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purplesauris · 4 years ago

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The Way the Pendulum Swings

Yes, I am back again with more writing, no, i cannot control myself. My fantastic friend @frostedbasilisk and I got talking, and I was inspired by Buffskier. (yes, i will continue using the name. Look at their beautiful rendition of Jaskier from a scene of the fic here!

Read on AO3 here!

“I think we need help.” Geralt says, leaning over and offering a hand to hoist Jaskier up. His doublet is now covered in dirt on the back and Jaskier’s pride is wounded, but Jaskier grins sheepishly all the same.

“I told you, I’m uselessly lead footed.” Jaskier dusts himself off as best he can and fixes his hair, turning so that Geralt can dust him off the rest of the way. “If you can’t teach me dear, who possibly could?”

“Vesemir trained me.” He points out, and Jaskier raises both eyebrows in shock, tilting his head and hmmming.

“You want to go up north, so that Vesemir can train me?”

“It’s only a few weeks early.” Jaskier pins him with a look that could wither the largest tree, and Geralt has to fight to keep from withering too. Jaskier’s expression lightens quickly, eyes softening, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose.

“Fine. But if he can’t train me, I suppose it’s a lost cause, hmm? Then my big brute of a witcher will have to protect me.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, and though the word should sting, he wields it like such a compliment that Geralt feels himself relaxing. Jaskier likes his brutishness, and has said so many times. “Shall we set out in the morning then?”

“Mmm.”

-*-

Their trip up through the mountain is much more pleasant this time- the breeze is just barely beginning to hold the frigid notes of winter, and animals are plentiful along the path. They can take their time, too, in no rush to beat the snows or be the last ones there, so Jaskier can truly admire their surroundings. He spends just as much time singing as he usually does, but now it’s waxing poetics about the way the grass sways in the wind and the mountain air plays with flower petals. It’s meaningless and frilly, but Geralt likes to hear Jaskier like this- wondering at the world around him and seeing the beauty in everything. Not that he’ll tell him such, though if he hums along when Jaskier’s a few steps ahead, no one can blame him.

Geralt has to end up climbing the side of the keep and slipping over when they get up to the massive gates. Vesemir isn’t expecting anyone for at least another month, so the gates are firmly shut and Geralt has to open it for them. Jaskier leads Roach inside and meets Geralt at the stables, helping in taking off all the packs and brushing her down. He leaves that mostly to Geralt in actuality, and feeds Roach a couple of apples from their pack as a treat.

“You’ll make her fat.” Geralt scolds, but Jaskier just laughs and kisses her soft nose.

“She works too hard not to get an apple from me.” Roach butts her head against Jaskier’s chest in agreement, and he looks at Geralt to say see? Geralt shakes his head, but he spends an extra bit of time brushing her down and getting her comfortable. Jaskier murmurs quietly to her, telling her what a good horse she is for putting up with Geralt for so long and smiling when he hears Geralt scoff quietly.

“Geralt, Jaskier.” Jaskier jumps at the sudden arrival of a new voice, and Geralt merely glances over at his adopted father. “You’re early.”

“Geralt’s idea, I’m afraid.” Vesemir chuckles, as if that he already knew that well enough. “He says, and I quote, that I am “woefully unprepared to fight off even the weakest of foes”, and thus, my only hope is you.”

“That’s all he said?” Jaskier grins at Vesemir, snickering when Geralt grumbles and stoops to grab their bags from the hay. “Well, I have to agree. I suppose I could put you through accelerated training.”

“Then consider me your dedicated pupil.” Jaskier bows low at the waist, blue eyes bright when he straightens up. Vesemir smiles at that, a fleeting glimpse under the usual stern exterior, and Jaskier takes it as a win.

No one expected Jaskier to take to training quite the way that he did. Much like a fish to water, actually. Jaskier still woke early to tend to the livestock, as had been his job the last three winters he’d managed to come up to Kaer Morhen, and still managed to make enough food to feed the witchers and leave them wanting for nothing. But when he wasn’t embroiled in other chores, he was outside, under the watchful eyes of Vesemir. Vesemir had sent Geralt off to tend to the monsters in the forests while they trained, and when Jaskier had asked why, Vesemir had just said that Geralt was a mother hen.

They’d started off with basic fighting, and Jaskier’s progress went significantly faster than it ever had with Geralt. He seemed a natural at it; graceful and light on his feet in a way that many witchers struggled with even today, body already strong from years on the Path. Vesemir wasn’t sure where the problem was in teaching Jaskier- he was attentive and driven to continue until Vesemir had to tell him to stop. By the end of Jaskier’s first month, Vesemir watched and paced the length of the wall as Jaskier hopped and danced around the huge pendulum swinging in the wind. The first time Jaskier had hauled himself up onto the poletops Geralt had nearly called the whole thing off, protests on his lips. He’d remembered his own training as a child, much younger than Jaskier, and had decided to trust him, and trust in Vesemir.

Jaskier thought that the pendulum was fun. Geralt had never thought balancing on the tops of poles and dodging a large, spiky pendulum was fun, but Jaskier laughed and jested with Vesemir the whole time, catching himself when he stumbled and swearing like Lambert when a spike slammed sideways into his thigh. After the pendulums, Jaskier would be sent to run the walls in true witcher school fashion, and by the time dinner came around Jaskier was all but dead on his feet. Still, he got up day after day, boasting of the newest bruises that had formed in the night as if they were a badge of valor.

“You hide it.” Jaskier stumbles atop the poles, righting his footing as Vesemir lets out a careful- and watches him a bit closer.

“Hide what, dear teacher of mine?” Vesemir raps a wooden sword against one of the poles, making it shake under foot, but Jaskier merely hops to another pole and brandishes his sword.

“Your fighting prowess.” Jaskier stops then, dropping gracefully into a balanced crouch so he can hear Vesemir over the roaring of the wind. Vesemir allows him a moment to talk, since he started it, and watches the way Jaskier adjusts to keep the wind from blowing him off the poles. “You were already trained, weren’t you?”

“I’m a noble, Vesemir. There isn’t much that I wasn’t trained in. My father thought it important that I learn, in the worry I be called to war.”

“You’re a noble.” Vesemir points out in refute to that, and Jaskier laughs. No noble has ever been called to war anymore than they’ve been called to shovel pig shit. “It’s served you well now, though.”

“I suppose it has.” Jaskier agrees, standing once again. Vesemir uses a weak blast of aard to get the pendulum going again, and Jaskier twirls around the obstacle, feet hardly touching one pole before he vaults for the next.

“When the other boys get here, let’s put that to the test.” Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he’s grinning, and he pushes himself just a bit harder.

-*-

“Since when the fuck have you been first?” Geralt grunts as Lambert claps him on the back, nudging the younger man with his shoulder. “No Jaskier this year?”

“He’s here.” Geralt turns back to the dummy he’s restuffing, pointedly not looking toward Jaskier on the far side of the grounds. “With Vesemir.”

“What, talking about boring old history in the library again?”

Geralt smirks at that, tilting his head back toward the pendulums and turning to catch Lambert’s reaction. Lambert looks over, eyes widening, and he breathes out a holy shit. “You let Vesemir sink his claws in?”

“He asked.”

“He asked? Bullshit.” Lambert goes jogging over, and after a minute Geralt follows, sure that trouble is brewing. Lambert gets to Vesemir first, and the old witcher doesn’t even bother to look at the newest arrival.

“He’s training.” Is all he says, as if that’s ever been enough to settle Lambert.

“Like hell he is, Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Exactly what Vesemir said!” The bard calls back, swaying between not one, but two pendulums now. Vesemir had added the second only upon Jaskier’s insistence. Geralt can smell the worry emanating off of Lambert, and he reaches out to grab at the man’s shoulder but finds him already moving. He reaches a hand, trying to catch Jaskier by the ankle and pull him down, but Jaskier hops away with ease and gives him a dirty look. Lambert grabs for him again, but again Jaskier skips away, glancing down and waiting for his next move. The pendulums move with almost the same sway, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to look to anticipate their moves. “Helping?”

“No, you little shit. You’re on the edge of a cliff and I’m not going to be the one cleaning your carcass up. Get down.”

“Make me.” Lambert growls, lunging and following Jaskier along the wall as Jaskier dodges and leaps away just shy of Lambert’s reach. Somewhere in the time of them having come over to witness Lambert chasing after Jaskier like a kitten with a toy Eskel has arrived, and he slings an arm over Geralt’s shoulder as he approaches.

“He’s better than you were.” Eskel remarks, watching curiously.

“Shut up.” He’s done remarkably well though, Geralt has to admit. Just seeing that Jaskier is able to dodge Lambert has his heart settling a bit. He can at least be trusted to run if danger shows up. Geralt’s heart doesn’t get a chance to rest much as Lambert finally catches Jaskier’s ankle, yanking him forward. Jaskier’s leg goes out from under him, and Geralt watches in slow motion as Jaskier tips backwards, out toward open air. Vesemir leaps forward, reaching, but Jaskier goes plunging over the edge, and Geralt’s heart stops completely.

“FUCK. FUCK, I killed the bard-” Lambert goes to hoist himself up so he can peer over, but stops himself short when he hears something. A pained grunt, and a swear colorful enough to curdle milk.

“No, you didn’t, but I’d appreciate it you didn’t attempt to do so again.” Jaskier’s voice comes from the other side of the wall at the same time that he swings himself up and rests on one knee. His arms are shaking and Geralt can smell blood- he’s pulling Jaskier down and hugging him tight before anyone else can move. “Geralt, I’m fine.”

His voice is muffled against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt shudders before pulling back to look for the blood. Jaskier’s palm is torn up by the rough grit of the wood, and Geralt counts at least six splinters that will have to be pulled out. He’s alive though, and that’s enough for him at the moment. “Still like the pendulums?”

“What’s not to like, love?” His tone is light, but his scent is bitter with fear and his voice shakes a little at the end. Geralt presses his lips together, trying not to frown and failing to do so. Jaskier does laugh then, quietly, and he tugs his hand from Geralt’s to turn to Lambert. He holds his bloody palm out, raising a brow. “Kiss it better?”

“Kiss my ass.” Lambert bites out, scowling and leading the bard inside to clean out his hand. Eskel eyes the pendulums still swinging in the wind, and looks toward Geralt.

“Once, for old times sake?” Geralt shakes his head, but joins Eskel all the same to duck and weave around the pendulums and each other. Vesemir corrects their form, though he hardly needs to, and Geralt only gets down once the pendulums settle and it’s near impossible to move around them. He hops down, landing lightly, and hears soft clapping. Jaskier’s one hand is wrapped tight in a bandage, but he seems put back together again, and Lambert is hanging a step behind his shoulder.

“Now imagine how much better I’d be with witcher reflexes. No one would ever catch me!” Jaskier casts a sly glance toward Lambert, lips tugging up into a smile. “This one almost didn’t. Beginner’s luck.”

“Who’re you calling a beginner?”

“Not used to sweeping men off their feet, hmm?” Lambert’s cheeks go pink as he scoffs, waving a hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but Vesemir interrupts, nodding his head.

“Heal quickly. We’re going to test your training.” Geralt frowns, wondering how much he could have actually done in a month, but Jaskier’s eyes are eager.

“Yes sir.”

-*-

“We’re sparring today. Each day, one of you will fight him, to see how he reacts.” Jaskier is standing next to Vesemir as he announces the plan, excitement written all over his face. “Lambert will go first.”

“Really? You want to start with me?”

“Scared? I promise I’ll go easy.” Jaskier quips, rolling his sleeves up and taking a couple steps into the large sparring circle they've marked in the dirt. Lambert growls softly and strips out of his armor, leaving it in the dirt.

“Don’t bother, this’ll be over before you know it.” Jaskier walks in a slow circle, watching Lambert and humming softly.

“Are you sure?”

“False bravado makes you look like an ass.” Jaskier nods his head as if he agrees, rolling his shoulders and matching Lambert’s pace.

They spiral in the ring, slowly coming closer. It seems like neither of them want to strike first, until Jaskier steps forward and swings. The blow is weak, shaky, and Lambert bats his hand away easily. He punches the bard with a swift hit to his stomach, scoffing. Jaskier oofs, bending over, and Lambert comes in closer, aiming another hit meant to incapacitate him. Jaskier’s gone and behind Lambert before the man finishes his swing, bouncing light on his toes. Lambert whirls, using the momentum to punch forward, but Jaskier slips past him, slamming a fist into the underside of the man’s upper arm and dancing away. Lambert grunts, fingers tingling unpleasantly, and advances forward. Geralt watches in fascination as they play cat and mouse, Lambert chasing and chasing as Jaskier whirls and skips away, staying just out of reach. Lambert is faster, manages to keep up easily, but the only blows he manages to land are glancing and Jaskier seems to handle the pain with ease.

“He’s fast.” Eskel murmurs, eyes flitting between the two opponents and lingering longer on Jaskier. Lambert snarls, red faced after another blow hits dead air, and his pupils contract as he watches, waiting. Jaskier stops too, panting and using the moment to catch his breath. Geralt sees the moment that Lambert decides what he’s going to do- his heel digs into the dirt and he launches forward, roaring and tackling Jaskier. The hold is one he doesn’t think that Jaskier will get out of, especially not with an enraged Lambert, but Jaskier grabs onto the back of his shirt and brings his leg up, knee slamming into Lambert’s side twice in quick succession. Lambert’s rib snaps with a dull crack on the second hit, and he howls as the two go rolling in the dirt. A broken rib has never stopped him before, never stopped any of them, but he’s distracted and Jaskier uses the momentum of their roll to fling himself up and off. He scrambles from his knees to his feet, arms coming up and taking the brunt of the blow Lambert aimed for his head. Geralt can see the purple bruises already forming along Jaskier’s arms.

“We should stop this.” Geralt breathes, knowing that if they don’t, Lambert is going to do something he’ll regret later. Still, Jaskier hasn’t left the ring and neither of them have yielded. Lambert’s eyes have gone wild, and Geralt’s heart picks up at the sight. Even he will admit he doesn’t want to go up against Lambert like this unless he absolutely has to, and he’s even more impressed and slightly aroused that Jaskier is holding his own. Lambert gets in close and delivers a vicious right hook, and Jaskier ducks down into a low crouch. Geralt’s eyes track the movement, and he sees Jaskier’s thighs flex and his head tuck to the side as he springs up from his crouch, ramming his shoulder up into Lambert’s tender ribs. Lambert goes stumbling back, hissing, and Jaskier follows him, using one hand on the witcher’s chest to shove an already wobbling Lambert from the ring.

“Match.” Vesemir says, glancing down at his son who is currently laying in the dirt, hand pressed to his side as he pants. Jaskier pads over and crouches next to him, tilting his head and probing at his side. Lambert smacks his hands away, and Jaskier grimaces.

“Sorry Lambert. Did it break fully?”

“Just a fracture. Only thing broken is my pride.”

“I tried to warn you.” Jaskier teases, pulling a vial from his pocket and handing it over. “Thought you’d need this.”

“Cocky son of a bitch-” Lambert takes the Swallow and downs it in one go, laying still so the potion can do its work. Lambert lays his head back in the dirt again, and Jaskier settles by his side to wait. “Thanks.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier says in return, grinning when Lambert shoves him.

“I can’t wait to see Eskel beat your ass.”

Jaskier looks up at the aforementioned witcher, still smiling. “I can’t wait either.”

-*-

Eskel refuses to fight him until his bruises are healed, citing unfair advantages if his opponent is wounded already. No one begrudges him this, and Jaskier takes the time to train a bit more in swordplay. They meet back in the ring a week after Lambert’s fight, Jaskier bouncing on his heels and grinning all the while. Eskel is the mirror opposite; he stands calmly on the other side of the ring, watching with amusement as Jaskier looks at Vesemir to signal the start of their fight. Vesemir waves them both into the ring, nodding. “Begin.”

Just as before, they begin circling, slowly moving toward one another. This time, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. He goes on the offensive immediately, throwing quick jabs that hit with loud thuds against Eskel’s forearms. He absorbs the blows and continues his slow pacing, letting Jaskier come to him. It’s smart, after having seen the way that Jaskier was content to let his partner slip into a rage before doing any substantial damage. Eskel hardly gives anything back, but he’s wearing Jaskier out and he knows it. Jaskier backs off when he can’t break through Eskel’s guard, panting and hands trembling lightly. His knuckles are already bruised horribly, and Geralt frowns. Jaskier has wasted all his energy trying to break through Eskel’s guard- Eskel only has to deliver a single blow to Jaskier’s abdomen to send him flying, and he skids along the ground, stopping just inside the circle. Jaskier curls into a ball, wheezing, and Geralt strains to make sure that he didn’t hear a rib snap or something pop.

“Get up, bard.” Eskel’s voice is soft, and he allows Jaskier room, time to get up. Jaskier rises to his knees, gasping, and then he stumbles to his feet, raising his hands and swaying. “Yield?”

Jaskier shakes his head and Eskel sighs, padding forward. He doesn’t want to knock Jaskier out or blow him from the ring, but Jaskier is stubborn, dodging to the side when Eskel tries to push him out of the ring. Eskel follows after him, patiently corralling him to the other side of the ring. Jaskier is still stumbling, blinking rapidly as if the sun bothers him, and Eskel seems to take pity on him. He sweeps a leg out, intending to take him out once and for all, but Jaskier leaps up and over. Eskel grabs at him, knowing where he’ll land, but Jaskier is waiting for it, and he grabs Eskel's hand. He spins on his heel, dragging Eskel’s arm with him and pivoting when Eskel tries to break his hold. Jaskier presses a thumb viciously into the meat of Eskel’s thumb, making the bone grind as he finally gets Eskel’s arm behind him and wrenches upwards.

Eskel is the one to gasp in pain now, and Jaskier uses his leverage to press him to his knees in the dirt, bending over until Eskel’s face is nearly on the ground and his shoulder shrieks in protest. Geralt feels his blood heat at the sight of Jaskier holding a witcher down with a very well done pin, and his nostrils flare when he smells a spike of arousal from Eskel in the ring. That… doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Jaskier’s voice is raspy as he pants raggedly, pupils wide. “Yield.”

Eskel tries to wiggle his way out, but Jaskier pulls his arm a bit tighter, digs his thumb in harder, and Eskel gasps again. “Yield, I yield.”

The words stun Geralt, and he looks at Lambert in astonishment as Jaskier lets Eskel go. “Match.” Vesemir calls, pride warming his words. Jaskier nods, smiling, and then promptly turns, takes a few steps away, and vomits into the grass. Geralt hurries to his side immediately while Lambert goes to help Eskel up, rubbing at Jaskier’s back and murmuring softly. The smell of bile hits his nose, sharp and raw, and he grimaces as Jaskier dry heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks. Geralt looks closely at what Jaskier throws up, looking for any blood, but finds nothing but their breakfast from this morning. Good. Nothing seems to have been damaged internally, at least not that he can tell yet, and Jaskier straightens up slowly, wiping at his mouth and burping.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Are you alright?” Jaskier nods, giving Geralt a soft smile. Eskel comes over now, holding out a waterskin and allowing Jaskier to rinse his mouth out. Eskel also urges the bard to drink a bit, and rubs the back of his head sheepishly.

“Didn’t mean to hit you that hard, Jask.”

“No, it was a good swing. Almost had me there for a minute. Am I going to get a medal?”

“For what?” Geralt says, voice tinged with amusement and worry and everything else in between.

“Well, beating two witchers at hand to hand combat, of course.”

“You still have one more to go. Beat the White Wolf, and then we’ll talk.” Lambert peers around Eskel, wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit and pointedly not looking Jaskier’s way again. Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, winking, and Geralt regrets agreeing to the sparring now more than ever.

-*-

It takes Jaskier a full week to recover from Eskel's well placed punch, and he spends every minute of it working or training. His stomach recovers fine, much to Eskel's (and Geralt's) relief, and Jaskier seems supremely pleased that he was able to even survive such a hit. The weather has gotten colder now as winter fully grasps the valley, and snow falls lightly as they convene outside for Jaskier’s final test.

“Something different today. Swords.” Vesemir waves toward the wooden training swords and Jaskier grimaces. Lambert though, is grinning. If there’s one thing that Geralt is known for, that Jaskier sings of constantly, it’s his swordsmanship.

“Really? I don’t think-”

“He’s already proven his hand to hand. I want to see his sword skills.” Jaskier doesn't object, taking a sword when Geralt holds it out to him. Geralt looks like he's swallowed something sour as he rolls his wrist and dips into a slight crouched stance. Jaskier mirrors the stance but doesn't seem nearly as comfortable.

"You don't have to." Geralt says softly as they walk a slow circle around each other.

"I do." Jaskier replies, nodding his head. "Let's get this over with, love."

Geralt feels his heart constrict- he doesn't want to risk hurting Jaskier, doesn't think he could stomach it, but Jaskier isn’t going to back down. He starts out easy, blows that Jaskier can parry or block without being terribly inconvenienced. He can imagine the sad, frustrated look on Jaskier’s face when he loses, and Geralt’s heart breaks for him already. Geralt is half in his thoughts when Jaskier swings, blade sailing for his side. He moves to block, but Jaskier’s arm twitches and he moves trajectory, smacking Geralt hard on the arm with the flat of his blade. Geralt’s skin stings, and his eyes narrow minutely. His nostrils flair- he’d expected Jaskier to smell like rotting fruit- anxious and resigned, but he doesn’t. He smells of citrus, sharp and bright. Excited.

Geralt lets himself go a bit harder, moves faster and with more of that impossible dancer's grace. None of the witcher’s fought quite like he did, with spinning, overly dramatic moves that were just as effective in disemboweling someone. He expects Jaskier to fall behind, expects to feel his blade strike some soft part of Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier… doesn’t. He grins, laughs, and moves through Geralt’s moves as if they were his own. He mirrors them as effortlessly as Geralt attempts to hit him, and Geralt isn’t sure what to think of this. Jaskier’s spins and hops around him, drops low into near splits that has Geralt wincing in pain at the thought. No wonder he liked the pendulum- they’re the perfect way to avoid an enemy, and he spent ample time on them.

“Stop dancing with each other and fight!” Lambert calls, and that breaks Jaskier’s concentration. He glances over, away from Geralt, and Geralt lunges forward. His blade is a hair's breadth away from Jaskier’s head, a move that will knock him out if Geralt’s lucky when Jaskier bends backwards. He doesn’t stop just out of reach- he bends fully over, spine creating an elegant arch as his hands plant in the dirt and he flips backwards. The toe of his boot catches Geralt’s wrist, jarring his fingers, and the blade goes flying as Jaskier completes his hand stand and drops, chest to the ground. The world around Geralt tilts sharply as the heel of a boot smashes into the backs of his knees, and he goes down onto his back, wheezing and failing to suck in a breath.

He hears the shuffle of feet in the dirt as Jaskier steps forward, rolling his wrist and twirling the blade the way that Geralt has done a thousand times. He presses the dull wooden tip against the soft skin under Geralt’s jaw and digs in lightly, tipping his chin up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and Geralt feels heat pool in his stomach. He shouldn’t be getting aroused at this, at being beaten, but Jaskier is spectacular, wreathed in light with snow in his hair and cheeks red from exertion.

“Yield, love?”

“Yield.” Geralt breathes out, raising his hands in a placating gesture. A smirk plays across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt wants nothing more than to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Jaskier tosses the sword in the dirt and offers Geralt a hand as he leans up. Geralt thinks for a moment about yanking Jaskier down and pinning him into the dirt, but Jaskier draws in a sharp breath and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.” Geralt schools his expression into one of faint annoyance, for having lost of course, and not because he’s predictable enough that Jaskier knows what he was planning. Geralt scoops Jaskier’s discarded blade up as he gets to his feet, and hears Lambert begin to laugh.

“We have got to be the worst witchers- a fuckin bard beat all of us!” Lambert laughs harder, doubling over and slapping his thigh.

“Vesemir must be quite the teacher.” Eskel says in agreement, eyes sparkling with amusement as he nods toward Jaskier. Jaskier reaches to brush some dirt off of his pants, smiling and glancing over at Vesemir. Vesemir nods, sharing a small, private look, and Jaskier straightens up.

“I uh, may have misled you lot about my apparent lack of skills.” That shuts Lambert up, and he stands up, frowning hard. Jaskier laughs nervously, shuffles his feet in the dirt, and hurries to explain. “While I am nowhere near your skills as witchers, I ah, was trained as a child. Extensively, I might add, in the art of war.”

“Ha! So the old man isn’t responsible for that?”

“Well, he certainly helped reawaken old skills.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, confusion on his face and lips pressed together in a tight line.

“But… Every time I tried to-” Jaskier clears his throat, blushing, and takes Geralt’s hand in his.

“Ulterior motives, love.” Lambert scoffs in disgust, Eskel laughing quietly.

-*-

“Show me that move, the one you used to disarm Geralt.” Lambert insists that night while they’re eating dinner, golden-amber eyes shining.

“Inside? Fine.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, standing up from the table and moving a few steps away. He folds himself back, fingers splaying against the stony ground, and lifts himself up onto his hands, tilting his body and lowering himself down until his chest is parallel to the floor. He pauses there a moment, then swings his legs around in a sharp burst of speed, knocking over one of the chairs and grunting at the pain in his shins. He’s folded oddly now, still holding all his weight up and off the ground, and he slowly unfolds himself, shaking out his hands as he hops to his feet. “Good enough?”

“Holy fuck.” Lambert gapes, thoroughly impressed. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he has to agree with Lambert’s amazement. He hadn’t been able to see the whole move, being the target, but it’s rather impressive, and highlights all of the lovely muscles in Jaskier’s arms. Lambert leans over to whisper at Geralt, eyes tracking Jaskier as he picks up the fallen chair and collapses into it, grinning when Eskel says something to him. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Geralt feels his chest rumble, and distantly hears himself growl, but his eyes are on Jaskier and the exposed column of his neck. Geralt blinks, shaking his head, and tries his best not to seem like a luststricken fool. Jaskier’s eyes aren’t on Geralt, and he can’t possibly have heard the noise Geralt made, but he tilts his head, the muscles in his neck shifting as he slouches in the chair, legs spreading just a bit. Geralt growls louder at that, and Lambert rolls his eyes, smacking Geralt lightly on the shoulder. Geralt jolts, swallows hard and tears his gaze from Jaskier. “Jask, come here. I want to know how you fought like that.”

Jaskier rises to his feet obediently, plopping back into his old seat near Geralt. “Like what?”

“Like me.” It’s been bugging him since they came inside, and he wants to know. He didn’t do that with Eskel or Lambert- he’d used what advantages he had, but he hadn’t bothered trying to emulate them.

“I watch you. A lot. And… Working on the pendulums, it gave me a better sense of your footwork- the way you move. From there, it was about putting the pieces together to create-”

“A dance.” Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s and Jaskier nods, beaming.

“Just so. I didn’t need to be able to actually best you in combat, I just had to survive long enough to disarm you.”

Lambert looks between them, then glances at Eskel, pretending to throw up and rolling his eyes. Geralt sees him mouth the word ‘saps’ and he reaches out to flick Lambert’s ear. He hisses, swatting Geralt away and glaring. He’s still covering his ear from further onslaught when he looks expectantly at Jaskier, as if to say what about us?

“Hmmm. As for you two, I couldn’t spend nearly as much time watching, so I used what I knew. You, my spitfire, are easy to piss off and keep that way. It makes you easy to read.” Jaskier winks at Lambert even as he scowls, but he won’t argue. It’s pretty accurate and he knows it. Jaskier’s attention turns to Eskel, who’s waiting quietly to hear his weakness. “You, my gentle giant, are harder. You’re much more patient, and I can’t rile you for the life of me. But, I can use that gentleness against you.”

Eskel hums, considering this, but he also finds no fault in Jaskier’s thinking. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, especially not in front of Geralt, and that had made him easy prey. “Okay, now I have a question about you.”

“My favorite subject.” Jaskier grins, waving for Eskel to go on.

“How did you become so flexible?”

“Ah, yes, everyone always seems to ask me that.” Jaskier muses, tapping a finger on his chin and smirking when Geralt nudges for him to go on instead of dragging out the silence. “I traveled with a carnival troupe when I graduated from the academy. I played the music to accompany their shows, and learned much from the acrobats in the family. One of them, a very pretty elf, was particularly interested in using it combatively. It’s served me well, thus far.”

“Very well.” Lambert’s grin is saucy, and Eskel groans as Jaskier laughs. Geralt sits there, throat dry and cheeks blazing red. He sees Jaskier glance over out of the corner of his eye, and he tenses up to keep from reacting as Jaskier’s hand slides up his thigh suggestively. Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier sighs at the same time he begins to draw patterns over the fabric of Geralt’s pants.

“Well, now that I am an honorary witcher through ancient rites, I am going to sleep. No one dare wake me.” Jaskier’s voice is threatening, but he’s smiling and chuckles when Lambert mutters honorary witcher my ass. Jaskier glances over at Geralt, hand falling away as he stands to leave. He stoops to kiss Geralt lightly, humming against his lips. “Coming up soon?”

“Mhm.” Jaskier heads up to bed alone, and Geralt only manages to stay with his brothers for another few minutes before following Jaskier up to bed. Lambert whistles at him as he leaves, and Geralt’s cheeks are red as he climbs the stairs up to their room.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #say hello buffskier #jaskier is also acrobatic #bc heehehe...#lambert #eskel #vesemir #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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0dde11eth · 2 years ago

Text

There's a "quiet place" trend going on in tiktok. A blindfolded guy has a nerf gun and other players try walk around him. He listens carefully and tries to shoot them.

The kaer morons doing this with jaskier as the shooter would be hilarious:

Lambert would always get cocky and be the first one out.

Geralt would be convinced he has an advantage "i know jaskier, I can trick him". Unfortunately jaskier also knows geralts habits and shoots him immediately after Lambert.

Eskel does his best, but the man is a wall of muscle, if jaskier accidently corners him he can only dodge so much.

Aiden takes quite a while to be shot, with his cat acrobatics. But eventually jaskier catches on. He shoots, and then immediately spins 180 and shoots Aiden as he's landing.

Coen is the second last to get shot. He uses his wits, and is humble enough to keep from getting cocky like the other witchers.

Papa vesemir lasts the longest. He only gets shot when he falls asleep on his chair in front of the fireplace. (Everyone says it was a Lucky shot. It wasnt. He snores. Loudly)

#my nonsense #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #lambert #eskel #coen #aiden #papa vesemir #kaer morons #another day in kaer morhen

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maithefluffychicken · 2 years ago

Text

True Colors

Rated T, Geraskier, DnD, getting together, coming out, fluffy fluff stuff. Ao3 link. Enjoy!

"Ok, your turn, bard," Geralt asks him, smirking. "What are you gonna do?"

Jaskier smirks back at him, very smugly, looking at Geralt and leaning in just so.

"I'm gonna roll for Vicious Mockery, let the bard save the day again, huh?" He grins, rolling the dice between his fingers… Long and slender fingers that have their nails polished with the rainbow’s colours and that are not distracting Geralt at all.

The whole group gasps when the dice stop rolling and…

"No fucking way!" Lambert yells, hands flying to his head.

"Holy shit YES!" Exclaims Eskel at the same time.

"Fucking bard and his stupid good luck with the dices!" Laughs Aiden.

The dice is showing them a natural 20. Perfect score. When Geralt talks again over the laughs and yelling of their friends, his voice is full of emotion and he talks faster than ever.

"Dandelion the Bard looks at the Elf King dead in the face and he starts singing solemnly, casting Vicious Mockery while strumming his lute. Dandelion?”

Jaskier improvises a rhyme and a silly tune for the delight of his friends.

Geralt can’t hide his own smile, his best friend is gorgeous like this, just having fun while playing DnD with a bunch of misfits; Jaskier could spend his time with someone much better than them, any girl of their class would be delighted to be in a date with Jaskier, and yet…

“He thrust every elf/

Far back on the shelf/

High up on the mountain/

From whence it came/”

Jaskier sings with a deep, rich voice, and Geralt wants to be annoyed by his antics… But the game is still on.

Lambert and Eskel snort and Aiden just shakes his head, smiling and leaning over Lambert.

“The Elf King looks at you and draws his sword, but your Vicious Mockery…”

“And my amazing Nat20.”

“And your impressive Nat20, yes… Are too strong for him and he falls on his knees, dropping his sword… Aiden, roll for acrobatics! While the bard was singing and melting the King’s brain, you’ve been surrounded by elves: three warriors and two archers…”

—

To eat the greasiest pizza after their DnD session is a sacred tradition… A sacred tradition that his brothers are now ignoring in favour of, well, get laid, Geralt supposes.

Eskel left them in a hurry, arguing that he had a date with Triss, his long-live crush, and that he wanted to impress her at the Arcade, and soon after, Lambert and Aiden left together, no explanations given, Aiden had just smiled at them shyly and waved his hand in goodbye.

Leaving Geralt alone with, well, with Jaskier.

That is not a problem itself, Jaskier decided long ago that Geralt was his best friend and somehow, that he was Geralt’s best friend too. At first, Geralt was baffled by the whole thing: a stray kid, adopted along with two other boys by a single father, leaving almost in the middle of nowhere, they all were misfits, outcasts… and the brightest, loudest, happiest kid Geralt ever known just decided that they should be best friends.

That was ten years ago, give or take. Geralt can’t remember the exact moment when he thought about Jaskier as his best friend, after trying once and again to scare the younger boy away.

And now… Well, now Geralt was feeling rather odd around Jaskier. Not angry at him, nor upset. But… suddenly shy, everytime he found Jaskier looking at him, or worse, blushing whenever Jaskier casually touched him in the arm or whatever.

Being alone with Jaskier is both thrilling and terrifying, and Geralt feels tense and hot all over his body watching the boy licking his fingers clean after finishing a portion of pizza. His lips glisten under the dim light of the shitty pizza joint they both love.

“Geralt, dear, you’re staring, do I have something…?” Jaskier says, and licks his lips. Geralt follows hungrily the path of his pink tongue lapping those full, pouty lips.

“N-no, you’re ok, I was just…” Geralt stutters.

I was just wondering how it would be if I kissed you, his not-at-all-helpful mind supplies. Jaskier is still looking at him, smiling fondly, and Geralt feels petrified by those bright, ice blue eyes.

“This pizza is not that good to render you speechless, Geralt,” Jaskier laughs. “Or are you thinking about my Nat20 again?”

Geralt snorts at last, looking away to avoid Jaskier’s natural spells.

“Huh, Jaskier, that was just luck,” Geralt teases.

“Knowing how to play and they call it luck,” Jaskier replies, shrugging and smiling. “It was, as you said yourself, impressive.”

Geralt shrugs too.

“Well, ok, it was, are you happy?”

“Very.” Jaskier’s smile widens and Geralt… Geralt wants to make Jaskier very happy again, he just doesn’t know how to. So he changes the topic.

“Hey, what’s with your fingernails?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier eyes widen in fear and he looks at his hands like he hadn’t realised that they were there the whole time.

“Oh fuck, I just forgot about them after…”

“Hm?”

“I-I need to go! I’m sorry!”

Jaskier stands up and takes his backpack and rushes to leave, almost bumping into a young couple in his run.

“What… Jaskier! Wait!”

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

Jaskier had forgotten completely about his stupid rainbow nail polish after the gig; it had been the first year that he was able to perform at the Pride and he was so freaking happy to be able to play and sing for an audience like him.

He was still floating about it two days after, and he arrived to Geralt’s place to play DnD without realising that his nails were still proudly showing the rainbow flag.

And now he was running away from his best friend, scratch that, running away from the love of his short life, and feeling the tears running down his flushed cheeks.

He was still inside the closet for his dearest friend. Of the Morhen boys, Eskel was the first one to know, basically because he found Jaskier crying his heart out when Geralt started dating Yennefer, a girl from his class. So Jaskier confessed his love for Eskel’s brother then, and Eskel held him tight until he stopped crying.

That happened two years ago, when Jaskier was just fifteen and was still discovering his own body and feelings. And boy, he discovered how much a broken heart hurts.

Then, not long ago, was Jaskier who stepped in to find Lambert and his very dear friend Aiden making out in the Morhen’s green-house. Lambert and Aiden were petrified in fear and Jaskier had to confess himself and to promise them that he would never get them out and that he would help the younger boys to hide their romance until they were ready.

That was how Jaskier found in the younger of the Morhen brothers a fierce protector and a dear friend.

But Geralt…

Jaskier couldn’t get out in front of Geralt. He’s his best friend, more than that, Geralt is more important to Jaskier than anything else, Jaskier doesn’t want to lose him, and…

And it’s not like Geralt will reject him because of his sexual orientation, no, Geralt has never showed a hint of hate towards the queer community; no, Jaskier is afraid that if Geralt knows about Jaskier being, well, gay or bi or pan or whatever, Jaskier is still discovering that… Jaskier is afraid that Geralt will know about his feelings for him.

Jaskier is barely able to hide his love for Geralt now, shielded by Geralt’s wrong assumption about Jaskier being straight. The moment Geralt realises Jaskier is attracted to men too… Geralt will know. And Geralt will politely say to him that his love is unrequited. And then Geralt will stop being his friend just as he’s stopped being friends with Yennefer after their break up, and Fringilla before Yennefer, and Keira before Fringilla… Geralt doesn’t believe in being friends with those that want him.

Jaskier can’t have that.

Jaskier would not let that happen.

“Jaskier!”

Geralt is running after him, and fuck, he’s fast.

“Geralt, please, I need to go!” Jaskier yells back at him, people avoiding them and watching them in confusion.

“Ok but.. I’ll call you later to check that you’re safe at home…” Geralt says loudly, and when Jaskier looks over his shoulder to look at him, Geralt is not running anymore, just looking at him with the saddest expression ever.

Jaskier stops running too.

He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, his backpack is heavy and tugs at his shoulders, and his lungs - used to sing for hours - hurts with the need to scream and cry.

He’s so tired.

He looks at his coloured nails again, the rainbow flag he’s so proud of seems like it’s making fun at him, now. But no, he’s the one making fun of the flag, he’s the one hurting himself.

June is the month to be proud of who we are. June is the month to be honest.

If Geralt doesn’t want to be his friend because he has feelings for him, well, then maybe Geralt is not his best friend after all.

It’s going to hurt, Jaskier knows it, but this constant lie is hurting him too.

Jaskier turns back to where Geralt is standing, his pained expression doing things to Jaskier’s heart. The extremely blond boy is just looking at him with concern and hope and by the way Geralt is clenching his fists, Jaskier knows Geralt wants to reach him.

“Geralt…” He whispers, his voice breaking. A lump in his throat is threatening him with more crying.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt says instead. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m so sorry, I never wanted to upset you.”

Geralt takes a step closer to Jaskier, and good lord, why is everything so difficult? How can they be in this situation now? They argue a lot of times, for a lot of things, but Jaskier has never felt this scared before, nor has seen his friend this sad because of him, apparently.

“It’s not… It’s not your fault… It’s… Can we please go back to your house?”

Geralt drives them back home, in silence.

He adores silence, it’s so difficult to find a moment of peace in his house, with Lambert being always a mouthy bastard and arguing about everything, and Eskel’s constant chattering and teasing and… And with Jaskier.

Loud, noisy Jaskier, always talking about fucking everything, always singing or humming for fuck’s sake. Jaskier, who is unable to be silent for more than five minutes, the boy even talks during his sleep, always with so much to say to the world.

Now, Jaskier is not talking, nor humming. He’s just sitting by his side during the short ride to Geralt’s house. And Geralt hates the silence.

His best friend has his eyes red and puffy, silent tears running down his cheeks, and Geralt is doing his best to just don’t reach and wipe them away gently and to promise Jaskier that everything is going to be fine, even if Geralt can’t understand what the fuck is happening.

Once at home again, Geralt leads Jaskier to his room and rushes to prepare tea for both of them. When in distress, prepare tea. Drink it, and then carry on. That’s what Vesemir says.

“Thank you,” says Jaskier with a soft, broken voice. It’s so wrong, Jaskier should be always happy, singing and chirping and…

“It’s a rainbow flag,” he adds, stopping Geralt’s thoughts.

“”What?”

“My fingernails. I painted them like this for… the Pride,” Jaskier explains, but he sounds off, scared even. Scared of what, Geralt doesn’t know.

“Hm,” he answers, with a lack of something better to say.

“I… I played there, with Priss and Essi, for… for the Pride concerts, we applied and they… wanted us there…”

“That’s great!” Geralt exclaims and startles Jaskier, who clings to his cup tightly. “You three have been doing great with your band, of course they wanted you there! Why didn’t you tell us? We could have gone!”

Somehow, to say that, to… to offer Jaskier his support, makes Jaskier sobs harder, and Geralt wishes to know what to do.

"What? Jaskier, what…?"

"Geralt, it was the Pride!" Jaskier whines.

"Yeah, you just said that."

"Do you know what it is… Do you know what the rainbow flag means?" Jaskier asks, looking at him with panic in his eyes.

Geralt looks at him, at his pouty lips now wet, and back again at his glistening, weeping blue eyes.

"Hm," Geralt needs a moment to think about something that is not kissing Jaskier. It's not easy, the need to comfort his friend and to reassure him is too strong. But he manages.

Rainbow flag. Yeah, that rings a bell, he has seen that flag, somewhere. He thinks Aiden, Lambert's best friend, has some stickers and such with it, and other flags with different colours.

Oh.

"Yes, yes of course I know what it means, Jaskier," Geralt answers, feeling delirious. I just didn't want to hope.

"And?" Jaskier asks, expectantly. "Geralt, it was not a simple gig, we weren't there just because, but because Priss and Essi and I, we are… I am…"

Geralt kneels in front of him, and lets his hands rest on Jaskier's lap.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Geralt asks softly. "Were you afraid of me…? Did you think that I would… that I wouldn't want to be your friend anymore?"

Jaskier nods slowly, more tears spilling from his eyes.

"But not for the reason you think," Jaskier cries. "I know you would accept me as I am, but…"

Geralt's heart is breaking, watching his friend crying, sobbing hopelessly and thinking that Geralt could ever stop being his friend, for any reason at all… That's just absurd, because Geralt… he… He's in love with Jaskier and…

And Jaskier doesn't know it.

"Jaskier… Julek… it's ok, I'm here," Geralt promises, taking Jaskier's tea off his hands and hugging him, as tight as he can. Jaskier clings to him, sobbing.

"You'll hate me!" Jaskier cries, grabbing his shirt, and Geralt just… just can't.

"Never," Geralt reassures him.

"You'll hate me because I love you!" Jaskier yells. "And you push away all of your ex girlfriends, so why would I be different?"

Geralt freezes then, still holding Jaskier.

Jaskier loves him.

Flirty, flighty, social butterfly Jaskier, the boy who decided to be Geralt's best friend.

Bright, loud, noisy, wonderful Jaskier.

"It's… quite different," Geralt says at last and Jaskier snorts.

"It is, Jaskier, because… Because I…" Geralt takes a deep breath. "I love you too."

The last part is just a whisper, reverent, contained. It's a truth that he's been avoiding for years.

Jaskier squirms until he can lock his blue eyes with Geralt's own.

"You mean… as a friend?" He asks.

Geralt smiles at him fondly and shakes his head slowly before leaning in, his eyes flicking from Jaskier's eyes to his lips.

Jaskier's breath is warm against Geralt's lips, his skin is wet and a little clammy after all the crying and sobbing.

"Geralt…" Jaskier whispers, breathless.

"May I?"

Jaskier closes his eyes slowly, leaning in until he can find Geralt in the middle.

Their first kiss is chaste and shy and, well, not how Geralt would have imagined, not with Jaskier crying in fear and rushed confessions, but it's perfect, because it is Jaskier who is kissing him back.

Geralt reaches for Jaskier's hands and threads their fingers together.

"You had no idea what the rainbow or the Pride mean, right?" Jaskier asks, smiling wide, with his forehead resting on Geralt's shoulder.

"I thought you simply liked the…, what's it called? The colourful aesthetic." Geralt answers, shrugging, making Jaskier chuckle.

They stay like this for a while, Geralt studying Jaskier's painted nails and caressing his hands softly.

"You could paint mine," Geralt offers.

"Geralt…"

"Maybe for the Pride next year?" Geralt asks, hopeful. "I.. I could go there and see your gig…"

Jaskier kisses him again, less chaste, more hungrily, and Geralt can't suppress the growl that rises from the deep of his chest.

"I'd love that, my dearest."

“Ok, ok, Eskel, your turn…”

Jaskier can’t help but to look at Geralt in awe while he leads the party through the Dungeon; Geralt always seems happy and free during their DnD sessions, but lately he seems… resplandescent.

Geralt glances at him and smiles knowingly while Eskel keeps talking, and Jaskier’s heart does a somersault under his golden gaze. Gods, Geralt is going to be the death of him, and now that Jaskier knows his taste, his hunger, the caresses of his hands…

“Hey, bard, wake up!” Lambert exclaims. Aiden is basically sitting on his lap, laughing softly. “Do your bard wiles!”

“C’mon, give us another Nat20, bard!” Eskel cheers.

Jaskier chuckles.

He takes the dice and rolls it over the table.

By his side, Geralt smiles at him, wide and unguarded, his hands at either side of the Master's screen, and every one of his fingernails are painted with the colours of the rainbow, to match Jaskier’s own hands.

“Ok, dice, gimme a Nat20!”

#geraskier #dnd #geralt of rivia #jaskier #fluffy fluff #happy pride 🌈

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on-a-lucky-tide · 3 years ago

Text

Chained

Rated: M.

Jaskier takes a date to a visiting circus and ends up rescuing a witcher. Warnings for canon typical language, and a more medieval approach to what was included in a circus.

Partly inspired by my rereading of "Freakshow: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit" by Robert Bogdan (1988) and "Spectacle of Deformity: Freak Shows and Modern British Culture" by Nadja Durbach (2009), thus the word "freakish" is used in the context of the spectacle presented.

Jaskier didn't much like the circus. The “oohs” and “aahhs” of the crowd felt contrite and the prevailing smell of animal dung, human odour and tar made his stomach roil. But the young debutante on his arm promised quite the whirlwind romance, with her ruby painted lips and dazzling sea foam eyes. Anthea. She was a stunning little starlet with the sweetest soprano, and she would sound ever so beautiful in the throes of passion. The things he did for love.

Jaskier took a deep breath of relatively fresh air as they walked through the Gate of Heirarch, dug deep to find the liquid amber courage still warm in his belly, and plastered on his most charming smile.

The front of house greeted them at the flap of the tent, his outdated ruff spotted with yellow sweat, mutton chops greased down over his face. “Welcome, welcome, sire, to the greatest show on the Continent,” the slimy chap proclaimed.

“A claim lofty enough to be touched by the gods. Let us hope they give you their blessing,” Jaskier said airily, and Anthea elbowed him with a soft giggle.

The front of house offered his most beguiling smile, his eyes almost coal black. “I assure you, sire, our performers are one of a kind.”

A young porter dressed in a threadbare scarlet doublet and hose showed them to the private box Jaskier had purchased. (Such a beautiful woman required a little extra effort, and greater privacy may assist in convincing her into his embrace a little sooner).

“I heard they have a witcher,” Anthea whispered, as if the general din of noise wouldn't drown her out even at a normal volume. Jaskier allowed his date that moment of wistful wonder before he patted her elbow.

“Hyperbole and rumour, I assure you. A living Witcher hasn't been spotted in some sixty years. They died out long before you were a twinkle in your father's eye.”

“Well, we'll see,” she replied, dismissive, and Jaskier sensed that he would have to agree with her next five claims to curry back a little favour, no matter how bland and inaccurate. Thankfully, he didn't have to entertain conversation for long, for the stage crew dimmed the bracketed torches and the ringmaster stepped into the light.

“Esteemed gentlemen, beautiful ladies,” the man tipped his cap to the nearest such lady with a wiggle of the eyebrows, aiming for charm and achieving an uncomfortable degree of lechery instead. “We, of the Temerian Tumblers, welcome you to our humble show. We ask that you keep your hands inside the stalls at all times for we are about to introduce you to some of the wildest creatures, the most wondrous performers, fearless acrobats and stunning beauties...”

Jaskier felt his interest drifting. He watched Anthea from the corner of his eye and pondered over the first verse of the ballad he would dedicate to her hidden depths. A substantial amount of creative license would be necessary, but needs must to maintain his reputation.

The show started with a pair of twin acrobats swooping through the air from a trapeze, performing flips and turns, defying gravity to the awe of the audience. A contortionist twisted through hoops of decreasing sizes, a fire-eater spat flames over the heads of the crowd, woolly mammoths rolled out on huge balls, with parrots opening cans and primates juggling clubs. Anthea was enraptured, grasping onto the railing at the front of the booth. In his travels, Jaskier had seen many things. Exotic, fantastical, mysterious. The show felt like a pale imitation of his lived adventures across the Continent. Such was the life of a man living a double existence.

The ringmaster started wheeling out the freakish and macabre; a bearded lady with three breasts, a set of dwarven twins attached at the hip, an elf with mottled skin like that of a leopard who scampered around like a beast. Jaskier felt a stab of disgust as the crowd jeered and “ooh-ed" at each poor creature that was presented to them.

“And now, the spectacle you have been waiting for,” the ringmaster bellowed. “A true rarity. A beast of unnatural magic and the evil machinations of scheming sorcerers...”

Jaskier leaned forward. Anthea cast him a smug glance that he ignored.

“I, your humble servant, present to thee, the terrifying, the beastly, White Wolf!”

The crowd collectively held its breath as an orchestral howl swept the arena, echoed by the voices of every porter and performer in the rafters. Dozens of hands banged drums and wooden beams, accompanying a cacophany of growls and snarls, building the expectation of the horrified audience. Heavy chains clanked in the tunnel, metal scraped on the floor as the creature dragged itself into the open. There was the crack of a whip in the air, and a hoarse shout of pain. Jaskier leaned so far forward he almost fell from the booth.

The creature that staggered into the lights of the ring was thin and haggard. His long white hair was tangled, his face covered in a matted beard. His body was emaciated and scarred, muscles wasted where they had once been lean and strong. This poor, pathetic thing couldn't be a witcher of fable. It was but a man. A man beaten and bruised by handlers who circled with whips and sticks. A woman below them shrieked before fainting theatrically, but Jaskier only rolled his eyes. Paid performer, no doubt.

“Fear not, dear guests. We have the beast well contained. We shall get him to demonstrate the power of the mutagens in his system, but no one shall be harmed.”

They shoved the witcher into the centre of the ring and one of the handlers passed the ringmaster a small box. Jaskier couldn't hear what the ringmaster demanded if the hollow creature that struggled to stand under the glaring lights, but the witcher must have been too slow, because seconds later he was on his knees, his hands at his neck. There was a heavy collar there and the witcher's entire body went rigid as the ringmaster gripped the box harder.

When the spasms of pain ended, the witcher lifted his hand and sent flames billowing into the air. What followed was a pitiful display of the Witcher's strength. He shattered a huge rock with telekinetic force and then lifted one of equal size on to his back; “the strength of ten men,” the ringmaster bellowed, and the crowd murmured their approval. The witcher trapped a pack of stray dogs in purple tendrils and deflected the stones hurled from the rafters with a golden shield.

Jaskier couldn't believe his eyes, but his heart ached. He'd read countless historical accounts of Witchers and their feats. They were capable of staggering bravery and protected thousands from the most ferocious beasts. True heroes of old, and yet here was one reduced to a mere shadow.

Whatever the final feat was intended to be, the Witcher could not do it. He staggered and then fell when the collar around his neck sent shocks of agony through his body. The ringmaster seethed and bellowed, but the Witcher collapsed under the weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles. The handlers appeared to drag him away. “The great White Wolf, ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd applauded as the ringmaster bowed, inviting his performers out with a sweep of the arm. Anthea leapt to her feet. Jaskier left the booth without a word.

***

Jaskier managed to get ahead of the crowd at first, but soon he was joined by throngs of gawkers pouring out to observe some of the wild beasts in their cages. Jaskier inspected each one he passed; lions, tigers, monsters and birds. But no Witcher. He circled around the tent and headed towards the staging area behind the tent, where the performers would gather in preparation. It was there he found his target.

The Witcher was sprawled on his side in the mud, new bruises on his naked ribs, his hose torn. The ringmaster stood over him, flanked by his thugs. “It's such a shame,” the man said. “I thought we'd get a few more shows out of him.”

“E’s done, guv. Death of the spirit. Death of the body follows soon after,” one of the handlers murmured. “Could always sell him to that matron like we did the other.”

“No, the novelty of that one was its huge endowment, its physicality, and its health. This one's a husk. We'll get more for its corpse if we trade it with the university.” The ringmaster sighed and swept a hand over his eyes theatrically. “Put it out of its misery.”

Jaskier pushed through the canvas barrier. “Wait! Hold up there, my good man.”

Three grimy faces turned towards him, and the ringmaster paused by the entry to the domed tent. “This area is out of bounds to the public. Full of dangerous beasts, you see.”

“Ahh, yes,” Jaskier plastered on his most winning smile, “he looks truly terrifying, dangerous. But I couldn't help but overhear that you intend to dispose of him.”

“Sometimes creatures expire. Age, injury. It's part of the industry,” the ringmaster said, guarded. “I assure you it will be done in the most humane manner.”

“And you intend to sell his body?”

“What is it you want, sir?” The title had taken on a disparaging tone, but Jaskier was not easily ruffled.

“I wish to purchase him from you. Alive, you understand. Exactly,” Jaskier fluttered his hands over the Witcher's body, “as he is. And, in payment, I offer my signet ring. Real sapphire gems, solid gold.”

The ringmaster turned, arms folded across his chest. Jaskier knee that look. Pursed lips, high eyebrows. The man was going to try and bargain him up. “Low price for our prize dog. Whets my appetite. Two hundred Crowns, and the ring.”

Jaskier laughed; a hollow, arrogant bark that he usually reserved for Valdo Marx. “My dear man. Your prize dog is half dead. He might expire before I can get him back to my residence. You will take the ring, and I won't pen a memorable little ditty about the Terrible Temerian Tumblers, their bearded lady wearing a wig 'pon her face, your dwarven twins tied together with rope.”

The ringmaster scowled. “No one would believe you.”

“I have dismantled reputations far greater than yours. Jaskier the Bard, at your service.”

Recognition passed over the ringmaster's face. His cronies may be illiterate, but he had probably read Jaskier's most recent poem about the weak chinned Count of Vizima and the impotence of the a local merchant who had prized his reputation with the fairer sex. Bard was a rather modest title for what Jaskier had achieved; he had used his sizable fortune to open every door possible, and his name was known in halls and ballrooms from Kovir to Ebbing.

“You take him as he is. We'll throw in his cage, the control device. Not fit for another beast anyway.”

“Most obliged,” Jaskier said, smiling tightly. “I will leave my address with your fine assistants here. I expect him to be delivered alive. No more bruises, no more wounds. My man will meet yours at the gates.”

Jaskier pulled an embossed business card from his doublet and passed it to the ringmaster with his signet ring. A life purchased for such a trifle. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, but neither he nor the Witcher could afford any hesitation. They shook hands to seal the deal and Jaskier afforded one more glance at the Witcher and saw him gazing back, golden eyes swimming with hopeless pain.

It was difficult to leave after that, but Jaskier knew he had to walk away with his back straight and his emotions in check. Anthea was long gone. There would be an angry letter sent to his address about abandoning a lady in the wilds of Novigrad, but he would ignore it. His mind was now fully occupied by the Witcher, with his haunted yellow eyes.

***

Zoltan met the couriers at the gates as Jaskier had said. The dwarf peered into the stinking cage with a wrinkled nose, and then guided them up the short gravel path to the stables. They passed Zoltan the device and showed him how to use it; the Witcher thrashed weakly in pain and fell unconscious. “Yes, thank ye, that'll be all,” the dwarf snapped, holding the black box gingerly between finger and thumb.

Jaskier had bought some odd things in the past. A cursed music box that reduced everyone who heard its song to tears, a colourful parrot that had escaped within an hour of arrival (its descendents could be spotted in the rafters of Heirarch Square), ancient statues and woven tapestries. He was a collector of oddities, but this was the first time he had bought a human. It left an ill feeling in Zoltan's chest.

When he opened the cage door, the Witcher didn't move. His eyes were closed, his emaciated body limp, and Zoltan had no trouble gathering him up and carrying him inside. The chains were heavier than the man they were attached to.

Jaskier had cleared a guest room and there was already a warm bath waiting for their new arrival. “I'll need t' get 'n 'ammer 'n chisel for these chains,” Zoltan said, depositing his reeking passenger on the rug before the fire. “Not sure about the collar. If magic's involved, we may need a mage."

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, leaving his post by the window. “Go get your tools. Freya's arse, he looks worse in the firelight than he did in the mud. Smells something awful.”

“Aye, he's got lice and ticks too,” Zoltan murmured. “Don't be gettin' too close lest you fancy delousin' with him.”

Jaskier watched Zoltan leave before he crouched down at the Witcher's side. He wanted to touch him, this living legend. He would be lying if he denied the well of fear in his stomach; he hadn't really thought this far ahead. The Witcher had shattered boulders with the power of his magic, had bound and choked wild dogs. Jaskier was a mere twig in comparison. “Who are you?” Jaskier wondered aloud, reaching out to brush the Witcher’s grey hair from his face.

The Witcher's eyes snapped open and Jaskier fell back with a squawk of terror. He wasn't the only one caught by surprise. The Witcher, barely strong enough to lift his head, clawed at the rug and then the floor, dragging himself to the corner of the room. The chains scraped on the floorboards and every movement looked like agony, but Jaskier was too afraid to intercept. He had brought this wounded creature into his residence, and now he was completely out of his depth. The Witcher gathered his thin limbs to his chest and turned his face away, making his body as small as possible.

“Hey, it's alright,” Jaskier said, hesitant. “We're not going to hurt you. You have my word. My--my associate, he'll get those chains off and there's a nice bath, and--and then, perhaps, some food?”

The Witcher didn't look up. His shoulders stayed hunched, his fingers curled to fists. Jaskier reached out only to see the man flinch as if he sensed his proximity. Zoltan appeared moments later, hammer and chisel in his hands, and grimaced. “Ahh, he's awake, woulda been better fer him to be unconscious fer this bit.”

“They’re not embedded...”

“Aye, maybe not, but look at the skin. Must be red raw under there, every blow's gonna shake him.”

“Well, he can't stay in them,” Jaskier said, suddenly feeling more than a little helpless. “Just... Do what you need to do. We'll go from there.”

“A'right, Witcher, easy now.” Zoltan approached slowly, but the Witcher did nothing more than shirk away further. When the dwarf lined his chisel up at the hinge of the ankle cuff, Jaskier held his breath. The first blow made the Witcher shout, frail limbs quaking, but he didn't lash out to defend himself. How broken must he be to not fight back? To accept whatever pain they wished to inflict?

It took three blows to remove each ankle cuff. By the time Zoltan reached for the Witcher's wrist, he was unconscious again and Jaskier moved forward to hold his arms up until the chains had fallen away. “What are we going to do?” Jaskier murmured, big blue eyes lifting to Zoltan, hoping the dwarf could whip out a solution as he always did.

Zoltan sighed, tugging thoughtfully on his beard. “First stage is a bath. Then... No idea.”

This was going to be harder than Jaskier thought.

#geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #canon au #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #wip #to be continued #rated m #rawrkinwrites

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catscraftsandcommentary · 30 days ago

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I would PAY to see this!

Imagine, Geralt meets his bard in fall, and Jaskier is absolutely THE most awkward fan boy in existence...but also, none of Geralt's joints hurt when he's nearby. It's damned intoxicating.

(Jaskier just thinks that the special soaps he sneaks into Geralt's bath, and the lotions he insists on rubbing on Geralt after battle, have finally had an effect. Geralt doesn't tell him different - they just met.)

Geralt doesn't invite him to Kaer Morhen that winter - it's too soon, even if he IS magical - but he does make plans to meet Jaskier in spring. He even mentions the bard to Eskel and offers to meet him in summer, assuming that he and Jaskier are still traveling together by then.

(Jaskier is thrilled. Another witcher! What fabulous luck!)

Geralt and Eskel quietly agree that this winter, they'll tell Vesemir about Jaskier and ask if he can stay for the next winter. Having a winter without pain...it would be wonderful for all of them. And Jaskier would be over the moon at the opportunity to meet more witchers and hear more tales. Neither of them mention that it will inevitably end with a pile of cuddling witchers on the hearth and their cheerful bard right in the middle.

And probably Jaskier braiding everyone's hair, but small sacrifices.

Somehow - SOMEHOW - Jaskier ends up waylaid by the Cat caravan that winter and treated like an honored guest. Cats are tricksters and troublemakers, but they won't lay a single finger on the man who sings their praises throughout the land - meaning that most people are more tolerant of their presence - AND who soothes their pain with just his presence.

Hell, they'd fight for the right to accompany him as bodyguards, if he hadn't banned their dueling the first week. Instead they just curl up around him and purr aggressively at each other. Unburdened by pain, the acrobatic displays reach new heights that winter, and Jaskier is delighted by their skill.

(Imagine having 20 of Simone Biles all competing to impress Jaskier. Yeah, it's like that.)

When the snow thaws, they finally, reluctantly bid him goodbye...and quietly grouse about what a lucky bastard Geralt is, getting to travel with him all year long.

But Jaskier never makes it to his spring meeting with Geralt, and when no one has heard any new witcher songs by summer, they go looking for him. Aiden meets up with Lambert, who confirms that yes, Jaskier IS invited to Kaer Morhen for the winter, but he hasn't heard anything about the bard since winter, which is weird. Such a famous bard is usually easy to track.

And thus begins The Hunt.

Witchers are chronically in pain due to their unnatural connection to chaos.

There are potions and spells that can be used to ease the pain; however, there is also another solution. No one knows why, but there are certain people whose presence soothes a witcher’s connection to chaos.

Many witchers would kill to have someone like that. The wolves are taught to respect the will of such people, but it’s not like Geralt and his brothers have ever met such a person anyway.

Until Jaskier, that is.

When Jaskier woke, it didn’t take him long to realize he wasn’t in the tavern where he’d fallen asleep.

“Oh good, you’re awake, my little flower,” a voice drawled. Jaskier turned, his bleary eyes locking onto the golden ones of the speaker. A witcher.

“Who are you?” Jaskier asked, his mind racing to piece together what might have happened. Had he needed saving? And if so, why was his leg tied to the bedpost?

“I’m not what matters right now,” the witcher replied, settling on the edge of the bed. “But you, my little flower? You’re special. The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you.” There was a wildness in his eyes, a manic intensity that made Jaskier’s stomach churn.

“Stop calling me that! I’m not your ‘little flower,’” Jaskier snapped, though his voice wavered.

“Oh, but you are,” the witcher murmured, his hand reaching out to stroke Jaskier’s hair. “You make the pain stop. Only when I’m near you does the agony fade.”

“Right, uh, listen.” Jaskier forced himself to stay calm. “You don’t seem... entirely stable, but you should know something. Geralt—he’s another witcher. We travel together, and he’s bound to come looking—”

He didn’t get to finish. The witcher’s hand shot out, wrapping tightly around Jaskier’s throat.

“No one will take you from me, little flower,” the witcher hissed, his grip tightening. “If Geralt even tries to come near you, I’ll kill him. Now, are you going to behave?”

Fear and pain flared in Jaskier’s chest, and with no other options, he nodded. The witcher released his throat, leaving him gasping for air.

“Good boy,” the witcher purred, resuming his unsettling stroking of Jaskier’s hair.

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loki-is-my-kink-awakening · 2 years ago

Text

Thanks to @flightsfancy22 for this idea.

Modern AU. Geralt owns a bar and it's Jaskier’s local, so he is in all the time. There's a karaoke night that Jaskier loves. He's always making dreamy eyes at the handsome guy behind the bar (Geralt) but he's grumpy and doesn't interact with Jaskier.

Jaskier is in so often that he ends up meeting Geralt's family. There's Vesemir, his adopted dad, Eskel, his shy brother and Lambert, his outspoken brother. Jaskier clicks with Lambert straight away and they have easy banter.

One day, Jaskier is reading funny things out from Twitter to Lambert as they both sit at the bar, Geralt ignoring them, and Jaskier finds a story on a counsellor who refused to believe two people were actually a couple because of how little they knew about each other, and Lambert says they should go to counselling and see if they can make a therapist believe they are together.

Before Geralt can even raise his eyebrows, Jaskier is on the phone arranging it. Lambert is laughing and Geralt just carries on cleaning glasses with a concerned look on his face.

Then the counselling begins..... and it's Yennefer.

1. I'm imagining a scenario where Yennefer asks them what each other's surnames are and, obviously, they don't know but Jaskier lies and Lambert just goes with it.

Or it's around Jaskier's real name, which Lambert doesn't know

2. Yennefer asks how their sex life is and they both bullshit their way through it, like they are both studs in bed, because natch.

3. When Yennefer asks "Well, what is wrong with your relationship?" Lambert perks up and complains that Jaskier makes moon eyes at his brother. Jaskier guffaws and Yennefer ignores him, asking Lambert for more details.

It all started out so well but now Jaskier picks fights with Lambert as soon as they get out of each session, asking him why he said such and such.

On those days, it makes things tense in the pub. Cue Geralt and Eskel and Vesemir trying their best to support them but also stay out of whatever this is.

Eventually, they do fall into bed together because when they talk about how great their imagined sex life is, it turns them on so much they have to do it. It's not as great as they imagined in many ways (less acrobatic) but it's the revelation they both need.

Which results in them going to therapy for real and confessing to Yennefer what they did. Yennefer is not surprised, probably knew all along and was just waiting for this to happen.

#jaskier #jaskier x lambert #the witcher #fic idea #alt text in image

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

Text

Take Me, I’m Yours

(the highest voted options on the poll were ‘Geralt rescues Jaskier from trouble’ and ‘Jaskier riles the Captain up in public’ so I teamed up with the ever-marvelous, stupendously talented @limrx to bring you this Swashbuckling AU oneshot/art piece featuring a horribly jealous Geralt and a frisky, flirty Jaskier)

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

“Do you think he likes me back?” Jaskier asked. He leaned over the ship’s railing to look more closely at the dolphin following behind them. Lambert didn’t think he’d fall overboard but it would be kind of funny if he did. The strange young nobleman did have a way of always landing on his feet, though.

“I know he does.”

“Well how come he hasn’t told me anything about it, then?”

“You’ve met the Captain, right? About this tall, long white hair, weird yellow eyes, emotionally incompetant?”

“You have a good point. Should I just confront him about it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Lambert rolled his eyes before shooting Jaskier a pointed look. “If you want to send your ransom note back to Lettenhove the following morning.”

“Fuck. I just want to kiss him, Lambert. Regularly. I want to know if he snores or not. I want to lay on the deck beneath the stars and talk to him like we’re friends and not just pirate and pseudo-pirate-captive. I really want to see what his ass looks like under those godsforsaken trousers, Lambert, it’s killing me not knowing.”

“You’re more insatiable than a siren during the rainy season,” the second mate teased. “But with fewer teeth.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you going ashore when we lay anchor?”

“Am I allowed?”

“I assume you’ll be allowed. You’re practically part of the crew. You’ve been aboard for nearly two weeks and you’ve pulled your fair share of the weight, if not moreso.”

“Why thank you, Lambert. I appreciate you noticing.”

“Of course, Jaskier. You may be an utter fool and a fop to boot, but at least you’re a hard worker.”

“Asshole.”

“Mhm.”

They both watched the dolphins for a minute in silence before Jaskier’s face split into the most heinous and dastardly grin. It filled Lambert with an unmistakable sense of fear and worry. “I have a brilliant idea. I know how to get Geralt to admit his feelings.”

“No, absolutely not. I am not getting roped into this, you horrible little minx. Don’t give me that look! I won’t help you this time!”

“But Lamby-bert,” Jaskier whined. “If he has someone to take all his frustrations out on in bed then I’m sure it’ll be easier to negotiate for higher shares next time we take a vessel.”

Lambert did not miss the fact that Jaskier said ‘we’ when referring to the crew. The second mate knew the little nobleman was here to stay; it had been clear that Jaskier would be sticking around from the moment Geralt first laid eyes (and hands) on him. The Captain hadn’t stopped looking out for the lad since. Lambert wasn’t even going to think about that singular flirty kiss atop the mainmast nearly a week and a half ago. Geralt had been pining after the acrobatic little idiot ever since and making absolutely no move to flirt back. It was driving the crew absolutely crazy. “Alright, you devilish siren. I’m in.”

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

Jaskier cleaned up nice.

And he deserved to clean up nice. He’d worked hard to put this outfit together. Billy had lent him a pair of dark blue breeches in return for Jaskier’s help with mending the mainsail. The shirt he was wearing was half a size too big, which was exactly big enough for the neckline to plunge even lower than he usually wore it. This way it revealed more of his toned (and rather hirsute) chest. He’d borrowed it from Starkey, who was the same height as him but who had much broader shoulders.

The Captain was going to absolutely die when he saw Jaskier.

He whistled a rather naughty shanty as he exited the bunk room and made his way towards the gangplank where Starkey, Lambert, and Eskel were waiting for him. He spun in a quick circle, arms out to show off his clothes. Lambert and Starkey whistled appreciatively and Eskel hid his face in the palm of his hand. “Ready, boys?”

“Absolutely not,” Starkey smiled. The first mate standing next to him tilted his head back to look at the sky, sighing deeply.

“Are you sure about this? What if the Captain tries to kill Lambert?”

“He won’t be killing anyone. Hopefully. If he does run his sword through anyone, it will most likely be me,” Jaskier joked. “Now, this is my first time drinking with real pirates. Anything I should know?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Eskel suggested. Lambert bit back a laugh and Starkey snorted.

“Impossible.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

The four men made their way down onto the docks and through the sparse crowd of sailors and merchants still mingling in the evening light. Starkey led them to a decent tavern and found a vacant corner table, which gave them an excellent view of the door.

Geralt and Starkey had spent the morning selling their stolen cargo to various merchants, shopkeepers, and artisans. The Captain had divided up the gold between his crew according to their various contracts and Jaskier, more as a jest than anything else, was given two crowns as well. “For not dying,” Geralt had intoned seriously. The men were amused but Jaskier’s face had gone bright red with embarrassment. The young noble had talked them out of trouble with the Skelligan patrols twice last week and Geralt was repaying him with public humiliation? Lambert knew that the Captain’s earlier actions were about to make this evening a lot more entertaining (if slightly uncomfortable) and he was ready to get this show on the road. He flung an arm around Jaskier’s waist and ordered them all a round of ales.

“So everyone knows what the general goal here is, right?” Jaskier clarified.

“Yes,” Eskel nodded. “You’re using Geralt’s jealous nature to make him act on his less than subtle feelings for you.”

“Correct. Wonderful.”

Lambert squeezed the noble’s hip through his borrowed pants and Jaskier huffed indignantly in reply. Starkey chuckled softly at their antics and winked at the barmaid when she brought them their drinks. “Can’t wait, really. It’s been so boring lately and the last two ships we took didn’t even fight back. This is drama. This is entertainment!”

“Shut up, Starkey,” Jaskier pouted. He leaned back into Lambert’s embrace and gulped down half his ale.

“Slow down, kid,” the first mate teased. “Or you will be drunk when he gets here and your plan won’t work.”

“I need to get the pink in my cheeks or I’ll look suspicious,” Jaskier argued. “One ale should do it without getting me tipsy. Maybe two if it’s weak.”

“Method actors,” Lambert rolled his eyes.

Jaskier was sipping slowly at his second ale and the other three pirates were on their fourth or fifth when Geralt finally came barreling through the tavern door. “There you are!” Eskel shouted, waving the Captain over. Nobody missed the barely-hidden glare Geralt aimed at Lambert’s arm where it rested against the nobleman’s lower back.

“Captain,” the second mate nodded.

“Lambert. Eskel. Starkey.” Geralt greeted them all in turn.

“Heyyyy,” Jaskier whined, leaning forward against the edge of the table and pouting. “What about me, sir?”

“You.”

“Rude,” the brunette huffed. Lambert ran a lazy hand up and down his spine and Jaskier watched as Geralt’s eyes narrowed into slits. He sighed sadly and melodramatically into his mug and nodded once in the second mate’s direction. “Thank you, darling. At least someone in this crew likes me.”

Starkey saw Geralt’s eyelid twitch and slid Eskel two crowns under the table to settle their bet. He thought the vein on their Captain’s throat would show up before the eyelid went, but it must have been the first mate’s lucky night this time around. “Hey Eskel, let’s see if any of the lovely ladies here want to dance with us, eh?”

“You coming, Captain?” Eskel asked. “Seems like Jaskier and Lambert are a bit busy.”

“Yes, Geralt,” Jaskier egged him on. The Captain had a white-knuckled grip on the handle of his mug. The noble took a long swig of ale and licked a bit of foam from his lip when he was finished, noting the way Geralt’s eyes locked onto his mouth. “Why not go dance with a pretty lady. Certainly nobody else has your attention.”

The pirate Captain finally snapped. He slammed his mug down and reached around the table to grab Jaskier around the waist. He hauled him out of the second mate’s grip and onto his feet. “Captain, what are yo-”

“Yer coming with me, siren,” Geralt snarled. Lambert relinquished the nobleman with very little fuss, winking at Jaskier as the pirate Captain swung him up and over his broad shoulder. The young man flashed all three of his co-conspirators a thumbs up as he was carried out of the tavern like a sack of potatoes.

“A little rude to Lambert, don’t you think, sir?” he asked, resting his elbow against Geralt’s shoulder blade and settling his chin onto his hand. He crossed his ankles to make it easier for the pirate to balance his weight comfortably. “But they’ll be happy to know that our little plan worked out.”

Geralt stopped in his tracks but did not set his captive down. “Your what?”

“Our plan,” Jaskier explained as if bored. “To get you to finally do something about all this sexual tension between us. I kissed you on the mouth for fuck’s sake.”

“I thought it was an accident.”

“Oh, and saving you from hanging at the hands of some Skelligan officers, was that an accident? Not sending a ransom note last time we stopped for water and not turning you in for the reward in Novigrad, were those accidents too? There is a hefty bounty on your head, White Wolf, and I could be living independently in a castle somewhere right now except that I happen to find you endlessly attractive and fascinating.”

“Hmm.” Geralt resumed walking. Jaskier noticed with a smirk that his pace had picked up quite a bit. As if he was suddenly in a hurry to be somewhere.

“Hum dismissively all you like, sir, but you’re still carrying me back to your cabin to ravish me senseless, are you not?”

“Ravish may be the wrong word for what I’d like to do to you, but you do look rather tempting.”

“Thank you. I put a lot of effort into this ensemble.”

“You’re a calculating little nymph, aren’t you?”

“No, of course not. I only managed to secure a bunk aboard the Kaer Morhen and wrap its infamous captain around my finger in less than a month. I am but a silly nobleman with excellent dexterity and a penchant for climbing.”

“Lambert was right to call you a minx.”

“He does love that nickname.”

“It’s not an endearment.”

“Whatever.” The ground shifted and Jaskier knew they were making their way up the gangplank and back onto the ship. This was the part he’d been waiting for! Geralt kicked in his cabin door and stepped inside, turning to close and lock it behind them. Jaskier wriggled impatiently. “Set me down!”

“Hmm, no. I rather like the view from here.”

“Excuse me?”

Geralt gave him a gentle smack on the ass, almost a pat really, and huffed out a laugh at Jaskier’s offended noise. “You’ve been an awful lot of trouble for a nobleman and a captive.”

“I’m barely a captive, Geralt. Give it up already.”

“You haven’t signed the book.” He set Jaskier back on his feet and looped his arms around the younger man’s waist to pull him close. “You’re still a captive until you swear on the book and sign your name next to the others. Then you’ll be part of my crew.”

“I have yet to negotiate for my shares,” the brunette stated. He tilted his chin back, baring his neck slightly and offering Geralt his ale-damp lips. “Ten crowns after every capture and I get to sleep in here with you. That sounds fair.”

“You’re a good worker. Seven crowns, you can sleep in here with me, and you can borrow my bandannas whenever you want.”

“Even the red one?”

“Especially the red one.”

Jaskier’s soft pink mouth brushed against the pirate’s as he murmured his answer: “Deal.”

Geralt’s lips crashed against Jaskier’s with the strength of a wave hitting the side of his ship in a maelstrom. The Captain’s mouth was so warm and his lips moved against the younger man’s with almost frightening determination. As if he was trying to prove himself. His arms were strong around the nobleman’s lower back and his white hair brushed deliciously against the skin of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’ve bewitched me, body and soul.”

“Oh, Geralt,” the younger man sighed, opening his mouth to let the other in. I never thought the word ‘plunder’ could apply to kissing but here I stand, corrected by experience yet again. The White Wolf of the Seven Seas pulled away, made breathless by a young and foolish nobleman in search of adventure.

“I’m not a siren, you know. Not even a little. My family’s estate is landlocked.”

Geralt’s fingers rose from his waist and brushed against his cheekbone reverently. Those amber eyes, so cold and focused when he shouted orders or intimidated a merchant captain, were looking down at Jaskier with such devoted tenderness. The ex-noble felt his heart fill anew and double in size. There wasn’t enough room in his body to hold all of this feeling.

“Kiss me again, Captain. Take me to bed.”

“You’re too good at tempting me. You must be evil.”

“I assure you,” Jaskier smirked, ripping Geralt’s shirt over his head in one smooth movement. “I am.”

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Note

Mayhaps a wild take : Geralt folds the corners of his precious, centuries old, valuable beyond compare, bestiaries. Jaskier sees and loses his marbles. ( Then gifts geralt a book mark with pressed.. somehow familiar flowers... 👀 )

Hi, hello... So... I got carried away? This is 2.1k? I hope you like it!

CW: mentions of injury (on Jaskier)

________

Monsters mutate. They adapt, change, grow. Geralt was clearly a very skilled witcher with decades of experience, and Jaskier never grew bored of watching him fight, on the rare occasions he was actually allowed to watch that is. Most of the time, he had to make do with second-hand stories told by Geralt himself, which just wasn’t the same. But, sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt would deem the contract safe enough for Jaskier to trail along with a silver dagger gripped in his hands, and sometimes... Geralt got it wrong.

Jaskier was poking at his bandaged thigh where the drowner had bitten him, already beginning to stain red as the blood oozed from the wound. It hadn’t needed stitches but it still stung. The fight, however, oh the fight had been surprisingly spectacular. It was a small drowner nest just outside of town, attacking nearby fisherman along the beach, nothing that Jaskier hadn’t seen before and certainly not ballad worthy, but he’d tagged along regardless. He never wanted to pass up the opportunity to see Geralt in action. The witcher was just so beautiful, dancing with his sword in hand, all grace and elegance and fury. Jaskier was entranced every time. It was truly a miracle he didn’t get hurt more often.

The drowners had been fast, faster than they should have been, and now Geralt was muttering about mutations and skin pigments as he scratched words into a worn out copy of a bestiary. The witcher has borrowed one of Jaskier’s least expensive ink sets to update the centuries old book. It broke Jaskier’s heart to see such a beautiful book treated so poorly but he understood that it needed updating to keep his witcher safe.

The poor book though.

Academics at Oxenfurt would kill to get their hands on it. It would have been treated with the utmost respect, kept away from the grubby hands of the first and second years, only allowed out for special projects, and here was Geralt, covering it in his appalling handwriting, bloody fingerprints and dirt smudges in the margins.

“Oh bollocks,” Jaskier hissed as he jabbed at the bandages a little too hard, his restless energy getting the better of him. The witcher always told him off for picking and scratching at his bandages and scabs, but he couldn’t help it. They were just so scratchable, and the itching drove him mad!

Geralt sighed, glancing up at Jaskier with an exasperated expression. He took one look at Jaskier’s bandage and…

And he fucking folded the corner of his page before closing the book.

Jaskier saw red. He stammered and pointed at the pages, gaping as he tried to find the right words to express his utter outrage. “You-You… Geralt!” he whined.

The witcher’s brow furrowed and he looked between the book and the bard, obviously completely confused by Jaskier’s sudden change in mood. “What?”

“You did not just fold down the pages!”

“Yes?”

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, dear witcher, you and I are taking a trip to Oxenfurt immediately!”

Geralt scowled, looking at Jaskier as if he’d grown a second head. “Why?”

“Geralt, please. Don’t make me suffer your cruelty any longer,” Jaskier pleaded.

The witcher rolled his eyes but didn’t argue any further. He just took Jaskier’s hands in his, keeping them away from the bandages. Jaskier blushed, the gap between them suddenly feeling too small and yet too far all at once. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden swell of nerves in his chest, and laced their fingers together, smiling shyly up at the witcher.

______

By the time they reached Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s limp had almost entirely gone. He still got tired quickly and by the end of the day he had to lean on Geralt or ride Roach until they found a suitable camping spot. Geralt had been ridiculously caring, obviously looking out for Jaskier at every opportunity, their days were shorter and well… Jaskier had actually been allowed to ride Roach. That was new. Holding hands had now become almost normal, and Geralt was just so gentle when he took care of the bandages, making sure the bite wound wasn’t infected. It made Jaskier’s heart do all sorts of acrobatics in his chest.

If he hadn’t been in love with the witcher, then he certainly would be after all of this-this… nonsense.

When Geralt wasn’t looking then he crouched at the side of the road, picking up a variety of buttercups and cornflowers and slipping them inside his heaviest poetry book. The supplies he needed from Oxenfurt were specialist ones. He hadn’t made bookmarks in ages, not since his days at the Academy, but he used to make them for all his friends. It was something to do with his hands that didn’t feel like work, and he had always enjoyed giving gifts. He was looking forward to getting back into his old hobby.

“Why are we here, Jaskier?” Geralt groused, glaring around the town with his scary witcher face. Jaskier felt a little bit bad for dragging Geralt back into a busy city but it was important.

He scoffed and waved a hand at the witcher. “You’ll see,” he said with a grin, and booped Geralt on the nose. “Don’t be nosy.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed back, sticking out his tongue. “You know your way to my rooms at the Academy?” Geralt nodded. “Excellent! I will see you there in time for dinner, but I have shopping to do. Did you need any potion ingredients?”

Geralt cocked his head, his brow furrowing as he thought. “Blowballs.”

Jaskier grinned and brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheeks before he could chicken out. “Be good, darling, no scaring my colleagues.”

The witcher smirked. “Unless it’s Valdo?”

Jaskier laughed, “Unless it’s Valdo.”

And then they went their separate ways. Jaskier easily navigated the streets of Oxenfurt, basking in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was alive and thriving, as if it had a beating heart of its own. The witcher may hate the city but Jaskier lived for it. He was a bard, a man of the people. He needed to be seen, loved, adored. The bookshop was in the same place that it had been when he was a student, tucked away in the backstreets, only known by the students and professors. Jaskier grinned and slipped inside, the bell ringing as he pushed up the door.

He let his fingers trail along the leather spines of the books, inhaling the musky scent of paper and old parchment. It smelled like home, and a warmth settled in his heart. He knew this shop like the back of his hand, and he easily found the supplies he needed. The pressed flowers from the road would be fixed onto a soft leather strap, and then Jaskier would cut the end into smaller strips, creating a kind of tassel. He also planned to engrave an inscription into the leather, something lyrical, something poetic… something for Geralt to remember him by when they were apart.

“Gods, I’m pathetic,” he mumbled as he worked. His tongue flicked between his lips as it so often did when he needed to concentrate. Each letter took time, a delicate process, and he sat in the little corner at the back of the shop, just as he had in his youth. After an hour the owner, now an old man with a thick grey beard, brought him a cup of herbal tea. Jaskier smiled up at him, and gestured to his work.

“How’s it looking? I’m, well, I’m a little out of practice,” he hummed, scrunching up his nose.

“It’s beautiful, and it’s good to see you back here, Jaskier. It’s been too long. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten us.”

“Oh, no. I would never!” Jaskier reassured him, “and thank you. This one is special.”

The shop owner chuckled. “You used to say that every time.”

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “This one is extra special.”

He stayed later than he intended, past the closing time of the bookshop, and certainly past dinner time but he just lost track of time, too focused on his task. By the time he finished, Geralt’s bookmark was a work of art. The inscription was written in his finest calligraphy, and the flowers were arranged just perfectly. It had been made with love.

He just hoped that Geralt liked it.

When Jaskier made it back to his room, Geralt was perched on the corner of the bed, a needle and thread in his hands as he made repairs to his armour. His silver hair was loose and falling in front of his eyes, and there were the beginnings of a beard growing on his cheeks. The witcher’s golden slitted eyes were almost completely black in the dim light of the room, and Jaskier was once again envious of his friend’s ability to see in the dark. It was a handy skill, and he looked almost ethereal as the light bounced off his eyes, making them glow.

“Dinner was two hours ago,” Geralt murmured, not looking up from his sewing.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, umm…, yes, well…”

“Jaskier.”

“You know how I get?”

“Hmm.”

His friend finally looked back up at him, giving Jaskier a soft fond smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Jaskier stuck his tongue out, “Don’t hum at me, witcher, I’m fluent in Geralt speak!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being obtuse, and don’t you dare…” Geralt hummed again. “Stop it! You bastard. I’m not giving you your present now.”

“Present?” Geralt cocked his head, looking stunned by Jaskier’s revelation.

“Ha! That got you, oh shit, cock it. It was meant to be a surprise. Fuck!” he groaned and buried his face in his hands. The bookmark was tucked away in his bag but it seemed to be taunting him, and he was suddenly struck by the fear that Geralt would hate it.

Fucking buttercups.

He was an idiot.

Why would a witcher want flowers on a bookmark?

“You got me a present?”

Jaskier nodded “I made you a present, Geralt.”

The witcher looked completely taken aback, a blush painting his cheeks. He set his needle and thread aside, and reached out for Jaskier. It was almost instinct at that point to reach back, taking Geralt’s hands in his. “Can I see?”

Jaskier glanced at his satchel and sighed. “Yes, yeah. Yes, of course. Umm, wait here.”

With shaking hands he plucked the cloth bundle from his satchel and handed it to Geralt, mentally preparing himself for the worst. At least he was already in Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t have to travel alone when the witcher inevitably decided to dump him. Gods, he was such a fool.

Geralt gingerly unfolded the dark blue cloth, humming as he picked up the bookmark. “Buttercups?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Jaskier cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“To my dearest, Geralt. May your days be filled with Destiny, heroics, and love. Ever yours, Jaskier.” Geralt read the words aloud and Jaskier wanted to sink into the floor. It was ridiculous. They weren’t even that good. He was supposed to be a poet for Lilit’s sake.

“It’s shit. I’m sorry, I’m tired, what with my leg healing and the rush to get here, but I just… you fold down the corners of your page, Geralt. I could not sit by and let that happen, and I-I… ah fuck it. I wanted you to have something to remember me by, you know,” he gave a flick of his wrist, one hand resting on his hip, “when you’re stuck up in that mysterious witcher keep of yours, and well, you probably don’t remember but I-I said you smelled like-”

“Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak, I remember.”

“Oh, umm… well yes. Death and heartbreak seemed a bit… dramatic? So, I-I changed it… to love.”

“Thank you, Julek,” Geralt murmured, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss that was over before Jaskier could even process what was happening.

He stared wide-eyed up at his friend, his heart racing and the whole universe shifted until Geralt was at the centre, burning brightly in the dark. Jaskier cupped the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him back into another kiss, and this time they didn’t break apart, their lips moving in tandem. It was slow, lazy even. There was no rush, just the two of them against the world, their breaths mingling and their hearts beating as one.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #wolfie's witcher writing

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innocentbi-stander · 4 years ago

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By popular request I give you,

Drunk Stupid Boys Geralt and Jaskier: Kaer Mor(on)hen edition

Part 1 Part 3

The rest of the wolf witchers are not ready for geralt and jaskier being cooped up in a keep for the whole winter

The two of them can barely handle themselves when they’re on the road, nevermind stuck up in the mountains

Vesemir, lambert, and eskel know what geralt is like

But they’ve never seen a geralt egged on by the absolute force of chaos known as jaskier

And after a day of work when there’s nothing to do in the keep except drink… you can imagine what happens

The wolf witchers are both simultaneously impressed and horrified at the vast array of shit geralt and jaskier manage

These things include:

Breaking into the barn and shaving eskel’s goat

Stumbling into the alchemy lab and breaking an ungodly amount of beakers and glass containers

The time Jaskier dares geralt to lick one of the mystery substances dripping out of one of the bottles and doesn’t even bother to hide his laughter when geralt throws up immediately

In retaliation geralt dares jaskier to scale one of the broken down towers around the keep

Jaskier is halfway up when vesemir comes and drags his ass down because “it’s the middle of a bloody snowstorm and you idiots are climbing a pile of stone that’s been falling apart for over a century”

One morning jaskier wakes up in a veritable fortress of stacked books in the middle of the library and someone’s underwear hanging as the flag (he doesn’t care to find out who’s, he just throws them out the window of the keep)

Someone also (geralt heavily suspects lambert and jaskier but neither will admit to anything) managed to dye Roach a shocking color of lime green that takes weeks to fully wash off

The time jaskier got stuck in the rafters of the great hall after claiming that he was a fantastic acrobat and would prove it

The night they drunkenly cooked the most delicious stew known to mankind but are never able to replicate the recipe again

The time jaskier got the witchers wildly drunk and convinced them to learn to dance (lambert pouted about his twisted ankle for weeks)

The time jaskier introduced geralt to the wonders of sledding and they almost dove right off a cliffside at immeasurable speeds

The time geralt glued his hand to the kitchen table and spent the next two days stuck

The time jaskier woke up in the keep with no bloody clue where the hell he was and spent the next five hours wandering his way back to the great hall (geralt didn’t want to admit it but he was worried)

The amount of times geralt had to break up friendly brawls between his brothers and jaskier, he claimed it was so that they didn’t break his friend but secretly he was worried jaskier would break them

The crown jewel of that first winter was by far the morning jaskier and lambert woke up in bed together and neither one of them, smug bastards that they are, will tell geralt or eskel exactly what happened

Woo hoo, part 2! Part 3 anyone? Regardless, prompts are open so feel free to request!

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cinebration · 4 years ago

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Magic Ink (Geralt x Reader) [Request]

Hello! I see you are taking requests, I wanted one where Geralt and reader get matching tattoos — Requested by anon

I know this isn’t probably what you expected, but since I couldn’t hack this as a Modern AU, I had to come up with a reason why a woman in the Continent from that era would have a tattoo.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: frodo-sam

Everyone but you had a shtick in the traveling troupe. There was Lila of the dyed green hair, though she told everyone she was born that way, and Gillum of the mismatched eyes, caused by a fist to the face during a drunken brawl. Eloise claimed to be the reincarnation of the Elf Queen, and Bertie could make any of the tattoos on his muscles dance.

Then there was you. You didn’t know what to choose or even how to go about doing it. You acted as assistant to some of the acrobatic acts, juggling for some fools and ensuring costumes fit properly. Bertie was making that difficult, as his drinking had gotten out of control and had contributed to a swelling beer gut.

It was decent work, and you didn’t complain, but you wanted more than to play second fiddle. Not that you could play the fiddle…

It was on a trip to find more fabric to accommodate Bertie’s expanding girth that you stumbled across a reedy man who looked like a vagrant but smelled like a courtesan. As you passed him, studiously avoiding his scrutinizing gaze, he called, “Dear lady! Such unblemished skin. You are the perfect canvas!”

You hesitated. A canvas? For art? Slowly turning back, your hands toying with the stick you carried to fend off anything from starving dogs to lecherous men, you asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, an artist can do much with something so perfect!”

“What artist?”

He swept into a low bow and smiled, revealing startlingly white, straight teeth. “Lechforte, at your service.”

Rolling the stick between your rough palms, you turned over the possibility he was suggesting. Bertie had tattoos, but a woman with some would be more of a marvel. Showing some skin would be required, which always drew crowds.

You could already hear the troupe leader crowing, “Come see the painted lady! The Perfect Canvas!”

“What would you want from me?”

Lechforte smiled graciously. “Merely to have my name alongside yours, so that all may know who had the honor of painting you.”

Geralt trotted into town on Roach, Jaskier bustling beside him. The bard’s cheeks were red from exertion and his eyes wild with exhaustion, but he kept up the pace, eager for the inn. As they entered the town, a man in motley cried at their arrival, “Come see the Unusuals! The Green Lady and the Elf Queen! The Perfect Canvas!”

“Ooo, a new troupe,” Jaskier managed to say between huffed breaths. “We ought to see them, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted in disagreement.

“Come on, the ladies are guaranteed to be randy, if not fine.”

Geralt glared at him.

Jaskier sighed and sagged against the post of the inn in relief. “You are no fun.”

“We’re not here to have fun,” Geralt growled, dismounting.

They were hunting a sorcerer, a man who had escaped from prison the night before he was to be hanged for treason. Geralt had reason to believe the man had traveled through the town, possibly seeking shelter or alms. Storming into the inn, he located the innkeeper and cornered him, demanding to know if he had seen the sorcerer. The innkeeper sputtered out a repetitive “no.”

“We keep moving.”

Jaskier stepped in Geralt’s path. “Absolutely not. I have been walking for days. I deserve a bath and a straw bed.”

Geralt’s mouth pulled into a frown, but Jaskier waved him off to find the innkeeper and secure lodgings.

The troupe crier’s voice carried back into the inn as Geralt vacillate between a nap and abandoning Jaskier.

“We should see them,” Jaskier commented as he waved Geralt over to the stairs. “You could use some entertainment.”

“Your company is enough,” the witcher replied dryly.

Jaskier faked a laugh. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but I will take the compliment.”

A few hours later, they were trudging out of the town to a nearby field where the troupe had set up their camp and stage. Night had begun to fall, chasing away the sunset with deep violet. Torches lit up around the camp as townsfolk wandered into its demarcated circle. The troupe leader began his spiel, his silky voice reaching all the ears in attendance. He was just shy of shouting, but to the witcher’s sensitive ears, it was too loud by far. He elected to tune the man out, trying to focus on anything else.

The players emerged and performed their acts. Boredom settled into the witcher’s bones. He watched a tattooed man ask the crowd which tattoo to dance.

Some drunk asked for an indecent bit. Without hesitation, the man dropped his trousers. The crowd went wild, the women shrieking and covering their eyes as the tattoo in question danced surprisingly well.

“I feel a new bawdy lyric coming on,” Jaskier laughed.

The man was ushered off the stage by the troupe leader, who did his best to salvage the evening. “Our last performer, ladies and gentlemen, is the perfect canvas for an artist’s grand imaginings. She has allowed herself to be painted by Lechforte, whose name you may know from the kingly courts. Behold the Perfect Canvas!”

You stepped out onto the stage wearing a commoner’s dress. A ripple of disapproval went through the crowd as you stood there, very little of your skin, the so-called “Perfect Canvas,” exposed.

Then you raised one hand in a grand flourish and slowly slid off the sleeve, revealing the first of the designs crawling up your arm. A hush descended over the crowd, breaths held in anticipation as bit by bit you peeled off the dress. What had appeared ordinary had, in fact, been altered to allow for you to display yourself without completely undressing, the fabric having been made into removable panels.

The witcher watched with mild interest until you turned and gently shrugged the back of your dress off, revealing a smooth swath of skin all along your spine. Geralt stiffened. Jaskier glanced aside at him, smirking, until he saw the dark cloud covering Geralt’s features.

“What is it?”

Geralt unconsciously touched his chest as his gaze darted around the platform, looking beyond the other performers to see if he could catch the sorcerer. There was no one there.

The crowd burst into applause as you swept into a low curtsy and gathered up the fabric you had shed. Geralt watched you leave, already moving to intercept you outside of the crowd’s prying gazes.

He caught you just as you were emerging from your tent, a cloak slipped over your bare shoulders. You froze, wary.

“Where did you get that tattoo?” he growled.

“Which one?”

“The one on your back.”

Frowning, you slipped the cloak off a fraction and turned to him, exposing the skin. “Which one?” Several crisscrossed your fine flesh.

His finger traced along a complex sigil on your left shoulder blade.

“I don’t have one there,” you muttered.

“I’m looking right at it.”

Racking your memory for the places Lechforte’s needle and brush had touched you, you shook your head. “You must be mistaken. I haven’t been tattooed there. Not the design you traced, at least.”

Geralt frowned, his gloved fingers lingering on the skin. You shivered in the cool night air.

“What…is it? The tattoo?”

“It’s a sigil,” he said thickly. “A sigil made by magic.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have one.” He touched the spot on his chest again. “The same one.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “How?”

“Magic.” Or a sorcerer who has cursed me.

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Slipping the cloak back up your shoulders, you faced him. Your gaze flittered over his features, taking him in. “you say it was made by magic?”

He nodded.

“Then it can be undone by magic?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can only you see the tattoo?”

A crease formed between the witcher’s eyebrows. “It’s possible.”

“Then was it meant for you?”

He hesitated, surprised by the question. He searched your calm features, trying to puzzle it out. Could that be its meaning? How else could you have obtained such a tattoo?

“Take me to your artist,” he rumbled. “We’ll find out.”

#Geralt x Reader #Geralt #Geralt imagine #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt of Rivia imagine #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #The Witcher #requests

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dapandapod · 3 years ago

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Place your smile in mine

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this little series I made almost a year ago. Jaskier asking for permission to touch Geralt just... melts me. I don’t know. And I wanted to give Geralt the same opportunity.

Thank you darling @kuripon for being my beta, as always, you are wonderful and I love you! <3

Is a part of a series but can be read as a stand alone. Please enjoy <3

part one: Taste of apples part two: Touch of home

On Ao3

Hushed voices whisper around them in anticipation. The sun hangs high in the sky, a warm breeze gently playing with the ribbons hanging around the marketplace. It is a special day. Today the village comes together to celebrate the birth of a nearby lord's firstborn. Jugglers, bards, storytellers and acrobats mingle around the crowd, waiting for their turn on the stage. Jaskier is about to go up, and Geralt stands by his side, feeling rather useless.

“Seriously Geralt, go stand in the crowd. It’s gonna be fine,” Jaskier tells him with a half smirk. Geralt refuses to meet his eyes and shoves at the gravel on the ground with the tip of his shoe.

“They are not going to throw things at us, I promise.”

“That’s not it,” Geralt mutters, but he doesn’t want to explain himself further. The feeling of unease doesn’t let him go, and he finds it hard to leave Jaskier's side.

Jaskier must read it on him, so he steadies his lute with his left hand and reaches out to Geralt with the other. His hand is warm and soft against Geralt's, his fingers slipping over his palm and then lacing their fingers together. Geralt's heart lightens and tightens at the same time. It is a strange feeling. He gets a little squeeze before Jaskier lets him go.

“Go stand at the back of the crowd. Nobody will care anymore. Blaviken has come a long way since you were here last.”

So Jaskier noticed. It really seems to have changed, but Geralt still feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb. And he is a bit worried that he might drag Jaskier into it, just by having him close. He sighs, but does as he is told as Jaskier is called upon stage.

Usually towns aren’t that bad. At least not for short periods of time. Yes, he is eye-catching with his yellow eyes and tall form, but it is easy to get lost in the crowd. In a town, you can be invisible, even if it’s just for a little while. He had never expected this to be true in Blaviken.

Geralt is a good head taller than most of the men present, but they pay him very little mind. Their eyes, like his, are locked on the stage. Jaskier dominates the stage. He doesn’t need accompaniment, doesn’t need any backup. Up there, he shines. Geralt has seen him perform many times, and he never tires of it. The bard is already so full of himself, so Geralt only voices it on special occasions, but still. The truth is, Jaskier fills every space he enters brightly and effortlessly. His every move and word evokes feelings, both good and bad depending on who you ask. And Geralt can’t get enough.

Having had a taste of it, a taste of what Jaskier promises in his songs, it does something to him. Something he can’t put his finger on, but wants more of. That single squeeze of his hands pushed the unease away, if just for a little while.

Geralt watches Jaskier move about, winking as his long fingers pluck at the strings and shape the sound. He realizes he is fixated on Jaskier's hands, and that he can feel the ghost of it against his palm. He flexes his hand to shake it off, and when he looks up again, Jaskier is watching him. Geralt's breath catches in his throat, and he is suddenly glad to have some space between them.

When the last song is sung, Jaskier bows deeply and accepts the generous applause and cheers from the crowd. Geralt gets lost in thought, lost in the ghost sensations of Jaskier's hand around his, and next thing he knows, Jaskier is standing right in front of him.

“There,” he says, smiling brightly. He is just a little sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead. “Shall we take a stroll? I am pretty sure I saw plum pastries somewhere, and I haven’t had them since I was a child.”

Geralt files that information away, and nods. They visit two stalls right next to the town square where the stage is set up, the crowd not letting up in the least. Geralt can’t stop thinking about Jaskier's hand in his.

Maybe he should just ask. Jaskier asks for things all the time. He could.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier stands bent over a table lined with rings and trinkets, scratching his chin with one hand and the other perched on his hip.

“Mhm?”

The stall owner gives Geralt a long look, and maybe now is not the time. Geralt turns away before any comments can be made, deciding that maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“What’s wrong, my dear friend?” Jaskier asks, standing up and walking over to bump his shoulder against Geralt's. Somehow, Geralt is grateful that Jaskier isn’t using his name.

Unease pushes its way into his chest again and makes him tense up. He just wants it to go away.

“Can I ask you something?” Geralt manages, and Jaskier smirks.

“Isn't it usually me asking that?” he says, and oh. Yeah, maybe he does. “And always.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“May I hold your hand?” he asks.

Jaskier doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t tease. He just slips his hand into Geralt's. He looks up at Geralt, his eyes seeing so much more than Geralt thought he showed. His arm is a warm, comforting presence against his side, his fingers a little damp and hot, but it fights that unease, it pushes it away and replaces it with something else.

They start walking again, slowly. Jaskier sticks close, and Geralt fights the urge to lace their fingers together. But why should he fight it? He readjusts the grip, Jaskier looking up at him when he lets go for a moment. When his fingers intertwine with Jaskier's, he feels like his heart is beating out of his chest. Jaskier just smiles and squeezes his hand tighter. They find the stall with the plum pastries, and Jaskier's laugh when Geralt gets a bit of cream on his nose is the dorkiest, most wonderful sound Geralt has ever heard.

Maybe he can ask... for more…

They end up at the outskirts of town, where the decorations are fewer and the shadows longer from the setting sun.

“Can I ask you something else?” Geralt ventures, coming to a halt between two houses. The street is empty and quiet, most people still in the town center, enjoying the entertainment.

“Yes.” Jaskier smiles, still standing just as close as when they were in the crowd.

“May I kiss you?”

Jaskier's eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath as color climbs his cheeks.

“Yes, please,” he breathes, leaning forward.

Geralt tightens his grip around their fingers and tucks his other hand under Jaskier's chin, tilting it upwards. The kiss is tender, much like the first time, and it doesn’t take much for them to fall deeper. Geralt's hand cradles Jaskier's cheeks, and Jaskier brings up his own hand to hold it. There are words at the tip of his tongue.

They haven’t talked about it, but the feeling that replaces the unease is big. Important. Heavy. When they part, Geralt wonders if Jaskier can read it in his eyes, like he read almost everything else today.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Jaskier smiles again.

“Anytime,” he whispers back, pulling at Geralt's hand so that it rests over Jaskier's heart. “Anytime.”

#geraskier #the witcher #holding hands #soft boys #just somft #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #blaviken #fluff #i have decided its fluff #i just wanna hold hands so bad #julian alfred pankratz #dapanda writes #it is fluff aclock

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