#Jaskier is more resigned than anything else | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

samstree · 3 years ago

Note

For the reverse trope ask: the soft character comforting the tough character after a trauma

Piece Him Back Together

Part of the reverse trope series.

When Geralt gets kidnapped, it's up to Jaskier to rescue him. Some truths about a witcher's worst weakness come to light.

(geraskier, 2.1k, hurt/comfort, geralt whump, mutual pining, competent jaskier, love confession, mild blood)

read on AO3

"Shit, shit, shit..."

Jaskier lets out a string of curses all the while balancing the weight of two fully grown men with stumbling footwork. He desperately tries to keep Geralt up with a hand on the small of his back but fails to stop the injured witcher from drooping with each step, until, at last, both of them wind up in a heap of limbs by the road.

Geralt lets out a pained grunt and Jaskier scrambles with apologies.

“Fuck, sorry.” The bard shifts Geralt’s bulk with all he can muster and finally settles him on a patch of soft moss under the tree. The witcher hisses as his back hits the bark rather heavily. “Shit, I’m so sorr—”

“You already said,” Geralt interrupts him but there’s no anger in his tone.

“Still. I am.”

Jaskier retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to dab at the mess of blood at Geralt’s temple, wincing when he finally sees how bad the blow is. Blood oozes from the gash, slower than a moment before. The fabric is soaked through and the skin there is still tender.

It’s all witchers’ weakness.

The temple. A blow to the head.

It messes up all their senses and coordination, leaving them in the most vulnerable state. If Jaskier had reached him any later, this might have done Geralt in.

Jaskier lets out a distressed sound at the thought.

“Stop fussing. We need to go.” The witcher, against all odds, remains level-headed.

“No, it’s all right. I knocked out all the guards and servants, along with the duke and his mage.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head for a better angle to press the handkerchief down on the wound. “I may have given the two of them a little more than the recommended dose. The lady at the apothecary warned me about the risk of choking with much sleeping potion, urgh, like I give an ounce of fuck if they die a gruesome death or not. It’d be a favor to the town.”

The venom surprises even Jaskier himself, and Geralt lets out a meaningful hum.

“Rest assured, my dear. No one will be looking for us today.”

Up close, Jaskier can feel Geralt scrutinize him intently as if to burn a hole into his face. He meets the amber gaze, the dark pupils still a little blown wide from the shock, but there’s also something akin to relief flowing in those beautiful eyes.

He revels in the silence, observing Geralt in return for further signs of hurt, but finds none.

The witcher relents first, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So you drugged an entire castle?”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Jaskier teases. “The White Wolf, saved by a humble bard and forever impressed by his wit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up, oh mighty witcher. I’m sure you only needed the rescue because those villains took advantage of your only weakness.” The bard adds his usual dramatic flair into the last two words.

Geralt blinks. Something shifts in his expression, his breathing picking up and his eyes darting everywhere. If the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher is flustered, which makes it all the more confusing.

“Mocking me, are you?” Geralt drops his gaze and tries to shy away, but the bard holds him in place with the other hand. Under Jaskier’s palm, the frame of the witcher’s ear is heating up.

“How am I mocking you? Geralt, even you must admit witchers aren’t all-powerful beings.” Jaskier frowns. “They messed up your head. I know all your senses get muddled when you’re like this. Seriously, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What are you talking about?” the witcher snaps his gaze back to Jaskier, a puzzled crease deep between his brows, which only makes the bard scoff with amusement.

“The head wound, of course. How did they get you? An ambush and a blow to the head, I’m assuming.” Jaskier explains. “How else did you get yourself into a dungeon and dimeritium cuffs? What, are you telling me you walk into their trap voluntarily?”

He rolls his eyes at the offhanded joke but the silence from the witcher leaves the mood heavier. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a denial of what he just said. Geralt is staring at him with an inexplicable look on his face, and these looks are hard to come by these days. Jaskier prides himself in being the best on the continent at reading his witcher, and he has no inclination to break the streak.

“What happened then? Talk to me, Geralt.”

Jaskier removes the handkerchief a little. The gash has stopped bleeding, so he ties it around Geralt’s head carefully to keep the wound shielded, at least until they can wash it properly. His hands stay with Geralt afterwards, waiting for him to open up.

“I—” Geralt purses his lips before continuing, golden eyes meeting the bard in earnest. “They didn’t ambush me, Jask. I walked into that castle unarmed by choice.”

“What?” Jaskier’s jaw drops.

“It’s because—” the witcher scowls. “Because I thought…that they had you.”

It’s like a lightning strike, where their skin connects tingling all the way from the tips of Jaskier’s fingers to a warm pool of fuzziness in his stomach. The air is suddenly too hot so Jaskier decides to put more space between them.

“Oh.”

Geralt chases him ever so slightly before settling back with resignation, his eyes still bare and vulnerable, as if he just revealed the darkest secret when it is only the sweetest thing in a horrible, horrible way.

“A whisper of you being held hostage and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember to check the truth. Couldn’t waste another second.” Geralt hovers a hand near the bard’s face before retreating to his side. “You were right that they got me because of my one weakness, Jaskier. Just not the one you assumed.”

The pounding in Jaskier’s chest is jumping out of his throat. He’s sure he will die within the next minute if he doesn’t speak to ease this ache in his heart.

“Oh.”

He ends up saying dumbly.

“It was too late when I noticed the absence of you. Your voice, your heartbeat, your scent. Nothing. You weren’t in that castle or the cells. All I could hear was silence and all I could smell was blood.” Geralt draws a shuddering breath. “I hoped, when they kept me in the dark, that they were lying about ever having you. That you were nowhere near that damn place instead of—”

The witcher swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

“Instead of,” Jaskier adds for him, “they’d already killed me.”

The tension hangs between them. The bard sits back on the heels of his feet and finds himself at a loss for words for the very first time in his life.

Geralt might be the only person who can force Jaskier through so many firsts in his life. His first time writing a hit song, first time smashing into someone’s face with a lute, first time saving a witcher’s life, and perhaps, first time murdering two evil overlords obsessed with collecting witchers for experiments.

Hmm, it’s not like Jaskier regrets any of these.

Geralt reaches out again, tentative and patient like he’s approaching a spooked horse. This time, Jaskier takes pity and meets him halfway, his thumb rubbing small circles at the sword callouses that he adores so much.

“Say something,” Geralt pleads.

Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat and sniffles to ease the congestion in his nose, his vision blurring in desperation.

“It’s the most words you’ve said in one sitting, Geralt. You’ll have to allow me a moment to figure out what you are saying and, most importantly, not saying.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s you, you know? There’s always something you are holding back and that is often the crux of it. I thought I got good at reading between the lines, but this is…overwhelming.”

With the enhanced healing kicking in, Geralt is looking much better by the minute. The blood dries and crusts over and his eyes almost shining in the daylight, or is it just the emotions within them? Jaskier can’t tell.

“Maybe I can help you. With the hidden words.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s fingers reassuringly. He tilts his head in the most endearing way. It happens to be that particular head tilt that Jaskier treasures with his life, the one that manages to always take his breath away.

“I love you, Jask.”

The warm pool of fuzziness in Jaskier’s stomach turns into a bottomless pit, and he’s falling.

And soaring.

“I love you.” Geralt smiles sadly. “In the dark of that cell, it became…ever so clear and so loud that I couldn’t deny it anymore. I love you, in spite of myself. Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and places the barest touch of a kiss there, his lips chapped but oh so gentle. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp and the tears roll down uncontrollably. The next thing he knows, he’s buried deep in Geralt’s embrace. The sobs choke in his lungs like a dam has been broken.

“I—” Jaskier is amazed to find that their roles have reversed. The witcher has expressed everything but the bard becomes mute. So he takes up Geralt’s role gladly and replies with actions.

Jaskier’s lips are pressed everywhere he can reach: the soft, warm skin of Geralt’s neck, the sharp of his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. He disregards the grime and dirt and kisses Geralt’s uninjured temple, the single most fragile part of a witcher’s body—barring their heart, so it seems. He tucks away a strand of white hair and kisses Geralt’s temple one more time, tasting the salty tang of tears.

When he pulls back, Geralt’s smile is blinding.

He hears Jaskier, even though—

“I still don’t know what to say,” Jaskier croaks, sniffling hard.

The bard rests his hands at the nape of Geralt’s neck and loses himself in the sunlit golden honey, his favorite color in the world and the most beautiful dream that’s ever come true.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Geralt wipes away the wetness on Jaskier’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Master Jaskier, poet, minstrel, professor… Stumped for words and forever impressed by a witcher’s love confession.”

He mimics Jaskier’s phrasing and the bard can’t help but chuckle despite the tears and snout, his hand swatting at Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier knows he must look so absurd, laughing and crying all at once, but it’s the last thing in the world that matters.

Geralt loves him, and—

“You got hurt because of me.”

The remorse licks up, along with the urge to protect and to care. The sight of Geralt limp and bloody, bound by the wrists in a dark cell is something Jaskier never wants to relive again.

“I don’t care, Jask.”

“I care.”

“Then make it better.”

So he does. Geralt never wavers as Jaskier captures his lips and pours everything he cannot voice into the kiss, drawing a contented moan out of the witcher.

“Does it still hurt?” the bard whispers between one breath and the next.

“A little.”

Jaskier resumes his work and cards deft fingers through silver hair, careful not to nudge the handkerchief. His nails ghost over Geralt’s scalp and scratches gently until a purring sound rumbles deep in the witcher’s chest. The bard giggles proudly.

“Now?”

“Keep going.”

Geralt traps Jaskier between his strong arms devours him with passion, the heat of his body solid and calming.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as a protector, except at this moment with his witcher arching into his every touch and producing those heavenly sounds. The world is too bent on hurting Geralt, too eager to take and take and take from him.

A bard is not a fighter. Jaskier cannot stop monsters from tearing through armors or crossbows fired with ill intent.

But a bard is a lover. What Jaskier can do is heal, is piece Geralt back together with gentle words in the dark and soft lips on the thin skin at his temple.

“How about now?”

They are panting in tandem, the gold of Geralt’s eyes dreamy and out of this world.

“Still dizzy.”

“That’s from all the kissing, you oaf.”

But Geralt begs wordlessly with those wide, puppy-like eyes so openly, and Jaskier’s already non-existent resolve breaks into a million pieces. He kisses Geralt until the witcher melts into a puddle of purring mess, sun-warmed and pliant.

And he kisses Geralt more.

Again and again.

---

Thanks for the prompt. I kind of just rolled with the concept. The twist looks a bit obvious from the beginning, but feel free to tell me what you think. <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @dapandapod @artisanbaguette @birdsflyhome

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

#geraskier #geraskier fic #reverse trope #trope subversion #soft geraskier #geralt x jaskier #cw: blood #soft jaskier #hurt geralt #geralt whump #mutual pining #love confession #first kiss #italicized oh #hurt/comfort

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cas-kingdom · 4 years ago

Text

Dad

A/N: Thank you to my anons for helping me come up with some perfectly Geralt-like explanations of parenthood. <3

Despite the summary, Geralt doesn't outright call Akela his daughter in a couple of these, but the point of the story is to show how he can call her that without actually saying it, if that makes sense. Still fluffy and (dangerously) sweet! Also a nice little Yennefer-Geralt scene here.

While writing number 4, I listened to 'Scared' by Jeremy Zucker.

Title: Dad

Summary: Three times Geralt called you his daughter, and the one time you called him ‘Dad’.

Words: 4607

“I knocked it off the cart.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why would I try to steal something I have money to pay for?”

The old man’s face turned sourer, if that was at all possible. “Oh, you have money?” He expectantly stretched his hand out, palm up as his fingers twitched. “Pay me, then!”

You rolled your eyes. “But I’m not buying them!”

“You tried to steal them!”

“I did not!”

“I saw you!”

“What you saw,” you spat out, leaning forward, face the picture of anger, “was me bumping against your cart and knocking a couple apples off—which I apologised for.”

A noise somewhere between frustration and rage spewed from the man’s mouth and he shot his arm forward like a snake striking to attack, grasping the front of your tunic and tugging you forward. “Listen here, girl—”

You clenched your fists and readied to bite back, but before you even had a chance, the man’s hands were ripped from you, and he was shoved away.

“Get your hands off her,” a stony voice ground out, voice brooking no argument. Geralt stood tall and menacing in front of the hunched old man, head tilted slightly to the side as he glared at him. He knew you were often capable of looking after yourself, proven clearly when you stepped beside him and a look of smugness appeared on your face, but he also knew that that would likely never change how much the anger flourished inside him when he saw someone lay their hands on his child in a way such as this.

The old man pointed a shaky finger at Geralt. “You stay out of this, Sir!”

You scoffed, and Geralt spared a glance down at you, briefly raising a brow. “What, exactly, am I supposed to be staying out of?”

“The little bitch tried to steal my produce!”

“I didn’t!”

“The little bitch,” Geralt said, holding out an arm to stop you from lunging, “is my daughter. And if you ever speak in that manner to her again, you won’t be able to speak another word.”

The man looked ready to respond with vigour, but at the last moment his eyes averted to the sword and the daggers at Geralt’s waist, and the cogs in his brain began to turn as his vision wandered up to the white hair and the amber eyes. He shut his mouth and stepped back, resigned.

“Forgive me,” he said. He appeared as though he was ready to run before he grabbed one of the apples you had knocked off his cart and pressed it into your hands, a forced and nervy smile showing on his lips. “Here, take this!”

Your eyes lit up and you smiled victoriously, taking a bite from it and turning to walk off as you called back a quick, “Thank you!”

Geralt sighed deeply and hummed, giving the man a final glare before following after you. “He was right. You are a little bitch,” he remarked.

You grinned and tossed the apple in the air, the sunlight glinting on the green fruit as though in triumph. You handed it to him and watched as he relented with a roll of his eyes and took a bite. “Waste not, want not!”

“What’s it like?”

Geralt lifted his head to look at Yennefer. She was lying on her side opposite the fire, her head resting in her hand, and she seemed contemplative. Curious, in a way, which was odd for her, though what could he really say about that? It wasn’t as though he’d known her long.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

Yennefer jerked her head in the direction he’d been staring in for the majority of the past ten minutes, where you were fast asleep, curled under blankets, head beside Jaskier’s, who was wandering in the land of dreams himself.

He looked at you a moment longer before turning back to the mage. A hint of his own confusion danced in his eyes, but she spoke before he could open his mouth to question what it was that she meant.

“Parenthood,” she clarified, her voice softening. “What’s it like?”

Geralt rose an eyebrow, briefly floundering for words at the, quite frankly, surprising question. For a woman who was all invulnerability and strength, it was something he hadn’t expected to come from her. Not to mention he didn’t often think about what she’d asked.

He glanced away and shook his head. “More trouble than it’s worth,” he told her with a short breath of a laugh.

The corners of Yennefer’s lips drew upwards. She fidgeted with a stone on the forest floor. “I’m serious.”

His other eyebrow shot up. “So am I,” he assured her. “She may seem sweet, but underneath it all is the monster I’m most afraid to go up against.” He offered her a rare smile, which she returned, and for the first time in a while both mage and witcher felt peaceful. It was blissfully quiet—the only sound being Jaskier’s snores and incoherent mumbles—and it was dark, giving the two the serenity they needed after the trials of the previous days.

“It’s… hard,” he said seriously, despite the fact he was admitting that he, the infamous Geralt of Rivia, found something difficult. “You learn new things every day.”

“What kind of things?”

“Everything. About yourself, about her, about the world in general… you make decisions you probably would never have thought about before. You have responsibilities you wouldn’t have believed would ever be associated with you.” He let his eyes wander over to your sleeping form. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing most of the time. You can feel so… so lost at it, right until you start to realise the only thing that’s keeping you grounded is the same thing that gave you the title of father. It��” He paused, leaning forward to poke a stick into the dying fire. “It gives you something to live for, and at the time I found Y/N, that was what I needed most.”

Yennefer’s lips curled into a smile as she slowly sat up, tucking her legs underneath her. “It sounds tiring,” she said, glancing down for a moment, and Geralt nodded.

“It is. But the rewards outweigh the difficulties. It’s something you’d give up everything to keep.” He looked across at her, noticing her loosened shoulders, and realised for the first time that he took his title of father for granted. Yennefer’s mutations had made her sterile, and though he was the same, he’d still somehow found a way to get past that, even though he’d never once pondered on the possibilities of it before he’d found you. Yennefer hadn’t been so lucky, and as he looked at her, he found that that reflected perfectly in the eyes he now viewed as… sad.

“You’ll feel that someday,” he said without thinking, and when she glanced up, he nodded in your direction. “When you have your own.”

Yennefer gazed at him, violet eyes piercing the amber of his. They stared at each other for a moment, no words passing their lips but every meaningful word being said nonetheless, until Jaskier snorted in his sleep and the both of them ripped their eyes away, returning to their stone and their stick.

“Thank you, Witcher,” Yennefer spoke up a moment later, and Geralt nodded once.

“You’re welcome, Mage.”

Geralt turned his head down to look at you. You were standing beside him, absently tugging on the neckline of the dress you’d bought from a market that very morning. You were clearly irritated, sighing in annoyance and muttering under your breath every so often.

When you noticed him looking, you shook your head, face every bit unhappy. “I don’t want to be here,” you ground out.

He rose an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Why are we here again?”

“Lord Lyon invited us.”

“And how do you—” You scratched at the back of your neck, the foreign material rubbing it raw—“know Lord Lyon?”

Geralt glanced down again and frowned, slapping your hands away from your red neck. “I saved his sister from a werewolf,” he said, instinctively tucking a few strands of hair that hadn’t made it into your plait behind your ear, “and he insisted my attendance at his feast tonight.”

You rose an eyebrow at that, finally relenting in your fiddling and letting your arms hang loosely. “Your attendance,” you picked out. “I could have stayed at the inn.” He ignored that, as you expected, and you sighed, shoulders slacking. “You never usually care for extra repayment,” you said. And it was true. He didn’t. He preferred to do his duty as a witcher and not stick around to see the aftermath of his hunt, except to accept his money. He didn’t care for physical shows of thanks. It was better that way, for you and for him. But he’d, for once, genuinely been concerned for the lord’s sister, so he’d accepted the invitation with the intention of only staying long enough to gain information on her wellbeing before leaving.

Geralt lifted his chin as he noticed a familiar man enrobed in silk and jewels walking towards you. He took in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the conversation ahead of undoubtedly mindless babble about his life and anything else the lord wished to ask him.

“And you never usually say no to free food,” he remarked quietly to you before forcing a tight smile at the open-armed, freely grinning man when he stopped in front of him.

“Geralt of Rivia!” he greeted, and you turned your head to meet him, only just refraining from raising your brows at the sight that met your eyes. You weren’t used to seeing royalty or regality of any sort, so you were never one to shy from your overly dramatic opinions of how these people dressed and carried themselves. You were quite certain all the clothes on your body wouldn’t amount to the price of a single ring on his finger, even though you’d had to beg Geralt for weeks to buy you the new leather boots on your feet now, just about hidden by your long dress.

Geralt had made an attempt to dress nicely, too. He’d washed and brushed his hair—and made several mock lunges (and one actual one) for you when you’d continued to tease him about it—and was wearing clothes that, though giving him an extremely regal look of his own, seemed unfamiliar to you. You much preferred him in his loose tunics and trousers, hair muddy and tangled in knots that he wouldn’t give a shit about until he needed to (which was barely ever, unless you were counting surprise and sudden invites to feasts such as this).

“Lord Lyon,” Geralt said with a small nod. “How is your sister?”

The lord reached forward to clap him on the shoulder, and this time, you did raise a brow, knowing your witcher’s dislike for such actions. Sure enough, Geralt’s smile grew tighter, and you could see the lines on his forehead become more pronounced. Perhaps in different circumstances—definitely in different circumstances—you would have laughed at his predicament, despite his clear discomfort, nevertheless this time you had to do with quickly turning your head to the side and stifling a grin.

“My sister fares well!” Lyon told him, not removing his hand. “She’s been asleep since you returned her safely to me, but the healers assure me she will make a full recovery. Thank you again for your unforgettable help, my friend!”

“Thank you for inviting me here tonight.”

Lyon stepped back, finally letting his hand drop to his side, and the corners of your lips twitched when Geralt subconsciously rolled his shoulder. “Well, this is the only other way I could think of repaying you when coin did not seem enough. A good meal!” It was at this moment, when you were shuffling from foot to foot in boredom, almost reverting back to your scratching and tugging, that Lyon noticed you, and he rose both eyebrows, glancing between you and Geralt. “And who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Geralt introduced, stopping you with a firm hand to your shoulder. You looked up at the lord, offering a smile. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought her.”

Lyon tilted his head slightly to the side in obvious interest, disregarding Geralt’s last sentence with a wave of his hand. “You mean she’s yours? Your daughter?”

You continued to stare at the man in front of you, unbothered. You were well used to being called his daughter—it was easier for him to agree when people asked if you were, and you sometimes wondered when exactly he’d given up on correcting people. If he’d ever corrected people in the first place.

“Your daughter?” Lyon repeated at Geralt’s lack of response.

“Yes.”

“I thought… well.” He looked a little sheepish, but Geralt was all too aware of what was coming. “I was always told that the trials witchers underwent made them—”

Geralt interrupted him before he could continue. “They did. I am.” He squeezed your shoulder. “She’s not mine by blood. But she is mine.”

Lyon stared a while, thinking to himself, before he abruptly smiled in acceptance. “Very good. Though I would never have taken you for the parent type.”

“My apologies,” Geralt said, inclining his head, “but you don’t know me well enough to make that assumption.”

A soft smile graced your lips and you glanced down to the ground, your heart swelling with love you could only ever feel for him.

“Quite right.” Lyon was clearly apologetic. He opened an arm out and motioned for the two of you to follow him. “Come, let us eat. You can tell us all exactly how you killed that werewolf!”

The hilariously dismayed look Geralt sent you after that made you snort.

How had it come to this?

“Geralt?” you whispered, daring to edge closer. He looked so pale, even in the short rays of moonlight radiating down. His skin was pallid, white hair muddied and hanging in knots around his face. His eyes were shut, his lips were set in a straight line, and even as you shook his shoulder, he did not move.

He did not move.

Geralt always moved. He had long since trained himself to wake at the first sound or touch that did or didn’t come from you. And yet now, even as you doubled your attempts and shook him so hard you were sure he’d be disorientated were he awake… he remained still. Still and silent. Completely dead to the world.

Dead.

Your heart soared, not for the first time, and you sat back on your haunches for a moment, staring with eyes as wide as the yellow moon looming over head. It was almost as though your unconscious mind was waiting for him to wake up. Willing him to wake up. Because you knew good and fucking well that without him, the point of remaining in the living was completely lost on you.

Reluctantly, your mind swiftly hurled you back. Back into damn memories of the swings of his sword and his shouts of exertion and pain as he fought with the monster that had suddenly stormed where you’d been resting. You should have stayed behind the rocks as he’d ordered… you shouldn’t have listened to the clash of metal hitting sturdy skin and bone… and you certainly shouldn’t have jumped up from behind the rock and screamed his name, leading him to whirl around in panic and giving the beast time to throw him against a large boulder. You could still remember the sickening crack of his head hitting the solid stone. That would have been the perfect time to scream his name, but you’d found that no words had been able to escape your clenched throat. You’d felt like you were being strangled, and your heart had stopped beating for the longest second as you’d watched with absolute terror…

He’d been telling you a story. You’d been lying beside him, exhausted eyes staring up at the starry sky as his voice lulled you to sleep. You couldn’t even remember what the story had been about, all you’d been focused on was the comfort his voice offered, and for that reason you had not registered at all when he’d abruptly stopped speaking. He’d waited a moment, eyes narrowed, before quietly standing to his feet, picking up his sword as he went. All his senses had been alert, and were he an animal, his ears would have been pricked up and forwards, listening for any noise that sounded at all abnormal.

He’d taken calculated steps forward, hands tight around his sword’s hilt, boots making no sound as he stepped over fallen leaves and twigs. And then he’d stopped, standing completely still, save for his eyes, which roved the area in front of him. He’d turned his head the slightest bit and harshly whispered your name, but it had not been enough to rouse you, and you’d stayed sleeping until less than three seconds later when what you now believed to have been a kikimora burst from the cover of the trees, screaming raucously and lunging towards Geralt. You’d bolted upright and he’d yelled at you to hide yourself as his sword came clashing down on the thing, not waiting to see if you’d done as was asked before moving to attempt to lead the monster away.

That had been only three minutes ago. One and a half minutes ago, he’d been thrown against the boulder. One minute ago, he’d managed to use the last of his strength to pierce the beast’s hide with a cloying crunch, mixing with both his and the kikimora’s shrieks of agony. You had looked on with trembling hands as it fell to the side, completely unmoving, and watched, waited, for Geralt to stand to his feet.

When he hadn’t, you’d taken one trembling step forward, hands cold and in fists at your sides, before running the rest of the way, not caring in the least that there was a possibility the monster might still be alive. All you’d cared about was the possibility that Geralt might not be.

You stared at him now, hopefully waiting for his eyelids to flicker, or a finger to twitch… but there was no movement.

You shook him again, harder now, but it didn’t work, and with a desperation you had never felt before, and your breathing quicker than ever, you hurried closer towards him, grabbing the sides of his face and shaking him, slapping him, hitting him… anything that had a chance of waking him.

“Geralt!” you shouted, voice cracking. You slapped him again, pausing only when you felt something wet and sticky coat your right hand. When you pulled it back, the sight of red met your eyes.

You stared at it for a moment, hands shuddering, before the red and the blackness of everything else melded into one as tears filled your eyes. A tightening of your throat and a short intake of breath was all that was heard before gut-wrenching sobs tore through your chest and you fell forward, clutching your bloody hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut as your grief poured from you in an onslaught of irrepressible tears.

“Please, please, wake��wake up!” you choked out, your forehead resting against his chest, hands gripping his ragged tunic. “Please! I can’t—I can’t—Please! Geralt! You can’t die! You’re a witcher! Witchers don’t die! Wake up!”

But he didn’t.

You harshly breathed in with as much effort as you could muster, and the smell of blood overpowered your senses… yet, at the same time, there was still that hint of forest and greenery which made him Geralt. The scent that was often the only thing that could make you fall asleep. The scent that you only had to catch for a moment before you immediately calmed. The scent that, even now, amidst your hiccups and sobs, caused the briefest feeling of serenity to swirl through you before it vanished as the new, metallic aroma abruptly tickled at your nose.

Another sob racked your body when the scent disappeared and you shook your head. “Daddy…” It came out as a mewling whine, so broken and utterly devastating that it would have made even the heartless cry along with you, but there was no other sound… no other noise in the darkness of the forest around you except the guttural cries wrenching from your throat.

It was the feeling of being alone which scared you the most. The feeling of… being without the one person who’d ever made an ounce of sense to you. The one person you loved more than life itself and who probably loved you even more than that.

You would rather die alongside him than live in a world you knew he no longer walked in.

A moment passed, and you sat there, hunched over with your head on his chest and your tired hands slowly slacking in their hold on his tunic. Your eyes were red and swollen, cheeks wet and tracking the mud and blood which had inadvertently transferred from his clothing to your face, and you were shaking so much that when a slight tremor rippled beneath you, you took no notice of it whatsoever.

At an exhausted yet almost incoherent groan, you blinked, opening your eyes despite it doing nothing against the blackness of you face pressed to him. You tried to silence your cries as much as you could, holding your breath, not quite willing to believe it but hoping more than you’d ever hoped before all the same.

“Fuck…”

And you bolted upright, your eyes blinking against the blurriness. You wiped at them, your heart thumping, blood pulsing through your distraught and exhausted body, and looked on with shock as Geralt—yes, Geralt!—slowly raised his arm and brought his hand to the back of his head. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as his brows furrowed in obvious pain.

“My fucking head,” he rasped out, and you let loose a noise of relief, suddenly and without warning bursting into tears once again. You launched forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. He groaned and finally opened his eyes to peer down at the mop of hair in his line of vision.

He gulped down the sickly feeling in his gut as best he could, trying to make sense of his surroundings, and after a moment the memories returned to him, causing him to shut his eyes once more at the force of it. He returned his attention to you, lowering his hand to place it on the back of your head.

When your sobs grew, his frown deepened and he tried to lift his own head, swallowing back bile when the throbbing ache increased. He felt nauseatingly terrible and instead dropped his head back to the hard rock below him. “Hey…” he whispered. His voice was hoarse and he didn’t really trust the words coming from his mouth. “It’s alright.”

You shook your head. “N-no! It is-isn’t! I thought you were dead!”

He sighed unsteadily and moved his trembling fingers through your hair, trying his best to block out the discomfort (which was a nice word for agony). “I’m not dead,” he told you, and you finally lifted your head, showing him the extent of your hysteria. You looked as though you’d been bawling for years, and he shook his head softly, raising his other arm to wrap around you and pull you back towards him. His head was pounding, he knew he was bleeding in more places than one, but to be perfectly honest, he was simply happy to be alive, and to be holding his child in his arms, however much he would be covered in tears and snot by the time he finally gathered the strength to push himself up.

“I thought you were,” you croaked out, and he rubbed his thumb across your temple. You reached up, grasping his hand, and he narrowed his eyes, blinking at the sight of blood coating your own.

“Is th-that yours?” he asked, the words feeling funny on his tongue as he stumbled over them. You sniffed and glanced to where he had turned your hand over in his.

“No,” you said, “it’s yours.” At that open revelation and reminder, you lifted your eyes, haphazardly wiping your hair from your face and blinking against the tears that still didn’t seem to be stopping. “It’s from your head. Does it hurt?”

Geralt’s face contorted into one of pain yet again as he reached his hand to his head, bringing it back and intaking a sharp breath once he saw the blood. “Damn,” he grumbled. “Yes, it hurts. Like hell.”

You unconsciously bit at the inside of your cheeks and watched him as he lowered his arm and shut his eyes. Your heart continued to pound and every so often your ragged breaths were interrupted by a hiccup. “I’m sorry,” you muttered after a short while.

He blearily opened his eyes to look at you. “Why?”

“I called your name,” you told him, “and you turned around.”

He nodded faintly in remembrance. “Why?” he repeated.

“I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly, tears fogging your vision again. “I was stupid. I just… got so scared, and I didn’t—I didn’t want you to… to…”

At your rising distress, he pulled you down to his chest again, ensuring your ear was conveniently placed over the left side of his chest. His heart was slow—perhaps a little faster than normal yet still slow all the same—but in the silence of the forest he knew you would be able to hear it and let it soothe you.

It worked, and the two of you stayed there for a while. Geralt fixed his attention on his own breathing, trying to match yours as he felt your pulse through his hands. He wondered briefly how far the nearest village was and if he could risk asking for medical help. Perhaps he could reach Triss in Novigrad, and both he and you would have a safe place to recuperate.

His muddled mind was interrupted when he turned his head and noticed the kikimora for the first time, lying in a rotten clump on the ground a couple feet from him. He swallowed the knot in his throat and shut his eyes, remembering all too clearly what had happened and, more importantly, how close it had been to getting you. Unconsciously, his hands tightened around you, and he slowly breathed out, calming himself before he let his emotions reign over him. You didn’t need to see that.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, more to himself, but it assured your all the same.

“Next time, I want to fight with you. I don’t want to watch. I’ve been trained for these moments.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“I thought you were going to leave me.”

“Leave you?” He shook his head. “No, no, never…”

He shut his eyes. He knew that the day he left you would be the day the stars burned out and the world became shrouded in darkness. To leave you would be to leave his heart, and that was the one thing that, no matter how battered and bruised, he would hold onto and keep safe with every fibre of his being.

It was his duty, after all.

As your father.

Witcher Masterpost

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drowningbydegrees · 4 years ago

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

Read on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking,” Geralt replies vaguely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dapandapod · 4 years ago

Text

Two Pillows

Hello there! Here be a little story (2098 words only) of Geralt and his loneliness. And how he fights it and how he fights himself!

Here on Ao3 and thank you a billion @damatris for helping me reading through it and giving me a thumbs up! The ending has been glaring at me for weeks...

Please enjoy <3

Geralt has picked up a habit over the years he has been traveling. He isn’t a lonely man per say. He doesn’t feel the need to be close to others necessarily. He just sleeps better with two pillows. One he is propping under his head, it is a bit flat and worn out, just perfect. The other one is a little bigger. Just a little fluffier. No one asks about the two pillows, why should they? Who cares about a mutant's sleeping habits?

So when no one but the stars are watching, Geralt cradles it in his arms and holds it close. Curls around it and keeps it safe. It smells like him now. He doesn’t mind, but he prefers when there is someone else's smell on it sometimes. It happens that he hides a soap from Kaer Morhen inside it, when leaving the empty halls hurts more than usual. It smells of pine, if Lambert was the one doing the soap that year it sometimes smells like beer.

It’s not that he pretends that he is holding someone. It just is. It’s fine. Geralt sleeps in his bedroll with his pillows, and the aching loneliness inside is kept at bay. Sometimes he thinks of Renfri. Sometimes he thinks of Eskel. Sometimes he thinks of his mother, faceless after all these years.

Sometimes he thinks of arms returning the embrace, of a heart beating under his ear, of a hand stroking his hair as he falls asleep. But it’s the wind stroking his hair as he falls asleep. His pillow pressed against his chest. The only heartbeat is his.

It happens that Geralt travels with people. Sometimes it’s a merchant going the same direction, sometimes it’s a hunter or just a farmer bringing their goods to the market. Those shared nights are complicated. Instead of holding his pillow close, he watches the star travel across the sky. When morning comes the only rest he got is meditation. Which is fine, he can make due.

Then Posada introduces him to a certain bard, and he finds his nights changing. He doesn’t trust the bard. Doesn’t like him. He brought nothing to their travels, not even a bedroll. He managed to talk Geralt into letting him borrow the fluffy pillow, but failed at getting a place in the bedroll. The summer nights are still warm and Geralt is kind enough to make camp where he finds the grass thicker, the moss richer. He learned that first night that Jaskier sleeping poorly is a Jaskier that won’t shut up.

But that means Geralt only has one pillow. So he meditates the nights away, because truly it is fine. He can sleep without holding something, but he doesn’t trust the bard yet. That’s it. He listens to Jaskier snuffle in his sleep, his snores and hums. He is never quiet, that man, and Geralt finds it settles him. It becomes a backdrop, a constant he doesn’t even realize he needs until it leaves. Jaskier does that sometimes. Leaves.

They spend winters apart. Sometimes a whole year. Jaskier still borrows his pillow, after all this time. And that first night Geralt holds it, it smells like spices and warmth, achingly familiar. And if he holds it a little closer, digs his fingers into it a little harder, only the stars are there to see it.

What irrevocably changes things however is when Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier in his arms. They don’t mean to, but the summer festival had them both in a merry mood and deep in their cups. Jaskier can’t seem to find his own bed, and decides Geralt's bed is good enough. Some shuffling, wrestling and resignation later, Jaskier steals Geralt's fluffy pillow once more and wriggles into the circle of his arms.

It is late. So late it is bordering on early, and Jaskier falls asleep immediately. But Geralt’s mind is spinning. He has held people before, of course he has. But something settles in him, clicking into place. He is home. Geralt doesn’t even notice falling asleep. Doesn’t wake when the sun shines in through the window, doesn’t stirr when the smell of cooking breakfast drifts up towards them.

When he comes to, there is a heartbeat under his ear. There is a hand stroking his hair. Someone holding him close. They smell like spices and warmth. And Geralt knows he is well and truly fucked.

They don’t talk about it, why on earth would they talk about it? But when they part, the pillow is not enough anymore. The smell of Jaskier quickly fades from it, and he finds that he is saving it. Savouring it. So the pillow sits unused, waiting for Geralt to break or for Jaskier to come back.

Winter is hard. Too hard. Geralt breaks first, holding the pillow tight. When spring finally comes he is more exhausted than he has been for a long time. Lambert and Eskel share a worried glance, but Geralt doesn’t have time. It’s not that they usually decide a time and place. But this year Geralt wishes they had. He is not sure what he wants, and how to express it. He needs Jaskier close, even if it is only him borrowing the pillow. A something to make the path easier.

Their roads don't cross. Sleep eludes him, keeping his sanity hostage. Geralt breaks again, and finds himself in Oxenfurt. Jaskier is there, surprised to see him. On his arm is a beautiful blonde, Priscilla is her name. They performed together during the winter and made a contract with one of the local inns to stay until summer. It’s not fair.

Geralt leaves without his bard, returning to his sorceress. Lilac and gooseberry stick to his skin as they again soar, crash and burn together. On a mountaintop far above the world, it is for the last time. Jaskier is there, caught in their flames. It is not fair, Geralt knows it is not fair. But Jaskier brought his own pillow on this blasted hunt, and Yennefer pushes him towards an edge he has been toeing for years. He doesn’t even notice falling until it is too late. And he is pushing Jaskier out of the way, shoving him out of reach with all his might.

Time is strange. It passes him by, he is a pebble sitting in a stream watching the world pass by. And like water eats away stone, so time is wearing Geralt down. Geralt returns to Oxenfurt. Searching, looking, aching for his friend, his bard, his home. Priscilla meets him with an acid tongue. Jaskier isn’t there. He didn’t return at all, sending word that he is taking some time off and going to the coast.

He knows he is a bad friend. Knows he is a bad man, a bad witcher for risking human lives for his own stupid longing, his need to keep Jaskier around. But he can’t help it.

Geralt finds Jaskier at the edge of a cliff. The wind is raging, tearing at his hair and clothes. The waves crashing against shore with an anger he can only find in nature. They watch each other against the backdrop of a grey sky. Jaskiers face is impassive, strange, guarded when Geralt walks up to him, falling to his knees. He can’t keep going any more. There is nothing left of him but the aching sadness and loneliness. The absence of friendship, laughter, spices and warmth.

“I'm sorry.” He croaks out, words stolen by the wind. “I’m so sorry.”

Every beat of his heart is agony, his eyes burn and his chest aches.The ground is cool and slightly moist under his knees, sand and salt seeping through his trousers. He can’t look up at Jaskier. He watches his shoes, well worn and a little stained.

Then there are warm hands on both sides of his face, and Jaskier tilts his chin upwards. So many emotions are swimming behind Jaskiers eyes, his brow set and lips a firm line.It feels like he hasn’t aged a day.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulder and tugging him into a hug. Geralt's face is pressed against Jaskiers stomach, and he can smell the warmth, the spices, the fabric soft under his cheek.

Geralt didn’t plan ahead, didn’t think any further than finding Jaskier again. He should have, and they end up sharing Jaskiers room at a nearby inn. Geralt almost wants to offer him his pillow, selfishly collecting his scent for that inevitable parting. But he can’t, not when the inn already has enough. There is only one bed though, since Jaskier didn’t count on company. Geralt offers to take the floor, and Jaskier almost lets him.

But he scoots over, making room for Geralt on the bed. They don’t speak, just lay down facing each other. Jaskier has obviously been sleeping here for a while, and being surrounded by his scent makes something inside Geralt unclench. They watch each other, waiting. Waiting for what, he doesn’t know, but wait they do.

“Why?” Jaskier asks him finally. His voice is hushed, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

“I had to. I couldn’t pull you down with me. You-...” You are too precious to me. Geralt almost says it, it is on the tip of his tongue before he stops himself.

“I what Geralt? I can’t read your mind.”

“I don’t need you.” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskiers brows furrow in hurt. “I don’t need you, but I want you. So much. When you are around, I-..:” Geralt falters again, and Jaskier waits in silence.

“When you are around, I settle. I can’t describe it. I want you around, and that is selfish of me.”

“That sounds like need to me, Geralt, and it is not selfish. You are allowed to want things.”

“You are not a thing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said.”

They don’t talk anymore after that. They look at each other, and then Jaskier hands Geralt another pillow to hold and turns his back on him. He knows. Of course he would have noticed. Shame burns in Geralt, and he wants to hold Jaskier, but he isn’t sure it would be welcome. So he burrows deeper into the blanket, surrounded by Jaskiers smell, and holds the pillow tight.

When he wakes up, he is still holding the pillow. It is warm and sweaty, and Geralt soon finds out why. Jaskier lies pressed against his back, arm slung over his waist, forehead leaning against the back of Geralt's neck.

Geralt stays still, no matter how sweaty he is he doesn’t want to break this hold. It is a little unfair of him, because Jaskier likely did it in his sleep rather than by choice. He lies there and waits for the inevitable, for Jaskier to wake up and pull away. When Jaskier finally wakes up, it is at least an hour later. Geralt possibly slumbered a bit too, feeling too safe and comfortable to fight it. And now, Jaskiers heartbeat is picking up and he is getting tense. Before Jaskier can do anything, say anything, Geralt places his hand on Jaskiers.

“Stay?”

He regrets it the instance he opens his mouth, but somehow, for some reason, Jaskier stays.

“You are right.” Geralt confessess. “It’s a need. I need you. You are-” And he falters again, pulling in a shuddering breath. Jaskiers fingers flex under his, but he waits silently until Geralt is ready.

“Missing you is like missing home. You are home to me.”

Geralt wants to flee. Wants to run. Wants to take back his words and hide them again, shove them back into the deep darkness. But they are out. And they were heard.

“Geralt…” Jaskier is shuffling backwards, cold and empty space between them.

He knew it. He knew it would be too much, too soon. But he was ready for it, but it still hurt.

“Look at me.” Comes from behind Geralt, and he turns, shifting with the pillow still in his grip. Jaskier's eyes are gentle, but he can’t read them. Doesn’t know how to interpret them.

Jaskier grabs the pillow and pulls it out of his grip, eyes never leaving his. He tosses the pillow on the floor carelessly, and it’s strange, so strange.

“You are my home too.” Jaskier says quietly, placing his hand around Geralt's wrist, pulling him closer.

Oh.

Geralt breaks again and again and again, and he reaches out with both arms, pulling Jaskier to his chest, holding him close.

Finally holding him close.

#geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #geralt sleeps with two pillows #geralt is a wee bit lonely #lonely geralt #the mountain scene #you know the one #soft #dapanda writes #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier the bard #witcher geralt

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years ago

Text

Insatiable

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list this is just a little bonus, TECHNICALLY I already wrote an incubus fic but

Geralt knows about Jaskier, but to anyone and everyone else, it's a well-guarded secret. It's never caused either of them any harm and he can protect Jaskier from other Witchers who might not be so selective in their killing of monsters. He's never seen Jaskier as a monster, barely even thinks of him as being an incubus most of the time - until he gets tired and crabby from being on the road for too long without sex. Geralt never thought it would get them into trouble in town.

But here he is in the mayor's house with the doors barred, being accused of bringing monsters into their town. Geralt fumes at the audacity of calling Jaskier a monster, but it does him no good.

The guards he incapacitates with a sharp hit to the back of the neck and the mayor backs down as soon as Geralt turns his swords on him. Geralt scolds him for his behaviour, assures him he will never be back, and leaves. His mind is racing as he heads back out onto the street. The mayor will surely call for more guards and Geralt left Jaskier back at the inn which means he could be anywhere. Fuck.

He asks around at the inn and is relieved to hear Jaskier's gone off with the innkeeper's daughter, which means he likely hasn't left the inn. Geralt follows his nose, easily catching the scent of lavender and lust, and makes his way to a room at the very back of the inn. He would have thought it was a storeroom if he couldn't hear the creaking of a bedframe from within. Sighing, he resigns himself to walking into the room, to seeing Jaskier in the middle of it. He opens the door and storms in to keep from thinking about it, but the reality is… much worse.

Jaskier's on his knees with his trousers down, his prick in his hand as he buries himself beneath the skirts of the innkeeper's daughter. Geralt's mouth goes dry at the sight and he has to force his feet to move.

"Jaskier," he whispers, harsh. Jaskier emerges from beneath her skirts, turning to look at him and his companion frowns and pulls herself up onto the bed fully. "We have to go."

"Geralt-" Jaskier says pointedly and Geralt knows. He understands. But this could be a matter of life and death for Jaskier and he needs to get him out of here without anyone else finding out.

"Jaskier," he tries again, "we have to go."

"I know, darling. Half an hour." He reaches up for his companion again and Geralt realizes this isn't going to be easy. If he strains his hearing, he can hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching and that means it's time for them to leave. Now.

He crosses the room in three strides, hauling Jaskier up by the back of his shirt. Jaskier squawks and writhes, but Geralt pulls him up over his shoulder, trying to avoid the fact that Jaskier's bare ass is right next to his face. It's hard enough dealing with the pressure of his cock jutting into the front of his shoulder. Geralt forces himself calm, focusing instead, on what they would do to Jaskier if they find him. It helps to quell his erection but only serves to worsen his fear.

Faintly, he's aware of Jaskier muttering at him and asking to be allowed to dress himself, but Geralt tunes him out in favour of getting away. It's not until they reach the stables that he sets Jaskier down and allows him to redress himself as well as possible. Geralt sets himself to readying Roach, then turns back to Jaskier.

"Geralt, that the everloving fuck-"

"Someone found out," he interrupts, lifting Jaskier gracelessly off his feet and onto Roach.

He climbs up in front of him, settling himself so Jaskier can slide up close behind him. He can feel the press of Jaskier's erection against the small of his back, even with the saddle between them and it drives him mad. He can't focus on anything else as he guides Roach onto the main path and spurs her forward.

By the time they make it to the next town, hours later, Geralt is exhausted and in desperate need of a good wank, but he's not willing to let Jaskier out of his sight. Jaskier is a little grouchy as they dismount and take Roach to the stables, but Geralt doesn't think much of it - he was interrupted before he got around to fucking, after all.

Geralt keeps him close as he pays the stablehand and guides Jaskier toward the inn to rent a room. Jaskier doesn't speak and Geralt feels terrible about it, but he knows it's better than Jaskier being killed.

They proceed with their nightly routine as usual, then turn in for the night early. Geralt doesn't want to stay here long and they'll need the rest for an early start. But when Jaskier climbs into bed, he keeps his distance and the guilt eats away at him. He knows he did the right thing, but Jaskier seems unconvinced.

Jaskier shifts again, clenching his fists. His skin burns and itches, his cock thick and aching between his legs. He's been hard for hours, desperate to come but unable to slip away. Up until now he'd been somewhat pacified, running on adrenaline and fear but now the need is hitting him at full force and his whole body aches.

And what is he supposed to do with Geralt lying half-naked next to him? Summers in the west are hot and humid and he can't exactly tell Geralt to put a shirt on, but his being shirtless is only making matters worse. Jaskier can smell him, the worn leather and clean sweat. The faint scent of lingering arousal that drives him insane. He squirms in place, then turns onto his back to try and relax, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps, nothing eases the need or cools his burning skin.

It has to have been an hour at least when Geralt turns to him and places a hand on his hip. Jaskier barely holds back a moan at the brief touch and shudders as Geralt leans in.

"Go to sleep Jaskier, we have to be up early in the morning."

"If I can't sleep, it's your fault."

"Look, I know you're mad, but would you rather be dead?"

"Yes!" Jaskier snaps, "you have no idea what this fucking feels like." That seems to stun him and Geralt pulls back, staring at him with wide eyes. "Geralt I feel like I'm going to burn alive. I need to- Imagine being so turned on you can't stand it and then just being told no."

Geralt's lips part and the faint scent of arousal spikes and that's too fucking much. Jaskier groans, pulling himself right to the edge of the bed and turning away from Geralt. He curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists. Geralt presses up close behind him and he could cry.

"Tell me what's wrong," he breathes, "tell me how I can help."

"You can't," Jaskier whimpers. "You stopped me halfway-" he groans, knowing Geralt's distaste for his exploits. "Earlier, you interrupted me and the innkeeper's daughter and I didn't get to finish. Geralt I'm not supposed to- it's bad for me to stop halfway, it becomes uncomfortable, painful."

"How can I help?"

Jaskier sighs in frustration. "Geralt you don't understand. You can't help, I need to come." There's a long pause and then Geralt shifts behind him.

"I understand if you don't want me to, but I'll help if you need it."

"Geralt-" he chokes, "I don't want you to feel obligated or think this is your fault, it's just the way I am-"

"I don't. I want to help." Jaskier winces. Geralt may be offering sex, but he doesn't know the extent of it, doesn't know Jaskier's feelings or how many nights he's lain awake thinking of exactly this. A firm but gentle hand rests on his hip, slipping forward to brush against his stomach. "Is this okay?" Geralt breathes, "I want to help."

Jaskier whimpers and nods his response, too overwhelmed by the softness in Geralt's voice to formulate a proper answer. Geralt shifts, tugging on Jaskier's hip for him to move closer and he does, shifting backward until Geralt's chest meets his back. He barely holds back a moan, pressed up against all that hot, bare skin and he rolls his head back, shutting his eyes.

Geralt immediately takes advantage of the position, pressing his lips to Jaskier's neck and kissing him softly. His lips drag against his skin, pressing up under his jaw and kissing along the curve of it. Jaskier's lips part, a soft sigh slipping between them and he's so focused on Geralt's mouth that he almost doesn't notice his hand sliding lower, smoothing down the side of his thigh and squeezing.

It sparks something in him, a desire he's kept so well hidden that he'd almost forgotten about it himself. But if anyone would be open to it, it's Geralt.

"Would you-" he starts, but his voice catches and he swallows back another groan as blunt fingernails drag up his skin. "Geralt if I let it down, would you- would you still help?" he asks warily, "if I let down my glamour?"

There's a spike in Geralt's arousal and a soft fuck muttered against his neck and Geralt's grip on him loosens, but he doesn't let go.

"What is it?" he asks and Jaskier shifts to lie on his back, holding up his hand. "The bracelet?" Geralt asks, running his fingers along the smooth surface. Jaskier's heart beats quickly, thudding against his chest and he's too nervous to speak as Geralt's fingers slip to the clasp.

Geralt unclips it, slipping it gently over Jaskier's hand and it's like a weight lifted from him. It's such a relief to have it off that for a moment Jaskier forgets that Geralt has never seen him like that and that he's spread out, fully naked, in front of him. Geralt just looks at him for a moment and Jaskier can feel where his eyes track from his horns all the way down. He squirms, suddenly wanting to hide himself away.

"If you don't want to now, I understand, I'll put it-"

"No," Geralt says, low and husky. "No, you look beautiful like this." He reaches up, running his fingers along the length of one of his horns and Jaskier nearly forgets to breathe.

Geralt's hand slips to his cheek, cupping it gently and brushing his thumb along his cheek. Jaskier's eyes flick up to meet his and Geralt barely holds his gaze for a second before dipping down to kiss him.

Geralt's mouth is hot and wanting and he shifts so the angle is better, deepening the kiss and groaning against him. His hand moves again, sliding down his chest and into the hair covering his hips. Geralt runs his fingers through it, tugging lightly and when his fingers brush the inside of his thigh, Jaskier moans.

"Oh," he breathes, "Geralt please." Geralt pulls back just far enough to speak, pressing light kisses against Jaskier's lips.

"Tell me what you want."

"Touch me, please."

Without hesitation, Geralt wraps the same hand around his cock. Jaskier's already leaking steadily against his hip and Geralt's fingers slide through the pre-come, slipping down his length. Jaskier's hips jerk instinctively and he throws his head back with a moan. It's good, so good, but he's sensitive after being forced to wait for so long and every touch is almost too much.

He bucks into every touch, whining with the intensity of it. It's all rather unfair, he decides, that after so many years, he gets Geralt into bed and he can't even focus on anything but how badly he needs to come.

"Please," he breathes, "please Geralt-"

"Shh," Geralt hums, "I'm here." He presses right against him, hooking one knee over Jaskier's and it's so much.

Geralt's knee bumps under his balls and his cock - fuck, his cock - is hard where it presses into his hips. Jaskier squirms and whines and he knows he must look like a mess, desperate for it and leaking steadily over Geralt's fingers as he strokes him. And just the feeling of Geralt's cock sends shivers up his spine.

Jaskier doesn't settle, he can't settle with the way Geralt hand works over him, not enough and still just this side of too much. His thumb slips up over the head, pressing along the slit and spreading pre-come over him and Jaskier's moan fades into a whine as Geralt's fingers, slick and warm, slip to the base of his shaft and back behind his balls.

The first press of Geralt's fingers has him whimpering and arching off the bed. He needs it, and he wants it more than that, but he can't ask Geralt to go that far for him. A hand is a hand and can be easily passed off as helping a friend; Jaskier knows about Geralt's younger days at Kaer Morhen with the other boys, but this is different. He isn't even human and he wants so much more than this.

Geralt's hand withdraws and Jaskier's eyes snap up to meet his, afraid he's done something wrong.

"Too much?" Geralt asks and Jaskier shakes his head silently. "Then what's wrong, you look sad all of a sudden."

"'M fine," Jaskier huffs, wrapping his hands around the back of Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him. Geralt pulls away and Jaskier shuts his eyes. Fuck. He knew it was too good to be true.

"If you're uncomfortable with this, I could find someone. There's a brothel in town and anyone would be happy to take you to bed-"

Jaskier's fingers slip from his skin and Geralt looks down at him sadly. Jaskier squirms, turning away from him and curling in on himself. His cock throbs where it presses against his hip and he squeezes his eyes shut to force away the feeling. Geralt's fingers graze his skin, but he doesn't settle, doesn't touch him properly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I shouldn't have assumed."

Jaskier chokes out a humourless laugh and tucks his chin a little tighter against his chest. He wants to scream that all he wants is Geralt, that having his hands on him feels better than anyone else possibly could. But Geralt doesn't want him like that and Jaskier can't, and won't push him further than he's willing.

"We'll figure something out," Geralt hums and Jaskier feels when he settles against the mattress, close but not touching him.

"I don't want to," Jaskier blurts. He's tired and desperate and he feels like an idiot and having Geralt so close now just makes him want to scream.

"Jaskier," Geralt sighs softly, "you're suffering."

"It's fine," he insists, "it's not the first time."

"I'll find someone-"

"No," Jaskier says too quickly. "I don't want someone if it's not you." He doesn't think as he says it and it's not until Geralt shifts closer again and looks down at him that he realizes what he's said. He tries to backtrack. "I just- it's not the same with my glamour on and no one else-"

"You seemed so uncomfortable-"

They both stop at once and Jaskier inhales shakily. He casts his eyes down, shifting further onto his side to avoid Geralt's gaze. He curls in on himself and a shiver runs through him. The room feels cold without Geralt's body against him, despite the warmth of the summer night.

"I know what I am Geralt and I don't want you doing something that will make you uncomfortable."

Geralt shifts and then there's a warmth against his back, spreading up through his shoulders and neck. One of Geralt's hands settles on his hip, fingers slipping gently through the thick hair there.

"You could never make me uncomfortable," he says and Jaskier nearly whimpers with how badly he wants him. "Jaskier," he breathes, "if you need me, I'm here."

Jaskier nods but says nothing. He doesn't want this if it makes Geralt uncomfortable but he doesn't want anyone else. Not now that he's had Geralt's hands on him, now that he's had his hands on his body, not the mirage of a human one. He shifts, just slightly, and his cock slips against his stomach. He's so hard, his cock aching for the faintest touch, and there's nothing he can do about it. Perhaps once Geralt's asleep, he'll slip out and try to find someone, though the thought of putting his glamour back up is uncomfortable and disheartening.

He shifts again and a little mewl escapes his lips, low and painful, but this time there's a hand on his hip, settling him. It slips down his thigh, cupping his knee and spreading his legs apart as he's pulled onto his back. Geralt's hand slips to his thigh and Jaskier inhales sharply as his cock bounces against his stomach.

"Tell me to stop if you don't want it, but I hate seeing you like this. I hate seeing you in pain." Geralt's hand slips slowly upward, inching toward his cock and Jaskier tries so hard not to push, not to be too greedy for it, but the second he can feel the heat from Geralt's hand, he needs it.

He needs to come, craves the warmth of and friction of a hand wrapped around his cock and he shudders, arching up slightly as a wave of need rushes over him. He shuts his eyes, clenching his fist at his side and groaning.

"Please," he whispers and it's the softest, most pitiful sound he's ever heard. He winces at it, but Geralt leans over him, brushing his lips against his cheek.

Geralt's fingers brush against him before wrapping around, jerking him slowly. Geralt's mouth finds his, swallowing the desperate moans that spill from Jaskier's lips. He needs this, needs him and he can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, the ache of desperation overwhelming.

When Geralt releases his cock, Jaskier heaves a sob, but then his fingers slip back between his cheeks. He's a little more aggressive than before, pressing more firmly and breaching the ring of muscle. Jaskier's whole body stiffens and then Geralt's slipping a hand under the back of his neck, brushing his fingers soothingly against the side of his neck.

"Shh," he breathes, "I've got you."

He pushes deeper and it burns a little, but the stretch feels like relief, and he relaxes as Geralt pulls out and back in again. He thrusts lightly but wastes no time picking up speed. He teases a second finger where the first breaches him and Jaskier rolls his head back with a groan, turning into Geralt's embrace.

"Please," he whispers, "fuck, Geralt I need it. Please."

"I know," Geralt rumbles, nose pressed to his ear, "do you have any oil? I don't want to hurt you." Jaskier groans loudly and Geralt huffs a soft laugh against him. "I'll only be gone a moment, is it in your pack?" Jaskier hums and nods, reluctantly letting Geralt slip away and off the bed.

He watches after him, eyes roaming over Geralt's ass as he bends to search through the bag. He's quick as he promised and when he returns to the bed, Jaskier groans at the prominent bulge in his trousers. Fuck. Geralt quickly unbuttons his trousers and shoves them to the floor, leaving him only in his shorts. The thin fabric does nothing to hide his erection and Jaskier can't tear his eyes away from him.

If Geralt notices, he doesn't acknowledge it and he crawls up from the foot of the bed. He settles himself next to Jaskier, sliding up against him and pressing his cock into his hip. He slides his arm under Jaskier's leg, slicking his fingers and circling his hole. He's gentle about it, too fucking gentle for how badly Jaskier needs it, but it feels… nice. No one else is so careful with him, no one else cares so much about how he feels.

Geralt rubs against his hole, slicking the ring of muscle with every pass of his fingers. He leans in, catching Jaskier's mouth in a kiss as his fingers dip in just slightly. Jaskier moans against him, whining when the pressure stops and chasing Geralt's hand with his hips. He wants to come so fucking badly, needs any sort of friction on his cock, but when Geralt presses two fingers into him and keeps them there, it's all he can focus on.

He loves the feeling of being filled, the feeling of Geralt moving inside him, working into him. He pushes deep, rubbing against his prostate and Jaskier yelps at the sensation. Warm breath dusts against his neck and Geralt huffs a soft laugh.

"Feels good?" he asks and Jaskier just whines, arching off the bed as he does it again.

Jaskier goes limp as Geralt's free arm presses under his neck again. He slumps against his chest, nosing at his collar bone as he shifts his hips, following the motion of Geralt's hand. He's stupidly close already, but after being pent up all day, he's too relieved to be embarrassed about it. And having Geralt wrapped around him, pressing inside him even in his own form is… there's not even a word to describe, at least not one he can think of at the moment.

He reaches up, wrapping both arms around Geralt's neck and Geralt allows himself to be pulled down over him, never once slipping in his rhythm. He presses his palm against Jaskier's balls and he thrusts into him quickly, his speed increasing as Jaskier's orgasm creeps closer.

Jaskier comes with three fingers pushed deep into him and Geralt's mouth against him, hot and eager. He kisses back as best he can, but pleasure sears through him and it's hard to focus on much more than Geralt's fingers and the press of his cock. Jaskier moans into the space between their lips, shuddering through his orgasm as Geralt holds him.

Geralt continues fucking into him until Jaskier whines with oversensitivity. When he draws out, he slips his hand up along the underside of Jaskier's cock, humming thoughtfully as it jumps under his hand.

"Feel better?" he asks and Jaskier hums.

"Yeah," he breathes.

"Good." Geralt dips down, kissing him soundly and Jaskier lets his hands roam, just a little.

But Geralt groans as he touches him, presses into the touch and Jaskier is encouraged. He wonders briefly how Geralt would react if he jerked him off, if he just slipped a hand beneath the hem of his braies and wrapped around him. Geralt's big and the thought of him hard because of him in any context is intoxicating, but to know Geralt got hard being able to see him fully? That's a special kind of thrill. One that deserves reciprocation.

He snakes a hand between them under the guise of feeling Geralt up and slips beneath the hem of his shorts. He's wet. Wetter than it should be, even if Geralt is usually wet - and that thought had his cock stirring again already.

Jaskier breaks the kiss and slips his hand to Geralt's hip, even as he rocks forward, chasing the touch.

"Did you come?" he asks, quiet and breathless. His cock twitches and Jaskier barely bites back a moan when Geralt's cheeks flush. Fuck, he did. That's… really fucking hot.

Geralt doesn't reply but Jaskier doesn't need him to go know the answer. He spreads his legs wider, pressing a thigh up against Geralt's crotch and Geralt's breath stutters as his hips shift guard.

"You're still hard," Jaskier says, flocking his eyes up to Geralt's.

"Mmm," Geralt agrees, "a side effect of the trials and the enhanced stamina. We can stop if you want, I'll be fine."

"You… want to keep going?"

Geralt laughs softly and noses under his jaw. "You've only come once."

Jaskier whimpers as Geralt kisses him again and then he's moving down the bed, shuffling out of his soiled shorts and settling between Jaskier's thighs. He kisses each thigh, pushing his nose through the thick hair and nipping at his skin and Jaskier shudders with the little jolts of pleasure.

Geralt shifts lower, sucking lightly on his balls before nosing under them. His breath is hot and damp and Jaskier squirms with need. He wants Geralt's mouth on him and he's so close if he just pushed a little further- But Geralt reaches up to hold his hips and Jaskier fists his hands on the sheets in frustration.

"Please," he whines, wiggling in Geralt's hold. Geralt knows he can wait, knows the worst is over and everything from here on is just for fun, but Jaskier's been waiting for this a long time and despite not needing to come anymore, he's feeling particularly desperate for it.

Geralt makes him wait.

He pushes Jaskier's thighs up, hooking his knees over his shoulders and he makes a point of kissing every inch of skin he can reach, including the shaft of his cock, but he refuses to touch his ass. His breath is a torment when he leans down again sync Jaskier is certain he'll be the one coming untouched if Geralt doesn't hurry up and fucking touch him.

Then, abruptly, Geralt pushes between his cheeks, licking a stripe over his hole. Jaskier lets out a little oh and Geralt's arms wrap around his thighs, holding him in place. His fingers dig into the hair on his legs and Jaskier moans softly, surprised to find that when Geralt tugs, it feels good.

He groans and rocks his hips down, encouraging the press of Geralt's tongue, the squeeze of his fingers. Geralt is enthusiastic, pressing wet kisses against him and letting his tongue drag over his hole as he moves up. When he pulls away, Jaskier presses his hips up, but Geralt just hums softly, nipping at the swell of his ass.

Sharp teeth graze against his skin and Jaskier's breath catches. Geralt nips and sucks at his skin, only teasing his hole with the faint brush of his fingers. The press of his teeth only makes his arousal burn hotter and it sits low in his belly, fiery and impatient.

Then, abruptly, Geralt's mouth is back on him again and Jaskier groans, rolling his head to the side and reaching down to Geralt. He presses his fingertips through his hair, slipping the strands through his fingers and he tugs. He wants to kiss him, wants to guide Geralt's mouth back to his own, but Geralt just moans at the pressure. Jaskier's breath catches.

Geralt doubles down after that, licking over him and pressing his tongue against his rim. When he pushes in, Jaskier rocks his hips, wanting more, wanting Geralt inside of him. His tongue, his fingers, his cock. It doesn't matter, he just wants it in him and he doesn't want to wait any longer.

Geralt doesn't make him wait long, pushing his tongue as far as it will reach before slipping a finger in next to it. He slides a second in next to it, stretching him and licking between his fingers, thrusting quickly into him. Jaskier rocks back on him and Geralt's fingers slip just a little, pressing deeper. He presses his nose to the base of Jaskier's spine, breathing heavily against his skin and pressing soft kisses there as his fingers continue working into him.

"I want to fuck you," Geralt hums, soft, into Jaskier's skin.

"Oh Geralt, please."

Geralt's free hand runs up his thigh, squeezing around his hip and as his other fingers withdraw, he shifts so his knees press under his thighs instead and he bends low to kiss him. Geralt's cock slides against his ass and they both groan, but he can feel the way Geralt smiles against him.

"Fuck," he breathes, "you're so good for me."

Jaskier just squirms, desperate for it. They can talk later. Later he'll talk Geralt off if that's what he wants but right now he just wants his cock. He winds his arms around Geralt's neck, holding him close and using him for leverage as he rocks his hips. But he doesn't have to try hard.

Geralt gets one hand around his back and pushes his shorts down with the other, letting his cock spring free. It bumps against Jaskier's thigh and then Geralt's shifting forward, pressing his cockhead against him and Jaskier rolls his head back, eyes squeezed shut as Geralt presses into him.

It burns a little. It always does initially, but Jaskier loves the stretch of him, loves thinking about Geralt sliding into him and the way his body opens to him. Geralt's bigger than any of the men he's been with recently, though this isn't news to him. Jaskier's seen him naked more times than he could count, has daydreamed about riding his cock or sucking him off under the table at a banquet. None of his fantasies ever started out this way, but he wouldn't trade the real thing for any of them.

He twitches at the thought and Geralt bucks forward hard, pressing right up against his prostate. Jaskier tries to keep it together, but he's doing a spectacularly bad job of it and when Geralt rocks forward again, he's overcome.

Jaskier comes with a soft cry, biting down on his lip and reaching for his cock in a belated, half-hearted attempt to stave off his orgasm. He clenches automatically and shoves his hips down, driving himself onto Geralt's cock. He's still coming, still working through it when Geralt lets out a low, "fuck" and then he's lurching forward, hands fisted in the bed on either side of Jaskier's torso.

It's not until he opens his eyes, sees the way Geralt's face is pinched up, that he realizes he's close. And fuck, if it isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Without hesitation, Jaskier reaches for him, grabbing his face with both hands and kissing him hard. It's uncoordinated and rushed, but Geralt kisses back with just as much enthusiasm, already rocking forward lightly. When he finally succumbs to the need to breathe, Jaskier draws away smiling, his hands still on Geralt's face.

"Fuck, Jask," Geralt huffs.

"Mm," he agrees.

He's happy, floating, and so long as Geralt doesn't do anything to get him wound up again, he'll be happy to curl up next to him and sleep. Unlikely considering he won't hear of Geralt going away without coming, but Geralt is already pulling out and slipping away - not that he gets very far.

Before Jaskier can even ask where he's going, Geralt is back between his legs slipping three fingers into him with ease.

"Thought you were gonna fuck me," Jaskier hums, his voice breaking on a whine as Geralt's fingers rub against his prostate. "Oh."

"I will," Geralt promises, pressing his nose into the join of Jaskier's hip and biting. "But you're so tight and wet I'm not gonna last. Think I can make you come again first, hm?" Geralt thrusts forward again, rubbing firmly against him and Jaskier's eyes roll back in his head as he goes limp against the bed.

He wants to tease Geralt about making him wait, but how can he complain when it feels this good?

"Yeah," he mumbles, "yeah okay, I think so."

"Good," Geralt hums.

He presses his lips to Jaskier's stomach, nosing at the soft skin as his fingers work into him. It registers when Geralt nips at him, but only barely. His mind is foggy with lust and he's so focused on the forward thrust of Geralt's fingers that he hardly notices anything else. Already, he feels the swell of arousal building, tight and coiling in his gut, but he isn't annoyed like he might be, because tonight coming again doesn't mean this is over. Geralt has promised to fuck him if he comes again and Jaskier is delighted.

He loves giving everything to his lovers, but there aren't many times he gets to lie back and be ravished. He loves to be fucked after he's already come, to feel that heady need of a partner who (most of the time) has already come themselves but wants to see him come again. There's nothing better. Except, perhaps, the way Geralt looks up at him with dark eyes, lips just slightly parted where they press against Jaskier's skin.

But Geralt is delicious in every sense of the word and Jaskier could fuck him every day for the rest of his life and still come back wanting more. He lets his fingers slip through Geralt's hair, running his fingers down his shoulders, brushing along taught muscles. He inhales deeply as Geralt shifts against him, the twin scents of their arousal combining into something that leaves him delirious.

He groans with it, shifting his hips in time with Geralt's fingers. He's fucked and been fucked more times than he can count, but there's something distinctly different about Geralt, something that's so much more than the others. It's his own feelings, he tells himself, it feels like more because, for him, it is. But when Geralt looks up at him with big, dark eyes, he's breathless.

"Gods," he groans, "just like that-"

Jaskier cuts himself off with a gasp as Geralt's teeth drag along his abdomen, scraping the sensitive skin directly above his cock. Geralt did it again and as Jaskier's fingers slip to the back of his neck, he licks a stripe up the underside of his cock.

"Oh," he gasps and then before he can even think anything else, Geralt's lips wrap around the head of his cock and he slides down the full length of him immediately.

Wet heat engulfs him and Geralt's fangs graze the sides of his cock and Jaskier's mind goes blank. His eyes roll back and he lifts his hips, encouraging. Geralt pauses when he reaches the base, nose pressed into Jaskier's stomach, and when he rises again his teeth press in a little more firmly, experimenting.

Geralt has always said he has an attraction to things that are bad for him and considering he's an incubus travelling with a Witcher, Jaskier supposes he's right. But the thrill of Geralt's fangs against his cock is a whole new level. If it was anyone else, he'd never let them get this close but this is Geralt and fuck, does it get his blood rushing.

He's so preoccupied rocking his cock against Geralt's teeth, that he nearly forgets Geralt's got three fingers inside him until he starts fucking into him again, slowly pulling back and thrusting forward hard. Jaskier gasps and shudders at the first thrust, pushing back into his fingers, but then Geralt's tongue runs along the underside of his cock, pushing it up against his teeth and Jaskier's overwhelmed.

Pinned between the two pleasures, he's not sure he'll survive long enough for Geralt to fuck him, after all. His cock throbs as Geralt finds his prostate again, and then as he sucks at the head, Jaskier's sure he'll come undone right there. He can smell his own pre-come dripping onto Geralt's tongue and he shudders at the thought of it, the thought that it's Geralt wrapped around him and inside him. It's almost too much.

Geralt pulls up to the head, ducking at the very tip of his cock and Jaskier moans, fingers digging into his skin. He's so close, just the barest touch is likely to push him over the edge. Then, as Geralt swallows him down again, the scent of his arousal spikes sharply and that's all it takes to have Jaskier thrusting forward and coming down his throat.

Geralt doesn't even stop to let him relax, just pulls off his cock and shifts lower down the bed. The hand that was inside him slips out to wrap around his cock and as Jaskier is squirming with oversensitivity, Geralt's tongue pushes into him. His entire body goes limp and all he can manage is a weak roll of his hips.

Geralt strokes him slowly, leisurely, and Jaskier loses himself in the sensation. He hums softly, broken by stuttered whines as though fingers slide beneath the head of his cock. But Geralt's tongue is what really has his attention, thrusting lightly in and out and licking over his hole and pushing back on without warning. It's hot and so it feels so ridiculously intimate that Jaskier could cry - though that's probably the overstimulation more than anything.

Geralt keeps a steady pace, refusing to pick up even when Jaskier's hips buck and he whines for more. Jaskier comes again with Geralt's tongue inside him, fingers stroking him slowly through it, and he feels like he's going to die.

His body could shatter into pieces and he wouldn't know the difference and he barely musters the strength to wrap his hand around Geralt's biceps. He can't pull him up, but Geralt seems to understand anyway, crawling up to lay against his stomach, lips quickly seeking his own.

Geralt kisses him slowly, deeply, but he's hard against Jaskier's hip, smearing pre-come over his skin with every little movement. Jaskier has seen Geralt when he's horny before, after a hunt that doesn't allow him to burn through his potions, or occasionally at a brothel, but never like this.

Here, with him, Geralt is unrestrained, rutting mindlessly against his hip as his kisses grow deeper, more feverish. Jaskier reaches down, brushing his fingers around the head of Geralt's cock. Geralt moans desperately against his lips and Jaskier realizes abruptly that he hasn't come yet. Not, at least since the beginning. He's lost track of how many times he's come (four, maybe?) but Geralt hasn't. The realization gives him a little burst of energy and he wraps one hand around his cock, keeping near the base to keep him from coming too soon, and slips the other through his hair, tugging gently as Geralt's mouth moves down to his neck.

"Fuck, you're so sexy," Jaskier mumbles, his voice rough with lust. "You're so hard love, you just wanna come, don't you?" Geralt whines against his neck but doesn't reply. His fangs graze the sensitive skin on Jaskier's throat and Jaskier rolls his head back.

"That's it," he coaxes, "you can bite me, I know you want to-" he stops himself abruptly with the realization that he never bit Geralt, all of his arousal, his desperation is just him. Geralt's teeth press into the skin of his shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to pull Jaskier out of his reverie - enough to leave a mark Jaskier will be able to look at for days.

"Fuck, Geralt," Jaskier whines, "gods, I want you. Still want to fuck me, darling?" Geralt growls against his skin and it sends shivers down his spine. "Mmm, I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck, Jask- I want to fuck you," his voice rumbles low, as he presses kisses over the bite mark, dragging his fangs as he pulls away. "Wanna feel you around me as you come again, squeezing around my cock." Jaskier whimpers but quickly guides Geralt's mouth back against his own, kissing him hard and nipping at his bottom lip.

"Fuck me," he breathes, "I know you want it and I want you so badly, darling. Please."

Geralt, evidently, does not need to be asked twice. He shifts so his knees are under Jaskier's thighs and presses the head of his cock against his hole. The head slips in easily, and Jaskier groans as he pushes deeper, stretching him open on his cock. Jaskier wraps his head around Geralt's neck, holding him close, breathing against his mouth as Geralt pushes deeper. He rocks his hips before he's fully settled, slow shallow thrusts that have Jaskier practically begging him for more.

When Geralt is finally fully seated, he pauses, propping himself up on his hands and dropping his chin against his chest. It's barely visible, but Jaskier can feel him shaking, holding on to that last little bit of control. He's aching for it and still, he holds off to let Jaskier adjust.

"How does it feel?" Jaskier asks, eyes shut as he focuses on the thick stretch of Geralt's cock inside him. His own cock fills where it sits against his hip and when Geralt speaks again, it twitches.

"Fuck. Good. Feels good." He rolls his hips back, thrusting forward hard and Jaskier nearly shouts as Geralt's cock bumps against his prostate.

Geralt sets a steady rhythm, quick enough to have him panting, but slow enough that Jaskier can still feel each drag of his cock. Then, abruptly, Geralt stills. His hand clenches in the sheets and his eyes squeeze shut and Jaskier knows he's trying not to come. He slips his hand to the side of Geralt's neck, tipping his chin up so he can look at him.

"Come for me," he breathes and Geralt whines as his hips shift, seemingly on their own, and he groans as he comes, fucking into him hard.

Jaskier holds him close as he drops to his elbows, tugging gently on his hair as Geralt moans into his neck. He winds his legs around Geralt's hips, rutting up against him, expecting Geralt to still against him, but he doesn't. Geralt doesn't even slow down after he comes, pressing his mouth against the side of Jaskier's neck and sucking marks into the skin. He snaps his hips hard and Jaskier moans softly, pulling Geralt's head back up so he can kiss him.

He bumps his nose against Geralt's, humming softly against his lips even as they part. Geralt shifts to one side, wrapping a hand around Jaskier's cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts.

"Think you can come again?" he asks and Jaskier nods instinctively. He knows he can, could probably come twenty times if Geralt's enthusiasm keeps up like this, but he doesn't say so because he doesn't want to push - as much as he would love the chance to spend all night with Geralt between his legs.

"Please," he whispers and Geralt snaps his hips hard.

It doesn't take much before Jaskier is writhing again, his cock sliding against Geralt's stomach with every thrust. The scent of lust and come consumes him and he arches off the bed, desperate to get closer to Geralt. Then, without hesitation, Geralt slides an arm around his waist, pulling him up into his lap.

His grip is strong and it's a damn good thing because Jaskier's limbs are still weak and all he can manage is to wrap his arms around his neck and kiss him, relying entirely on Geralt to hold him up. He works his hips as well as he can, but mostly just succeeds in grinding his cock against Geralt's stomach, smearing through his own come. Geralt fucks into him steadily, running one hand through Jaskier's hair as the other remains flat against his back.

Jaskier drops his head to Geralt's shoulder, shuddering as each thrust brings him closer and closer to the edge. Geralt's thighs shake beneath him, spreading further in the sheets to give him better leverage. He's close. Jaskier can feel it in every thrust, in the way Geralt's hand slips from his neck to hold him open for him, in how he nips at Jaskier's shoulder and groans against his skin.

Then, abruptly, there are fingers pressing against his hole, circling Geralt's cock where it sinks into him and then pressing in. Jaskier bites back a whine at the added stretch, but it's good. Geralt pushes in as far as he can, even as his cock bumps against Jaskier's prostate and stays there. He grinds into him and Jaskier loses himself in the overwhelming pleasure that zips through him.

He's so focused on Geralt's fingers and his cock that when he comes, it catches him off guard. He seizes up, thrusting forward to rut against Geralt's stomach as he spills all over it. His fingers dig into the skin at the back of Geralt's neck and his moans shift to soft cries, so engulfed by pleasure that he can't even think.

He's only vaguely aware of Geralt coming when he feels his come dripping down the backs of his thigh and cooling against his skin. Jaskier slumps in Geralt's arms, still wrapped around his neck and Geralt hums softly as he nuzzles against Jaskier's ear.

"Satisfied?" he asks and Jaskier hums.

"Mmhm. You?"

"Very."

Geralt carefully lays him down and Jaskier winces at the cold, damp sheets against his back, wishing they had somewhere else to sleep. But Geralt lays down next to him, presses up against his side and the sheets no longer matter. Jaskier shifts to get comfortable, tangling his legs with Geralt, who hums appreciatively and nuzzles close to kiss his neck. There's a beat of silence, in which Jaskier decides he's happy to fall asleep just like this and they can have a bath poured in the morning, but then Geralt stirs and breaks the silence.

"Jaskier," he hums, his voice already heavy with exhaustion, "you know you can come to me if you're suffering." He pauses, swallows hard and adds, "even if you're not."

"You seemed angry before," Jaskier shrugs, "I didn't want to bother you with it. Sometimes I can ride it out if I fall asleep." Geralt scoffs and props himself up, looking down on him.

"I wasn't angry, I was scared. Someone found out, Jask. I don't know how, but they knew what you are and I didn't want them to find you - I didn't know what they'd do. If I'd known what it would do to you, I would have made other arrangements."

"Other arrange- Geralt, don't be ridiculous. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Don't be sorry. Just… come to me, next time. Tell me if it happens again and I can help. I don't want you to suffer."

"Geralt," Jaskier says softly, leaning in to bump their noses together, "if you're willing, there won't be a next time. I want you, I've always wanted you, but I never thought one person could be enough for me. I thought-" he winces and Geralt brushes soft fingers over his cheek, encouraging him to continue. "I thought if I tried to be with one person I'd kill them. And the thought of losing you-" his chest pulls tight and he shuts his eyes. "Geralt, I love you and I have always wanted you. I don't mean to put pressure on you, but if you'll have me at all I'd rather just… be with you. Not just as a last resort."

"Okay," Geralt breathes and it's not at all what Jaskier is expecting to hear from him.

"Okay?"

"Mm. I've wanted you too, for a long time but I thought if you wanted me you would have said something by now. It's not as though incubi are drowning in viable partners."

"Ah," Jaskier says, "I guess we've both been a little stupid."

"I'll make it up to you," Geralt hums, and before Jaskier can ask how, he's slipped out of bed and is dressing again.

All of Jaskier's instincts tell him Geralt is leaving, that after finally seeing him like this, he's had enough. But he forces himself not to think about it, to focus on Geralt's words instead, on his actions.

By the time Geralt returns to the room, Jaskier's cleaned up a little, reclasped the bracelet around his wrist and is sitting on the edge of the bed in only a shirt. Geralt frowns when he sees him and sets down the extra bedding on the chair next to the door before crossing over to him. He lifts Jaskier's wrist, rubbing his thumb over the thick gold band.

"A chambermaid will be up in a minute to fill the bath," he explains, "but when she leaves, would you take it off again?" It takes Jaskier a second to realize Geralt is talking about the bracelet and he looks up at him questioningly. "I'd rather see the real you," he whispers and Jaskier nods slowly.

Geralt dips down to kiss him and Jaskier lets himself get caught up in the moment, tangling his fingers in Geralt's hair and kissing him soundly before a knock on the door interrupts. Geralt pulls away with a smile and Jaskier can't help but return the gesture as Geralt turns toward the door.

He waits patiently while the maids fill the tub and then, once the door is closed and locked behind them, Geralt turns back to him. Jaskier is already fiddling with the clasp on the bracelet, but Geralt approaches and knees between his feet, taking Jaskier's wrist in his hand.

He unclasps it, gently sliding the band over his hand and Jaskier can feel the glamour lift. Geralt's palms smooth up his thighs and he stretches up to kiss him again.

"You don't have to hide from me," he says, "I want to see you." Jaskier's heart thuds heavily against his chest and as Geralt ducks his head, he winds his fingers through his hair, combing gently through it.

"I can't always," he says and Geralt nods.

"I know. I'd kill anyone who tried to touch you, but I know." He reaches up, sliding his fingers over the curve of one horn and he smiles. "You're beautiful," Geralt whispers. "At the inn, I panicked. I didn't know what I would do without you and I just hurt you more."

"You didn't," Jaskier assures him. "You saved me. And you'll do it again. And, come morning, I fully intend to repay you for that, Witcher." He smirks at him and Geralt huffs a laugh. "But first, I believe there's a hot bath and fresh sheets waiting for us." Geralt's arms wind around his waist and he lifts him off the bed, hands slipping under his thighs to hold him up.

"The bath can wait." Geralt tips forward, kissing the column of his neck and nipping lightly at the skin there. "I think those sheets have one more use in them."

#geraskier #incubus!jaskier #monster march #rex writes #the witcher #there's a... lot of smut here oop

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rebrandedbard · 4 years ago

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@greyduckgreygoose Tumblr ate your ask when I tried posting it two minutes ago. You requested prompts 5 or 6, which I choose to read as 5 and 6. Stay tuned for prompt 6 in the future. If you like this, perhaps I’ll make it more Valdo. Whump or healing—you pull the trigger, goosey. Or perhaps I’ll use prompt 6 for some Filavandrel fun. Let me know.

5. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

tw: alcohol, depression

WC: 1600 even. Whoo! Even hundredth place! Two goose eggs!

A Good Man

Geralt meets Valdo Marx while taking a contract on a ferry, protecting its passengers from an unknown threat on the water. Valdo himself is an unknown threat, until the two of them get to talking, and Geralt learns a quiet truth.

Geraskier. One-sided Valdo/Jaskier

Valdo Marx, troubadour of Cidaris, was the last person Geralt expected to meet on the ferry from Brugge. Per Jaskier’s rambling, he’d assumed the bard stayed put, living it up in Oxenfurt or Cidaris—Geralt was never quite sure if Cidaris were his home or simply a place he’d chosen for his adopted title. He’d wondered if Jaskier were a ‘Bard of Thereabouts,’ but he was never curious enough to ask where-abouts. They both travelled so much, Jaskier could be from anywhere. Something told him that Jaskier would choose Lyria if asked; the name was lyrical.

But Geralt supposed bards were of a travelling nature after all. Besides, the ferry down the Yda was the fasted way to travel inland from Brugge to Craag An, and just beyond was the Adalatte. A straight shot through Kerack would have Marx home in Cidaris in no time at all, and people with coin to spare liked to hurry to and fro in laid-back comfort. It was a paradox Geralt often found amusing.

He paid no fare for his ride, having been hired on for protection. It would seem that, of late, people were disappearing from the ferry before reaching their final destination, reaching a much more final destination than anticipated. Drowners, probably. Sirens were less likely, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. The channels were connected to the ocean; something could have come washing downriver. It wasn’t altogether unheard of to find displaced sirens after the summer rainstorms. If asked which he’d be more likely to meet, Geralt would have chosen sirens before Valdo Marx.

Geralt recognized him as a bard from the off: it was impossible to mistaken anything so brightly decorated. True, the man did not carry his lute about his person as Jaskier would, but he wore the uniform of satin, the season’s colors all in coordination and too impractical for the weather. It was a mark of their trade, their plumage like birds of paradise and that theatrical air.

Well, the atmosphere around Marx was less the foppish theatrics Geralt had come to expect. He did not saunter across the deck wooing a crowd, nor reciting poetry. He did not do much of anything to draw attention to himself. In fact, he was quite unlike anything that made up Geralt’s image of bards, drawing back against the bulwark, completely silent. Like a fool, Geralt presumed they would go all the way to Craag An without confrontation, but it would be a snowy day in the desert before bards acted predictably.

It was late afternoon the second day on board when he approached, the sun falling low, bringing on the evening. Geralt was keeping watch at the stern: if anything was about it would be disturbed, knocked back as the ship made headway, clawing its way onto the deck from the rear. Geralt kept to the lower main deck, closest to the water. If anything came crawling up from below, he would be in position to dispatch it. The passengers aboard had likely been warned beforehand, or else they’d heard the rumors, as they stayed on the upper deck and bow. With the lower deck abandoned, he easily read Valdo’s approach from a distance.

“White Wolf?” he asked, leaning casually a few feet away from Geralt. The question was monotone, almost disinterested, but he would not have come if there had been no reason.

There was nothing else to do and, truth be told, Geralt was bored. So he turned to Valdo and nodded. “Geralt,” he replied. He’d never quite grow used to the fanciful title, but it brought him good business. It made him recognizable, and therefore comfortable, in so much as anyone could be comfortable around a witcher. Reputations had influence.

“Valdo Marx. I’m sure you heard of me.”

Geralt hummed. There was something in his manner of speech. It was not an obnoxious flaunt of his fame: there was something resigned in it. Bitter, perhaps. It was the same tone Lambert used to say, “There was a wraith in Gulet. I’m sure you’ve already heard.” It had taken a witcher down from the school of the viper. The tone implied notoriety.

For a while, they did not speak. The only sound came from the water below lapping against the side of the ship. Geralt waited, glancing at the troubadour once more before he turned his attention back to the water. He supposed that had been it, a simple acknowledgement. People were often curious, coming to him only to confirm his identity as Jaskier’s witcher. It was a title he’d grown comfortable with more quickly than the White Wolf. It was truer, and he smiled to himself when he thought of such instances in private.

“You’re a right lucky fuck,” Valdo muttered.

Geralt looked up again from the water. He turned to examine Valdo silently, wondering what, exactly, Valdo thought he had going for him to mark him as lucky.

Valdo stared back at him, looking tired and severe. “Maybe I would have had better luck if I didn’t talk so much,” he continued. “If I didn’t sing … ”

“Bards are supposed to sing,” Geralt replied. He now wished Valdo would go back to the upper deck. Nothing aggravated him quite like people who refused to get to the point. He scented an undercurrent of hostility in the air. That, and an abundance of vodka.

Valdo produced a flask from his jerkin and gave it a swig. “Never was trying to be a bard,” he muttered. He took another sip, let it sit, then concealed the flask once more. It occurred to Geralt that the man’s leaning was not entirely owed to false causality.

Geralt knew not what to say. So he simply said, “Hm.” He heard the knuckles crack in Valdo’s tightening fist.

“Melitele’s tits. Years of poetry and songs, and you come along with your … ‘hm,’” Valdo mocked, “and that’s it. Not even a melodic hm. Just … hm.” He raked his fingers through his hair, hissing through his teeth in frustration. He was muttering something under his breath, but it was incoherent, even to a witcher’s ears. When Valdo looked up again, his eyes were red. Neither that, nor the sour note in the air were owed to the alcohol, Geralt surmised.

“He won’t love you,” Valdo said. “He can’t. He doesn’t hold on to things that way. You’re just—” he flapped a hand, searching for the word “—a fascination. You’re something shiny and new. He’ll forget about you the moment he leaves your bed.”

“Who?”

“Who the fuck do you think, witcher. Don’t mock me,” Valdo snapped, voice cracking. If he didn’t look so pathetic, if his words did not carry such weight, Geralt might have chuckled to hear Jaskier’s infamous rival croak unprofessionally. It was not flattering of bards. But there was nothing funny in what he said, nor in how he said it.

“Wait a minute,” Geralt said. He had said less than ten words to the man, none of them mocking in the slightest, and he meant to say as much.

But Valdo held up a hand to silence him. The broken man slipped down to the deck, curling against his knees, head bowed. When he spoke, he mumbled against his knees, fingers tangling in his hair. “I went to Oxenfurt for him. I chased after him for so long, watching him fall in and out of stranger’s beds for less than a wink. But all he wanted me for … he only met me on the stage. Irked if I played below standard, livid if I won. Try what you will, there’s no pleasing Jaskier.”

Geralt thought he understood him then. “Are you jealous?” he asked.

Valdo lifted his head enough to meet his eye. His cheeks were wet, shining in the fading light. “Are you Jaskier’s witcher?”

“Yes,” Geralt replied.

“Then you have your answer.”

Geralt paused a moment. He approached Valdo slowly and lowered himself to his side. They sat together in silence, hidden in the shadow of the bulwark as the sun set behind. Valdo produced the flask again, offering Geralt a sip without a word exchanged. Geralt took the flask.

“Have you kissed him?” Valdo whispered.

“No.”

“Don’t. If he never kisses you, he might not leave.”

Geralt watched as Valdo finished the last of the vodka. “Did you?” he asked.

Valdo stared across the empty deck. “No,” he replied. “But I don’t count. He sings songs about you. I only exist to him three days a year at the bardic competition.”

“He talks about you,” Geralt offered. It was a poor comfort when one knew how Jaskier talked.

Valdo sighed and tucked away the empty flask. He stood on unsteady legs, turning back toward the stairs to the upper deck. “I know. I have a rough idea what sort of man you must think I am from his gossip.”

“I don’t hold with gossip.”

“No,” Valdo chuckled. “Your kind wouldn’t.” It wasn’t an insult, but empathy. There was an understanding between them on that mark. “I wanted to find out for myself what kind of a man you were to entice him so. I hate to think I see it.”

“What do you think you see?”

“A man. One whose best friend’s first wish would be to strike death upon his rival, and knowing him, would allow that rival to approach him without preconceptions. Who would share a flask with a sobbing drunkard and listen earnestly. A good man, in short. So ... hatefully good.”

Send me drabble prompts!

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senashenta · 3 years ago

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Matching Crowns

Title: Matching Crowns (for @whataboutthebard)

Prompt: Flower crowns/bouquets (Sept 22nd)

Pairing: JaskierxGeralt

Rating: G

Warnings: Centaur!Jaskier :D

Notes: Based on THIS FANART by @scalesnart which is just adorable. Only two more prompts and I'll be done the ones I wanted to do. Read it on AO3 here. <3

MATCHING CROWNS By Senashenta

Traveling with Geralt and Roach was interesting. Much more interesting than life with the herd had been. Life with the herd had been boring and tedious, that’s why Jaskier had left in the first place. Of course, he hadn’t quite realized the dangers of the outside world at the time he was packing his rucksack and lute up to go adventuring—which brought him back around to Geralt, who had saved him from the untimely fate of being a wyvern’s dinner and then all but invited him along on the Path to join him. Geralt liked to stress the “all but” portion of that particular sentence. Jaskier ignored him when he groused about it because he knew the Witcher actually rather liked having him there.

Besides, Roach was much better behaved when Jaskier was around, not nearly as snippy and bitey and grumbly in general. She liked Jaskier, just like every horse liked Jaskier—because Jaskier was, not to put too fine a point on it, a centaur. So yes, Roach enjoyed his company and was easier to work with when he was there, a point that he made to Geralt on a regular basis, particularly when Geraltwas being grumpy, which was probably more often than strictly necessary. Really, it was like the man made a point of being disagreeable a certain percentage of every single day.

But when he got like that, stubborn, obstinate, all Jaskier had to do was lay his ears back and bat his eyes and Geralt caved every single time. It was like magic.

Now, that’s not to say that travelling with a centaur didn’t provide its’ challenges: towns and cities were trouble, to say the least, until Jaskier resigned himself to nights in the stables with Roach because there just really wasn’t anywhere else he could stay. It wasn’t so bad, anyway, he could bed down in the hay, which was perfectly comfortable and not unlike the grass back home, and Geralt brought him oatmeal with honey for breakfast in the mornings (if he shared with Roach no one needed to know.)

Settlements were fascinating to Jaskier. He could look and watch and see humans to his heart’s content, where before he’d only had stories to go by. At the same time, he found himself constantly stared at, pointed at by children—and sometimes even adults—and knew the only reason no one approached him or did anything untoward was because he was travelling with a Witcher.

Jaskier was most comfortable when they were on the road between towns, trotting along beside Roach with Geralt on her back, oftentimes with his lute out, singing and strumming away. It was nice, pleasant and relaxing, even when there was no talking between them. It was easy. It made Jaskier feel… well. It just made him feel. Like everything was right in the world, so long as he was with Geralt.

He pushed those feelings down deep inside, though, afraid of what might happen if he actually entertained them.

Geralt was serious and all business, but sometimes, just occasionally, he would allow Jaskier to do something silly. Something he would normally consider a waste of time. He never said anything about it, never admitted he was doing it, but Jaskier appreciated the little gestures of kindness nonetheless.

Today, for instance, he had let Jaskier lead them off the road, down a narrow path and into a beautiful little clearing in the forest. The sunlight filtered through the trees overhead, dappling everything within, and Geralt quietly took Roach’s saddle and tack off, leaving her to roam the tiny oasis unencumbered. Then he took a seat on a rock near the entrance to the clearing, watching his horse and, from the corner of his eye, Jaskier.

The centaur explored the clearing for a few minutes alongside Roach before finding a patch of buttercups and clover and lowering himself down in the middle of it. Humming to himself, he began picking the flowers and weaving them together—until he had a flower crown, which he happily placed on his own head before surreptitiously glancing toward Geralt and starting on another.

When the second flower crown was finished he heaved himself to his feet and crossed over to where Geralt was sitting, then lowered himself down to the forest floor again. “Here,” He held the crown out, “we’ll match!”

He did not imagine the flush of red across Geralt’s face, though the Witcher covered it up quickly, glancing to the side. He pursed his lips, frowning, but nodded slightly—and Jaskier perked up, smiling widely as he delicately placed the crown on Geralt’s head, then clapped his hands together, delighted.

Geralt was silent, obviously embarrassed. After a moment Jaskier’s smile faded slightly and he tilted his head, then leaned forward and kissed the Witcher square on the lips. It was worth it for the startled squawk Geralt let out, and Jaskier laughed brightly, grinning, and looked off across the clearing, “do you think Roach needs a crown, too?”

Now blushing clear as day, Geralt crossed his arms and looked down. “Hmm.” He responded succinctly.

Art by the wonderful @scalesnart <33

#shut up sena #sena writes #watb #whataboutthebard #what about the bard #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt of rivia #roach #centaur!jaskier #wuv the bard

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seancekitsch · 4 years ago

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49 with the Witcher, please? Your pick?

“Well this is awkward…”

Blinding light of the curtains being yanked open is what stirs you from slumber, Jaskier jolting awake under you as he sputters into consciousness. In his clumsiness, you’re knocked back onto the pillow, where your eyes meet Geralt’s before his eyes quickly avert their cold stare. Right, fuck! Your hands scramble to pull the sheets up to your chin, having been kicked off of you at some point in the night while you slept. Jaskier, however, doesn’t even try to hide himself.

“Why, pray tell,” he starts, and this is the most offended you’ve heard him sound, “Have you come barging in on our lovely morning?”

He reaches for his breeches, discarded on the floor last night, and slips them on before rolling closer over to you on the bed and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. Typical Jaskier, always the romantic and not one to let anything come in the way of his affections.

“Because, it isn’t morning,” Geralt bites back, still turned away and focused on the birds outside the window.

“It’s— it’s not?” you stutter. What time could it be? Had you slept that late?

“Past noon,” Geralt offers, and your eyes widen in shock.

“We meant to be on the road by—“

“That’s hardly our fault!” Jaskier interrupts, “Just because you cannot spend nights with Yennifer does not mean you can interrupt ours!”

and Jaskier takes it too far too quickly. Silence settles in between you.

“Well, this is awkward,” you mutter , more to yourself than anyone else, and Geralt excuses himself.

Jaskier resigns to drop his head back on the pillow, ready to snuggle back into bed.

“No you don’t, bard,” you scold, “You’re apologizing to him after I get properly dressed.”

He groans, but you know he’ll do as you say.

#my work #jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

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i’m such a sucker for 1 it’s just such a good trope

a CLASSIC i’m also a huge fan of this one, thank you for the prompt! I tried to keep it rated T, since I don’t know if you’re looking for anything more than that, so I hope you enjoy it! <3

1. There’s people chasing us and I pulled you into the alley with me and wow you’re close

Jaskier is always a little glad when the people in the town they’re staying in are after him and not Geralt.

It usually ends up with them in the same basic place - out in the cold, possibly sans some belongings, breathless from running - but there’s something relieving about being kicked out because Jaskier has a reputation rather than because people think Geralt is a monster. It’s more of a kick to his pride, of course, but he’d take that over the hurt look that steals into Geralt’s eyes when people hiss mutant any day.

This time it’s a little more serious than normal, though still better than the grab-your-torch-and-pitchfork treatment that they sometimes receive. Jaskier walks into the tavern, takes one look around, and immediately meets the eyes of a man he recognizes from several Redenian intelligence dossiers. Sharp chin, dark eyes, slicked back hair, distinct scar across the bridge of his nose. A Nilfgaardian spy by the name of Vulmed Dorn. It takes less than half a second to note that the man has also recognized him, and for Jaskier to decide that maybe this town isn’t, actually, going to be the most friendly to them. By the way Dorn immediately rises to his feet and shouts out something about Jaskier being a sorcerer - really, it’s much too easy to get these people riled up - it’s clear that he’s been here long enough for the townsfolk to trust him. At least well enough to want to turn on Jaskier.

He turns on his heel in the doorway, grabbing Geralt’s wrist, and starts running.

They’d stabled Roach, and he curses their foresight as he rushes through the streets. They can’t leave until they get her, and they’re laden down with their bags and supplies they’d wanted to carry up to their room. Jaskier laments the lost night spent in a real bed as he turns down the main street, heading in the direction of the stables.

Geralt is jogging smoothly alongside him, looking exasperated. “Jaskier, tell me you didn’t sleep with someone’s wife in a town we haven’t even been to,” he sighs, not even winded from the brisk pace. “They’re following us.”

Jaskier huffs, picking up speed. “This isn’t some cuckolded husband,” he snaps. He can’t see Geralt’s face, too preoccupied by watching his footing in the dim evening light, but he can hear the barely suppressed not this time in Geralt’s snort. “He’s Nilfgaardian intelligence.”

Whatever Geralt had been expecting, that’s clearly not it. “He didn’t even see me,” he says, sounding confused. Jaskier can hear the sound of their pursuers now, coming from the direction of the inn. The mob will turn onto the same street they’re running down any second now. They need to get off of the main road.

“No, but he saw me,” Jaskier pants. He grabs Geralt by the wrist again, knowing that the witcher allowed himself to be moved. He hurries them down a side street, just as the torchlight pours onto the road they’d just been following. The street they’re on is too exposed still, and Jaskier turns down another, and then another again, this one barely a sliver of space between two houses. It’s steeped in shadow, the walls of the buildings blocking the last bits of daylight that slip over the horizon in the west. He shoves Geralt in first and squeezes in after him, tucking them both into the darkest area.

Geralt grunts as Jaskier trips into the alley, warm hands coming up to steady him as they both pause, listening. The sounds of the search party in the main street are barely legible to Jaskier, but Geralt could probably hear them crystal clear. “How would he know you?” Geralt asks, voice dipped low. Jaskier blinks at him, and then raises a hand between them - a feat in the narrow space - to point to his own chest.

“I’m Redanian intelligence,” he says.

“Oh,” Geralt replies, his head tilting slightly to the side. Jaskier can hardly make out any of his features in the dark, just the glint of his golden eyes and the line of his nose where a swatch of moonlight falls into their hiding place. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well,” Jaskier stifles a laugh, “I’m retired.”

Geralt has no response to that, just shaking his head on an amused exhale. They stand in silence for a few long moments, Geralt listening to whatever commotion is going on in the main square. It’s quiet around them, the air warm and thick with lingering summer heat, and Jaskier realizes abruptly that they’re standing awfully close. The alleyway truly is cramped, and Geralt is standing with both shoulders pressed up against the wall, Jaskier slotted at his side. Their shoulders brush on every inhale, left to left. Jaskier can feel his heart thundering in his chest, and he hopes that Geralt will write it off as adrenalin.

He wants to put some distance between them, to prevent the feeling that’s rising in him from bubbling to the surface, but he can’t. To either side of them the shadows fade into crisp moonlight; if he steps away he’ll be significantly more exposed. He doesn’t know what the crowd will do if they get their hands on him, but he guesses it will involve some kind of deal with Nilfgaard. Not something he’s interested in. So he swallows around the knot of anxiety rising in his throat, and forces himself to press his hands back against the cool brick wall behind him. He watches the end of the alleyway, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“I think they’re heading back to the inn,” Geralt rumbles. “We can--”

Jaskier turns back to look at him at the same moment that Geralt lowers his gaze, and their eyes catch. They’re so close, too close, noses nearly brushing, and Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. Whatever Geralt had been about to say dies. They’re so close together, and Jaskier feels like he’s going to burn up with it.

They stand frozen like that for what feels like hours, mob forgotten, Jaskier digging his fingers into the brickwork to keep himself from reaching out. Geralt’s right hand comes up towards his waist, but doesn’t make contact. It feels like the air between them is suddenly humming with tension, adrenalin bleeding into something else entirely. Jaskier’s never felt like the thing between them was so close to breaking.

When Geralt speaks, his breath ghosts against Jaskier’s lips, and he can’t help the full body shudder that wracks through him. “We should probably go get Roach,” Geralt says softly.

Jaskier nods, swallowing heavily, and forces himself not to look for Geralt’s lips in the darkness. “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was a spy,” he breathes, an apology for the entire situation.

“That’s okay,” Geralt replies easily, and Jaskier doesn’t know which of them moves but suddenly lips are on his and they’re kissing. Geralt pushes him back against the wall and Jaskier’s hands fly up to clutch at the straps of his armor, and he gasps when Geralt’s tongue sweeps along his lip. It’s instantly filthy, and it’s delicious. Jaskier raises one hand to fist in Geralt’s hair, and the groan he gets in answer, pressed directly into his mouth, is enough to make him weak at the knees. He never wants to stop, want to let Geralt keep kissing him forever, if only--

Geralt breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together. He does sound out of breath now, panting against Jaskier’s face, and he feels unreasonably proud of that. “They’re going to come back around,” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows he’s right. They have a narrow window. He curses every god he can remember the name of.

“Alright,” he sighs, pulling away with more reluctance that he would have thought himself capable of overcoming. He feels suddenly nervous, even with his lips still tingling from where Geralt had bitten him lightly. Maybe this was just a one time thing, and when they get out of here Geralt won’t want to push it any further. A tense situation and close quarters could rile anyone up. Resigned, he turns towards the mouth of the alley. “Let’s go then.”

A hand on his wrist stops him, and he looks back towards Geralt only to be greeted by a brief, chaste press of lips to his own. Geralt’s bright eyes are intense as he holds Jaskier in place, imploring. “Later,” is all he says, and Jaskier feels hope swell in his chest, all consuming.

“Later,” he agrees, feeling a grin stretching his cheeks even as he steps back out of the alley and into danger once again. “I’ll hold you to that, witcher.”

#ask #bookstorebunny #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #witcher #my work #fics

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anna-pixie · 4 years ago

Text

safe passge -> the witcher {part two}

I will be uploading this to AO3 soon... I’ve never posted on there before so I’m just figuring it out!

Read part one here

Summary: Geralt deals with having you and Jaskier annoying him on the road. You stop at an inn and make a new friend.

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: None

“So… day three on the road. How is the princess coping?”

“The princess will murder the bard with his own lute should he decide to keep calling her the princess.”

Jaskier raises his hands in defence and you shoot him a sickly sweet smile, revelling in how easily you can get to him. Your friendship with the bard has developed quickly over the three days you’ve been on the road, it seems as though the two of you are cut from the same cloth - personality wise that is. Geralt, bless his soul, thought he had it rough when he travelled only with Jaskier - now there are two of you.

“It’s not very becoming of you to threaten a life, princess.” Geralt hums, commenting on the incessant insults thrown between you and Jaskier.

You send the large man a glare out of the corner of your eye, fighting the smile that threatens to show as he meets your gaze with a smirk of his own.

No. You have to remind yourself, you are not attracted to the Witcher. The large, scary Witcher who could kill you with his bare hands if he wanted to. Your mind flashes with the inappropriate thought of his large hands around your neck, your life in his hands while he looks at you with those hypnotic eyes.

Your cheeks flush and your eyes dart around quickly, the horrifying thought that Geralt may be able to read minds as part of his Witcher-ness scares you.

“Jaskier… psst.” You hiss, trying to subtly get the attention of the bard who is humming a tune to himself as he skips just behind Geralt.

You’re in a small town surrounded by nothing but forest, making your way to the local inn from where you left the carriage at the edge of the dense greenery.

“Yes m’lady?”

“Geralt can’t… read minds… can he?”

Jaskier chuckles at your fear, his quizzical gaze pinning you for a moment before he cackles, “Oh! This is golden! Has someone been having some less than innocent thoughts about the big bad Witcher?”

“Shut up, Jaskier!” You squeal, slapping the bard harshly on his upper arm. He winces, sprinting back towards Geralt with cries that you’re attacking him. The white haired man turns his head to face you, his eyebrows raised exasperatedly. You respond with a pout, an innocent gaze his way through your lashes. You only receive a clenched jaw in response before he turns, hitting Jaskier on his arm in the same place you did.

A chuckle escapes your lips as he wails in pain. Sure, your little slap probably stung a bit - but Geralt did not hold back. He will probably have a bruise there soon. The inn enters your vision, and your sore muscles practically cry out in relief.

As you enter the establishment, you realise that you probably look quite the sight. First, the lilac adorned bard clutching his arm in pain, followed by the hulking Witcher, swords at the ready behind his back, and then you - in your pretty pink dress with your favourite necklace.

Certainly a motley crew, you wonder what the patrons are assuming when they see you. Do they guess correctly? That your parents paid the Witcher and his bard to escort you to your new home? Or do they assume wrong? Perhaps they think you’ve been kidnapped, held against your will by the big, scary white wolf.

Geralt doesn’t seem phased by the stares, thudding over to a table in the far corner of the room, lowering himself onto the wooden bench with a groan. Jaskier orders the three of you a round of ale and meat with all the trimmings and a side of potatoes.

“I’m not hungry.” You mumble as you observe the sloppy food the inn keeper throws before you, “I’ll save it, take it back for the carriage driver.”

“We’re not leaving here until you eat everything on that plate, princess.” Geralt doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, tearing a chunk of meat straight from the bone and chewing harshly. You cringe slightly at his brutish manners.

“No, thank you.”

“I wasn’t asking, princess.” There’s a new edge to his voice now, a no nonsense tone that non-verbally tells you that you’d better start eating right now, or else.

“Oh, don’t use your scary voice on her, Geralt. We all know you’re a big softie deep down.” The two men start to bicker amongst themselves and you snicker, reluctantly starting your meal.

Being raised as a princess, you were expected to be prim and proper at all times. That meant having immensely smaller portions of food to your male counterparts, so having a large meal - the same as the two men - is foreign to you.

You eat as much as you can, about half of the plate, before you start to feel full. Your eyes light up as you recall passing a beggar on your way to the inn. Deciding then that you’ll spare some of your own coin to buy the carriage driver his own meal, you ask the inn keeper if he can wrap up the remnants of your food in some cloth.

“I hope you’re saving that for later.” Geralt comments once you’ve ordered another meal for the driver.

You take a beat to reply, debating whether to tell him the truth, “Of course I am.” You lie, a sickly sweet smile gracing your lips.

“Hmm.”

A while later, whilst Geralt and Jaskier are having a hushed conversation, you attempt to drink some of your ale. This is another first for you too, never having had a sip of any sort of alcoholic beverage before.

Deciding that the best option is to go all in, you take a huge gulp of the brown liquid, regretting it instantly as you spit it all back onto the wooden table, choking and gasping as your throat burns.

You exchange an embarrassed, wide eyed look with Geralt and Jaskier, and there is a long moment of silence before they start to laugh. Yes, properly laughing. You’d expected it from Jaskier, but the deep peels of laughter that rumble from the Witcher take you by surprise.

“Oh! That was just priceless!” Jaskier wails, and you can’t quite tell whether he is pretending to wipe the tear out of his eye or if he is actually crying.

“Shut up.” You grumble, your face flush with embarrassment. Jaskier’s laughs fade in mere chuckles and Geralt just observes you quietly, a smile still tugging slightly on the corner of his mouth.

“Excuse the question, Geralt, but I don’t quite understand the carriage driver's insistence on sleeping in the carriage. Surely he can find a safe place to leave it for a night?”

“Princess, his whole livelihood rests on that carriage. If it goes, he’s done for. Not worth the risk for a comfortable night, I’d assume.”

“Oh.” You hate how frequently you’re reminded of the fact that you’re utterly clueless about anything outside of your luxurious lifestyle. You’re pretty sure that this will change during your month on the road, you’ve already experienced so many things you had never even imagined, “May I be excused to deliver his meal to him? I’m sure he’d appreciate some warm food.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, he just pins you with that annoying stare once more. Yes, annoying, that’s what you’re telling yourself.

“Of course you can, Y/N, excuse Geralt’s lack of brain cells that stop him from keeping up with a simple conversation.”

The Witcher’s arm darts out and before you even see what has happened, Jaskier is once again gasping in pain.

“You’re in no place to give such permission, bard,” He sends a side-eyed glare to the bard who grips his arm with a dark look in his eyes, “You’ve got an hour, princess, any longer than that and I’m coming to collect you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” You grin, sending a thankful nod to the innkeeper who hands you the two parcels of wrapped food.

With one final wave to an apprehensive looking Geralt, you make your way back through the town. Your eyes light up when you realise the beggar is still in the same place, you approach her carefully and your breath stills when you realise she is holding a small baby.

“Hello there.” Your voice is soft as you approach her, and the woman smiles at you, although her eyes remain guarded. You notice she hugs the child tighter to her chest as you approach, and you can hardly blame her. It’s hard to know who to trust these days.

“Evening, miss.” Her voice is tired, croaky and worn. She sounds exasperated, and it is probably something to do with your rather… glamorous… attire. It is not customary for people of higher standing to treat beggars well. You’d heard stories of the young lords in your kingdom teasing and taunting the poor beggars.

“I picked up an extra portion of food in the inn,” You pause, wondering how to phrase this, “I was wondering if you’d like it?” Her eyes seem to light up when you show her the parcel of food, physical proof that you’re not playing a practical joke on her.

You’re torn as you gaze at the baby, wanting to give the half portion that you saved for the driver to make sure it gets fed. Surely you can explain to Geralt why you didn’t end up going back to the driver? Plus, this baby definitely needs it more.

“Oh, thank you miss.” The woman cries, her eyes literally tearing up as she inhales, taking in the fact that she is going to have a real meal tonight. She seems in disbelief when you hand her the other wrapped food parcel, telling her that it is for the baby, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please take it.” You smile at her, beginning your walk back to the inn as she begins to cry. You stop, your mind screaming at you not to leave her there, and you turn back to the two with a resigned sigh, “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m staying at the local inn. Could I pay for you to spend the night there?”

The guarded expression returns to her eyes as she observes you, but she looks back down at the food in her hands and seems to realise that you’re not messing with her. She rises slowly, a pained expression on her face as she clutches the baby tightly to her breast. There is a limp in her step and you realise she has probably been sat in the same position for a while.

She catches up and falls into step beside you, a silence falling over you as you think of what to say.

“What is your name?” You start simple, hoping you can ease her into conversation without scaring her away.

By the time you reach the inn again, you’re laughing with the woman who you discovered is only two years your senior. Her name is Lettie, and she was kicked out of her home when she got pregnant out of wedlock. The father of the baby didn’t want anything to do with them, and left them to fend for themselves on the street.

She has a lovely baby girl named Faith, who giggles away as you babble at her. Lettie giggles at the story of Jaskier almost throwing up over your anecdote about the scar on your leg, and you laugh along as you push open the door to the inn. Once again, you’re on the receiving end of judgemental glances from the patrons - but Lettie doesn’t seem phased as she follows you over to the table where Geralt and Jaskier are watching you with wide eyes.

“When I let you out of my sight for an hour, I didn’t think you’d return with more people, princess.” Geralt grumbles, his harsh gaze fixed on Lettie and Faith, who both observe the Witcher curiously.

“Princess?” Lettie questions, only just seeming to register the term Geralt used to address you.

“Uh, yeah.” You blush, scratching the back of your neck, “I’m paying for her board for the night Geralt. I’ve plenty of coin to spare, why not use it for something good?” You ponder, gaining the attention of the innkeeper’s wife, requesting a large room with an adjoining bathroom, “I’d like a few jugs of hot water for a bath to be brought up, please.” You finish, smiling at Lettie whose eyes are teary once more.

“Oh, Y/N, I don’t even know what to say. This is the most kindness I’ve been shown in a long, long time. It… it means so much to me, you don’t even realise.”

You place a hand on her thin arm and squeeze gently, “Please, it’s a pleasure. Would you like me to watch Faith while you have a bath? I can sit in the adjoining room with her, if you’re weary of leaving her with me.”

She seems to mull over your offer for a while, before finally deciding that she can trust you, taking the room key off you with a smile.

“Please, take care of her. If she cries, she likes to suck on something - or maybe eat some food.” Lettie kisses her baby on the forehead and hands her over to you.

Now, you’ve never held a baby before. However, extensive lessons in motherhood from your own mother have prepared you for this moment - you clutch Faith, gently cradling her head in your palm as you rock her slowly. The baby seems at ease with you right away, and Lettie heads towards her room with a relieved sigh.

“Princess…” Geralt mumbles once more, and you finally look at the two men as you take a seat on the bench, still rocking Faith.

“Oh, hiiiii there.” Jaskier coos, stumbling around the circumference of the table to sit beside you, fawning over the little baby in your arms. Her wide eyes land on Jaskier and she lets out a shriek of delight when he begins to play peek-a-boo with her.

Faith reaches towards the bard, signalling that she wants him to hold her. You let out an aww and hand him the baby, finally meeting the gaze of Geralt who looks incredibly annoyed.

“What are you playing at, princess? We can’t bring them with us.” His tone is firm, no nonsense as he refuses to let you break from his gaze. You sigh, scooting over towards him, trying to ignore the way your mind screams at you to get even closer.

“I know that, Geralt. I was only going to give her some food and I saw her baby and… I couldn’t just leave them there. I’m going to part with them in the morning, after I give them some coin. I promise.” You look up at the Witcher through your eyelashes, your persuasive look has never failed before.

He groans, finally removing his gaze from yours and clenching his jaw.

“One night. We’ll be leaving early in the morning.”

You bite your lip to hide the victorious smile on your face.

*****

Tag list:

@over300books

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x oc #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt of rivia x oc #geralt of rivia imagine #the witcher imagine #witcher imagine #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #geralt x ofc #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x y/n

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contemplativepancakes · 4 years ago

Text

may your days be meowy and bright

a @geraskierholidayexchange fic for @cosmokitt !! I hope you like it :D

Geralt glares at Jaskier from across the counter. He’s sitting at one of the tables, his head leaned in towards Eskel as they look at something on his phone. Geralt’s sure it can’t be anything good.

He clears his throat obnoxiously, and Jaskier jerks back and smiles at Geralt. Geralt’s not certain of the intent, but it comes off as guilty more than anything else.

Geralt finishes plating the jelly donuts to put in his pastry display, setting them down beside the Christmas cookies, before he wipes his hands off on his apron and ambles over to them. Jaskier slams his phone face down on the table and looks up, folding his hands.

Eskel shoots him a bright grin.

Geralt scowls. “What trouble are you two causing now?”

“Trouble? Us? I can’t even begin to tell you how offended I am,” Jaskier says, a hand dramatically clapped to his chest.

Eskel suppresses a snort. “Did you bring us donuts?”

“You’re going to eat me right out of business,” he says, but he plunks a plate down, anyway.

“Right, right. And you’re okay with that? Amazing, I’ll keep you updated. Thank you!” Jaskier trills into his phone as Geralt closes the door to their apartment behind him, catching the tail end of the conversation.

“Who was that?”

Jaskier stirs a pot on the stove and beams at Geralt. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“You know I hate it when you say that.”

Jaskier ignores the comment. “Tell me what this needs,” he says instead, holding out a spoon.

Geralt comes closer, inhaling the scent of garlic bread from the stove. He takes the spoon and tastes the sauce, humming thoughtfully. “I think it’s fine.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I even bother. You’d eat anything I slopped onto your plate.”

“Yes, and you’re welcome.”

Jaskier winds his arms around Geralt and catches his lips in a kiss. Geralt’s still not sure how he managed to get this lucky, but he’s not complaining. They’ve been living together for about a year now, ever since Jaskier had essentially announced he was moving in.

Well, he didn’t put it like that, exactly. He’d said, “My lease is up in a month, and I really don’t want to look for another place. If only there was a solution,” before draping himself over Geralt’s lap on the couch dramatically.

Who was Geralt to tell him no? He’s had a poor track record, historically.

Maybe that’s why, later, with his head on Jaskier’s chest as he absentmindedly curls his fingers around Jaskier’s chest hair, he only looks a little disgruntled when Jaskier asks him if they can get a cat.

“Come on, darling, it’s the holiday season.” Jaskier bats his eyes at Geralt.

Geralt grunts and shuts his eyes, wrapping an arm around Jaskier and pulling him closer.

Well, Jaskier thinks, it’s as good as a yes.

Jaskier gets off the elevator and looks around furtively before he waves Eskel off. There’s an indignant mewl as the carrier pitches to one side, and Jaskier hisses at Eskel to be more careful. Jaskier hefts his tote bag up higher on his shoulder and looks at his watch.

“Geralt is going to be home in an hour, so we don’t have much time,” he says, swinging open the door.

He was honestly only a little taken aback to see Geralt sitting in their recliner, because nothing can ever go right.

“What are you doing home?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier gives a nervous laugh.

“This is Duchess,” he says with a flourish. “Just look at her, and I promise you won’t be able to stay mad.”

Geralt turns a betrayed look to Eskel. “You knew?”

“Geralt, it was on the shelter’s Facebook page that she needed a quiet and calm home. You’re the quietest and calmest person I know!”

“Serendipity? It sure seems like it,” Jaskier chimes in.

Geralt rolls his eyes and slowly stands up, walking towards them and peering into the cat carrier. “She seems a little standoffish, so I think you’ll really just be two peas in a pod,” Eskel says, and Geralt glares at him.

Eskel goes to open the carrier, but Jaskier stops him. “Wait! I read that we should introduce her to new spaces slowly so she doesn’t get overwhelmed!”

Geralt and Eskel stare at him for a beat. “God, you’re such a nerd,” Eskel says.

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but he did devote about four hours to research last night, so he’s not sure he has much of a leg to stand on.

“You’re going to love her,” he says to Geralt, instead.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier’s sure he’ll come around.

In the end, it turns out that it takes longer for Duchess to warm up to Geralt than the other way around, not that Geralt would ever admit it. When Jaskier comes home three days later, it’s to see Geralt’s legs sticking out from under their bed, trying to coax Duchess into coming out.

“Geralt?”

Geralt jerks up, hitting his head and cursing, sending Duchess in a black streak across the floor. Jaskier holds back a snicker. “Did you have a good day?”

“It was fine.”

“Uh huh. Not spoiled by a certain kitten who won’t let you pet her?”

Geralt slowly slides out from under the bed before sitting up and crossing his arms. Jaskier tries to contain his smirk at Geralt’s pout.

“No.”

“Right. How was work?”

Geralt brightens at the prospect of talking about the cafe. “I made a new blend today."

"Oh?"

"Even Lambert admitted it was good."

"You know it was amazing then," Jaskier says in a sing song voice. "Did you bring me any?"

Geralt quirks a smile at him. "You want old coffee?"

Jaskier shrugs.

Geralt sighs. "It's in the fridge, you animal."

"Thank you, love." Jaskier grins and bounces off to retrieve it. He finds it in the door of their refrigerator, with a heart on it. Jaskier’s sure Eskel teased Geralt about it relentlessly.

He dumps it into a pot on the stovetop to heat it up, because Geralt will have a coronary if he just nukes it. When it's just the right side of warm, he dumps it back into the cup.

He makes sure to drink it with the heart facing out and pretends he doesn't notice Geralt's tiny smile.

"How did the donut making go today?"

"Good. Sure as fuck beats making cut outs."

Jaskier tosses him a hopeful glance.

"They're in the microwave."

Jaskier dashes back out to the kitchen, Duchess darting out from under the bed to trail him. Geralt frowns at them both.

By the end of week two, it's as if Duchess has always been with them. Geralt went through the first week terrified he was somehow going to fuck her up, but it has mostly worn off. He's resigned to the fact that she's never going to leave him alone now, as evidenced by the insistent kneading on Geralt’s chest that wakes him up. He groans and turns over, dislodging Duchess from his torso. She gives him an indignant mrp, and he pulls a pillow over his head. “Jaskier, go feed your damn cat.”

Duchess moves on from Geralt to walk over Jaskier’s face, and Jaskier makes a disgruntled noise before he clambors out of bed.

Geralt tries to go back to sleep to no avail. He grumbles to himself. He wakes up early enough as it is to get food in the ovens and the coffee brewing before his shop opens; he certainly doesn’t need to be getting up any earlier than that.

There’s the clinking of cat food pouring into a bowl and then Jaskier is stumbling back into bed. He tugs Geralt close, leaning in to give him a kiss, but Geralt puts a hand on his chest. “You just had cat feet all over your face. I know exactly where those paws have been.”

As if on cue, Duchess scratches around in her litter box, and Jaskier sighs.

Jaskier burrows back into the blankets, putting his cold feet on Geralt. Geralt’s alarm goes off a few minutes later, and Geralt heaves himself about of bed, much to Jaskier’s mumbled protest. Geralt is sure he’s just upset because his feet are still cold. Geralt tugs the pillow out from under Jaskier on his way out, giving him a soft whack. “Love you,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier takes the pillow and hugs it to his chest, giving Geralt a sour look. “I love you, too, you menace.”

Geralt gives Jaskier a private grin and goes about his morning routine, practically feeling Jaskier’s eyes burning into his back.

“See something you like?”

“You know I do.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, Geralt. You don't even work today."

And that... is compelling. Geralt had completely forgotten Eskel was going to run things today, giving him the day off for once for the last day of Hannakuh. Jaskier tugs him back onto the bed and pulls him into a sound kiss.

They're interrupted by an indignant yowling, and Geralt pulls away to stare at Duchess with dismay. "Is she going to do this every time?"

Jaskier shudders. "God, I hope not. This is why we don't have kids, Geralt! I'm not prepared to give up my sex life!"

Geralt blinks; it's way too early for Jaskier to be discussing having children with him.

"Hmm. Is that the only reason?"

Jaskier pauses, his hands tangling in the tassels on their blanket. "I don't know, is it?"

Geralt shrugs. "I'm—amiable."

"Amiable? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Do you want kids?"

Geralt feels like he's stripping himself bare, but it's not as uncomfortable as he would have imagined when Jaskier is the one he's doing it for.

"I can...imagine it."

"Yeah?" Jaskier asks softly, tilting his head up to look at Geralt.

"Yeah."

Duchess chooses that moment to jump up on the bed between them, making Jaskier laugh and stroke his hand through her fur, a fond look on his face that makes Geralt melt just a little.

Duchess moves on from Jaskier to climb into Geralt's lap, and after she gives him a little headbutt and hops off of his lap as well, Jaskier pulls him up.

"Come on, let's play dreidel. I'm going to beat you this time."

Geralt rolls his eyes. "Not a chance."

Geralt lets Jaskier pull him into their living room, and Geralt drapes a blanket around his shoulders as Jaskier putters around making them coffee. Geralt is sure it will be way too weak; but he'll drink it anyway. He's content to just have someone besides him make it for once.

Jaskier comes back with two mugs and hands one to Geralt.

"Thank you," Geralt says, taking a sip.

"Okay?" Jaskier asks, like he does every time.

"Perfect," Geralt replies, like he does every time.

Jaskier beams and retrieves the top from their side table. "I'm serious, I'm going to win."

Geralt hums, unimpressed. He gets up to go find their chocolate coins they use for the betting pool. Geralt finds them in the cupboard, rolling his eyes fondly as he notices there are definitely less of them remaining than there were the last time they played.

Geralt returns, and they start playing, the game going on for a while before Jaskier gets frustrated.

The dreidel finally stops spinning, falling on its side with a gentle clunk, and Geralt slowly looks up from it to grin at Jaskier.

Jaskier crosses his arms across his chest and pouts. “This is entirely unfair that you’re so good at this. This is a game of luck!”

Geralt hums as he finishes pulling in all of the gelt on the table closer to him. “It’s not. Heart of the dreidel.”

“I never should have made you watch Yugi-Oh with me,” Jaskier huffs. “Well, in that case, it’s even worse. You’re going to share with me, right?” He scoots his chair closer to Geralt until he’s practically in his lap.

Geralt picks up one of the chocolates and tilts it in his fingers, admiring the way the wrapper catches the light. “Hmm. I’m not sure about that.”

He peels the gold foil off, popping the gelt into his mouth. Jaskier makes an injured sound, and Geralt tugs him completely into his lap. “I might be persuaded,” he murmurs and presses his lips to Jaskier’s.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier holiday exchange #geralt is a reluctant cat person i just know it #fanfiction #and look don't @ me for posting a hannakuh fic on christmas #contemplative writing #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel

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wherethewordsare · 4 years ago

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DESIDERATUM Pt2

Beginning>> Next

Summary: Desideratum - to long for. Five times Jaskier needed Geralt, plus one time Geralt needed him.

Hey yall, this is another train fic! Keep an eye out for the next part on Friday from our next mystery contributor!

He told himself it was for a number of reasons that he went out looking for Geralt. He told himself it was because he was bored at court, because Virginia was in a cooling phase, that Arthur was due back home any week now and Jaskier wasn’t looking forward to another shouting match between the count and countess.

Jaskier told himself so many things as he followed the rumors to the river as to why he went looking for Geralt but the true reason.

When he came down the path, he took a beat, watching his- his what? Geralt would never let him call him anything that made Geralt his anything. But there Geralt was, his shoulders drawn in a hard line of tension, sleeves rolled up over his elbows.

Everything had gone tits up so fast that Jaskier didn’t know what else to do, so he did what he always would do. He clung to Geralt and hoped that the look of worry and concern were real and not just a creation of his own panic as he struggled for breath. The lump in his throat when he looked at Geralt was no longer just metaphorical and it crushed against his windpipe in a way that felt too much like a hand strangling the air from him.

He tried for words but nothing came and Jaskier simply let himself be dragged along, first to a healer who was simply ineffectual and then to the witch. He was out before too long, sliding into a hazy sleep where he couldn’t call out for Geralt any more than he could with that thing blocking his voice.

Coming to was no more illuminating than before, but he had a taste in his mouth of dust and blood and something sharp like magic meant to harm, In his fog he thought maybe he had been put in a bed in an inn somewhere and turned, reaching for the solid line of Geralt’s side that wasn’t there. For a moment, panic swelled in his chest and he thought the magic had come back, choking him again, but it was just the same pain he realized he was growing accustom to.

The woman on the edge of the bed, her back turned to him was gorgeous and haunting, her black hair cascading down her naked back-

Her naked back. What had happened? Where was Geralt? Why did Jaskier remember an orgy?

“Not to be untoward or anything, but did we-” he gestured vaguely between himself and the woman but when she turned, her face was a mask of determination and power. He scrambled from the bed, his boots by the door.

When she asked for him to try some scales, the only song he could think to sing was Geralt’s. If he was close, maybe he would hear, maybe he would come and save him. Jaskier needed him to appear, to pull him out by the scruff of his neck as he always had and make those faces at him again, the ones Jaskier could tell himself made it feel like Geralt actually cared, even a little bit.

“Make your last wish!” she demanded as she stood above her circle of candles.

He knew what he desired, what would sooth the thing roiling in his gut but in the moment, he didn’t want to risk putting Geralt into the path of this crazy woman. “I- I wish very badly to leave this place forever!”

When she started chanting, he ran.

“Oh Geralt, thank the gods,” he huffed. It would have been so easy to just lean into him, into the space where Jaskier knew he’d be safe. He could pretend that Geralt would be happy he was alive even as he rushed in to save the witch that had just nearly tried to kill him.

“She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” What was he supposed to do with that.

Jaskier stood in the middle of the road, watching as the house seemed to partially collapse, and his heart collapsed with it. His chest constricted in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Sure he had cared for Geralt but something else, something like poison slipped between his ribs and festered into his heart.

Jaskier didn’t just care for Geralt, he might have been just a little bit in love with him and it hadn’t been fair that he had resigned himself to a life chasing after the impossible.

“... It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” There was a war within him. His- not his. Geralt was gone and Jaskier was left behind, as always, picking up the pieces of something he hadn’t realized would shatter so easily.

“They’re alive!” Chireadan slumped down in front of him, pulling him to the window

Jaskier pushed in beside him, expecting relief to sooth the vibration under his skin. They were alive alright, and fucking their way to proving it. It had never bothered him before the idea of Geralt sleeping with someone. It shouldn’t have mattered then and so he told himself it didn’t.

Just this once, and then we’ll never see her again. Jaskier reasoned, turning away quickly.

But of course it wasn’t.

And it wasn’t… and it wasn’t… and it wasn’t. And each time they ran into Yennefer by chance, by fate, or by Geralt’s own undefined need, a part of Jaskier chipped and cracked and threatened to shatter.

“I thought we had a contract in Vizima?” Jaskier bounced along side Roach, his fingers working over a particularly tricky chord procession.

“I have a contract in Vizima,” Geralt deadpanned, not looking at Jaskier.

“That’s all well and good, but this is the road to Murivel,”

“I know how to read a map, Jaskier,” he growled back, but there didn’t seem to be any heat behind it. Instead, Geralt seemed almost pleased with himself.

“I don’t doubt your ability with a map, Witcher, but I’m starting to doubt your sanity. What are you playing at?” he jogged up a bit until he was nearly in step with Roach, pushing his lute back over his shoulder.

“There’s a bardic competition in Murivel for one of their festivals.” And there it was, that smile Geralt gave him on the rare occasions when the coin was alright, the people weren’t awful, and all the gods agreed that Jaskier should have something at least slightly nice in his life. He tried not to admit how much he had come to live off those smiles or to read into them.

“What about the contract?”

“Hm,” Geralt smirked, urging Roach on, leaving Jaskier to follow.

They had found a room at a tavern on the edge of town and Geralt had even agreed to attend for Jaskier’s performance.

“I mean it, Geralt! I’m counting on you,” Jaskier teased, throwing a towel at him as he climbed out of the bath.

It felt like nearly every eye in Murivel was on him when he took the stage, but even through the haze of pipe smoke and the setting sun, Jaskier could still make out Geralt towards the edge of the square, his eyes not leaving Jaskier as he began to play. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed just that one set of amber eyes on him to settle his nerves.

Jaskier had glanced away for a moment but when his eyes found Geralt again, those same eyes were now caught in violet ones framed by dark raven hair and a smile like a knife. It cut Jaskier to ribbons and his fingers tripped over the chords he otherwise knew in his sleep.

Geralt had said it was because of a bardic competition, but as Jaskier left the stage, knowing that he lost points for his sudden loss of breath mid performance, he felt… played.

Geralt would come back, of course he would. He always did. Jaskier sat at the end of the bar in the tavern and watched the door as he slowly tipped himself into the well made mead, spending nearly every coin of his third place winnings. He watched and waited as the tavern slowly emptied out, the barkeep getting more and more aggressive with insisting Jaskier call it a night. And so he did.

Jaskier climbed the stairs alone and pushed into their… his room. The only thing there that had even suggested he wasn’t travelling alone was a second cloak hanging beside his on the back of the door. He reached out, adjusting it without purpose until he couldn’t bare to touch the thing any more.

The note he left for Geralt was short and to the point and Jaskier didn’t think he would even think anything of it. Jaskier was prone to taking off randomly and this would have been no different, not from where Geralt stood anyways.

He hadn’t slept and he watched through the tiny window as the sky beyond the city went from a deep bruising blue to a soft gray. He had set out then, not looking back as he found the road west.

Jaskier swallowed around the lumb that had caught in his throat, the memory of the djinn tinging it with that same sharp taste that still left him breathless and helpless.

“She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die,” he said, his eyes softer than they normally would be.

The exhaustion in his bones couldn’t outway the burning in his chest that propelled him forward. Jaskier had never understood why Geralt couldn’t have let her die while Jaskier himself stood there choking to death on a need he could not name.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #jay writes #witcher train #rating: teen #part 2

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years ago

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Change of Plans

winter prompts day 9 ❄️ snowed in/winter storm thanks to @in-love-with-writing002 for the idea! I’d like to do much more with it, but this is all my brain had time for tonight.

Everything starts with a question. One Jaskier suspects has been a long time coming.

They're sitting around the fire, Geralt sharpening his swords and Jaskier fumbling through the intro to his newest ballad. His fingers are too cold to be able to play it properly, but he's determined to get it finished so he can play it at the Solstice celebration in Oxenfurt this year. Last year Valdo had had a brand new song and Jaskier won't let himself be showed up again. So he plays through the cold and the numbness and Geralt's looks that are growing in frequency.

He hasn't said anything, so he can't be too upset about it, but the fifth time Jaskier restarts the song from the beginning, Geralt sighs and turns to him.

"It's getting cold," he says and Jaskier just looks at him. If he's only just noticing this, his Witcher senses must not be all they're cracked up to be.

"Yes," Jaskier agrees, a little sharply as he lifts his fingers to breathe some semblance of motion into them.

"I mean it's getting close to... that time of the year."

"Ah." That time of the year being when they separate for the winter. Jaskier doesn't like to think about it; he doesn't mind thinking ahead to his time in Oxenfurt and the celebrations, but the idea of leaving Geralt is rather unwelcome and he tries to avoid it as long as possible. Looking up at the sky, he sighs. He didn't think it was getting that cold.

"And I thought-"

Jaskier's eyes snap back down to Geralt's immediately and he struggles to control his heartbeat because he knows Geralt can hear it and he doesn't need him thinking he's jumping to conclusions, which he is. A little. But that's beside the point.

He doesn't dare say anything as Geralt looks straight ahead at the fire and fidgets with the rag in his hands.

"What I mean," Geralt corrects and Jaskier nearly crawls out of his skin in his impatience, "is that winter seems to be coming sooner this year and I should be heading north before the valley snows over."

"Right," Jaskier says, alarmed by his own breathlessness. But Geralt doesn't seem to be finished quite yet and when he glances up at him, Jaskier holds his breath.

"Would you- I mean- I thought it might be better if-" Geralt's fingers clench around the fabric in his hands and Jaskier wants to go to him, to assure him whatever he has to say is perfectly fine, but he can barely breathe in anticipation. He tries his best not to make assumptions, but he can't imagine what else would be this difficult for Geralt to ask. "Come with me?"

Jaskier's heart soars and it takes a lot more effort than he'd care to admit to keep from crying like a fool where he sits across from Geralt.

"Are you certain?" he asks. The last thing he wants to do is intrude on Geralt's family over the winter, especially if the invitation is somehow coerced. Geralt gives a curt nod and his lips twitch at the corner and it's a miracle Jaskier's body doesn't just drop out from under him.

He could cry, scream, laugh, but he doesn't want Geralt to regret his decision, so he just smiles across at him.

"I would be honoured."

In the morning, they make a plan to set out a week from now. It's long enough to reach town and gather supplies and find a horse for Jaskier that's capable of making the journey through the valley. The closest city is Hagge, but travelling there would mean backtracking and wasting time they don't have to spare, so instead, they start north. Geralt promises him that there's a town north of Ard Carraigh where he and his brothers stop to stock up for the trip, and as long as they make it there, they'll be fine.

But because Jaskier's never travelled in the winter and because he's excited about going to Kaer Morhen for the first time, things, inevitably, are not fine.

They're only two days out when the blizzard hits in the middle of the day.

It starts as light snow, so neither Geralt nor Jaskier thinks much of it, but as the day progresses so does the storm until they can barely see a foot in front of their faces. Well, Jaskier can't but he suspects not even Witchers can see through snow. He pushes on as well as he can - Geralt already feels guilty for making him walk through the night - but by the time he can see light again, Jaskier's boots are soaked through and he can barely feel his toes. He doesn't complain because he doesn't want Geralt thinking he can't make the trip, but he knows he's slowing them down.

That night, Geralt finds shelter in a crumbling building that might have once been a watchtower. It's dark and it's cold and without a fire, the only thing they have to eat are the preserves at the bottom of their bags. But when Geralt pulls him into his lap and wraps a blanket around the both of them, holding him close, Jaskier can't find much to complain about.

They reach the little town late the following night and Jaskier is dead on his feet, so he's relieved to find the innkeeper is quite friendly, if not familiar, with Geralt. For once, he takes a step back and lets Geralt organize lodgings for them while he struggles to keep his eyes open.

Eventually, Geralt leads him up to a room with a single bed and lets Jaskier drop onto it while he putters around the room, organizing their things.

"What are you doing?" Jaskier mumbles, already tugging a pillow under his head. His wet feet dangle over the edge of the bed and Geralt comes over to kneel next to him, tugging Jaskier's boots from his feet.

"We'll be here for at least a couple of days," he explains, "we might as well settle in."

"Thought we were going north? Up to the keep?"

"We are," Geralt assures him, "but we won't make it through the storm. We'll wait here until it passes and see what the valley is like then."

Jaskier doesn't like the sound of that one bit, but he's too tired to argue. Even when Geralt pulls him to his feet, he doesn't complain. He wavers slightly as he strips out of his wet clothes, but he can hardly be blamed when he's barely slept in the past few days. When he's stripped down to his braies and as dry as he's going to get, he slips back into bed, shuffling toward the wall to make space for Geralt. He falls asleep before Geralt even makes it to the bed.

In the morning, there is snow up to the windowsills and it still hasn't stopped snowing. Jaskier's spirits are dampened slightly, but he slips out of bed before Geralt wakes and orders breakfast to take back to the room in an attempt to cheer them both up. It works for a little while, but the snow picks up again in the afternoon.

By the third day, Jaskier has resigned himself to staying in this little no-name village over the winter. It's not Kaer Morhen with all its history or Oxenfurt with its lively parties, but he's here with Geralt and really that's all that matters. He is a little disappointed, but Geralt made the offer to take him north, so maybe they can revisit that next year.

That evening, Geralt goes down to discuss the room with the innkeeper and Jaskier takes the chance to look around a little. For a small town, the inn is particularly well-kept and there's even a small fireplace in their room with a stack of wood next to it. They have plenty of blankets and candles and even a few sparse decorations to brighten the place up a little. Jaskier would like to go out into the forest and make a wreath of his own, but he suspects Geralt would be against going out into the storm, so the decorations in place will have to do.

Maybe one year, he'll invite Geralt to Oxenfurt and show him a real celebration, but for this year, under the circumstances, the inn is fine.

Geralt returns after a short while, plopping down next to him on the bed.

"The innkeeper says we're welcome to stay as long as we like if you'll play for the other guests in the evenings."

"You know I'm always happy to entertain." Jaskier smiles but Geralt remains silent and his expression falls. "You'll miss them, won't you? Your brothers?"

"I don't see them every year," Geralt says but Jaskier knows he's dodging the question.

"What do you think they'll do then? Over the winter?"

"Eskel might already be up at the keep. He's sometimes early to help clear out the library. Lambert, I don't know. Last I heard he was travelling with someone, so maybe they'll spend the winter together."

Before he can think better of it, Jaskier reaches out, sliding his hand over Geralt's knee. Geralt's head jerks up to look at him, but he doesn't move.

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Geralt. I'm sure they're holed up somewhere nice and warm and nowhere near the storm." Geralt gives him a look of disbelief, but Jaskier just smiles encouragingly.

As it turns out, they're both right. His brothers are holed up somewhere nice and warm for the winter. Or they were until the farmer whose barn they were sleeping in decided he'd had quite enough of the noise. Which is how, in the middle of Jaskier's set one night, he finds himself choking on his own words as three grouchy Witchers pile into the inn.

Geralt is upstairs, but Jaskier would know them anywhere. It's fairly hard to mistake a Witcher. He knows only two of them are Geralt's brothers, but he assumes the third is the one he mentioned was travelling with Lambert. As soon as he sees them, he jumps from his makeshift stage and hurries over to them.

"Gentlemen!" He cries, "we've been worried about you. Thought you might be lost in the storm somewhere." The attention of the entire inn is on them as Jaskier beams up at the men. The bigger of the three - Eskel, he thinks, judging by the scar - gives him an odd look, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't tell me you're Geralt's bard?" he asks.

"I am!" Jaskier exclaims and a knowing look settles over the witchers. "Come in," he says and ushers them into the main room and down the hall.

It's not until Jaskier has all of them in the room and is looking between Geralt and the other three that he realizes he's made a very big mistake. Yes, he was looking forward to meeting the other Witchers and spending the winter with them, but he was also looking forward to having some time alone with just Geralt which is certainly not going to happen with three other Witchers sharing their room.

If nothing else, at least it will be an interesting winter.

#geraskier #winter storm #snowed in #winter prompt challenge 2k20 #rex writes

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