#Yes I had to wear my Jaskier shirt

[chaosandwolves]

Snacks are ready and so am I

WITCHER SEASON 3 LET'S GOOOOOOOOO

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 20

yennskier modern au

Given that their relationship is wholly casual and they are the people they are, Yennefer has zero basis to be upset over Jaskier's not prioritizing her.

He calls her three hours late on a Saturday night, bubbling over with profuse apologies and offers to make it right, and by then, Yennefer's not even angry, just feels stupid and a little hollow. 

She shouldn't be surprised. This is how he's always been– forever flaky, forgetful, absorbed in his own world, onto the next bright and eye-catching thing once the shine's rubbed off what he already has.

For whatever reason, Yennefer hadn't thought it would happen with her.

She shimmies out of her black dress and sheds her tights like a snake skin and is sprawled on the couch in her sweats when Jaskier crashes into her apartment with two pints of ice cream and a cheesy smile. He's wearing a silk shirt, the sort that clings to the sweat he worked up climbing the stairs to the top floor. Maybe he ran all the way here.

“Horrible abomination for you and a normal person flavor for me,” he says and offers out her ice cream with a wrinkle of his nose. It's mint chocolate chip. Yennefer’s ordinarily pleased that he doesn’t have to ask, but what if she’d wanted something different this time. 

Jaskier flounces away to rummage for spoons in her sterile, rarely-used kitchen, and the stark light haloes his hair, messy and a little greasy like he's been running his hands through it. Or like someone else has been running their hands through it.

“I really am sorry, Yen,” he says. “Lost track of time at the gym, you know. New workout routine– whew! Really sucks you right in.”

Yennefer wonders who he was with, if he even got their number or their name, if he was at the gym at all. She'd bought the tickets for the event they missed a month in advance, spent an hour this evening diffusing her hair, debated dress choices like she cared about the opinions of the vapid crowds around her. The first few missed calls and unanswered texts had sent a burning fury through her, and she'd paced and raged and hurled insults at nothing. 

How dare he. How dare he.

But it's not as if it's anything new with him. It's not as if they've made any lasting promises to one another. After Geralt’s ceaseless complications and their inevitable crash and burn, the ease of falling into some nameless thing with Jaskier has been ideal. This isn't some great romance. She and Jaskier have a relationship built on commiserating and binging unhealthy food on the couch and having a lot of adventurous, eclectic, and exhilarating sex. 

And yes, he knows her favorite flavor of ice cream and wears a key to her apartment on a chain around his neck and pretends she's his wife sometimes at restaurants or red carpet events and looks at her often like he’s looking now as he settles down on the couch beside her, all crushingly devoted and fond.

“Your hair looks nice,” he says. She digs her spoon deep into her ice cream and unpauses the show she'd been watching.

“I know,” says Yennefer. “My dress looked even better.”

“Wear it when I take you out tomorrow night,” he says, forgetting that he has that dinner with some network exec that he's been talking about for weeks. She doesn't bother reminding him, lets him tuck an arm around her shoulder and kiss her temple.

Years ago, she may have raged and fumed, stiffened stubbornly with the most frigid of lasting cold shoulders, but she doesn't have the energy. Instead, she lets him slip between her spread legs as he kneels on the carpet and his mouth is a revelation as always and she tries to think about anything else but being left behind.

Their ice cream melts on the end table, and she takes him to bed, riding him rough and demanding as he grips the sheets and prays aloud. 

It's as fiercely good as ever. This is what they're good at, this casual sort of taking from one another, shifting the pace without words, kissing until they lose their breath. 

She's not the sort of woman who pines and wallows and lets her feelings get hurt. She's cold and unfeeling and the best he's ever had, and he better accept that and shape up or risk never sleeping in her bed again. 

Yennefer knows that that wouldn’t last long. She would miss him too badly.

Afterward, she curls against his back and touches her mouth between the sweat of his shoulderblades. He pulls her arm around his waist, tangles their fingers against his chest.

“Yen,” he whispers, “you're still angry with me, aren't you?”

“No,” she says. She’s not angry. She doesn’t know what she feels. “You're as much of an imbecile as you've always been. Doesn't surprise me even a little.”

He sighs and wiggles absurdly back against her and she knows he's likely to talk and talk himself to sleep the way he likes to, a ramble of meaningless drivel.

“Don't stop liking me, Yen,” he says, voice small. “I mean, I know I make it all far too difficult. I'm an utterly unreliable forgetful fool and I can't keep a thing straight and I let too much slip through my fingers but I… That is to say, I…”

“Oh hush,” says Yennefer. She can’t bear the thought of him telling her something he doesn't fully mean.

“Don't leave me,” he says on the edge of sleep, and she hates this infuriating, idiotic problem of a man. She hates that she loves him just enough to forgive him almost anything.

[eggcompany]

Jaskier and Mr.-Zero-Fucking-Body-Fat

Jaskier woke up in a mood. A bad kinda mood. A self hating mood. Thank goodness he has an awesome boyfriend.

Geralt was coming back to the apartment when Jaskier was getting up. Geralt had gone on a morning run and grabbed donuts on his way back. When he walked into the bedroom to get a shower he saw his boyfriend standing in front of their mirror. Shirtless and frowning as he grabbed at his stomach. Jaskier had been up for a little while now. He woke up in a mood.

He hadn’t gotten dressed yet. He was still wearing what he sleeps in, a pair of soft cotton short shorts. He just stood staring at himself.

“Fat. Ugly. Hairy. Gross. Gross. Bleh. Fat fat fat. Lose some weight. Undesirable. Disgusting. Cover up. Cover it. Don’t eat tod-“

“Hey baby, how about we get a shower?” Geralt said to try and pull Jaskier away from those intrusive thoughts. Geralt knew about Jaskier and his body image issues. Geralt came up behind his lover and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s sternum.

Jaskier laid his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder and took a big breathe, clearing his head. He held it for a moment before breathing out.

“No thank you, dear. I’ll get a shower after you get out. You can eat breakfast while I wash up.” Jaskier removed Geralt’s hands. He just wanted to put in his sweatpants and his oversized hoodie and just not be seen. Especially not by Mister Zero-Fucking-Body-Fat.

“I’ll make you breakfast Jask. You can go back to bed if you’d like. We can have a lazy day.” Geralt said as he ran his hand down Jaskier back before he turned to the bathroom.

“Thank you, love.” Jaskier sighed. God that man will be the death of him. Jaskier grabbed his hoodie and his sweats and a clean pair of underwear. He heard Geralt start the shower.

A short while later Geralt came out with a towel around his hips and quickly put on his sweatpants and a black shirt that wasn’t too snug. He knew he should wear looser clothes when Jask was in these moods.

“You get a shower and I’ll bring you breakfast in here. If you want to you could queue something up?” Geralt kissed his boyfriends forehead before leaving.

Jaskier got to the bathroom and tried not to look in the mirror. He quickly took off his shorts and got in the shower.

He washed as quickly as he could so he could get covered back up. He didn’t even wash his hair.

Soon he was in his sweats and hoodie and back on bed queuing up a show on Netflix.

Geralt walked in with a tray of food. Nothing that would bother Jaskier. Mostly cut fruit and yogurt.

“Here. C’mere I wanna hold you. Love you so much. My pretty perfect loverboy.” Geralt said as he held his arms open for Jaskier to cuddle to him. Jaskier cracked a smile at ‘loverboy’.

“You sure you want me too...” Jaskier looked down at himself.

“Yes Jask come here. I always wanna hug and cuddle you” Jaskier nodded and laid his back against Geralt’s chest and sat between his legs, tray of food in his lap.

They started to play Evil on Netflix and Jaskier ate a bit of this and that, not nearly enough.

“Want me to feed you, baby bear?”

“What did you just call me?” Jaskier turned to see Geralt’s face.

“Baby Bear. ‘Cause your cuddly and perfect and you’re my precious baby bear.” Geralt said very matter of factly.

Jaskier blushed and nodded.

Geralt picked up a piece of banana and held it up for Jaskier.

That’s how the morning went. Geralt feeding his baby bear pieces of fruit and spoons of yogurt while Jaskier smiled and fell even more in love with his boyfriend.

[panur]

Radskier snippet

Snippet for a fic that’s so far into the future I may as well share as its own thing until I decide to use it (if it ever happens). dedicated to @flootzavut as most Jask tit-centric chats are.

-----

“I missed this.”

“My tits?”

Radovid makes a thoughtful noise, rubs his cheek against the other man’s chest like a contented cat. Blame it on being spread over a beautifully bare (and somewhat sticky) bard.

“If I say yes, would you kindly pretend I said something suave, mayhaps even romantic? I’m afraid you’ve left me too spent for much else.”

He can feel Jaskier chuckle under his ear, which is somehow just as lovely as the rest of him. “You’re in luck. As it happens, I've always considered compliments to my cleavage a pivotal part of the whole romancing process.”

“Is that why you wear your shirts open halfway to your navel?”

Radovid tries to lean away so less of his weight is on the other man, but his hair gets caught on one of Jaskier’s necklaces. The bards’ deft fingers untangle it before he can try to do so himself. He tucks the traitorous strand back in place.

“And why should I deprive the continent of one of my many charms?” His hand moves from Radovid’s hair and to his jaw, stroking gently

“Oh, trust me, I felt many things the first time I saw you,” Radovid pauses, for both effect and to steal a kiss “- ‘deprived’ was not one of them.”

It might as well have happened in another lifetime, but that did not mean the former prince could forget the first time he’d set eyes on a man he’d so deeply admired and hoped to meet– only to find him only half dressed and in the process of having most of his worldly possessions thrown at him out of an irate lover’s flat.

After so long, Philippa’s insidious presence is almost easy to drown out by other, far more pleasant parts of these memories. The shock of catching a flying instrument before it brained him. Realizing what he was holding and who it belonged to. The most outstanding eyes he’d ever seen, turning to look into his. 

And of course, the bard's barely-covered—how had he put it?— charms. 

Jaskier eyebrows waggle. He seems to have a sixth sense for the carnal musings of others, particularly the ones where he was the lead. “Hmm, should we try for ‘depraved’?”

“I think you should try ‘dreadful'.” Radovid sighs, moving to lay next to him “Considering that was quite so.”

The waggle intensifies, somehow.

“I can’t help but notice a suspicious lack of denials coming from your end, my dear,” the bard purrs, leaning to face him.

“Remind me why I find you charming?” Radovid asks, trying not to blush.

“The decolletage is very persuasive.” Jaskier points, traces an entrancing path down his clavicle to the center of his chest with a finger, then flicking at Radovid’s nose when his eyes predictably follow the path.

“Among other things, yes,” he agrees, meeting Jaskier halfway when he leans to kiss the smile on his lips.

[littlestsnicket]

I thought his S2 hair was his real hair, too, for some reason.

Actually, no, that's not quite accurate.

I initially thought BOTH his S2 and S3 hair were wigs, because that's what everyone kept saying.

And so, the moment Joey corrected, in a S3 interview, that his long hair was his real hair, I automatically assumed that meant that his S2 hair was his real hair, too (if people had been wrong about it having been a wig in S3, why not S2?).

Because his hair in S2 interviews appears to be just a bit longer than it is in S2 (not quite S3 long, but getting there...).

So, I'd assumed he'd let his hair grow out between S1 and S3; and he'd cut it after they'd finished filming "Blood Origin" (so thankfully, that wouldn't have been because of the negative feedback he'd received about his hair in S3, since it was back to being short during "Blood Origin" interviews. I think he'd said something about it just being really hot and essentially bothering him).

Did Joey ever confirm his S2 hair was a wig? Or that's just what people have all been assuming?

And OMFG! YES!!! That jacket is so freaking iconic! It's gotta stay!

By now, it's like the character's uniform, or his unique signature look or something!

Mind you, I'm not opposed to the idea of Jaskier having another secondary outfit he alternates with in S4 and S5, and/or wearing something a bit different under his jacket (S2 and S3 had different shirts and vests, but kept the same style).

Plus, he could find himself wearing something completely different at some point, if the goal is for him to attempt to avoid being too easily recognized / spotted (the jacket makes it really easy for him to be identified) for a little while.

But that jacket needs to remain Jaskier's go to, default look, because it's that awesome!

joey has definitely talked about wearing a wig for season 2, growing his hair out for season 3 because he hated wearing a wig, and cutting his hair off immediately after they finished filming season 3 because having hair that is touching your neck but not long enough to put up is gross when it's really hot out (and yeah, i relate, there are numerous reasons why i am happiest with a pixie cut or past shoulder length hair). (and joey's bit of blood origin was filmed during season 3.)

i think it gets a bit confusing because lots of people don't realize how long post production takes, and therefore how long the gap between filming and the press interviews are. for the season 2 press tour, joey would have been well into growing his hair out for season 3 already. and you can see he had short hair in all of the behind the scenes stuff they filmed during season 2. (there's also a moment in the behind the scenes stuff for season 3, where there's a bunch of shots of joey recording songs and he's wearing the same sweater in all of them but in half of them he's already cut his hair... that may make me sound insane that i noticed this but oh well.)

i'm not really sure why people were saying joey was wearing a wig in season 3... it got passed around so much before the show came out that i assumed that for a bit as well, but i honestly think it's just trendy to hate on wigs right now, and most people have no idea what they are talking about. but also, joey's hair looks nearly as dark as anya's in the season 2 press tour, so it looks like it's the wrong color, but i should not have been fooled by that since my own hair ranges from quite dark brown to nearly blond depending on lighting, sun exposure, and how clean it is :)

and yes! the jacket! it is so iconic!

i, personally, love when characters have uniforms. not necessarily the same exact clothes all the time, but iconic items or a color scheme they stick to... i am here for it. i think for his character, it doesn't make a lot of sense for jaskier to be carting around an extra jacket, or many clothes. he would definitely buy or steal a new one for a special occasion of if he needed to hide his identity, but our bard is itinerant and travels light especially when he doesn't have geralt to carry things (or maybe more importantly keep track of the things, but that it leaning a lot more into headcanon now) for him.

[inexplicifics]

I don't know if you are still writing the domestic asks (btw the M'laiden one hurt me (affectionate)), but maybe "painting their nails" with Eskel and Jaskier? Just because i love this two and isn't a prompt or a fic with this scene (that i had read at least). <3

Eskel gets home after a long fucking day to find that the overhead lights are off, and there are little electric tealights flickering on almost every surface. The electric tealights are a compromise: Jaskier loves candlelight, but he’s also absent-minded enough when in the throes of creation that he tends to forget he’s lit them. The table has two rather impressive burn scars on its surface, and Eskel still has occasional nightmares about the incident with the rug which could have gone very badly. So electric tealights it shall be from now on.

“Eskel, love!” Jaskier calls from upstairs. “Come on up - I’ve drawn a bath for you!”

Eskel blinks and bends down wearily to unlace his boots. A bath sounds…really nice, actually.

They have a positively enormous bathtub, large enough for two fairly tall men to stretch out in, and Jaskier has filled it most of the way with steaming hot water and added some of the bath salts that Eskel actually enjoys the smell of. Eskel pauses in the doorway, raising an eyebrow at his lover, who is sitting on the edge of the bath wearing a pair of tight shorts and a bright grin and nothing else. There are more tealights on all the counters, and a basket of bathing supplies next to Jaskier’s knee.

“What’s the occasion, buttercup?” Eskel asks, tugging his shirt off.

“I finished my album!” Jaskier chirps. “And I’ve been neglecting you.”

Eskel shakes his head. “I don’t feel neglected.” And he doesn’t. Even when Jaskier is deep in the creative fugue, he turns towards Eskel like a flower to the sun when Eskel comes in to bring him food or coax him into actually coming to bed at half past two in the morning.

“Yes, but I feel neglectful,” Jaskier says. “Come here and let me pamper you, sweetheart.”

“Yes, dear,” Eskel chuckles, and unbuttons his pants, stepping out of them and tossing them and his shirt and boxers into the hamper. Jaskier gives him a once-over and a cheerfully lascivious whistle. Eskel snorts.

“What? You’re really absurdly handsome, my darling,” Jaskier leers. “Come here. I’ve got it nice and hot for you.”

“Yeah you do,” Eskel agrees, and crosses the bathroom, bending to cup Jaskier’s face in his hands and kiss him deeply before stepping into the tub. The water is just short of too hot, and Eskel sinks into it with a long sigh of pleasure.

“There you go, darling,” Jaskier croons. “You just sit back and let me fuss.”

“Yes, dear,” Eskel laughs, and lets his head fall back against the edge of the tub, closing his eyes and relaxing completely.

Jaskier hums a soft tune while he scrubs Eskel down from toes to shoulders, and then coaxes Eskel into sitting up enough that Jaskier can wash his hair. Eskel drifts, halfway asleep, wrapped in warm contentment.

He wakes up a little when Jaskier draws one of his hands out of the water, pats it dry, and begins…doing something Eskel can’t quite parse with his eyes closed. He blinks the water from his eyelashes and looks down to find that Jaskier is…

“Are you painting my nails, buttercup?” he laughs.

“Yep,” Jaskier confirms, not looking up from the careful strokes of his little brush. The polish is clear, somewhat to Eskel’s surprise - he was expecting a bright color, possibly red. “It’s supposed to make your nails stronger and healthier.”

“I see,” Eskel says. “Carry on, then.” He closes his eyes again and lets himself doze. Jaskier keeps humming, a soft repetitive tune like a lullaby, as he puts a coat of polish on each of the nails of Eskel’s left hand and then drapes it carefully over the edge of the tub so it won’t get wet. He shifts carefully around the edge of the tub - getting a freestanding version was a very good choice, for a lot of reasons - and Eskel lifts his other hand out of the water to let Jaskier tend to those nails, too.

“Alright, love,” Jaskier murmurs after some uncounted, blissful time. “Time to get out, before you turn into a prune.”

Eskel snickers as he sits up. “A prune?”

“A very handsome prune,” Jaskier assures him, steadying Eskel as he steps out. “Nope nope nope, you just hold still and let me do everything - that polish isn’t quite dry yet.”

Eskel holds still obediently, arms held out, as Jaskier pats him down with a towel and then kisses him softly. “Come on to bed, love. You look done in.”

Eskel lets Jaskier steer him into the bedroom and chivvy him into bed, keeping his hands carefully atop the blankets so the polish won’t get smudged. Jaskier kisses him again.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Eskel slurs, and is asleep before Jaskier even finishes draining the tub.

The next day, he can’t help smiling every time he catches sight of his fingernails, glossy and smooth with a coat of strengthening polish to protect them.

[flowercrown-bard]

Freckles and Wrinkles

AO3

"Give me a second!” Came the shout from inside. 

Geralt rolled his eyes fondly and leaned against the wall of Jaskier’s home. Or Professor Pankratz’s home, as the young student, who had pointed him in the right direction had said.

From behind the door, Geralt could hear rummaging and muffled curses, until finally the door creaked open. Jaskier was leaning against the door frame as if pretending very hard to be casual. He wore the half-open chemise as if it was a choice rather than due to him still not being out of bed and dressed despite it almost being midday. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s face lit up and he relaxed, dropping the facade of casualness to show real joy. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Evidently,” Geralt said, looking pointedly at Jaskier’s tousled hair. 

“Oh shush,” Jaskier waved a hand through the air, running the other through his hair and disheveling it even more in the process. “I wear the ‘just woke up’ look well.”

Geralt hummed, just on the border of neutrality, though they both knew that he was agreeing with the bard. Geralt had seen him dressed in the most expensive doublets, after spending hours in front of a mirror. Jaskier looked good, always, but there still was something special about those early mornings, when Geralt got to see Jaskier blink the sleep from his eyes, pillow creases on his face, with his shirt ridden up because of how much the bard had tossed and turned in the night. 

“You want to go like this then?” Geralt asked teasingly, lifting a brow.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at him. For a second, Geralt thought Jaskier was going to say yes, take his hand and parade himself around Oxenfurt in naught but his night-clothes. But then he seemed to think better of it. His hand shot forward and he pulled Geralt inside. 

“Make yourself at home,” Jaskier said, while turning around and opening a dresser. “I’ll just take a minute.”

Geralt’s lips twitched up. “Sure,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm and fondness. 

As predicted, it took Jaskier decidedly longer than a minute. He spent an unreasonable amount of time just to find the perfect doublet and then he plopped down in front of a mirror and began to comb his hair.

Geralt nudged him, until he scooted over on the chair, making room for Geralt to sit down next to him. It was a tight fit and Geralt had to wrap an arm around Jaskier’s waist to keep him from falling off. Years ago, Jaskier would have  complained that like this, he wasn’t able to move properly to do his hair. Oh, who was Geralt kidding, years ago, he himself wouldn’t have been confident and comfortable enough to hold Jaskier like this. Now though, with Jaskier melting into his touch and his head beating faster, Geralt wanted to do nothing more than wrap him in his arms as often as he could. 

“You don’t need to do this, you know,” Geralt said softly, nuzzling into Jaskier’s neck and glancing at their reflection in the mirror. They looked good together. “We could just go.”

“No!” Jaskier gave him an affronted look. “This is a once in a lifetime experience, Geralt!”

“It can’t be that great,” Geralt murmured, earning himself a playful swat to the chest. 

“Oh, you say that now,” Jaskier said, using what Geralt had dubbed his professor-voice, “But I’m telling you, it is. I can still remember when I got my first specs. It was fantastic. I could actually read my own writing without having to squint! I could see trees, Geralt. Trees!”

A laugh bubbled up in Geralt’s chest, as Jaskier gestured wildly with his brush. Then again, he had no room to judge. He too remembered the first time he had seen Jaskier with his glasses. Geralt had wanted to surprise him by showing up in one of his lectures. At the end, he had been the one who ended up surprised, when he saw the thin metal frames on Jaskier’s face and watched how easily the bard read his notes, without having to hold them up to his face, as he did on the Path. Jaskier had looked so much more relaxed, when he didn’t need to squint. His words had flown more easily, when he didn’t have to concentrate that hard to decipher the words. 

Geralt understood why Jaskier didn’t wear the specs on the Path, of course. With how many times Geralt had to throw Jaskier to the ground to get him out of the way of a wyfern’s claw, his glasses would have broken a hundred times over. So he only used them while teaching in Oxenfurt or whenever he managed to convince Geralt to take a little break from witchering. Which he managed to do surprisingly often. Or not surprisingly, if you believed Eskel, who claimed that Jaskier had Geralt wrapped around his little finger. 

Case in point, it had taken Jaskier only a small lecture to convince Geralt to get his eyes checked as well, once the bard had realised that Geralt was stepping weirdly close to the notice boards to read them and that he was dilating his pupils more often than any other witcher Jaskier met. 

“My point is,” Jaskier continued, “there is only one chance of you to see me with glasses for the first time and I want to look good.”

Geralt’s reply was so grumbling that Jaskier wasn’t able to understand. 

“What was that?”

“I said you always look good.”

“Darling,” Jaskier said, putting his free hand on his heart dramatically, “You flatter me, but we both know it’s not true.”

“Didn’t you just say you looked good even when you just woke up?”

“Oh, you know that was a joke,” Jaskier said with a huff. "Besides, you've seen me covered in that gross stuff -"

"Endrega entrails," Geralt supplied helpfully, which earned him a glare.

"I did not need the remainder. Point is, it was disgusting, and I was covered in it, so that's proof that I don't always look good."

Geralt gave him a long look. “You do to me” he said finally, softly. “You were only covered in that gunk because you ran after me to help me. There's nothing more beautiful than that.” Nothing more beautiful than realising that Jaskier didn't just care about him, but that he would risk his life for him - that he loved him back.

Jaskier’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His eye softened, when he took in Geralt’s sincere expression. “Oh you lovely, lovely man.” He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss against Geralt’s cheek. “Alright then. If you’re so adamant, we can go.”

He stood up, put on his own pair of specs and took Geralt’s hand. 

Geralt let himself be pulled out of the accommodation and through the streets of Oxenfurt, until they finally arrived at the place where a middle-aged woman had checked his eyes the week before. Almost immediately after Jaskier had knocked on the door, it opened and the woman from before ushered them inside, smiling widely and hurrying to the back of the room, where she must keep the new glasses. 

It was silly for Geralt’s heart to beat faster, as he stepped inside. Silly, to fear Jaskier’s reaction to seeing him wearing specs. Jaskier had never criticised Geralt’s yellow, inhuman eyes before. Never called them freaky or disgusting. Yet a part of Geralt couldn’t help but wonder if the glasses would draw more attention to this inhuman feature. 

When the woman handed him the glasses, he took them without thinking. 

“Go on then,” the woman said encouragingly. “Try them on.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, who was beaming up at him, looking uncontainably excited for some reason. When Geralt hesitated, Jaskier touched his arm gently and gave it a light squeeze. All the while, he kept looking at Geralt’s eyes as if they were the most beautiful thing. 

It was all the reassurance that Geralt needed. He put on the glasses and - 

“Oh.” It was all Geralt could say, before a startled laugh escaped him. This - he had no idea what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. There were sharp edges everywhere . When he looked through the window, he could actually read the sign above the shop on the opposite side of the street. And when he looked at Jaskier - 

“Oh,” he repeated, softer this time. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed Jaskier’s hair behind his ear, so he could see him better. “You have freckles,” was the first thing that came to mind. His hand caressed Jaskier’s cheeks, which were speckled with freckles like the night sky was speckled with stars. “You have wrinkles-”

“Excuse me!” Jaskier gasped in mock-offence, but the wrinkles - the laugh lines - around his eyes deepened. “You’re using your power for evil! You -”

“You’re beautiful.” There was a speck of brown in Jaskier’s otherwise blue eyes. A barely visible scar above his lips. Intricate embroidery around his collar. And so much warmth in his gaze that it took away Geralt’s breath. 

“I take it you like being able to see better?” Jaskier teased. 

“Hmm.” Geralt’s lips twitched. “Is there anything I should do to my ears to make your singing sound better too?”

Jaskier squawked, but it was interrupted by his own laughter. Before he could form an indignant reply, Geralt said, “Thank you. For noticing I needed specs.” He leaned in, placing the softest of kisses on Jaskier’s lips. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated. 

He couldn’t wait to finally be able to truly appreciate Jaskier’s expensive doublets. Couldn’t wait to see him clearly, when he was lost in the joy of composing. Couldn’t wait to put on his glasses in the morning and see Jaskier blink up at him with tousled hair and sleepy eyes. 

He couldn’t wait to actually see the world together with Jaskier.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Fighting - Bonus Scene Part 2

Geralt heard Yennefer's sleep rough voice go from barely coherent to fully awake (and very loud) the second she heard him say "It's Jaskier, he's been in a fight..." And she had lots of questions.

And apparently "I don't know, Yen, getting the sh*t beat out of him?" was not an acceptable answer to "What was he doing in a fight, Geralt?" He wondered how long it would take her to locate them and set up a portal. Maybe he had a few hours left to enjoy life...

Geralt made one more phone call. "Lambert, get Eskel. I've got a favor to ask you. I need you to pick up...somebody. At the back of the Forking Good Time. Yes, the one with the sh*tty a** food Yen made us try." He gave them no further explanation.

He headed toward the back of the van, hearing Jaskier start making distressed sounds. The pain meds must have finally worn off, and now he was probably having a nightmare.

Jaskier whimpered in his sleep, crying for Geralt and Yennefer, and twitching. Geralt reached the bed and felt his heart clench uncomfortably with a tangle of strong emotions. Jaskier had one hand tangled in his blanket, and the other...

Geralt lightly bruhsed his fingertips against his hand, and then paused. He'd never seen Jaskier do that before. His go to soothing method was what he jokingly referred to as Blankie Therapy. Never had he ever seen him try to soothe himself like this.

It made Geralt's heart ache. And it made him feel an all consuming rage towards the person who'd caused this.

Geralt was just going to leave him alone and let him have whatever small comfort it brought him, but then he smelled the blood. He looked a little closer and saw the blood that had dripped from the corner of his mouth. He'd dislodged the blood clots from the empty sockets in his gums and they were bleeding again.

Geralt gently took Jaskier's hand and slowly eased his thumb out of his mouth. He diluted some more Swallow and used a finger to rub it over his gums to stop the bleeding. Jaskier shifted with a groggy grumble of protest. Geralt lightly rubbed the back of his shoulder until he settled down.

He went outsided to pace, feeling angry and helpless. D**n that b**tard!

Geralt's angry pacing was interrupted by Yennefer stepping through the portal she'd opened. The sorceress was carrying her old cat plush, Sammy, and carrying a small bag of supplies. She had obviously not bothered to get dressed as she was wearing one of Geralt's old t-shirts, and the pair of Jaskier's boxers that had been missing for weeks. He wasn't going to be getting them back anytime soon. Once Yennefer stole an article of clothing, you could kiss it goodbye forever.

Geralt wasted no time dragging her into the van. Yennefer's eyebrows furrowed and she tenderly touched Jaskier's hand much the same way Geralt had done when she saw him trying to soothe himself. "My poor Julek...what did he do to you?" she whispered softly.

She sat on the edge of the bed and laid her hand on Jaskier's bruised cheek.

"Why is he so warm?" she asked, noting that Jaskier was warmer than he should have been, but not shivering as if he had a fever.

"I...gave him some Swallow."

"You gave him what?! Are you trying to kill him?"

"I diluted it! The bleeding in his kidney was getting worse." Geralt responded defensively.

"So you thought poisoning the poor thing would be better?"

"I swear, every time I leave you two alone for more than five minutes, all your braincells deactivate and you almost kill yourselves!"

"Was that a You're-absolutely-right-Yennefer-we're-idiots 'hm', or was that a Go-f**k-yourself-Yennefer 'hm'? It f**king better have been a Your're-absolutely-right-Yennefer-we're-idiots 'hm'!"

"What's this band-aid on his arm?"

"I gave him a shot of midazolam for the pain and to calm him down-" Geralt began.

"You know he hates needles, you absolute prick! Please tell me you didn't hold him down! You better not have held him down, Geralt! Or you and I are going to have words!

"That 'hm' didn't convice me at all!. You better start using your words right f**king now-!"

Jaskier woke with a thin whine, rolling onto his back with a wince. "YEn..." He whimpered when he saw her, and tried to sit up, reaching for her.

"Shhhh, Lark. It's okay." she said, instantly forgetting about hen-pecking Geralt in favor of carefully laying Jaskier back down. "I'm here, I'm here!" she said, brushing the backs of her fingers over his cheek. "Let me take a look at you." She closed her eyes and focused her magic. She clucked her tongue.

She let him hold Sammy while she started with healing the gash on the back of his head. The missing teeth would have to wait, but she did press healing magic into the empty sockets to help them heal, and keep them from becoming infected.

Her hands were gentle as she ran them over his chest and down his ribs, sweeping away much of the pain and some of the bruising.

Jaskier shuddered, biting back a grunt and squeezing Sammy tighter as Yennefer lightly rested her fingers on his subluxated ribs. She made quiet shushing sounds to him and the pain faded. He felt the ribs click back into place. There was a little discomfort, but it wasn't as painful as it had been a few hours ago.

"Sit up, Starling, so I can get the ones on your back."

Jaskier sat up with Geralt's help, ribs still sore, and put his arms around Yennefer's neck, leaning his head on her shoulder and clinging.

"He was waiting outside the restaraunt. I don't know what his problem was, but he had it out for me... He tried to hit me, but he kept missing..."

Geralt smiled, imagining what the guy's face must have looked like when Jaskier started doing his bumbling dodging routine.

"I ran, thinking I could get away, but..." Jaskier paused with a pained moan as Yennefer's hand found a particularly tender rib. "He was fast. He-he caught me and dragged me into the alley... He wouldn't stop hitting me, Yen," he said, voice trembling.

"It's alright, dear heart." she whispered, running her hands gently over the ribs in his back as he fought back tears. She could feel him shake, and feel his heart pounding in his chest. She tightened her arms around him.

Jaskier was sobbing now, pressing his face into Yennefer's shoulder "He was going to call more Vipers to come play too, b-but I knocked the phone out of his hand...and he got p*ssed... He slammed me into the wall, and...I didn't know what else to do, so I-I... I knifed him."

A Witcher?! Geralt was going to say something, but his phone rang. It was Lambert. He turned to go to the front of the van to answer the call. Yennefer put her hands on Jaskier's shoulders when he reached for Geralt as he walked away to answer his phone.

There was a look of near panic in Jaskier's eyes as he grabbed at the Witcher, tying to stop him from leaving, crying and begging him not to go. Yennefer gently pulled his hands off Geralt's sleeves, whispering soothingly to him. "He's not leaving, my love, he's not leaving!"

Geralt hated to pull away, but he had to answer his phone. He paused long enough to pat the Bard's cheek reassuringly, before moving away. Jaskier watched him anxiously, not even realizing that he'd put his thumb back in his mouth.

Yennefer put her hand on his cheek, gently turning his face towards her. "It's okay, Julek. He's right there. He'll be right over in a minute." She murmured. Her hands started stroking over his arms and shoulders, trying to relax him.

Jaskier looked at Geralt, nervously watching him sitting in the driver's seat. Yennefer gathered him into her arms, not saying a word. Her heart twisted painfully as she listend to him suck his thumb.

Yennefer was deeply worried about Jaskier's mental and emotional state. He had never sucked his thumb before, and the amount of distress he must be in to turn to that type of regressive behavior as a soothing method greatly concerned her.

What unsettled her more was that he was so distressed that he was beyond the point of caring if anyone saw him.

Yennefer ran her fingers through Jaskier's hair as she whispered to him softly in his head while she impatiently waited for Geralt to come back.

"You said we were picking up a body. You didn't say it was going to be a f**king snake, and that he was going to still be alive, Geralt!"

"He's still alive?"

"Yeah. He's got four stab wounds and he's bleeding all over my seats! Why the h*ll didn't you just run him through properly?"

Because I wasn't the one who stabbed him. It was Jaskier. And it was probably hard for him to stab him 'properly' while the ar*ehole was beating the f**king sh*t out of him!

Geralt heard Lambert growl and Eskel ask what was going on. He heard Lambert snarl "This f**ker hurt Songbird!", then "I told you I smelled him in the alley, Lambert! F**k! Some of that blood was his!"

They started quarreling until Geralt snarled at them to shut up. "You want us to cut his throat-!" Eskel began, only for Geralt to snap "No! That f**ker is mine! I have my location turned on. Bring him here now!"

Geralt ended the call and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Jaskier leaned into him, letting him hold him against his chest while Yennefer stroked his side.

"Shhh, I've got you, Julek." Geralt murmured, and was surprised when Jaskier wrapped his free arm around him and grabbed a handful of his shirt.

Yennefer was usually the one he went to when Blankie Therapy wasn't enough. She was so soft with him, and her motherly older sister vibe always put him at ease.

But right now, Jaskier needed Geralt. He was scared and shaken, and he needed to feel like he was safe. Geralt was not as good at being soft like Yennefer, but he was good at being a fierce protector and being a solid, physical presence. Geralt tightened his arms around him as much as he could without causing him pain.

" I'm sorry I wasn't there, but I won't let anyone ever do that to you again." Geralt promised softly, draping Jaskier's blanket over his shoulders. He let him lean on him, silently holding him and rocking gently until he felt and heard his rapidly beating heart slow.

Jaskier pulled his thumb out of his mouth as the tension eased and he started to feel less anxious. He gave a contented hum and put his other arm around the Witcher. Geralt rubbed his jaw and cheeks over Jaskier's head, like a wolf scent marking a pack member, while Yennefer smiled but said nothing.

When Jaskier had calmed down Geralt put him on his belly on the bed, so Yen could take care of the injured kidney. She was just laying her hand over the bruise, when Geralt heard the approaching vehicle. Eskel and Lambert were here.

"Stay with him, Yen," Geralt said gently to Yennefer, as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt so he had more freedom of movement. Jaskier tensed under Yennefer's hand, rolling an anxious eye at Geralt over his shoulder.

"I won't be gone long." Geralt assured him. He stroked his hand down the back of Jaskier's head. "I'll be right back. I'm going to go make sure that b**tard and all his friends never come near you again."

Yennefer nodded and rose to give him a kiss. "Go avenge your Bard, Witcher." she whispered. "And don't make any extra work for me." she added, slapping his backside as he stepped out through the sliding door...

[dapandapod]

I want something soft. Sorry. Somfte. Like snuggling in blankets on a cold day, drinking tea or something with Geralt/Jaskier.

Yes hi hello my love! While most of europe is facing a heatwave, im sitting at home with blankets and sweaters. In July. I am very dissapointed. so this is me projecting. Ish.

Please enjoy <3

On Ao3 here

For being in the middle of the summer, it is very fucking cold. And by very fucking cold, we are talking drizzling rain, windy winds and double socks.

Yes, Jaskier is a dramatic man, but look, it is cold. Had it not been in the middle of the summer, it would have been ideal for snuggling up on the couch with blankets, tea and a book.

But it is in the middle of summer, and Jaskier refuses to accept the current temperature.

Sadly, their balcony isn't glassed in, or he could have pretended that the smattering of rain is the soft brush of waves, those angry clouds just passing by, soon to reveal a warm sun (or lamp) again.

But Jaskier will not be deterred. Armed with flipflops, his favorite pink swimming trunks, sunglasses, and a pineapple shirt. It somehow matches, he is rocking this outfit, and he will wear this outfit to the store to buy sun lotion.

Be the change you want to see in the world. Hope the weather listens.

The streets are predictably filled with puddles, his toes pink and sad and wet as he trudges on. At least the sun lotion is on sale, he notices, as he passes through the sliding doors, dripping all over their fake marble floors.

He grabs a pool noodle too, for shits and giggles. Why not? It is summer. It has to get warm at some point! Doesn't it?

Returning home to their shared flat is a little less victorious than he imagined. The strap on his left Flop? Flip? One of them snapped, and the walk home suddenly was a lot longer and a lot sadder. His toes now is an angry red and there is water dripping down his nose, making him sniffle.

Geralt was not there when he left, but he sure is there now, standing in the middle of the floor gaping, sweatpants, hoodie and a bowl of cereal a much more sensible choice for the temperature.

"What on earth did you do?" Geralt asks, staring at Jaskier, dripping wet in the doorway.

"It's summer. We need sun lotion." Jaskier says sadly, dropping the pool noodle to the floor with a wet slap.

"Jaskier. It's freezing. Get the fuck in the shower. Why a pool noodle??" Geralt puts down his bowl and steers Jaskier towards the bathroom.

"For the shits and giggles." Jaskier explains, kicking off his traitor floppeti flip, letting himself be steered.

Geralt touching him is always a win, no matter the conditions. Unless he is hitting him. Or tickling him. Anything but tickles.

"Get out of those clothes, you menace." Geralt sighs. "I'll make some tea."

"Best housemate ever." The door is closed behind Jaskier, who quickly obeys and enjoys the hottest shower this side of Mordor.

When he returns to their living room, his cheeks are rosy from the heat, his hair wrapped in a towel.

Vitality restored, Jaskier shuffles to the couch where Geralt is already sitting. It makes his hopeful little heart flutter when Geralt allows

Jaskier to creep up close, lean against his shoulder and sigh contently.

"Waaarm." He says, cheek smushed against his friend's arm.

"You silly creature." Geralt says fondly, grabbing the blanket from the floor where Jaskier left it last night, and throws it over both their legs.

" 's supposed to be summer." Jaskier pouts.

"It is summer."

"Tell that to the rain."

"Don't need to. Heard you muttering all the way up the stairs."

"It didn't listen."

"Poor you."

"Don't mock me."

Geralt snorts and Jaskier snuggled down closer under the blankets. It is terribly cozy, he can't believe Geralt lets him get away with cuddling. A rare treat he is not sure he deserves, but he'll take it.

From the kitchen, the water boiler whistles for attention, and Geralt stands up, leaving Jaskier feeling unbalanced. For a few minutes,

Jaskier just sits there, contemplating if he should wait, or just spread himself over the entirety of the couch.

Before he can make up his mind, Geralt returns with two steaming cups, one cup decorated with ponies in all shapes and sizes, the other a glittery rainbow.

"My hero." Jaskier sighs, accepting the cup, leaning back into Geralt as soon as he is sat down again.

They get comfortable, Jaskier blowing on his tea until it is cool enough to sip on, Geralt starting Netflix to pick a show for them to catch up on.

The opening notes to Stranger thing starts, and Geralt leans forward to set down the remote.

When he leans back, Jaskier almost chokes on his tea. Because now there is an arm behind his shoulders, a hand resting in the dip of his waist.

They don't say anything. Just rest against each other, watching the screen and ignoring the rain outside. It is warm and it is comfortable, old yet incredibly new.

He can feel Geralt breathe, his chest expanding, he can smell his shampoo, and when the monster suddenly appears on the screen, he clutches Geralt's T-shirt, his knuckles touching warm skin.

Suddenly the rain doesn't feel so bad. Maybe he could deal with another day or three like this.

Even if it means broken flipflops or useless pool noodles, he would trade it in a heartbeat, if it meant time curled up on the couch, being held through the scary scenes of a show he's seen twice over.

If it meant being closer to Geralt.

[writingmysanity]

Shirt

@thesleepy1 Oops, too late.

Prompt: "is that my shirt?"

Word count: 333

Pairing: Eskel x reader

Warnings?? Skin is mentioned.

Author note: written at 1 am. unbeta'd. Any and all mistakes are my own. As always, likes and comments are always welcome!

humming, you scoot along in a small dance, bobbing your head along to the beat of the strumming of the bard’s tune down below. He isn’t Jaskier, but he wasn't bad and the tune is catchy. Paying no mind to the sound of the door opening, you continue to lay your and Eskel’s newly washed clothes out in front of the fire.

“Hey Kit, have you seen my-” you stop then, peeking over your shoulder, hand resting on the arm of the chair beside you for support, completely forgetting what you're wearing out of sheer comfort. He gulps, his wandering eyes trailing down your form, lingering on the bandage on your upper thigh suddenly on display as you stretch to finish straitening a piece of clothing before they snap back up, locking with yours intentionally as he rubs his hands down the sides of his pants. “Bag,” his voice is weak, breathless, as you stand fully, turning to him.

“Yeah! I did laundry” you smile, motioning behind you to where the clothes are now drying. His head just bobs a bit, eyes flickering down seeming to get stuck, sucking a deep breath in through his teeth.

“Is… is that my shirt?” the sound that leaves his chest sounds strangled, making your eyebrows furrow. Finally looking down at yourself, his too-large shirt hanging loosely over your frame, your cheeks redden immediately.

“Yes.. yes. I uh” you clear your throat. “I was doing laundry and that idiot downstairs spilled his tankard… On.. me. I figured that you wouldn't mind my borrowing your shirt temporarily” your voice gets steadily smaller, suddenly feeling very naked under his gaze. He just nods, rubbing his hand over his face, turning suddenly, coughing.

“No, no” he tries to sound normal, but his voice cracks. “It's okay, I don't mind.” he takes a deep breath to attempt to calm himself. That was the wrong thing to do. You had just taken a bath and smelled delicious, intoxicating, making him groan.

“Fuck”

--

I know sent an ask. I was weak. @thesleepy1

taglist: @thesleepy1 @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @queenxxxsupreme

if you'd like to be part of the tag list, just message me!

[lovelyrita1967]

Late Luncheon 🍹

This is inspired by a real note on an antique shop door that I saw on Twitter, and it’s for @peanitbear who gave me a spark 💕

*  *  *  * 

The door of the antique shop didn’t budge when Geralt tugged at it. His eyes fell on a sheet of paper taped inside the window covered in excessively large, loopy handwriting. It was a bit over-the-top, really.

Darlings—

Had to run to a luncheon, but I’ll be back around 3. Fingers crossed that the food is good— God knows the company won’t be

—Jaskier

Geralt frowned and looked at his watch. 3:47. Well, this was no way to run a business. Eskel insisted this was the best antique shop in the city, but there had to be other—

“Excuse me, darling!” The musical voice startled him. Geralt turned to find himself looking into a pair of sparkling bright blue eyes. The man staring back rattled a ring of about 100 keys in his hand. When Geralt didn’t move, he reached forward to pat Geralt’s hip and made shooing noises. Geralt shook himself and took a step back. 

“So sorry. Luncheon ran long.” The man he assumed was Jaskier studied the keys as he flipped through them. He was wearing deep purple trousers and a pale blue t-shirt. But then Geralt noticed it was spattered with some sort of liquid, a bright pink splotch over his heart, shiny fingers dripping down almost to his waistband. 

“What happened to your shirt?” Geralt couldn’t help but ask as the man let out a triumphant sound and slid a key into the lock. 

“Please, come in.” Jaskier pushed the door open and waved behind him as he bustled in, pausing to remove the sign from the door. Then he looked down at himself. “Oh, that’s just Valdo.” He sighed and dropped the note on the counter, then pulled the shirt off over his head. 

Geralt froze in his tracks, taking in the long, surprisingly muscular frame before him. Jaskier had broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist, and a rather healthy patch of chest hair. 

“Um. Why go for lunch with him if you don’t like him?” 

Jaskier disappeared into the back, then reappeared a moment later, pulling a white button down on. His nimble fingers flew over the buttons as he spoke. “Well, it’s complicated. I either get amazing head, or he throws a drink at me.” He frowned thoughtfully as he straightened the collar. “I guess it’s not that complicated after all.” He laughed, turning his full attention onto Geralt, which sent his heart skittering into his ribcage. “Now, what can I do for you…?” 

“Geralt.” 

“Geralt. I’m Jaskier. What can I do for you, Geralt?” 

Why was his mouth so dry? “Just moved here. Need some furniture. My brother recommended this place.”  

“Who’s your brother?” 

“His name is Eskel…” 

“Ohhhh, yes. That gorgeous drink of water. I should have known, you look exactly like him, except for the hair.” He nodded at Geralt’s long white locks before his eyes swept up and down his body. Geralt squirmed. 

The smile stretched slowly across Jaskier’s face. “Well, I’d be happy to help you, Geralt. I have a feeling you’re going to need a very sturdy bed.”  

[witcher-and-his-bard]

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): none, Geralt is a horny bastard Rating: mature (ish?)

@srapsodia drew a cute little doodle and I was inspired by Jaskier’s butt. This got a little off topic, but pls enjoy 600 words of Geralt admiring Jaskier’s body/clothes.

Jaskier is eyeing himself in the mirror as Geralt slips into the room, clean from his bath and now with fresh clothes from Yen that she's insisted he wear. She has thoughtfully picked him something black and while he could do without the gold trim, Geralt finds he's happy to know that it will match Jaskier's outfit. And if Yen and Jaskier are both happy, Geralt is happy.

He looks over to Jaskier now where Jaskier is fiddling with something on his chest. Geralt watches him for a moment, letting his eyes trail down from the loose shirt to the tightly fitted trousers and the bow that fastens them. He hums thoughtfully, quietly appreciating the curve of Jaskier's ass as he buttons up his shirt and reaches for the corseted vest he's chosen for the evening. Geralt gives an appreciative rumble, imagining the way it will sit just above that bow, exaggerating Jaskier's bum even more.

"You know," Jaskier says slowly, "you could just paint my portrait, it will last longer."

Geralt hums for a moment, considering, before rising from his seat and crossing to where Jaskier stands in front of the mirror. He rests his hands on Jaskier's waist, looking over his shoulder, but quickly lets his hands drop, running over the curve of his ass and squeezing lightly.

"New trousers?" he asks and Jaskier wiggles his hips, pushing back into the touch.

"I had them specially made, do you like them?"

"I do," Geralt rumbles, dipping down to nuzzle at the back of Jaskier's neck. "Might actually paint you when we get back to Toussaint. Maybe in nothing but these. Maybe in nothing."

There's a little hitch of breath and Geralt grins to himself, one hand trailing up Jaskier's side as he presses up against his back, fitting his cock in the cleft of Jaskier's ass.

"Geralt," Jaskier chides, "your daughter is getting married in less than an hour-"

"I can be quick. She won't even know the difference."

"Geralt," Jaskier scoffs, laughing as he turns in his arms, "I am not fucking you-"

"Didn't say anything about you fucking me," Geralt breathes, sliding both hands down over Jaskier's ass again and pulling him forward. "Gods, how did I ever resist you for so long."

"Self doubt and pure stubbornness?"

"Hmm."

"Ah yes, and that. Come now love, I need to finish getting ready. Lace me up, will you?"

Geralt lets out a petulant groan as Jaskier slips from his arms, but he isn't disappointed when Jaskier slips the vest over his head, tucking his shirt in properly before fastening the front. Geralt runs his hands up Jaskier's sides, delighting in the firm smoothness of the corset. He used to question Jaskier's frivolous clothing choices back when they travelled everywhere, but now that they're mostly stationary - even if the outfits are still rather outlandish and over-the-top - Geralt has come to appreciate them.

He loves the way the corsets accentuate his waist and tuck everything in to better show off his ass. The flouncy shirts are soft and lovely but they fall over his hips and Geralt prefers them only where there is nothing else underneath. He shuts his eyes as he sets to tightening the ties of Jaskier's corset, thinking back to the last morning before they rode out for Novigrad and their ship to Skellige. Jaskier had surprised him by cooking breakfast in one of Geralt's shirts and nothing more and they had been delayed over an hour as Geralt ravished him on the kitchen table.

"Geralt," Jaskier huffs, "I can feel you."

"You're too sexy," Geralt mumbles, tugging firmly at the ties.

"You're killing me, love. As soon as the party is over tonight you can have me however you want me, for as long as you want me. You just have to be patient."

"Promise?" Geralt asks and Jaskier huffs a laugh as he twists to press a soft kiss to Geralt's lips.

"Promise."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Rated: T. Hints of Eskel/Lambert if you squint, Ciri misses her old home, the witchers dance.

Another midwinter storm in Morhen Valley meant another dreary afternoon crowded around the fireplace with the castle's residents, and Ciri couldn’t be more bored. It was worse than any Cintran diplomatic dinner and Vesemir didn’t allow drills inside the castle unless it had been three days. It felt like an entirely arbitrary rule with an arbitrary limit to it, but Lambert had told her not to question the old man’s peculiarities. This was his keep, so they obeyed his rules.

She gazed out of one of the long windows. It had been snowing solidly for five hours; huge, fat flakes fluttered down, whisked into an erratic frenzy by the occasional gust of wind, and she was reminded of the glittering ballroom gowns the ladies of the court used to wear for their debutante presentations. “I miss dancing,” she said, her chin propped against her palm.

Jaskier the bard, who had been scratching idly at his notebooks for the better part of the afternoon, looked up. “Dancing, Princess?” he asked, using her formal address with genuine intonation, as opposed to Lambert who used it whenever she whined too much. At least it was better than the way he said girl.

“Yes!” She threw her hands up. “Dancing. You know, with pretty ladies, music, when everyone has rosy cheeks and they’re a little breathless. At my last ball, grandmama let me have some wine, and…” she trailed off. The accidental reminder of what she had lost scrubbed the wistful light from her eyes. The witchers gathered around the fireplace—all five of them—exchanged troubled glances.

Jaskier tsked. “Alas, dear one, I’m afraid there shan’t be any of that here. Why, I invited your dear adopted father to many a ball and he always stood in the corner, glowering. Ooh, big scary witcher. And you know what he said when I finally bullied it out of him? ‘Witchers can’t dance.’ Well then, there you have it. Uncivilised, the lot of them.”

Vesemir looked up suddenly, his thick, bushy brows knitted together in consternation. “You said what, boy?”

Geralt squirmed. Ciri’s ears perked, interested at the prospect of a little drama to lift the dull greyness of their dreary afternoon. Geralt cleared his throat. “I didn’t feel it appropriate at the time—"

“You know damn well Papa Vesemir taught us to dance,” Lambert cut in, sliding out from the bench where he had been laboriously sewing a tear in an old shirt, “and you were pretty fuckin’ good, if I remember. Ol’ snake hips.” He placed a palm over his stomach, extended an arm, and swayed his hips in his best imitation of a rising cobra. Ciri chuckled and Coën smiled indulgently from his post, cross-legged, by the fire. Even Eskel, the quietest of all the wolves, glanced up from where he was cutting candles into a wicker basket.

“Sit down, Lambert—” Geralt tried, but he knew there was no use. Lambert didn’t like it when Vesemir felt slighted. As much as he railed at the old man himself, he was very clear that he and the other wolves of Kaer Morhen were the only others allowed to berate, chastise or otherwise upset Vesemir.

“Watch and weep, bard. Fuckin' uncivilised. The first part of the lesson is that you need to dress for the wooin',” Lambert informed Ciri, and whipped a floppy grey felt hat from inside his jacket.

“Lambert—” Vesemir growled in warning.

“Chill your bunions, old man. I’ll put it back. Not a crease.” Lambert slicked a hand over his hair before placing the hat upon his head. His fingertips swept across the brim, and he struck a defiant pose, hands planted on his hips. "Perfection."

Jaskier folded his arms across his chest and Geralt sighed into his mug. Ciri giggled, thoroughly on board with any and all of Lambert's shenanigans. "Yes! Perfect. What next?"

"Next, you need to find yourself a damsel," Lambert explained. "Gotta go for the prettiest young filly in the room." He eyed each of them in turn, weighing his options. He pulled a face at Vesemir, flipped Geralt off, spat his tongue out at Jaskier, winked at Coën and finally, with great ceremony, strutted over to Eskel. One arm tucked behind his back, he bowed low, sweeping his hat from his head. "Milady."

"Are you takin' the piss?" Eskel said.

"I'm deadly serious." Lambert straightened his back and restored the hat to its place of honour 'pon his brow. He offered Eskel a hand, palm up, fingers loose and beckoning. "May I have this next dance?" His voice dropped comically low, eyebrows wiggling beneath the hat brim.

Eskel sighed, long-suffering and tried, but took Lambert's hand, his candles discarded. "Fine, but I'm leadin'."

"No you're not," Lambert said brightly, yanking Eskel to his feet. The big witcher grunted as he made contact with Lambert's torso, rolling his eyes as Lambert placed his hands where he wanted them. One of Eskel's settled on his shoulder, the other clasped in his hand. "Bard. Do your job. Music."

Jaskier, in good spirits enough to not make a quip at such a surly demand, grabbed his lute from the table and twisted the tuning pegs. "Requests?"

"Waltz of the Silver Lilies, No. 3," Lambert said without hesitation.

"Oh," Jaskier blinked in surprise, "an... excellent choice."

Geralt smirked into his mug. Jaskier began to play.

Ciri's eyes lit up as she watched her uncles sweep around the table. Their steps in perfect time, their bodies twisting and weaving as if they were made for the ballroom, not the battlefield. She chuckled again as she caught snatches of their conversation beneath the music as they argued like an old married couple: "by Vesemir's hairy crack, let me lead, Eskel", "you're going to step on my feet", "they're pretty hard to fucking miss", "your weight transfers are off", "in my defence, there's a lot of fucking weight to transfer".

Despite their grumbles, they were perfectly synchronized. Better than any of the loveliest couples in Cintra. They turned, and pirouetted, and swayed, and dipped. Ciri could see the fondness in Eskel's eyes as he gazed down at Lambert and the unadulterated joy in every craggy line of Lambert's face. They had probably learned this around training. A way to perfect their dexterity and poise without risking broken bones. Perhaps they had filled the Grand Hall with dancers; she imagined a glittering chandelier, an old witcher on a fiddle and another on a harp. Hundreds of young witchers stumbling, and learning, and getting better until they grew into their skinny, unwieldy limbs.

She could almost imagine herself to be back home... well, until Lambert said something that got Eskel's goat and he received a solid punch in the gut. Just hard enough to make him wheeze.

It took a matter of seconds for the whole thing to devolve into a wrestling match on the floor. Eskel trapped Lambert in a headlock against his chest, but Lambert reached up, pulled his hair and bit his arm. They scuffled until Vesemir slammed his knitting down and grabbed one of his discarded shoes from the floor to beat them apart. "This happened every time while they were learnin'," he grumped, and jogged over to end their scuffle. "Undisciplined, unruly embarrassments, the both of you."

"Ow, fuck, fuck," Lambert rolled away from Eskel, hands over his head, and Eskel kicked at him petulantly one last time.

Coën shook his head and exchanged a fond glance with Ciri. They both knew that Kaer Morhen was better than any Cintran ballroom. She missed the dancing only because she missed what came with the dancing; time with her grandmama and Eist. What she had now could never replace them, but she could cherish it just as much.

She left the table and settled on the rug at Coën's side to play cards. Eskel and Lambert gravitated together as they did every night, Lambert's head on Eskel's belly, Eskel's hand somewhere on Lambert - his forearm this time - and Geralt chatted with Jaskier as afternoon melted into evening, while Vesemir dozed off in his armchair.

Just another midwinter storm in Morhen valley.

[julek]

for @asweetprologue and myself <3 | read on ao3

“Eurgh,” Jaskier says as he gracelessly flops down onto his bedroll. He wipes his nose. “This is impossible.”

It’s cold season for mere mortals and humble bards, it seems. Jaskier wipes his nose again, coughing into his elbow. Being out in the wilderness doesn’t help, either — the nights are mild but there’s a soft breeze that won’t let up, making Jaskier wake up with a sore, dry throat.

“I wonder…” he mumbles to himself, pushing forward with effort to kneel onto the bedroll. He lets his arms drop, release the tension they’d been holding all day just to keep him standing upright. He brings his fingertips to his thighs and closes his eyes. “Okay, big breath…”

He inhales slowly, pushing down the sudden urge to cough with a frown on his face. He bites his lip as he tries to hold the air in for a moment, counting to five in his head, then breathing out with a heavy exhale that’s immediately followed by a coughing fit.

When he’s regained composure, he tries again. Keeping his back straight as an arrow — or what he hopes resembles it at the moment — he breathes in again, but his left nostril is blocked, the right one whistling as the air comes in. As good as I’m going to get, he thinks, and holds his breath. His ears pop.

“Gods!” He groans, his head in his hands. He sniffs miserably. “What do you want from me? What sins am I paying for?”

“I could name a few,” he hears Geralt’s voice say from the foliage. He walks out of the trees with a smirk, holding a pheasant by the neck. “What are you doing?”

Jaskier looks up at him, droopy-eyed and forlorn. “I tried to meditate. You know, like you do. Deep breaths and all— it didn’t work.”

“Hmm.” Geralt puts the pheasant aside for a moment, moving into Jaskier’s space to kneel beside him. He brings his lips to Jaskier’s forehead, the touch grounding, and says, “You don’t have a fever.”

Jaskier sighs. “But I feel like shit.”

“Mm,” Geralt says emphatically, and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek before getting up. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier watches him retrieve his knife from his bag. “Can’t you just,” he whines, his fingers making a whoosh motion, “Axii me back into health, or something?”

Geralt snorts, his blade flat against the feathers as he removes the wings. Jaskier almost feels bad for the poor thing, but the rumble in his stomach holds its ground. “That’s not how it works.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Jaskier flops onto his back, looking at the twinkling stars. “Just so you know, if I had the ability to do…” He frowns. “...magic thingies, I’d use them to nurse my beloved back into health. Just saying.”

“Good to know.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Since you won’t be displaying your undying love for me via some sort of, of… miracle potion, dear, wake me when dinner’s ready.”

The way Geralt stays silent and doesn’t strangle him is a small display of his undying love of its own. Curled up on his bedroll, Jaskier dozes to the sound of Geralt’s knife and the crackling of the fire.

When he wakes, it’s to Geralt’s foot poking him in the side. “Jask.”

“Mmmpf?” He manages before coughing back to life. “Ugh.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Geralt says, and waits for Jaskier to stop wheezing and attempting to spit his lung out to pass him a slightly-burnt leg.

“Thanks,” Jaskier croaks, and digs in.

They eat in comfortable silence, the distant sound of a stream trickling down and cicadas singing their evening song into the sky, the simmering of water on a pot over the fire. Putting his waterskin aside, Jaskier stretches, pleased.

“Well,” he says. “That was good. Now, I think some sleep is in order.”

Geralt smiles at him like he’s withholding a secret. It’s a dangerous smile for him to wear. “Oh, what is it?” Jaskier says.

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, all innocent and wide-eyed.

“You’ve got that conspiratorial look about you. What is it?”

Geralt says nothing, instead fetches his bedroll and rolls it out next to Jaskier’s. Before Jaskier can lay down as he’s been waiting to and before he can drag the Witcher down with him and press into his warmth, Geralt puts up his hand.

“We can’t share,” he says.

Jaskier splutters. “And why not?” He says indignantly.

Geralt gestures vaguely at his face.

Jaskier sniffs, as if to prove his point. “I cannot believe,” he says, wiping his nose, “that Geralt of Rivia, slayer of beasts and hero of humanity, won’t share his bed with me because of a runny nose!”

Geralt makes a face. “You’ll cover me in goo.”

“You’ve been covered in much worse! You can’t even get sick, you—” His voice is comically nasal as he whispers, heartbroken, “I thought you loved me.”

Geralt sits closer. “And I do,” he says. “Which is why I’m displaying my— what was it?”

“Undying love for me,” Jaskier grumbles.

“Yes, that— by offering you the oldest cold-banishing ritual there is.”

Jaskier perks up. “You are? Why didn’t you lead with that? What is it?” He scrambles to get up, starts undoing his chemise. ”Do I have to be naked? Howl at the moon? D’you need some blood? I read that—”

“None of that, Jask,” Geralt says, touching his fingers to Jaskier’s arm, settling him. “Just— wait.”

Jaskier does, curiously watching Geralt wander around their camp. He retrieves a small linen bag from his pack, upending its contents into the pot and taking it out of the fire, placing it on the ground next to it. Then, he digs up an old shirt of his, black and faded, from his bag, and hands it to Jaskier with a warm smile.

“Come here,” he says softly, motioning for Jaskier to come kneel by the fire. He does, the dirt digging in his knees, and looks up at Geralt expectantly.

Geralt unfolds his shirt with care, and wraps it around the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Drape it over your head,” he instructs gently. “With your hands, like this. Like— like a tent.”

It makes Jaskier laugh, but he does it anyway. “Okay,” he says. “I feel like a child. What next?”

He can’t see Geralt with the dark cloth covering his head, but he hears him snort. “Now, put your face over the pot— here, I’ll help you.” Geralt places a hand on his back and helps him lean over the steaming pot, arranges his shirt so that it covers the pot as well, leaving Jaskier inside a warm, humid cocoon. “Now, breathe in.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, the sweet scent of chamomile filling his senses. His face feels warm already, the steam curling his hair at the edges. Geralt’s hand is still on his back, soothing. “The steam will help clear your airway,” he says. “Just breathe in and out until the water starts to cool down.”

Jaskier nods, but realizes Geralt can’t see him. “Okay,” he says, breathing in again. It makes him sweat, the warm steam on his face, but with every breath he takes, he can feel it work its magic. There isn’t any, he knows — it’s no different from the potions Geralt brews, the salve he uses on his wounds — but there’s something mesmerizing about watching the cut-up stems and petals dancing on the water, unintelligible shapes revealing themselves at the bottom of Geralt’s beaten-up pot.

The water cools down after a while. When Jaskier emerges from his makeshift tent, Geralt’s watching him with a tender look in his eyes, a smile curling on his lips despite himself. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier sniffs, but this time, he takes in a clean breath. “Better,” he says, handing Geralt his shirt back. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” says Geralt, and this time, when he lays on his bedroll, he beckons Jaskier close. “Sleep?”

Jaskier smiles. The chamomile made him sleepy, and he feels warm as he lays next to Geralt, entwining their legs and brushing his nose against the cold spot where his jaw meets his neck.

“Thank you for saving me,” he murmurs against Geralt’s skin.

Geralt huffs a laugh, tightening his arms around the bard. “‘S hardly a cure.”

Jaskier looks at him. Geralt’s profile is illuminated by the dying firelight, the flames casting shadows on his face. Still, his golden gaze gleams as their eyes meet.

“How’d you come up with it?” Jaskier asks quietly. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

Geralt doesn’t answer for a while, his fingers tracing lines over Jaskier’s chemise. Jaskier brushes a wayward strand of white hair from Geralt’s face. He smiles.

“My mother used to do it for me.”

Jaskier hums at the quiet admission, listening to the slow beating of Geralt’s heart. He smiles faintly, and Jaskier knows he’s not really there right now.

“There wasn’t money for healers, back then.” Geralt swallows. “But there was always chamomile.”

Jaskier squeezes his hand.

“I never liked it, in truth,” Geralt admits, quietly. “The steam was always too hot on my face. But she would… she’d sit next to me. Hold the cloth over my face.”

Jaskier thinks of Geralt’s hand at his back.

“We’d do it together.”

Breathing out, like he can finally feel the air filling his lungs, Geralt looks into Jaskier’s eyes. They’re softer, somehow, honey-gold around a pool of black. Jaskier brushes his fingers against Geralt’s cheek, leans in for a tender kiss to his jaw, missing his lips.

Geralt laughs, low and beautiful. “I can’t get sick now, you know.”

Jaskier smiles. “I know.”

[littlestsnicket]

Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

this is a fun ask, lets see if i can come up with five. (spoilers: i did! some snickety and witchery snippets below the cut)

abandoned drabble

Jaskier is moping and it shouldn’t bother Geralt. It’s just… irritating, the way Jaskier can be loud even in complete silence. This is really for Geralt’s benefit. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and tosses a stick at the bard before he’s quite looked up. He catches it easily anyway. His expression shifts through anger to comical outrage anyway. 

“What’s that for?”

“Sparring.”

“Geralt, you do realize traveling unarmed is a deliberate choice on my part?”

“That’s a stick,” Geralt says flatly, and Jaskier frowns for a moment and then laughs

2. bit i cut from "in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard" because it didn't fit structurally/i didn't want to delve too too deep into any of the non-Ciri relationships and this would have needed a whole separate subplot to work

“You don’t have to forgive him.”

Yennefer didn’t respond.

“You’re not completely at fault, I don’t care what either of you think about this.”

Yennefer looked furious for a moment before she schooled her features into something calm and diplomatic. “You didn’t have to forgive him either.”

“Yes, I did,” Jaskier hissed, “because he was so obviously, painfully sorry, and then he apologized with actual fucking words, which last I checked he has absolutely not done for you. He has, in fact, seemed to be denying that he’s behaved unfairly in any way.”

Jaskier drew a deep breath and deflated a bit, “Sorry, I’m not mad… at you.”

Yennefer made a sobbing noise that she would have repressed if she could and found herself suddenly enveloped in a tight hug.

3. tiny bit from the klaus&lemony fic i have temporarily given up on, not sure if this will end up in the final draft

Klaus listened silently as Mr. Snicket awkwardly shuffled about in his seat for a long while before he peered over the top of his book.

“Mr. Snicket, your book is upside down,” Klaus said flatly. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Mr. Snicket closed the book and set it in his lap rather than flipping it the right way around. He peered back at Klaus over the cover of <title>, his expression somewhat expectant. Slowly, Klaus lowered the book, getting a good look at Mr. Snicket.

Mr. Snicket was wearing his customary button down shirt and slacks. In concession to the summer heat and the casual attire appropriate for one’s home, he had forgone a tie and was wearing a set of house shoes with no socks leaving his ankles exposed.

4. manic pixie dream jaskier (the jaskier/valdo fic i was possessed to write :D )

Valdo doesn’t say much of anything, just hums agreeably when Julian pauses in his stream-of-conscious observations. Valdo’s too distracted by the lingering tingle the touch of Julian’s palm had left against his own and the musical staccato of Julian’s voice to process much of what he’s saying. Julian makes some rambling but incisive comments about the band that Valdo would be hard pressed to recall the specifics of, but his full attention latches back onto Julian’s words as he begins to speculate in discomfiting detail about which of the locals at the next table would be most willing and mutually satisfactorily to get into bed with. 

“The one with the coppery hair must be a blacksmith’s apprentice. Look at the muscles in his neck...” Julian moves to stand and Valdo catches him by the wrist. He blushes—red and splotchy feeling, nothing like the soft flush that had entranced Valdo last term. He curls in on himself in pre-emptive shame, but Julian pauses, looking at Valdo inquisitively.

Valdo doesn’t move when Julian carefully disentangles his wrist from Valdo’s fingers or when Julian turns around on the bench to lean into the space between Valdo and the table, not quite touching him. He feels pinned in place like the exotic beetles he had seen through the door in one of the biology labs. 

Julian’s smile is sharp and nearly predatory, but not unkind. Valdo thinks he might have an aneurysm when Julian’s hand cups the side of Valdo’s neck. He lets Julian kiss him, too wrongfooted to do much of anything in return.

[and that is where i ran out of transcribing focus, the rest of the scene is in my notebook :/ ]

5. abandoned jacques&lemony fic from so long ago i don't even remember writing it, but i kinda like it. who knows, maybe this will get wrapped into the disastrous snicket siblings fic i want to write

I have always loved my brother and would drain the oceans of the world if it would keep him alive and reasonably whole, but he had a particular way—which I believe only younger siblings can achieve—of driving me up a wall. Currently, he was seated across from me, frowning slightly, his gaze fixed on the entryway of the restaurant as his fingers tapped noiselessly against the white tablecloth. I was confident, though unlike my brother I was no expert on the subject, that it was a pattern of tapping that would elicit a tune from the treble keys and bass buttons of an accordion. I wished he would sit still.

Lemony’s particular fidgeting reminded me of something I very much did not want to think about. Long enough ago that we were a great deal happier and my brother did not yet have a permanent crease of worry between his brows, we had made a regular practice of sitting at tables that were a great deal larger but otherwise very similar to this one with a number of other people. Lemony and Beatrice would play a game. It would start with Lemony tapping his fingers against the table as he was doing now. Beatrice would proceed to guess what he was playing. Inevitably, Lemony would inform her that she was wrong and Beatrice would continue to guess increasingly implausible pieces of music until she decided to accuse Lemony of cheating, and then Lemony would say something along the lines of “How dare you besmirch my honor. You don’t even know how to play the accordion,” and they would argue while Jerome looked distressed and Bertrand watched them fondly, occasionally making an interjection. To the untrained eye, these interjections seemed to be the sort of thing one would say to de-escalate a conflict, but I was certain Bertrand had been egging them on.

Eventually I would say something along the lines of, “everyone is staring, we shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to ourselves,” to which Lemony would respond very pointedly, “You don’t care about that.” And I would glare at him, and he would raise an eyebrow as if to say, “any argument you make will only serve to make me more certain of my suspicions.”

At least he was too polite to voice his suspicions aloud. If I was lucky, Beatrice and Bertrand would have begun to talk about something else and Jerome would begin to relax.

Mostly to derail my train of thought as safely as possible, I asked my brother, “What do you think?”

I had been telling him about my latest mission—to ensure that the remnants of the headquarters at 667 Dark Avenue did not fall into the wrong hands without revealing our organization’s interest in the location. I had hoped to discuss the matter with my brother has he, despite his insistence to the contrary, provided excellent insight into the mind and likely actions of one Esme Squalor, but I suspect he had not been listening.

Lemony schooled his expression into that of an insolent child, “You should tell him how you feel.”

“Tell who how I feel about what?” I responded cautiously.

Lemony ignored me, clearly believing I knew what he was talking about. He may have been right to do so.

“In person. Not in a letter he might not receive. He’d be pleased to see you.”

“That’s something, coming from you.”

This was a cruel thing to say, and I wished to take it back. I expected my brother to argue—explain that his circumstances had been more complex, or, possibly, simply walk away without a word as I was certain he was still angry with me about the role I played in making those circumstances more complex, which I was not sorry for as I would rather see my brother miserable than dead and I, still, even with the benefit of hindsight, could see no better alternative. Instead he let his gaze drift back to the entryway of the restaurant. I wondered if he was anxious or waiting for something specific or both.

“I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it,” he quoted. I didn’t know what to make of that. I knew the book about the girl who fell through a hole in the ground and found a world that was whimsical and strange had upset him a great deal as a small child.

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

Waffle House AU

It’s never mentioned but for clarification, Jaskier has a beard in this. Anyway, @officerjennie, @all-hail-the-witcher, and myself shouldn’t be left alone together because then things like this happen. I love you both.

Geraskier, rated t, modern au and Geralt's still a witcher

-

The first time the man showed up, it was nearing three in the morning. The Waffle House Jaskier worked overnights in was as packed as ever, that’s to say there were two regulars sitting at the bar and a hoard of bugs flying around the place.

The man in question was dressed head to toe in some sort of armor that looked like it belonged in a steampunk cosplay and covered in an odd black substance that looked sticky. Even from across the restaurant, Jaskier could already smell the foul odor rolling off the man in waves. It was so strong Jaskier was surprised that he couldn’t see it.

Walking to the other end of the bar, closest to the corner table the man had seated himself it, Jaskier shouted at him, unwilling to get any closer than necessary, “What do you want to drink?”

“Coffee,” the man’s voice was deep, more a growl than anything else.

Wrinkling his nose in displeasure, Jaskier grabbed the coffee pot and a mug and made his way over to the table, singing loudly to himself as he did so. Jaskier’s voice bounced off the shitty interior of the Waffle House, making it echo in a most unpleasant way. Jaskier switched to humming an upbeat tune as he approached the man at the table and began pouring the coffee.

“So, what do you think of my singing?” It was a question Jaskier asked all of his late-night customers. Their answers would determine whether he would keep them as regulars or do his best to run them off.  And his best never failed.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier frowned at the non-answer, “Come now, three words or less.”

“Filling-less pie.”

Spluttering, Jaskier pointed at the man angrily, “You know nothing about music. What do you want to order?”

“Hashbrowns. Smothered and covered.”

Spinning on his heal, Jaskier stalked away from the man without responding, instead muttering angrily under his breath, “I’ll show you filling-less, you bastard.”

-

Dropping the plate in front of the man, Jaskier watched as the rubbery meal bounced uncomfortably off the plate before landing back on it, somehow looking even worse than it already had.

“What is this?” The man’s voice held no inflection and Jaskier had no way of knowing the man’s feelings as he looked at the pathetic plate in front of him.

“Your food.”

“I ordered hashbrowns.”

Jaskier had to hold in his gasp as the man’s eyes, the most unusual golden shade, met his.

“Well, this is what I’ve brought you.”

The man looked back at the plate, flipping open the joke of an omelet, revealing that it was just eggs cooked in a pan and folded over, “There’s nothing inside. What kind of omelet doesn’t have anything in it?”

“Oh? Do you not like filling-less omelets? What a shame.”

Jaskier stalked back to the bar and took a seat by the regsiter, pulling his book back out and pretending to read it while he watched the man from the corner of his eye. He didn’t even look back to Jaskier’s direction, instead staring grumpily at the eggs in front of him before beginning to eat them.

The man ate quickly and before long he was walking over to the register where Jaskier sat, throwing a wad of bills down on the counter, “Keep the change.”

“I will.”

“You’re a shitty waiter.”

“You smell bad.”

And that, Jaskier assumed, would be that and he would never have to see the weird, smelly, strangely attractive man ever again.

-

The next night when the man arrived again, this time covered in a weird flaky green substance, Jaskier couldn’t help but eye him suspiciously. People didn’t typically return after Jaskier provided intentionally bad service, at least not if they were sober and of a sound mind. Jaskier couldn’t confidently say this man’s mind was sound, although he did seem sober.

Jaskier grabbed the coffee pot and a mug and stalked over to the corner table. He filled the cup halfway.

“More hashbrowns?”

The man wrinkled his brow, a frown on his face “Yes.”

Wandering back to the kitchen, in no rush, Jaskier stuck his head back in to look at the cook, “More eggs like last night. And can you add something weird to them this time?”

The line cook saluted him before reaching up to grab something off the shelf above his head. Jaskier winced, he wasn’t sure what exactly was in the mixtures of spices that were kept up there, but he had never had a good experience with them, that was for certain. This would for sure run off the weird tone-deaf man for good. The cook was done in no time and Jaskier walked the plate over to the man in the corner, throwing it down on the table like he had the night before.

He did no more than blink in surprise when the table collapsed. Jaskier wasn’t sure exactly why the table collapsed, the plate and shitty eggs didn’t weigh very much, and he hadn’t thrown the plate down particularly hard. But, it wasn’t the weirdest thing he has ever seen in the Waffle House, so he simply caught the man’s eye and shrugged, turning and walking back to his seat.

He watched amusedly as the man juggled his plate off the table before propping it up awkwardly and moving seats. That hadn’t been part of Jaskier’s plan, but it would certainly work in his favor.

-

Jaskier was shocked when the man walked in for a third night in a row. The normally difficult to fluster waiter was very aware that his face was the very picture of surprise. Luckily, the man didn’t even look at him as he walked over to the table in the corner. He shook it a bit before sitting down, presumably making sure it wouldn’t collapse today. To be honest, Jaskier wasn’t overly confident it was any sturdier now, but it did appear that someone on day shift had at least made it look as though it was fixed.

Grabbing the coffee pot and a mug, Jaskier couldn’t help but hope this wouldn’t truly become a ritual. He didn’t want a man in his Waffle House if said man couldn’t tell that Jaskier’s singing was nothing short of marvelous.

“Hashbrowns again?”

The man nodded, staring out of the window rather than looking at Jaskier. He wasn’t in the weird steampunk armor anymore, this time wearing a soft black tee shirt and worn in jeans. It also seemed he had managed to find a bath and was able to get all of the weird grimy things off of him.

He really was quite attractive all cleaned up, Jaskier couldn’t help but notice.

“What’s your name?”

The man turned to look at him, “Geralt.”

Walking over to the kitchen, Jaskier put in the order and sat back down by the register to wait. It wasn’t long before One-Eyed Larry grunted at him from his usual seat at the bar, “Napkin holders on fire, kid.”

Looking over at the table in front of Geralt’s, Jaskier saw that the napkin holder was, indeed, on fire. Sighing and getting a glass of water, Jaskier walked over to the table and poured the glass on it, drenching it thoroughly. Waving away the smoke, Jaskier turned the napkin holder around, making sure the fire was completely out, before putting it back in its place and taking his seat again.

Geralt’s golden eyes followed him curiously the whole time.

If the man was going to be spending his nights here, then he would need to get used to these kinds of things. It was three in the morning in a Waffle House, weirder would happen.

A few minutes more passed before there was a bell ding from the kitchen, signaling that Geralt’s food was ready. Jaskier tossed the plate on the table as was tradition, smirking when he saw the surprise flit across the man’s face. No doubt he hadn’t been expecting to receive hashbrowns, smother and covered as he had first asked for two nights prior.

What could Jaskier say, he was rather weak for a pretty face. Even if was a rude one.

“If you agree that my singing is spectacular, I’ll let you take me out for coffee sometime.”

“Good coffee or this shit?” Geralt gestured to the mug in front of him.

Jaskier scoffed, “You think I would ever eat or drink anything from here?”

“That’s comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Jaskier sat a notepad and pen on the table, “Leave your number and I’ll call you tomorrow to cash in.”

Later when Jaskier cleared the table, he couldn’t help but smile at the neat handwriting on the notepad.

Looking forward to hearing from you. You should get your napkin holder checked out.

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