#Jaskier is the most dramatic

[thedemonofcat]

Geralt knows the marriage is necessary to ratify the treaty, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

It’s not that he’s against marriage in general or has anything against his new husband—Julian seems lovely. And that’s the real issue isn’t it? This lovely man has been pressured into a marriage with a witcher. Even though Geralt was accepted as a warlord, people still considered witchers more beast than man.

His new husband is probably terrified or disgusted with him.

At the very least, Geralt knows the other man is nervous. He can smell it in his scent, hear it in his heartbeat.

When they enter the wedding suite, Geralt says, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Pardon?”

“We don’t have to do anything. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Out of all possible reactions to his offer, Geralt hadn’t expected anger.

Julian seethes, saying, “Are you FUCKING kidding me?!? Do you know how fucking long it took to get into these clothes? How long it took them to paint my face? It takes HOURS to look this divine, and do I get any appreciation? No! The least you could do is tell me I’m pretty and fuck me like you mean it!”

Geralt blinked, completely stunned. He stared at Julian—no, Jaskier—as the man planted his hands on his hips and glared at him with enough fire to melt silver. For a long, awkward moment, Geralt could only process one thing: Jaskier did look divine.

His doublet, an elaborate creation in deep blue and gold hues, shimmered in the candlelight. His makeup—a touch of gold on his eyelids and the faintest hint of rouge on his cheeks—made him seem otherworldly, like some naughty fey prince. And his lips, painted the colour of ripe cherries, were currently pursed in absolute fury.

“You—” Geralt started, then faltered. His voice sounded rougher than he intended, so he cleared his throat. “You look—very nice?”

Jaskier groaned and threw his head back like a man the universe had deeply wronged. “Very nice? Very nice?! I didn’t spend all afternoon enduring the indignities of corsetry and the horrors of powder puff brushes to be called very nice.”

“I—uh—apologize?” Geralt mumbled

“Oh, don’t apologize, you big lummox!” Jaskier snapped, stepping closer and pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt’s chest. “I don’t want your apologies. I want your appreciation. I want you to look at me and see more than just the treaty we signed this morning. I want you to see me, the absolute vision of beauty that I am, and understand that I deserve at least a modicum of effort!”

Geralt blinked again, utterly lost. “I don’t… know what to say.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically and threw himself onto the edge of the bed, arms splayed wide. “Say, ‘Julian, you are the most enchanting creature I have ever seen in my long, miserable life.’ Say, ‘Julian, your beauty eclipses the stars.’ Say, ‘Julian, I would crawl through fire just to kiss your perfect lips.’ Is that so hard?”

[shy-urban-hobbit]

"Whatcha doing, bard?"

Jaskier startled slightly when Aiden plopped down beside him next to the fire, eyes bright with the beginnings of drunkenness as he offered the wine he was holding. Jaskier took a swig straight from the bottle, choking a little in surprise. After the roughness of the various homebrews and the wines that had been aging in the cellar for possible decades it was sweeter than he expected. Definitely Southern.

"Just thinking. You?"

The Cat let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against Jaskier, "Lambert's ignoring me and it's making me sad."

"Oh, come on. I'm sure he's not."

"Oh?" Aiden cocked an eyebrow before taking a deep inhale, "Hey, Lambert!" He called over to where Lambert was deep in conversation with his brothers (and had been all night). "I'm not wearing any underthings and I fingered myself stupid while thinking of you earlier!"

"Yeah, that's fine Kitten." Lambert answered with a dismissive wave of his hand without even looking over as if Aiden had just told him that he was going to go grab more booze.

Aiden smirked at Jaskier as if to say 'see?', "And from the look on your face you know exactly what I'm talking about, no?"

Now it was Jaskier's turn to fill his lungs, "Oh Geralt!" He singsonged, "I just spilled sweet dessert wine all over my naked body. Want to help me get cleaned up? I'm so sticky and messy!"

Geralt gave one of his classic, non-committal grunts in response.

"Oh, sweet Gods." Jaskier took another angry mouthful before thrusting the bottle into Aiden's chest, ignoring the Witchers chuckle, "I understand he wants to spend time with his brothers but we haven't had any alone time for two weeks! He's either involved in some group activity or we're both too tired after training or chores."

"Hmm."'Aiden hummed in agreement, taking a deep swallow of the wine, "As much as I like Geralt and Eskel and how close they all are, there's certain activities I don't want them involved in." His expression turned devilish, "Want to do something about it?"

"...I'm listening."

Aiden crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture, prompting Jaskier to lean in closer so he could whisper in his ear as if the other Witchers in the room were actually paying attention to them.

"Fucking Hell!"

When he'd decided to call it a night and join Aiden in bed, the last thing Lambert had been expecting was to stumble on his Cat and Geralt's bard locked in a heated kiss at the top of the stairs, Jaskier's hands leisurely roaming over Aiden's back, whimpering when the Witcher moved his attentions from the bard's mouth to his throat. It was only when Geralt's telltale growl reached his ears he lifted his head, languidly turning to look at the two unsuspecting voyuers. Both Wolves looked an entertaining combination of aroused and annoyed. Mostly aroused.

Aiden purred internally. Perfect.

"Well, this is what happens when you forget about us." He said with an exaggerated pout, which Jaskier matched as he wrapped his arms around Aiden's neck, attempting to give Geralt his most pathetic look.

"I've never felt so neglected in my life." He whined, something Geralt knew definitely wasn't true but he decided to play along once he realised neither Jaskier or Aiden smelt even vaguely of arousal, despite their previous position.

"Oh, don't worry Lark." He growled as he stalked forwards, Aiden having the forethought to hurriedly disentangle himself, "I'm about to make sure you're very well taken care of."

Jaskier gave a yelp of surprise which turned into a laugh as Geralt threw him over his shoulder before stalking away towards his room. Jaskier grinned widely as he threw a salute to Aiden before they disappeared around the corner.

Before he realised what was happening, he found himself in Jaskier's previous position. Boxed in against the stone wall with Lambert's chest pressed against his, "That was your idea, wasn't it?"

It wasn't really a question and it was pointless to try and lie, "Yes." Aiden said, meeting Lambert's gaze, gasping in surprise when the Wolf ducked his head and started nuzzling at his neck.

"And you honestly feel the same?"

"...Yes."

Lambert let out a rumble, the meaning of which Aiden couldn't quite discern as he nipped at Aiden's pulse.

"So." Aiden prompted, squirming a little, "You going to make it up to me, or punish me?"

"Depends. How serious were you being about the no underthings?"

[chaos-monkeyy]

Okay I've finally caught up and finished episode 5 of Witcher season three 🥳 I don't have time to go wading through all the filtered posts right now BUT

They seriously missed a golden opportunity in episode 5 to just periodically cut away from the political intrigue and the fancy ball with the ~classy~ music and sparkly outfits, and give us little like three second clips at a time of Jaskier and Radovid back in their hut, enthusiastically and - most important - clumsily getting it on

Just imagine. An intensely meaningful conversation at the ball; Radovid tripping over a dusty chest on the floor as the makeout intensifies and nearly pulling Jaskier over with him with a yelp and thud. Intricate political maneuverings over flowing dance moves; topless Jaskier going oop shit as he accidentally tears Radovid's shirt open instead of just the lacings. Dramatic confrontations in Stregobor's chambers; Radovid dropping to his knees below frame and Jaskier's eyes rolling back in his head as it cuts away again in the middle of his oh, F-

It would have been incredible 😂😍

[fangirleaconmigo]

I've been going through some of your posts about Geralt and Dandelion's friendship in the books recently because... well I'm back in my book/game phase I guess and I really wanted to know if there are any other Dandelion friendships you like from the books and why? Like him and Zoltan or with the other Hansa etc? [Personally I'm a big fan of what little we see of him with Regis and it always makes me weepy that he wrote a biography about him in the games and fondly remarks abt him smelling like herbs all the time]

Awww yayy thanks for spending some time on the ol blog. I absolutely love this question. I don't get to talk enough about Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, and his relationship with Dandelion (for the newbies, that is Jaskier's name in the books) is so lovely.

Dandelion and Friendships

For those who are just joining us, Tea is talking about my series about Geralt and Dandelion's friendship in the books.

I have also written posts about Dandelion's friendships with Ciri and Zoltan:

Dandelion and Ciri

Dandelion and Zoltan

And for this post, I'll focus on Regis and Dandelion's friendship, which I absolutely love.

Dandelion and Regis Friendship (books)

What really strikes me about Regis and Dandelion, is just how patient and kind Regis is with Dandelion. Sometimes it is almost like he’s dealing with a child he cares about. Considering Regis’s age (over four centuries old), Dandelion (approx in his thirties when they meet) IS a child. 

On top of that, Dandy’s personality is rife with traits often associated with kids:

insatiable curiosity to the point where he endangers his own life, (when they go into the forest or sea, Geralt has to essentially, follow right behind him like you would a toddler),

hyper enthusiasm about every discovery he makes, (he whispers in awe when he sees mandrake for the first time, that’s just how he reacts to everything new)

his inability to censor himself or stop asking questions even when everyone else wants him to shut up (he will ask until he understands, no matter the social cues happening)

the way he will act incredibly transparent and awkward while thinking he is being subtle and smooth

Perhaps that is why Regis seems to be so indulgent of him. And somehow their personalities just fit naturally.

Regis’s most annoying trait is to lecture people at length like a professor and cut people off who are asking a question, since he is too eager to answer it. The vampire loves to hold forth on a topic.

Dandelion’s annoying trait (one of many, bless, we know he can't keep it in his pants either) is to ask questions incessantly. In that way, they really kind of fit together. 

Geralt loses patience when Dandelion is being socially inappropriate by asking too many questions. Geralt really values discretion and manners.

Regis is more willing to spend time explaining things and to open up.

Early in the hansa's time together, (before he manages to surprise folks several times over) Dandelion is often seen as the one who is in way over his head. Everyone else is a warrior or a soldier. Dandelion is the soft one. To add to the indignity, Geralt is angry at him during Baptism of Fire because Dandelion keeps forcing him to make friends (well, to ask for help)

Yet Regis, the new guy, is the one who always makes sure Dandelion isn't embarrassed or ashamed.

Here’s a few examples.

When Dandelion is given a bloody head wound by an arrow, the poet is howling and shrieking. He thinks he's dead already. He is not a stoic man. It is played comedically, but Geralt is also legitimately terrified that he will lose Dandelion. That bit is not played comedically.

But given the circumstances, the rest of them could be forgiven for rolling their eyes at the poet's dramatics.

But Regis (who is treating his wounds as the resident barber surgeon) does not.

Regis speaks to him so soothingly, and kindly. (I am omitting the Geralt dramz because I will get off topic lol)

Dandelion groaned and took a sharp intake of breath....

“I’ll put in a few stitches,” Regis said...”Be brave, Dandelion.”

Dandelion was brave.

“Almost done here,” Regis said, setting about bandaging the victim’s head. “Don’t you worry, Dandelion, you’ll be right as rain. The wound’s just right for a poet, Dandelion. You’ll look like a war hero, with a proud bandage around you head, and the hearts of the maidens looking at you will melt like wax. Yes, a truly poetic wound....”

And when it is revealed that Regis is a vampire, and Dandelion is afraid of him, Regis is incredibly patient and kind about the whole thing. He does not take offense. Geralt does! (Ironic, considering Geralt ran Regis off, but Geralt, bless, is dealing with a clusterfuck of feelings about the vampire and everything else going on in his life.)

But yes, after Geralt tells Dandelion about Regis, Dandelion is scared, and wants to seek reassurance. But the poet (unbeknownst to him it seems) is awkward and bad at it. He tries to bring up the issue with the subtlety of a sledge hammer.

Dandelion...deciding to clear up the uncertainty..began as soon as they set off. With his usual tact.

(I like that. His usual tact. Meaning, zero tact lmaoooooo.)

“Milva,” he suddenly called as they were riding, sneaking a glance at the vampire as they were riding, sneaking a glance at the vampire. “...I fancy eating a hunk of real meat for a change! How about you, Regis?”

Yeah. Real subtle Dandelion.

“I beg your pardon?’ the vampire said, lifting his head from the horse’s neck. 

“Meat!” the poet repeated emphatically. “...fancy some fresh meat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And blood. Would you like some fresh blood?”

“Blood?” Regis asked, swallowing. “No. I’ll decline the blood. But if you have a taste for some, feel free.”

Geralt, Milva and Cahir observed an awkward, sepulchral silence.

I love that. Awkward sepulchral silence. Dandelion causes a lot of those. But Regis does not dismiss him or laugh. He reassures him.

“I know what this is about, Dandelion,” Regis said slowly, “And let me reassure you. I’m a vampire, but I don’t drink blood.”

The silence became as heavy as lead. But Dandelion wouldn’t have been Dandelion if he had remained silent.

But Dandelion wouldn’t have been Dandelion if he had remained silent. (sorry I am laughing every other line at this part)

“You must have misunderstood me,” he said, seemingly lightheartedly. “I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t drink blood,” Regis interrupted. “...I gave it up.”

Dandelion doesn’t know what that means and keeps pestering Regis to explain. Geralt is embarrassed and tells Dandy to shut up.

However, Regis opens up around the camp fire that night. He tells his life story, and says he hasn’t drank blood in fifty years. Dandelion is incredulous. 

“Not at all?” Dandelion said, and stuttered. But his curiosity got the best of him. “Not at all? Never? But...?”

Geralt is embarrassed again and shuts him down again. Regis, by contrast, is patient and defends Dandelion.

“I beg your pardon,” the poet grunted.

“Don’t apologize,” the vampire said placatingly, “And Geralt, don’t chasten him. I understand his curiosity.”

Baptism of Fire 291-295

That's right. Don't chasten him Geralt.

Regis and Dandelion also just have a wonderful dynamic of picking on each other.

Dandelion teases Regis about his long ass name.

And Regis has a great time teasing Dandelion lovingly. In one scene, Geralt and Regis team up to pick on Dandelion and the secretive way he treats his writing. Dandelion has stolen some paper and pencil from a Lyrian military convoy and is writing whenever they make camp, but gets testy whenever anyone gets near him or looks at his manuscript.

Geralt is good-naturedly giving Dandelion a hard time and Regis jumps in with such adorable relish. (Also, in this scene, we find out that Regis actually named Dandelion's memoirs)

"Indeed," the witcher joined in...."You've become devilishly touchy, Dandelion. One cannot fail to notice that it is somehow connected to the paper which you have recently begun to deface with a bit of lead while we camp." “It’s true,” Regis agreed, “our minstrel has become touchy, not to say secretive, discreet, and loving of solitude recently. Oh no, having witnesses when performing his natural needs doesn't bother him at all...His shameful secrecy and oversensitivity to being watched extends solely to his scribbled notes. Is, perhaps, a poem being written in our presence? A rhapsody? And epic? A romance? A canzone?”

He's like, you don't care who sees you piss and shit, but oh this you care about. lol. Tell us about the poem. But Geralt objects.

“No,” Geralt retorted...”I know him. It can’t be verse, because he’s not cursing, mumbling, or counting the syllables on his fingers. He’s writing in silence, so it must be prose.”

“Prose!” The vampire flashed his pointed fangs - which he really tried not to do. “A novel perhaps? Or an essay? A morality play? Dammit, Dandelion! Don’t torture us so! Reveal what you are writing?”

Dandelion says it is a memoir called Fifty Years of Poetry. Regis says that A Half Century of Poetry sounds better.

“Thanks, Regis, Something constructive at last.”

P 88 -90 The Tower of the Swallow

I admit I'm such a sucker (hehe no pun intended) for whenever Regis's fangs are mentioned, whether he is hiding them, baring them, or unselfconsciously showing them during a warm, silly moment with his friends. (Sobs, I love this vampire, seriously I need an intervention)

Regis also comforts Dandelion openly when the poet is doubting his courage or fitness for a task.

Later in the book, Geralt volunteers for a bloody job/violence for hire that terrifies Dandelion, so the poet protests the plan. Geralt insists he’ll do it alone.

But no! He has a hansa now! He won't be alone! Angoulême volunteers to go. Cahir says he’s coming with as well. Then Milva insists she is coming.

Dandelion freezes.

It would be like the LOTR ‘and my bow and my axe’ yadda yadda scene, but if there was one person left and when it got to them, everyone turned around and looked and they are just standing there frozen like....motherfuck this is scary idk idk wtf do I do. And the way this next paragraph is written, it pleases me.

Dandelion...was evidently struggling with his thoughts. And the thoughts were winning.

lmaooo

And Regis jumps in "kindly." He shows solidarity with Dandelion, and takes the heat by calling himself a coward.

“Stop meditating, poet,” Regis said kindly. For there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re even less cut out to participate in a bloody swordfight than I am. We weren’t taught to carve up our neighbors with a blade. Furthermore...furthermore..,” he raised shining eyes towards Geralt and Milva, “I’m...a coward,” he confessed curtly.

They keep arguing amongst themselves because Geralt believes they have been spied on. And Regis is just...always soft with Dandelion. When Dandelion starts guessing about who is spying on them, and is beginning to ramble incorrectly,

“You’re mistaken, Dandelion,” Regis softly interjected.

The Tower of the Swallow p 182

It's Regis's gentleness that just fuckn kills me. That's always the character that's gonna get me right between the ribs with a shank. (Metaphorically, Regis is too gentle for that)the one that lives in a horror filled, violent, cruel world and is still just kind, even to the loud, awkward, soft, obnoxious poet who is in over his head and is afraid you'll bite him in his sleep and who shrieks when he is wounded.

Geralt and Dandelion are so sassy and old/married with each other, deeply, proudly loving in actions, but always bickering.

It's sweet to see Dandelion have a friendship like the one he has with Regis.

It is so nice to hear that the games continued his love of Regis. (I haven't played them, so I get my info about them from you guys XD)

So thanks again for following me and for the ask! I hope I've done ok answering. I also love Dandy's dynamic with Nenneke and ofc Yen, but I'll stop there.

Hope your week goes really well. x

[alchemyofpain]

Cannot stop thinking about Dandelion/ jaskier calling himself “a humble bard” in toss a coin to your Witcher and then being the most dramatic primadonna on earth …. I love him so much ✨

Anyway since I’m reposting a lot of #thewitcher art I thought I could also share mine! Also I need someone to talk to about this franchise because I’m going insane.

[0dde11eth]

We all agree that jaskier would be a MENACE and chaos incarnate when he gets to kaer morhen.

He has no fear of witchers and their muscles and scowling faces. So they have no idea how to get him to behave.

Once Lambert threatened to spank him if he didn't shape up. (cause he heard that kids hate that.) It did not have the effect on jaskier he was hoping for.

Even papa vesemir gets worn out from trying to wrangle both him and Lambert. So one of the most common phrases geralt hears In winter is " GERALT! come deal with your bard!"

Geralt wants to think he is very strict. But in reality, he's as lenient as the police on national free balloon day.

Geralt drags his bard over to the corner for a TIME OUT. It lasts less than 15 seconds. Even when he accidentally blew up the west tower.

They are both very dramatic when geralt calls the punishment off. Lots of sobbing and kissing and geralt carrying jaskier around for the rest of the evening.

***

The entire time jaskier shoots the other witchers the most obnoxious smug expressions over geralt shoulder as he carries him around whispering apologies for his "punishment"

[florianniss]

Coin, Peace, and Quiet - RatedE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geralt very slowly retakes his seat.

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

Smart man. Geralt almost wishes to join him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geralt recognizes his chance, and he pounces on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am trying to prove myself worthy.”

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

“And why must you prove yourself worthy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaskier –”

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

“Worthy enough to be given a fucking chance!” 

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

“Jaskier –”

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

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

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

“What do I have to do? Pay?”

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

Jaskier does no such thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of singing, he’s shouting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve never hated anyone more.”

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

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

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

Coin, Peace, and Quiet

[thelostgirl21]

How to solve the whole situation once they've found Ciri...

Jaskier: I think Ciri should marry Radovid.

Geralt: Are you insane? He's way too old for -

Radovid: If I may, he's talking about a purely political alliance. I can assure you I'm gay, and I've got absolutely no matrimonial interest in your daughter. I do, however, so happen to have a kingdom that I'd very much love to abdicate from in favor of a queen that might actually have an interest in running it.

Ciri: I could use a kingdom! One that would treat elves, dwarves and humans as equals...

Jaskier: See? She'd make a great queen! They get married, Radovid renounces the throne, they divorce, Ciri inherits Redania - and with it the most powerful army in the North to keep her safe... Oooh! And Yennefer could be her mage adviser!

Yennefer: You sound like you've been giving this way too much thought...

Geralt: Wait. Redania legalized divorce?

Jaskier: And gay marriage, too. *Tries to sound casual about it.* Not that this is, you know, at all relevant to the the current situation.

Geralt: And why should we believe the King of Redania would be keen on giving up power so easily?

Radovid: Look, all I really wanted was a pretty song...

Geralt: *Eyes him suspiciously*

Jaskier: No, he's being honest. Had my doubts, too, but turns out all he really wanted, at first, was a pretty song.

Geralt: *Slowly realizes what this is about, an amused glint in his eyes as he looks back at him.* I thought you didn't do pretty?

Jaskier: *Dramatically throws his arms in the air, slightly annoyed.* Well, apparently I do now, don't I?

Radovid: *Smirking smuggly* I'm "pretty".

Ciri: *Totally missing the innuendo* You really are!

Radovid: *Delighted and preening* Thank you.

Yennefer: *Snorts*

Yarpen: *Points to Jaskier and Radovid* Wait. Has the lute-playing walloper been fucking a King?

Geralt: *Groans and sighs* Again, real subtle, Yarpen.

Yarpen: *Whisling while looking at Jaskier, somewhat impressed.* Didn't think you'd have it in you, friend!

Radovid: Well, technically -

Jaskier: Aaand on that note! I'll also need Ciri to divorce him, so I can marry him after.

Ciri: *Excitedly* You two are getting married?

Jaskier: Only if you are! Which, I'm aware, makes very little sense...

Radovid: I actually did offer to marry him first - and have Redania become the first kingdom to have two kings - but that triggered a bit of a panic attack.

Jaskier: Look, I stopped using that viscount title and left nobility behind for a reason. If Ciri can make room in the castle for a retired king and his traveling bard, I'd be fine spending a few weeks or even months living at court from time to time. Especially at first, so Radovid can help her get settled and update her on the most important issues that need to be addressed and resolved in the kingdom.

Ciri: Of course you'd always have a home here, and I wouldn't just kick Radovid out! Actually, would it be okay for me to let him keep his prince title? Just in case anything happens to me, and -

Yennefer: *Firmly* Nothing's going to happen to you.

Ciri: Yeah but -

Geralt: No buts. We won't allow it.

Ciri: What if I accidentally portal myself to another dimension? Wouldn't want to force me to leave the Kingdom unattended until I get back, would you?

Jaskier: Hate to say it, but she does have a point.

Radovid: Look, if that would give the Princess some peace of mind to have someone willing to be holding the fort in case of emergencies... But, if that were to happen, I'd be needing Jaskier's help.

Jaskier: *Shrugs* I mean, I guess that would work. It's not that I don't want to get involved in making people's lives better in the kingdom, or share in any of those responsibilities. It's just that, no matter how much I love any of you guys - and I really do love you - I tend to get quite antsy and unpleasant confined to a single location for too long.

Radovid: And personally, I've always wanted to travel, meet different people, and experience some of the tales that have inspired Jaskier's songs for myself.

Geralt: You know he makes a lot of those things up, right?

Radovid: *Shrugs* I think Jaskier's always told those stories the way he sees them - for what they are or mean to him according to his own emotional truth, rather than facts. For example, I've always thought that "Toss a Coin to Your Witcher" was about how the world tends to forget that, behind every larger-than-life heroic figure, there's often just someone that needs to be looked after, too, offered a drink from time to time, listened to, and treated as a friend. If accuracy or factually reporting events had been his goal, then he'd have become a historian, not a bard.

Yennefer: That's... surprisingly insightful.

Jaskier: *Swooning* I know... *Sighs happily* He really is quite brilliant, isn't he?

Radovid: *Blushes brightly* I take it my humble interpretation's not too far off?

Jaskier: *Leans in to whisper into his ear.* I'll let you know just how close you got later...

Geralt: *Confused* Okay, what's actually happening here?

Ciri: *Chuckles* It's called poetry.

Jaskier: *Dreamily, mostly to himself* You'd have to be a spoon to get it...

Radovid: *Now also confused* Wait. What? Now I don't get it.

Jaskier: *Winces slightly* Sorry. That one's on me, you're missing context. You're a spoon, Geralt's a hammer - just...

Radovid: ...different tools for different purposes?

Jaskier: *Makes a half strangled noise, as his legs threaten to give up on him.*

Yarpen: *Motioning to Jaskier while looking at Yennefer, bit puzzled* Does your bard usually do that?

Yennefer: *Looking deep in thoughts, seemingly analysing the situation* Not that I've ever been aware of.

Geralt: Yeah, no. That's new.

Ciri: *Incredulously* You've been travelling with him for, like, over 20 years, and you're telling me you've never seen him have a crush before?

Yennefer: Oh! Oh. Yeah, that's um - okay. I think you're right - I mean, I can see the nuance.

Jaskier (*slowly coming back to himself*) & Geralt: What nuance?

Yennefer: *Innocently* Nothing! Just enjoy your spoon, bard. I'll explain it to the hammer later.

Geralt: *Huffs thoughtfully*

Jaskier: *Still looking unsure* Alright...

Yarpen: You know what, I think it's safer if I don't know.

Radovid: I'm actually not entirely sure I follow...

Yennefer: *Uses magic to telepathically communicate with Radovid, making him blush even brighter.*

Radovid: No, I mean, that seems...

Yennever: *Continues to telepathically communicate with him, looking fondly amused, and just the slightest bit smug.*

Radovid: *Bashfully* I'll ah, I'll take your word for it, and thank you...

Jaskier: What did she just say?

Radovid: Nothing bad, and I'll tell you one day, when the time's right, I promise.

Jaskier: *Doesn't look quite convinced.*

Yennefer: *Rolls eyes* I promise it's fine, Pankratz. Now stop pouting!

Jaskier: *Sighs dramatically* Fine!

Radovid: But,to go back to the whole political royal union thing, I did look to see if I could just hand the kingdom over to Ciri - simply name a successor and step down. Sadly, changing the laws of succession would appear to be a complete nightmare!

Geralt: Meaning we have to trust that you'll honor your end of the agreement, and -

Yarpen: What? You really think that King's going to attempt to stay married to your kid with the amount of eye fucking that's been happening between him and your bard?

Geralt: *Groans* Yarpen, for fuck's sake!

Yennefer: That's a bit of a crude way to put it, but he's got a point.

Geralt: You know Dijsktra and Philippa won't be happy about this, right?

Jaskier: Yeah, well, good thing you and Yennefer are scarier than Dijsktra and Philippa.

Ciri: *Crosses arms on her chest, pointedly looking at Jaskier* Why are you overlooking the fact that I'd totally rip their spines out if they tried to come after you and hurt my family?

Jaskier: Gods, I love you kid! *Pulls Ciri into a tight hug*

Radovid: Didn't you say Yennefer was the scary one?

Jaskier: Like mother, like daughter.

Yarpen: *Proudly* I actually taught the cub how to rip out spines.

Geralt: *Gives two vigorous pats on Radovid's shoulder, almost making him fall over* Welcome to the family, Radovid! *Whispering omninously* But, should you ever try to hurt Jaskier or Ciri, trust me, you'll be wishing she ripped out your spine.

Yennefer: Yes, because I know how to eternally trap souls into an infernal dimension.

Radovid: *Hesitating* That's... oddly reassuring. *Visibly relaxing while looking at Jaskier* You were right, love - Dijsktra and Philippa aren't so scary after all, are they?

Jaskier: *Smuggly* Told you!

Yennefer: Are we sure we shouldn't have been warning Jaskier not to hurt him?

Geralt: Hmm... I was just thinking that, too.

[blooms-in-april]

The front door slams open, the wreath swinging and everyone looks up. A man steps in.

“Jaskier!” Ciri cries. The little girl tears herself free from her father’s arms, making grabby hands at the newcomer’s blue coat. Geralt looks as if he’s taken too large a bite out of a pie and gotten it lodged in his throat.

“Your highness!” Jaskier says, doffing his hat and swinging his lute off his shoulder. He sweeps past both Geralt and Lambert without a glance, crouching to his knees at Ciri’s level. His calloused fingers strum a jaunty tune to the rhyme of Ciri’s excited bouncing.

“Princess Cirilla! An honor to be at your service.” He makes a dramatic bow, letting her paw at his feathered hat, his hair, his beard.

“I’m a lion, Jaskier!” she says, pointing a grubby finger at her drawn on whiskers and nose.

“And so you are,” he says, as if the ridiculous declarations of children were the most obvious and sensible things in the world. “Princess Ciri, the Lion Cub of Cintra! I’ll have to write a song about that.”

“A song!” Ciri’s eyes grow wide. Jaskier smiles.

“At least! Perhaps I can get a whole song cycle out of it, how does that sound?”

“Can I have my sword in it?”

“You can have two swords in it, if you want. Three swords. As many swords as you like!”

Ciri squeals and leaps into his arms, his arms circling her gently, careful not to crush her princess dress. Lambert watches something in Geralt’s face crumple quietly.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks at him from over Ciri’s shoulder.

“Geralt.” he responds cautiously, in a tone Lambert has never heard from him before. In all the years he’s watched the bard trail in his brother's wake, singing praises, never once has he heard a cautious word from him. And yet, here it is. “How are you, lately?”

“I-” and Lambert would laugh, watching Geralt chew and swallow his words rather than spit them out, if it didn’t make something hard lodge in his own throat. “I’m- glad you could make it.”

Jaskier waits, for a beat, two, as if expecting something more. Geralt says nothing.

Jaskier smiles, a thin wan little thing. “Well, I could hardly miss it, could I? Being properly invited after some many years of simply crashing the thing,” he says lightly, looking around at the blinking lights, the molting tree, the tinsel worn after being reused year after year. “You’d think it’d be different, after it all, but it seems everything is just the same as always.” There is a quick sharp glance, like broken glass.

Geralt opens his mouth, pauses, shuts it. Opens, and shuts again.

Jaskier turns back to Ciri and her excited song suggestions as if they are the only two people in the world, letting her lead him off into the corner to inspect the presents under the tree. Geralt sits stupidly on the carpet, as if he’s been shoved through a portal and left nauseous on the other side, with no idea of where he is and how to get back.

Now Lambert does laugh, a short sharp bark of a thing.“What the fuck was that?”

Geralt says nothing, only heaves himself up and stalks into the kitchen without a word.

Excerpt from my angsty modern AU Geraskier Lambden Lamskier fic. Link below 👇

[labyrinth-runner]

The Tavern Maid

I'm tempted to turn this into a (short) series if people are interested?

This is based off a cliched prompt from this list:

Help me I'm being hit on a bar, please pretend to be my fake boyfriend for a second.

Summary: Jaskier comes to your aid when some elves in your brother's tavern get a little too handsy for your liking.

Word Count: 1300~

Warnings: I mean, the elf is handsy and tries to proposition reader.

It was a usual shift at the tavern. Which, for you, meant that some patrons were getting a bit too handsy for your liking. You would never understand why people assumed that because you worked there that you'd like their advances. Quite frankly, you didn't give a fuck about tips, and you were only working here to help out your brother because his usual server (his wife) had just had a baby and he was short staffed. Still, this crowd was raucous. There was a group of dwarves in the corner, louder than most, but the real problem were the elves, with their wandering hands, blaming it on the fact that they were so much quicker than you and therefore unused to having to dance around a slow human.

You could feel the vein in your forehead throbbing as you scrubbed the sticky remnants of mead from the bar. You couldn't wait to go back to your house, take a scalding hot bath to burn off the unwanted ick that their gazes left on your skin.

A bard was strumming a tune in the corner, pulling most of the patrons into his performance. It was a nice, jaunty tune. Something about tossing a coin to a witcher. Now, there was a right beast, that. Witchers with their golden eyes and wild temperaments. You'd only ever met one, with his snow white hair. He'd been tracking some manner of a beast straight through your father's farm, and he actually seemed to care about the damage the beast had done to your father's crops. Some Geralt of Rivia or something like that. Hadn't seen him in years, but the bard's tune brought him right back to you as if he were standing in front of you.

You wished he were. Maybe he'd do something to deter the elves. One of them, the one with the sneer and tight braid was elbowing the man next to him, gesturing with his head towards you. Great. You were about to be propositioned. He smirked at his friend, nodding vigorously before downing the rest of his ale and making his way towards the bar. You clocked it, and were hoping to avoid it, already rounding the bar to see to another patron.

Like the elves said, you were so much slower than them. His hand was on your hip, turning you into his chest. "Now, lass, where are you going?"

Clearing your throat, you attempted to push away, "I have a job to do."

He grinned down at you, drinking in your discomfort as his hand trailed lower, dangerously close to your ass. "I'm sure they can wait a bit."

"I suppose they can, but I'm sure my husband wouldn't approve of whatever you have in mind."

He laughed. "What husband?"

Damn that elf, seeing through your bluff. You spotted the bard taking a seat at the bar and nodded towards him. "That husband. Right, dear?" you asked, directing the question to the bard to get his attention. You'd said it rather loudly. You mouthed 'help' to him as the elf turned to address the bard.

"Is this one yours?" the elf asked, pulling you against his chest, his hand high up on your waist and his thumb dangerously close to the underside of your breast. You grimaced.

"Yes, that lady happens to be my wife, and I would appreciate if you'd take your grubby hands off her," he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand towards you.

You gripped his hand, your palms sweaty and allowed him to pull you into him. "Thank you," you murmured. He smelled of smoke and sage.

His hand cupped your cheek. "Are you alright, dear heart?"

He was good. Then again, as a performer, you weren't that surprised.

"I do apologize," the elf said, backing away. "I didn't realize she was spoken for."

The bard wrapped a protective arm around you. "Even if she wasn't, Sir, no means no. She shouldn't have to say it in elvish for you to understand." His tone was ice and he stared the elf down until he slunk back to his table, tail between his legs. He passed his mug to you. "Here, take a sip."

You raised a brow, but accepted it. It wasn't what you were expecting, the first sip coating your tongue with a warm mix of cinnamon and clove.

"It's a tea I got from a druid. It's supposed to help your voice and calm nerves," he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You can stop acting," you told him, handing him back his mug. You dug around in your pocket for a coin, trying to discreetly hand it to him for his trouble. "For your witcher," you teased.

He folded your hand back around the coin. "You don't have to pay me for doing the right thing," he said with a soft smile. "Somehow, I feel like I'd do so much more than merely this for you if you'd asked, dear heart."

His hand stroked the back of yours and you took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He was handsome, with short chestnut brown hair that swept across his forehead. But, it was his eyes that had you trapped in your place. They were the most beautiful blue you'd ever seen. You'd never been to the ocean, but you were sure in your soul that it would pale in comparison to the color of his eyes. You rested a tentative hand on his puffy shirt shoulder, feeling the way it deflated under the weight of your hand. He wasn't built with bulky strength like the witcher. He was lean, but you could still feel the taut strength of muscle under the fabric.

"My name is Jaskier," he told you.

You told him your name and he frowned slightly. "What's the matter?" you asked.

"'Dear Heart' suits you so much more," he said, the corner of his lips pulling up ever so slightly.

"No one else has ever called me that," you said, feeling your cheeks burn.

"Good," he grinned. "I want to be the only one."

"And will you write songs about me?" you teased.

"No," he admitted. Your smile started to slide from your face, so he quickly added, nodding back towards the elf. "I don't want to share you."

You swallowed, realizing that you'd been neglecting your patrons for a while. You started to pull away from him. "I should get back to work."

He grabbed your hand, holding it to his chest. "When are you done?"

"In about an hour," you replied.

"Would you mind if I walk you home?" he asked, stroking your hand.

"Why would a wife mind her husband walking her home?" you said with a smirk. "And, I suppose..." you said, tapping your chin in thought. You couldn't help yourself, he was so handsome and you were hoping he was feeling whatever was sparking between the two of you here and wanted to explore it, too. "There are some other things that husbands and wives do once they're home that I wouldn't mind, either."

His eyebrows raised into his hairline at that.

"U-unless that was too forward," you stammered.

He kissed the palm of your hand. "No, Dear Heart, you're right. We must do our duties." He winked. He held your hand until you pulled out far from his reach, and then he watched you the rest of the night, stepping in to give you a hand with carrying things if a customer started to get to handsy, reminding them that you were 'married' and therefore off limits.

At the end of the night you waited for him to pack up his things and fetch his lute from the table he'd turned into his makeshift stage. He came over, lute slung across his back, and dramatically offered you his arm. "Milady."

"M'lord," you said with a laugh, sliding your arm though his. You pulled him through town towards your house, marveling at how normal it felt to be like this with Jaskier.

[angelellipsis-devilofdots]

a long list of songs that remind me of the witcher

okay i started this way too late at night when i was in a witcher mood so here we go, here's a deadass masterlist of some of the songs that remind me of the witcher (some might be a stretch but WHO CARES, not me)

[ SPOILERS AHEAD !! YOU'VE BEEN WARNED ]

ciri

nobody by the crane wives because of her and mistle

little astronaut by aku p

rose by the oh hellos mainly because of the lines "wars are raising for her" but also some other parts, this one is a stretch

take me to war by the crane wives reminds me vaguely of her during the voleth meir possession, but just her in general

run baby run by the rigs

welly boots by the amazing devil can't fully explain why, it just feels right

soldier, poet, king by the oh hellos she's the king, of course

hard times by ethel cain

eat you alive by the oh hellos

jaskier / dandelion

blossoms by the amazing devil season 2 character arc

the old witch sleep and the good man grace by the amazing devil season 2 character arc again

soldier, poet, king by the oh hellos the poet, for obvious reasons

dandelion by gabbie hanna

dear fellow traveler by sea wolf don't know why. it just seems like the kind of situation he'd get into

rule #35 - microphone by fish in a birdcage kind of reminds me of his plot in blood origin? i didn't like that show either i just love him

little lion man by mumford & sons reminds me of season 3 when he has to tell geralt that "ciri" was taken by nilfgaard

rule #2 - moonlight by fish in a birdcage just him being a golden retriever when he hyperfixates on a person

geralt

blood upon the snow by hozier and bear mccreary

soldier, poet, king by the oh hellos as the soldier

the wolf by the crane wives

yennefer

as good a reason by paris paloma

tongues & teeth by the crane wives i don't know it's just? her?? can't articulate it but it's her

burn your village by kiki rockwell well well, if it isn't the embodiment of yennefer of vengerberg

pray by the amazing devil

pretty little things by the crane wives

the horror and the wild by the amazing devil

yenralt

the angel of small death and the codeine scene by hozier

i want to live by borislav slavov

wild blue yonder by the amazing devil

danse macabre by the oh hellos i know it's instrumental but. hear me out. it reminds me of the melange

like real people do by hozier

radskier

rule #7 - angel tango by fish in a birdcage

caesar by the oh hellos (i have zero reasoning other than i've always imagined the song to an animatic of literally any kind of gay betrayal i DONT KNOW WHY its not at all relevant to the song)

no light, no light by florence + the machine

i want to live by borislav slavov

the garden by the crane wives

yennefer and ciri

arsonist's lullabye by hozier

burn your village by kiki rockwell but under different reasoning this time, so hear me out - "i am the vengeful daughter of the witch." In this essay I will

geralt and ciri

everybody wants to rule the world by lorde - or tears for fears since it's the original of course, i just feel like the lorde version is more fitting for the dark & dramatic tone of the witcher

rule #9 - child of the stars by fish in a birdcage

space song by beach house i think just because of the lines "it will take a while to make you smile" and "were you ever lost? was she ever found?" once again, a stretch

jaskier and ciri

inkpot gods by the amazing devil in the sense of their adorable uncle/niece dynamic (i interpret this song in a familial way in most contexts). it could also very well be a geralt and ciri song

that's all i can think of at the moment. i tried to look for geraskier but i couldn't find anything yet. reblog with songs that remind you of the witcher and i'll add them, this list will be updated as i think of more

[thedemonofcat]

Kaer Morhen keeps a lot of magic objects.

One of them is a mirror that shows you the most beautiful person in the world; however, it does so based on your subjective opinion. Beauty is inherently subjective, so the spell couldn’t work in an objective manner.

The young witchers used to dare each other to stand in front of the mirror. A risky thing to do if the person who showed up in the mirror was another trainee. Or—gods forbid—an instructor.

Nowadays, it just gathers dust in the crumbling Keep.

One cold winter’s day, Geralt stumbled upon a mirror locked away in some forgotten storage. At first, he was startled to find it didn’t show his reflection. Instead, it revealed the image of a strikingly beautiful man with blue eyes and brown hair.

The man in the mirror exhaled, fogging the glass just enough to trace words with his finger.

“Help me.”

Logically, Geralt knew he should probably question why someone had trapped another in a mirror. But in that moment, his instincts took over. Without thinking, he reached out a hand. To his surprise, it passed through the glass, allowing him to grasp the other man’s hand and pull him out.

The man stumbled free, brushing off centuries of imprisonment with a sigh. “A hundred years trapped in that blasted mirror,” he muttered, his voice lilting like music. He glanced up at Geralt with a bright smile. “I’m Julian, by the way, though most people—well, most people did—call me Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” the witcher replied curtly, his eyes narrowing. “Why were you trapped in a mirror?”

Jaskier sighed dramatically, as if recounting an age-old grievance. “I was a Muse in training,” he began, noting Geralt’s confused expression. “You know, a Muse. We inspire mortals—help them create art, music, poetry. I was being groomed to become the next Muse of Music and Poetry.”

“I’m guessing things didn’t go as planned,” Geralt said dryly.

“Oh, it was going splendidly at first! I’d even reached the part where I gained immortality,” Jaskier replied, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone. “Then some sorcerer decided to trap me in a mirror just because I refused to become his personal Muse.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve been stuck in there all this time?”

“Not just stuck,” Jaskier said with a huff. “The sorcerer, you see, was a terrible narcissist. He cursed the mirror to show only the most beautiful person. Naturally, he assumed it would reflect himself. Spent so long admiring his own face that he didn’t even notice the mob coming to kill him.” Jaskier grinned impishly, then leaned closer to Geralt. “You, my dear Witcher, are the first person to actually see me in a century.”

Geralt stared at him, unsure whether to be flattered or exasperated.

[rileytwenty]

Her Price

(Geralt x OC)

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

Summary: Former brothel worker, Mary, is traveling with Geralt and Jaskier. In an attempt to contribute more to the group, she does something rash that forces a confession out of Geralt. Big angst.

TW: prostitution, rough/low-key abusive sex, bite marks/bruises/hickies left from said sex, dom! male, arguing, swearing

Mary had joined Geralt and Jaskier on their journey about a month ago. Since then, the trio had fallen into a nice rhythm. At each town they visited, Mary’s job was one she completed while the boys waited on the edge of town. First, she would go into the market and use her “charms” (breasts) to persuade the merchants to give her a discounted price for any supplies they needed.

Next up was the inn, where she would flirt her way into getting the innkeeper to give her and her “friends” a cheaper rate. Only then, once prices were negotiated low enough, would the boys come into town. This system worked without a hitch nine times out of ten.

Occasionally, the innkeep would be too upset by her friends turning out not to be a couple more pretty women –one of them was a Witcher, for fuck’s sake– and he’d kick them out. Though, this had only happened a few times, and Mary has become careful to use more vague language about her travel companions.

Geralt would go out and fulfill any contracts whilst Jaskier performed at the local inn or tavern. This is where they got their coin from.

Sometimes, Mary’s job would also include patching up Geralt after a bad run-in with a creature. She knew a fair bit about fixing injuries, seeing as her mother had been her town’s Healer growing up. Before she died, that is, and Mary was forced to join a brothel to keep off the streets.

As disgusted as people were about her profession, she didn’t mind it much. Sex never meant anything to her except for a steady income, and it was easy with most people. However, it has left her in unsafe situations at times, so she was glad to be avoiding those.

Ultimately, she was more grateful for the sense of adventure she received from traveling with the pair than she was for the opportunity to leave the brothel.

Just an hour ago, they’d arrived at a small town in Velen, and the usual plan was going swimmingly. Mary had gotten all necessary supplies with coin to spare, and had negotiated their stay at the inn for nearly half price! A new record for her. Excited to share the news, she went and retrieved Geralt and Jaskier from the outskirts of town.

“Good job! What did you do, sleep with him?” Jaskier joked, throwing an arm around her shoulders in celebration.

His statement made her slip away in a cloud of thought: did he silently want her to? Had that been his expectation all along? She could probably get the price even lower if she did sleep with the crooked-looking innkeeper. Truthfully, she didn’t do a whole lot of the heavy-lifting, and maybe this was Jaskier commending her for what he thought was her finally pulling her weight. However, she didn’t get a chance to be uncomfortable for more than a moment, because in typical Jakier fashion, he just kept talking.

“Damn, Mary. I think that’s your best bargain yet! You hear that Geralt? We have coin enough for all the ale we can drink! Mary, will you drink, too? You never do, and I find it quite strange. Of course, if you don’t want to…”

She had learned to tune out his ramblings after a week or so. He hardly ever sought a reply, and a simple humm sufficed when he did.

After tying up Roach, they finally meandered into the inn. The innkeeper merely laughed at the sight. “You’re one tricky lady, you know.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. I do try.” Mary took a small but dramatic bow.

The three of them all headed to their separate rooms to put away their belongings.

Geralt quickly headed off to fulfill a drowner contract, leaving Jaskier to make some coin downstairs.

Mary had no job left to do, and she was starting to feel useless; Jaskier’s joke had wedged itself into her thoughts.

How much did she contribute, really? Enough to not put a strain on the two? They had been awfully tired lately, the both of them.

Guilt overwhelmed her. Of course, they were too decent of men to actually ask her to sell her body, but perhaps it had been an expectation all along, or the reason they brought her along in the first place — the thought of more coin, and free inn visits. Had she been a burden, not using her skillset to provide for the group the way they did?

Geralt was always saying that he needed new armor, or supplies to upgrade what he had, but it was too far out of their price range. She considered the idea of him being able to better defend himself if only they had more money. Increased coin meant a decrease in his injuries.

Well, it was decided. She needed to start making as much coin as the other two did.

There was no brothel in this town, so no one would see her as competition if she went downstairs and did some business.

Most men in the town lived there and didn’t really travel, she had discovered through talking with a few. Some were married, but quite a few were single or waiting for a girl to reach maturity.

If they liked the young ones, she could accommodate. She knew how to look up through her lashes and act a little dumb.

After making her way around the room, swaying to Jaskier’s music, she finally spotted her target. He was looking at her almost predatorily, and his clothing quality told her he had the money she needed.

She approached, a sadness in her glossy eyes as she took a seat right beside him.

“Hello, missy.”

“Hi.” She made her voice nice and sweet and sent him a smile.

“You alright, there? Lookin’ awfully distraught.” He noted, turning in his chair to face her.

“Mm-hmm. ‘M fine.” She let a tear fall.

“Don’t give me that crap, sweetheart. Tell me the truth.” He was commanding it of her, his pupils large in satisfaction.

She sniffled. “It’s just… it’s… I don’t want to complain, I-“

“Honey, it’s okay. You can tell me.”

She stared at him with her big doe eyes before relenting.

“It’s my ma. She’s sick. I’ve been trying to make enough money for her medicine, but it’s so hard, trying to make coin in this region. I’m not strong enough to help on the farms, and I-“ She let her voice crack.

“Oh, it’s alright.” He rubbed her back, but it was awfully low to be comforting.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He paused to think while she wiped her eyes. “Well, I could help you out.”

“Really?” She shot her head up in excitement. “Thank you, I-“

“But not for free.”

Exactly as she foresaw, word for word.

“W-What do you mean? I don’t have anything to trade, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, we’ll come to an agreement, I’m sure. You have a room here?”

“Uh-huh.”

He tsked at her. “Use your words, now.” She wrote that in her brain for later, it would certainly come in handy.

“Yes. Yes, I do. The third one on the left is mine.”

“Good.” He placed his hand on her jaw in encouragement. “Let’s head up there, shall we?”

Faking her virginity had always been easy, especially when she was younger and could tell men who were passing through that it was her first day on the job. Now, she had to lie a little more complexly, but it still wasn't hard.

The man had surprising stamina, and they went for at least three hours. Long enough for Geralt to come back.

He and Jaskier shared their evening experiences as they trudged up to their rooms. The noises from down the hall stopped them both abruptly.

“Who’s in there with her?” Jaskier asked quietly.

“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s supposed to have been with her all evening!”

“I saw her flirting with quite a few of the men. However, I didn’t know she took one to bed.”

Geralt was shocked to hear this— Jask knew of his feelings for her.

His tone was piercing, “And you just let her?”

Jaskier turned to his companion with his brows raised. “Let her? She’s not a child, Geralt. She may sleep with whoever she pleases.”

“I-“

“And don’t you complain about those feelings of yours. You’ve had plenty of opportunity to express them, and you’ve been too chicken shit. These are the consequences.”

Jaskier was done with Geralt’s emotionally-constipated bullshit and slammed the door to his room.

Geralt’s hearing was superior to most, meaning that he could hear every sound escaping her lips.

So many times had he imagined those sounds, had he prayed that he’d get to hear them. Now that they rung upon his ears, he hated it.

He wanted to draw those beautiful moans out of her. Not some Velen low-life who would be too wrapped up in his own pleasure to truly care about hers.

He didn’t mean to keep listening, but he was frozen with indecision. Though, the more he did, he could hear the slight inflection in her tone that indicated the fakeness of these sounds. She was incredibly good at hiding it, but it was there.

Why was she in bed with this man if she was not enjoying herself? He had to remind himself of Jaskier’s words. If she wanted to stop it, she would.

He couldn’t take another minute of hearing their bodies collide, thus he stormed out of the inn. He couldn’t sleep next to that.

Instead, he found himself in the stables with Roach. She was giving him a look as though she knew the situation, and was judging him for it.

“Fuck off, I know.”

He couldn’t be mad at Mary, he really couldn’t. He had given her no inclination of his desire for her. She was completely unaware of the pain she was causing him. It was not her fault. The only person to blame here was himself.

He would tell her in the morning, he decided.

She would never sleep with anyone but him again. She would never feel the need to, he would make sure of that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Mary woke up sore and bruised. The man —whom she never learnt the name of, as he preferred “sir”— had been a rougher man than she’d taken him for. He liked to see her cry.

Nothing she couldn’t handle, but still draining. All in all, it was not one of her favorite nights.

However, she didn’t mind it so much after finding the large sack of coin on her nightstand, far more than she expected, and definitely enough for Geralt to buy new armor with.

She squealed in glee, dressing herself and packing up quickly. When she exited her room, Jaskier was just about to knock.

“Oh, Jask. Good morning!”

His eyes widened at the sight of her skin littered in marks. “Jesus, Mary! Did that man do that to you?”

She followed his line of vision down to her chest, arms and neck, only now noticing how bad it looked. “Oh, God. I look like the whoriest whore around.” She tugged on her coat, despite it being a humid, late-spring day.

“Doesn’t that hurt? Mary-“

“Please, Jask. This is nothing. I’ve had men do far worse. Anyway, where’s Geralt?”

Jaskier hesitated to respond, but eventually let her drop the subject.

“He left yesterday, haven’t seen him since.”

“Left? To go where?”

“Away, I’d guess. You were pretty loud last night.”

Mary scoffed. “Oh, please. I’ve seen him sleep in a roaring tavern before.”

Jaskier only shrugged, not finding anything to say that wouldn’t reveal what was Geralt’s to tell her.

She shoved past him to go find the witcher. With Jaskier in tow, she stepped outside. Where would he have gone? Not far, likely.

“Geralt?” She called.

It took him a minute to get to his feet, but he soon emerged from the stables.

“Mary, I have something to tell you-“

“No, Geralt, you listen! We spent coin on that room, and you decided not to sleep in it because of a little noise next door? I doubt it’s something you’ve never heard before, and now you’re going to be complaining about your back for days. Seriously, you couldn’t just cover your head with a pillow?”

He was astounded. “It… wasn’t the noise keeping me awake.”

“Whatever, it hardly matters now.” She was determined to get back on track with her joy. “Here,” she thrust the sack of money at him, “When I was out yesterday, I saw an armorer by the market. I stopped in to see if anything was cheap, and they had the supplies to upgrade your Griffin armor. Expensive, of course, but not a problem now! Or you could wait until the next town, see what they have. Up to you.”

Both Jaskier and Geralt were puzzled, but then in a moment it clicked.

“Mary… where did you get that?” Jaskier was walking on eggshells with the tension floating around.

She was growing offended by the expression they both wore and she scoffed. “I’ll give you one guess.”

No guesses were needed. They knew.

Geralt spoke. “Look, you’re welcome to sleep with whomever you please. It’s just-“ He was struggling, he always had trouble expressing things like this, “I want to be the only man in bed with you.”

Mary blinked. Once, twice. “What?”

He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I should have said something before. I lacked the courage, and that’s on me. If you don’t feel the same-“

“I do. Feel the same.” He didn't mind her interrupting this time.

“You do?”

“Mm-hmm.” She was smiling so widely she was at risk of her face cracking open.

Officially breaching a grin, he pulled her to him by the hips.

Cupping his face, she brought his lips down to hers. She was so indescribably happy to be held by him that she smiled through the kiss.

His arms roamed up her sides and back, and as his hand slid across a bite mark on her shoulder blade, she flinched.

Geralt pulled away, looking into her eyes for answers.

“It’s fine, sorry.” She dismissed, leaning in to return to the kiss, though he didn't allow it.

A glance at Jaskier’s concerned face confirmed to him that she was injured. “Mary, are you hurt?” He moved to take her coat off to get a better look, but she stepped back.

“It’s alright, nothing that won’t heal up in a few days.”

He looked to Jaskier, as Mary was clearly not going to discuss it.

“Jaskier, don’t you say a fucking word. It’s none of his business. None of yours, either.”

Geralt only had to glare at Jaskier for him to crack and jump behind the witcher. “Sorry, Mary, but he scares me more. When I walked into her room this morning I saw that she was covered with… marks, of all kinds, from her�� erm, nighttime activities.”

“Marks? From- Mary, did he do something to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t agree to. The cruel ones are rare, but they always pay the best. Worth it, I’d say.”

Geralt shut his eyes for a moment, willing his feelings down. “Show me.”

She didn’t want to, for worry that he would think differently of her. “Why, so you can humiliate me? Call me a whore?”

“No. I just want to see.”

Sighing, she pulled off her coat. He was going to think of her what he was going to think of her. What everyone thinks of her.

Geralt was transfixed with every spot on her skin. Bruises in the shapes of hands, crescent shaped indents from fingernails, scrapes, teeth imprints. He gently grazed his hands over them.

“Why would you let him do this?” He was full of sorrow. She had allowed someone to hurt her, “For what? Coin? We had plenty.”

“I suppose it was foolish. I felt like I had to contribute something, to earn us money the way you two do, but sex is my only skill.”

“Mary.” So much emotion pushed into one word. Defeat, mostly. He’d failed to make her feel taken care of.

Geralt was too overcome with emotion, so Jaskier took over the speaking. “I wish you’d have spoken to one of us. We’re doing fine, you didn’t need to do this to yourself. You’re contributing perfectly well, getting us those bargains at the markets and inns. Saving coin is just as good as making it.”

Geralt’s eyes were still staring into space, but he spoke. “I’m so sorry, that you thought you had to accept that man’s abuse for money. In future, I’ll take more contracts.“

“No! No. The whole point of me wanting to buy that armor was that I wanted you as safe as possible. Which, with you being a witcher and all, I know isn’t much, but armor is crucial to your fighting style. Better armor means less injuries for you.”

“That’s not something you should be concerned about. Promise me, you’ll never let this happen to you again.”

She looked into his eyes, which still couldn’t focus on her, and saw the pain. The regret, the guilt.

“Okay, I promise.” She grabbed his hands in hers, drawing his attention back to her. “The only hands on me from now on will be yours.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, lightly so as to not disturb her bruises. She looped hers around his neck.

Geralt was still distraught. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

She wanted to lighten the mood. “Oh, you’re that good, huh?”

Geralt let her cheer him up. “Being a witcher does have its perks.”

[watch-that-writer-burnnn]

Would you care to dance, my dear?

Pairing: Jaskier x female reader

Summary: Jaskier has been invited to perform at a ball and has convinced the reader to attend with him, but she is uncomfortable - that is, until she sneaks into the garden for some air and Jaskier notices and joins her.

Words: 2.6K

Warnings: lots of fluff, reader implied to be female, close friends to lovers, lots of hugs and singing from the bard, mutual pining, reader has a lot of thoughts at the start but I promise there is heaps of soft bard fluff after!

A/n: So I was thinking about the lack of Jaskier fics with a demisexual reader, and came up with this. It certainly doesn't have to be read that way, but it was in the back of my mind when I was writing. The song lyrics are from Fair by The Amazing Devil, it's a beautiful song you should all go listen to. As always it's unedited, so apologies for errors. Hope you enjoy!

You hunched slightly in your seat as your surroundings continued to encroach on you. Loud chatter and laughter, the clinking of glasses, expensive shoes tapping against tiles, figures brushing past you on their way to the ballroom floor.

No one had asked you to dance yet, thank the gods. You were sure it had something to do with your miserable expression and the men's pants and doublet you wore, in stark contrast to the elaborate gowns and hairstyles of the other women in the room.

The night was only made more tolerable, of course, by your companion, Jaskier. An excellent bard, and your best friend, he'd asked you to accompany him to the party at which he'd been invited to perform. You were reluctant at first, preferring the quiet comfort of a tavern or a night under the stars, but he'd seemed so disappointed by your initial refusal, staring at you with those sad blue eyes until you finally caved. The clothing was another issue, as you owned nothing formal, hated dresses in fact, but he gladly lent you one of his simpler outfits, insisting you'd look wonderful in anything. You'd scoffed at his words, but were appreciative of his consideration for your comfort.

He danced about the room, strumming a playful tune on his lute, grinning from ear to ear as he winked at various party goers. You rolled your eyes, unable to help a smirk as you watched. Ever the performer, it wasn't only his music, but his whole manner that served to entertain the guests. He always looked beautiful in this setting, radiating happiness, thoroughly in his element. His blue doublet was open, the low cut shirt beneath revealing a smattering of hair on his chest, which heaved as he sung. His boyish fringe was swept across his face, which seemed almost sculpted, the golden glow of the many candles in the room accentuating his delicate features. Then there were his eyes. You loved his eyes, a mesmerising blue, always seeming to convey such an unbelievable level of meaning and emotion, drawing you in the longer you looked.

Noticing you staring his way, he gladly returned the smile you didn't realise you'd given him, his eyes seeming to light up even more upon meeting yours. You gave him an encouraging nod, and he grinned, launching into another song. At least he wouldn't feel guilty for dragging you along if you pretended to be enjoying yourself.

As the night dragged on, you found it harder to maintain your false appearance of positivity. You fiddled with the undoubtedly expensive food on your plate, unsure exactly of what it was and unwilling to find out. You had rejected a couple of young men who'd offered you dances, finding yourself as completely uninterested as usual, instead mumbling apologies and excuses about a sore leg. As the guests became louder, drunker, rowdier, you finally stood abruptly, in dire need of fresh air. You threw a final glance in the direction of the bard, who was currently preoccupied with entertaining a gaggle of young women with what was most likely some dramatic tale of dreamy lovers. He shouldn't notice if you stepped outside for a few minutes. Taking a deep breath, you wove your way towards the large double doors leading to the gardens beyond.

***

Taking deep breaths of fresh air, you wandered between rows of brightly coloured flowers, running your fingers through the petals as their sweet scents brushed across your nose. You manoeuvred between carefully trimmed hedges until you reached a low marbled bench, placed before an intricately carved fountain with mythical figures intertwined beneath the rippling water. Sitting down with a sigh, you ran your fingers through your messy hair, a nervous habit you'd never quite managed to shake. You didn't know why you were so averse to these kinds of gatherings. The people? The clothes? The food? Maybe it was just the atmosphere, the fake smiles, the superficial laughter, the whispered barbs whenever someone turned their back.

Or maybe you were just paranoid. Maybe all these people really were enjoying themselves. Maybe you should be too - you were, after all, invited as a guest, arriving with your dearest friend, a man for who many here would give a great deal in order to take your place at his side. Many of the women he'd thrown nonchalant winks and smiles at tonight would be jealous of a relationship which doesn't actually exist, like many others who'd assumed the pair of you to be lovers simply by observing your innate closeness. You'd never understand the way all those women could so quickly fall for him, for anyone, really. He'd often encouraged it, of course - less so now, you'd noticed, but certainly when you'd first met. He seemed to fall in love with everyone, and they always seemed immediately infatuated with him in return. While his reputation wasn't as extensive as he'd have people believe, he had a reputation nonetheless. Still, it was something you hadn't even considered when you'd first met, and Jaskier seemed just as glad of your friendship as he would have been had you sought something more.

Of course, you'd be lying if you said you hadn't grown to find him quite attractive, beautiful in spirit and appearance, with a kind, empathetic soul. You found your thoughts drifting, lulled into a daze by the soft trickle of water from the fountain and the distant chirping of night insects. You really loved him, that much you knew. He was your constant companion, your closest friend, your bard. But recently you couldn't help but find yourself wondering if he could be... not something more, that implied your friendship was of far less significance than it was, but... something different. Why now? You'd been friends for years. Why couldn't you have had these feelings and acted on them from the start? Or why couldn't they have just stayed away completely? You groaned, frustrated with your own thoughts, placing your head in your hands.

"Are you alright?"

You turned at the voice, which was deep, melodic, instantly recognisable, and laced with concern.

Jaskier stood uncertainly behind you, absentmindedly fiddling with the strap of his lute, pouting thoughtfully as he awaited your response.

"Oh I'm... I'm fine, Jask. Sorry, I didn't mean to distract you from your performance-"

"You've nothing to be sorry about, my dear," he insisted, moving to take a seat at your side, resting his lute carefully on the bench beside him. You sat in silence for a moment, the soft sounds of the night filling the air, before he spoke again.

"If anyone should be sorry, it's me. I know you hate these sorts of things, I..." He looked down, tugging at the frilly cuffs of his shirt. "It was selfish of me to drag you along."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jask. I agreed to come, didn't I? I liked the idea of spending the night with you," you felt your face redden at the poor choice of words, but chose to stumble forwards over your mistake, "I- it's a nice evening, and..." you reached down beside you, grasping one of his hands in your own. "... And I really am glad to be here with you."

He met your eyes as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a cheeky smile that slowly spread across his entire face. It was infectious, and you quickly found yourself beaming back.

"I'm happy to hear it, dear heart," he said, before shuffling closer, leaning in to rest his head on your shoulder. His fluffy hair, which shone a golden brown in the moonlight, brushed against your neck and chin, making you laugh as he squirmed about, trying to find a comfortable position.

"Are you going to wriggle around like that all night?" You teased. "Don't you have a performance you need to get back to?"

"Everything I need is right here," he murmured against your neck, voice far more gravelly than you'd expected, his hot breath sending goosebumps across your skin. That was... That was new. You hesitated a second, before leaning back against him, the warmth of his partially exposed chest pressing into your shoulder as you rested your head against his.

"Can we just... Stay like this a while?" He breathed, eyes fluttering shut.

"Of course," you murmured back, closing your own eyes.

You enjoyed each other's silent company and the warmth of your bodies pressed together as the moon crept higher in the sky. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with his fingers, lacing them between your own. Reaching up with your other hand, you ran your fingers through his hair, drawing what sounded almost like a low moan from the bard, which was quickly interrupted by a cough as he stood abruptly.

"What's wrong?" You asked, staring up at him, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. Gods, you didn't know how he could have looked any more beautiful than before, but he did. The night cast shadows across his pale skin, accentuating his delicately sculpted features with a soft blue glow. His eyes seemed to burn with energy as they stared back into your own, and you noticed a deep red glowing through parts of his ruffled hair in the light of the moon. His doublet was crumpled from where he'd leant against you, and the low cut shirt beneath was pulled far to one side, revealing a teasingly large amount of his chest. You forced yourself to tear your eyes away as he responded.

"Oh, it's... It's nothing. I... Do you... That is..." He stopped for a second, composing himself, before his face lit up, seeming to have thought of something. An embarrassed smile broke through his features as he walked up to you, placing one hand behind his back and outstretching the other towards you.

"Would you care to dance, my dear?"

Heart pounding in your chest, you smiled, before reaching up to take his hand.

"I- I would love to, my sweet bard."

He let out a nervous laugh of relief at your response, stepping back as you rose from your seat, eyes locked on each other. His fingers, calloused from years of music, tenderly grasped your own, before his hands slid down your sides to find purchase at your waist, while you placed your arms either side of his head. You held your breath, the contact making you shiver, your heart fluttering in your chest.

What is wrong with me? It's not like this is the first time we've been this close. We've shared a horse, a bed, even danced together a couple of times at village fairs. Why should this be any different?

Too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice your lack of composure, Jaskier confidently led you around the small patch of ground hidden between hedges, your own natural dance floor, with the sighing wind, bubbling water and singing crickets providing the music. He absentmindedly bit his lip as his mind swirled, heart thumping just as fast as yours.

Why am I doing this? Of course we're close, we always have been, but this is different and I know it. I'm an idiot, a hopeful idiot. She's never been interested in me, and, as much as it wounds me, I promised myself to never let my feelings get in the way of our friendship. Promised to never tell her just how deeply in love with her I am.

Jaskier pushed his troubled thoughts aside. He wanted to enjoy this moment, and wanted you to as well. Besides, maybe he could find out, once and for all, how you truly felt about him. Or at least, ease his aching heart by finally revealing his own feelings, regardless of your response.

Taking a deep breath, steadying his trembling body, he slowly leant towards you, until his lips barely brushed your ear. A pleasant warmth shot through your stomach at his unexpected touch, and you closed your eyes with a hum of contentment, welcoming his body as your arms pulled him closer.

Softly, he began to sing as the pair of you continued to sway in the moonlight, words raw and full of pure, unbridled emotion as he murmured them into your ear.

"It's what my heart just yearns to say, in ways that can't be said..."

You tightened your grip, clinging to him in silent awe as he continued the song, each new lyric causing heat to rise to your skin in the cool night air.

"Oh, how, oh, how unreasonably in love I am with everything you do, I'll spend my days so close to you, 'cause if I'm standing here, maybe everyone will think I'm alright."

You'd stopped moving now, not daring to pull away, confused by the tide of emotions flooding your mind. What was this song? You'd never heard it before, but it seemed to come straight from the heart. Was it possible...

"It's not fair, it's not fair how much I love you"

At these words, something clicked. You kicked yourself for not realising sooner. How could you be so blind? Forget your own emotions, you knew you hadn't always been in love with Jaskier. But him? He'd been infatuated with you from the start. Yet he'd kept quiet about his feelings, until he knew they were reciprocated. Your poor, kind, beautiful bard.

You closed what little distance was left between you two, burying your head into his chest. His voice trailed off as he gently slid his hands further around your waist, returning the embrace. He gave a deep sigh, hugging you as though he never wanted to let you go, nestling his head against your neck.

Eventually, you felt his lips brush your jaw as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, shining eyes filled with adoration, an expression of deep satisfaction resting on his face.

"That was... That was..." He breathed, fingers gently trailing across your back.

"It was beautiful," you finished, fingers twirling the fluffy brown curls at the back of his neck.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said softly, a half smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, as his eyes flitted across your features, eventually dropping to your lips.

"This feels too good to be true..." He mumbled, closing his eyes as he gently brought his lips forward to brush yours.

"Yet here we are," you whispered against his mouth, before finally pressing your lips into his own with a sigh.

He kissed you carefully, deliberately, the heat of your bodies pressed so close together serving only to fuel the motion. You slid your hands up the back of his shirt and he moaned into your mouth, sending another wave of warmth through your body. You allowed him to deepen the kiss, his tongue lapping and darting into your mouth as he made a series of small, pleasured noises, whimpering and gasping as you continued playing with his hair.

When you finally seperated, you were both breathing heavily, hearts pounding. Jaskier's appearance made you weak, as you examined his lust darkened eyes, the soft blush creeping across his cheeks, and his puffy, crimson lips. He looked so ruffled, like a startled baby animal, that you couldn't help but giggle. You moved to rest your forehead against him, his eyelashes briefly kissing your cheek as he moved to wrap his arms around your waist.

"I love you, Jaskier," you said, running your thumb across his cheek, causing him to hum softly at the touch. You hesitated, grinning, before adding, "thanks for waiting for me."

"Of course, dear heart," he said, cheeky smile once again tugging at the corner of his mouth, before adding more seriously, "You're more important to me than you could ever know."

"I think I have some idea," you smirked, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling his lips into your smile.

[fangirleaconmigo]

On the topic of book scenes that were changed, one of them that interests me is the scene where it seems Geralt and Yen have died in The Last Wish. In the book, the mayor of the town starts to go on about how it’s so sad that Geralt died but don’t worry they’ll build him a statue. This greatly angers Dandelion and he yells at the mayor. In the show, Jaskier is the one who’s like “This is so sad, but don’t worry I’ll write the greatest ballad for Geralt!”. The complete change of the personality of the same character is what interests me. I love reading your analysis, so I was wondering if you have any thoughts on this. I know the change was probably for comedy purposes and that this is pretty insignificant, but to me, Dandelion’s reaction in the book just really screamed such a deep love for Geralt so I found the change a bit disappointing.

The Last Wish vs Bottle Appetites - Dandelion's reaction to Geralt's 'death'

Hi Nonny! Thanks for the ask. You sent this to me so very long ago, you may have completely moved on. BUT I figure if you aren't still interested, someone who follows me might be, so here I go:

Your ask is about a compare/contrast the book vs TWN scene where Geralt is presumed dead, and we’re comparing how Jaskier(Dandelion) react to his possible death, and how much emotional weight the scene is given.

I'll start by summarizing, but just a note: Dandelion does something in the books that I don't know how to interpret and maybe you (or anyone reading) can give their thoughts.

Ok, we’ll start with the show.

Bottled Appetites

In the show, the mayor and town dignitaries are not in the scene where Jaskier thinks Geralt is dead. It is just him and Chireadan looking at the building. Things are quiet, and Jaskier assumes they are dead.

"Are you sure they were up there? This can't be happening. This can't be happening."

I gotta say, Joey Batey, sells the emotion here. He has the most expressive eyes. He could do just about anything with any material, I think.

"Why did Geralt go in there, it doesn't make any sense...to save a mad fucking witch, why?"

It cuts away to Geralt and Yen. When it comes back to Jaskier, he is on his knees, assuming they are dead. Here is what he says:

"What am I supposed to do now, hm? It wasn't supposed to go this way. I'm going to write you the best song, so that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw. And I will sing it, for the rest of my days. "

That is what you means as far as it seeming like he's giving up rather quickly. As he speaks, most of the camera work is on Chireadan, who goes to actually look whether they are dead. Chireadan stands in front of the window. At the end of his speaking part, the camera is back on Jaskier for the punchline.

"He always said I had the most wonderful singing voice."

And that’s the jokey joke. It references the b plot of Geralt feeling bad that he called Jaskier’s voice a ‘pie with no filling’. When Jaskier is hurt, Geralt says that he doesn’t want that to be the last thing Jaskier remembers.

Clearly, that would not be the last thing Jaskier remembers, because he will just change it to suit himself. It's a little of the ol’ Dandelion impenetrable ego performance.

And that is the 'piercing' of the dramatic moment you referenced.

But then Chireadan comes back.

"They're alive."

And Jaskier is like...

"Bollocks."

They go look in the window together, and see them having sex. Chireadan pulls Jaskier away.

The Last Wish

In the books, it's quite a different set up. 

Dandelion is with the Mayor (Neville) and Priest of Rinde (Krepp), while Geralt fights with Yen in the building. 

The reason for this reflects what I think is the biggest difference between the two stories-Yen.

Much like in the show, Yen did send Geralt to beat up the townspeople who are against her. (the tone is quite different, and the show doesn’t show it, but the basics are the same)

However, Yen does not want Geralt to get into legal trouble on her account, so she sends Dandelion back through a portal, and asks him to use his last wish to help Geralt.

Dandelion drops back through the portal.

“Innocent!” yelled the poet in a clear melodious tenor, sitting on the floor and looking around, his eyes vague. “Innocent! The witcher is innocent! I wish you to believe it!”

So now Dandelion is with the mayor and the priest, and Geralt goes to help Yen against Dandelion’s advice. Like in the show, Dandelion advises against it.

“Geralt,” said Dandelion, ‘you’ve gone stark raving mad! Keep away from that bloody strangler!”

And look, he has a point. He’s basically like, she is choosing this. She wants to do this. She used us both against our will. She is powerful and terrifying (the subtext being, why would she need you. If she’s dead set on this shit, then let her do it)

But of course Geralt goes. He is already falling for Yen. I think in the books it’s more clear as to why. But that’s sort of beside the point of this post. (At some point I want to do a compare/contrast Yenralt.) 

But anywho. In the books, Dandelion is with the mayor, the priest, and Chireadan and they are watching the building from a safe distance.

Dandelion is distraught.

“What’s happening there!” Dandelion, clinging to the wall, strained his neck, trying to see in the downpour. “Tell me what is happening there, damnit!”

Then as the house begins to fall, 

“Why did Geralt have to go in there?” groaned Dandelion. What the hell for? Why did he insist on saving that witch? Why? Chireadan, do you understand?”

Of course, Chireadan is in love with Yen, so he understand perfectly.

Then, Dandelion is terrified Geralt will die. He is upset, he is wailing.

“Are they both going to die?” wailed Dandelion. “How come, Krepp why? After all, the witcher--Why by all perfidious and unexpected plagues, isn’t he escaping? Why? What’s keeping him? Why doesn’t he leave the bloody witch to her fate and run away? It’s senseless...It’s suicide. And plain idiocy!”

The mayor is not so distraught.

“It’s his job, after all,” interrupted Neville. “The witcher is saving my town...if he chases the demon away, I’ll reward him handsomely...”

Then Dandelion cuts him off. 

Dandelion snatched the hat decorated with the heron feather from his head, spat into it, threw it in the mud and trampled it, spitting out words in various languages as he did.

Now, I believe that spitting in one’s hat is considered something for good luck, and in some cultures is meant to ward off evil spirits. Dandelion looks down on superstition as is quite explicitly atheist, yet he resorts to it the minute he’s desperate on Geralt’s behalf.

(If I am reading that correctly. It could also be an expression of antipathy for Neville for all I know. Maybe someone else can comment, I'm just guessing)

And then Dandelion realizes something. They explained to him that Geralt actually has the wishes, but then it dawns on him that Geralt could use it to save himself.

“But he’s...” he groaned suddenly, “still got one wish in reserve. He could save both her, and himself! Mr. Krepp!”

The priest explains how difficult that would be. Then the house ‘explodes’ and the djinn escapes. The mayor and the owner of the house rejoice. The owner of the house has previously said that he has good insurance, so he says ‘what a wonderful ruin’. Dandelion is not so happy. In fact he is distraught, understandably. He sees that the house has fallen and he is afraid they are dead.

“Dammit, dammit!” hollered Dandelion...”it’s shattered the entire house! Nobody could survive that! Nobody I tell you!”

The mayor jumps straight to the same conclusion, but it significantly happier about it.

The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, has sacrificed himself for the town,” mayor Nevills said ceremoniously. “We won’t forget him. We’ll revere him. We’ll think of a statue...”

Dandelion does not react well to this. This is the part you were referencing.

Dandelion shook a piece of wicker matting bound with clay from his shoulder, brushed his jerkin free of lumps of rain-dampened plaster, looked at the mayor and, in a few well-chosen words, expressed his opinion about sacrifice, reverence, memory, and all the statues in the world.

I kind of wish the book had spelled out exactly what he said because I think it would have been amazing. But Dandelion tears him a new asshole and tells him where he can put the statue. We just don't get to hear the exact words.

Then it grows quiet. Dandelion is still afraid they are dead, but decides to go look to make sure.

By all the gods,” muttered Dandelion, “what silence...they’re dead I tell you. Either they’ve killed each other, or my djinn’s finished them off.”

Notice he still calls it 'my djinn', I think because he found it. He clearly is ready to blame himself. But then they go take a look at the ruins. They start to hear noises.

“Yennefer’s alive,” said Dandelion suddenly, straining his musical ear. “I heard her moan. There, she moaned again.”

And like in the show, Chireadan looks through a broken window, seeing Geralt and Yen having sex.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. “Let’s not disturb them.” 

Chireadan is heartbroken, because he loves Yen.

Of course Dandelion is curious and doesn’t want to be put off (as always).

“What are they doing,” Dandelion was curious. “Tell me damnit!” The elf smiled very, very sadly. “I don’t like grand words,” he said. “And it is impossible to give it a name without using grand words.”

I think because of the involvement of the mayor, showing the way they see the witcher (useful, but highly expendable) next to Dandelion (that’s my friend, motherfucker) is interesting. I like that Dandelion tears him a new one.

The moment is definitely moved past much more quickly in the show, though to be fair they have a lot less time.

But what does everyone else think? If you’ve got this far, please share your thoughts! Which version of the story do you prefer? And what was the hat spitting all about?

[d-andilion]

sing me a tragedy

(geraskier, E, canon compliant, blood origin spoilers, getting together, angst with a happy ending, vague and handwavy smut, it barely counts tbh, 2.6k)

read on ao3

Hidden in the underground, far from the beaten path, Geralt watches his bard whip a crowd of humanity’s most despised into a beer-fueled frenzy. Not to earn their supper or their lodgings this time; the elf who owns this worn but well-loved waystation refused to accept coin for either after what the Sandpiper did for her grandson, seeing the boy on a ship to her arms. Right now, Jaskier plays because their fellow patrons chanted his name until he obliged. 

Geralt has to admit that Jaskier has more than proven himself as a travel companion these past few weeks. Since leaving the safety of Kaer Morhen, Ciri in Yennefer’s care for the season, finding places to keep their heads low has been a challenge. A challenge, at least, among humans. The Sandpiper, however, has won great favor with elves, dwarves, halflings, and just about every other intelligent species on the Continent. In their carefully concealed taverns and speakeasies, Jaskier is received like royalty.

“Sing loud and proud

The Song of the Seven

Be you halfling or gnome,

Or Dwarven or Elven”

This song is a new one. In fairness, most of Jaskier’s tunes are new to Geralt these days. Jaskier hasn’t abandoned his older repertoire, but he avoids large swathes of it to ward off any unwelcome attention. This one, though, feels different than the other additions to Jaskier’s catalog since their parting. More heroics than heartbreak, and a fiery call to action that sets it apart from his typical drama and sensation.

So much about Jaskier is different than Geralt remembers, his songs being the least of it. A few years is nothing in the grand scheme of their history, even less compared to all the years Geralt has lived, but it feels as though decades have slipped between his fingers. So many things have changed, things that Geralt didn’t realize he’d come to see as fixtures in his world until they disappeared, some of them forever. 

There’s the lute, for one thing. Jaskier has been cagey about how exactly a brand new elven lute came to be in his possession after the first one was destroyed against the side of his head, but it plays as beautifully for him as Filavandrel’s ever did. It’s nearly identical in style, too, with dark wood and golden patterns etched into it. Anyone who didn’t spend half a lifetime watching Jaskier’s long fingers dance along the strings would never be able to tell that this lute’s pattern of markings is different from its predecessor’s.

There’s the outfit, too. The waistcoat is similar enough to patterns and styles that Jaskier has worn before, but the hat and jacket make him look like a third-rate imitation of a storybook pirate. It’s nothing at all like the bright-colored matching ensembles he used to wear, though it’s nearly as impractical if not more so. Geralt honestly can’t tell if he hates it because it’s ridiculous or because it doesn’t fit into the gallery of bold greens and soft blues and glaring reds that roll through his mind when he thinks of his bard.

And there’s the bard himself, of course. Not really Geralt’s anymore if he ever was. He’s still loud and dramatic and filled to the brim with useless romantic notions about what the world is or ought to be. But there’s something lurking underneath it all now, something harder and fiercer behind his eyes than anything Geralt has seen in him before. The harshness of a man who’s seen the senseless death and darkness of war. The bitterness of one who’s been left behind and expects to be again.

There’s none of that in him when he performs, though. Or else he hides it far more efficiently. Even to Geralt’s honed eye, Jaskier exudes only joy when he sings.

“No oppressor can hide them

Carry their glories and rise!”

Jaskier finishes with a roaring flourish and the crowd chants his words back to him twice as loud. This Song of the Seven may be more popular than Toss a coin ever was. Geralt has never seen an audience warm so quickly to a new tune, much less poor folk in a war-torn country. These people need hope now more than anything.

The barkeep pushes a pair of ales at Jaskier as he passes by and refuses to take a cent for them despite Jaskier’s best efforts. He finally gives up when she threatens him with a broom, turning to Geralt’s dark corner of the room. 

“That’s new,” says Geralt as Jaskier sits down, passing a stein to his side of the table.

Jaskier crooks an eyebrow at him and smirks. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. Before, he might not have thought twice about teasing so light as that, but this, too, has changed. Sometimes there’s banter and sometimes there are digs from that snarl of discontent that still rears up between them, and Geralt can never really be sure which he’s getting.

Jaskier takes pity on him, smiling easily. “It came from a story I heard in Temeria,” he says. “There’s a bard in it, you know. And a witcher.”

He looks for a moment like he means to say more, but then the corner of his mouth twists sharply and he snaps it shut with an audible click. Jaskier smiles again, this time cruel and close-lipped. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

Before Geralt can think of anything to say, any comfort or correction to whatever it is he’s done wrong this time, Jaskier stands up and flees to a nearby table of dwarves. He doesn’t look back.

An hour or so later, the revelry dies down and the bar room clears out but for a few stragglers. Jaskier is among them, across the room now from Geralt at an empty table with a drink Geralt knows is almost completely full. Geralt watched the bard carefully while he made round after round of the room, soaking up the occupants’ stories and sharing his own entirely fabricated ones. Half a dozen rounds were shoved into Jaskier’s hands, and he took them gratefully with bright smiles, but he abandoned them just as quickly when their givers were occupied.

When Geralt found Jaskier in Oxenfurt, he couldn’t be parted from a bottle for his life. Now his drinking comes and goes. Some days he dulls his senses with wine from dusk till dawn. Some days are like this: feigning all the trappings of a man in his cups without downing more than a mouthful. 

Geralt leaves his own stein half-full with a few coins beside it and turns for Jaskier’s table. Another Geralt might have left his friend to sulk, but that Geralt wouldn’t have used the word ‘friend’ to describe Jaskier, not even in his head. This one is trying to make amends, still, all these many months later. 

If Jaskier hears him coming, he doesn’t show it. Geralt sits on the bench beside him, facing out towards the room with his back against the table, and Jaskier doesn’t give him so much as a glance. Their shoulders just barely brush.

“Tell me your story,” says Geralt. “About the bard and the witcher.”

Jaskier fixes him with a confused frown. “It doesn’t—”

“Tell me anyway.”

Geralt watches Jaskier watch him through a long, pregnant pause. Blue eyes, still so bright in the low light, search Geralt’s face and he can’t tell whether they find what they’re looking for or not. Either way, Jaskier huffs a humorless laugh to himself and speaks.

“It was a long time ago, just before the Conjunction.”

Jaskier pauses again like he’s waiting for Geralt to correct him. There were no witchers before the Conjunction; there was no need for them. Geralt doesn’t say so, though. Instead, he waits patiently for Jaskier to continue.

“The witcher was a warrior,” he says. “A protector, wrongfully exiled for defiling a princess.”

Jaskier eyes Geralt again, warier this time. Geralt feels that twist in his gut the way he always does, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“The bard was a runaway, fleeing a life that was chosen for her.” Jaskier grins at that, small and wistful. “Fate brought them together, but they chose to walk side by side.”

It’s not a pretty story, exactly, but it’s the kind of story that has always caught Jaskier’s attention. A ragtag group of heroes, an indomitable foe, magic, monsters, and romance to tie it all together. It might even be true for all Geralt knows. The way Jaskier tells it, his voice soft and his phrases unembellished, so unlike his usual way of weaving tales, makes the whole thing almost believable. They’ve all seen stranger things.

Geralt doesn’t miss the shift in the air around Jaskier when he talks about the Lark and her witcher. His heart beats just the slightest bit faster and his scent deepens imperceptibly to anyone who doesn’t know it better than their own. Geralt isn’t blind to his own reaction either, the heaviness in his chest that grows and grows.

Contrary to popular belief, Geralt isn’t stupid. It’s not that he doesn’t know how much he wants Jaskier. The depths of that desire plunge too deep to go unnoticed, and it has holed up inside him for so long, he doesn’t know who he would be without it. It’s not that he doesn’t know how Jaskier feels either. The bard isn’t subtle and he has never insulted either of their intelligence by pretending to be.

What Geralt doesn’t know has never been the problem. It’s what he does know. And what he knows, has always known, is that acting on his wants would be a singularly terrible idea.

But that was before. Before Geralt’s own Child Surprise foretold the end of the world and all of them with it. Before he landed with his own feet in another sphere of demons and monsters beyond his wildest imaginings. Before all of them wound up tangled in a war with nightmares, more terrifying than any foolish mistake, hidden around every corner.

Before Geralt knew what it felt like to lose Jaskier. And before he knew with crushing certainty that to have done so without ever knowing what it felt like to have Jaskier, really have him, is worse than any fear Geralt has ever felt.

“She killed him, in the end, to end his suffering,” says Jaskier softly.

“Not a very happy story,” Geralt replies.

“Some of the best stories are tragedies. It’s romantic.”

Geralt frowns. “But he dies at the end.”

Jaskier smiles miserably. “I think you and I both know that love doesn’t always have a happy ending.”

That plucks something sharp in Geralt’s chest, something that twists at the bitter shadow in Jaskier’s eyes. Fuck it, Geralt thinks, fuck all of it. He takes Jaskier's chin between his thumb and his forefinger and kisses him before good sense can frighten either of them away again. 

There’s a gut-wrenching fraction of a second where Jaskier’s mouth is still against Geralt’s, but within the same heartbeat, he’s kissing back and back and back. Jaskier’s hand curls around Geralt’s wrist, holding himself in place as if Geralt would ever let him go now. His lips part for Geralt’s tongue with a soft groan and he tastes like his last sip of ale. Geralt feels drunk on it, on Jaskier, the plush warmth of his mouth, and the scent of his growing arousal filling Geralt’s nose. 

The harsh scrape of chair legs on a wooden floor startles them apart. Geralt’s head snaps up to find the barkeep straightening her stools, eyes focused downward but a knowing grin on her lips.

When he turns back, Jaskier hasn’t pulled away but his uneasy expression says that the thought is playing on his mind. He looks at Geralt like he’s waiting to be pushed away, even as he clutches Geralt’s wrist. Geralt pulls Jaskier back to him, fingers still cradling the bard’s chin, until their noses brush. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks and his hot breath rolls over Geralt’s lips carrying the taste of his mouth to Geralt’s tongue, and even that faint echo makes Geralt’s heart stutter.

“Kicking off another tragedy, I expect.”

Jaskier pushes their foreheads together. “You can still stop this one.”

“No,” says Geralt and it feels like surrender. “No, I can’t.”

The small hearth in their room is dark and cold when they stumble inside. Geralt can see well enough to guide them both, but he tears himself away from Jaskier’s hungry kisses to light the fire. When it’s finally ablaze and he turns to find the bard sprawled out on their bed, discarding the last of his clothing, Geralt is glad he took the time. 

Even if only in the dim red light, cast over with long and flickering shadows, he wants to see this.

This—miles of bare skin, calloused and scarred in places it wasn’t when last Geralt laid eyes on it, and quivering as he presses his lips to every place he should have been there to protect. Jaskier is so warm to touch, so much warmer than Geralt, his emphatically human heart hammering away in his chest for both of them.

This—achingly familiar hands with long fingers and soft palms, gliding over the shine of sweat on Geralt’s chest and his arms and his back. Jaskier is so gentle with his touches, as though Geralt could break beneath them, as though Jaskier would ever break him even if he could. But then Geralt touches just so and nails bite into his skin and he longs to see their matching bruises side by side. 

This—a hungry mouth that kisses wherever it can and urges Geralt to give, to take. Every graze of his fingers, his lips, his tongue, draws the sweetest sounds. Jaskier is so liberal with his voice, utterly without shame as he tells Geralt exactly what he needs and how good he feels, as he begs him to touch me darling, there, again, more, more, please, please, please…

Every sense, every synapse, every nerve is straining to capture this moment because if their world ends tomorrow, Geralt wants his last memory to be the way Jaskier clings to him, sings to him, as he pushes inside.

Each second stretches into a thousand and disappears in an instant all at once. An eternity is lived in the space between each of Jaskier’s gorgeous moans and breathless cries, but too soon, Geralt feels himself hurtling over the edge. He comes with Jaskier’s name on his lips and the hot burn of tears behind his eyes.

They lie there, silent but for their breath, while their sweat dries and the fire burns to embers. Geralt fits himself to Jaskier’s back, a knee between his, an arm circling his waist, and his face tucked into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. The bard reaches back to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair and begins to hum an unfamiliar tune.

“That’s new,” Geralt rumbles, muffled by Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier hums in agreement. “I think it’s about a bard and a witcher.”

Geralt takes a few long, slow breaths before he replies. “Another tragedy?”

Jaskier presses the tips of his fingers against Geralt’s scalp and massages along the back of his head until he finds a spot he discovered years ago while scrubbing drowner brains from Geralt’s hair, the one that elicits a sound very near purring. Geralt no longer expects an answer, but he gets one after his eyes have long fallen shut, whispered into the gathering darkness.

“Not this time.”

~~

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