#bonus points if he's meeting jaskier for the first time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carokind · 2 years ago

Text

Roam The Earth | Geraskier

So... I wrote this thing ages ago. It must have been March, because that was when I listened to this song for the first time: Roam The Earth by Kaleb Jones.

And I don't know why, but I immediately connected the lyrics to Geraskier and decided to write a little alternative ending to the infamous mountain-scene. That being said, I used parts from the episode which I didn't come up with, obviously. I hope you enjoy it! (bonus points for the dear hearts that find the reference that truly surprised me as I edited the story!)

~~~~

Roam The Earth | Geraskier | PG | 2.2k

I wanna roam the earth with you

“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

“Hm.”

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? Life is too short. Do what pleases you… while you can.”

“Composing your next song?”

“No, I’m just, uh, just trying to work out what pleases me.”

The conversation he had with Geralt only minutes ago still rang in Jaskier’s ears as he saw how the witcher walked up to Yennefer’s tent, put his weapons in front of it and then, after a moment of hesitation, went inside.

The bard watched this scene with a heavy heart. Sure, he wished for Geralt to be happy, no matter how, but then again, Jaskier had lost his heart to him years ago. He wanted the witcher to himself, but he knew it would never happen. Not with Yennefer still in the picture.

Jaskier stifled a bitter laugh. After all this time of travelling together, the sheer thought of coming closer to the witcher seemed futile, but still, the bard didn't want to let go of it. He was a romanticist, after all.

As the bard looked away from the tent, he tried not to think too hard about what would happen inside of it, or about how comfortable Geralt would sleep while he would find a place on the ground next to the fire the dwarfs had lit. Instead, he took out his jotter and sat back down on the stone near the cliff.

He sighed when he thought about the idea of a getaway with Geralt. Just them. On the coast. Together. Maybe they would find a little house, not much, just a roof over their heads. They both were used to being in nature, so they only needed a place to sleep at night.

Tell me where you wanna go I don’t think it matters Mountainside or by the coast Chase the weather patterns

Or they could stay in the mountains. The views were amazing and there were many places to stay as well.

Choices, choices.

Yet, it would never happen. It simply wasn’t meant to be. They weren’t meant to be.

“Oi, bard. Are ye coming? The wine is good and we’ll exchange some for a tune or two.” Jaskier sighed when he heard Yarpen’s voice. He put a smile on his face and turned around. “Sure. Let me just get my lute and then I’m all set” he said and got up. He wanted to be alone and sulk about his lost love for the witcher, but then again, Yarpen and his men would surely be able to distract him. And the wine would do the rest.

The wine had been good. And strong. It had made him drowsy and he had slept like a dead man. He had slept so well that when he woke up, the sun was already high up in the sky. “Oh bollocks,” he cursed and jumped up. He quickly gathered his stuff and hurried away, up to where he assumed the rest of the group had gone.

He was too late. Once he arrived at the cave, he saw dead bodies lying around. He was surprised to meet the two warriors, Téa and Véa, who had been presumed dead after their fall. And there also was Borch, who apparently was a golden dragon. It was a lot to take in, but it would certainly make for a good ballad.

Jaskier listened as the dwarfs talked to Borch and then talked to him himself before he sat down a bit aside to write down in his jotter. As he was writing down, he noticed that Yennefer, Geralt and Borch were talking.

While he wasn’t able to hear every word, the bard certainly noticed that there was tension between Geralt and Yennefer which they unloaded by shouting at each other. It seemed to be about the nature of their relationship and Geralt’s child surprise.

In the end, Yennefer left with tears streaming down her face and Borch left Geralt, too. Jaskier got up. He knew that he had to do something. Talk to Geralt. Show him that he was not alone.

So he did just that. He walked up to him and took a deep breath. “What a day,” he said, trying his best to sound cheerful. “I’d imagine you’re probably-” “Damn it, Jaskier” The bard felt himself flinch involuntarily. He didn’t like it when the witcher raised his voice at him. With his growling voice and the huge sword on his back, Geralt clearly looked intimidating.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it" the witcher growled. “Well that’s not fair” Jaskier interjected, but Geralt was quick to remind him of both the child surprise and the djinn.

“If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands” the witcher then continued.

“I…” Jaskier stopped for a moment and thought about what Geralt had just said. He knew that maybe it would be better to just leave Geralt alone, but to the bard, it seemed as if the witcher was lost. He was angry, not at himself personally, but at the world. “No” he therefore simply said. “Leave me alone, Jaskier. You’ve done enough” Geralt growled back.

“Oh no, Geralt. I have done nothing. It is not my fault that you are in love with the witch and don’t have the guts to tell her” Jaskier said. “As for your child surprise: I did not accept the law of surprise. Yes, I asked you to join me on this ball, but everything else was your decision alone.”

To this, Geralt just growled, turned around and walked away to the little cliff where they had sat the night before.

Jaskier gave the witcher a few minutes to calm down before he joined him and even when he sat down, he didn’t talk.

“Do you really think that our connection, the one I have with Yen… that it’s just magic? Just… just us being connected by the sheer fact that I wanted her to survive?”

Jaskier was surprised when Geralt spoke up. He knew that he had been right. That not leaving him alone was the best thing he could have done. The witcher needed him there. Wanted him there, but Jaskier also knew that if he had left, Geralt wouldn’t have asked for him to return.

No, Geralt needed to be pushed towards accepting help. And over the years Jaskier had learned to do that more and more.

“What did Borch say? He seems to be the specialist in all things supernatural. He’s the Golden One after all, isn’t he?” Jaskier said.

“He said that I would lose her. And I did lose her. She left.” Geralt didn’t make a move, he didn't even flinch, but Jaskier could feel that the witcher was not okay.

“For… for good?” Jaskier wanted to know. Sure, he wasn't too fond of the witch, but he knew how much she meant to Geralt. “I’m sorry, Geralt…” The witcher just grunted affirmatively. “And now? My offer still stands, Geralt. The coast, the mountains, I don’t care where we’re going.” Geralt didn’t reply. He didn’t even grunt. But somehow Jaskier knew that everything would turn out fine.

Saw the clouds come rising up and lightning turned to laughter then I knew you were the one ever after

They stayed up on the mountain. Geralt spent the better part of the day sitting on a rock and staring into nothingness. Jaskier kept his distance, he knew that the witcher needed time to himself. Of course, he wanted nothing more than to be back in civilisation, but he also knew that Geralt needed to be alone for once.

Still, the bard was glad that he had decided to stay. Geralt wanted him there. Maybe he even needed him, Jaskier didn’t know. But one can dream.

The bard got out his jotter and lute and decided to work on the song he had started to write the night before.

Ancient Love and Wanderlust Fell so fast that sunset Mother nature kept their trust And married them in secret

He tried out the lines and melodies a few times until he was happy with how it turned out. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t notice that Geralt had moved from his spot.

“This sounds… nice,” the witcher said.

Jaskier looked up, he was surprised. “Thank you,” he said and looked down at his jotter. “I… just don’t know if I am happy with it.”

Geralt grunted. It was a soft grunt, that made Jaskier smile. “You know how particular I am about my work, Geralt,” he pointed out.

“I know” the witcher returned with a slight smile on his face. “You’re a perfectionist when it comes to your work, at least when it comes to your more meaningful songs.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle. “So you think this is going to be a meaningful song?”

“I know it,” Geralt said. “Whenever you get into this mood… when you’re scribbling things down rapidly and then grabbing the lute and humming things and…” he stopped when he saw the puzzled expression on the bard’s face. “What?” “How do you know all this?” Jaskier wanted to know. Geralt shrugged. “We’ve spent almost two decades together, of course I know things about you,” he returned. “I had plenty of time to get to know you.”

Jaskier looked away. “I thought you… you were just dragging me along for whatever reason. Especially because I… I am usually the one responsible for the bad things that happen to you. You said so yourself.” “Jaskier you know I didn’t mean it,” Geralt said, his voice almost being a growl.

Jaskier sighed. He knew that arguing with the witcher wouldn't change anything, even though he wanted to speak up and make him understand how these words had hurt, he decided not to. So he just shrugged his shoulders. "I guess so…"

"Hmmm," the Witcher uttered. He fell silent and for a moment Jaskier thought he would say something. But Geralt just sighed deeply. "I'll leave you to it."

Jaskier watched as the witcher turned away and went back to his spot at the edge of the cliff.

The bard needed a moment to recompose himself but then took his jotter and went through the lyrics he had just written. He spent a long time tweaking the words and the melody until he was happy with the way it sounded. Only then did he sing through the whole song again, wanting to know whether it worked out the way he wanted it to.

While Jaskier was singing, he looked over to Geralt, who was still sitting at the cliff. He knew that these lyrics were everything he wanted to tell the witcher at this moment and he also knew that Geralt was able to hear him.

Now we’re tethered to this world Solemn body wishing For hidden springs and treasures we Might be missing I wanna roam the earth with you

“I want that, too.” Jaskier was surprised when he suddenly heard Geralt’s voice after he had closed the song. “What?”

“Roam the earth… with you,” Geralt said.

The bard opened his mouth to say something, but he was at a loss for words. He put his lute aside and walked up the witcher. He sat down next to him, just like the day before. “Geralt…” “I have been thinking, Jaskier. Yes, you have been around when some of the bad things in my life happened, but… you’ve always been around somehow and… I like having you around.” Geralt didn’t look at the bard while he was talking, he looked out at the sky.

“Geralt…” Jaskier took a deep breath. He knew that he had to be careful with his words now. Geralt didn’t present himself that fragile and raw often. “We can do this, Geralt. Get off this damn mountain and… just go wherever you want to go.” “I need to get to the child” Geralt returned.

“And we will do just that” Jaskier confirmed. “But… maybe you want to go to the coast before? Take some time off? If it…. pleases you?” “It would please me,” Geralt said. He finally turned his head and faced the bard. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

“For what?”

“For staying.” Jaskier smiled. “I thought about it, but… I just knew that it would be the kindest thing to stay. To not leave you alone.” “Hmm…” Geralt seemed to be thinking. “You seem to know me better than I know myself at times.” The bard chuckled. “Well in a way that’s my job as a bard.” He wanted to shrug it off with a joke but was taken aback when he felt Geralt’s fingers interlacing with his own. “Geralt…” he said again, this time it was merely a whisper.

“I am glad to have you around, Jaskier, even if I make it seem different at times,” the witcher said. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand softly. “Never forget that.”

The bard looked down at their intertwined fingers and then up into Geralt's eyes. They were soft and Jaskier had a hard time focusing on the words he wanted to utter. "I… I won't" he said and cursed himself for stuttering. "Now shall we get down this stupid mountain?"

"Tomorrow," Geralt said. "We have enough food left and… I wouldn't mind spending an evening alone with my worthy travel companion."

Jaskier smiled. "Tomorrow it is."

~~~~

That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed this little something. I'll leave it up to your imagination how this scene might continue. If you like my writing, I have 2 more stories up already and I am finishing two mre which I might post over the next week.

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier #the witcher fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

karen-kurobara · 3 years ago

Text

Some moments of the book "Sword of Destiny" that I want to highlight - Geralt asks Jaskier's opinion of the clothes +Bonus: Jaskier steals Geralt's clothes

Brief warning of No spoilers.

This second book, titled "The Sword of Destiny", ends at the same narrative point as the first season of the Netflix adaptation, so this post doesn't contain spoilers for the main plot of The Witcher. Instead, I will highlight scenes from the book that were not adapted for television.

Having said that…

There are two very iconic moments involving Geralt, Jaskier and their clothes in the "Sword of Destiny" book that I would like to highlight.

Geralt asks Jaskier's opinion about his clothes.

The first of these occurs during the chapter "Eternal Flame" (same chapter where Jaskier insists on going to a brothel in the company of Geralt, we will comment on it later, and unfortunately it wasn't included in the Netflix adaptation)

The moment is brief and actually speaks for itself, you don't need to know much context beyond the fact that Geralt and Jaskier meet by coincidence and this conversation occurs at the moment when both have a chance to speak directly:

I find it amusing that the stoic Geralt doesn't really ask Jaskier what he thinks of the greatcoat, instead asking the bard directly if he likes it.

Jaskier, typical of him, interrupts him practically telling him that he is old-fashioned (a comment quite in keeping with the bard), but please Jaskier, your best friend asks you about his clothes, be a little more polite and tell him that you like it.

+Bonus: Jaskier borrows Geralt's jacket

This scene takes place in the chapter "A little sacrifice" (my favorite story so far, which I highly recommend reading, and which again was not adapted into the Netflix series).

The moment goes by a bit unnoticed, Geralt and Jaskier have just gone through an adventure at sea in which they were both swept away by the tide. Geralt has just woken up after nearly drowning, Essi (a second bard who appears in this chapter) is worried about the witcher's health, and Jaskier wanders around while he waits for his friend to come back to consciousness.

(Although Jaskier doesn't seem particularly worried, I defend his honor by saying that he could have left at any time and yet he waited in the same room until Geralt woke up).

This is precisely the starting point of this moment, Geralt is already aware, the bards have already determined that the witcher is fine, and Jaskier must go (he actually wants to give Essi and Geralt a moment of privacy) but the bard's clothes continue wet, so without hesitation he decides to take Geralt's jerkin

Geralt never gets angry about this, he doesn't even comment on it since they change the topic of conversation, but I love how Jaskier gives himself the luxury of inspecting the garment

So...

From all this we can draw a couple of conclusions. (and ideas for fanfics, by the way).

Let's go for the obvious and develop it a little.

Geralt really does try to have a sense of fashion or at least cares about clothes to some degree.

Geralt acknowledges Jaskier's opinion on clothes, or at least the witcher allows himself to play dumb with Jaskier to highlight his new clothes.

Jaskier borrows Geralt's clothes when his own is wet (a classic in fanfics, which also makes me wonder, Jaskier, didn't you have any more dry clothes or did you just want to annoy your best friend a bit?)

Geralt doesn't mind Jaskier taking his clothes, or at least not enough to bother him.

All this is cute and I'm not saying that it necessarily has to be a romantic gesture (I myself have shared and will continue to share clothes with my best friend) but what is usually a normal trope in fanfics turns out to be something canon.

I honestly hope to find more of these moments in the books that I have yet to read (don't tell me) and if so I'll update this post.

#the witcher books #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier #sword of destiny #geralt book #the witcher

43 notes · View notes

darkverrmin · 4 years ago

Text

The Road to Kaer Morhen

The first year Geralt and Jaskier become a couple, Geralt wants to bring his lover to Kaer Morhen. Spending a whole winter apart seems unimaginable now, since they've grown so close.

Unfortunately, a day before they're supposed to leave north, they have an ugly fight. Jaskier is pissed and decides to leave for Oxenfurt on his own. Geralt is pissed, too, and doesn't stop him.

The road to Kaer Morhen is longer and colder than what Geralt remembered it last year. And much more lonelier than he expected it to be.

***

Geralt tells his brothers and Vesemir about Jaskier. It happens naturally. He tells them about their relationship and their fight the day before Geralt left and how he misses his bard.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him for getting into that bar fight" Geralt told his brothers one night while they were drinking. "It was a dumb and dangerous thing to do, but he just wanted to protect me. He always wants me to feel more... Loved. Fuck, I shouldn't have let him leave to Oxenfurt".

Eskel nods, humming quietly. "Why won't you write him a letter? Tell him you're sorry and how you feel".

Geralt blinks at him. "I don't know... Doesn't sound like a good idea. I don't have his skills, I'm terrible at writing".

"You don't need skills" Eskel frowns at him, taking a sip from his tankard. "Just be honest with him".

"And how will I deliver him the letter, while we're here?"

"I have a magic bird" Lambert jumps in his seat, grinning. "A mage gave it to me after saving a city from a bunch of Bruxas. It can deliver your letter to Oxenfurt".

Geralt sighs and Eskel smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. "Great, now all you need to do is to write it".

***

Geralt writes the letter.

Half through it he already has no idea what's he writing. It's just a bunch of sappy nonsense.

Oh gods, he misses Jaskier.

He finishes the letter with the words "I'm sorry, Jaskier. I miss you. And I love you. I want to make this work".

It seems a little stupid to say he loves him for the first time like this, writing it in a letter, but Geralt can't deny it anymore.

He loves Jaskier and he wants to make things right between them.

They send the letter to Oxenfurt using Lambert's magic bird.

***

Two weeks pass and Geralt still doesn't get a reply from Jaskier.

He's not sad.

Not at all.

Jaskier just probably needs time to think.

***

Three weeks after sending the letter to Oxenfurt, the brothers notice someone approaching the gates of the keep, while they're training in the yard.

They see a hooded figure riding a beautiful, white stallion.

Who the hell would be coming all the way to Kaer Morhen during the winter?

Vesemir joins them in the yard, staring ahead at the fast approaching rider.

Lambert unsheathes his sword as the rider stops at the gate, dismounting his horse.

"Who the hell are you?" Lambert snarls at him, taking a step forward, sword in hand.

The hooded man raises his hands in the air, taking a step forward also. "Hi. Calm down. I come in peace. I'm here looking for someone".

The man pulls down his hood and Geralt's jaw drops to the ground. Jaskier still doesn't notice him, as he's speaking to Lambert, who's already lowered his sword.

"I'm looking for Geralt" Jaskier says, brushing the snow from his hair. "I assume you're one of his brothers".

"Lambert".

"Jaskier. Pleasure".

They shake hands and Lambert points him to Geralt, who's standing a few feet behind him, still in shock.

"Geralt!" Jaskier beams and runs into his Witcher's arms. Geralt holds him in a tight embrace, swinging him in the air once.

Jaskier giggles and pulls back to kiss Geralt. Geralt kisses him back, unbothered by Eskel's and Vesemir's stares and smiles and Lambert's gagging sounds.

Jaskier breaks the kiss first, to murmur against Geralt's lips. "Got your letter. Gods, Geralt, you can't make a man cry like that".

Geralt chuckles and kisses him again, softer this time. "I missed you".

"I missed you too, dear. I'm sorr-".

"No, don't. I'm the one who should be apologizing".

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly, smiling. "Can we just agree that we both acted like idiots?".

"I guess I'm okay with that".

Jaskier laughs and kisses him again. "I love you, too, by the way".

Geralt grins brightly and holds Jaskier so tight, he's afraid he might hurt him.

"Come meet my family. By the way, how the hell did you get here?"

"Oh, that reminds me! Here's you bird!" Jaskier rushes to his stallion and unties a small cage from the saddle. "When this magnificent creature came to Oxenfurt, his right wing was severely injured. I couldn't send him back. I took care of him on the way here, he should be fine now".

Lambert accepts the cage from Jaskier with a "thank you" and a small smile.

Jaskier looks at Geralt. "Sorry it took me a while to respond. Your keep is pretty far from civilization".

"Jask, again, how the hell did you get here? The road to Kaer Morhen is hard and dangerous. Did you find a mage and used a portal?"

Jaskier shrugged . "Uh, no... I just came here on my horse".

Four pairs of eyes stare at him in disbelief.

Jaskier blinks at them. "What, like it's hard?"

***

Bonus: Eskel leans in to whisper at Vesemir "I like this one. Can we keep him?"

1K notes · View notes

pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

Text

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 2)

Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

Just three days after the first installation and 4,000 words? That’s right baby! Because I run on validation and whew! Y’all provided. The courting gift scene based on a recommendation from @tempered-char. Also with a hint of Geralt’s Delicate Sensibilities, as inspired by @valdomarx +Thicc Eskel as a bonus

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

“Come in.”

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door.

Geralt wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. From what he’d seen of the world he wasn’t so sure he believed in love at all. He could imagine, however, that if he were a painter or a poet he could have fallen in love right there.

The room was a tiny, dusty study, and standing in front of the window was, presumably, Julian. The light haloed him, dust mites floating down. Grey-blue doublet and slightly darker pants brought out clear, bright eyes, rimmed with thick lashes.

He had a rounder jawline, the sort that was in style with painters at the moment. It leant a softness to his face. Maybe that was the fact that he was...nineteen? Geralt couldn’t remember.

He realized he was staring and bowed. It was awkard, still holding his gift and the gift from the countess. He looked up, Julian was smiling.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lord Julian,” Geralt said. “I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Geralt, and please, call me Jaskier,” said the young man. He stuck out his hand. Geralt quickly shifted the gifts to one hand and shook.

The hand was soft but not uncalloused, at the fingertips and base of the thumb. Long fingers, good for playing the lute that sat, gleaming and well cared for, in the corner.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, tasting the name. It was a good name, bright and pretty and a deadly poison if treated incorrectly. “I have a gift for you, and her ladyship gave me a gift but I haven’t opened it yet.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sat on a plush chair, gesturing Geralt to one opposite. “I have my own gift for you,” he said. “Father and Amaria didn’t think I could get my own courting gifts.”

Geralt decided to give up on subtlety. He wanted answers and he hoped this young man, Jaskier, was willing to give them.

“They want rid of you,” he said. It was a question but without the inflection at the end. “Enough to marry you off to a witcher.”

Jaskier sighed. “Just father, Amaria doesn’t have much to do with anything these days.”

“She seemed...” Geralt trailed off, not wanting to be disrespectful.

“It’s all about heirs,” Jaskier said, standing and beginning to pace. “Suitable heirs, which I’m not.” He sent Geralt a bitter little smile and flopped back down. “My father is not a nice man, you see. He’s never taken kindly to disagreements, and to him there’s only one ‘right’ sort of man. Men like him, manly and strong who kill first and don’t bother asking questions later. I questioned him, maybe three years ago, I didn’t think he should raise taxes again. He doesn’t forgive that sort of slight.”

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on knees and stared at the ground for a second.

“I think he’d decided long before that, but he wants me struck from the family tree.” Jaskier looked up at Geralt. Some of his confusion must have been showing on his face.

This world of heirs and court intrigue was far from anything Geralt knew, and seemed more complicated than necessary.

“Follow me,” Jaskier said, rising and stretching out his hand again. “You can leave the gifts, we’ll be back.” Geralt set dow the gifts and hesitantly stretched out his hand, unsure if the gesture was figurative or if he was actually supposed to take it. Jaskier took him gently by the wrist and led him from the room.

“The halls are a maze,” he said, letting go a coridor later. “Follow close behind me, you could get lost.” Geralt did so. He couldn’t imagine anything more embarassing than having a footman fetch him from one of these little stone tunnels.

They emerged in yet another dusty hall, lined with tapestries. Jaskier stopped in between two, and in front of a large, painted wooden panel. It had a tree.

A family tree.

“My father,” Jaskier said, tracing his finger along dusty, painted branches. “Finds it very important that the next Earl be his direct blood, and also his kind of man.” He looked at Geralt significantly. “That meant ridding himself of Amaria’s sons from her first marriage, by the laws of our country, he could have been heir. That also means getting rid of me.”

This explanation did not help Geralt’s bafflement. Jaskier sighed again, although he didn’t seem to be doing so at Geralt.

“Amaria had two sons, both manly and well suited to my father, but not his direct blood. And they were older than me, set to inherit the role of Earl first. They met with horrible accidents.” A shadow passed of Jaskier’s boyish face.

“Strange coincidence, how a large rock managed to tumble from the ramparts on to Isak not even a week after the same thing happened to Tomas. Especially since there’s not rocks up there. I checked.”

“Your father,” Geralt said, a little numbly. “Had his stepson’s murdered.” He knew nobility could be nasty but still... “And we’ve made a deal with him.”

Jaskier patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry too much about it, Father mostly doesn’t do too much harm these days, and Filip, that’s my half brother, seems like he’ll turn out okay. Then again, he’s only seven.”

“Is he going to have you killed?” Geralt asked, knowing as he did that the Earl was trying, by way of marrying Jaskier to him.

“Not exactly. I don’t know if it’s because I’m blood or just because another ‘accident’ would look suspicious, but there’s an easier way.” Jaskier pointed to a name circled in blue. “That’s my aunt Matylda, father’s older sister. She got married, which officially makes her part of her husband’s family tree, not ours, and she can no longer inherit,” Jaskier paused. “If she weren’t already a woman, I mean.”

“But we’re both men,” Geralt said. “I could just as easily become part of your family tree and then your father’s problem.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “In theory, but of course that isn’t how he played it. I’ll be an honorary witcher, and my name,” here he tapped some fine script. “Will be circled in blue and removed from the line.”

They both looked at the tree, looming darkly for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offered, although he supposed it wasn’t worth much.

“I’m sorry too,” Jaskier said. “You shouldn’t be roped into all this.”

Geralt privately considered that, yes, while he would have preferred to avoid all this intrigue and politics, Jaskier didn’t seem too bad.

Jaskier led him back through the stone rabbit warren that made up the bowels of the castle.

“Is her ladyship...like that, because of the death of her sons?” Geralt asked when they paused at the top of a staircase.

Jaskier cocked his head sadly, and then continued walking. Aftr a few more paced he said, “Yes, mostly. She wasn’t always...present, I suppose before but when they died so close together, and in such an awful way-- there’s nothing nice about a block of stone dropping on you from four stories up--something broke. She’s a nice lady, just happier living in her head, I think. Maybe she goes somewhere else, where her boys and her first husband are alive, I hope.”

They arrived back at the study without another word.

They sat.

“I, um.” Geralt said. “Hmmm. I got you,” he proferred the package, not knowing what to say and begging Jaskier to save him from trying to figure it out.

Jaskier took the package and pulled the string so that it fell open. The doublet slithered out. Vesemir had sent a letter asking for measurements as soon as Geralt had told him the idea.

“It’s basilisk leather,” Geralt said. “Witchers, um, our Path, it can be dangerous, so you should have this.”

Jaskier held up the fabric, watching the colors, deep blue and green, shift across the slick material. Privately, and for no reason Geralt could really guess at, he was very pleased, both that the doublet was in what seemed to be Jaskier’s colors, and also at the awe struck look on his face.

“It’s as light as silk,” Jaskier said, passing the fabric between his fingers. “And you said it’s leather?”

“Basilisk leather,” Geralt said. Monsters. They were talking about monsters, which he knew about. Thank the gods. “It’s like armor, and it won’t burn or get wet, water just runs off.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as basilisk leather,” Jaskier said, holding the doublet up. “Where did you get it? It’s incredible.”

Geralt coughed modestly, and tried not to puff his chest. “I killed the basilisk. Making the leather needs different skills than normal tanning, it’s more like potion making.” He remembered that most people knew little about witcher skills and needs. “All witchers know some alchemy, and we make potions for combat so I...I tanned it. My brother Lambert drew up the design, I don’t know much about clothes.”

The tailor had nearly cried when they’d presented him with the fabric, exclaiming about it’s luster and the ‘glorious smooth hand’, whatever that meant.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face anxiously. It wasn’t a courtly gift, no crown of pearls or whatever nobles expected, but it had taken him two months to turn the basilisk skin into leather. It would have taken him half the time but he’d had to do it on the road. Lambert had fussed about the design for almost a week too, and it had been Eskel’s idea to ask for the buttons to be little black pearls like that.

Vesemir had smiled at the team effort, calling it the wolves gift to their new pup.

Jaskier looked up at him, face like a sunbeam.

“Can I try it on?”

Geralt just nodded, and looked away modestly as Jaskier divested himself of his previous doublet before buttoning the basilisk leather.

He twirled, and in the light from the window the fabric seemed to glow, shifting and turning with each movement.

“And it really will keep me safe?” he asked, looking down at himself, beaming.

Geralt nodded. “It would take a battle axe a dozen tries to pierce it.”

Jaskier smiled at him again, and it made Geralt’s stomach tingle, although he had eaten some suspect meat on the ride to Lettenhove. Then Jaskier threw his arms around his neck.

Geralt wasn’t old fashioned. He could move with the times, whatever Lambert said, but manners had been stiffer sixty years ago and Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his ears going red.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier said, pulling back. “Thank you.”

Geralt shrugged uncomfortably. Jaskier smelled like soap and some sort of oil. Linseed maybe, probably for the wood of his lute.

“I have a gift for you, it’s not as lovely, but I hope you like it.”

Geralt carefully took the package. It was wrapped much prettier than his had been. “The countess already...”

“That was from her,” Jaskier said dismissively. “And maybe even from Father, although I doubt it, he wouldn’t waste money on me. But this gift is from me.” He sat forward eagerly. “Go on, open it.”

Geralt wasn’t about to refuse that eager, open expression, so he pulled at the ribbon, feeling rather like a bear trying to tie a shoelace.

The bright paper just fell away and there was a stiff paper box. He opened that too.

Three glass bottles sat inside, nestled in paper. The paper was only there to keep them from clinking because as he pulled one out he saw the telltale dark sheen.

Brimstone glass. It was unbreakable. Sometimes witchers carried their more noxious potions in it but rarely, it was frighteningly expensive, usually only mages could afford it.

“How?” he said. How did you afford it? How did you know it existed? Did you know witchers use potions? He looked up at Jaskier, who looked nervous.

“Are they alright?” he said. “Only I won them off a sorceror in a pub. He told me they were indestructible and threw one at the ground to prove it. I thought they’d be useful...Was it a trick?” He looked so upset at the prospect.

“These, Geralt said, “Are Brimstone Glass, they are indeed indestructible and very, very useful.” Jaskier’s face split into a grin again.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. It didn’t seem like enough, but if he hugged the lad like Jaskier had him he would kill him.

“Should I open the box from the countess?”

“Do,” Jaskier said. “I want to know what it is.”

The latch flicked easily under Geralt’s hand and the lid popped open.

Jaskier gasped.

“It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I don’t remember her well, but I remember her hands...”

It was a beautiful ring, opal, if Geralt was any judge, but Eskel knew stones better than him. Silver wound around the stone, with smaller gems studding the setting to either side.

“I will use it in the ceremony,” Geralt said, offering it to Jaskier. “If it fits.”

“It won’t fit,” Jaskier said sadly. “Mother had very small hands, but it’s a nice thought.”

Geralt looked at the ring and Jaskier’s left hand. “Try it?”

Jaskier did, sliding the ring onto his finger easily. He looked at it in amazement.

“Amaria must have had it enlarged,” he said.

“A good gift,” Geralt said, although not sure who the gift was really for.

There came a polite knock at the door, interupting the moment, whatever sort of moment it was.

“My lord, it is time for supper.”

Damn.

Jaskier slipped the ring back into the box and Geralt looked away as he changed into his regular doublet. He didn’t look away fast enough and caught a scandalous glimpse of collarbone and soft chest hair where the chemise got pulled down a little. The air felt a little stuffy suddenly.

The gifts, and Geralt was proud to see that Jaskier folded the doublet carefully back into the paper, although nothing could have harmed it, were handed to a footman to be taken back to their respective rooms.Geralt offered Jaskier his arm, like he’d seen the nobility do, and then Jaskier led him to the dining hall.

To his relief, the hall wasn’t packed. They were what Lambert would call ‘fashionably late’ (and what Vesemir would call a reason for three extra laps) and all the guests were seated. A table held Lady Amaria and a man who must be the Earl, although there was little visible resemblance to Jaskier. They were seated with perhap half a dozen other nobles, as well as a red headed boy of about seven, Filip, probably, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. There was another table of presumably more minor nobility, and then a small table with the wolves, two seats still empty.

All eyes turned to look at the pair. Jaskier bowed deeply, and since his arm was still linked with Geralt’s he was made to bow too, or else risk having his arm pulled from its socket. Then they made their way to the smallest table.

Geralt pulled out Jaskier’s chair for him and saw Vesemir’s approving nod, as well as Lambert’s smirk. He didn’t see the swift kick Eskel delivered below the table, but caught the way Lambert’s eyes watered suddenly, and smiled at his brother in thanks for the retribution. Then he sat.

“Julian,” Vesemir said, reaching over the table to shake hands. “I am Vesemir, Geralt’s teacher. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“I am happy to make your aquaintance, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier said, and Geralt was impressed that he only winced a little bit as Vesemir inadvertently crushed his knuckles in a grip that could moor a boat. He did, however, gently shake out his fingers under the table once he’d been released.

“If you please, however,” Jaskier continued as if nothing had happened. “I prefer my nickname, Jaskier.”

“Jaskier it is, then,” Vesemir said, moustache twitching up at the corners. Geralt suspected he was thinking the same as he had done. Buttercups, pretty and poisonous.

“You were educated at Oxenfurt, is that correct?” Eskel said.

“Yes, in the fine arts, although I specialized in music composition and lute performance. I didn’t catch your name...?” The most delicate question mark was added to the end of the statement. Eskel blushed, Jaskier wouldn’t know it, but Geralt could see the back of his neck reddening.

“Eskel,” he said quickly. “And the asshole who’s snickering is Lambert.”

Jaskier didn’t look even a little intimidated by either of Geralt’s brothers, which was impressive, because Lambert could scowl like it was a contest and Eskel, although only an inch taller than Geralt, was naturally hugely muscled in a way even the mutagens hadn’t managed for Geralt. His chest and arms looked like they’d withstand a siege weapon.

Jaskier turned a smile on Lambert, who was sputtering indignantly at Eskel’s entirely fair description.

“I’m told you helped with my beautiful courting gift,” he said. Then he turned the smile on all of the wolves. “A team effort I imagine.”

This stunned all three brothers, and made Vesemir smile. Lambert shrugged uncomfortably. For all his prickliness, he couldn’t take a compliment.

“Eskel’s idea for the buttons,” he muttered, and Geralt knew he’d been entirely won over.

“The buttons are beautiful,” Jaskier said, smiling warmly at Eskel now, who looked like he’d rather be facing a mountain troll.

“Was Vesemir that got your measurements,” he said, looking down at the tablecloth. Jaskier beamed at the whole table then.

“Truly a team effort, thank you all, it’s beautiful and I cannot wait to wear it.” With that the whole table was well and truly won over by Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t help but brag a little.

“Jaskier gave me Brimstone Glass bottles as a courting gift,” he said, and preened slightly under the others’ slightly jealous noises of amazement. Jaskier flushed a very pretty pink.

“I just thought they’d be useful,” he said, although his smile was pleased.

Serving girls entered the hall with trays and the chatter in the hall expanded excitedly. A plump young woman set a tray down at their table and Eskel hummed in appreciation.

“It smells delicious,” he said. She smiled at him, looked him up and down, and then winked.

“Oh doesn’t it just, I could just eat it all up,” she said, not looking at the food even as she lifted the cloche from the appetizers. Then she winked and disappeared back into the kitchen. Another girl appeared and filled the goblets but the witchers hardly noticed for laughing at Eskel’s face.

“Seems Mabel took a liking to you,” Jaskier said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Through his own laughter, Geralt watched Jaskier’s father glaring at their table. Good. The old fuck could choke on it, he didn’t look like he’d ever laughed a day in his life.

“Careful though,” Jaskier was saying. “She looked ready to take a bite out of you.”

“But,” Eskel gestured, baffled to his face.

“Oh pish,” Jaskier said, taking a swig of wine. “Nobody cares about that sort of thing, do they? Plenty of ladies around here like a few scars, makes men look rugged and dangerous.”

“Rugged?” Eskel rubbed his hand over his face, contemplating.

“Definitely,” said Jaskier, nodding. He took one of the appetizers. Geralt moved a few to his own plate and slowly their little table descended into a quiet contentment. The appetizers were good, hors d'oeuvres , Geralt remembered Lambert telling him once. They were little bits of paste, meat and vegetable mostly, inside pastry casings.

He smiled when he noticed that he and his brothers were all looking between Jaskier and Vesemir to make sure they hadn’t missed any manners. Eskel swiped Lambert’s elbows off the table.

Eventually the appetizers were replaced with soup. The saucy kitchen girl, Mabel, Jaskier had called her, made a positively salacious remark to Eskel. Something daring about him licking everything clean. Eskel smiled faintly and turned redder than the beet soup.

“You should flirt back,” Jaskier said, once Mabel was gone. “If you’re actually interested, I mean.”

“It’s not that I’m not. Interested I mean,” Eskel squeaked. “But I can’t offer her anything, no marriage or security.”

Jaskier looked at him. It was definitely a look, although not a nasty one. “She asked you to lick her clean and you think that was an invitation to marriage?”

“I wouldn’t want to defile...”

“Oh shut up Eskel, sex doesn’t defile anything. It’s natural and normal and if you think it some how ‘decreases the value’ of a woman than you aren’t the man I thought you to be.” Lambert cut in. “Have some fun, maybe she can remove the stick you’ve lodged up your ass.”

“You’re right, of course,” Eskel said. But now Jaskier was looking worried.

“It won’t be a problem, right?” he asked Geralt. “That I’m not, um a virgin, I mean?”

“No,” Geralt said, probably missing the mark on reassuring, but doing his best. “Unless you mind that I’m not one either. And there is no fidelity clause, and no consummation, you needn’t sleep with me, and you’re free to see other people.”

Jaskier looked at first relieved and then impish, licking the soup from his spoon in a way that made significant parts of Geralt’s brain go numb. “I dunno,” he said, leaning towards Geralt and bumping him with a shoulder. “I can’t imagine consumation with you would be such a chore.”

Melitele’s great gauzy veil, this boy would be the death of him.

There was a pause between soup and the main course, but when Mabel picked up the dishes Eskel leaned towards her and asked if he’d licked it clean enough, to the woman’s obvious approval.

They sat and chatted, Jaskier, Eskel, and Vesemir debated over some old literature that Geralt had never heard of, and then they were interuppted with a cough.

The earl stood, face like stone, beside their table.

They rose. Vesemir bowed.

“My Lord,” he said. “It is a pleasure to make your aquaintance. I am Vesemir, of the school of the wolf.”

Lord Pankratz inclined his head. “Greetings, Master Vesemir,” he said. “I wish to discuss some of the terms of the contract with you.”

He snapped his fingers and a footman brought him a chair, without waiting for Vesemir’s response.

The wolves sat, feeling wary. Jaskier was looking down at his hands, shoulders shrunk in.

They sat in suspense as Vesemir and Lord Pankratz hashed out details of the legal protections. The main course appeared and the earl stood, and bowed.

“Why don’t we continue this after desert,” he said, smiling smoothly. And it was a very smooth smile. Like an oil slick.

Dinner after that was subdued, despite Eskel returning Mabel’s flirtations. Jaskier looked down at his plate most of the time and the witchers picked up on his unease.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt whispered.

“I don’t know, but he’s planning something, and I don’t like it.”

Then coffee was served after dessert, and the Earl de Lettenhove sat at their table again.

“Now, for what I really wanted to discuss, I know political marriages can be...challenging,” the earl said in a voice like a snake. “But I wanted to make it clear, should either member express a wish to anul the marriage, the contract will become void.” Here he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I couldn’t bear for my dear Julian to be unhappy, you see. He’s high maintainance I know, but I wish him the best.”

The earl smiled a despicable little smile. “Now, I think you two shouldn’t really see more of each other before the wedding, yes? Bad luck and all.”

The earl then hauled Jaskier away by his collar.

“What a cunt,” Lambert said.

“I figured that was in the contract anyway,” Geralt said. “Isn’t that normally how it works?”

Vesemir nodded. “Indeed, it’s how these marriages go. But I expect the earl is betting that the two of you wont be able to stand eachother, and so he gets rid of his son and doesn’t have to help witchers all in one go.”

“Yes, Jaskier explained things.”

And then Geralt told his family what Jaskier had told him. The suspicious accidents, the laws, the family tree.

“I agree with Lambert,” Eskel said. “What a gigantic fucking cunt.”

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

What’s with my thing about clothing descriptions and fancy cloth? I’m a fashion design major, that’s what.

We’ve got answers about Amaria, and the reason for the engagement, but what’s the wedding going to be like? oooh, cliffhanger, but not too much so I hope it makes up for last time when I was so bad to you all.

Tag List! @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam@sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest@innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna

@ailorian @toothhurtyam I’m having trouble adding you, I can’t tag if this is a password protected side blog or if you have Allow Blog to Appear in Search Results off, I think.

#geraskier #the witcher #arranged marriage #arranged marriage au #its part two y'all #and the earl is a slimy sob

697 notes · View notes

thearvariblues · 4 years ago

Text

And They Were Roommates - Chapter 2

Previously | Masterpost

2 – Put It Back Where It Belongs

“I said I didn’t want coffee, Jaskier,” Aiden sighed, pushing his dark sunglasses further up on his nose.

“Of course you do, darling. No offense, but you look like Death personified.”

“Yeah, I feel like I’ve already died,” Aiden murmured, accepting the paper cup from Jaskier with a frown. “Is there any chocolate in it?”

“No, of course not. I know how much you hate it,” Jaskier grinned.

“Oh, good,” Aiden smiled, taking a sip.

“There’s a shit-ton of caramel, though,” Jaskier finished.

Aiden made a face, but took another sip. His hangover really was killing him.

“I hate you sometimes,” he said. “Is this really a good idea, by the way?”

“What, to have a coffee on our way to Geralt’s?”

“To go to Geralt’s,” Aiden elaborated. “I mean, he still hasn’t texted you back.”

“Yeah, but Geralt’s always glad to see me.”

“I should hope so, considering that he’s gonna see you every fucking day for the rest of his life,” Aiden chuckled, wincing when a stray ray of sunshine found its way around the rim of his sunglasses and into his eyes. “Fuck me, I should have taken those painkillers.”

“Told you so,” Jaskier said, sipping his frappe. “Look, don’t be nervous about it. Lambert doesn’t bite, as far as I know. He’s just a little... grumpy.”

“I don’t blame him. I’d be grumpy if two idiots broke into my apartment totally unannounced.”

“I’ve announced us, love. I texted Geralt.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “But Lambert’s kind of always grumpy.”

“So nice of you to force me to live with him, then.”

“Aiden, I’m not… forcing you to do anything. I’m just asking you, very nicely, to meet Lambert and see if you, perhaps… could share an apartment, that’s all.”

“You know, judging by what you’ve already told me, I don’t think I want to be anywhere near him, let alone share an apartment,” Aiden sighed when Jaskier unlocked the door of Geralt’s apartment building. “You said he really was an asshole.”

“He is, but…” Jaskier shrugged. “Look, I met Geralt after his divorce, I admit, but he’s told me, countless times, that he wouldn’t have made it through that if it wasn’t for his brothers. Eskel and Lambert.”

“So the asshole knows how to act like a normal human being when someone’s whole world is falling apart. Amazing.”

“Well, it can’t be said about most men I know,” Jaskier chuckled, calling the elevator.

“Fair point,” Aiden admitted. “So, is there anything else I should know about this… Lambert?”

“He’s straight, I’m afraid,” Jaskier sighed and stepped into the elevator.

“Fuck. Jaskier,” Aiden whined. “You know what I told you about straight guys!”

“Relax, babe. He’s not… like that. He’s not, you know, straight. He just doesn’t sleep with anyone but women, that’s all. He’s not gonna judge you, I promise.”

“So he’s an asshole but he’s, in fact, a pretty decent guy, too?”

“Well… he certainly is pretty,” Jaskier nodded as they stepped out of the elevator. “Yeah, trust me, him being straight is better for you. At least you won’t be tempted.”

“Tempted?” Aiden frowned. “Why would I be tempted?”

Jaskier chuckled, pushing his key into the keyhole of Geralt’s apartment.

“Oh, my sweet summer child…”

“Lambert.”

Lambert groaned and shook off the hand on his shoulder.

“Lambert, wake the fuck up.”

“Piss off,” Lambert mumbled, burying his face into the pillow.

“Shit… Lambert!”

It was the urgency in Geralt’s voice that made Lambert actually open one eye – a decision which he immediately came to regret when he felt a stab of pain shoot through his eye and straight into his brain. He moaned.

“What the actual fuck, Geralt?” he moaned. “Let me sleep, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’d love to, but we’re in trouble. Big, big trouble.”

“Have you set the kitchen on fire again?”

“No, but–”

“Is there an alien invasion?”

“No–”

“A psychotic serial killer on the loose in the building?”

“Not as far as I know, but–”

“Great. I don’t care, then. Good night, Geralt,” Lambert murmured, burying his face back into the pillow.

Which, as he realized, wasn’t really his pillow but a cushion, which probably meant he’d spent the night on their couch.

Oh, well, it wasn’t the first time.

“Lambert!”

“What?!” Lambert whined.

“Jaskier texted. Twenty minutes ago.”

“Mhm. Look, Geralt,” Lambert said, yawning. “I know you’re still awed or whatever the fuck that the little piece of shit not only acknowledges your existence but also loves you back, which I still find totally astounding, by the way, but you don’t need to inform me whenever he texts you, thank you very much.”

“Well, he texted me he’s on his way here.”

“Still don’t care, just try not to be too loud this time, you know Mrs. Nenneke doesn’t like it.”

“He’s on his way here with Aiden.”

Lambert groaned, opening his eye again.

“And who the fuck is Aiden?”

Geralt sighed. He looked like shit, Lambert noticed, his hair tousled, his face pale, eyes unfocused, wearing nothing but his black boxer shorts. He looked as if he’d spend the night on the couch, too. Well, it also wouldn’t be the first time.

“Jaskier’s roommate.”

Lambert sighed and sat up with a groan.

“Fucking awesome. Let me guess. Jaskier just happened to be telling this… Aiden about him having to move out at the same fucking time you were telling me about you moving out of here, am I right?”

“Well, I can’t guarantee it was at the same time, but…”

“Stop the bullshit, Geralt, or I’m gonna shove it so far up your arse that even Jaskier won’t be able to find it,” Lambert growled. “What did he text you, exactly?”

“Ugh,” Geralt observed, unlocking his phone. “On my way to your place with Aiden. Have had the bestest of ideas, explain when we get there.”

“Oh, go to hell, you and your bard,” Lambert murmured, rubbing his aching eyes. “So he wants to make me live with this Aiden, right?”

“Why do you think–”

“Because it’s fucking obvious, Geralt, to everyone with more than two brain cells.”

“It doesn’t seem obvious to me.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“I… Lambert!” Geralt said, offended.

“When did he text you again?” Lambert asked.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“And… Just remind me, how long it takes to get from Jaskier’s place to ours?”

“Uhm… Twenty minutes with a stop for coffee.”

A key rattled in the door.

“Oh,” Lambert said. “Fucking fantastic.”

When Aiden stepped into the apartment, he immediately thought he’d died and went straight to heaven.

Not because Geralt was standing there in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but his boxers, no. Aiden was used to seeing Geralt like this whenever he stayed for the night, and honestly, Geralt was never quite his type – close, right, but not exactly it.

But then there was the other guy in the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, wearing only a pair of sweatpants with at least three holes in them – and he was only counting the big ones. The guy was pale and… all the gods help Aiden… ginger.

Now, Aiden had a thing for gingers. He didn’t need his boyfriends to have red hair, of course, but it was a nice bonus.

All in all, this guy was precisely Aiden’s type.

And, logically, it simply had to be the infamous Lambert.

The infamous, straight Lambert.

Aiden felt his mouth go dry.

Oh, no, this wasn’t heaven.

It was hell.

Lambert should have expected something like this, of course.

Not the fact that Jaskier would simply barge in with this Aiden at nine in the fucking morning on a Saturday, no. That was totally unpredictable and extremely annoying, no matter how much Geralt always tried to convince Lambert that Jaskier’s unpredictability was endearing or something.

But he absolutely should have expected Aiden to be looking… that way.

The… guy? Lambert settled for a guy in his mind, at least until proven otherwise. The guy was wearing a long black skirt, an oversized dark blue T-shirt which he had tucked into said skirt and way too many gold necklaces and pendants. His brown hair was cut into a style Lambert was pretty sure was called a pixie cut, since Geralt’s fourteen-year-old daughter Ciri had spent her last visit here trying to convince Geralt to allow her to have her hair cut exactly like this.

And then there was the black eyeliner, of course. The black eyeliner is a must, after all.

Lambert blinked and tore his eyes away from the guy or gal or whatever the fuck when he realized that Jaskier was talking.

(Lambert had long since learned to tune Jaskier out a little. He liked the guy, all right, but it was better for his mental health to at least partially ignore him from time to time.)

Before Lambert could start focusing on what Jaskier was saying, Geralt walked up to his boyfriend and gave him a kiss. Lambert groaned.

“I know, I’m sorry, I was sleeping. Next time, you’d better call, love,” Geralt smirked. “Wait a sec, I’m just gonna get dressed. Lambert?”

“You need my assistance or what?” Lambert chuckled. “I don’t think Daffodil would like that.”

“Dandelion, Lambert, it’s Dandelion,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes, a tiny smile on his lips. This was a game they had been playing for a while. “And I think Geralt was kindly suggesting that you should also go and get dressed into… something more appropriate.”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks,” Lambert shrugged, getting to his feet.

“You’re scaring your potential new roommate,” Geralt said.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Lambert grinned. He took three steps to Aiden, winked and grabbed a coffee cup from his potential roommate’s unresisting fingers. “Hey. I’m Lambert.” He took a sip of the coffee and immediately came to regret it. “Jesus Christ. There’s more sugar than actual coffee in this shit.”

“Hey!” Jaskier protested. “It’s not that bad!”

“Right. It’s worse,” Lambert nodded, taking a long swig from the cup before returning it to Aiden. “Ugh. Disgusting.”

“I know, right?” Aiden chuckled.

“That’s enough,” Geralt growled, grabbing Lambert’s shoulder. “You’re going to get dressed. Right fucking now.”

“Do I have to? I mean, it would be a sin to cover my body with… Ouch! All right, all right, I’m going, no need to be so pissy, Geralt. Fuck’s sake, let go of me you fucking moron…”

Five minutes later, Lambert was sitting in the armchair dressed in black jeans and a very fitting black T-shirt and Aiden, quite honestly, thought it was even worse than those sweatpants he had been wearing before.

In those sweatpants, he looked like a hot mess.

Like this, he was just hot.

So he was sitting there, sipping a Red Bull and watching Aiden in the opposite armchair with a cocky smile on his face.

Aiden opened his own can of the energy drink (which was, quite surprisingly, offered to him by Lambert himself) and matched Lambert’s smile with his own.

“All right, boys and whatevers,” Jaskier chimed in. “We’ve gathered here today–”

“This isn’t a fucking wedding, Jaskier,” Lambert grunted. “And we didn’t gather. You just fucking invited yourself in to force a roommate on me.”

“You do need a roommate, Lambert,” Geralt replied.

The two lovebirds were sitting on the couch, their limbs already entangled.

“All right. As you wish,” Lambert shrugged. “So tell me, Aiden, why do you want to be my new best friend?”

“Lambert,” Geralt sighed.

“I honestly don’t,” Aiden chuckled. “And honestly, I’m not even sure I want to live with you. It’s just that Jaskier insisted on dragging me here.”

“Aiden!” Jaskier groaned.

“And why wouldn’t you want to live with me, eh?” Lambert said, cocking his eyebrow. “You know, if you’re afraid of that, I can totally accept the fact that you’re…”

“Non-binary?” Aiden chuckled.

“I was gonna say a weirdo,” Lambert said with a playful smirk.

Oh, so that’s how you want to do it, Aiden thought.

“Are you?” he said, ignoring Jaskier’s protests. “I don’t know, Lambert. I’m not sure I can accept the fact that you’re one of those… soulless gingers.”

“Wow.” Lambert placed a hand on his heart and sighed. “This brings back memories of my childhood. You know, that’s what my dear departed father used to call me, may he rot in hell.”

“Jeez, slow down. It’s a bit early in our relationship to reveal your tragic past, don’t you think?”

“Nah, I think everything should be out in the open from the beginning. For example, what’s really underneath your skirt, Aiden?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Aiden chuckled. “Better yet, wouldn’t you like to see? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Will you? All right then,” Lambert nodded, standing up and reaching for the zipper of his pants. “I’m warning you, though, you might not be ready to face the glory of my mighty dick.”

“I assure you that I have seen dicks mightier than yours, my dear.”

“You think so? Wait for it, babe.”

“All right, all right!” Geralt said. “Lambert, zip up those pants or so help me!”

“You afraid Jaskier’s gonna choose me when he sees the true beauty of my manhood?”

“I’ve already seen it and, quite honestly, it’s not that impressive,” Jaskier shrugged. “Geralt’s right. Put it back where it belongs. Right now.”

“Yes, mummy,” Lambert grunted, rolling his eyes. “Ugh. You two are no fun.”

“I honestly don’t understand your definition of fun,” Jaskier sighed.

Lambert glanced at Aiden, who was currently busy choking with laughter. The redhead grinned.

“All right, whatever,” he said. “I’ll take…”

He raised a questioning eyebrow at Aiden.

“Him,” Aiden said helpfully.

“Him, right. Thank fuck,” Lambert nodded. “I’ll take him.”

“I’m… starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea,” Jaskier gulped when Aiden grinned.

“Quite the opposite, Daisy. It was probably the best idea you’ve ever had,” Lambert said.

“It’s a deal, then,” Aiden nodded. “Nice to meet you, roommate.”

“To living together, weirdo,” Lambert laughed, raising his can of Red Bull.

“Right,” Geralt sighed. “We’re fucking doomed.”

#geralt x jaskier #geraskier #jaskier x geralt #lambden #lambert x aiden #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #modern au #ginger!lambert #bisexual!lambert #nonbinary!aiden #attempt at humor #and they were roommates #my fics

47 notes · View notes

witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 5 years ago

Text

For six months the Lady Elena has been the sole recipient of Jaskier's affections. It started as a distraction - they met at a party he attended with both Geralt and Yennefer - something to keep his mind off the fact that Geralt's heart, rough and closed-off as it is, was claimed by someone else. But Elena was bright and funny and she lavished praise on Jaskier and he was easily drawn in.

They've been sort of on-and-off since Jaskier and Geralt left Vattweir, but whenever they separate, Jaskier finds himself back beyond the mountains. And when they don't, Jaskier sings of her regularly, earning little praise and much grumbling from Geralt, but he doesn't care. For the first time since they met, Jaskier's attention isn't focused solely on Geralt and he thinks maybe if ever was to settle down and stay somewhere, it might be with Elena.

He sings of love and romance and tells Geralt he'll never love like this again - getting only grunts and hmms in response. But he is happy and more than that, he's happy that for once something has pulled him out of the slump he didn't realize he was in. His songs are cheery once more, not impeded by his unrequited feelings for Geralt. Not that those feelings aren’t still there every time Geralt smiles at him over the fire or presses a little closer on cold nights, but it doesn't hurt so much anymore.

But like most happiness in Jaskier's life, it doesn't last long.

He's been invited to sing at a banquet in Vattweir and since Geralt is with him at the time, he considers it a bonus that he finally gets to introduce them. Not that Geralt cares very much, but Jaskier does.

But things don't go quite as planned; as soon as Jaskier walks into the hall, he spots Elena and she's not alone. She's sat delicately in the lap of some nobleman Jaskier doesn't recognize and at first, he doesn't think much of it. When she leans in for a kiss, he reconsiders.

Jaskier’s heart sinks. They never specified that they wouldn't see other people, but he hasn't and he had hoped she hadn't either. Ah,well, he decides, simply a bump in the road - at least Geralt isn't with him to see the shock on his face. He can't imagine how he would react after hours of Jaskier going on about her being the one.

So he keeps this small detail to himself. Everything else is going as planned and he's sure to come out of this night with a heavy purse if nothing else. But Elena doesn't even acknowledge his presence - a difficult feat considering he's the main source of entertainment for the evening - and it doesn't take him long to figure out why. After his first set, there's an intermission and he seeks out Geralt, slipping in next to him at the table.

There's a toast. A speech. An engagement announcement - and engagement announcement for the Lady Elena and some noble or other that Jaskier’s never heard of. Well, he thinks, that would explain things.

He spends the remainder of the night wondering if he just over thought their relationship. Obviously, if she's now engaged to someone else and acting like he doesn't exist. Geralt asks after her, but Jaskier lies, tells him she didn't show up and he'll just have to wait to meet her later. Jaskier is used to heartbreak and for now, at least, he’d rather suffer this one alone.

Without their impending introduction, Geralt insists they leave early and for once, Jaskier agrees.

He never tells Geralt. Partially because he's embarrassed, but mostly because he knows Geralt will say something stupid like you'll find someone new in a couple of days. But Elena was special. He falls in love often and without intending to, but there are people he's found who strike a different sort of chord with him - Elena was one of them. Geralt is another. And maybe he won't find someone new because it's been over a decade that he's been searching for something to fill the Geralt-shaped hole in his heart and now he's lost that, too.

Now he's back to the beginning; in love with his best friend and unable to share that love because Geralt is an unfeeling mutant.

But he tries to keep up the charade for a little while. He still talks about Elana on occasion and when the longing becomes too much, he pulls himself from Geralt's side under the guise of visiting her. Mostly, he turns to the closest tavern and drinks unless someone will pay him to sing. It's not hard pretending still to be in love, the difficult part is hoping Geralt doesn't realize it's all a sham and all the lovely things Jaskier is saying are actually just about him.

But both the stories and the pretend visits start to dwindle over time and his relationship with Geralt slowly returns to what it had been prior to meeting her.

Only Geralt notices because of course he does and Jaskier is forced to lie every time he asks about her. And he asks more about her and Jaskier suspects he's trying to trip him up. But he feels better when Geralt sleeps closer at night or when he lets Jaskier sing them both to sleep on nights that are otherwise too quiet.

It takes five months for him to find out the truth and his response isn't anything Jaskier would have expected. They're outside of Oxenfurt, as far away from Elena and her new husband as Jaskier could hope to be. And yet, they're here, sitting at the edge of the river where Jaskier was hoping to enjoy the rest of his afternoon alone. Geralt is off killing some plant thing that's been killing people along the road and Jaskier had planned to sit and drink wine by the river, but he can't very well do that now.

So he returns to camp and sits and plays for Roach instead, singing songs of heartbreak and betrayal. She presses her nose to his head, ruffling his hair with heavy breaths and Jaskier smiles up at her.

"At least I've got you," he says and just as he does there's a loud crack from behind. He turns to see Geralt with what looks - maybe - like the head of some giant mutated flower over his shoulder. Or maybe a snake, he's not quite sure.

Geralt drops it on the ground and crosses over to sit on the log across from Jaskier, carefully removing his armour.

"What happened to songwriting by the river?"

"Ah, well, the river was already... occupied."

"That's never stopped you before."

"Yes but-" well, it's been five months, maybe he should just be frank with him "-you see Elena was down by the river with her new... husband." Geralt's head lifts at that, his face worryingly neutral as he meets Jaskier's eyes.

"Husband?"

"Er, well... yes. It seems she was finished with me only she never bothered to tell me that." Jaskier has been avoiding looking at Geralt, afraid to see the betrayal in his eyes for lying to him for so long, but when it does it's not betrayal he sees burning there. It's anger.

"I'm sorry," he starts, "I meant to tell you, but I just-"

"Why would she do that?" Oh.

"I suspect she didn't care all that much."

Geralt's eyes narrow and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that. He can feel the anger coming off of him, but it isn't directed at him and he's not quite sure what to do with that. People don't get angry on his behalf, they get angry at him.

Jaskier tries to calm him down, but Geralt is fuming and Jaskier's never seen him this angry before and for the first time in their friendship, he's almost a little afraid of him. But Geralt would never hurt him and the anger is probably more to do with lingering elixirs from the hunt, so when Geralt gets up and stomps around the camp, Jakier lets him. And then, when his pacing and irritability starts to wear thin, Jaskier sits him down and promises that it isn't all that bad, not really, and he rubs his shoulders and runs patient fingers through his hair. And Geralt relaxes.

But he's different after that. Not in big ways, but he makes a point of keeping himself between Jaskier and anything that could hurt him. He sleeps closer when they camp in the open air, practically right on top of him - not that Jaskier is complaining - and he's defensive in a way Jaskier hasn't seen him before.

Jaskier is used to hecklers - no one can please everyone - but Geralt has taken to shutting them down with a single look, glowering at them from his seat until they're silent. Some leave, some are braver and just return to their drink, but none speak up again. Jaskier revels in this newfound attention and struggles not to find ways in which to provoke it.

It all comes to a head one night when they've stopped to eat and Jaskier is singing. He's distracted and doesn't notice at first when the couple walks in, but they sit down right next to him and it becomes hard not to notice. Elena is as beautiful as always, but her husband - Jaskier assumes that who he is, but he barely recalls the man from the banquet that night - has a sneer plastered on his face. Perhaps he knows who Jaskier is, though Elena doesn't show any sign of it.

Fine, he thinks, let her be like that. The next song he plays is his most romantic ballad, one very thinly disguised as having been written about a princess when in reality, it was written about Geralt.

As soon as he finishes, he picks his lute case up and crosses to sit back with Geralt. He knows they have to leave now, which is a shame since he never even finished his drink earlier, but he doesn't want to start something in the middle of the tavern. They were hoping to find a room for the night and Jaskier doesn't want to spend another night in a row on rocky, uneven ground.

"Shall we go?" he asks and Geralt casts a look between him and his unfinished drink. He doesn't respond before a loud, overly enthusiastic laugh fills the air. Geralt looks up with a scowl. Jaskier sighs.

He doesn’t know how he recognizes Elena, but there's an instant change in his demeanour. He goes rigid, staring directly at the corner of the room where she and her husband are seated and Jaskier can feel the rage radiating off of him.

"Geralt," he whispers, "let's just go, it's not that big a deal anyway-"

"She hurt you," he seethes and through the well of emotions swelling in his chest, Jaskier decides not to point out that Geralt has also hurt him in the past. It distracts him long enough that he doesn't realize Geralt is standing until he's nearly pushed out of the way.

He knows Geralt wouldn’t hurt them, especially for something so trivial, but he's so desperately trying to keep the peace. And if he's honest, he'd rather just forget about the whole Elena thing altogether. He thinks quickly, pressing himself up against Geralt's chest and it works, for a moment at least. Geralt looks down at him and something in his expression makes Jaskier's heart beat a little quicker and this is very much not the time for that.

But then Geralt moves to brush past and Jaskier's mind goes blank. He's been in danger - actual life threatening danger - before and Geralt has never been this defensive, protective, of him. So Jaskier acts without thinking. Working off the very slimmest chance that his suspicions could be correct, he pulls Geralt back to him and kisses him.

He stuns even himself and for a split second he's afraid Geralt might be upset with him, but Geralt drops back into his seat with a thud, pulling Jaskier into his lap. He takes Jaskier's face in his hands and kisses him fiercely.

Geralt kisses like a man who's been denied for years and all Jaskier can do is let himself be led. Geralt brings him close so their chests are pressed together and Jaskier can hear the way his heart thuds in his chest. It's highly unusual and if he wasn't being kissed stupid right now, he might be worried about it.

As reality settles around him, Jaskier slides his hands up Geralt's arms reverently, easing the rage and adrenaline out of him. And Geralt visibly relaxes under him, sinking back against the wall and relaxing his hold on Jaskier. Geralt loops his arms around Jaskier's lower back, but even calm and quiet, he doesn't let go. He just kisses him softer, more deliberately and Jaskier happily takes everything he's offering. Geralt is never this soft when he's insincere and this is maybe the worst time to talk about it, but he understands that this anger and rage were about more than just defending a friend.

When Geralt's tongue slides against his own, Jaskier lets out a little whine, shifting further into Geralt's lap. For that, he gets drawn closer and Geralt's hands slide up his back. Vaguely, Jaskier is aware that people are watching and regularly, he might worry about what people thought of him, but right now he couldn't care less. Right now Geralt is kissing him and he's solid and real and he feels so good around him.

Geralt pulls him right up against him and his cock, thick and hard in his trousers, presses up under Jaskier's, pulling a soft moan from his lips. As if pulled from a reverie, Geralt breaks the kiss, panting heavily as he looks into Jaskier's eyes. He doesn't say anything, but Jaskier hears the unspoken words and he nods, giving his consent freely.

A rush of adrenaline flows through him as Geralt hoists him up to his feet and presses a hand to his chest, guiding him backward. Jaskier is blind, trusting Geralt not to let him run into anything and he knows they're creating somewhat of a spectacle, but he loves it. Part of him wishes Elena would see him and regret the way things went between them, but right now with Geralt's cock pressing into his hip, Jaskier couldn't' be happier about the way things turned out.

Geralt directs him toward the door and Jaskier regrets not having paid for a room when they had the chance. He stumbles out the door and Geralt carries him down the stairs to keep him from tripping. After that, Jaskier finds himself pressed up against every vertical surface between the inn and wherever Geralt is taking him.

The sky is darkening but it's still light enough that anyone walking past could see them, but Geralt finds a small patch of trees right on the edge of town and apparently it's just what he's looking for.

Geralt sets his things down, but keeps Jaskier in his arms, sitting himself down in turn. As soon as Jaskier can touch the ground again, it becomes a race to get each other out of their clothes, grabbing and pulling until Geralt finally stops him, kisses him and tugs his shirt up over his head while he's distracted. Jaskier huffs at him, but he manages to get a hand fisted in his shirt and kisses back, temporarily distracted from his mission of undressing him.

Geralt moves under him, around him and Jaskier just hums and goes along with it, unbuttoning as many of Geralt's buttons as he can reach before shoving the shirt up over his head. He doesn't even mind when Geralt gets him out of his trousers and the Witcher is still mostly dressed. He doesn't mind because Geralt holds him close and kisses him like he doesn't think he'll get another chance. Jaskier continually proves that he will.

He kisses him hard, touches his face, rocks his hips against him even when the ties of Geralt's trousers are too rough against his swollen cock. He wants to prove to Geralt that this is more than just an attempt to distract him. And when Geralt pauses, just briefly to pull back and look at him, Jaskier thinks he knows.

Geralt reaches down, pushing Jaskier back and quickly unlacing the ties of his trousers. He shoves them down just low enough to expose his cock and hauls Jaskier back up over him, shifting under him so his cock rests against Jaskier's ass. He's quick and efficient, if not impatient and Jaskier shuts his eyes for a moment as Geralt's touch overwhelms him. He rolls his hips again, pushing back against Geralt's cock and grinding against him.

Geralt leans to one side, keeping a hand on Jaskier's hip to hold him steady as he turns. Jaskier leans back over him and Geralt kisses him as he rummages through his belongings. When he finds what he's looking for - a small half-empty bottle of oil - he pushes Jaskier back upright. His grip on Jaskier doesn't loosen, but he moves his arm up pushing his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. His free hand moves, popping the cork on the oil and Jaskier groans in anticipation, rutting shamelessly against Geralt's stomach.

When Geralt's slick fingers press against him, Jaskier drops his chin against his chest, breathing Geralt's name into his night. When he slips into him, Jaskier's eyes flutter shut and he braces himself on Geralt's chest, looking down at him. Geralt shifts under him, readjusting himself and when he presses his cock against him, he meets Jaskier's eyes.

Everything slows to a stop as Geralt sinks into him and for a second Jaskier thinks it's going to end. Geralt was caught up in the moment and sometimes sex is just sex, but then Geralt smiles at him, slides a hand into his hair and pulls him into a firm kiss. Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he winds his arms around Gealt's neck and presses himself back onto his cock as Geralt wraps him in his arms again, pulling him close.

Jaskier's used to the finer things in life; silk sheets, warm beds, but out here in the forest in Geralt's lap he's never felt so loved. He doesn't want to say anything to spoil the moment, but the words are there, bubbling up in his chest and no amount of convincing or persuasion is going to stop him from feeling them. He presses his face into Geralt's neck, breathing the words into his skin instead.

When Jaskier comes, he stifles his moans into Geralt's skin as he rolls his hips against Geralt's slick stomach. Geralt follows a moment later, catching Jaskier's lips in a rough kiss as he continues thrusting into him.

When he stills, Jaskier rolls off of him, exhausted and still reeling. His chest heaves as he remembers how to breathe properly and next to him, Geralt is also panting, eyes shut and lips just barely parted. Jaskier feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. That was incredible? Thanks for the fuck? Are we gonna do this again?

"I'm sorry," Geralt breathes and Jaskier turns to look at him. That didn't even make it to the list of possibilities.

"What?" he asks, wondering if he's actually been fucked stupid or if there's something he's missing.

"I was angry, I got wrapped up in it."

"What were you angry about?"

"Elena-" Oh "- that she could hurt you like that and just... go on with her life. She had you and she just... found someone new."

"Oh," he says out loud.

"Why? Do you-"

Jaskier feels the word regret, unspoken and lingering between them and he shakes his head, turning to face Geralt. "No. I'll admit it was unexpected, but don't be sorry. And don't be angry on my behalf."

"Why shouldn't I?" Geralt growls, leaning up over him. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to brush his fingers along Geralt's cheekbones.

"I don't need them. I don't care anymore." He pauses, pulling Geralt's face low enough to kiss him again. "Although, if you're going to get all protective like this every time, I might-"

"Don't even think about it." Jaskier grins, looping his arms around Geralt's neck and pressing his fingers into his hair.

"Okay."

They fall into a comfortable silence, just the sounds of their breath mingling in the evening air, then Geralt’s voice, just above a whisper. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not a child,” Jaskier huffs, amused. “I’ve has sex in the woods before, although I do generally prefer-”

“I mean about Elena.”

“I think that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to ask before you fuck me,” Jaskier quips.

“Hmm.”

“I’m fine. It’s been months, I’ve had time to think about things.”

“And?”

“And I think if things had worked out between us, I would have missed you too much to stay with her.”

“I thought you loved her more than anyone.”

“Well,” Jaskier smiles, turning to brush his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “maybe not more than everyone.”

#idk how to tag this #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #first time #first kiss #posting bc i had a shitty day #and i want to feel productive #i'll put it on ao3 when it has a title #rex writes

669 notes · View notes

belettewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Warnings: Destiny is a bitch and is prejudiced against witchers. And very temporary character death.

There are a lot of reasons why Destiny likes to play games with Geralt of Rivia. The first one is purely spite: the witcher denies her existence a lot, and, well, that would be enough to piss anyone off, wouldn’t it?

The second reason is that he’s a witcher. The fact that witchers exist is an abomination in itself. They're monsters created by men, they shouldn't be here; Melitele didn’t put them here, and though some tried to argue with Destiny that since Melitele had given humans the strength and cleverness to make Witchers and therefore they *had* a place there, she didn’t agree.

The other witchers, she can close her eyes (the ones from the cat school actually manage to entertain her), but this one? The one with the extra mutations who always manages to deny her existence, while he is the one that shouldn't be here? Oh boy.

So when a young bard makes his way toward the brooding witcher, she smiles. That one will be perfect. She’ll plague the witcher with him, make sure that they meet again and again and again. For such a silent man, a bard talking constantly will be unbearable.

Except the Witcher ends up liking the bard, and the bard has the nerve to repair the Witcher's reputation that she had oh so carefully tainted over the years (her proudest accomplishment being Blaviken).

So Destiny figures out that if she wants the Witcher to suffer, she has to use the bard in a different way: the djinn happens. Jaskier suffers, and Geralt too, and then the Witcher has the fucking audacity to tie his fate with someone else, thus taking Destiny's choice away. She's furious at first, and then she realizes that this wish actually makes the Witcher feel guilty. Bonus point: the bard suffers too, the poor jealous thing.

She's there as Geralt calls on the Law of Surprise. She's delighted to see this happen − and then the fucking Witcher denies her existence one again. Clearly, Destiny has had enough.

Soon Nilfgaard is marching toward Cintra, and she waits for Geralt to find his Child Surprise – no chance he'll deny her existence now. But she's busy; the dumb Witcher gets dumped by the beautiful sorceress, and in exchange he dumps his bard. Truly, a very entertaining afternoon.

She watches as the bard walks down the mountain. He'll have to stay alive, she thinks, so she'll still be able to torture the Witcher more. Sure, his death could be the cause of an extreme guilt and grief to the Witcher, but she has other plans for them.

And then the bard manages to get killed while she wasn't paying attention. Damn humans.

Destiny won't have it this way though; she's fucking Destiny herself, this bard will live. Except she can't bring humans back to life, because of a stupid rule someone edited thousands of years ago. So she can't bring humans back to life, but she can create gods. She's their mother, in a way. A cruel one, but their mother nonetheless. And because Destiny likes to play games, she considers making the bard the god of Witchers. But a god of Witchers would mean that Witchers fit in nature, and they do not (whatever her sisters, brothers, and siblings, say).

She smiles to herself. Witchers hunt monsters, don't they? The bard will be the god of monsters. She cannot wait for the Witcher to realize what his friend has become.

She watches with attention as the bard wakes up in the clearing he died in a month ago. It's a bit cliché, maybe, but Destiny likes the tableau it makes either way. Oh, the confusion on the bard's face is so sweet. She'll give him time to discover what he has become before she puts him in the Witcher's way. She wants him to be eaten by guilt as he reunites with his old friend, unable to tell him what he has become.

Why did she wait a whole month to bring the bard back to life? So that his Witcher would be able to find his body, of course, and think that his friend was dead. Destiny had discovered, that day, that the rumor saying that Witchers don't cry was false. Oh, he didn't burst into tears, but she saw the few ones that fell on the ground as he held the body of the bard in his arms. She had made sure to preserve it, so the witcher would have no other choice but to realize that he had indirectly killed his friend.

The witcher actually finds his Child Surprise after that – Destiny has conveniently placed her on his path. The child is a sweet girl, she thinks, already plagued by nightmares of Cintra falling. She'll spare her, Destiny decides. For now.

The bard learns of his new powers when he actually summons a griffin to his side. The man yelps, scared, and Destiny laughs as he calls for his witcher before remembering their fight. She made the right decision, to turn him into that. Then the bard pets the griffin and she frowns. He's unpredictable, it might cause some problems in the future.

The bard reunites with his witcher when she isn't paying attention. She was busy watching a cat witcher take a contract for a human, then steal the human's gold. Entertaining. She quite likes these cat witchers.

When she realizes that the Witcher and the bard are together again, she pays closer attention, smiles as the Witcher glares at his friend, his silver sword on the bard's throat, the Child Surprise hidden behind him.

Then she screams in frustration, because the bard says something to the witcher that makes him put his sword away, and hug him.

And then they're traveling again, and they both seem happy to be in each other's presence.

So Destiny sends them the ugliest, most dangerous monster she could find, knowing that the bard will have to reveal himself if he wants his friend to survive. And the bard does it, quite dramatically; it's like he knows he has an audience. She always appreciated that from the bard, how he would put up a show even if he was alone – because after all, Destiny was always watching, and he made an amazing actor.

To say that she's disappointed when the reveal doesn't go as planned would be an understatement. The witcher doesn't hurt the bard, doesn't send him away, doesn't snarl at him. No. None of that.

The witcher... smiles softly and says that he expected something like this, since Destiny always likes to fuck him over. And hey, he’s right, but Destiny wanted him to send his friend away, in a repeat of their fight on the mountain. Instead what the Witcher does is-

It's-

It's so unexpected that Destiny forgets to be mad as the Witcher cradles his bard’s face and kisses him softly.

Destiny realizes then what she has done, what has happened, why her plan didn't work. She made the bard immortal. Now he and the Witcher will be together forever, because, apparently, they love each other. And it makes sense now, it all makes sense because of course they'd choose to defy her again by falling in love.

Of course her plan wouldn't work then, because the witcher would choose his bard even if he was the god of the things he hunted.

What has she done, now they'll be able to live forever, to defy her forever-

No, actually, you know what? Good. Because that means that Destiny will be able to play with them a little longer.

#geraskier #The Witcher #Destiny #i hope this one will show in the tags #yes I'm unable to let Jaskier die #Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #mine

50 notes · View notes

relenafanel · 4 years ago

Text

Local, Mediocre Talent: A Meet-Ugly AU

Geralt/Jaskier

Find it on Ao3: Local, Mediocre Talent by relenafanel

For the Modern AU Challenge. Week 1: Meet-Ugly

Tag: witcherauseptember

_______________________________

“They’re setting up for the live band,” Geralt observed, finishing his pint of ale in one long swallow and gesturing to Eskel to hurry up. “Let’s go.”

“They’re supposed to be decent,” Eskel answered, his body language saying he was hunkering down and had no intention of going anywhere. He took a casual drink from his own glass, still half full as a pointed gesture.

Geralt snorted, not believing that for a second. Eskel was fucking with him. “I don’t need the assault on my senses. The—“ he gestured around the pub “—is bad enough. Add some local, mediocre talent covering the best of the 90s and it becomes unbearable.”

“EXCUSE ME!”

Geralt barely had time to react before some brightly dressed and way too loud (visually and auditory) guy got in his face. The guy was lucky that Geralt wasn’t the type of person to greet people getting into his personal space aggressively with his fists. He made a sound in warning anyway.

“Have you even heard us?” the stranger demanded, half-draped across the table so he could stare directly into Geralt’s face, his pointer finger an inch from Geralt’s nose.

Geralt knew he should be taking it as a threat, but it was a laughable one. He considered chomping his teeth just for the amusement of it. “No.”

“Then maybe you should leave so someone else can have your table! I don’t need to be universally liked, but this is just insulting! You’re just. Sitting there. Complaining about a band you’ve never even heard of, right in front of the lead singer by the way, like some kind of hot but rude jackass.”

“I’m trying to leave,” Geralt answered, shooting Eskel a significant look. Eskel, the ass, just looked like he was seconds away from bursting into laughter.

“Try harder,” the guy suggested, straightening and digging into the shoulder bag he was carrying. He drew out a CD in a cardboard sleeve and a gold sharpie, scribbling something on the cardboard and flicking it in front of Geralt. “Gratuit for you, darling. Maybe you’ll learn some taste.”

The man could do scathing sarcasm. Geralt would give him that.

Geralt stood, picking up the CD automatically, maybe out of some long-remembered politeness of taking something handed to him. It was also the reason he kept finding fliers in the front seat of his car. “If this is your idea of taste,” he said to the guy, gesturing to his vibrant sequin shirt, “then I’m better off without any.”

He walked out, enjoying the affronted gasp behind him way more than he should.

***

Of course, the joke was on him two weeks later when halfway through his drive through the Mahakam mountains, his truck radio gave out. Geralt, typically not the biggest fan of music, had been using it to mask the death rattle coming from Roach’s undercarriage.

He didn’t have the money to fix her until he finished this contract, and as someone who took care of his belongings it was an aggravating reminder of his failures.

With a sigh, he half-remembered where he’d thrown the CD from the night with the annoying musician, and one-handedly dug it out from the garbage. He shoved it into the CD player with little fanfare.

***

By his trip back, Geralt had listened to the CD a total of three times and had to admit it was okay.

***

(Which, from Geralt, regarding music, was pretty much the equivalent of praise.)

***

Geralt turned the key to start the ignition, tensed as always that this might be the time Roach didn’t start. Once again, she came through for him and the music came on automatically.

“What’s this?” Eskel asked pointedly, his tone and expression telling Geralt that he knew exactly what it was.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I will,” Eskel retorted, but then didn’t follow it up with any ribbing, which was frankly more disturbing than if he had. It told Geralt he was planning.

Fuck.

***

Geralt had listened to the CD countless times over the course of the month it took to save up enough to fix Roach. Without the rattling, he no longer needed the music to distract his ears, and he popped the CD out of his dashboard like a man freed.

It was the first time he actually looked at the cardboard sleeve. It was just a stylized silhouette of a musician with the band’s name, website, and social media.

To my #1 fan

Jaskier

Fuck, he could hear the tone it was meant in. That scathing sarcasm that landed like paint thinner. Despite the tone, or maybe because of, he could feel the burst of pleasure in his chest.

He was halfway through scrolling through the band’s Instagram before realizing what he was doing, seeking out pictures of Jaskier. He realized, suddenly, that he’d been listening to the man’s voice for over a month.

Geralt closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He closed the app.

***

(He may have accidentally followed the band’s page.

Then he may have accidentally found Jaskier’s page and followed that too. The man had 3,000 followers, he wouldn’t notice another one.

He may have also accidentally liked a picture, but no more than two.

Fuck, three.

But Geralt was old and social media confused him. Wasn’t his fault.)

***

“This is a lovely jacket,” Jaskier said, somewhere behind Geralt. “I love a man who feels confident wearing leather.”

A pause.

“Oh, you’ve mistaken me, I’m flirting with your jacket. Leather looks a bit like I’m playing dress-up in daddy’s clothes when I wear it. I get leather-envy.”

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment, trying to work through too many things going through his brain. First and foremost was the realization of how easily he’d known that voice, despite only hearing Jaskier speak that once (and also every time he’d introduced the bonus “work in progress” track on the CD). Second was what Jaskier was saying.

Geralt had a leather jacket. Geralt also wanted to hit his head against the table for thinking that in the context of listening to Jaskier flirt.

Third, he realized that this had been what Eskel had been planning: secretly orchestrating Geralt meeting Jaskier again.

Fuck. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t even wearing his nice shirt.

He wasn’t even wearing his nice shirt?! The idea he cared if he was wearing his nice shirt or not was the last, and worst, of all the realizations.

Jaskier walked by their table and then paused, backtracked, and looked at Geralt. “I know you.”

Geralt nodded, not far enough into his crisis to actually talk with Jaskier.

“Oh” Jaskier said, and his shoulders slumped. “Right. The gorgeous man who hates local music. I wasted a CD on you.”

“Not wasted,” Eskel said, while Geralt was trying to formulate a way to say ‘I think I was wrong, and maybe am into you’ in a normal way. Jaskier thought he was gorgeous and Geralt had a crush and a lasting bad impression. “He listened to it. Didn’t you, Geralt?”

“Did you?”

“It was good,” Geralt tried. He didn’t miss that Eskel had managed to drop his name, casually, which made him forgive almost the entire plot of dragging him here in the first place.

Jaskier’s face lit up, which was -- fuck. “Did you?” he preened, leaning close to Geralt just like he had the first time. “Was it?”

“I… liked it.”

“Praise!” Jaskier crowed, slipping into the booth next to Geralt so his knee was pressed firmly against Geralt’s thigh. “My bread and butter. Do it again.”

His hand landed on Geralt’s knee in a way that was less to steady himself and more as a flirtation. It was something Geralt should and would discourage, right after he finished leaning into it.

“I listened to it in my truck. Every day for a month.”

And that. Wasn’t great, was it? If the way Eskel took a drink from his pint to hide his amusement was any indication, it wasn’t great.

Jaskier blinked. Then his expression shifted from teasing to thoughtful. “Do you normally listen to music in your truck?”

“The radio, sometimes.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. “Then that is praise. Thank you.”

Geralt nodded, dropping his hand so the tip of his finger brushed against Jaskier’s. He’d always been better with physical flirting, anyway. When he tried flirting, his banter tended to have barbs.

Jaskier looked down at his hand. “Huh.”

***

“Hi I’m Jaskier. We’re going to try something new tonight: being a 90s cover band! First up, a cover of the 90s hit Baby’s Got Back, because there’s a man in the audience whose attention I’m trying to get, and I never know what’s too far. And Baby, he’s got Back. Second, we’ll go for the Spice Girls Wannabe My Lover, because I totally Googled 90s music before getting up here and both of them were in the first results and I’m trying to make a point. What? It’s called Wannabe? Fine. Corrected.”

“Sorry,” Eskel said beside Geralt, looking pained at the spectacle Jaskier was making.

That was the thing. Geralt should hate the attention, but.

But.

Eskel looked over at him and his frown grew deeper. “Are you smiling?”

“No,” he lied, because even if his mouth wasn’t stretched into a grin, Eskel knew him well enough and for long enough to recognize that Geralt didn’t hate what was happening. He wasn’t not smiling.

On stage, Jaskier reached over to grab a phone offered to him by the bass player. “Oh! Oh! Essi just reminded me of Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover, like the good bro she is. Yes. That. A better suggestion than Spice Girls. I mean, I don’t really care if you want to get with my friends. Essi isn’t even into men.”

The drummer smashed the cymbals, making Jaskier jump.

“That’s my cue that I’ve taken the gag too far. We’re not actually doing 90s night, but thanks for not immediately booing us off stage! And Geralt, maybe if you could slide into my DMs on Insta?”

“Joke’s on him for thinking you have Instagram,” Eskel observed. He was already done his drink and looked like he was ready to leave after sitting as the third party to some truly awkward flirting.

Geralt didn’t say anything.

“You have Instagram?” Eskel realized. “Let me guess, next you’re going to tell me you know what sliding into someone’s DMs means.”

Geralt shrugged.

Eskel squinted at him. “You didn’t get a smartphone until 2015. You think Tinder is for pyromaniacs.”

Geralt shrugged again.

“Wooooo,” Jaskier said on stage, holding up both his phone and the chorus of the song he was singing. “We have contact! Geralt says: Hi. Thank you everyone in this room for putting up with my nonsense! You have great energy. Hold on, I’m just going to...” he said, typing into his phone. “Tell me what to say!”

The audience seemed to be used to Jaskier engaging with them, because a few yelled out suggestions, including one outright filthy potential sext that Jaskier gave a ‘are you really?’ glance to. “Oh! I know.”

Jaskier: You really do have a great butt. I noticed when you left.

Geralt: You sure you’re not flirting with my leather jacket?

Geralt watched as Jaskier read the message and then floundered a little in surprise.

Geralt: I’ll wear it if you want.

Geralt: Maybe tomorrow night?

“YES!” Jaskier replied out loud. “Yes! I have a date for tomorrow night. Now, we should maybe re-start this song?”

“Stop looking so smug,” Eskel grumbled, stealing Geralt’s beer and downing it.

#witcherauseptember #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #meet-ugly

133 notes · View notes

alittlebitmaybe · 3 years ago

Note

Sun!

ok bc i can't control myself and found some really old bits of wips, here's several snippets lol

faith fic:

When Faith jerks awake with the screeching of the bus’s brakes, the sun is gone and she’s in that ritzy apartment Wilkins said was hers with its neon light coming in through the big window, sweltering hot under blankets thicker than any she’s ever owned. Her leg twitches—can’t breathe under all this—has to fight back— But that can’t be right, because she ditched after two nights locked up there above the city like a nasty secret while whispers ate up the back of her brain and Faith put her fist through drywall on her way out for good measure.

In any case, the neon is actually just Vegas appearing out of the desert, a sucked-dry landscape with the Strip in the center like a cake topper, the giant spotlight out of the point of that pyramid hotel lighting up the sky. Some kinda bat signal.

They should get a slayer signal for Sunnydale, she thinks vaguely, blinking the sleep and mascara boogers out of her eyes. Big fucking fangs in the air over Restfield, or something. Vamps afoot. ‘Cept it’d just be on all the time.

geraskier kindergarten au sequel:

“Papa,” says Ciri. She idly draws a bright orange sun onto the corner of her paper. “Do you love Mr. Pankratz?”

Geralt’s crayon breaks in half.

Ciri hands him a new one and says, “That’s okay. You just need to not press so hard.”

witcher zombie au (this section yenralt):

“Geralt,” she demands with hooded eyes, “look at me.”

He’s looking. He sees her and her edges and her dents and her shadows. He sees her holding a coffee cup in a diner at three in the morning. He sees her in the center of a king size bed, burritoed in the blankets. He sees her meeting him on the steps of city hall limned in blinding sunlight. And he sees her now, damp and panting, thumbing along his throat.

In his arms, she has always felt like a foregone conclusion.

also zombie au (this section geraskier):

“Maybe so,” Geralt says, and when Jaskier shutters he goes on, “but there’s not a single person anymore who is without guilt.”

For a moment, he traces the profile of Jaskier’s face, fresh-shaved jaw to dipped chin to blue eyes and the sunburned bridge of his nose. Some of its composition starts to make more sense; where boyish youth once bumped against shadowed maturity, Geralt can now see how they’re stitched together, one and the same. He wanders over the flat planes of Jaskier’s cheeks and across his eyebrows, seeing clearly for the first time, and Jaskier, in periphery, watches him do it.

“Least of all me. I’m not here to judge,” he finishes.

bonus cheating dad arthur fic (son):

The babe fits within Arthur’s two hands as Gwen passes him over—too delicate for a swordsman’s grip, so he keeps his fingers straight. She arranges him into the bend of Arthur’s elbow and sits back, satisfied and glowing. “There you are. My handsome boys.”

Arthur smiles crookedly at her, then down at Elric. His son snuffles and grunts drowsily, blinking at Arthur as if just noticing that his mother has gone. Perhaps Gwen is right; there could be something of Arthur in the shape of Elric’s face, the line of his nose, his chin and brows. Something that will always prove that Arthur was present in this place and in this time.

send me words and i'll find snippets of wips when i have time<3

#THERE YOU GO THERE'S MANY OLD WORDS I WROTE #i even like some of them damn #ask #geraskier #yenralt #faith lehane #my fic #arthur pendragon

6 notes · View notes

when-a-humble-bard · 5 years ago

Text

in ways that can’t be said

Summary: Geralt lives in a very dark and violent world. Good things are few and far between. He doesn't know what it means, really, to be in love.So when he falls in love with Jaskier, it happens slowly. Gradually. Reluctantly.Or, 10 moments where Geralt falls a little more in love with the bard no matter how much it scares him. Geraskier.

Companion piece to this fic but can be read separately.

Word Count: 6961

Warnings: canon-typical peril and violence, blood, injury, death mention (but no actual death), light Geralt whump, feral!Jaskier, headaches, fear of sensory overload, cursing, interpretation of canon scene with shipping lens, Yennefer makes a brief appearance, Ciri is part of this at one point, emotionally constipated Geralt, and then emotionally-overwhelmed Geralt, lots of softness and hurt/comfort elements, let me know if other warnings should be added.

A/N: These two have so much story to explore together, and I’m apparently just along for the ride. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Read on AO3!

...

Geralt is on his second ale when the bard starts his set. The Witcher stays tucked away in the corner of the tavern where he usually prefers to sit, as it provides a decent vantage point of the room. That it also encouraged other people to leave him alone was, really, just an added bonus. Tonight seemed to be no exception that rule. Jaskier had sat across from him and jabbered on as he always did—his energy especially heightened given that it was right before a performance—but he had been the only one to engage the Witcher in conversation thus far.

The bard usually burned off his excess energy during his set. Geralt finds himself hoping the bard doesn’t expend too much of that energy, as they needed to head out early in the morning. Tired Jaskier was an even chattier Jaskier, and Geralt wasn’t sure he had the patience for it.

Jaskier is standing on the small stage across the tavern. Through the haze of idle chatter and drinks being poured at the bar, Geralt listens to Jaskier finish tuning the lute. The final string the bard plucks sounds slightly higher pitched than usual to the Witcher. He sees the tip of Jaskier’s tongue poke out between his lips in concentration, adjusting something on the instrument. He plucks it again. It sounds right to Geralt now, and the bard seems to agree if his satisfied nod is anything to go by.

He starts off with a popular tune—the one about the daughter of a fish merchant—and Geralt turns his attention to the venison and potatoes the barmaid sets in front of him before she quickly ducks away. Geralt stops paying close attention to Jaskier’s performance as his mind drifts to the rumors he’d caught wind of regarding a wraith. The trick would be finding someone who could confirm or deny the rumors; and if confirm, then someone who would pay him a fair price to deal with it.

He could also go kill it himself and hope to be able to sell it for parts, perhaps. That was riskier business, though. Still, Geralt considers the merits of it as Jaskier performs.

“Bard!” A sharp voice yanks Geralt from his thoughts. An older man, with thinning blonde hair and a stocky build, has leapt to his feet and immediately claimed the attention of the room. “If you keep singin’ the praises of the fuckin’ Butcher of Blaviken, I’ll break that fuckin’ lute o’er your fuckin’ head.”

Geralt’s jaw works. He’d always hated that name. He hates how it follows him like a shadow, the way it makes his arms feel heavy with Renfri’s unconscious weight every time he hears it. Still, it’s not a fight worth starting when he needs work and the man’s worst offense is using a name that travels with Geralt like a curse he can��t get rid of. He flexes his grip around the tankard in his hands instead.

“Sir,” Jaskier says, an odd and barely constrained edge to his voice, “the White Wolf is widely regarded as a hero across the Continent.”

“The Butcher ain’t no hero,” the man spits. “Just a monster gettin’ off on the sufferin’ of others.”

It’s an unoriginal insult, Geralt thinks. The Witcher’s lips press into a thin line before he swallows down more of the ale in front of him. If Jaskier is smart, he’ll let it go. He’ll stick to the songs in his repertoire that aren’t about Geralt, and he should still be able to charm the audience enough to earn a bit of coin for his trouble.

But Jaskier is—evidently—not a smart man.

“Bold words coming from someone who is too much a coward to face down the wraith plaguing his own town. The only thing you have less of than honor, sir, is shame. You slander the name of the very person ready to risk his life so that your crops don’t wither.” The bard’s eyes are aflame with indignation so strong it brings Geralt up short. “You call Geralt of Rivia a monster, but he is twice the man you will ever be.”

It’s such an impassioned, sincere defense… and all Geralt can do in the silence that seems to echo in the tavern after it is stare at the bard as something knots in his chest.

One of the man’s friends tugs on his arm and he sits again. Jaskier’s gaze doesn’t waver as he starts the next song.

“When a humble bard…”

II.

Jaskier drops a bucket of water onto his head, and Geralt hums at the welcomed shock, scrubbing the metallic, rancid scent of selkiemore off his face. The water smells faintly of rose, which the Witcher knows to be Jaskier’s doing. It’s… pleasant, if unnecessary.

“Now now,” Jaskier chides, “stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night of bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

Geralt glances over at the bard. “I’m not your friend.” He wasn’t sure what Jaskier was to him, but friend seemed like the wrong term. It didn’t fit right in his mouth as a way to describe the bard.

“Oh, oh really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Geralt levels a glare at Jaskier, but the bard seems unphased. “Yeah, well, yeah exactly. That’s what I thought.”

It’s all Geralt can do to not roll his eyes, watching Jaskier cross back to the salts and oils in front of him as he rambles. “Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The Lioness of Cintra herself of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!”

It’s a deflection at best, even as Jaskier throws some added salt to Geralt’s bath, and the Witcher just stares at the bard framed in the candlelight around them. He has the feeling Jaskier may be hiding something. Or rather, trying to redirect attention from something else.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” Geralt asks flatly.

Jaskier’s façade deflates just a bit. “Hard to say,” he replies, and Geralt is reminded once again of how openly honest Jaskier tended to be. “One stops keeping count after a while. Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.”

Geralt could do without the list, really. It sends a twist of unexpected annoyance through his chest. Jaskier notices—but then again, he’d always had this habit of paying more attention to Geralt’s expressions than most humans did. The Witcher isn’t sure why.

The bard sits on the edge of the tub, framing Geralt’s form with his outstretched hands. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Scary face. No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.”

Geralt reaches for his ale—he’s really not drunk enough to deal with this—when Jaskier snatches the cup out of his grip.

“Ooh, on second thought…” Jaskier continues, because he never seems to stop talking really, “might want to lay off the Cintran ale. A clear head would be best.” He pats Geralt’s shoulder as he stands.

It an unusually casual touch and Geralt’s skin tingles with it even after Jaskier steps away. Still, Geralt tries not to dwell on it. “I will not suffer tonight sober,” he growls, “just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” comes Jaskier’s voice from behind him. “You never get involved. Except you actually do, all the time.” Geralt snaps his gaze over to him, but he can’t find it in himself to argue with the bard on that point. Perhaps Jaskier had a point. At least on that front.

Jaskier crosses back in front of him. “Ugh,” he continues. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous?”

Geralt sighs, pulling his arms off the edge of the tub in the hopes that it will ease the way his shoulder is still tingling slightly from where Jaskier had rested his hand on it a moment ago.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know. Do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah,” Geralt snaps. “When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on,” Jaskier says, his voice softening just a little. “You must want something for yourself when all this monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt replies immediately. Instinctively, more than a legitimate answer. He hadn’t wanted anything for a very, very long time. And anything he may have wanted at one point certainly had proved itself impossible for a Witcher like himself to achieve, so what even would be the point to desire it in the first place?

There’s a waver to something in Jaskier’s eyes that puzzles the Witcher, but it’s gone before Geralt can put a name to it. “Well, who knows?” the bard says, crossing to the tub to crouch in front of Geralt. Jaskier is abruptly close like this, facing Geralt head-on while the Witcher sits in the wash basin. Geralt averts his eyes. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

The idea that someone might want him one day like that—like how Jaskier is suggesting—sends a thrill of something almost like fear through the Wticher’s stomach.

“I need no one,” he replies immediately. Then he looks back at Jaskier. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet,” Jaskier says softly, meeting Geralt’s gaze unwaveringly. “Here we are.”

And that—well. The almost-fear feeling in Geralt’s stomach turns to something a little less sharp. A little warmer. No less terrifying, and yet somehow… nice.

Geralt tears his gaze away, desperate for a distraction from that feeling. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

III.

Geralt has lost track of just how many performances of Jaskier’s he has sat through over their years of travels together. He knows the bard’s musical repertoire nearly as well as he knows monster classifications. So really, the Witcher does not have an explanation, even to himself, of why this time is different.

But the bard is making his rounds, strumming his lute with a practiced ease, singing an exaggerated song about Geralt fending off a bruxa with one hand tied behind his back… and Geralt can’t take his eyes off him.

The Witcher had never enjoyed being the center of attention. A part of him had gotten used to it a long time ago—in his line of work, looking like he does, one has a nasty habit of drawing unwanted gazes—but he’d never sought it out. Then there was Jaskier, who thrived in environments just like this one, where he could command the center of attention. He thrived in backwater village taverns full of people desperate for mediocre ale and a good story.

And Geralt has to give credit where credit is due—Jaskier can spin a good tale. The bard reveled in it, even. Geralt hadn’t asked him, but he could tell from the man’s unrelenting enthusiasm that as much as Jaskier was a performer, not all of it was an act. There was an earnestness to him every time he sang. A genuine belief that what he was doing mattered.

Geralt takes another bite of the stew in front of him, his gaze not wavering as Jaskier finishes the song to enthusiastic applause. He grins, thanks the crowd graciously, and launches immediately into the next song. And still, Geralt watches.

The bard had discarded his blue doublet several songs ago, tossing it into the seat across from Geralt as he passed. Jaskier’s off white shirt is tucked into the blue pants that are several shades darker than his eyes, and those eyes are really what Geralt keeps finding his own gaze drawn to. Eyes that are vibrant with energy and life when they briefly meet Geralt’s across the room.

There’s a very unexpected, soft squeeze in Geralt’s chest.

The bard had always radiated light and joy on a level that Geralt privately thought outshone most other humans. Jaskier is a beacon—evidenced by the near-blinding grin that the bard throws to him before turning away—and Geralt feels the odd urge to shy away from it. As if that light might expose all the parts of him that he’d spent years hiding away.

But Jaskier is nothing if not relentlessly and stupidly persistent. And he seems—had always seemed—entirely unaware of how rare his own vibrancy truly is. It is an integral part of him that chooses again and again and again to share with others. And no matter how much they take from him, Jaskier seems to always have more he is willing to give.

It seems like a kind of selflessness to Geralt, and the tightness in his chest gives a sharp, aching clench.

IV.

Geralt and Jaskier end up at the same party completely by accident, really. The Witcher didn’t even know that the bard was in town; the last he’d heard of Jaskier’s recent exploits had him giving a guest lecture at Oxenfurt. Geralt had been passing through Temeria when he was approached and none-too-kindly asked to attend the king’s banquet. Geralt had almost turned the offer down—he didn’t like being seen as some novelty to be ogled at—but the promise of good food and decent drink didn’t sound horrendous, and besides. The king had demanded it, and Geralt really didn’t want to deal with the bloodshed that could’ve resulted from his refusal.

So he begrudgingly attended, and did his best to stick to the outskirts of the collection of boisterous ladies and lords that had amassed in the banquet hall. He’d seen Jaskier the moment the bard stepped into the room—sporting a golden doublet and a beaming grin—and Jaskier had seen him almost as quickly. There’d been a flicker of surprise, but then Jaskier was being asked to play a song to start things off, and he’d busied himself with performing.

The food is good, Geralt will grant that much, and the wine is some of the best that he’d consumed in a long time. He’s ribbed for a story or two by curious nobles, and Geralt tells them enough to pass for stiff politeness and little else. Jaskier had always been the one to fill in the details. Besides, Geralt finds that he doesn’t like telling them to the men who appear to only listen until they feel insecure in their own manhood.

Jaskier wasn’t like that, Geralt finds himself thinking. Jaskier listened for other reasons. Always attentive. Always… enthralled. Even when he was “stingy with the details”, as the bard often accused.

The party has stretched for hours when Jaskier finally takes a break and Geralt sees him starting to weave through the drunken crowd towards him. Geralt takes a long swallow of wine and arcs an eyebrow at the bard as he approaches. Jaskier smells of honeysuckle and sweat, his doublet open to reveal the light blue shirt underneath.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright, but there’s a slight crease between his brows. “How are you managing, Geralt?” he asks, with far more sincerity than Geralt is prepared for.

Geralt arcs a brow at him.

Jaskier just tilts his head, then gestures vaguely to the drunken dancing the attendees are doing. “It seemed a question worth asking, given tonight. It’s rather loud, even for me, and Temeria always overseasons their food in my opinion, not to mention the smells involved what with sweat and ale and food. I can’t imagine the assault it is on your… Witchery senses.”

Geralt stops, blinking at him. Jaskier was worried that he—a Witcher—was… overwhelmed? Geralt wonders if he should be insulted, but he isn’t. There’s an odd feeling in his gut, something warm that isn’t alcohol, that stirs at Jaskier’s explanation. Geralt doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at him.

Jaskier holds his hands up as if in surrender. “Forgive me for checking in on a friend.” He drops his hands, the tilt to his head returning and his gaze… softening somehow. “You’ll tell me, though, won’t you, Geralt? If it gets to be too much?”

Suddenly, that soft, concerned look in the bard’s eyes is too much. Geralt looks away and distracts himself by taking a swallow of wine. “Hm,” he agrees.

Geralt hears Jaskier scream something that sounds almost like his name before he even feels the bite. The sharp jaws clench around his thigh and Geralt grits his teeth, swinging blindly with the silver sword. It makes contact with the basilisk enough to make it shriek and pull back. But it already released venom, and Geralt feels it pulse with a blinding pain.

His vision swims. His knees buckle, slamming into the stone floor of the cavern.

“Fuck.” The world tilts sideways as the rest of him falls.

A voice, high and panicked and oddly familiar, is yelling something distantly. Far away. Too far away to help him, really.

He has to get up. He has to. Geralt grinds his teeth and pushes against the ground with as much strength as he can manage. He gets his chest off the ground but his legs won’t cooperate and then suddenly someone is leaping over him and snatching the silver sword beside him.

“You want him? You’re gonna have to go through me, fucker.”

Jaskier?

Geralt watches in a haze as the bard lunges at the basilisk with the silver sword in his hands.

“Jaskier!” he shouts, because the bard is stupid and reckless and he is going to get killed.

But the bard doesn’t respond, and Geralt watches as the blade flashes in the dark cavern. The Witcher struggles to push himself up but now his arms won’t even support him and he’s going to die, but first the world is going to make him watch Jaskier die and that thought fills Geralt with a cold, desperate dread.

“Jaskier!”

There’s a sick squelching sound and when Geralt looks, he sees the bard is up against the creature with the hilt of his sword buried into the basilisk’s chest. It screeches and thrashes, and Geralt’s breath chokes in his throat. But Jaskier is nothing if not nimble, and he rolls to avoid the wings that whip around towards him. The screeching gets louder for a moment. The creature stumbles. Collapses.

There’s a sudden, echoing silence that is filled only with the sound of Jaskier’s labored breathing and, at least for Geralt, his pounding heartbeat.

“Jask—” Geralt rasps, wanting to ask if he’s injured but his voice cutting out with the sharp burst of pain as the venom seizes.

He’s going to die.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier is suddenly right above him. When did that happen?

Geralt feels Jaskier brush a hand back through his hair and cup his head. Something is getting pushed against his lips.

“Drink it, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, so softly that Geralt wonders—perhaps deliriously—if the bard is even aware that he’s just called Geralt darling, of all things.

When he looks back on this moment, Geralt will say that the venom coursing through his system made his thoughts hazy and his will pliable. That his weakened state is why the warmth in his chest happens even before the potion Jaskier is forcing to his lips reaches his mouth. It has nothing to do with that term Jaskier used.

Nothing at all.

VI.

It’s the soft gasp that really gets Geralt’s attention, causing him to halt Roach and glance at the bard beside him. They have maybe about two hours before sundown and had spent most of the day traveling along this road headed towards Kaedwen. Jaskier had filled most of the long hours with aimless chatter and half-composed songs. Geralt half-listened, grateful for the familiarity of the lilt in the bard’s voice even if he wasn’t constantly tuned in to the precise words the bard happened to be rambling on about. He’d missed the way Jaskier filled the silence since their parting after the dragon hunt.

Then Jaskier’s musings had broken off with a sudden, sharp inhale.

“Oh, Geralt, look!” Jaskier breathes with surprising reverence. Geralt doesn’t have time to ask the bard what caught his attention before he’s rushing off into the field of wildflowers just ahead of them, nearly 70 yards away.

The Witcher goes to call out to him, but something makes the bard’s name die in his throat. He watches as Jaskier spreads his arms out as he rushes into the expanse of yellow and violet and blue. The sun sits low in the sky and frames him in a soft halo of light as he rushes delightedly through the flowers. Geralt’s chest warms slightly.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him then, like he can sense it, and offers Geralt a dazzlingly bright smile. He kneels then, in the middle of the field as if he’s about to meditate, and his fingers brushing softly against the petals of the flowers around him before he flops onto his back. Sinks into the flowers around him.

Geralt had never really known what it meant to love. He’d read once that most people learn of love from their parents when they’re children, but his own mother had abandoned him to become a Witcher—a process so few boys survived that, really, she might as well have abandoned him to die. Geralt refuses to believe that was what love was supposed to look like. Or how it was supposed to feel.

Earlier in his life, Geralt used to ask. He’d see couples who claimed to be in love, and he’d wonder what that meant. What did it feel like, because Geralt didn’t know. The answers others provided to him were either full of derision—what does it matter, Witcher? You’re not capable of it anyway—or too vague to be of any help—it’s just something you feel, I think.

Then he met Jaskier, who seemed to be brimming with love all the time it was a wonder the bard didn’t burst. He sang songs that talked of love in romantic, elaborate metaphors that Geralt understood at surface level, but that gave him a bit of a headache when he thought too long about them. Jaskier seemed to understand this concept of love so readily and intrinsically that it was, in truth, a little intimidating.

But when Jaskier sits up as Geralt approaches him—flower petals and grass clinging to his hair, his blue eyes sparkling in the near-setting sun, a warm and content smile gracing his lips—the thought whispers unassuming in Geralt’s mind.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what love feels like.

VII.

“You, Princess, are beginning to take after Geralt with the amount of brooding you’ve been doing today,” Jaskier chimes lightly, but Geralt looks up and sees the crease of concern between his brows. “And that will simply not do, because I can’t very well be surrounded by brooding, angst-ridden individuals, now can I?”

Geralt glances over at Yennefer, who merely arcs an unimpressed eyebrow at the bard. The cottage Yennefer had recently taken up residence in was small and unassuming on the outside. It seemed larger on the inside, more spacious, and Geralt knew it to be the work of an enchantment set on by the sorceress. Ever since Sodden, Yennefer had needed to be careful in her own right about avoiding and evading the ever-growing presence of Nilfgaard. She moved every few months, but had taken Ciri under her wing the past few weeks to teach her control her “chaos”, as she’d called it. Geralt called it magic.

They’d been dropping by to check in before moving on, and Jaskier’s comment wasn’t off the mark. Geralt had noticed it as well.

There were days when Ciri’s quietness rivaled the Witcher’s own. Where the Lion Cub of Cintra seemed saddled with a weight too heavy for a girl of her age. On those days, Geralt thinks he understands more than most would—the dullness in her icy blue eyes is brought on by the fog of grief of losing everyone she loved in a night and watching her city burn as she fled. It reminds the Witcher of how he’d felt following sacking of Kaer Morhen.

But just because Geralt understands doesn’t mean he’s known what to do on those days. He hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to help her, because nobody had been there to help him.

Ciri glances up at Jaskier from where she sits beside Geralt. “I just… miss home, Jaskier. That’s all.”

Jaskier’s lips press together in thought, his head tilting slightly. Geralt watches as something brightens in his eyes before he says, “Well, I have just the thing for that.” He glances over. “Yennefer?”

The sorceress looks as surprised as Geralt feels, but Jaskier just quirks a brow at her and Yen smiles faintly before inclining her head. Geralt doesn’t have a clue what silent request the bard has made, but he starts strumming a familiar song on the lute in his hands for several seconds—it’s upbeat, and though Geralt can’t place the title of it, he knows he recognizes it as one of Jaskier’s jigs. A few seconds go by, and then Jaskier’s fingers stop plucking at the strings but the music continues to fill the space.

Jaskier grins, and when Geralt glances at Yennefer, he sees that she’s got a faint smile as well.

The bard sets the lute aside and jumps gracefully to his feet. He extends a hand out to Ciri, his smile soft and sincere. “Will you dance with me, princess?”

Ciri hesitates for only a moment before she takes Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s grin brightens, and the two of them fall into a dance that Geralt recognizes as one usually done at court amidst nobility. It doesn’t surprise Geralt that Jaskier knows the dances of court—he has to play them often enough so it makes sense to Geralt that he would also know the steps—but a part of him is surprised when he hears Ciri laughing.

As she and Jaskier spin in circles and the bard adds an extra flourish to one of his steps, Ciri smiles and laughs and something in Geralt’s chest gives a sharp squeeze. Jaskier grins back at her, looking as relieved and content at the spark of mirth in her eyes as Geralt feels, and the Witcher feels a very slight, and unexpected lump in his throat.

VIII.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Will you let me try something?”

The question is asked surprisingly quietly in the dark forest around them, barely louder than the crackling fire between them. Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier would be speaking so quietly, but a part of him counts it as a small mercy. Because the pressure behind his eyes that had started this morning had steadily grown to a dull throb up through the top of Geralt’s skull by mid-morning. By late afternoon, the headache wasn’t quite so dull anymore.

Geralt hadn’t seen a need to say anything about it, though. He just rode on Roach and tried to not squint too much against the blinding sunlight that made his head spike. Jaskier had seemed to lose steam in conversation as Geralt was even more unwilling to engage with him than normal. He hoped the bard wasn’t too offended, as by the early evening, it was really all Geralt could do to stay upright on Roach and keep moving forward.

“A new song?” Geralt muses, and carefully manages to keep the internal wince off his face.

Jaskier huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “No. Just… here.” He turns to the bag beside him and rummages through it. Geralt watches in the dim light of the fire as the bard pulls out a small cloth and a vial. He dampens the cloth with part of the contents, then pushes himself to his feet and crosses over. He kneels beside him.

There’s something soft in his eyes, Geralt thinks. Or maybe it’s just the way his face is shadowed that makes his eyes look bigger than normal. “Close your eyes, Geralt.”

And Geralt does. He tries to tell himself it’s because even the firelight is too much with this pounding in his head, but he knows it’s not just that. It’s such a simple, easy request and it’s Jaskier that makes it. So Geralt lets his eyes fall shut.

He feels Jaskier drape the cloth over his face. “Breathe in for me.”

He does. It’s lavender oil, he realizes. The scent is faint, diluted—careful to not be too overpowering, even given his enhanced sense of smell—but it blocks out most other scents around him. Geralt feels part of his jaw untense just a fraction.

“That’s it. Keep breathing.”

He feels Jaskier’s hands brush against his temples, then a slight nudge and some shifting and suddenly, Geralt is being guided to rest his head against something softer than the log it had been on a moment ago. Jaskier’s lap. Through the lavender, this close, Geralt can smell the faint honeysuckle traces that seemed to cling to the bard.

“Let me help,” Jaskier whispers in the dark, and then his fingers are moving deftly against Geralt’s temple, gradually up through his scalp, encouraging Geralt to breathe.

Through the ease of his muscles and the lightening of the tension in his head, Geralt becomes aware that somehow, Jaskier had known exactly what was wrong. Geralt is sure he hadn’t said anything about it, and a headache is hardly a life-or-death situation. But Jaskier knew and, more than that…

Let me help.

The Witcher feels a little dizzy all of a sudden and so abruptly vulnerable that it scares him a little bit. It sends a jolt of something sharp and electric up through his core but Geralt swallows down the urge to pull away because… it’s nice. This softness, this gentleness that Geralt does not and has never deserved is offered so willingly, and Geralt cannot bring himself to pull away.

Instead, he breathes and listened to Jaskier’s fluttering heartbeat.

IX.

Geralt feels the drops hit the top of his head seconds before the rain begins a steady sprinkle. Geralt isn’t shocked, exactly. The sky had been a flat overcast since this morning, and he could smell the promise of rain clinging in the air as he and Jaskier had gathered herbs about a mile outside of the village they were staying for the time being.

But then the sprinkle turns to a downpour. “Fuck,” Geralt sighs under his breath.

He glances over at the bard beside him, who a moment ago had been rambling about his recent lecture at Oxenfurt regarding the role of narrative music in shaping cultural perspective. Geralt had a feeling that the bard had, in fact, just delivered the exact speech to the Witcher, but he hadn’t minded. Not when Jaskier’s voice carried that familiar, melodic lilt that underscored his excitement and passion on the subject.

There’s a teasing mirth in Jaskier’s bright blue eyes that eases into something softer. Geralt doesn’t know why. For a moment, it looks like the bard—for once—is lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t speak aloud. It’s… unusual.

Geralt opens his mouth to ask him or tease him—he’s honestly not sure which is about to pass from his lips—when Jaskier cuts him off.

“And you thought the lute case was a poor investment. Well, how do you feel now, Geralt?” Jaskier sets his hand on the strap across his chest, almost protectively. “We still have a mile to go before shelter, and such time for a lute to spend in rain like this…” He shakes his head, his dark hair dripping rainwater onto his nose. “It would be nothing short of an absolute, irrevocable tragedy.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, because perhaps the bard has a point. A raindrop unceremoniously drips into Geralt’s eye and he blinks, then shoots a glare up at the sky.

“Not a fan of the rain?” Jaskier asks.

The truth is, Geralt isn’t a fan of the rain. Not really. It makes it harder to see, and it clings to his lashes in a way that makes his already sensitive eyes sting a bit. Which isn’t anything he can’t handle—he’s done it hundreds of times before, he’ll do it hundreds of times yet to come—but the rain would also wash away most of the tracks he’d been hoping to follow later this evening to the kikimora that was terrorizing the town.

“It will make it harder to track—what are you doing?” Geralt cuts himself off when he looks back at the bard, who is half-way to shedding his violet doublet. Jaskier finishes pulling out of it. His dark blue shirt underneath is immediately drenched.

Unfazed, Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You left your cloak back at the inn and I know, though you will adamantly deny it, that the real reason you hate the rain is because it gets into your eyes and makes it harder for your sensitive, Witchery eyes to see. So, here.” He holds the garment out, his gaze looking down the road ahead of them.

Geralt stares at it. This was… ridiculous. Jaskier was sacrificing his own comfort so that Geralt could… what, block some of the rain a bit easier? Not only did Jaskier gain nothing from this but he actively lost something in the name of Geralt’s comfort and… the Witcher doesn’t know what to do with that. It was such a small, simple gesture but there’s a weight to it that Geralt cannot ignore.

Something heavy, warm, soft sits in his stomach as he stares at it.

“Jaskier…”

“Honestly, Geralt, you’ll be doing me a favor. Wet doublets are dreadfully heavy, and as I am already saddled with carrying the weight of this lute and your reputation…” Jaskier glances back then and offers a smile.

It’s a flimsy attempt to make Geralt feel better about accepting Jaskier’s simple selflessness. A part of Geralt wants to refuse. But when Jaskier is smiling at him like that, offering such a small piece of him that doesn’t feel that small to Geralt… well. Geralt finds himself taking the doublet from his hands gently.

And if Jaskier spins away to welcome the rainfall as Geralt holds the doublet above his head to shield the rain, well. Maybe that heavy, warm, soft feeling spreads through him in a way that makes the rain feel not quite so cold and annoying.

Geralt hears it first. There’s the sound of something snapping with a flash of green light behind him and it’s all less than a second but Geralt still feels that he should have been faster.

Because he looks over his shoulder, sees Jaskier hit the ground with the sound breaking bones echoing in his ears.

Jaskier screams.

“JASKIER!” Geralt roars, but panic closes his throat in the next moment. He slashes viciously at the figure in front of him, and the head of the injured soldier in front of him rolls off his shoulders. Geralt growls low in his throat—Jaskier is silent and Geralt is shaking—and hurls the knife at his belt towards the mage almost blindly.

It sinks between her eyes. The sting of copper in the air barely registers to the Witcher because all he can focus on—all he can smell—is the acrid, sharp scent of pain that radiates from Jaskier on the forest floor, several feet away. Geralt’s eyes snap to him before the mage has even hit the ground and he sees the way Jaskier is trembling so hard he’s vibrating but at least he’s moving. At least he’s breathing.

Geralt makes sure the mage isn’t, and then he’s sprinting the short distance to Jaskier and sliding to him on his knees. Jaskier is on his side, his back to the Witcher. As gently as he can, Geralt places a hand on his shoulder and rolls the bard onto his back.

Jaskier whimpers, his face ashen, and the sound turns Geralt’s stomach. The bard’s eyes clench shut.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s slow-beating heart is hammering so loud and so hard he wonders if the bard can hear it. This close, the scent of Jaskier’s pain is so pungent and potent that it clogs Geralt’s throat. He dove in front of a spell for you, a voice hisses in Geralt’s mind. That pain should be yours.

“Fuck,” Jaskier manages to wheeze out weakly.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you goddamn idiot?” Geralt grits out, and his voice very nearly breaks. It’s the wrong thing to say—Geralt always says the wrong things. Always, always, always. And always when he’s afraid. But it’s the only ones of the words he can think to say that will push past his tight throat.

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier replies, his own voice strained but for a different reason, “you’re quite lucky I love you, or else I might be insulted.”

The words echo in Geralt’s mind. I love you, I love you, I love you. Over and over and over. They ring with an ease and sincerity, because Jaskier never did anything by halves, even when he may be dying. Dying. And Geralt feels something breaking inside of him.

And still, the words repeat. I love you, I love you, I love you—Until the words sound less like Jaskier and a lot more like his mind repeating it back to the bard.

“Jask,” he whispers, his throat too tight to even get the bard’s full name out. His hands are shaking a bit, but he thinks Jaskier won’t mind, and he brushes his hand against Jaskier’s face. “You can’t—you…” He can’t just… just say things like that, so boldly, so cavalier.

With a courage that Geralt cannot match.

“Fuck,” he says instead. Because the words that flood him cannot find their way through his chest to his lips.

His swirling thoughts cut out as he sees Jaskier try suddenly to push himself up. Mindful of the damage to the human’s ribcage, Geralt lets the hand on his face slip to the back of the bard’s neck and grabs his less-injured arm to ease him up. Then Geralt just holds on tight. An irrational part of Geralt thinks that if he lets go, Jaskier might really slip from him in a way that Geralt cannot fix.

The Witcher breathes in, and the sharp scent of Jaskier’s pain is starting to lift. Jaskier offers a faint smile. “Not a lethal spell, it would seem.”

A distant part of Geralt goes a little weak with relief. The rest of him wants to shake the bard. “You didn’t know that,” he snaps. Because Jaskier didn’t, he’d just decided to dive in front of a spell that could have been anything. He could have… he almost…

“A moot point, really, Geralt.”

And that… that hurts, in a different kind of way. There’s no regret in Jaskier voice or his scent or his eyes. He would do it again, Geralt knows this, and it terrifies him. Jaskier would risk himself for Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head a little and starts to reply, to ask why, but the breath he takes still has that haze of acridity to it. He frowns instead. “You’re still hurt,” he says. It’s not a question.

Jaskier then has the audacity to wave a dismissive hand. “Some broken ribs.”

“Hm.” He could help with those, he thinks. His gaze flickers over Jaskier’s chest. He knows how to help with those injuries. The spell wasn’t lethal. Geralt should be feeling relieved and a small part of him is. The rest of him feels like the ground has shifted beneath him and Geralt still doesn’t know how to hold himself steady. I love you, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind, but it only makes Geralt feel a little more cracked open. Because maybe Jaskier didn’t mean it. Maybe it was just something he said in the throes of dying--

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, so unbearably soft. He instinctively meets the bard’s gaze. Jaskier’s bright blue eyes are remarkably steady. “I meant it, you know. I do. Love you, I mean.”

Geralt’s breath hitches in his throat. Because here was this remarkably fragile person who had followed him across the Continent for years, had seen the absolute worst that Geralt had to offer… this person who radiated warmth and light and love, so much love, and was everything Geralt wasn’t, and was saying these words so easily. Geralt’s fear had come true—Jaskier’s light had seen the darkest parts of him, but Jaskier chose to love him anyway.

“Jaskier,” he manages, and his own voice has never sounded quite so weak to his own ears. He leans forward until his forehead is against Jaskier because Jaskier was that beacon of light calling to him. Grounding him. “I… fuck.” He can’t find the words again. “Fuck.”

He does the only thing he can think to do in this moment, to try to convey all the words he can’t find. He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s, softly. Afraid to demand or hurt, afraid, afraid, afraid. So he presses his dry, cracked lips against Jaskier’s impossibly soft ones. Questions he dare not ask taste like salt that he passes to Jaskier’s own, and Jaskier answers with silent promises and a breathless little huff of contentment.

Jaskier is more than a beacon. He is a lighthouse, calling Geralt home. And Geralt cannot help but feel that he’d follow that light to the ends of the world.

#geraskier #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #witcher fanfic #cursing #in which geralt struggles with feelings #and then is overwhelmed by how much he cares #is that he jaskier or geralt himself? you ask #the answer is yes to both

297 notes · View notes

whaticannotshowyou · 4 years ago

Note

geralt brings jaskier to kaer morhen and jaskier figures that itll be like a typical "meet the family" sort of deal. except Geralt has absolutely no sense of privacy when it comes to family. He'll casually fuck jaskier on his lap during family dinner and everyone acts like its normal (maybe an occasional comment on jaskier and his noises but they really dont see the display as a big deal). Geralt doesnt see why jask is so embarrassed, as even if they restrained themselves to just the (1/2)

(2/2) as even if they restrained themselves to the bedroom, he explains that the witcher senses would mean theres no real difference in awareness between behind a door sex and exhibitionist sex in front of pops. not required but bonus points for cum inflation and if jask goes from mortified to leaving kaer morhen in the spring and still accepting public sex from geralt ad if its normal even while riding roach or smth (like being bounced on geralts lap by the bouncing steps of the horse)

You say ‘not required’ as if it’s not a treat for me to add cum inflation and general corruption to any piece!

So Jaskier was prepared for a normal, but awkward, family meeting - not sure how he would be met by the witchers considering most of them tried not to have intimate relationships. There was really no tell how they would react to Geralt dragging along a bard homs, but what is Jaskier if not ready to improvise his way out of awkward situations?

Except he wasn’t ready for the absolute humiliation of having his prostate rammed into at dinner, crying into Geralt’s shoulder as the rest of them held pleasant conversation around the table. At some stage Lambert makes sure to comment on “the mouth of that bard truly is something else, huh?” and to Jaskier’s dismay he can hear Vesemir chuckle.

“He is your dad!” Jaskier exclaims when Geralt asks why he got so embarrassed, to which he gets a sigh and a truly unasked for “not biologically.” Jaskier all but punches him in the face as he tries to explain how wrong it is for them to be fucking in front of his family. Not that it matters where they do it, the rest will hear and be able to use their imagination anyway.

Jaskier eventually agrees to just... let it happen. If Geralt tells him that none if them cares, that it’s more rude of them to try and hide it and insult their witcher senses, then he has to believe him. And he can’t argue with how indifferent the men are to their coupling, Eskel reaching around them to grab something off a plate, Vesemir teaching the pups in the library while Jaskier chokes on Geralt’s cock, Lambert asking for a favour from Geralt as the bard is pierced fully on his member.

It comes to a point where Geralt genuinly won’t let him off his cock unless strictly needed, Jaskier not as opposed to the idea as he would have been early into the winter. The soft headspace of being fucked and filled constantly lends itself to letting time pass, always being close to his beloved witcher even when he has to preform menial tasks around the keep or when studying. Both of them are up for sex at any point, only stopped by the public‘s view and the need to follow the path. Being at the keep truly liberates them from any of that, their time catching up to their libido.

It’s not a surprise that Jaskier spends many hours filled to the brim by Geralt’s come, cockdumb and drooling as he is pumped full once more before dinner and left to nurse the loads until they have eaten their fill. It’s just not worth emptying him out between rounds, the cleaning up process left for the end of the day in one big ordeal rather than interrupting their pleasure every half an hour.

When time comes to leave the keep, Jaskier is practically accustomed to the weight in his belly and the thick cock filling him up nicely, his hole gaping around nothing for the first half of the way down the mountain. It’s when Geralt can smell his arousal that they both give up on being decent, Jaskier taking his cock all the way to the root as he is bounced upon Roach’s back between towns.

#answer #nc #if

42 notes · View notes

jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Text

The Bard of Kaer Morhen Pt.2/4

Jaskier had just turned eighteen the second time he met a witcher.

He was fortunately sober this time. He’d bumped into Eskel a few times over the last two years and whilst the man tragically still rejected his flirtations they had become fast friends. Eskel thrived off the extra coin that Jaskier’s songs brought in and had even managed to upgrade his armour which thrilled Jaskier. Eskel’s last set of armour had been starting to fall apart and Jaskier was worried about him. He didn’t want his friend to get hurt on the hunt.

Another bonus to their friendship was that Jaskier was already successful fresh out of university, the envy of all his peers. He was the up and coming talent. He was the bard to hire for social events.

And he was also earning a reputation for being an unparalleled lover too.

He wasn’t sure which he was more proud of.

He was strolling down the path from Lyria towards Vengerberg with his lute in his hands when he saw him.

His hair was like fire but his eyes shone like liquid gold.

Another witcher.

Jaskier grinned and trotted up to the man. He was pulling a dark horse behind him and grumbling under his breath with a sour expression on his face.

And Jaskier loved him.

“Witcher!” Jaskier called as he approached.

The man glared at him with fire in his eyes and Jaskier could have swooned. Were all witchers so handsome and sexy? Jaskier decided they must be, a side effect of the mutations perhaps. Eskel hadn’t never been willing to discuss that side of witcherhood.

“What do you want, bard?” The man growled.

Jaskier felt a rush of arousal at the gruff tones of the witcher’s voice. “Spare a humble bard a tale, witcher, and maybe you’ll find out.” He winked as he stepped closer to the gorgeous redhead.

He wanted to run his hands through those curls, and he was certain the man’s armour was about to rip open on his arms. Jaskier had never seen such large strong arms before, not even on Eskel. This man was pure muscle and it made Jaskier’s heart feel weak.

Recognition lit up in the witcher’s eyes much to Jaskier’s delight. “You’re Eskel’s bard.” He grumbled.

“I’m my own bard.” Jaskier corrected. “Darling Eskel seems determined to reject any opportunities to claim me.” Jaskier pouted for added affect and let his fingers trail absentmindedly down the witcher’s arm.

“Back off, bard.” The witcher growled. “I have a partner.”

Jaskier tilted his head and smirked. “That’s not a problem.”

The witcher laughed. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that, but I don’t think you’d win in a fight against another witcher, bard.”

Jaskier pouted but stepped away. “Fine. You win but I’m a flirt by nature so don’t take it personally. You witchers are a slippery bunch. So handsome and yet so unobtainable. Although,” He dropped his voice back into his lower register to flirt some more. “If you and your partner ever want some company.”

“Fuck off bard!” The witcher snapped. “To the gods, Eskel must be mad.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I grow on people. I was serious about the tales though. Same as Eskel, you’ll get a cut of the coin if you tell me some ballad worthy adventures. Perhaps a wyvern or other draconid, they always go down well with an audience. Ooh or a real dragon! There aren’t many of those left.”

“We don’t hunt dragons.” The witcher rolled his eyes.

Jaskier persisted. “But you must have seen one.”

“No.” The witcher shook his head.

Jaskier huffed. It seemed this witcher would be harder to crack than Eskel. Eskel had always been funny and open. This new witcher was faster to anger and less tolerant to Jaskier’s tactile and openly affectionate personality. He grinned, perhaps this one would be more likely to let him join him on a hunt, if only he could prove himself to be useful. He was pretty handy with a dagger after all. His enemies always seemed to underestimate him which he used to his advantage masterfully.

Jaskier walked with the witcher back towards Lyria. He was going in the wrong direction to where he wanted to go but he was a curious fellow and he just couldn’t let this beautiful man walk away from him without at least getting one story or even a name.

When they reached the city Jaskier waved at the merchants in the square that he knew and bartered quite successfully with the barkeep for the witcher’s lodgings and food. He slid onto the bench opposite the witcher and stared longingly as his red curls danced in the candlelight.

“So tell me, witcher, do you have a name?” He hummed as he sipped his ale. He preferred wine but prior experience had taught him to only order ale in this particular tavern.

The wine was shit.

“Lambert.” He growled.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Lambert.” Jaskier raised his mug of ale and grinned.

The ale loosened Lambert’s tongue somewhat and Jaskier was able to pull a few basic tales from the man, nothing to sing about in their raw form but Jaskier knew he could easily fix it with a few artistic embellishments. The food was tolerable, not great but not as bad as the wine. Lambert seemed to have no complaints as he wolfed down two full plates to Jaskier’s one. Jaskier had noticed Eskel ate like a starved man too when coin afforded a more lavish amount of food so Jaskier had made sure to order extra.

Lambert grumbled what could have been a thank you, or equally a grievous insult, at Jaskier and then downed the last of his ale.

It was at that point when things began to go downhill.

The doors flung open and two rowdy drunk idiots fell stumbling into the tavern.

“Oi!” One of them shouted. His skin was pale, and almost yellow from years of excessive drinking and his eyes were bloodshot. He was a mess. “Where’s the fucking mutant?” He roared and the other man laughed before coughing his lungs out.

“We don’t want no mutants in our city.” The second man wheezed. “They’re unnatural beasts! Steal our women and children to turn them into the monsters they’re supposed to kill!”

“Come out, freak and we’ll kill you quickly.” The first man cackled and spat on the floor.

A silence fell over the tavern.

Lambert gripped the hilt of one of the swords that was resting next to him on the bench, but Jaskier was faster. He’d pulled the dagger from his boots and had it pressed up against the first man’s neck before Lambert could even blink.

“Say that again.” Jaskier hissed as he pressed the dagger into the drunkards throat. It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood but it had certainly shaken the other man.

The first drunk swallowed nervously and his eyes flashed to his companion who answered, sounding less confident than before. “We don’t want no mutants in our city.”

Jaskier grinned and tilted his head. “Firstly, that’s a double negative. So you’re saying you do want the witcher’s in your city which I wholeheartedly agree with. Witchers are some of the finest people I’ve met.”

The poor man looked confused. His alcohol addled brain couldn’t keep up with Jaskier’s quick tongue.

“Secondly. Don’t you dare call my friend a freak again or I will not hesitate.” Jaskier pulled his dagger away from the man’s throat and turned back to join Lambert at the table.

He heard the heavy breathing of his attacker as he launched into an attack but the blow never hit. Lambert had drawn his own knife and thrown it at the man before Jaskier could even turn around.

The dagger hit the drunk in the shoulder and the man howled in pain. Both men scurried from the tavern with their tails between their legs. Luckily Jaskier was well liked by the barkeeper and his family and they weren’t thrown out after them.

Lambert clapped him on the back. “Thanks, bard.”

Jaskier nodded and pulled the witcher into an awkward hug. “Anytime, witcher. Anytime.”

__________

It was a rare occasion when two witchers met on the path. They preferred to stay out of each other’s way, there just weren’t enough contracts anymore for them to occupy them same areas and still make enough coin to live on, even with the bard’s songs, which was why Geralt was surprised to run into Lambert in Rivia.

He tried not to go back to Rivia too often. His chosen name made it awkward to be around the locals. He’d tried to assimilate a Rivian accent but around born Rivians he just sounded like a cheap copy but as was the way, a contract had lured him into town.

“Geralt of Rivia!” Lambert cheered when he spotted him and Geralt cursed under his breath. “You’ve come home!”

“Very funny, Lambert.” Geralt muttered but went over to greet his brother. “You here for the contract?”

“Just got back from the Alderman’s house. Drowner infestation down by the docks.” Lambert pushed an ale towards Geralt.

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “Fancy splitting the coin.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow at him. “Desperate for the coin, wolf?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. “My armour needs repairs. Right now it’s that or a decent meal. Not both.”

As if on cue, Geralt’s stomach growled causing Lambert to howl with laughter. “Take the contract.” Lambert grinned as he dumped a heavy coin purse on the table. “Ran into Eskel’s bard friend. Turns out he’s quite the investment.”

Geralt frowned at the sight of the gold coins sparkling in the dim light of the tavern. The mysterious bard, the lover of witchers had apparently gotten even Lambert to roll over. Lambert didn’t make friends with anyone outside of the wolf pack and his cat lover.

“You find out his name?” Geralt asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Fuck!” Lambert groaned and hid his head in his hands. “It just never came up!”

The mysterious bard went by a few names depending on where you were on the Continent. In Cidaris he was known simply as the Witcher’s Bard. Further south in Metinna the name Dandelion cropped up. In Toussaint he was known as Fleur-de-lis. In Novigrad he was called Jaskier and in Vengerberg he was known as Daffodil.

It infuriated Geralt.

He wanted to know who this man was that had invested so much time and effort into singing their praises, who had befriended both his brothers with ease, who didn’t fear them.

“It never came up.” Geralt growled. “How the fuck didn’t it come up?”

Lambert flipped him off and pulled the mug of ale back across the table. “Look, he just never said, which is unbelievable because fucking hell I’ve never known anyone who can talk so much.”

Geralt hummed in response.

“Sort of like your opposite.” Lambert smirked so Geralt punched him in the arm. Hard. “Fuck off!”

“I’m taking the drowner contract.” Geralt stood up and grabbed his swords. “Some of us still work for a living.”

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.” Lambert grinned and took a long draught of his ale and cackled as Geralt stormed out of the tavern to go search for the drowner nest.

It was all this fucking bard’s fault.

Geralt didn’t know why he was angry with the bard. He’d never even met him. He chalked it down to petty jealousy that his fellow witchers seemed to be earning money off the stories they gave to the bard, that they were eating lavish hot meals with decent ale to wash it down with, that they could visit brothels whenever the need arose without having to worry about the next contract.

Of course, if Geralt didn’t give half his coin away to people in need then he’d probably not be having a problem in the first place, but he just couldn’t help it. What good was a trip to the brothel if he knew that he’d taken the last of a villagers coin and they wouldn’t be able to feed their family that week.

The guilt would sour the pleasure before it could begin.

He sighed and pinched his nose.

“Bloody bard.”

He’d heard the bard’s songs a few times in his travels but never from the composer’s lips. He’d asked a few times whether the troubadours had written the songs but none of them had. One snivelling looking pompous bastard had laughed in his face and declared that his own songs were far superior and that they only reason he played the witcher songs were because they drew in a bigger crowd.

Geralt suggested that that meant the songs were better and the bard went blue in the face and then stormed out of the tavern. Geralt had been asked to leave soon after.

One girl, a pretty blonde with cornflower blue eyes, one of which was hidden behind her hair, had giggled and said she was just stealing the songs from a friend of hers but wouldn’t say anymore about the mysterious witcher bard. He’d felt foolish after asking because he knew that Eskel’s bard was a man, it was just the girl’s eyes had drawn him in more than he would like.

It wasn’t that Geralt cared about the bard.

He just wanted to know for himself.

Nothing more.

_______

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #lambert #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #wolfie's witcher writing #the bard of kaer morhen

52 notes · View notes

pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

Note

Geralt attempts to bake cookies. That’s it that’s the prompt

Hi Cabbage-with-legs!

This is a Modern AU with Tired Dad! Geralt. + bonus pining

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

“Geralt? Geralt what’s all this.”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped and he scraped dejectedly at the blackened hockey pucks on the cookie pan. “Cookies.”

“I’ve seen charcoal briquets less black, dear heart. What’s this about?” Jaskier said, leaning his shoulder against his best friend.

Geralt sighed and leaned into the touch, hardly even registering Jaskier’s neon pink Hawaiian shirt. “PTA bake sale. They need me to bake something so I’m trying but, well...” Geralt shuffled a spatula under one pathetic hockey puck and flicked it into the trash.

“Lucky you,” Jaskier said. “I am a world class baker.”

“You burn water.”

“Cooking and baking are very different, my friend.”

“We aren’t friends,” Geralt huffed.

“Not if you keep up that attitude. How much food does the bake sale need?”

Geralt sat in a creaky chair and looked at the ugly yellow wallpaper of his kitchen. “They said anything helps, but the school is really underfunded, they need to make a lot of money off of this.”

Jaskier sat across from Geralt and bumped his foot against his friend’s boot. He smiled sadly. He saw Geralt almost every day, and Geralt never saw him, not really. He never looked at Jaskier and saw him.

It didn’t matter because Jaskier saw Geralt, and would continue to do so until Geralt threw him from his life.

“Alright,” Jaskier said standing up. “It’s Saturday, so Triss won’t have work, I’ll text her, she can bring by some bread.”

“Don’t bother her,” Geralt said.

“She’ll want to help. Yennefer too, she’ll bring something by the bake sale as well.”

None of them had much money, but baking, well, for Ciri they could all do something.

“You and I,” Jaskier said, “We’re going to bake up a storm.”

Geralt stood. “No, Jaskier. Go away.”

“No, you need my help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Fine,” Jaskier said, hand on one jutted hip, “Then take a bite out of one of those.” He nodded his head towards the blackened tray.

Geralt growled, but it was acquiescence.

“Great,” Jaskier said. “Now, lets start this again.” He tidied up the kitchen, loading the dirty dishes into Geralt’s ancient dishwasher and pressing start. He knew Geralt’s kitchen as well as he knew his own. When Renfri had died and left Ciri and Geralt all by themselves he’d done all the cooking here. Geralt had just sat in the chair in the living room and wouldn’t let go of Ciri. Jaskier had practically hand fed him.

Triss had called it sitting Shiva, even though she was the only Jewish person among them. From what she’d told Jaskier, though, Geralt had been doing something similar, even if he didn’t know it.

Now, though, they both moved about the kitchen. Geralt measured flour and sugar as directed and patiently took the bowl of frosting Jaskier pressed into his hands, stirring as directed.

Jaskier moved around him, orbiting Geralt like he always did, adding almond extract and nutmeg and an extra dash of salt because Geralt used too little. At one point their little dance messed up and Jaskier placed one floury hand on Geralt’s chest to keep him from backing up against the open oven door.

He looked at the dusty handprint on Geralt’s black hoodie, right over his heart. Geralt smiled softly.

“Thanks, I would have fallen right into the oven, there,” he said.

Jaskier chuckled, “Yeah, Hansel, can’t eat you yet I have to fatten you up,” he poked Geralt in his rock hard abs. “You’d be awfully stringy.”

Geralt rumbled a laugh, deep in his chest. “I guess I’m not prime cannibal fodder, huh?” He crossed to the laptop, open to their recipe. “What’s next?”

“I’m sure there’s someone who’d take a bite out of you,” Jaskier said absently. “But we’re done with the cookies now that they’re in the oven, onto the cake.”

“We’re making a cake?” Geralt said. He looked in dismay at the cookies already in the oven.

“Unless you’d rather make the pies first,” Jaskier said. “And yes, we are. You and I are going to nail this PTA bake sale.” He watched the way Geralt sighed, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the little roll they did to loosen the tension.

He patted Geralt on one such shoulder, looking into a pale hazel gaze. “Drink some coffee, we’ll be up a while.”

Geralt moved to start the coffee. “Is the--”

Jaskier handed him the little scoop that Geralt used to measure out his coffee and Geralt turned around to face Jaskier.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say,” he said.

“I did, I know you.” Geralt stepped close and looked at Jaskier with lazer focus.

Please, Jaskier thought. For once in your life just, see me.

“You have flour in your hair,” Geralt said, then turned back to the coffeemaker.”

Jaskier held in a sigh and began pulling up the recipe he liked for chocolate cake. “Do you have cocoa?” He asked.

“Cupboard,” Geralt grunted. There where multiple cupboards in the kitchen, but Jaskier knew which one Geralt meant.

They descended again into their orbiting dance.

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

Morning dawned to find a messy kitchen and two men asleep at the kitchen table. Ciri looked around, registered the mountain of cookies and muffins, four pies and two cakes, then got herself cereal. Jaskier woke up, the seam of his sleeve had pressed into his face in his sleep.

“Have you kissed my dad yet?”

Jaskier blinked away sleep to see Ciri, still in her Wonder Woman pajamas, eating a bowl of coco puffs while standing in the middle of the kitchen. He made to stand to give her the chair, but she shook her head.

“Stay put, you must’ve worked hard. When I went to bed Dad had just burned his second batch of cookies. I repeat, have you kissed my dad yet?”

“Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t want to kiss me,” Jaskier said. “He looks right through me.”

“Hmmm,” Ciri said. It was so like her father that Jaskier had to smile.

“Hello darling,” Triss said, closing the door with her foot behind her. “Jas, you’re up, I figured you’d be asleep...oh,” she glanced at Geralt, conked out on the table, then looked at the pile of baked goods. “Nice job, I brought Challah, soda bread, and Irish brown bread.”

Jaskier stood and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, I appreciate it, Triss.”

“Aunt Triss,” Ciri said. “Do you think my dad wants to kiss Jaskier?”

“Of course, why?”

“He doesn’t even really know I exist,” Jaskier said.

“He does too.”

“He knows I exist but he looks right through me, Triss, I’m a ghost in his life.”

The front door creaked open then slammed, startling Geralt awake.

“Whazzit?”

“It’s probably Yennefer,” Jaskier said.

Geralt blinked his eyes hurriedly and brushed back his pale hair.

Yennefer stomped in and set down a tray full of lemon bars. “For the bake sale.” She looked up at Geralt, who was smiling at her. “You have frosting on your face.”

Jaskier stepped into the other room and Triss followed. Ciri stepped out after them, still spooning cereal into her mouth.

“He sees her,” Jaskier whispered.

“You like Yen,” Triss said.

“I do, she’s terrifying and fun, but I just wish he looked at me like that, like he noticed me.”

“He notices you,” Ciri said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called from the other room.

Ciri smirked. “See?”

Jaskier reentered the kitchen. “What’s up.”

“I’m loading stuff into my car, help.”

Jaskier promptly took a few trays of muffins and began to walk them out to Roach, Geralt’s ‘84 Chevy Nova. It wasn’t a beautiful car but Geralt loved her, and Jaskier had grown to love her too. The four of them, watched by Ciri, loaded up the baked goods and Jaskier went to get in the passenger seat.

“You’re not coming,” Geralt said.

Jaskier faltered but recovered well. “Oh, well of course. And since I’m your very best friend--”

“Not my friend.”

“I’ll stay and clean up the kitchen,” Jaskier finished.

Triss made a sympathetic face at him, kissed Ciri on the forehead, and left. Yen nudged him in a mostly friendly way and swept out after her.

Ciri watched him clean up, sitting on the counter in the corner of the kitchen. Unusually, neither of them said a word the entire time. When the last dish was put away she said.

“You know, I’m not sure Dad sees many people, not sees them. I’m not always sure he sees me. It doesn’t mean you aren’t important to him.”

Jaskier smiled wanly. “You’re very wise for fourteen.”

“I am. Extremely.”

“He sees her.”

“That’s because he’s slightly scared of her.”

Jaskier leaned with both hands on the counter and stared between them. “Ciri, you know I love you dearly?”

“Yes.”

“And I won’t stop loving you. Not ever. But I might not come around so often. I promise it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you.”

“Just that you think Dad doesn’t care about you.”

“I know he does,” Jaskier said, looking up and crossing to where Ciri sat. “But he can’t even call me his friend. I can’t do that anymore. I need to...I need to not do that. At least for a while.”

“I’ll miss you,” Ciri said, setting down her empty bowl and hugging Jaskier. “He’ll miss you too.”

“I’m going to miss both of you too, but I need to do this. I’ll still come to every last one of your gymnastics meets. And I’ll still be your Uncle Jas.”

Cir pulled back from her hug, jaw set but her eyes dry. “I wish you could be my papa instead.” Jaskier kissed her on the forehead.

“Bye Ciri, I’ll see you next week when you get another medal.”

She waved at him as he left.

Jaskier didn’t look up from the bus floor the whole ride back to his shithole apartment. The ugly green carpet on the floor of his room still looked the same. He shrugged and began to work on grading papers. There was no more he could do.

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

Jaskier was surprised to find that the day had passed easily. He’d only had to turn his thoughts away from Geralt every time he started to think of him.

Then there was a knock on the door and Jaskier suddenly couldn’t stop thinking of Geralt. There he was, drenched, from the sudden rainstorm and dripping in his apartment’s doorway.

Geralt shoved a fist out, holding some supermarket flowers, the daisies they dyed in obnoxious colors. Usually Jaskier found them ugly but these, battered and very, very neon, were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

“What?--”

“We aren’t friends I want to kiss you,” Geralt said in one breath.

“What?!”

“I don’t want to kiss friends. I want to kiss you a lot. All the time.”

“You never even look at me,” Jaskier said.

“I do, just not when you’re looking.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to catch me staring at your lips I want to kiss you, Jaskier.” He stared into Jaskier’s eyes, unwavering. “I see you.”

“Who told you?”

“Triss. I came home and the kitchen was clean and Ciri was sort of mad at me and you were gone so I called her and panicked,” Geralt paused for breath. “And she told me. I see you. I promise I do. maybe not all the time but I’m not good at noticing people all the time I’m...Renfri could do that. I can’t. You can notice people all the time but I just don’t. I’m sorry. I do notice you though, I see you, I promise.”

“You see me,” Jaskier said. He watched Geralt’s eyes as they looked downwards. At his lips.

“I don’t want to kiss friends, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered. “Please, please may I kiss you.”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt tasted like the peppermint Chapstick that he bought around Christmas and hoarded all through the year. A kiss had never been so good.

Geralt pulled back and handed Jaskier the flowers. “You don’t like this kind but I like them because they remind me of you.”

“They do?”

“They’re bright and if you were a flower Ciri said you’d be a daisy.”

Jaskier smiled. “You got her advice, on what flowers to get me.”

Geralt nodded. “She knows these things. There’s cookies, back home. I bought some from the bake sale. Someone made white chocolate macadamia nut and I know they’re your favorite.”

“Fine, Geralt. I’ll go back home with you.”

“You’ll stay?”

“I’m not moving all my stuff in tonight, but yes, eventually I’ll stay.”

“Good.”

“Ciri’s going to have to stop calling me uncle now. It’ll give people the wrong idea.”

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

It got away from me. Whoops. Happy ending for all, though.

#ciri #Geralt is a good dad #modern au #geraskier #pining #not unrequited #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier

337 notes · View notes