#also tumvlr didn't fuck up the formatting!! nice guys!!

[likeshipsonthesea]

hi could you do "but you don’t know the hell you put me through; to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you" for the geraskier prompts? also i really love your writing! thanks :D

from this list, thank you so much for the prompt! anyone else who would like to send one in, feel free! trying to get into writing the witcher fic but turns out it took me 4 years to get comfortable writing cp! characters and i Am Lost. still, i think this turned out p good and i hope y’all like it :)

from Hozier’s “To Be Alone” geraskier for “but you don’t know the hell you put me through; to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you” i used inspo from the whole song, not just the one lyric, but yeah. it fits i think

warning for some mild blood, gore, & violence (typical to the show)

           The worst part, in Geralt’s opinion, of walking back into town covered in the remnants of a ghoul’s last meal isn’t the stench of half-digested rotting flesh, the itch of blood drying against his skin and beginning to flake off, or the too-bright light of the sun unmarred by a canopy of trees. The worst part is most definitely the roaring chatter of voices, whispers sharp and breathy, gasps pinpricks against the back of his neck.

           A ghoul shouldn’t have made him this “touchy,” as Jaskier liked to call it, but, Geralt allows himself, it was not just a ghoul.

           “Not that the scent of death isn’t a lovely complement to your usual brood, but must you always bathe in the innards of your monsters once you slay them?”

           Geralt rumbles, stepping towards Jaskier’s voice. He can’t see him through his blinking, through the crowd, but he can hear his heartbeat louder than the townspeople now that he’s announced himself and Geralt can focus on him.

           Jaskier pushes through the crowd in a moment or two, frowning deeply at Geralt. The sight of Jaskier sends a shudder through Geralt. Fucking ghouls, Geralt growls.

           “No need for dramatics,” Jaskier says, taking Roach’s reins from Geralt. “Your coin is waiting in the inn and there’s bathwater being boiled as we speak.”

           Geralt stares at Jaskier, his own head tilted down to block out the sun. Jaskier’s turned his attention to Roach, petting down her nose, murmuring something like, “Darling girl,” under his breath. Geralt clenches his hands tightly, shakes them. Jaskier looks up and frowns again.

           “I’ll see to it that Roach is cared for,” Jaskier says. He smirks in his charming way, something that should be irksome but somehow – isn’t. “Go collect your spoils, Geralt.”

           Geralt.

           The sorcerer’s magic must have been waiting for a very long time, biding its time, building. It had accounted for nearly every detail, every crinkle of smile, every lilt in his voice, every casual touch, except for that, except for how Jaskier said his name. Jaskier could be annoyed with him, enraged with him, pleading or teasing or charming, but every time he spoke Geralt’s name – not Butcher, or White Wolf, or Witcher – every time, his heartbeat aligned with the syllables and his lips twitched, not necessarily up or down, just – acknowledgement.

           Geralt nods, jerky, and turns towards the inn. Magic powerful enough to trick a Witcher, and yet Jaskier was still unmatchable.

           The inn’s owner seems grateful for Geralt’s services, if not his scent, and hands over the coin with little fanfare. The room he directs Geralt to holds a bath with steam rising from its surface. Geralt removes his armor, then his clothes, and sinks into the water with a deep sigh.

           If he closes his eyes, he can imagine he’s still within the magic’s grasp. Geralt assumes the spell was meant to trap one within their own paradise, or something to that end, so of course Geralt’s had included a bath.

           “Is it a Witcher thing or a you thing?” the fake Jaskier had asked, voice close, just behind Geralt’s head. Geralt had rumbled a questioning noise and the mirage had continued. “Your fondness for baths. Is that the Path, or just you?”

           Geralt had growled. Jaskier had laughed.

           “Just you, then.”

           Geralt hadn’t responded, but Jaskier hadn’t seemed to need confirmation. The water had remained hot, scalding, through the long moments of silence, as Geralt had laid with his eyes closed, listening to Jaskier’s heartbeat. Then, without warning, Jaskier’s hands had fallen into Geralt’s hair.

           “What a mess you make of this glorious mane,” Jaskier had sighed, deft fingers careful as they untangled knots. Geralt had hummed, leaned back into the touch. When all the knots were gone, Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, pressing into his scalp, tender. With a soft tug, he’d brought Geralt’s head back against the lip of the tub, eyes closed, neck exposed.

           “Do my eyes deceive me,” Jaskier had whispered, teasing, “or is a relaxed Witcher sitting before me?”

           Geralt growled, but he hadn’t moved.

           Jaskier’s voice suddenly became nearer, above. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he’d murmured, just before his lips came down on Geralt’s forehead. Geralt had inhaled, sharp, but hadn’t moved. Lips drifted down, pressing over one eyelid, then the other.

           Geralt remembers that it hurt. The softness. Against the delicate skin of his eyelids, Jaskier had pressed with the barest of pressures, lips curved into a smile. Dangerous, Geralt had thought. To be held as a soft thing, even fleetingly, would cut him deeper than any monster he could encounter.

           Geralt’s slow heart had begun to tap. One of Jaskier’s hands released from Geralt’s hair, sliding down his chest to rest over the thump. “It’s alright, Geralt,” Jaskier had said, sweet, against Geralt’s ear, and Geralt’s heart had begun to slow.

           Jaskier’s lips hadn’t twitched.

           “Well, you didn’t waste much time,” Jaskier says, laughing, as he enters their shared room. Geralt opens his eyes. He watches Jaskier move about, settling, undoing the buttons of his doublet in the steamed heat. His hands move quickly, practiced, and the smooth roll of his shoulders as he shrugs out of the garment steals Geralt’s breath.

           Jaskier, oblivious, takes his seat on the bed, facing Geralt. His eyes, expectant, settle on Geralt, and he must stifle the shudder growing under his skin.

           “You promised details,” Jaskier says, pointing accusatorily. “I was a very good bard and stayed back as requested. So be the noble man I know you are and hold up your end of the deal.”

           Geralt huffs. Noble.

           Jaskier throws his hands up. “You were gone for a whole day more than expected, there must be something interesting that occurred.”

           Geralt returns his gaze for some moments, Jaskier unwavering. Geralt looks away. “There was a mage.”

           Jaskier sits up straighter. “Someone we know?”

           Geralt shakes his head. “Long dead.”

           Jaskier deflates mildly. “Oh.”

           “Ghoul meant to make a meal of the corpse. I tracked it to the mage’s home.”

           “A single ghoul?” The skepticism is tart in Jaskier’s tone.

           “The ghoul was simple.” Geralt looks back at Jaskier, his pursed frown. “The magic… less so.”

           Jaskier’s brow wrinkled. “Magic? How was there any magic left with the man dead for so long?”

           Geralt sighs. “Spells can outlive their casters, given the right conditions.”

           “So you were hit by a spell?” The alarm arises quickly, tainting the air with a metal taste. “We must get the healer or—or the town’s mage, what if it’s still in effect, what if—”

           “Jaskier.” Jaskier ceases his rambling, if not his panic. “The spell took effect, but it has passed.”

           “What was it? Did it – hurt?”

           “It created a dream. Of what I want most.”

           Jaskier’s eyebrows dance, his expression lightening. “I thought Witchers wanted for nothing,” he says, teasing.

           Geralt returns his gaze to the wall. Of all the things he wants for and refuses to name – good ale, good food, treats for Roach, silence, a regular bath, money – he knows not why the magic chose Jaskier. He tries not to be self-aware, if he can help it, but the answer looms on the edge of his mind and he refuses to look at it long enough to let it materialize.

           To end the dream, once he’d realized what it was, he had tried to wake himself up, with pain and shock. He ran about the fake room looking for items to prick himself with, the fake Jaskier following, worried. “Sit down, Geralt,” it kept saying. “Relax, please.”

           “You’re not real,” Geralt had growled, stabbing himself with a shard of broken mirror. He hadn’t dreamed himself a sword, otherwise he would’ve tried that.

           “Of course I’m real, Geralt, really, stop with this ridiculousness,” the mirage had said, and Geralt had been so – angry. With the mage, the magic, with himself, and he’d turned and slit the throat of the pleading dream, and he’d woken on the floor of a room, a dead ghoul and a dead mage flanking him either side.

           Danger looms on the edge of his awareness. The dream, for all its lies, had felt as real as anything, the blood warm on his hands, the wide shock in Jaskier’s eyes as he’d gasped, sound ringing in Geralt’s ears.

           He waits, now, for Jaskier to ask, prepares himself for stoicism. He will not tell Jaskier. He will not describe this for a ballad to be sung for drunken humans looking for bravery and heartbreak, vicarious. He will be silent, as he should have been before.

           “A mage certainly makes things interesting,” Jaskier says, humming. He drums his fingertips against his lips. “I could use something upbeat. It’s been so cold as of late, people need something to dance to.” He stands from the bed to retrieve his lute and begins to strum some notes, humming to himself.

           Geralt watches, silent. He slows his breathing until the only thoughts remaining in his mind are of the heat that remains in the bath and Jaskier’s soft singing. He sinks deeper into the water, closing his eyes. He allows himself one more thought before drifting far enough for silence to enclose his mind. This, he thinks, this is good.