#I refuse to apologize for how much I love jaskier | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangirleaconmigo · 2 years ago

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I so share your opinion on the word butcher and the meaning for Geralt and I hate the writers for choosing that particular word. I can't accept that they don't associate it with racism bc that was the whole point of the first episode and they made it obvious how much Geralt hate being called like that. But the sad truth is that seeing some of Lauren's tweets she really seems clueless with such things. And knowing what happens at the end of the lady of the lake, it makes it even worse. Also I don't understand the people who wanted Geralt to ask for forgiveness for his behavior in 1x06 but are completely fine with the song. One was having a bad behavior towards a person privately, he was lashing out and he definitely should ask for forgiveness but it was a private fight, no call for hate for jaskier. The other was telling to a crowd that hates the witchers and considers them monsters, that in fact they are monsters. I hope they revisit that in the future but I doubt it. Thanks for your metas.

Thank you!

I find it so interesting. Geralt and Jaskier’s conflict is like a Rorschach blot test for viewers. I mean, all art is. But how we respond to fictional conflicts has everything to do with our own personal flaws, experiences, and traumas.

For example, that scene on the mountain and how someone responds to it, usually says something about whether that person is typically the person who loses their temper or if they are the one who people have lost their temper on.

And to complicate it further, how do people feel about the relationship up to that point? The big theme of their relationship is that Geralt refuses to call him his friend. He refuses to admit he likes him, and even refuses to use the word.

So. Do you (the general you) think that Geralt very obviously cares about him and is just being grumpy? Or do you feel that Geralt barely tolerates him? That probably depends on your own values or expectations of friendship.

Then FURTHER complicating THAT is the fact that there is little actual development of that friendship “on screen”. The friendship is drastically underwritten relative to the emotional role it must play. So we are all operating from different impressions of what that relationship is like day to day.

I have been on witcher Twitter, Witcher tumblr, ao3 and (until recently) discord almost every damn day since the show came out. So I have seen every possible characterization and opinion on their conflict. And at this point in the fandom, there has been backlash, backlash to the backlash, and another round of backlash to that as far as how people feel about, or characterize it.

But I digress.

Then we finally get S2 and we find that Geralt actually left him on the mountain and hasn’t returned to find him or apologize the entire time, and Jaskier is singing Burn Butcher Burn, a song that I find (I’m with you on this one) completely inextricable from racism and bigotry.

So.

If I were to acknowledge and perceive Burn Butcher Burn, here is how I see it “in world”. (this is not an endorsement, babes I’m just talking)

You know how someone is mean to you and you lose it? Maybe stuff has built up or you’ve got other shit going on? So you react with such disproportionate spite that you INSTANTLY lose all high ground? Two second ago you wanted an apology and now your dumb clown ass has to grovel? Lmao

That’s how I see this. So now you know my very personal individual reaction to it based on my own psyche.

Geralt said some cruel shit. That sucks. It’s not ok to yell at people you love and talk to them that way. An apology would have been in order. I personally hate being yelled at with my whole heart and soul. But if I love someone enough to be friends with them for 20(!) years, I’m gonna forgive someone a mistake in the heat of the moment. People make mistakes.

Now we find out that Geralt apparently left him there without saying a single word. That’s worse. He would have a long way to go to make up for that. If Jaskier didn’t want to he his friend anymore that would be his decision.

But Jaskier?

Burn Butcher Burn???????? Since we have established that I associate that with racism and bigotry against Geralt, and it is unquestionably associated with one of his worst traumas this side of the trials, I literally cannot think of many things more singe-your-eyebrows off cruel. Joey played it with such amazing grief and emotion. But even so. How long was he singing that? How many people did he sing it to? Over and over and over? And publicly?

The facts of it can’t overcome even that gorgeous performance.

It is, for me, from my perspective, unthinkably cruel.

I’ve had people say to me “haven’t you said anything out of cruelty?”

And to that I’d say two things. First, haven’t you ever loved someone so much that no matter how you break up, whether they are in your life or not, there is always a part of you that will protect them? Have you? I have. And the second and most significant bit it…if bigotry is not in you, it doesn’t matter how hurt or drunk you get, it still ain’t in there.

So again, we’re back at the various ways you can look at the word Butcher.

So. If I have to put this “in world” I have to believe that either Jaskier doesn’t make that connection, or is in such grief that it’s like a fugue state and he doesn’t grasp the reality of what he is doing.

Then if I were writing their reunion, I would have the reality, the full weight of what he’s done just drop on him like a load of bricks the moment he sees Geralt’s face in the flesh.

And he would apologize. And I would write Geralt responding in the most emotionally devastating way possible: by instantly forgiving him.

Yeah. It’s fine.

Because deep down, Geralt has always suspected he is actually a butcher or a monster.

And that has to devastate Jaskier because he has worked SO HARD for SO LONG to get Geralt to see himself as a good man.

And in the end, he is the one that has pushed the ability to do that out of Geralt’s grasp. Because if the friend who loves him most sees him that way the minute he hurts him, well then, it must be true.

I think it’s a long way back from that one. And though Geralt forgives him, he never forgives himself.

But of course I’m not writing the show.

#asks #twn critical #burn butcher burn

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bowieandqueen11 · 3 years ago

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For the 5.5k Follower Celebration: Congratulations!! Can I please request Jaskier (Netflix The Witcher) please? Thank you so much!

Heart’s On Fire / Jaskier Drabble

Line: Oh Darlin’, my heart’s on fire / For you.

Of course you can my lovely, thank you!! <3

Warning: mentions of injuries and a tiny smidge of strong language!

(I do not own The Witcher or its characters, all credit goes to creators. Song credit goes to Passenger. Gif credit goes to @inber.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Disaster couldn't even begin to cover it.

The hunt had been a catastrophe, and the meagre bags of silver the inn folk had thrown at your feet with snarling thanks was not nearly worth the damage it had wrought. Jaskier was still fumbling swears from where he sat perched on the rock in front of you, trying to reach round and slap your hand away any chance he got. His knees rocked against the ground, his expletives only stopped in their war path by some mumbled rush of song lyrics he threw out to try and distract himself from the pain.

‘Oh- mother of a goat Y/n how many stitches can possibly be left??’

‘Well, you did get kicked by a Wyvern, Jaskier. Your complaining isn’t going to magically wish the wound away.’

He trailed off from his tense humming when you replied, his smile dropping into a etched frown as he noticed how still you had become. How your eyes were so far away, looking out into the still depths of the pond, but your hands were still hovering over the bloody gash swiped across your bard’s back.

‘Yn-’

‘This is my fault, you know’, you start again, blinking once as you draw back to yourself. ‘Your life was in danger, and it was my fault. I can’t let you come anymore Dandelion.’

You don’t give the man any time to respond with a quip, instead poking the point of the needle back into the last flap of his skin and closing the wound for good. His hand balls into a fist as he hits his knee, biting down his teeth on his bottom lip until you thought he had drawn blood.

‘MmmPH son of a whore.’ Despite how forlorn you were feeling, Jaskier’s words managed to draw an unexpected bubble of laughter from the back of your throat. Tenderly teasing your fingertips over his skin, you rub the freckled expanse of his soft shoulder blades in apology. You don’t notice the way he shivers against your touch as you use the last of your clean water to wipe the remaining blood stains from his skin, and then pull his doublet back up over his arms.

Before you even had a chance to roll your few herbal bottles and string back up into your apothecary bag, Jaskier had swung his legs around and nearly knocked you off your mossy log. He grabbed your hands quickly, massaging them between his calloused fingers as he furrowed his eyebrows at you.

‘You must know that I will never part from you. I never could, it would break my heart too much.’ He pretends to swoon, raising the back of his right hand to his forehead. He peeks an eye open, laughing as he notices you snort and roll your eyes, but likewise you refuse to pull away.

‘But seriously, Y/n. I know this life isn’t easy, but I chose it. You didn’t force me to come along with you - I did it because I enjoy your company. Because I’, he swallowed thickly then, and you could feel the start of fear radiate off the usually so jubilant bard. For a second he was silent, only playing with the edges of his fingers as he stared harshly at the ground. For once, he found words would not come easily to him. How could they? There was too much to say. Too much for his jumbled heart to spit out. With songs, perhaps, he could whisk away a melody and draft along some accompanying lines to exaggerate reality. But with his own words, truth had never come so easily.

He glances up behind heavy eyelashes, finding his face light up with a slow twitch of the lips as he sees you sitting stock still. Just watching him, expectantly. You were one of the only people whom he had ever met who had ever truly seen him, realised he was more than just merry entertainment to be used and taken and thrown away at the first experience. You were the first person, in as long as he could remember, that had truly wanted to hear what he had to say.

And now he had the most important thing to say stuck in his throat, he couldn’t do it.

‘I- I lov-’

A growl from the edge of the clearing snatched your attention away from the desperate man as you shush him. Squinting your eyes around the tree line, you leave the Bard behind and instead reach for the sword left abandoned underneath your sack. His hands still burning from your touch, Jaskier sighs as he closes his eyes and shakes his head in an attempt to try to recollect himself. He purses his lips, before standing himself and coming over to join you with yet another smile and joke on his lips.

Another day, perhaps. He could wait for it, as long as his heart didn’t burn him from the inside out first.

#the witcher #jaskier #jaskier imagine #the witcher imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier fluff #jaskier drabble #joey batey #the witcher drabble #dandelion

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cherryjuicegf · 3 years ago

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death of a poet

for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)

ao3

The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.

Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?

Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.

Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?

The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.

A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.

I love him. He’s not a monster.

He’s not?

Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.

There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.

The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.

It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.

A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.

And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.

And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.

He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.

“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”

What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.

He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.

So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.

It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.

It’s nothing.

The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.

He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.

Instead.

“Jaskier!”

He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.

It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.

He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.

The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.

It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.

I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.

A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.

Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.

It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.

Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”

A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”

He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.

To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?

The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.

There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.

They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.

They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #major character death #cursed geralt #chrysa writes #what about the bard #watb #fic recs #angst #you know i had to do it to em #i don't really like this but ehhh

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years ago

Text

Any Reason At All

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): a little bit of horniness in no.5 Rating: mature

Summary: Five times there is a very good reason for Jaskier and Geralt to kiss, and one time there is no reason at all.

on ao3

one.

A first kiss is supposed to be something special and Jaskier has had so many of them over the years. But usually, they're with different people. He's not used to having more than one first kiss with the same person and certainly wasn't expecting that person to be Geralt.

The first time, they've been away from town a long time and Jaskier is... wanting. He knows this contract is worth a lot and Geralt has been so focused on tracking that he probably hasn't realized how long it's been since they've been to town. But Jaskier has and he's getting antsy.

"Geralt do you think-" he tugs his boot out of a patch of brambles and sighs, "that we could head back soon? Sleep at an inn tonight?" he doesn't get a response, so he just sighs and plops down right where he is. Up ahead, Geralt shouts back without even pausing,

"Are you just gonna sit there or are you coming with me?"

Jaskier sighs. Geralt's right though, he can't just sit here all night. So he reluctantly gets up and goes after him, muttering under his breath. They continue in this way for the next three hours.

"It's just that... I haven't even kissed someone in weeks. Weeks, Geralt. Do you know what that's like? It's torture, utter-" he walks directly into Geralt's back with a thud and takes a step back as Geralt turns to face him.

"Jaskier," he says abruptly, but not overly angry. Jaskier's eyes flick up to his and he pauses. "If I kiss you, will you shut up and let me get on with it?"

"Uh, y-yes?"

Immediately, Geralt's palm is on his cheek and Jaskier is breathless. He leans in without hesitation and Jaskier is absolutely not prepared for Geralt's mouth on his own. He kisses him gently, leaning in and it's slow and deep and Jaskier isn't sure he's going to survive. Geralt takes a step forward and Jaskier presses into him, letting out a soft moan as Geralt's lips part against his own.

And he drowns in it. Pulled under by the current, he lets himself sink. His whole body burns with it and he can't breathe, but if he pulls back Geralt might stop and he doesn't think he could bear that. And all the while Geralt's hand remains on his face, anchoring him.

And he just... doesn't stop. Geralt's other hand comes to rest on his hip and it goes on for so long that Jaskier is expecting it to lead to something more.

When Geralt does pull away, it's abrupt and Jaskier is left reeling. He's breathless and more than a little turned on and who even knew Witchers were so skilled at kissing in the first place? Where the fuck did that even come from?

"That was..." he starts and when he looks up, Geralt is already a dozen paces ahead of him. "Geralt! Where did you- that was... very good you know. I didn't take you for someone who would be so-"

"What?" Geralt asks.

"I just didn't think you got a lot of practice, is all."

Geralt scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his tracking. Theoretically, Jaskier knows Geralt has had some practice with kissing and sex. He's been to brothels and some of his friends seem just this side of too familiar, but shit he was not expecting that.

Jaskier is quick to catch up to him again, but he spends the rest of the night in a daze.

two.

Jaskier has been invited to a ball. Normally, he would be delighted to attend an event back home, but it's a special celebration, a party to celebrate his sister's engagement and it's for family only. But Jaskier isn't about to drag Geralt all the way to Lettenhove and tell him he's not allowed to come. Which only leaves one option-

"I need you to be my husband," he announces cheerfully. They're already well on their way to the coast and Jaskier has been considering how to break the news before deciding it's best to just get it over with. "They won't let anyone in who's not family, but they could hardly refuse my husband entry now, could they?"

He beams up at Geralt, stumbling a little over a rock. He thinks it's a great plan, but Geralt doesn't show emotion one way or the other. He just stays silent and looks ahead again. Jaskier would give anything to know what's going on in his head right now.

It doesn't come up again until they're on the border of Temeria and about to cross into Kerack. Jaskier reminds him again when they're sharing a room at an inn. Geralt refuses to share the bed so Jaskier offers it to him before climbing up next to him and cuddling up behind him. Geralt grumbles.

"Hush my love. You're my husband, remember? You can hardly deny me the warmth of our bed so soon after our marriage."

Geralt scoffs at him, but Jaskier thinks it sounds more like a laugh than a grunt and he'll take what he can get.

They set out early the next morning, reaching the borders of Lettenhove by late evening. Jaskier is exhausted and Geralt seems to be getting antsy - probably about the party, maybe about the lie. Jaskier isn't worried about it, he knows well enough how to throw his title around when he needs to and most of the time, it works.

They're stopped at the bridge across to the palace and Jaskier dismounts, nodding his head at the guardsmen. One of them gives him a flash of a smile before looking up and scowling at Geralt.

"Your invitation was for one, master Julian."

"You'd hardly deny my husband entry," Jaskier says simply. The guard lifts an eyebrow and gives Jaskier a questioning look.

"The viscount isn't married," he says simply.

"I understand where your position, truly," Jaskier starts, "but I've been away for some time and in that time, I've found myself not only betrothed but married to a man whom I love very much and whom I wish to bring home to introduce to my family."

The guard looks unconvinced and Jaskier is both angry at his defiance and the fact that he simply refuses to believe Jaskier would marry someone like Geralt. Which, as a matter of fact, he would be delighted to do. Anger boils up and he's about to start threatening when Geralt slips from Roach, coming up to wind a comforting arm around his waist.

"It's fine, love," he whispers and it may just be a ruse, but Jaskier will never forget the sound of that word on his lips, the way it shudders through him like the cold.

"It's not-" he starts, but his voice fails him and before he can do anything else, Geralt gets two fingers under his chin, tipping it up so Jaskier is looking at him.

"Go alone, I wouldn't want you to miss your sister's party on my account. You can introduce us another time."

The look in his eyes is so unbearably soft and when he leans in, Jaskier's breath catches in his chest. Cold lips brush against his own and Geralt leans in, deepening the kiss as Jaskier presses into it. It's so unexpected that Jaskier isn't sure what to do with it, but Geralt's arm remains around his waist and he pulls him forward, pressing their bodies together.

Jaskier is stunned by his enthusiasm. Geralt leans into him, fingers twitching against his hip as he deepens the kiss and Jaskier barely withholds a groan as he feels Geralt's tongue against the seam of his lips. He wants to press into the touch, wants to touch and feel and have him, but it's a fine line between pretending to be with him and pushing too far. And right now, Jaskier isn't exactly sure where that line is.

Because Geralt's hands slip under his doublet, moving further until they're on either side of his chest, moving down to settle in the dip of his sides. And Geralt just presses closer, breathing hard through his nose and nipping softly at Jaskier's lower lip.

And Jaskier can't keep from losing himself, can't hold himself together with Geralt like this, so he kisses him hard. He throws his arms around his neck, arching against him as Geralt's teeth press in a little firmer and it's not until the more suspicious guard clears his throat that he's tugged abruptly back to reality.

He pulls out of Geralt's arms, smoothing his clothes down even as the memory of Geralt's hands on him lingers. He opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt's voice is the one he hears.

"Apologies," he pants, "it's been… some time since my lord and I have been together. He keeps so busy I don't see him often and we were hoping to get to the palace and to our room."

The same guard chokes and steps aside, not even daring to look at them as Geralt reaches up and takes Roach's reins, tugging gently to urge her forward.

It's not until they get to their room that Jaskier finally trusts his voice enough to speak and to thank Geralt for getting them out of what could otherwise have been a mess.

three.

Jaskier is struggling. It's been a relatively easy day in an easy week, but tonight he has time to compose and he can't get this one particular verse right. And it's killing him.

It's supposed to be a romantic ballad of a peasant woman in disguise as a knight, recusing the love of her life from where she's been held captive in a tower. The longing of being apart, he's got down, but now he's reached the point where they're reunited and he can't get the words out. And how is he supposed to when he needs to write a kiss and he himself hasn't been kissed in ages (Geralt notwithstanding, but even that was weeks ago now and they're not talking about it).

He's just not feeling very romantic tonight, so he flings himself back onto the grass, staring up at the stars with his notebook and lute on his chest and he sighs. Across the camp, Geralt makes a noise and shifts.

"What's wrong?" he asks, not even looking up from where he's stitching one of his shirts back together.

"How am I supposed to write the most romantic ballads the continent has ever heard when there is so little romance in my life?" Geralt snorts at him, attention still focused on his shirt. "Do you know," Jaskier continues, "that I can't even remember what it's like to be kissed?"

Geralt just lifts a skeptical eyebrow at him but says nothing.

"Perhaps you could help?" Jaskier suggests.

"What could I possibly do to help?"

"I have it on good authority that you're an excellent kisser and… maybe we could do that again. For research purposes, you see."

"What," Geralt smirks, "your memory not good enough for you?"

"Please, Geralt, it'll help."

For a moment there's nothing, then there's a scuffling sound and when Jaskier looks over, Geralt is rising to his feet. He crosses to stand in front of him, nudging Jaskier's knees apart to stand between them and Jaskier holds his breath. Geralt bends low over him, cupping his cheek and pulling him into a soft kiss. He doesn't let himself sink too much into it, keeping only at the surface and Geralt hums against him.

He shoves a leg between his thighs, pushing closer, but just as Jaskier bites back a moan, Geralt pulls back before it can get to be too much.

"Good enough?" he asks and Jaskier wants to say no, to pull him down and kiss him senseless and press against him and- he pulls himself back to the present and looks up at Geralt, nodding solemnly.

He pulls himself back up, taking his quill to paper and scratching out notes of what he wants Geralt to do to him. If he can't write a kiss from memory, he can write about what he wants.

four.

He's not supposed to get involved in Geralt's battles, but what was he supposed to do when Geralt was disarmed and backed into a corner. Jaskier jumps into the fray, bolting for Geralt's sword. If he can just get it to him- but he catches the attention of the devourer and instead of getting Geralt his sword back to him, he only manages to distract the devourer by turning its attention on him.

For a few moments, he manages to keep it away from Geralt and also keep away from it, but it's fast, faster than he is and before long, Jaskier finds himself right in front of it. The thing swings at him and Jaskier ducks, but not quickly enough. The strength of the devourer sends him flying sideways into a tree and Jaskier cries out as his shoulder connects with solid wood.

Immediately, he pulls himself up to his feet, holding his shoulder and seething. He tries to call the beast toward him again, but it's turned his attention back to Geralt. Luckily, the diversion bought him some time and Geralt has had time to retrieve his sword and lunge for the monster.

And he looks furious. Jaskier is dreading whatever comes next for him, but for now, he's just relieved that Geralt is in control again. Geralt dodges and swipes and fakes out, eventually overtaking the beast and piercing his sword up through the underside of its jaw. It shudders on his blade then collapses against the dirt and it's barely stopped moving before Geralt is bolting forward, dropping to his knees right in front of Jaskier.

"Are you hurt?" he asks and Jaskier shakes his head, but only because he doesn't trust his voice not to waver if he speaks. "Let go of your shoulder," Geralt says calmly and slowly, Jaskier does as he's asked. "I think it's dislocated," Geralt hums, looking it over and brushing his hands over his shoulder.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I have to put it back into place for you."

"I.. no, I don't think so. Can't it just go back on its own?"

"It won't," Geralt huffs, "it has to be put back or it's going to continue to hurt and be useless."

"Please-" Jaskier says, but Geralt cuts him off.

"Last week you threw yourself between me and a harpy and just now you tried to fend off a devourer and you don't want me to put your shoulder back into place?"

Jaskier shakes his head and Geralt sighs. He tries again, but Jaskier is adamant and then suddenly there are warm lips against his and he gasps at the suddenness of it before letting himself enjoy it. Geralt kisses him deeply, running one hand through his hair and then his other hand is on his shoulder, shoving and-

Jaskier pulls back with a start as pain shoots through him, but when he tries to move his arm, the pain is significantly less than before. He looks up at Geralt to find him looking rather smug at him and Jaskier splutters.

"You used me-" he accuses, but Geralt just huffs a quiet laugh at him, taking his arm again and wrapping it up so he can't move it around too much and make it worse.

It does feel better and by the time they turn in for bed that night, Jaskier is reluctantly grateful for it. But as he watches Geralt methodically prepare for bed, he's a little disappointed that the kiss didn't last longer this time.

five.

Strictly speaking, Jaskier isn't supposed to be here at all. The contract had specified utmost secrecy and while Geralt is usually willing to do anything asked of him (within reason), he was firm but not leaving Jaskier alone with a bruxa roaming the halls of the castle, regardless of what the king had asked. The working story, if caught, is that Jaskier is acting as bait, but Jaskier likes to pretend that Geralt just doesn't want him out of his sight after the incident with the devourer.

So now at midnight, they're creeping through the halls, looking for any sign of the bruxa but so far there's nothing. Though the bodies the previous night say something is definitely lurking around after hours. Geralt slips around a corner, motioning for Jaskier to hold back and he does, but a second later Geralt is barreling back into him, hissing for him to get back.

They stumble back and Jaskier is suddenly pressed back against the wall firmly. Geralt hesitates for a moment, looking away from him, but then Jaskier hears the voices coming closer and Geralt pushes him back again, pressing a hand over his mouth. And abruptly, Jaskier's body goes limp under him, a side effect of years of being shoved up against walls for very different reasons.

Geralt seems unconcerned and slowly pulls his hand away, whispering for him to be quiet. Jaskier nods his understanding, but Geralt is so close and he smells good and he can't help the way his body reacts to that.

The guards come closer and Geralt presses right against him and Jaskier can't help the little moan that escapes him. It's quiet, barely even a sound, but in the silence of the hall it seems to echo and Jaskier bites down on his lip too late. Geralt's eyes snap onto his and in the very near distance, Jaskier can hear the guards' footsteps speed up.

But then Geralt is kissing him, somehow even closer than a moment before so there's not even an inch of space between them and Jaskier's mind goes blank. He can't think of anything but Geralt's mouth against him, hot and demanding and not letting up, even as the guards turn the corner. A diversion, he realizes, but it doesn't stop him from winding his arms around Geralt's waist and sliding his hands down over his ass.

Barely a few paces away now, the guards continue their approach, but Geralt pushes a knee between Jaskier's and he'd be happy enough to be tossed in the dungeon so long as they can continue uninterrupted. His hips give a little twitch and Geralt growls into his mouth and that… seems too real to be a diversion. Jaskier feels the vibrations all the way through him and he stutters when he pulls Geralt closer because Geralt's hard, the line of his cock pressing against Jaskier's thigh. Which is something. Jaskier doesn't have the wherewithal to process that right now, but then Geralt is tipping his head up roughly, ducking to kiss his neck just as the guards come upon them.

There's a thud as one walks straight into the other and then scattered mumbling as they trip over themselves to apologize and when Geralt looks up at them, they both mumble additional apologies and turn back in the opposite direction. Geralt doesn't kiss him again, but he doesn't pull away from him and Jaskier is aching with the effort it takes not to rut up against him.

Eventually, long after Jaskier can't hear the footsteps anymore, Geralt pulls away and Jaskier nearly cries though he's unsure if it's from relief or disappointment. He either wants Geralt back against him immediately or he needs to go back to their room on his own for a while and he doesn't see either being a likely option.

"Come on," Geralt whispers and Jaskier just shuts his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

"I'm just gonna… need a minute." To his surprise, Geralt nods and turns away.

By the time they get back to their room that night, Geralt seems to have forgotten the entire situation, but Jaskier will be thinking about it for the rest of their trip, if not the rest of his life.

plus one.

It's been a while since they've just been able to relax, but when they stroll into Oxenfurt, they arrive in the middle of a festival. There's a market in the center of town and various stages with performers scattered within the city so that everywhere they go, there's music on the air. Jaskier shuts his eyes and listens as they make their way to the inn. Once they've rented a room and organized their things, Jaskier asks if they might head down toward the festivities and Geralt, to his surprise, agrees.

They stroll through town looking at all the booths and stopping to watch the performers. Jaskier takes a turn on one of the stages, delighted when Geralt stays to watch, a soft smile on his face, and he's the only one Jaskier sees in the crowd. Afterward, they split sweet buns and pastries and fruit ciders of every variety imaginable. It's been a long time since Jaskier has enjoyed himself so thoroughly, and as the sun begins to set, he takes Geralt's hand and leads him, tipsy and warm with intoxication outside the city.

Others are already gathering for the firework celebration and Jaskier finds them a spot on the ridge of a hill, somehow unclaimed despite its views over the river. He plops himself down, only letting go of Geralt's hand when the angle becomes too awkward, but Geralt sits behind him, and Jaskier shuffles back, sitting between his thighs and leaning back against his chest.

It earns him a huff of amusement, but Geralt doesn't complain and doesn't tell him to move. They're both a little drunk, but the sunset is beautiful and Jaskier can't think of a better way to end his night, nor a better person to share it with. By the time they set off the fireworks, he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open, instead resting his head against Geralt's chest and listening to the crack of their explosions, quickly followed by cheers and sounds of awe from the younger spectators.

Geralt's hand rests on his thigh and Jaskier twines their fingers together, humming softly as Geralt wraps his hand around his.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Geralt is shifting under him and for a moment, he's disappointed to have woken up because he's sure Geralt would have carried him back to the inn otherwise. But he looks up and Geralt smiles softly down at him, brushing a stray hair out of his face and Jaskier wouldn't trade this night for anything.

They make their way back to the inn, bumping against each other in their drowsiness and it's not until they get up to their room that Jaskieer realizes the room they booked only has one bed. They've both been looking forward to crawling into bed and sleeping well for once because it's been some time since they've had a bed. Jaskier makes a quick decision to let Geralt take the bed because it's hardly big enough for the both of them to share, even if they've done it a hundred times before when coin was low.

But Geralt strips down to his shorts and when he climbs into bed, he shuffles to one side, holding the blankets back in invitation. And Jaskier isn't one to turn down such an invitation, so he quickly undresses and climbs in next to him. He lies facing out into the room with Geralt's chest against his back, warm and rising softly with his breath.

"I had a good night tonight," he hums, "it's a shame we can't do this more often."

"Mm," comes the reply from behind, much closer than Jaskier had anticipated. He can feel Geralt's breath against the back of his neck and he shuts his eyes with a soft sigh.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I did."

Jaskier turns over to face him, and Geralt smiles at him without opening his eyes. Jaskier shifts closer, tangling their legs together and Geralt's arm comes to drape over his hip, bringing him closer. The smile remains firmly in place and Jaskier's heart feels like it could burst from his chest.

"Geralt?" he asks quietly.

"Hm?"

Jaskier looks up at him, unable to find the words to properly thank him for the night, and he reaches up, brushing one hand through his hair.

"Thank you," he whispers, though the words feel flat on his tongue, not enough to express how much he truly appreciates tonight. Geralt hums again, tipping his head down so their noses bump together.

"Jaskier," he breathes.

There's nothing else, but then Geralt's lips brush against his own, soft and tentative and Jaskier's heart nearly stops. It's hardly the first time he's kissed him, but Geralt is so much softer than before, pressing forward only when Jaskier moves against him. And this is so different from before.

Tonight, there's no reason for Geralt to kiss him, there's certainly no reason for him to be so soft and gentle with him - none other than he simply wants to - and Jaskier could cry. He lets himself be drawn closer, completely entangled with Geralt as he kisses him, soft and slow and delightfully pointless.

There's no need for it, just the want to be closer, to feel each other, and Jaskier sinks into it easily, losing himself to the soft press of Geralt's lips of the brush of his thumb against his hip. When they do finally part, Jaskier isn't disappointed that it's over, because Geralt kisses his nose and his forehead as he settles against him and rather than an ending, it feels like the beginning.

#geraskier #5+1 things #first kisses #they're in love your honour #rex writes

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samstree · 3 years ago

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;)

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier being an idiot #geralt apologizes #mutual pining #miscommunication #cursed jaskier #jaskier whump #reverse trope #lying spell

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write-ur-wrongs · 4 years ago

Text

Nature’s Nurturing Ways

Hi y’all! This pandemic has really taken the wind out of my sails these past few weeks (maybe months? Time is completely untraceable right now). This piece is born out of a lovely anon’s request, bolded below. As always, I haven’t proofread this mess, so please forgive the typos! I’ll do my best to correct them post-publishing. I seriously can’t thank you enough for taking the time to send me your ideas, and I promise I’ll get better at writing actual drabbles LOL. I hope you enjoy :)

Hii can you write something abt Geralt being w a plant-based reader where she loves animals and nature? Tysm

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Geralt and Jaskier had been travelling for hours when the beating sun finally wore them down. There hadn’t been a breeze in days and the hot, stale air was starting to suffocate the uncharacteristically quiet bard, who wouldn’t dare compete with the surrounding cicada’s symphony.

“Geralt,” he rasped, “do you hear any running water? Drips or gurgles? I’ll take anything.”

“Jask, it hasn’t rained in days and it’s hotter than the depths of hell,” the Witcher sighed before continuing, “I said no yesterday, the answer is the same today.”

“Euughh!” Jaskier threw his head back in despair before hanging his head in exhaustion. “Geralt, I don’t want to be dramatic -,”

“Ha!” Geralt twisted in his saddle to look back at his friend with a quirked brow.

“- but I will fall off this horse and die of exposure if we don’t find water soon.”

Shaking his head, Geralt knew that despite the bard’s tendency to embellish, the situation was getting dire. They’d traveled this way dozens of times before and had always relied on the steady creek that ran alongside the trail for water. The region wasn’t known for dry spells and while Geralt was sure he could manage either way, his companion on the trail was not so durable.

They wouldn’t arrive at their destination for another three or four hours, at his level of dehydration and with probable heat exhaustion, Jaskier might not have that much time.

With another gruff sigh, Geralt pulled back on Roach’s reins and redirected her off the road and into the forest, turning back to ensure Jaskier’s horse would follow.

Geralt knew that there was a small clearing off the road where the thick leaves from the old trees made a lush, and shaded, canopy. He’d been there before a handful of times. It’s where he shared a tender first kiss, where he’d laid his head on Y/N’s chest before falling asleep feeling the cool, lush, grass cradling his large frame. It’s where he first said I love you.

Shaking his head slightly to pull himself from his memories, he dismounted and grabbed both sets of reins, leading the horses into farther the clearing. Once they’d reached the middle of the small field, Geralt released Roach’s lead and gave her a neck a scratch before leaving her to graze.

“Come on Jaskier,” he said, reaching into the gelding’s saddle bag for some food, “get off your horse and lay down in the grass.”

The bard fell out of his saddle with a thud while Geralt continue to root around the bag, huffing as he kept coming up empty.

“Did you eat the last of the cheese?”

“Mmpft,” Jaskier replied incoherently, face down in the grass.

“Hey –”

“Oi! You kicked me!”

“Where is the food? We had bread, cheese, and meat left over last night. Did you fucking eat it all?”

“No, you oaf,” he said, rolling over onto his back, “we ate the rest of it this morning.”

“Fuck!” Geralt cursed under his breath, pulling his hair up off his neck to cool off. He could barely remember what they’d done earlier that day. The heat had been unbearable all evening, and the rising sun only made it worse.

“Don’t worry about it Geralt! No need to apologize for accusing me so harshly.” Jaskier said, words dripping in sarcasm.

Geralt merely looked down at the bard with disdain and rolled his eyes, refusing to admit the sun might be affecting him too.

“Shut up and take off your shirt –”

“Oh-ho!” he laughed weakly, wiggling his eye brows at the witcher. No matter how beaten and battered the bard may be, he’d never miss an opportunity to tease Geralt.

“No, Gods! Fuck,” Geralt went on, flustered, “the grass will cool you down a hell of a lot faster if you’re in direct contact. And besides, Y/N will kill me if I let you die of exposure.”

“Always so serious, eh Geralt?” Jaskier chided playfully, pulling off his tunic before laying back down onto the grass, “Oh-ho-ho-ohhhh yes… Sweet merciful goddess of all that is good, this feels amazing! Yes, yes, yes!”

While he was sure the bard was still mumbling gratefully, and disgustingly, at the feeling of the cool grass against his skin, Geralt’s mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in this clearing, wild heliotropes had bloomed and the sweet, almondine scent was pulling him into a memory.

“Geralt! Witchers use herbs, mushrooms, and flowers in all kinds of magic,” you said, your hands resting high on your hips, “I find it incredibly hard to believe that in all your years and extensive travels, you’d never learned to forage?”

“All my years, eh?” he’d replied, cat-like eyes gleaming back at you.

“Well of course,” you teased, “I mean, unless you mean to tell me that silver head of hair is a choice born out of vanity?”

“I’m going to make you pay for that later, Y/N.” He laughed, taken aback and a little impressed that you felt so comfortable with his mutations as to mock him playfully.

“Ha! Me and what coin?” you reply with a light laugh, bending over to collect the generous mushrooms growing through the bed of leaves and needles.

Geralt turned his head towards you to hit you with a winning comeback, but found himself lost for words when his eyes failed to meet yours.

You get up slowly, peering over your shoulder to find your witcher’s eyes on your backside. Smirking to yourself and quirking a brow flirtatiously, you toss a handful of dirt and wet leaves his way, hitting the poor soul right in the chest.

“Distracted, Geralt?” you said, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you straightened up.

Geralt swallowed thickly, desperately trying to string together at least a couple words – witty at best, coherent at least – when he heard a twig snap in the surrounding forest.

Quick as a flash, he drew his sword and his attention towards the source of the disturbance, a large boar. Chest already swelling with pride at the thought of providing you with a hearty meal, Geralt prepared his attack on the creature before him.

Seeing that the “threat” in question was nothing but a passing porcine, you dove before him with a shout, dropping the mushrooms on the way. Your scream coupled with your sudden movement startled the beast, and it dove deeper into the brush to escape.

“Geralt, no!”

“Damn it, Y/N,” he swore, “I could’ve had it! We could have had a decent meal! We – we would have been set for days!”

“No, Geralt! We have food, right here in this clearing. We needn’t take lives from the forest to eat.”

“Gods, Y/N,” he sighed, dropping his sword to the ground in frustration, “do I need to remind you of the cycle of life? Creatures live, they die, and they get eaten so others can live –”

“Yes, and by leaving that gentle giant to its ruminations, we’ve allowed it to go on, to feed its young, or hell! By leaving that boar to live, we might have secured a lifeline for a fellow wolf or fox. Geralt look around you; mushrooms, flowers, these thick leaves, those berries? You see that tree there? At its roots there are nuts, and over there? Those flowers? Means there is garlic. The forest will feed us with ease if we simply care to drop our weapons, and look.”

Geralt looked at you and with soft eyes, he took in the way your eyes burned with passion, the way your chest rose and fell with every energized breath. He looked around you and really looked at the plants around him, beyond scanning for any toxic or dangerous herbs, he did his best to see the forest through your bright eyes.

Looking at you he felt his chest swell once more, but this time the feeling was warm, grounding.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said quietly, pulling you into his arms, “so, so much.”

You looked up at him with tears in your eyes. You knew he loved you. You had known for months, but you’d made peace with the fact that he loved you however he could, and that that would have to be enough, even if it meant you wouldn’t hear him say it.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet dove,” you murmured, reaching up to lay a soft kiss on his forehead, “I love you too.”

Geralt was wrenched from his thoughts by a swift kick to his shin, courtesy of the bard.

“Shhht!! Geralt!” Jaskier shout-whispered, still kicking at the witcher’s shins. “A deer! A d- dinner! Food! Geralt!”

Side-stepping out of the bard’s frantic little kicks, Geralt looked around him in a quick movement, spotting the deer with his hand primed above his sword’s hilt.

The world seemed to go quiet and still when his eyes met the doe’s. Despite himself, he could hear your voice in his head telling him that she’s a young, vibrant member of this forest’s population. That at her age, she’s likely a first-time mom or about to be. That she has more life to live and more to give to the land than be a poor man’s meal.

Jaskier watched in hungry-horror as Geralt waved his large hand at the creature, turning his back to it before looking down to meet his shell-shocked gaze.

“What the fuck, Geralt!” he spat, “what happened to “Y/N would kill me if I let Jaskier die”? What the fuck! That was food! Survival!”

“You’ll be fine Jask, shut up and lay in your grass.”

“As long as you don’t make me eat it.” He grumbled, not quietly enough.

A laugh rumbled through him as he walked towards to forest line, spotting thick dandelion leaves, mushrooms, and bushes ripe with nuts. He might not necessarily need to feed Jaskier the grass beneath his feet, but he was going to make him eat his words.

***********************************************************************************

“There you are my intrepid explorers!” You damn near squealed at the sight of them, dropping your basket of recently-purchased produce as you ran towards them.

At the sight of you, Geralt dismounts and runs to meet you in a tight embrace. You hold each other tightly, breathing in each other’s scent; his cedar, damp earth, and cut grass, and yours sweet almond.

You pull back just enough to look him over quickly and, spotting no fresh injury or new scars, pull your brows together curiously.

“Did you get lost?”

“Not at all,” replied Jaskier, clapping Geralt on the shoulder, “You’d be impressed, madam Y/N! Our dear witcher made quite the feast. Pulled me right out of the greedy jaws of death, he did!”

“Oh?” You said, brows furrowed in a silent question. Knowing what you meant, Geralt shook his head and kissed your temple to reassure you.

“Picture me this, Y/N,” Jaskier mused as he untacked his gelding, “I’m wilting away, inches from Death’s grip, and Geralt sweeps me under a lush canopy of trees and lays me in the grass…”

“Lays him in the grass? Should I be jealous?” you whispered.

“Never my love,” he replied softly, his forehead against yours.

“… then our honorable friend bid the deer a fond farewell, letting him get away! Yes, Y/N, there I lay, starving, thinking the sun must have cooked the sense right out of him when he marches out of sight only to emerge moments later with a bounty!”

“A bounty?” you mock-gasp, egging the bard on to Geralt’s great displeasure.

“Yes! We ate like kings in that forest, Y/N. All we did was eat but I felt hydrated and renewed! Truly a culinary delight.”

“A delight, Geralt!” you giggled, giving his waist a squeeze.

“Gods, won’t he ever shut up?” he grumbled, ghost of a blush creeping up his collar.

“Oh hush, my love,” you cooed, “without Jask’s bragging, I’d have never known what a big softy you’ve become.”

Wordlessly, Geralt looked down at you in mock-contempt, unsure that this wasn’t a veiled insult. He was instantly reassured though, when his eyes met yours.

“You left the deer.”

“I did.”

“And you foraged, found just what you needed.” You spoke softly, admiration and love rounding your features out beautifully.

“That’s right.”

“Now where did you pick up skills like that, my dove?” You chanced another tease, twirling a lock of his white, dust-packed hair around a finger before giving it a light tug, your head cocked to the side.

“Oh, I had an exceptional teacher…” he said, wrapping an arm tightly around your waist and bringing his other hand up to cup your face, pulling into a deep kiss.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher x reader #the witcher fandom #geralt of rivera #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #Jaskier #fanfiction #fanfiction requests #fanfic #geralt imagine #anon

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rebrandedbard · 4 years ago

Note

If you are still writing 14?

Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.

14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol

Robbed Blind

Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?

She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.

He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.

“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.

Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.

Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.

He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.

“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”

He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”

She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”

“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”

Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”

Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”

She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.

“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.

“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”

Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”

Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”

“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.

Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”

Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.

Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”

“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”

Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”

Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.

“They’re brothers.”

Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”

“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.

“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”

Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”

“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.

“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”

They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.

Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.

She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.

“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.

Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.

Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.

And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.

“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.

He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.

Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”

It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.

Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”

“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.

The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”

Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?

“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”

Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”

“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.

“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.

“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.

Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”

He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.

It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?

The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …

Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”

He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”

They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.

Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.

“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.

When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.

“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”

And Geralt let his hand fall away.

Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.

He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.

Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.

The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.

Geralt took his hand gently.

Jaskier squeezed it back.

“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”

Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.

Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”

She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.

“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”

He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”

Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”

Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.

“Vese—”

Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.

“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”

Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”

“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”

Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”

A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.

“Ciri,” he breathed.

Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.

“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”

All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”

“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.

“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”

He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”

He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.

Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.

Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”

Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.

Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”

“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”

It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”

He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”

There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.

However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.

Send me a drabble prompt!

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #lambert #eskel #vesemir #I'd tag aiden but he's really only mentioned in passing #ew I came back to look at this and the scene breaks did not transfer over #fixed it now

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abeautifulblog · 3 years ago

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talkin’ bout season 2 again

Not adding to the reblog chain, because my response is a little off-topic and it was already getting long, but I read these posts the other day, by @kushielsmercy and @rawrkinjd, that articulated a lot of my own feelings and got me to thinking about Geralt’s non-apology again.

rawr’s post was a response to people who felt that Geralt ought to have “groveled” -- and granted, I think some people are just using “grovel” as a shorthand for “make a genuine goddamn apology,” but I have seen this idea before, that Geralt needs to abase himself before he’s earned Jaskier's forgiveness, an idea that's both... spiteful and terribly simplistic.

The mountain breakup was a symptom of what's wrong in their relationship, not the problem itself, and apologizing for his harsh words there—even crawling on his knees to apologize—would do absolutely nothing to fix their underlying issues.

Their relationship needs to change, and it's that, not the lack of groveling, that makes Geralt's S2 apology feel so incredibly hollow. He tosses off one single “...and I am sorry” like an afterthought, and refuses to acknowledge or discuss anything beyond that. It’s a meaningless apology because it neither addresses what he actually did wrong, nor indicates that he’ll behave any differently in the future.

So much of that ship in season 1 had involved making excuses for Geralt’s habit of withholding emotional intimacy. It involved refusing to take his words at face value and instead insisting that, no no, he really did care about Jaskier, he just didn't know how to show it! People wrote tens of thousands of fics delving into Geralt's psyche and his trauma to cast his actions in a more forgiving light—to show the difficulty that a deeply traumatized man would have with trust, and affection, and intimacy. They wrote fics exploring Geralt's side of the mountain breakup, his grief and regret as he realized how much that friendship had meant to him.

And then S2 happened, and left a lot of us with a bad taste in our mouths and a feeling of deep ambivalence about that relationship.

Because after having spent so long making excuses for Geralt, we were suddenly getting the creeping sense that the excuses were wearing thin. That maybe we really had been reading too much into it, and only seeing what we wanted to see. That maybe Geralt really didn’t care about Jaskier that much, and all those times he’d said they weren't friends, he'd meant it.

No one went into S2 expecting canon queerness, but we did go into it hoping to see that friendship matter to Geralt, and then it just... kinda... didn’t. =/

The most salient feature of their interactions in S2 is Geralt’s utter, alienating indifference to Jaskier. He’s not interested in hearing what Jaskier has to say, or finding out what Jaskier’s gone through in his absence, isn’t concerned for his well-being or amused by his antics. Jaskier’s talking, and Geralt looks like he’s thinking about what’s for lunch.

(I agree with kushielsmercy, and loathe the “I need you” line. I know a lot of people have called it GROWTH!! vis-a-vis the whole “I need no one” in S1, but in context, it is not. Geralt is cutting off Jaskier's attempt to talk about how he feels, brushing aside his legitimate grievances and turning the conversation to be about Geralt's problems instead.

Guys, this is mind-blowing levels of not alright. This is red-flag behavior. If you're ever in a relationship with someone who's this dismissive of your feelings, GET OUT.)

Truly, I love this ship. I love the potential in that relationship, and I love what fandom has done with it. But trying to reconcile it with S2 canon—trying to find a way to read their relationship as something, anything other than one-sided and abusive—has reached a degree of cognitive dissonance that I can't manage anymore.

#so canon-divergent AUs it is then!#witcher shit #twn critical

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years ago

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I saw @little-piece-of-tamlin‘s a tiny stupid geraskier doodle which I love with all my heart bc it’s so cute and got inspired to write a little something. I hope that’s ok

fandom: the witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Modern Au

Word count: 2k

“It’ll rain today,“ Vesemir had said, “You better take a raincoat.”

Geralt should have known better than to ignore his advice. But in his defence, the sky had been completely clear when he had left the house with Ciri to take her to her friend Dara’s house.

The whole way there, she had chattered excitedly, tugging on his hand to get him to walk faster. The only time she had stopped, had been when they had come across a busker standing at the corner of a street.

Suddenly, she hadn’t been that worried about hurrying anymore and she had refused to leave until they had listened to at least five songs.

“You have to give him money, dad!” she demanded and pointed at the empty guitar case that was propped open in front of the busker.

Geralt made a grimace. He didn’t have his wallet with him – why would he, when he was just supposed to walk Ciri over to her friend and go home straight away again – but there was no doubt Ciri would argue with he told her so. And he supposed, he should probably be a good role model to her by paying the street artist, even though Geralt couldn’t help but think that his too bright smile and too happy songs were obnoxious.

The sooner he gave him some money, the sooner, he would get Ciri to continue on their way. So Geralt rummaged through his pockets, thankfully coming up with some spare change that he had forgotten was even in there and tossed it to the busker.

The pathetically few coins he had tossed were the only ones in the case. The sight almost made Geralt feel bad for the busker.

The busker’s singing didn’t stop, but his face brightened and his impossibly blue eyes lit up when he nodded to Geralt in thanks.

Geralt’s mouth went dry and he was glad that Ciri was still holding his hand, for suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

He turned away briskly.

“Come on, Ciri, we should get going.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “Dara’s probably waiting already.”

She pouted, but nodded. Before she turned away, she waved at the busker, who gave her a brilliant smile.

Geralt would have forgotten all about the busker, if it hadn’t started raining just as they got to Dara’s house. What started off as a light drizzle quickly turned into a downpour.

Geralt cursed silently. He didn’t even have his phone with him to call one of his brothers to come pick him up. At least Ciri had gotten inside before the worst of the rain had started.

Geralt threw a glare at the sky that had somehow turned from being bright blue to being a dark grey.

A low thunder rumbled and Geralt hurried along to get back home as quickly as he could, even though he was already soaked to the bone.

His face was set in a grim frown the entire time and he kept his eyes on the pavement before him, watching as the puddles soaked his boots.

“Hey!”

The shout made Geralt’s head snap up. His eyebrows rose in surprise without his permission, when he saw the person that had called out to him and that was now waving at him enthusiastically.

It was the busker from before, sitting beneath one of those umbrellas some cafés put up when the sun was shining too brightly.

Maybe they had forgotten to close it when the rain had started – or they didn’t care. Geralt had no idea how those things worked.

His steps faltered. Quickly, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if the busker was waving to someone else, but Geralt was the only one on this street. At least the only one still out and about in the rain. Everyone else had fled into cafés or stores to hide from the rain.

Geralt swallowed, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, unsure what to do. He really, truly didn’t want to sit with this stranger who was still waving at him like an idiot.

But then again, the busker was sitting where he was dry while Geralt was standing in the rain unable to decide what to do, so really, who was the real idiot here?

Though inwardly he let out a sigh, knowing he was going to regret this, he walked over to the busker, sitting down on the chair opposite of him.

“Hello there, stranger. I’m Jaskier. You saw me earlier? I was the one playing the guitar.” He gestured to the case he had stowed away beneath the table to keep it safe from the rain. “I was hoping to see you again to thank you properly.” Jaskier’s smile grew so big, Geralt was wondering how it didn’t hurt his cheeks. “Guess I got really lucky that it started to rain, huh?”

Geralt scowled. “If my daughter hadn’t wanted to listen to you play for so long I would have gotten home before it started to rain.”

The busker tilted his head to the side. “Oh, if you enjoyed my singing that much, I should probably play some more, hm? As an apology for letting you get caught in the rain.”

“You really don’t –“ Geralt began, but Jaskier had already bent down to retrieve his guitar.

For a brief second, Geralt was tempted to just get up and leave again. A single glance at the rain made him reconsider and slump back in his chair.

When Jaskier began playing, Geralt had to admit that it didn’t sound terrible. If he had been in a better mood, he would have even enjoyed it, but as it was, he wasn’t very inclined to think any positive thoughts about Jaskier. It didn’t matter that his eyes crinkled at the side when he smiled while singing or that the mob of brown hair that had been so fluffy before was no plastered to his forehead in a way that made Geralt want to reach out and push it out of his eyes.

Abruptly, Geralt turned away. The avoidance of eye contact didn’t last very long. As soon as Jaskier reached the chorus of the song, Geralt’s eyes snapped back up to him.

“Why does it always rain on me?” Geralt asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

Jaskier’s tongue peeked through his lips as he winked at Geralt. “It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

Geralt grunted.

Jaskier’s fingers stilled on his guitar and he let out an overly dramatic sigh. “You’re a tougher audience than your daughter.” His eyes lit up with mischief. “But I’m sure I can find some song that you like.”

“I doubt it.”

“It that a challenge?”

Geralt didn’t answer, but he doubted Jaskier needed one anyway. The busker began to play again, giving Geralt a cheeky wink and his smile grew wider with every song that deepened Geralt’s frown.

It’s raining men.

Fool in the rain.

Raindrops keep falling on my head.

Umbrella.

Blame it on the rain.

After the third song, Geralt was ready to bang his head on the table and block his ears with his hands.

Mercifully, he was saved, when a waitress came by.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking sorry. “The other patrons have complained about your playing. And we’re not really allowed to let anyone sit here unless they buy at least one drink. So I need you to put that guitar away and buy something if you want to stay here.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s face fell and the fingers that had just been plucking the strings rubbed together in a gesture that should have probably been soothing for himself. “Of course. Sorry.”

Carefully, he put his guitar away and grabbed the menu lying on the table. Geralt should have been relieved that the playing had stopped, but the sight of Jaskier, dejected and still dripping from the rain made something in his chest twist. He pressed his lips together.

“Sorry,” he said as well and pushed his chair back, making it scratch against the ground. His skin felt icy just thinking about going back out in the rain and a small part of him felt bad leaving Jaskier alone like this. Granted, Geralt hadn’t been thinking nice things about his singing either, but it was one thing to sit there suffering in silence and another thing entirely, asking a waitress to kick Jaskier out if he didn’t stop playing.

An alarmed expression flickered over Jaskier’s face and he grabbed Geralt’s sleeve when he made to turn away.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear the thunder before? You can’t just go out there.”

Geralt shrugged, telling himself the concern of this stranger didn’t feel nice.

“Don’t have any money.”

Something shifted in Jaskier’s expression. A look of utter disbelieve and almost awe crossed his face, before he plastered on a smile that definitely didn’t made Geralt’s chest clench.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Jaskier said lightly, tugging at his arm until he sat back down again. Geralt could have easily freed himself, but for some reason he didn’t understand, he did as Jaskier bid him. “I’ll pay for your coffee.”

Geralt stared at him. “Why would you do that?”

Jaskier shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Technically, I’m just paying you back. You did give me your money before.”

Geralt blinked. “That wasn’t nearly enough to pay for coffee.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jaskier lowered his eyes and drummed a quick little rhythm on the table. “It was nice. I could really need someone being nice to me today.”

Jaskier gave him a small smile, which Geralt returned without thinking about it. It wasn’t often that people looked at him and didn’t make assumptions. They certainly didn’t call him nice. The only people who really stuck around were his brothers and Vesemir. He was trying to do good by Ciri, but he could still hear the other parents whisper whenever he brought her to preschool. They judged him for being a single dad, for having scars that surely meant that his life was too rough to have a child in it, for having eyes that freaked out some of the kids.

Jaskier hadn’t just started smiling at him when Ciri had urged him to give him some change. His smile hadn’t faltered, despite Geralt scowling at him, despite him not responding to anything he said.

Yet, he had called Geralt over to save him from the rain. And now, even after having spent enough time with him that he must have realised that Geralt wasn’t good company, he still offered to buy him coffee as if it was nothing.

Something warm and fuzzy spread through his chest that almost chased away the cold clinging to his skin from the rain.

Geralt’s mouth was dry and he felt awkward saying it, but just this once, he took a chance. “I could pay for your coffee next time.”

“Next time?” Jaskier perked up, eyes wide.

Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “If you wanted to.”

“I’d love to.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes playfully and leaned forward on his elbows. “But maybe I should first know some things about the handsome man who just invited me out for coffee first.”

Geralt grunted, the corners of his lips twitching up. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, your name for starters,” Jaskier laughed. “And your favourite song. As much fun as it was trying to find out how long it would take you to tell me to stop, I would really like to know what to play to maybe make you smile again.”

Geralt blinked. “Geralt,” he said dumbly. A grin spread across his face. “And I would definitely smile if you played Here Comes the Sun when it stops to rain just to piss of those people in there some more.”

Jaskier let out a startled laugh that made Geralt’s stomach flip. It wasn’t often that people laughed at his jokes. His humour was too dry or just plainly not funny enough. But somehow, seeing Jaskier throw his head back laughing at something that wasn’t even that funny, Geralt wanted to make him laugh like that again.

When the rain finally stopped, Jaskier didn’t play Here Comes the Sun, but neither of them even noticed. They were too preoccupied talking about everything that came to mind. What started out as polite smalltalk had quickly turned more personal and Geralt was surprised to find out that he really wanted to get to know Jaskier better.

They talked about Jaskier’s struggle with not feeling good enough when it came to his music and Geralt’s struggles with being a single dad. It was surprisingly easy to open up to Jaskier, who didn’t laugh at him for his doubts, but told him how from the little he had seen of Ciri, she had seemed happy with Geralt.

When they finally left the café again and parted ways, Geralt promised to come by with Ciri again soon and listen to him play again.

A year later, they went to the very same café again, this time hand in hand. Almost as per tradition, Jaskier started signing again, though this time he hadn’t taken his guitar with him, far too eager to hold Geralt’s hand the whole time through, much to Geralt’s amusement, which only grew, when he recongnised the song.

You are my Sunshine.

Geralt knew Jaskier mainly did this to tease Geralt – teasing him with his songs was a habit Jaskier would probably never lose and secretly, Geralt loved it – but just as every other time, Geralt didn’t tell Jaskier to stop singing in irritation. No, by now, he had a far better way to get Jaskier to stop.

He leaned forward and seized Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, effectively swallowing the song.

“You were right,” Geralt said, when they pulled away again.

“I usually am.” Jaskier smirked and pressed another quick kiss against Geralt’s lips. “But pray tell, what exactly have I been right about?”

Geralt rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “We really did get lucky by getting caught in the rain.”

#unedited #because I really should be doing other things right now #but i couldn't resist #just a stupid little fic #modern au #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #witcher #witcher fic #fanfic #my writing #yeah the ending is really rushed but oh well

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 4 years ago

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Would love to see "doing a pinky swear" with Geraskier

This can be read as pre-slash or gen, no warnings.

“I’m coming with you.” Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, looking as mulish as someone in a buttercup yellow doublet can manage.

Geralt grits his teeth. “You are not following me into a cave filled with endrega. There will be too many of them. I won’t be able to protect you.”

Jaskier makes a skeptical noise.

Geralt turns away from saddling up Roach. “You don’t believe me, bard?”

“I believe this is just another excuse for you to try and leave me behind. Again.”

Geralt can’t argue with him on that, because it had occurred to him that it would be easy to slip away after taking care of the endregas. In the months since Jaskier followed him out of Posada, Geralt has tried to leave his unwanted travel companion behind a half a dozen times. Jaskier always manages to track him down, no matter how much distance Geralt puts between them.

Jaskier juts his chin out. “I refuse to be left alone in the middle of Velen of all places, Geralt.”

“You should have stayed in Vizima then.”

“They have no respect for culture in Vizima,” Jaskier says with a sniff.

“You know who else doesn’t have respect for culture? Endregas.” Geralt swings himself up onto Roach’s back. “Stay here, bard.”

“If you give me your word as a witcher that you won’t leave me behind, I’ll stay right here.”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles. “I give you my word as a witcher.”

Jaskier holds out his hand, pinky outstretched.

Geralt shoves the hand away, annoyed. “Fuck are you doing?”

“A pinky promise, Geralt,” Jaskier says, lips quirking upwards. “A sacred vow between friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Oh, I’ll remember that the next time you fall into a thornbush and need someone to pick brambles out of your rump.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “That happened once.”

“I assure you, it was quite memorable.” Jaskier tilts his head to the side like an eager hound. “So, pinky promise that you’ll come back here as soon as you’ve slayed the endrega?”

Feeling foolish, Geralt links his pinky finger with Jaskier’s, feeling the rasp of the bard’s calloused fingertip against his knuckle. “I promise, I’ll come back.”

“Please, do.” Some of the bard’s smirking confidence fades and for a moment, he looks anxious and uncertain. “I have more songs to sing about you, witcher.”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head, then releases Jaskier and spurs Roach into motion.

Hours later, it’s well past dark when he emerges from the endregas’ cave, covered in ichor, guts, and soot. There were more of the beasts than he was expecting and it took him far too long to kill them all. Luckily, he’s not hurt, save for a shallow cut on his thigh and another on his shoulder. He pulls himself into Roach’s saddle, murmuring apologies for leaving her alone for so long.

For a moment, he thinks about heading north, back to the village that hired him. He could collect his pay from the alderman and be on his way. Jaskier would be a fool to follow him through the wilderness in the dark.

But Jaskier has shown himself to be exactly that kind of fool time and time again. Too easily, Geralt can imagine the bard stumbling right into a nest of ghouls or a kikimore’s swamp. Not to mention all the human dangers on the road. With a grumble, Geralt steers Roach south.

As he approaches their campsite, he smells roasting meat and hears lute music through the trees. It’s a sad, slow melody. Geralt finds Jaskier sitting by the campfire, hunched under his too-light cloak, looking utterly miserable as he strums his lute. He looks very young like this and very alone. Something inside Geralt twists at the sight.

There’s a rabbit roasting over the campfire, to Geralt’s surprise. He didn’t think Jaskier was listening when he tried to teach him how to trap and dress a rabbit the week before. The bard must have picked up more than Geralt realized.

Jaskier’s head snaps up as the sound of Geralt and Roach’s approach. For a moment, he looks wary, until Geralt dismounts Roach and leads her into the campsite. Then a brilliant smile crosses Jaskier’s face. “You actually came back!”

Geralt remembers the misery on Jaskier’s face just a moment before. When paired with the bard’s clear relief now, it leaves Geralt with the uncomfortable realization that he hasn’t exactly been kind. And that he probably needs to do better.

“Of course I did,” he says, returning Jaskier’s smile with a curl of his own lips. “I pinky promised, didn’t I?”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my writing #prompt fills #asks

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geraskierfanficprompts · 2 months ago

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Prompt 125

In place of August Thirteenth, Promptapalooza 6/

Geralt has a contract but won't tell Jaskier anything about it. Nothing. "Geralt, come on! Is it big? Is it small? Does it have fangs? Is it venomous?" "Jaskier, just stop asking." "But how am I meant to be safe enough to gather inspiration if you won't even tell me what to look out for?" "Because you'll be staying here. Away from the hunt." "Wh- What?" It's been years since Geralt refused Jaskier's involvement in a hunt. "It's too dangerous." Jaskier stares at him a moment before just sighing and nodding. "You'd think he'd tell you of the dangers if he didn't want you to go for your own safety." Jaskier thinks, though it doesn't sound like his own voice. "Can't you tell me something about the creature if I can't come with?" "No, Jaskier." "He doesn't want to talk to you." Jaskier shakes the thought out of his head. "Just play for the bargoers again if you need something to do. I'll be back before sunup." And without further ado, Geralt grabs his supplies and stomps out. "They hated your last set, though, didn't they? You've put so much effort into pursuing this dream of yours, just to get vegetables and stale bread thrown at you. Only to get cursed off stages. Is that what you wanted? When you became a bard? When you left home? Did you risk your life to leave just to be stuck with an audience that doesn't want to listen?" Jaskier shakes his head. Stop. Stop thinking about this. "Not even Geralt listens to you. Your only friend. The only person who manages to deal with you doesn't even want to hear you." Jaskier starts tidying their inn room in a panic. He needs to get his mind off the sudden turn for the worst his thoughts are partaking in. Usually only things got this bad after a bad fight with Geralt. Then Geralt would apologize and- "But did he ever really mean it? Or does he just do it to placate you? The little overemotional bard weighing him down, dragging him back, ruining his li-" "BOOK. I- I need to read a book." Jaskier fumbles for something to read to try and get something new in his attention, but he can't even make out a sentence. The thoughts are getting louder. "Is there even a contract or did he just finally leave you behind? Jaskier's vision blurs and suddenly he realizes it's tears. He rubs his face vigorously to get rid of them. He'd hate for Geralt to come back and find him bawling. "That's when he'd leave you for sure. Pitiful excuse for a companion, crying because of his own thoughts. Geralt would be so annoyed. You're nothing but a burden to him. He hates you." Jaskier grabs his lute and hurriedly begins strumming the worst tune he's ever made in his life, because he just needs something louder than the thoughts. He just needs to hear something but the thoughts. "He'll never love you back. You stay, and you keep hoping, but he'll never love you." Jaskier drops his lute and covers his ears, starting to sob in earnest. "He's been gone too long. He ditched you. He took Roach and he left you. The pebble in his shoe. The constant irritation. You're nothing to him. You're a speck of mud dirtying his life. He begs the gods every night to be rid of you. Everyone begs the gods to be rid of you. Everyone wishes you'd just shrivel up and die. The useless bard." "Stop- Stopstopstop-" "All anyone wants is to fuck you, but is it because you're desirable or is it because you're just that easy? Like a damned cat in heat. They always leave you come morning, anyways. Even the ones you begged to stay. Even the ones you wanted something more with. Nobody wants you to stay. Nobody likes your voice, your supposed 'talents', nobody likes your looks, nobody likes your personality, nobody likes your soul, nobody wants your love, you're a crumbling stone about to bring down a whole tower. And every other stone will hate you for it. They'll hate you. They'll fucking HATE you. They all HATE you. Geralt HATES you. He hates you. He hates you. He hates you." "JASKIER!" Jaskier blinks his eyes open

and sees Geralt kneeling in front of him, holding Jaskier's face in his big, calloused hands. "Jaskier, stop listening to it!"

Geralt had gone after a creature that infects people's minds, speaks horrible things into their thoughts until the person is driven crazy. He couldn't risk bringing Jaskier to be infected by it. And he couldn't risk telling Jaskier, because Jaskier would be paranoid of it infecting Geralt and he'd come along anyways, and the monster would sense Jaskier's fear, it'd burrow into him in a milisecond. Geralt's never been angrier for being right, before. He just thought Jaskier was safe here. But he came back and saw the undeniable symptoms of the monster. Pure black tears coming down Jaskier's cheeks as he sobs and begs an unseen force to 'shut up'. Geralt will kill this damned creature, and make it sorry for distressing his bard. And then he'll spend the night holding his bard close, and whispring every reassurance and praise he can think of.

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mlm-writer · 4 years ago

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Hero of the Swamp (Shrek x Jaskier)

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Pairing: Shrek x Netflix!Jaskier (Julian Alfred Pankratz/Dandelion) Rating: Explicit Words: 2893 POV: Third Summary: After being left on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself lost in the swamp and in need of warmth and comfort. Note: Y’all can thank @spielzeugkaiser and their amazing art for this. Sorry for the sloppy edit, but I really was not going to put even more time into this sinful work. Tags: I’ve been a bad boy daddy forgive me father fore I have sinned, pre-movies Shrek, post-mountain Jaskier, angst, fluff, Shrek’s huge dong, size kink, cum shower, monster cock, blowjobs, rimming, cum eating and Shrek has emotions ok

The growls of monsters lurking in the forest rolled over the muddy forest grounds and reached Jaskier’s icy ears. He shivered in both terror and response to the temperature. He told himself he could get off that mountain on his own, but who was he kidding? His frigid ears caught something in the dark. The bard bolted off the path, then later found himself in the middle of nowhere, chilled to the bone, disoriented, and, to be honest, frightened.

He was looking for a path, but even that seemed to not be present anywhere in the vicinity. Jaskier rubbed his trembling hands together and walked on. Jaskier thought he should at last find some shelter from the wind. Just as he was about to settle for a random tree, he noticed light in the distance, warm like fire, inviting him and promising warmth and shelter.

The fatigued bard all but ran towards it, the signs around the perimeter unnoticed in the dark. His boots sunk into the mud of the swamp, but he had his eyes set on the house-like structure in the middle of the swamp. He could not believe anyone wanted to live in this stinky place, but right now this someone was about to be his saviour. Once at what he assumed to be the door, he knocked on it. When there was no answer he knocked again. There were some angry, heavy footsteps, before the door opened.

Before him stood a massive humanoid, skin green like peas, frame built like Geralt who preferred cake over his nasty potions. “Eh, good evening, sir,” Jaskier tried. If it was living in a house, it must be intelligent to some extent… right? “Could you please spare some place for a weary traveller?” The green creature did not look nice, even without its facial expressions. Some tension left its body after the question. Jaskier recognised it as a hint of confusion. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by a fire.”

“No, get out of my swamp,” the creature spoke. It sounded like it was from Skellige. It was about to retreat into its home, but Jaskier put his foot between the door.

“Please, I’ll die out here,” he spoke dramatically, hoping for pity so he’d have a roof over his head tonight. He was not sure if he should try his luck with this creature, but at least it could speak. Wraiths had said less words, before trying to slice him.

“Not my problem. Get out of my swamp. The only way you get close to my fire is when I roast you over it.” “Oh please, you don’t mean that.”

Jaskier had barely finished speaking, when the green man grabbed him by his doublet and pulled him close. His breath stank of swamp water and fish. His mouth was wide and Jaskier was pretty sure he would fit inside there. The bard felt like he should be terrified, but underneath a thin layer of leather and cloth, there was warmth radiating off pear skin. He wanted to lean into it, thaw. What inhibited his survival skills further, where those eyes glaring into his. Under bushy eyebrows rested two brown pools of warm broth. He heard the green man roar into his face that he needed to leave, because he was an ogre and he was going to eat him, but it was hard to believe him.

Within those eyes that were so close to his, the ogre told the story of a creature that wanted to be alone, because alone was safe, alone was comfortable, alone was all he was used to. Jaskier never knew that, but after today, he understood why one would think that.

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

It stung, more than anything had caused him to ache in ages. Jaskier could feel the urge to never make friends again, never love again, never lust after one he could not have. However, he refused. It was pain that made life worth living. Without pain, bliss did not feel as good as it did. The rain made sunlight so much more appreciated. The cold made fire so much more precious. The monsters made the witcher so much more valuable.

The human knew this, but the ogre holding him up by his doublet did not. Jaskier had wished for pity, but he pitied the other now. He clumsily threw his arms around the ogre and hugged him tightly. The ogre stopped yelling at him. Jaskier could feel the muscles against his body tensing up. The hand holding him loosened and he threw his legs around the ogre too, holding on and hugging him tightly. “You don’t have to be alone. I don’t fear you,” Jaskier spoke gently.

“I am an ogre.” “And if you were really malicious I would not still be breathing. Please, just for one night. There are all sorts of dangers out in these swamps, especially at night. I just want to stay alive.”

Jaskier could hear the ogre letting out a long sigh. “Fine,” he spoke, “but you have to be gone tomorrow.” Jaskier let him go, but not after planting a delighted kiss on the rough skin of the ogre’s cheek.

“Thank you so much,” the bard exclaimed. He slipped inside, before the ogre could change his mind. The inside of the hollowed out tree looked cozy. It stank like hell, but he was in the middle of the swamp; what did he expect? “Do you like music? I have little to give you, but I am a bard.” Jaskier held up his lute as he grabbed the chair that had no food in front of it. One look at the giant slug on a plate and he was pretty sure he did not want to have any food. Jaskier pulled the chair a little closer to the fire and sat down with his lute in his lap. It seemed rather strange that there were two hand-crafted chairs, while the ogre seemed to be so keen on being alone. “Oh and you can call me Jaskier, by the by. What may I call you, my hero from the swamp?”

The ogre looked at him a little annoyed as he closed the door and sat back down to finish his dinner. “Uh… Shrek. You can play, but don’t sing.” Jaskier let the name roll off his tongue, before playing a calming tune. He didn’t speak, just let his fingers do their thing as he processed all that happened during the day, well it was actually more just those few minutes that haunted his mind. Each one of Geralt’s words cutting into his soul. “Eh… Jaskier?” Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts when Shrek spoke his name. He shook his head, before looking at Shrek. “You don't seem to be… you… you seem sad, well, what I mean is… I never heard such a depressing tune.”

Jaskier faked a smile. “My apologies, good sir. I’ll play you a happier tune, if you wish.” He diverted his eyes to the fingerboard, blinking away the tears he suddenly noticed pooling in his eyes.

“No, you don’t have to. I prefer silence, anyway.” Jaskier looked up and noticed Shrek had finished eating. He stood up and started cleaning up. “You can sleep on my good chair.” Jaskier followed the ogre’s gaze to the fauteuil in the corner. He nodded. It looked comfortable enough. He had slept on forest floors with Geralt. This was more luxury than a regular day with the witcher.

Shrek had some board and card games, which he seemed to enjoy to play. Jaskier wondered if Shrek usually played these games on his own or if he hosted guests more often. Neither seemed likely, since the games seemed to have gone untouched for at least a decade, if not longer. They shared a few laughs. Shrek turned out to be more fun company than Jaskier would ever have expected from an ogre. His jokes were terrible and sometimes a little insensitive, but he so clearly meant well. It was clear Shrek was not used to talking or any social interactions. He spoke like a young man still trying to figure out what was socially acceptable to say and what was not. Still, he was trying and Jaskier welcomes the vivid chatting.

When they got tired, Jaskier curled up on the comfortable fauteuil by the fire. Shrek had draped a shirt of his over the human. It stank and was dirty, but it was warm and Jaskier was still low key afraid of getting kicked out to sleep in the mud, so he didn’t voice a single word of complaint. In the silence of the night with no one to talk to, words that were already spoken returned to his mind. Jaskier tried to block them out, but they bit at his brain, keeping him awake and drawing tears from his eyes. He curled further in on himself, trying to stay quiet as he sobbed into his hands. It just hurt so much to be discarded like he was nothing but a nuisance. Was that all he was? He was sure his songs brought joy in taverns, but right now the unlikely and unrealistic idea that everyone just pretended to have a good time was so overwhelming.

The bard flinched when he felt a huge hand on his shoulder and arm. He looked up to find Shrek hanging over him in nothing but his smalls. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the ogre clearly wasn’t good with words. “I’m fine, Shrek,” Jaskier lied as he wiped the tears off his face, “I’ll just find the nearest town tomorrow and fuck the pain away.” The words had already left him, when he realised how that might sound. “And I’ll do that tomorrow, not because I think you’re hideous, quite the contrary, you might be the most handsome ogre to ever exist, but I just assumed you would not be interested in having sex with a human… male. Human male, doesn’t seem your taste, but it could be, I wouldn’t judge you. How could I? You’ve been a most generous host! I…”

Jaskier almost suffocated as Shrek’s palm covered the entirety of his face. He got the hint and just shut up. Shrek slowly let go of his face, allowing him to breathe again. Jaskier looked away, cheeks red. He was blabbering nonsense to an ogre who preferred peace and quiet. He guessed it was time to sleep in the mud outside, however, Shrek wasn’t yelling at him… yet.

“So you just have sex and that helps you feel better?” Jaskier nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind helping you feel better. It is not like I have had lassies lining up in the swamp… or lads.” He laughed a little awkwardly, making Jaskier laugh too. He took hold of one of Shrek’s huge fingers with two of his, by comparison, tiny hands.

“Oh Shrek, you are such a wonderful host. You really do not have to do this though. I will still want to visit you again, even when you don’t want to fuck my brains out, just so I don’t have to think about some brutish asshole.” Shrek gave him a long look, before enclosing his hand around Jaskier’s waist and lifting him off the fauteuil.

“It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.” And Jaskier wanted to read into those words, figure out the ogre with complicated feelings, but he had no willpower to. Shrek’s bed was firm, almost hard like a plank. It smelled like him, like onions and mud and firewood. Shrek tried to undress him, but his huge fingers couldn’t get a grip on Jaskier’s complex clothing. Jaskier smiled kindly at him, helping him without even needing to look at any button. “Can I kiss you?” Jaskier didn’t even reply. Instead he pulled Shrek’s head down. It was an awkward kiss. Shrek’s mouth was way too big and neither of them were very coordinated in the moment.

When his clothes were mostly off and Jaskier was left in his smalls, Shrek kissed down his body, his huge tongue lapping at his skin and Jaskier could hear him enjoy the taste. He hummed to signal his pleasure, letting the ogre go about his business. Shrek pulled off his smalls and to Jaskier’s complete surprise, the ogre took his cock in his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing the sheets. Everything about Shrek was big, including his mouth. Even when the ogre sucked him to full hardness, Jaskier still didn’t feel the back of the ogre’s throat. Shrek sucked in his balls at well and Jaskier almost cried from the pleasure of having his cock and balls inside a warm mouth.

When Shrek let Jaskier go, his length was hard, red and leaking. Jaskier barely had time to recover, before he felt that glorious tongue on him again, this time licking over his hole. Whispered pleas left his lips as he imagined that tongue inside of him. Then a thought crossed his mind. If everything about Shrek was big, what about his dick? Jaskier had seen the ogre’s hands and one finger was already bigger than the average cock. While he normally was down to go big, the imaginable size of Shrek’s dong low key terrified him.

His mind had no opportunity to freak him out completely, because Shrek’s tongue entered him and the feeling was so, so good. Jaskier moaned as big green hands spread his cheeks and thick wetness penetrated him. “Ah… ah Shrek I hate to be a uh… fuck!” The bard trashed his arms around when his new found friend started to stroke his cock at the same time. “I’m gonna cum! Way too soon, I know! Sto..aahh...” His whole body tensed as he spilled all over himself. Shrek was unrelenting. As the bard’s cock was spent, he still had his tongue inside him, pressing at the right places and wiggling around so talentedly. “Stop, stop, stop, it’s too much, really, too much.”

Jaskier was out of breath, head fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss. His whole brain short-circuited as Shrek’s tongue licked over his torso, cleaning him off all the cum he had spilled over himself. “Are you all right?” The green-skinned sex machine inquired with innocent eyes that did not match the absolute tent in his smalls.

“Say, Shrek, will I die if I swallow ogre cum?” Jaskier almost laughed at Shrek’s expression. It was a ‘yes, no, maybe’. “Ok fine, but I will suck you off still.” The human pushed at the ogre, cornering the larger frame against the opposite wall, before getting on his knees.

“With all due respect, Jask, I don’t think you can fit me anywhere.” Jaskier didn’t listen, pulling down Sherk’s white smalls in spite of knowing the ogre was probably right. As soon as 12 inch of green cock basically slapped him in the face, Jaskier knew he was in way over his head. Still, he was confident that if he tried, he could still fit the head inside his mouth. With Shrek still assuring him he did not have to do this, Jaskier started licking all over Shrek’s length. The taste was not as bad as he feared. In fact, the more he licked, the more he started to like it. Jaskier made out with the head of Shrek’s cock, fucking the slit with his tongue. Shrek was holding his shoulder, occasionally squeezing a little as he moaned. And oh were those delicious moans, primal, guttural, deep and vibrating through Jaskier’s entire body.

The human tried many times, but he couldn’t slip the monster cock inside his mouth. He was resilient though and kept trying, while stroking the rest of the green length. He was so caught up in his quest that he didn’t hear Shrek telling him how close he was. He made a disappointed sound as he was forcibly removed from the cock in his mouth. Jaskier crawled back up the bed and stretched out his body. “Cum on me,” he wantonly moaned and Shrek did not disappoint. Jaskier had to close his eyes and mouth as he got showered in thick, beige cum. He never had felt this dirty, but it was a good kind. He wished he could have taken Shrek in his ass. He could’ve been so full.

Once Shrek had stopped groaning, Jaskier dared to open his eyes. He could see guilt already spreading over Shrek’s face. He must have been a sight, so much smaller than Shrek and absolutely drenched in his cum. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always fantasised about being showered in cum. Just never thought that all that cum would come from a single person.”

Shrek let out a relieved sigh and helped him wipe some cum off his face so it wouldn’t get into his mouth or eyes. “I’ll prepare you a bath,” he spoke gently, surprising Jaskier with the thoughtfulness. His eyes followed the ogre as he put his breeches on and moved out to probably get some fresh water. A laugh escaped Jaskier as he stared at the sticky substance covering his skin. Who would’ve thought that the swamp could’ve been so pleasant?

#shrekier #i've been a bad boy daddy #forgive me father for i have sinned #shrek x jaskier #shrek #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #netflix jaskier #the witcher #lemon #the witcher fic #shrek fic #monsterfucking #ogre #ogres #ogres are like onions

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babylooneytoonz · 4 years ago

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The Vessel [Pt. 7]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: Geralt is in a fix when he is forced to choose between honor and love. What would he do?

Warnings: Attempted non con inappropriate behavior? Also, this chapter is mostly going to be Yennefer and Geralt, and less of the reader, my apologies but this was important from a transition point of view. :)

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

The celebration was over, except for a few who were to stay as guests at Yennefer's mansion, had decided to stay and linger in the hall for a bit longer. You were about to retire for the night, as exhaustion was beginning to claw on you; exhaustion from having done practically nothing all night but to find ways you could escape being in that hall, and attract unwanted attention.

However, it turned out that you did still end up attracting someone's attention, even without doing anything. And no, it wasn't the Witcher.

It was almost midnight, and you were about to make your way back to the chambers you were staying in tonight, having decided to carry your fruit plate to the chambers itself so you could enjoy the night to yourself, when Jaskier startled you, appearing out of the blue, and plomping down on an empty bench in front of you.

"Lords, Jaskier. You scared me."

"Did I? I thought it will take a lot more than that to get you to scare," he chuckled, leaning forward so that his elbows now rested against the table.

"I thought you had company. Why would you want to spend time with a lonely woman like me?" You smiled, giving him a raised eyebrow, in a playful way.

"I do, but it turns out, there's someone that would like to get to know you," Jaskier gave you a goofy, wide toothed smile and you frowned in confusion, leaning closer as you raised an eyebrow.

"Well, do you see that woman over there?" You turned your head in the direction that Jaskier was pointing out, only to see a woman dressed in princely red, beautiful golden locks falling down her back, laughing at something Yennefer said. You then turned back to Jaskier, who sat more comfortably, and looked at you, "that's Queen Bagan of Lyria. Yennefer knew her when she wasn't a queen. Back from when she used to work for Queen Kalis—"

"Get to the point, Jas', I'm tired and I would like to retire to the chambers now," you stood up, blocking Jaskier's view of this Queen as you stepped to the side but Jaskier stood up after you, grabbing your wrist to stop you from abandoning him, "Would you hear me out? I really think Geralt's rubbing off on you. You're changing, [Y/N]."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at the sudden overly dramatic outburst of your friend, before your eyes softened and you sighed. You supposed you could listen to what he had to say, although you were sure you would most probably regret it later.

"Fine, Jaskier. What is it? Now that you've compared me to that brooding Witcher, I'm forced to listen to you, just to prove it to you that I'm nothing like him." Jaskier couldn't help but chuckle at your words, but it didn't take him long to donn a look of fake seriousness.

"Now that—" you groaned as Jaskier pointed towards someone again, and you were forced to crane your neck subtly so you could follow who Jaskier was talking about. He was pointing at a young man, sitting in a group of men, drinking ale, "that's her bastard son, Henrik."

"What do I do with all that?" You mumbled, your fingers hooking onto a grape as you aimlessly tossed it into your mouth.

"Well, I've been noticing him and I can see that he cannot keep his eyes off you."

You scoffed, more in frustration than in any other emotion, "Well, Jaskier, if you have been noticing him, I think you should keep him, I'm really not in the mood."

"God, woman, would you listen? Typical Geralt."

You rolled your eyes but chose to stay quiet.

"He is rich, and he is interested—"

"I'm an unwed pregnant woman, Jaskier."

"Well, he doesn't seem to mind—"

"Gods, Jaskier. I'm leaving. Good night." You huffed for one final time, this time in warning and turned away, striding away from where Jaskier sighed and shook his head, bringing his pitcher of ale to his lips as you began climbing up the stairs that led to the chambers for the guests.

You sat down, the dress given to you by the sorceress lay discarded on the floor, but you felt relieved to be out of it. Just dressed in your chemise, you pried off the silk covers off the bed, and slid inside, feeling the richness of the fabric over your skin.

You laid down, on your back, your hand resting on your stomach and your other hand under the back of your head as you closed your eyes, exhaustion taking over your body as you felt sleep slowly take over you.

You didn't know how much time had passed, or how long had you slept for, when you woke up at the middle of the night, your sleep having been disturbed by a knock on your door. You frowned, wiping the base of your eyes as you slid out of bed, and slowly crept to the door.

"Who is it?" You whispered, your voice barely leaving your throat.

There was no response, so you thought that whoever it was had probably left. You cursed under your breath, and began turning away from the door when there was the same knock again.

"Jaskier, I swear to the Gods, why won't you let me sleep?" You pulled open the door, snarling at whoever it was on the other side of the door when your eyes widened and colour drained off your face.

"Henrik?"

The blond haired man smiled, the corner of his lips almost reaching his eyelids when he realized you already knew his name.

"Well, commoners mostly call me Prince Henrik, but I think I can make an exception for you."

"I'm sorry, but I think you are in the wrong chambers, Prince Henrik," you began, but he cut you off once more, rather unceremoniously and began speaking again.

"My apologies, I never properly introduced myself at the celebration tonight, I'm Henrik, Prince of Lyria."

Bastard Prince.

"I—" You swallowed the lump forming inside your throat, as a sudden realization hit you. You were dressed rather inappropriately. You immediately turned away, so you were now turned away from him, "Prince, I would request you to leave."

"You what?" His voice grew louder; almost like a bark.

You began closing the wooden door, when his hand latched to it, stopping you from shutting it any further, the suddenness of his actions causing you to flinch and jump backwards. Instead of leaving, he casually stepped inside.

"I came all the way from Lyria to see if the rumours were true." He smirked, in a disgusting way that almost made your insides churn.

"W-What rumours?"

"Well, the Sorceress and that mutant son of a bitch bought themselves a whore, which they refuse to share," he spat, looking at you with sudden hate filled eyes.

You looked from him to the door, but it was hopeless. You took a step away from him, but he closed that one step distance by taking a step in your direction, until you were trapped, the stone wall behind you and the monster of the Prince in front of you. Geralt's words suddenly rang through your mind; Not all monsters are dangerous, some people are too.

"You're used to the roadside filth, aren't ya? Never experienced anything royal before? Now's your chance."

Henrik's ruby studded hands moved to the base of his robe as he slowly began taking it off, and this gave you a quick second to think, and think you did. Suddenly, your feet darted towards the door, your side brushing roughly against Henrik on your way out, the impact of it causing the man to almost topple off, but he was fast too. By the time you reached the door, and began pulling the door open, he grabbed you by your hair, a loud scream escaping your lips as he tugged on your hair and made you drop down to your knees.

"Ungrateful little bitch! Which Prince in his sane mind would even look at you? You are fucking lucky I was interested," He knelt down next to you, his face threateningly close to yours.

Suddenly, the door splintered into two, the splinters of wood flying across the room, the kick so powerful. Bright, menacing eyes regarded you huddled on the ground like that before the hold on your hair relaxed and you could breathe again. Before that, everything had been a blur, but now you could see clearly. Geralt had somehow kicked open the chamber doors, and now he stood, towering over you, holding Henrik by his throat, his fingers coiled around his neck, his eyes almost dark, venomous and his posture tense.

"I think no one has ever said no to you before, Henrik."

"Let go off me, mutant," Henrik began coughing, as he tried to pry off the Witcher's hand, but of course, he failed.

Just then, Yennefer walked into your chambers, her steps still exuding elegance and poise, although she had just been woken up from a deep slumber. Her eyes fell on you, huddled in a corner, your eyes shrunken back in horror, and then she regarded Geralt, walking up to him and fixing her palm on his shoulder.

"Geralt, what exactly are you doing? Let him go."

Geralt's eyes widened, his head turning towards her in a violent motion.

"Let him go? Are you fucking kidding me?"

She smiled, the smile being a fake one as her fingers began stroking his arm, over the fabric of his shirt. She leaned closer to him, and whispered, in a low voice, "Geralt, my love. Can I talk to you for a second?"

His lips pursed together as he struggled to sustain the rage building up inside him, bit by bit. Instead of loosening the grip on the man's throat, he just squeezed his fingers tighter, for two seconds before throwing him off so he landed right outside your room, his back cracking against the stone flooring. The three of you watched, as he stepped up and cursed under his breath, muttering something on the lines of— you messed with the wrong person and you will pay for it — and scampered off.

Geralt shot Yennefer a glare but he didn't stay where Yennefer was. Instead, he walked up to where you were huddled on the floor, and knelt down in front of you.

"Are you alright?" He whispered in a low, husky voice, without a trace of anger or malice in it, just gentleness.

You nodded, and looked away, fresh tears running down your cheeks as Geralt helped you up to your feet, Yennefer's stone cold stare fixed on the two of you.

"I dont— I was asleep and he just came into my chambers, I didnt—" Your lips trembling, you choking out on the words that ran out of your mouth, Geralt sat you by the edge of your bed.

"It isn't your fault. I should have known —"

Yennefer rolled her eyes, but the two of you paid her no heed, as Geralt moved on to tuck you into the covers again, his hand unknowingly brushing against your tiny bump. You felt his breathing hitch, almost the very instant, and he looked down at you, his eyes seeking your permission, and you nodded. Geralt's massive palm came to rest on your belly, almost covering it entirely, as his fingers brushed against the fabric of your chemise his touch gentle and soothing.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you whispered, as you pulled the covers over your body and Geralt pulled his hand away slowly walking up to a fuming Yennefer, and the two of them walked out and the sorceress chanted some spells to create a barrier over your broken door that wouldn't permit anyone to enter your chamber, especially Geralt.

"Geralt didn't mean it, Queen Bagan," Yennefer arched forward, her elbows grazing against the table the next morning, as she found herself sitting with the Queen of Lyria, and the Prince. She looked from Bagan to Henrik, who was obviously hiding his neck from public view, a scarf wrapped around his neck.

"Yennefer, I didn't come all the way from Lyria, to Redania to have my son be offended by your lover."

Geralt, who had been sitting next to Yennefer, seemingly quiet, let out a low pitched grunt and the bastard Prince lifted his eyes, fixing it on the Witcher and muttered a curse under his breath. Geralt straightened, and almost immediately, the tension was thick on the dinner table once again.

Yennefer's hand latched itself to Geralt's thigh underneath the table as she squeezed it lightly, signalling her lover to let her handle it.

"Queen, Geralt didn't mean to do what he did, the circumstances were not so good when he found your son, in our vessel's bed chambers."

"She is a woman, Yen, not a fucking piece of commodity," Geralt growled.

"She's a whore," Henrik muttered, only to elicit a growl from the Witcher's end once more.

"Well, Yennefer. Lyria has been supportive of you. You are one of the most powerful mages there is, and we have been supportive of you, sheltering you and being allies. Now, you do know what this means. It means that this makes us enemies with Tissaia de Vries, even though we do not like it."

Yennefer sighed, her fingers clasping around the goblet of wine as she pulled it to her lips and took a sip of the sweet liquid, swishing it around inside her mouth before swallowing it. She nodded.

"But now, how do you suppose we continue to support you when my son has been humiliated like this, and for what? A Redanian whore?" The Queen spat, through pursed lips and Geralt's eyes shone, with unrelenting rage.

"Queen, [Y/N] is not just a whore, she is carrying our baby. I am not trying to cover up the actions of my lover—" she turned towards Geralt with a look of disapproval, but before Geralt could retaliate, she had already turned away, "I am just trying to show you that this baby means everything to us."

"I suppose," the Queen nodded feigning a look of understanding as she reached out for her own goblet of wine. She then turned towards Henrik, who leaned closer to his mother as he began whispering something into her ears and she smiled.

"Yennefer. I think we can come up with a truce," Bagan smiled, her glance moving from Yennefer to Geralt, and then back to the sorceress, "Sell her to us. It seems my son has taken a fancy to her. And would like to keep her in his bed." She said, not even trying to mask her shameless forwardness, "Once that mutant child is born, of course. Until then, Henrik would be behaved, I assure you."

Yennefer smiled, the corner of her lips reaching her eyes. She was about to open her mouth, when Geralt intervened, his fist slamming against the table— the impact causing the queen's goblet of wine to spill over.

"She isn't a commodity for sale. And we reject your truce."

"Geralt, we talked about this," Colour drained out of Yennefer's face and she looked from Geralt to the queen, who now sat with her lips pursed together.

"Bagan, I —"

"Yennefer, I've heard enough already."

The Queen stood up, and so did the bastard Prince. She looked down at Yennefer with her malice ridden eyes.

"I would like Tissaia de Vries to align someone to take over your responsibilities in our Kingdom. She could in fact, do it herself."

"Queen—" Yennefer began, but she cut her off again.

"Henrik, get the horses ready. We're leaving. This discussion is over."

Geralt and Yennefer didn't step up as they walked off, sitting together in an uncomfortable silence until the hall was empty. Yennefer then turned towards Geralt, her eyes narrowed in anger.

"Why Geralt? Why would you do this to me?"

Geralt frowned, his perfectly aligned eyebrows creasing together as he let out an annoyed groan and stood up, not bothering to even look at her.

"I wouldn't give up someone's honor, just to please you, Yen."

"What about my fucking honor?" She yelled, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, as her lip trembled.

"That—" Geralt mumbled, loud enough for her to hear it, "isn't honor, my love. That is your hunger for ultimate control. But remember one thing, it will help you, Yen. Power gets into your head and once it does, there is no turning back. It destroys you and those around you. And if that is where you are headed, my love, then you won't find me around to catch you when you fall."

He then walked off, and Yennefer just kept staring at him, her eyes almost turned to stone.

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

Note

Dialogue prompt

“Because I knew you wouldn’t!”

Spicy or no

okay so this one got... weird on me. but this is the Bouncey Castle so you know the ending is soft as fuck

Also I got so into this that I forgot to use the prompt you sent me but... Here you go?

based on Tove Lo’s “Habits (Stay High)” - modern au ‘post mountain’

tw: party scene, alcohol mention, marijuana use for the wrong reasons, dumb boys having feelings in public, mild panic attack, hurt/comfort with a very fluffy ending

---

Jaskier slams the rest of his drink and delights in the crinkling sound of Solo’s signature red plastic crumpling in his fist. He’s got an elbow-length fingerless glove on the hand that crushed the cup; he looks good enough to fucking eat and he... he’s fucking lonely.

“Want a hit?” a voice asks from his left, offering a lit joint. The tip glows a light orange in the dim of the basement room and for a moment the young musician understands how Eve felt as she stared down the snake in the Garden of Eden. He pushes the thought aside with a whoop of overacted excitement and takes a drag, letting the smoke swirl into his lungs and mask the taste of whisky that somehow refuses to abandon the back of his tongue.

Notes of Geralt’s favorite brand, some stupidly expensive Scottish malt that, in Jaskier’s personal opinion, tasted like damp peat moss and smelled like shoe-shine, cling to his every breath.

He feels trapped, suddenly claustrophobic in his seat on some beat-up leather couch. Who are these people? He stands and sways, eyes darting towards the staircase. I need some air. He lurches forward, unsteady, and does his level best to swim through the crush of bodies in the darkness.

---

Jaskier loves the smell of damp earth. It reminds him of springtime and rain-showers. The almost primordial glee that fills his chest cavity when that familiar mustiness hangs in the air is indescribable.

Now, leaning against the dank brick wall of an apartment building somewhere just south of the park, the cheer escapes him. He pounds his hands backwards into the jagged brick, momentarily grateful for the distraction of physical pain; his eyes are full of tears that simply refuse to fall despite his greatest efforts.

The beer is wearing off and the one hit of weed hadn’t done much to begin with other than make him a little dizzy. He wishes he had something else on hand. He wishes he had grabbed something on the way out. He wishes...

Jaskier wishes Geralt hadn’t said all those terrible things in front of his best friend and ex-lover, effectively blaming his boyfriend for his problems and ending things for good.

He doesn’t want to think about-

“Jaskier?”

Geralt.

The musician glances up through his bangs and sees the blurred outline of a dark shape looming before him. Fuck my life.

“Oh hey, Geralt,” he laughs humorlessly. Isn’t this just fucking perfect. Why does he still have the worst fucking timing on the Continent?

“Are you okay?”

“What does it look like?” Jaskier laughs again. He wipes his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his denim jacket and the fishnets suddenly more childish than sexy... like he used to wear in middle school when he wanted nothing more than to marry Gerard Way and escape his life as a politician’s son.

“Do you- Are you going-”

“I can walk myself home, Geralt. I’m a big boy. I can be responsible,” Jaskier snaps. The taller man flinches away and Jaskier is surprised. He thought his ex would have been over him far earlier than this. The musician was always the emotional one. Geralt doesn’t say anything for a moment and Jaskier shakes his head, turning away towards his own apartment. “Nice seeing you, I suppose.”

He takes three steps and then hallucinates. It has to be some kind of auditory hallucination because he thinks, he’s very sure that he’s made it up but he thinks he hears Geralt gasp his name.

Like prayer. Like a desperate, heart-rending plea.

Then there’s a large, familiar hand wrapping around his upper arm, jerking him to a stop. “Jaskier, please! I’m so sorry!”

He stops walking and glances back over his shoulder. The lamplight is haloed behind Geralt’s white hair, making his manbun look more like a heavenly crown than anything else. His golden eyes flash into view and Jaskier has to hold back a gasp when their gazes meet.

Geralt looks like shit.

His eyes are dull and tired, rimmed with purple bags. His skin is paler than usual and his scars stand out in stark contrast; Jaskier finds his hand wandering to Geralt’s shoulder of its own accord. Settling there. Steadying the other, stronger man. “Oh, Geralt...”

“I’m-” the man before him sobs openly beneath the obnoxious LED light. Jaskier watches in shock as Geralt falls to his knees on the pavement and clutches at his hands with such raw determination that it’s nearly frightening. “Gods, I’m so sorry. I should never have said those things, much less in front of Yennefer. I owe you so many apologies. I haven’t been able to- I haven’t been sleeping and I know it’s my own damn fault because I- You’re so bright and beautiful and I can’t seem to stop myself from dousing the lights in my life and you were too precious to lose so...”

“So you pushed me away before I could leave.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Geralt deRiv.”

---

“What’s that whiskey called again?”

“Ardbegh.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier laughs. He pours Geralt a glass and then pours a second for his brother, who’s visiting from across the Continent for summer vacation. “I still think it tastes awful.”

“I know. That’s why I buy you all that coffee flavored shit you love so much.”

“Don’t be mad at craft beer because it’s tasty!” Jaskier sticks his tongue out. He passes the boys their drinks before sinking gracefully into Geralt’s lap. “Tell me about school, Lambert! How are you liking your professors?”

Geralt’s hand squeezes his thigh gratefully beneath the table, never one for small talk himself, and Jaskier squeezes back.

It had taken a lot of time, a lot of couple’s therapy, and some very nice dates... but things had worked out. Geralt had proven himself to be an idiot, sure, but even more importantly: he’d proved himself capable of growth and positive change. Jaskier could live with that.

Growing and learning together was a much better option than growing old apart.

#alcohol tw #weed mention #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #fluff #geraskier post mountain #modern au #geraskier modern au #geraskier fluff #drinking tw #party scene #inspired by the lovely tove lo

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