

“Get in and shut the door,” Jaskier ordered when they reached the door of his room.

Geralt obeyed, quicker than he expected. This was it. This was the moment Geralt would get everything he deserved and more.

“I’m sorry,” he started apologising, but when he looked up, Jaskier’s angry expression made him stop talking.

“You hurt me, Geralt. I spent all my life trying to help you, make people see the good in you, and you hurt me.”

Jaskier stepped back, his legs hitting against the bed and forcing him to stop.

“I just wanted you to like me, to see me as a friend, and you couldn’t even do that. What was so unlikable in me that you had to do that? Huh? Why did you let me hang around, then discard me on a mountain. A fucking mountain, Geralt.”

He was shouting now. Everyone downstairs would hear, not that Geralt minded. They already thought the worst of him.

“Got nothing to say. Typical.”

Jaskier turned around, his shoulders shaking.

Fuck, I made him cry.

Not for the first time.

No, not for the first time. Jaskier had been hurt so much by him and yet here he was, hurting him all over again.

“Jaskier, I don’t want you to cry. Not over me.”

The bard whipped around at speed. He stepped forward, pointing a finger into his chest.

“You don’t get to choose how I feel,” he snapped. “You never cared. Why care now?”

Geralt let himself be pushed backwards till his back hit the door. “I’m- Jaskier, I-”

“Fuck off, witcher.”

“Please,” Geralt pleaded, dropping to his knees. “Please, I need you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Sure, that’s how you get me back, telling me you need me. Leave. I’m over this.”

Those eyes weren’t cruel. They were begging Geralt to do as he was asked. Even now, Jaskier didn’t think he had the right to ask this, but he did, and more.

“Okay,” Geralt acquiesced, standing up. “I’ll give you some space, but tomorrow, would you see Roach? She misses you.”

That gave Jaskier pause. A small smile appeared on his lips for a second, then disappeared. His face deathly pale with exhaustion.

“Yes, okay,” Jaskier agreed. “Just, leave me alone tonight.”

It takes everything in Geralt to nod and leave the room. He’s barely closed the door when he hears Jaskier sobbing.

He doesn’t even notice the glares from the tavern patrons as he leaves.

All he does is lay his bedroll outside Roach’s pen and try his best to fall asleep.

Images of a dandelion poking through the ice fills his mind.

Destiny had brought him here. He shouldn’t hope. He shouldn’t.

He couldn’t help it.

Fuck.

[solarphase1]

More of Geraskier pirates or something -

“Who are you, anyways?”

His captain and captor peered at him under a too-big jeweled crown, lounging upon the day's hoard. The question was flat, but his eyes were curious. The moonlight reflected first from the water’s surface, then second off of the gold and jewels. It bounced around Jaskier in all directions, and he looked truly in that moment, and for the first time since Geralt had seen him, like he may not be entirely human after all.

“A sailor from Rivia. As I told you before.” Geralt hummed the response regarding the other from where he was still bound to the mast.

“Except you aren’t Rivian. Wrong accent.”

Jaskier stood, gold clinking with the movement, and within a few steps crouched down to eye level while displaying something in his hand with a small flourish.

“And these are letters of Marque, from your coat. Which, I’m guessing, makes you about the poorest bounty hunter of the era,” his eyes narrowed, with curiosity rather than malice, “you don’t even get the bounty.”

Yellow eyes leveled him cooly at the accusation, “Sailor.”

“Privateer,” Jaskier tucked the papers away once again, standing to full height. “And you’re not human either. So what in the devil are you?”

The man did not give an answer for a while, pondering something. Perhaps wondering if he should lie. Then, after a moment -

“Witcher.”

Immediately Jaskier scoffed a disbelieving laugh. “No,” a finger wag and disapproving chuckle, “witchers don’t exist.”

He was met only with a flat, blank, unwavering and…truthful stare. And silence. He stared at Geralt a moment in that silence before sputtering back to life with breathy denial.

“No, no - you are most certainly not going to sit there and look at me as though I’m the one being ridiculous here. Sure, you’re a Witcher, that should be simple enough considering the only standing Mythos - the mere MYTH of Witchers - is, what, 2000 years old??”

“So you do know your history.”

“Mythology,” the captain corrected as he ceased his pacing and looked, really looked at the strange man. A moment of thoughtful silence. Something wary, something fearful behind blue eyes. “Prove it.”

“Untie me.”

“Ah, so that's it then,” He was back to banter, “quite a flimsy escape plan I really must say I’ve heard better - HAH - silly Jaskier, almost falling for the ‘I’m a Witcher,’ play, oldest move in the book…” His little monologue teeters out as he falls back on his pile of gold.

“What am I going to do with you? The Not-Witcher from Not-Rivia…”