#but the thing that is important to remember is that Geralt will never put himself into the equation because he KNOWS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

samstree · 1 year ago

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(the 'jaskier likes a dilf fic' fic has a sequel, because i'm very nice ;)

following this

The blood is getting into Geralt’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, blinking it away, the wound on his forehead throbbing with every step he takes.

It must be a bad one if his healing still hasn’t kicked in. The gash runs deep and long near his hairline, bleeding sluggishly along his face. Geralt feels dizzy with the blood loss, the world spinning before his eyes. His senses are dulled—dark spots swimming in his vision, the ringing in his ears, slowed reflexes.

Head wounds are tricky bastards, he curses silently.

Geralt lets his feet drag himself forward, with much resistance from the uneven terrain and the injury, but carrying a fully grown man certainly doesn’t make it easier.

“Oh, thank you, master witcher!” Andrej says, draped over Geralt’s shoulder, head lolling upside down. Between every other word, he hisses from the pain in his broken foot. “If it weren’t for you, that beast would have eaten me whole!”

“Hmm.”

Geralt grunts, head pounding.

“I know you are a humble man, master. Jaskier told me all about it! He said you’d never admit to being a hero, but you are! Whatever shall I do to repay this debt?”

He says Jaskier’s name so casually, so intimately, without titles or honorifics.

The headache suddenly gets worse. Geralt has to suppress a groan. The barkeep’s weight is slipping from his shoulders, so he hikes him up with a jolt.

“Not humble,” he squeezes out the words in the end. “Just doing my job.”

“Still, you have no idea how much this means to me. To think I nearly died today, and my Lucja would have been left without a family. I fear no one would have taken her in this time. When that beast dragged me away, all I could think about was my daughter, master Geralt! My life is of no importance, but my sweet Lucja…”

Geralt grits his teeth as Andrej goes on and on about how he puts his daughter’s life before his, how he values nothing more in this life.

Stupid, kind-hearted Andrej, the best father in the world.

“How noble of you,” Geralt says pettily, out of nowhere. The blood loss lowers his inhibitions, making him more candid than he would like.

More reasons for Geralt to hate head wounds.

Distantly, he remembers he should not make such jabs at an innocent man who deserves no ire from him, but Andrej doesn’t seem to notice.

“I do not see raising my daughter as a noble deed, sir,” he simply goes on. “They say I saved Lucja’s life, but in truth, it was she who saved me! For you see, it is a privilege to love such a perfect daughter, who chose me as her family. I am only grateful for her arrival every single day…”

A growl falls out of Geralt’s throat on its own, the pettiness in his chest boiling hot. He barely notices the tavern appearing before his eyes as the good man rambles on.

Jaskier waits by the door, sitting on the step next to a small Lucja, who’s eyes are red and puffy. His arm is around her and patting gently, eyes brightening as he finds Geralt carrying Andrej back safely.

Geralt sets the barkeep on the ground, relieved both physically and mentally. When the beast came and carried Andrej away right in the middle of town, the heartbreak in Jaskier’s eyes…

He shakes away the memory of Jaskier panicked and pleading when the man of his dreams was in danger.

“Papa!” Lucja runs towards Andrej and jumps into his open arms. The broken foot is not the worst thing for a human, but it must still hurt when he lets her slam into him and picks her up.

Of course, the perfect father would do that.

“I am safe and sound, my sweet girl,” Andrej says between kissing Lucja. “You must thank master witcher. He saved me!”

Jaskier is hovering around the both of them, touching and checking Andrej all over. His face finally relaxes into a smile when he turns to Lucja. “As I said, Geralt is a hero! You see, your papa is back! Everything will be alright now!”

Geralt’s chest twists at the sight of the three of them, something heavy lodged in his throat. They make a lovely picture together, almost too precious for him to intrude.

With that, he turns to leave, but a dizzy spell suddenly takes over.

He stumbles, vision darkening. The ringing in his ears drowns out all the noises in the world, and there’s something warm and sticky on his chin. He touches it, and his hand comes away with fresh blood.

It’s nothing a few hours of meditation can’t fix, but he does need the rest. Now that Jaskier has the perfect man back, he’ll be busy cooing over his brave heart and broken foot, and on top of it, his undying paternal love even in the face of death.

Geralt needs to take care of himself, alone.

It’s fine, nothing he hasn’t done since before Jaskier came along.

Really, It’s fine, he tells himself again.

Geralt winces, and takes another step. His head must be more messed up than he realizes, because he only hears his name called out after a few times.

“…Geralt?” Jaskier appears out of nowhere. “Hey, darling. You are alright. I’m right here.”

Careful hands support Geralt by the arms, taking most of his weight. By instinct, he leans into Jaskier’s embrace. It’s familiar, and it’s a surprise.

Oh, Jaskier is right here.

“Why—” Geralt says, shaking away the fuzzy feeling in his head but only making it worse. The confusion of Jaskier’s presence by his side grows. “Andrej—”

“Hush, now. Here, let me.” Jaskier puts Geralt’s arm over his shoulder, guiding him up the stairs. “You saved Andrej, alright? His foot will be fine, because you carried him all the way here. Stupid witcher with your stupid heart…”

Jaskier complains more about Geralt’s heroics, but he didn’t do it to be a hero. He only didn’t want Jaskier to be sad.

“Oh. I’m not sad, dear. Don’t you worry about me.”

Hmm. Somehow, Geralt has said the last part out loud.

“Yeah, you did. Now—oof, let’s get you into bed.” Jaskier answers another one of Geralt’s train of thoughts, pushing open the door to their bedroom. “You are saying everything you think. It must be the head wound. Those are tricky bastards, I know.”

Geralt feels himself being lowered into the soft bed, the pillows against his back. Jaskier is all over him soon enough.

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

Those blue eyes are too close for Geralt to be thinking, he only leans into Jaskier’s touch. A soft, damp rug is pressed on his forehead, cleaning the blood away.

Geralt winces. “Why are you here?”

Jaskier’s hand stops, holding the rag and hovering. He shifts closer on the bed, his thigh pressed against Geralt’s. “Where else should I be?”

“Andrej…” Geralt closes his eyes, waiting for Jaskier to have the same realization. “You should go to him.”

Jaskier only looks more confused. His brows knit together in sympathy.

“Oh, my sweet witcher. It must be the injury messing with your head. Ugh, now I know why you hate head injuries so much. It’s making you ask these nonsensical questions.”

“Not nonsensical. You…” Geralt hesitates, not wanting to admit it to his treacherous heart. “You love him.”

The room is silent for a moment. Geralt focuses his senses on Jaskier’s breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, grounding as always. The headache feels less intense when he can listen to Jaskier’s breathing like this.

The gash is still an open wound, and Jaskier resumes his gentle care, cleaning away the blood clots and finding the bandages from the drawer.

“He’s a nice guy. I did, perhaps.” Jaskier says. “And?”

The bandage covers the wound, wrapping behind Geralt’s head. Jaskier gently tilts him forward so he can reach all the way around.

“And…” Geralt finds himself at a loss for words. “And, you love that he’s a good father to Lucja.”

Jaskier only shrugs, tucking in the corner of the bandage near Geralt’s nape. Both of his hands cup Geralt’s chin, helping him tilt forward, nearly tucking his face in Jaskier’s shoulder. A shudder runs down Geralt’s body at the closeness.

“Lucja is a very lucky child.” Jaskier finishes his work and pulls away. “Still, you are hurt. Why should I be anywhere else?”

It comes out as naturally as breathing, like it’s a choice Jaskier has never needed to make. To stay with Geralt.

“Huh.”

“I may have a thing or two for these gentlemen who happen to be lovely parents.” Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes, blinking. “But as kind-hearted as Andrej is, he’s not the best father I know.”

Geralt blinks. “There are better ones?”

An unnamed annoyance rises again in his chest. There are more men Jaskier is noticing, more of them for the bard to get all hot and bothered over.

Geralt is trying really hard to not pout, but he can’t help the way his mouth tugs into the shape of displeasure. The blood loss must be getting to him.

A tiny smile appears at Jaskier’s lips, proud and wicked. “Why, yes. Of course,” he says. “There’s this one man. He’s better than the rest of them combined.”

A low growl rumbles in Geralt’s chest on its own volition. Before he can hide it, Jaskier lets out a chuckle.

“Should I describe him to you, dear witcher, so you may learn about my most prestigious, and frankly, almost impossible standards?”

“No, Jask—”

Geralt really doesn’t want to hear, yet again, how Jaskier’s attention has passed right over him and landed on another man, but Jaskier simply interrupts him.

“Where shall I begin? You see, he’s the best one in my eyes, not because he’s perfect. It’s the opposite, rather. He’s just as flawed as everyone else when they become a parent for the first time, but he always tries to do better. He knows of his shortcomings, perhaps too much, too intimately.” Jaskier’s eyes soften. “He feels guilty, for falling short in the early days, even after all this time. That’s why I’m here to remind him, of how far he’s come, how much he’s done for his daughter. It’s hard to raise an orphan-princess in the middle of war, you know?”

Jaskier smiles knowingly, and Geralt lets out a surprised oh.

“I—” he splutters. “Jaskier, it’s—I don’t—”

Geralt’s stomach flutters, his cheeks heating up.

“And he’s the reason…” Jaskier pauses, caressing Geralt’s cheek gently, careful with his injuries. “Well, he’s the reason I started to notice the rest of them.”

“The rest of them?” Geralt asks, brain still trying to catch up.

“Mm-hmm.” Jaskier nods. “All the other fathers started to catch my attention. Suddenly, I was swooning left and right at the sight of an older man taking care of his children. Once I added being a good dad to my list of standards, do you know what I realized?”

Geralt is now feeling woozy again, this time not for the blood loss. “What did you realize?”

Jaskier’s hand trails from Geralt’s face, making him chase for a brief moment, longing for the gentle touch. He catches Geralt’s hands, lifting them to his lips for a chaste kiss, and then another.

“None of them can compare,” Jaskier answers, solemnly. “Not Andrej. Not any of them. I have a man in my heart already, taking up all of the space, showing up in all my dreams. When he’s here, he’s the only one I see. Flaws and all.”

Geralt is warm all over when Jaskier’s eyes are on him like this, like he’s the most important thing under the sky.

“He sounds…” It’s hard to say it, but Geralt has always been more candid when his head is all over the place. “He sounds amazing. You should tell him more.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s smile stretches. “I forget, sometimes, how deeply those doubts lie. Hopefully, he’ll forgive me for being neglectful.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Or I should just profess my undying love, and never let his insecurities prevail again.”

Geralt’s eyes widen, his heart nearly giddy with hope. “You should.”

Jaskier’s features soften impossibly when he holds Geralt’s chin in his palm, leans in, and presses a gentle kiss on his eyebrow.

“Well, for one, he is you,” he whispers it like a secret, resting their foreheads together. “I love you, at your best and at your worst. I love all your faults and mistakes, and my love only grows when you try to do better. You are my favorite person, Geralt of Rivia. You are my heart, and my songs, and you are everything hopeful about this world. Now—” Jaskier kisses him again on the cheek, a big wet kiss that he wipes away with a thumb, pulling away. “Will you stop being an idiot?”

Warmth spreads from Geralt’s stomach, making him hum with happiness. The way he melts into Jaskier’s embrace, losing all the words, may indicate that he’s still failing at the not-being-an-idiot part.

“You love me,” Geralt mutters the most important thing, not sure how to react, so he traps Jaskier in his arms and buries his face in his chest, refusing to let go.

When Jaskier laughs, it’s carefree and indulgent, the vibration rumbling against Geralt’s cheek. His fingers have returned to Geralt’s hair, playing with it patiently.

“I love you, and I’m in love with you, my brave, concussed, impossible witcher. I might even say I have a crush on you when you are being particularly sweet like this,” Jaskier says. “And you do need some rest if we want that head wound to heal, dear.”

But Geralt is very comfortable, snuggling into Jaskier like this, and he also has a crush in return.

“I need to tell you too.” Geralt’s voice comes out muffled and sleepy, his eyes closing in contentment. “So you won’t have doubts… so you’ll know…”

The fingers in his hair are soothing, petting in a gentle rhythm that is getting slower and slower, lulling Geralt into a meditative state.

“When your head is clear, perhaps,” Jaskier answers. “I’ll still be here when you feel better. I shall confess my love again, lest you forget, and you can tell me all that you feel, all the sweet things you want to say to me. Well—on the other hand, when you feel better, I’ll also have the chance to tease you.”

“Will you?”

Jaskier’s smile sounds wicked, but Geralt cannot find it in himself to care.

“Oh, of course. Relentlessly. This is too good of an opportunity to pass, you getting the idea that I might care for Andrej more than you, simply because he is a good father. Hmm, let’s see, who should hear it first? Ah, yes. Ciri, of course…”

Jaskier’s voice blends into the background noise, chirping in excitement about the prospect of telling Ciri everything, his arms around Geralt, never for a second trying to let go.

Geralt closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh and finally letting himself rest in satisfaction.

A head wound may not be the worst thing in the world, he thinks.

He just needs to get better soon enough. There’s a love confession waiting for him, after all.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #love confessions #geralt being an idiot while concussed and in love #so you know #the usual

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roughentumble · 4 months ago

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oh, i forgot! i worked on this and finished it forever ago, in my notes app. i'd already uploaded a partially finished version, but i filled in the missing pieces, added some yennefer, and gave it an ending. @fangirleaconmigo had liked it the previous time around, so hopefully she likes this finished version! link here to the old version, in case you're curious what got added.

fic summary: geralt gets sent back in time to the dragon hunt, and makes changes at key points in the timeline to lead to a better future. he can't remember that he went back, or what choices he's supposed to make, he just gets vague feelings.

======

geralt wakes up in a daze.

there's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. he fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. his body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. he doesnt even recall falling asleep. he sees-- jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. he could get angry about it, or-- or...

he places a hand on jaskier's shoulder, and jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. he starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "i think you were right. we should go to the coast."

concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "you-- really? actually, you'd want that? what caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" he waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before geralt can interject. "doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. i'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old roach, and i can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because i am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just /love/ the coast i'm /certain/ of it! fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! to die for, truly!"

perhaps he did hit his head. there's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. it all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. he reaches out to take jaskier's hand in his own, and jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. that feels right, too. in the same way he cant put his finger on. he'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. for now he just pulls jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

they leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

===========

he doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. sand isnt great for poor roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because geralt of rivia does not /do/ being afraid. it's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. a certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

he likes jaskier at the coast, though.

happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

/foolish bard/, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, /foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go./ out loud he says "i'm in love with you."

he watches closely the play of emotions across jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. in the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. they kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

the incoming waves claim just one of jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "you'll be compensating me for that, witcher." he warns, shaking his finger.

"wouldn't have it any other way," geralt responds, breathless with joy, and jaskier sinks into his grip.

========

"i want you to come with me. to kaer morhen."

jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. it isnt an offer given lightly. even in all their years of on-again off-again, geralt never extended this particular invitation to yennefer. maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? she's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. she said no, and he found-- he found--

years he's spent, dragging his feet. years, and with jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. he wants jaskier with him, now and always. "this winter, the two of us. up in the blue mountains."

jaskier is nodding before geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "i want that too, love. gods, you know i'd follow you anywhere." and then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound geralt's ever heard in his life. jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

=================

they keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. he climbs the rocky outcropping while jaskier waits by roach, idle and bored. he wants to be wrong. wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with jaskier. he looks out over the path below.

he is not wrong.

a sea of black and gold. cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

============

he tells jaskier to wait in the cintran marketplace. if this works, geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. if it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in jaskier's path too. he's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by calanthe's men-- he has no doubt jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. he holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. wishes that it didnt.

when they fall through the portal, dodging calanthe's trap, jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

he's led through bullshit and lies, attempts to buck fate, but he can feel the tightening noose of destiny and knows its all pointless. he'll walk away with his child surprise, it's just a matter of whether that leaves him with a target on his back.

calanthe orders him gone, and eist escorts him.

"i remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. what changed?" geralt asks, needs to provoke something real out of one of them, desperately hopes for a chink in someone's armor.

"i had a granddaughter." eist throws at him blithely.

"so protect her." geralt says through gritted teeth. the conversation feels like one he's had a million times. "what if calanthe's wrong? what if they come and ciri is trapped?" he presses.

"i fight side by side with my queen." eist replies, unmoved.

"you put too much faith in that woman."

"well, you weren't there. after pavetta died, calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken." eist shakes his head, looking off in the distance as he relives the memory. geralt's temples throb, lips ghosting over the words along with him, wondering why the hell it's so familiar. "someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence till my final day."

geralt wants to scream. its not enough. it isnt enough. why do their minds never change?

"i need your promise you won't come back." eist says, and geralt pauses in the entryway, weighs his options.

it's so godsdamned familiar. and yet, he cant say anything but the truth. "if i hear ciri's in danger, you know i can't do that."

"i know."

the bars fall.

jaskier was shopping nearby. he hears the clatter, and comes running. its so like them-- somehow they always find each other.

he calls for geralt, running up to place his palms on the bars, face screwed up in fear and outrage.

guards close in, shouting at jaskier to step away from the prisoner, and geralt whips around to face eist. "dont hurt him." geralt pleads.

"he's your companion. a weasly little thing, there when you claimed the law of surprise in the first place. how do i know he wont try to break you out? or take the child surprise for you?" eist asks, and geralt's stomach plummets.

"you're a reasonable man, eist. i understand your commitment to calanthe, but jaskier hasnt done anything. he isn't bound to ciri by destiny, he has no claim to her. nilfgaard is nearly at the border, don't doom him by locking him in the dungeons when he's harmless." he grips the bars tighter, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip.

eist looks considering, so geralt presses on. "please. as one old friend to another, he's just a bard. don't punish him for my folly."

"we were never old friends." eist disputes. "...but i dont see the harm one bard could cause." relief hits geralt like a tidal wave, and he lets out his breath in one big exhale. "i dont think i've ever seen you scared before." eist cuts a look at him, and his eyes seem to pierce through geralt. he steps closer to speak in a low tone. "nearly at the border, you say?"

geralt nods, trying to project just how seriously he means it. "i wouldnt lie about this."

eist thinks for another moment, then says "i'll get him a guest room in the castle."

geralt's knees nearly buckle with relief. a guest room he can move freely in, and the castle will be the most well-fortified place during the inevitable seige. jaskier has a chance of survival. "no!" he hears for behind him, and he whips around to stare at jaskier.

"no, geralt, i wont leave you! they cant imprison you, you havent done anything!" he presses, tears welling in his eyes. he knows what's coming as well as geralt does, and he stinks of fear. geralt walks to the other side of the small cell to grasp jaskier's hands through the bars.

"jaskier, it's alright. i'll be right where i need to be. it's destiny, remember? i just need to know you'll be safe while i do it." jaskier looks unconviced, but geralt squeezes his hands tighter. "promise me you'll stay in your room. promise you'll wait for me. /promise/."

jaskier blinks back tears. "i promise." he says, and geralt lets out another sigh of relief. he leans forward as jaskier does, foreheads as close to touching as the bars will let them.

"alright. let's go." eist says, and a guard finally steps forward to place a hand on jaskier's elbow. he looks geralt in the eye, shoulders squared, a silent promise that they'll see each other again.

geralt meets his gaze. and then he's taken away.

============

++++++++++++

"this is cirilla. ciri, this is--"

"ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, i get to say it so rarely, after all." he says, cutting geralt off and turning to ciri. his shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "my name is julian alfred pancratz, viscount de lettenhove. graduate of oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard jaskier. at your service." he bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

there's a beat of silence. "...my partner." geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. ciri mostly just seems surprised. "don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "you! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you

great big oaf, i dont know why i put up with you."

ciri giggles nervously, then claps a hand over her mouth, a much needed moment of levity for the young girl. it cant last forever, though. geralt says "we need to go to sodden hill."

"why?" ciri asks, dread filling her stomach at the thought of all that destruction, and geralt places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"i think yen is there and i need to find her." he explains, and jaskier rolls his eyes.

"always chasing the old witch," he says, with maybe an undercurrent of jealousy, insecurity. it's something geralt will need to address, but not now. not like this.

"come on, bard." he says as he mounts roach and pulls ciri up with him.

"oh, left to walk as always while she gets the royal treatment? just a simple, gruff 'come bard', like im some dog who'll heel for you, i see how it is. so much for partner." he says with a sniff, and ciri giggles again, still a little uncertain. geralt bites back a smile.

"you can walk the other way, if you please." he replies, and jaskier sputters once more.

they quiet as they reach the battlefield, empty but for destruction and corpses. jaskier holds his nose for the stench.

geralt steps away from them to speak to the first person he sees, a woman in obvious shell-shock, looking around as if she's lost everything. perhaps she has. she looks at and yet through geralt as he speaks to her, seeing him without seeing him. then she speaks, and all of jaskier's disdain falls away with a gasp, hand flying to his chest.

"yennefer is dead."

it hangs in the air, dampening sound, stilling the trees. yennefer is dead. she is no more.

geralt's heart pounds in his ears, and he has so much and so little that he wants to say. he opens his mouth, and then stops. feels so faint, blinks away the fog in his mind, as certainty overcomes him.

"no, she isnt." he says, and tissaia looks at him with such pity, like he's in shock. and he doesnt know why he said it, except that it feels true. he feels almost lightheaded, shaky on his feet, anchored only by his knowledge that yen is alive.

"we are bound by fate. i would feel it if she were dead," he says, and he doesnt know if that's true, but he knows the certainty, and has no other explanation for it. it makes something like hope flicker across tissaia's face, warring with the absolute desolation.

"it cant be," she says, unwilling to trust the words of a strange man she's never met, one who couldnt know

"i'll find her," he says. "we'll meet again."

===

"i'm sorry." jaskier says, his voice so quiet. ciri is uneasily asleep, and jaskier and geralt sit around a fire.

"there's nothing to be sorry for. we'll find her again." geralt says, because it has to be true. it feels true. it must... it must...

jaskier lays a hand on geralt's arm, his voice soft and sympathetic. "then im sorry she's missing." he says, even though he clearly doesnt believe it.

the jealousy and insecurity has bled away now that she's gone. now that he /thinks/ she's gone, anyway. "all our old fighting... it was all so petty. even up till the last--" he stops himself, changes tracks. "...it was all so pointless. i know i pulled you between two people you cared about very much. and im sorry for it."

"i never minded. not really, not the little stuff. you and yen wouldn't be yourselves if you didnt bicker." geralt says, and jaskier shoots him a wane smile. he leans in to kiss geralt's cheek.

"then i promise i'll find something to be catty about when we find her again." he says, tucking geralt's hair behind his ear. "just-- i know this insecurity is gauche, considering the circumstances of her... disappearance. but if we do see her again, you'll still pick me, right?"

"yennefer means very much to me. but now that i have you, you're it for me, jaskier. i promise." he leans in to kiss jaskier on the mouth, short and quick and still so emotional. "she's my destiny, but you're my choice."

jaskier lets out a shaky breath, and pulls geralt in for another kiss.

===========

"tell me, friend, who changed you."

geralt smiles to himself as he considers his answer. "yennefer. ciri." he pauses, looking over at his companion, currently fiddling with a tchochkey on a shelf. "...jaskier." said man turns around when he hears his name, then freezes as if caught, item still in hand. when he meets geralt's eyes, though, he smiles, and geralt smiles back.

"well, you've the girl and the bard. but where is this lovely lady yennefer?" he asks, and geralt's smile falls.

"...she's gone." he says, and jaskier's mouth twists.

"last we heard, she was dead." jaskier says gently, and geralt flinches. he still refuses to believe it.

"she isnt," geralt insists, "but... wherever she is, she's still lost to me. who knows where she's gone to lick her wounds."

there's silence for a moment, pity etched into nivellen's eyes. "...i am sorry." he says, and geralt nods. let him think what he likes. geralt knows better.

=========

+++++++++

eskel says that if he had a princess surprise he would fuck her, and geralt feels blind rage rising in his chest, overpowering his mind as he thinks to ciri, little ciri, broken ciri, /his/ ciri. a child.

eskel would never say that, geralt thinks to himself, the absolute wrongness of it all settling over him like a cloak. something in his chest urges him forward. he wants to take eskel aside and slap sense into him, wants to know what happened to his most trusted brother, his most beloved, his other half, but he feels that same faintness in his head. he's starting to notice it, but it doesnt want to be noticed, it leaves him foggy and confused.

a vague impression seats itself in his mind. it almost sounds like 'i should have...' but it's gone just as quickly. he moves as if in a dream, filling a tankard with white gull, dosing it with sedative hidden away from when they were boys, when they needed to subdue witchers for medical treatment in a full keep.

eskel takes the mug and drinks it so fast, drinks like he's trying to outrun something, drinks like there's horror nipping at his heels. he falls asleep at the table, and geralt volunteers to bring him back to his room. vesemir offers to help, and he has no excuse to turn him down when carrying a full grown witcher's weight is such an ordeal, though he sweats under the collar when eskel cant even drunkenly stumble between them, fully dead to the world. vesemir must know something is wrong. he must.

they get him to his room with a lot of grumbling but no real issues, throw him down on the bed. "he drank himself into quite the stupor," vesemir says with shrewd eyes, brow furrowed.

geralt doesnt know what to say. "what's going on here, geralt?" he asks, and geralt's stomach plummets.

"i have to-- i cant explain, i just have to--" he starts, struggling for the words. "something is wrong. he's hurt." vesemir sends him a look that screams 'duh'.

"so you drug him to work on him in secret? this isnt like you." vesemir says, and geralt gets the crazy urge to laugh, because it isnt like him, he doesnt know what the fuck he's doing, except that he /must/.

witchers are allowed to lick their wounds in private, theyre allowed to come home angry and changed. geralt pushed them all away after blaviken, and none of them held him down, forced him, none of them acted like the mages that made them. he feels sick.

"we have to. vesemir, we--" he starts, grabbing eskel's shirt and lifting it to look at the damage. vesemir holds out a hand to stop him, and then they both fall still with a gasp. there, in his chest, right above his heart, is a piece of embedded wood.

it's big, not like a splinter, maybe the size of a fist, with spindly roots that anchor it, spreading out like veins under the surrounding skin. it pulses, just a bit, and embedded within the center of it is something else, a chunk of rock that almost looks like obsidian. rock gives way to wood gives way to flesh.

"we have to get it out of him." geralt says suddenly, going for the knife at his hip.

"we don't even know what it is," vesemir says, though the disgust is plain on his face. "what if removing it kills him? it could be in too deep."

"and what, just let it grow? it's right above his heart, it'll kill him soon anyway. and it's /moving/." geralt says, and vesemir looks pained.

"...i'll keep him out using somne," vesemir says, "we need to get it out fast but careful. dont leave a single branch behind."

they nod to each other, and geralt heats up the knife using igni, lets the flames lick the blade, then he gets to work.

eskel screams in his sleep, fighting against the drugs, against vesemir's hold, the first touch of heated metal enough to make his whole body tense. the wood contracts, roots tightening visibly beneath his skin, and geralt grits his teeth. one by one he pries them out of his guildsman's flesh, the wood sizzling and popping when touched by the hot blade. blood streams down eskel's chest, and he screams again, whole body arching

the roots convulse in the open air, trying to return to the safe haven of his veins, only to be cut off and thrown to the floor. a new root tries to grow in the old one's place and geralt cauterizes the stump, pressing the flat of the knife to it to produce even louder sizzling. if the thing could scream it would be, and eskel convulses once just like the thing in his chest.

suddenly, footsteps. the other's had heard his screams. lambert bursts in, shouts "what the fuck's going on?!" and geralt shakes his head, knowing what a strange scene they make, how threatening he looks holding a red knife.

"there's no time!" he says.

"go get every healing potion in the keep, now!" vesemir shouts, struggling not to break his own concentration. there's stillness, and then some of the gathered witchers run to do as told, while the rest watch in silent horror

geralt gets his nails under the edges of the thing and begins to lift, eskel once more arching up to follow him. it moves agonizingly slow, tearing eskel's flesh as the bark is dragged past his delicate muscle tissue. it seems to go on and on as geralt pulls, and to his own horror, he realizes something. it isnt just growing out, it's growing down. down into him, down towards his heart.

sweat drips down vesemir's forehead from holding the sign so firmly and so long. the root on the bottom extends down into eskel's chest, down towards his heart. geralt has to act fast and careful all at once.

his knife wasnt made for cutting wood, but he pushes it between the lump and eskel's body anyway, carving away at the spot where the root connects to the whole. there's so much fucking blood, he can barely see, and he has to drag the knife back and forth to get even the tiniest bit of progress, utterly devoid of leverage or the proper teeth to dig into the plant's flesh. then, finally, with a twist of his wrist, he snaps the wood chunk free from the root, cauterizes it, and throws it to the floor. only one last step.

he pushes flesh aside and sees the root go down, wrapped firmly around a rib, and then...

his heart. beating. right out there in the open, skin and muscle shoved aside to make way for that /THING/. the root is wrapped around the heart, squeezing, causing his convusions, and geralt feels sick, but there's no time to stop or wait. vesemir's control is slipping. blood is flowing faster now.

his fingers slip through blood and fat and viscera and things meant to be kept inside as he tries to untwist the root from the shock-white of eskel's rib bone. it snaps, apparently brittle now that it's disconnected from the whole, and geralt throws another piece at his feet. his hands arent clean, arent washed, but there's no goddamn time, so he slides a finger down beside his other half's very heart and hooks the back of the root. pulls so slow, so careful.

it pops free with a spray of blood, and all falls still.

"g'r'lt?" comes slurred from the bed. "did th't come outta' me?" eskel asks, and then immediately falls unconcious once more.

vesemir slumps against the wall. "gwain, coen," he says, panting just a bit, "the pig we were keeping for meat? slaughter it. we need a skin graft, clean and quick. everard, merek, sutures and everything else we need to clean and bandage."

only lambert remains, pale and silent, staring at the floor where the pieces of now inert wood rest. time seems less linear, suddenly, and nobody has much clue how much of it passes. all they know is that lambert cleans up the pieces of foreign blood-soaked thing into a jar for safekeeping, and the supplies filter in. eskel gets healing daughts poured down his throat, and geralt keeps working to stitch his chest together with pig skin, wont let anyone else touch him. they both breathe easier once the final stitch is in place, and geralt steps back with shaking hands as the other witchers wipe down his skin, slather it in healing poultices, and cover him in bandages. geralt falls asleep on the floor, trembling, without the sense in his head to clean away his brother's blood.

when eskel wakes up, he thanks them. tells them his head felt wrong, something whispering in it, ever since that leshen got one lucky shot. says the leshen didnt look right, didnt act right, that he couldnt remember how to kill it once it embedded in his chest. "it's like it went to seed in him," vesemir says in horror, and everyone shakes their heads, and they dont know what to do. but eskel is there. he is weak, and he is bedridden, and he is /there/.

finally, kaer morhen can rest.

=========

vesemir doesnt think these flowers are the answer. he doesnt recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. still, though, it doesnt sound right to his ear, even if he doesnt know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. he can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. he thinks back to eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. he feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

the little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. and even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. the metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, /chained/ in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. like it's nothing. like it isnt horrific.

but it's all he has. and it's what they needed.

his fingers curl around the paper. "how many other people know of this blossom? would be likely to put two and two together?" he asks.

"not many at all, i would imagine. even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge , or enough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. and it's only a theory, anyway, i cant confirm it as of yet." she replies, watching him closely.

their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. the continent is running out of monsters, but it hasnt run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and theyre dwindling. and yet...

he flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. a little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "cant let anyone know how we're made-- sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. no telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. and... there will be no more boys."

he looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "i thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but i urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. and if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then i can only pray your approximations were wrong."

she had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

there will be no more potions. no more blood spilt for these old stones. and there will be no more boys. he never even mentions their clandestine conversation to ciri. she deserves her choices, but she's a traumatized child, and he's an adult. he doesnt need to burden her with this.

=====

+++++

"yennefer of vengerberg." jaskier says in awe. cant believe geralt was right. cant believe she's alive. "shouldve known you wouldnt stay dead, rotting necrophage that you are," he says, catty and mean and a little breathless because she's /alive/. but then her arms are around him, and she's hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and he lets out a shocked grunt. "uh? hugging? you're hugging me, you do know you're hugging me, right?" he asks, mouth running faster in his confusion.

"oh jaskier," she says, "it's so good to see you."

"good. to see /me/. did you hit your head at sodden? is that where you've been all this time, wandering the countryside mindlessly?" he asks, and she snorts. snorts! like he's funny! which he is, but she's never admitted it before.

"oh how i miss when my problems were as small as a single sing-songy twit." she says fondly, taking him by the shoulders and leaning back to take a look at him.

"now i'll never admit to having said this, i'll deny it if you ever try to tell... but i am very glad you're not dead, yennefer." it comes out so damn soft, and for all their bickering it's hard not to be soft about someone you've known at least ten years. he cradles her arms in his palms, so they're both holding each other but at arm's length. "but i really must ask, where the hell have you been? we've been looking for you!"

"it's a long story," she says evasively, and he narrows his eyes.

"ah, well, if it's long then you certainly wouldnt want to tell it twice." he says, and leads her down the corridor, towards a closed door. "here," he says gently as he pushes it open, "i figure if you're here, you'd like to see geralt, too."

the room goes so still. "i knew," geralt says. "i knew we'd find each other." he says, and yennefer runs into his open arms for a hug, stress melting away as she tucks her face into his neck. for the first time in a long time, she feels /safe/.

jaskier watches them fondly, shoulder resting against the doorway. they'll have time for questions and answers. for now they can just be happy the world has a touch less death in it.

=======

"yen," he says gently. "im sorry for what i said. you would make an excellent mother."

yen's face does something complicated. "geralt--"

"ciri will need one." he says, and yen recoils in shock, to hear him offer it so plainly.

"so-- what, you want you and i to play house with your little orphan?" she asks, and it comes out harsh, but she doesnt take it back. geralt shakes his head.

"it wouldnt be like that. im... im with jaskier now." geralt replies, and that makes yen's eyebrows fly up in shock. "we wouldnt be... together like that. but we would be friends. partners. equals. i think it might be good for us, to take the heartache out of the equation. and ciri needs a teacher, someone like you. i think you'd be good for each other." he pauses, and when yen has nothing to say to that, he says "think about it."

she steps through a portal with ciri anyway. she sees him beg them not to leave, and she walks away anyway. but his offer rings in her head as loud as voleth meir's promises, and halfway to their destination yennefer brings them to a stop. ciri is so bright. so bright and beautiful, and with such great power, hair like geralt's and a heart like geralt's, so hurt and yet longing so deeply for love, and she looks at yennefer with such /trust/. so much trust, and she's leading this doe-eyed girl astray, what could be hers, what /should/ be hers, and yennefer is tired of sacrificing and sacrificing and sacrificing. she loves hard and she loves vicious and she loves selfishly, and when ciri demonstrates her powers yen thinks /my daughter did that. my. mine./

she thinks /you cannot have her,/ she thinks /you will not take this from me,/ she thinks, /i will no longer have no choice. i have a choice. i am making it./

and she turns on her heel and leads ciri in an entirely different direction. she leads ciri away from doom that ciri never even knew was hanging over her head. voleth meir screams, and she walks away anyway, down a road where she knows an equally angry geralt will find her. she only hopes she can talk him out of his rage before he sends her away.

====

"i want to know where yennefer of vengerberg is going." geralt says to codrinher and fenn. they look at each other, and then back at him.

"and you think we know this? we dont keep track of EVERY person on the continent, geralt." fenn replies

"i dont have time for games. i just need something, anything. where was she recently. she has--... someone very dear to me. and i must find them." geralt says, hands balled into fists.

they exchange a look. "we truly cant tell you her whereabouts. she hasnt been seen in quite a while. all that's known is that she was mumbling to herself last she was seen, before she vanished."

"what was she saying?" he presses, and codringer looks thoughtful.

"something like 'turn back to the forest, turn back to your mother'?" he says, scratching his chin.

"turn your back to the forest, hut hut. turn your front to me, hut hut." geralt says, understanding dawning on him.

"could be. our ears on the ground didnt hear it any clearer." fenn says, seemingly annoyed that there's information she doesnt know.

"i know where she's going " he says, throws a bag on coins on the table, and leaves as quick as he came.

===

geralt has his sword drawn before they even see him, terror lancing through him at the idea of ciri being taken to that being. ciri shouts with joy when she spots him, then with fear as he presses his sword to yen's throat. she lets him, no fight in her.

"i couldnt do it. i turned back. back to you." she swears, and geralt glances between the two of them, trying to assess if ciri is alright.

"geralt, what are you /doing/," she begs, looking so young and so frightened.

"what did she promise you? money? power?" geralt asks, betrayal running deep, burning him up inside, because he'd /trusted/ yen, and first chance she got she ran off with his child. /his/. to sacrifice her to something old and foul.

yen looks decimated. "...i cant be ciri's teacher. my magic... it's gone." yen says, and geralt startles at that. then she whispers, soft and broken and desperate, "geralt, she's in my head."

suddenly geralt sees her for what she is. someone very hurt, and very alone, who fought through the promises and manipulations of a demon to bring his daughter back to him. he slowly lowers his sword and pulls yennefer into an embrace. "we'll fix it." geralt promises

====

it doesnt get any easier to ignore voleth meir, but she looks around and sees kaer morhen, and the family that she's been welcomed into, and remembers that she's allowed to stay. that she has fought tooth and nail for every inch of her life until now, and she can keep fighting. that ciri is /hers/.

she teaches magic anyway, without demonstrations. it's hard for ciri, and it's hard for yen, but she isnt as worthless as she feared she'd be powerless. ciri looks up to her. ciri hugs her. ciri asks her hair be plaited for dinner. ciri is her choice, and she makes it every morning.

until one morning, it changes.

it starts small, just a creep, just a tickle. but she snaps her fingers, and a book by her bedside begins to float.

she'd burned herself out, ran her magic dry, scorched the channels it flowed through, but it healed. it came back with time. it was always going to come back with time.

she collapses to her knees and sobs, sobs like a child, for what has been returned to her.

and without her magic to tempt her, voleth meir loses her foothold in yennefer's mind. the whispers quiet and fade until theyre nothing but a memory.

and finally, yennefer is free.

=========

when geralt lays down that night, he dreams.

"ive found a djinn," yen says,

and geralt sees himself ask "another one?"

"except i wont try to tame this one." yen says, insists that it could be the answer to their problems. "we could keep ciri safe, teach her how to use her powers, if we phrase them just right the wishes could be the thing that saves us."

the scene changes. once more, he has a seal in his hand. "i wish i had the hindsight not to get into these problems anymore." he says, because he never makes the right choice.

the dream falls away with the sunlight streaming in, bright on his face. he looks down around him, at the little family he's created; jaskier by his side, ciri's head in his lap and feet near his face, yennefer asleep on a cot with her hand on ciri's. and he decides that this time he did make the right choice. he decides that he's happy.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #writing tag #did i really never post this??#if i posted this before and just forgot then everyone ignore me #witcher #geraskier #the witcher

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sexualsam · 2 years ago

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What's Lost is Lost (Pt. 2)

Ok ok I’m back and with part two. I kind of let myself get carried away with this one and im sorry if it got away from me. This will most likely be the last part so let your imaginations run wild. I have been binging Black Clover so I kind of started this and then completely forgot about it. My requests are open loves!

Word Count: 1,413

Imagine: Imagine: Meeting Geralt for the first time in a tavern you work at. At least to you it’s the first time. (Semi angsty Geralt) CONTINUED

This was her fault, at least she knew that. At least she could admit that.

If stubborn had a picture next to it in the dictionary, her photo would be right next to it. Smiling like all hell, even if she knew that all hell was about to break loose.

There weren’t many things she was good at, but with the things she was, she wasn’t just good, she was amazing. Lying, manipulating, being cold and calculated. These were all things she went above and beyond in.

This was different, however. She was in a situation, a bad one. One that not only put herself in danger but also someone she cared for.

She stood there in the middle of a windowless room, with a knife pressed against her throat. She stared in front of her. There stood the most important person. Him.

He was the one person she truly cared about, loved, even. He could pull her out of her own head in an instant. But she would never admit it. She wanted to think she was heartless.

Deep down, she knew. This wasn’t a time to laugh, it was a time to be scared, to fear for her life; but she couldn’t help it.

How could he seriously believe she cared this much about her life. Her simply complicated, dark, twisted life. That was his mistake, his fault.

She couldn’t care less about what was going to happen to her. Whether she lived or died, it didn’t matter.

So, she laughed.

… you really think I give a fuck about what you do with me? She could feel his eyes staring at her even as she looked at the floor.

The one and only person she cared about. And the one she cared about the least.

… do it then.

She felt the blade press deeper into her skin as her captor’s grip got tighter.

He looked at her, eyes glossed. And for a brief moment, he could see a small flicker of guilt on her face.

He knew that he loved her, but he would never admit it. She was heartless. She didn’t care about anybody but herself, and he knew that.

Geralt thought back to the last time that he had seen you. You were nothing like the girl he had run into at the tavern almost a year ago. You, no, that girl was not you.

Ever since that night he had been searching for the answer. What happened? Where had you gone? Why?

He had asked these questions to himself repeatedly. Simply put, there was no answer. He had scoured villages, kingdoms, forests and realms. No one had anything that had any answers.

He instead turned his attention towards a more direct approach. Locating the woman he had seen at the tavern. The shell of your formal self that he had run into on that fateful night.

He had circled back to look for you. No one seemed to remember the bar wench or anything special about her, except for her low-cut dresses. Geralt had to restrain himself while listening to his witnesses speak. The way they spoke about your body sent him into a rage. They spoke like animals and as if you were a piece of meat waiting to be devoured. He knew you; he knew every part of you. He had explored every single inch of your body. But the way the villagers thought of you. The way they vividly described the small part of you they were able to see in the dim tavern light made him want to start a massacre. No one was able to royally piss him off as much as they did. No one except for you.

Your constant taunting about how there was never a lesser evil. How he didn’t need to treat you like you needed protecting. How he was breathing or walking. There was always something to bicker about.

Geralt mounted Roach once more. He was on his way out of Kaer Morhen. He had gotten all the rest and vials he needed to last him the year. He planned to continue his search for you for as long as he had to. Until you were in his arms once more, starting petty arguments and laughing both with and at him.

The cold air nipped at his face; he hadn’t stayed the whole season at Kaer Morhen. Only long enough to stock up on what was needed to succeed in his mission. One without coin as his prize for winning.

As dusk started drawing closer, he had decided to set up camp for himself. Something small and sufficient for one night. Geralt typically gravitated towards a river or stream, as to have water for himself and his horse. However, there was a spot that was barren. No water or actively flowing source of hydration. Instead, it was where he and you had snuck out to, dozens of times. When Lambert or anyone else at Kaer Morhen had gotten on your nerves, he could usually find you here.

It was a small escape for you, and for Geralt it was a treasure trove of memories from the past.

During spring, it was littered with tulips and weeds. The tall trees surrounded it, creating a clearing and a perfect sky for you guys to gaze upon as you lay. He could almost feel the warmth of your skin as he reminisced. The memory seemed too real. Sprawled out in the clearing, nothing but nature under you. You nested into Geralt’s arms, looking up at the blue sky. His hands rested atop your abdomen as you plucked the grass mindlessly from the earth. His scent was so calming to you. Of course, you teased and taunted him, but he knew it was all good fun.

At first, he didn’t find it so amusing. He thought you were stubborn and narcissistic. But just as soon as he realized why you acted the way you did, he was already enthralled by you.

He found himself concerned with your safety and your recklessness. He wanted to fight to protect you even in the smallest of altercations. Geralt was well aware of your abilities and what you were capable of, but he didn’t care, he had a need to make sure you were safe.

You were indeed stubborn. Protection wasn’t something you felt you needed. You could feel yourself becoming more and more captivated by him and his ways, but you didn’t like being vulnerable. Everytime you felt that emotions were starting to peek through, you put up walls. The only time he had ever truly seen you at peace was in this clearing.

Geralt could feel a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He longed to be with you once more. He was the only person that truly knew you and likewise. He had let parts of himself that no one had ever seen be free around you.

As he approached the clearing the memories grew fonder and stronger, as did the faint glow to a dancing light.

Somone has tainted this land.

He dismounted Roach and was sure to be quiet. He stopped far enough back that he was still masked by the darkness.

“Stay here.” He quietly muttered; the steed slightly nodded as if understanding what he had just said.

The Witcher drew closer, taking small and quiet steps, careful not to draw any attention towards his direction. He knew it was not a monster or beast, simply a human looking for a camp. But not here, not in is sacred place.

The warmth of the fire slowly started to crawl to his skin. It was a change from the frigid temperature that surrounded him. A sheet of ice shattered beneath his foot, and he held his breath.

Damnit it.

A cloaked figure looked in his direction, though he was sure they couldn’t see him he shrunk back into the shadow of the tree.

He waited, waited for a proper amount of time, till he was sure the person had assumed it was an animal or their imagination. He conditioned his stealth like walk over to the clearing.

He could see now that the figure had moved. They were standing up, staring directly at him. With the distance he had covered, the flames of the fire surely illuminated his features as so with the cloaked figure.

He choked on his breath.

“Geralt?” . . .

#geralt of rivia #Geralt #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x y/n #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x you #gerald x y/n #supernatural #the witcher smut

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irrlicht-writes · 2 years ago

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awhole beneath the ice

Sometimes, he almost remembers something, he thinks.

Before his eyes, there are flowers flying by, ever-changing seasons and songs that would simply never end. And next to him, there is a horse, always trotting, always following. And there’s more but it hurts to lift his head. Maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the moon.

Whatever it is, it feels like a soft, precious thing.

And yet, it hurts.

When he blinks, the flowers and the sun are gone.

It’s so cold.

Where has the sun gone?

~*~

“Jaskier.”

When they ask him for his name, that’s the first thing he can think of. He won’t denounce himself, or his family – they’re still his, it still belongs to him – but this, this thing is just for him. Julian has no place here, doesn’t belong here. He still is Julian, yes, but he can be Jaskier and Jaskier can be anything he wants him to be, a free bird, not caught in cupboards, not behind the bars of a cage.

Julian picked buttercups outside, and Jaskier really wants to weave them into a flower crown. Yellow hasn’t really been his favourite colour until now, but it could be Jaskier’s favourite, he thinks.

“Jaskier,” they call him and to his surprise, it takes him no time to get used to it.

Maybe he was always supposed to be Jaskier.

The lessons, he skips as much as he attends them, because he is so much more interested in everything else. Lazy, they call him. Jaskier laughs and twirls and weaves more flower crowns. He’s free here, flying and without a tether.

He’s truly a good little bird here, he thinks and howls with laughter. Valdo frowns but Jaskier giggles and takes his hand to drag him away. He’s quite glad there’s enough beds here and he doesn’t need to see another abandoned barn.

He visits taverns and dances, sings and claps and laughs. He won’t go back, he won’t. He writes letters, but as replies soon start to dwindle, so does he dwindle in sending anymore. Maybe they’re best apart.

Julian’s not important anyway.

Jaskier is so much better, so much more interesting.

If life could give me one blessing

When Valdo leaves, Jaskier is only slightly stifled. Valdo was a sleazy bastard anyway and Jaskier is pretty sure the last poem Valdo released was cobbled together out of verses he’s stolen. It was all okay though, because Jaskier is a free bird and now he can prance around again wherever he pleases.

He graduates with all the honours he could not care more about and he pockets the contract they give him for later use, or maybe kindling, he’s not sure yet. Jaskier nicks a lute from the storage room and skips town before anyone notices he’s even gone.

It is late spring and the audience outside of Oxenfurt sure is hard to please. He’s a free bird, yes, but maybe he’s gotten acclimatised to the crowd back in the city. The people he sang to now aren’t high-cultured in any way and some alliterations might go straight over their heads.

Apparently they like things they can easily understand.

And yet, when he sings of simple things, they still pelt him with hard bread. They’re a rude bunch, that’s for sure. Maybe he would have to find a balance.

He continues on, because he loves to roam and pick the flowers and breathe in the air. He darts out of windows and hops over fences and he laughs and the world belongs to Jaskier.

In Posada, he meets somebody. A broody, moody somebody but he’s oh so interesting. Jaskier skips and sings and dances and the broody moody Witcher can’t really get rid of him.

Geralt, his name is, Jaskier knows. Jaskier’s heard the stories and he’s enticed by the stories. He wants more, he wants everything. And where else to get everything than right here? Jaskier’s always liked a little bit of thrill, really.

Over a campfire, Geralt smiles at Jaskier for the first time. Jaskier laughs and chirps and sings and plays and the smile doesn’t go anywhere.

He puts his head back, stares up at the sky full of stars.

The song fades away on the wind, the fire stops cackling for a moment and when he blinks, he’s drowning.

The stars above him transform away, until all that is left is a singular one, a star in the shape of a broken hole, and it’s moving away from him, faster and faster. Julian wants to scream, for help, please, please help him, why isn’t his Nanny helping him but his voice fails him.

His legs are heavy and they drag him down and he drowns, drowns, and drowns.

He reaches a hand out towards the star-shaped hole above him but there’s nobody.

Julian is five years old and he dies here.

~*~

He’s lying on the floor and he’s counting the bricks in the wall. He keeps losing track and starting again but that’s okay. He should worry about his leg, he knows, but that’s okay too. It’s cold, so cold and he’s naked and there’s nothing he could use as a blanket. Hasn’t there been straw before, at least? He can’t remember, but then again, he also can’t remember how long he’s been here.

Oh... the bricks.

He’s lost count again. But that’s okay, he can start again.

It’s not too late to start again.

He can do it, he can do it.

...Who is “he”?

~*~

“Nobody is going to love you,” his mother says to his face, her hands cold on his cheeks. He blinks up at her, not knowing what to respond.

“You are too much – too loud, too annoying, too... you. Be a good little bird and just be quiet, will you?”

He blinks again and then she shoves him into the cupboard. She locks the door behind him and Julian sits down. He doesn’t understand. The birds outside his window are never quiet unless they’re sleeping. He looks down at his hands and turns them in front of his face.

Then he remembers – he’s seen somebody keep a bird at home, locked away in a cage. That bird had been silent unless it had been animated to sing. But Julian wasn’t in a cage, was he?

He looks up to the door and presses his hands on the wood. He pushes against the wood and it doesn’t give. Maybe he is in a cage, after all?

You are too much.

But – he’s himself, isn’t he? How can there be too much of him?

He remembers then, the tiny hole of light getting ever smaller. Julian reaches his hand upwards, ever upwards, toward the light even though his arm is heavy and his legs are dragging him down.

Save me, he wants to say, save me please save me, can you hear me?

His hand his reaching up and suddenly he can’t breathe and he’s not in the cupboard anymore and somebody, someone grabs his hand and pulls him to the light.

He coughs and sputters and spits out water, it’s in his ears, in his eyes, gods his doublet is soaked –

He stops.

A doublet?

He – what?

He blinks and looks around.

There’s a forest around him, but it’s cold and dark. Wasn’t there just the sun out? Where did the sun go? He looks down at himself and it’s not – it’s not him, is it?

Somebody grabbed his hand.

Somebody pulled him out.

He looks to the lake and it’s frozen over and he can see a tiny hole in the ice. It’s too small for him, isn’t it? And wasn’t it just summer? He’s cold and he’s freezing and he is heavy, so heavy and so weary.

But there’s a hole in the ice.

“Don’t go on the ice, it’s dangerous.”

He doesn’t turn his head to a toneless, voiceless voice.

“I want to go ice-skating.”

His legs are shaking and when he blinks, he’s kneeling in front of the hole, staring into the water. He can scarcely see his face in it and it’s – it’s his face but it’s not a face he remembers. He doesn’t understand.

He – what’s his name, what’s his name – reaches out, grabs into the water and he seizes a small hand in his. Back then, who – who saved him?

Because he was five years old and he shouldn’t drown then.

He, he pulls and nothing comes up because he falls down instead and he screams, Julian screams inside the cupboard because he’s drowning because he’s five years old and he can’t – he can’t –

But nobody comes.

He looks up but there’s no hole in the ice.

He reaches for it anyway.

~*~

Somebody is crying and it takes him too long to realise that it’s not him.

He blinks awake and sees the bricks he didn’t count. Are the bricks crying? All the stains he presumed to be blood – that he knows are blood – are they tears? He shakes his head, as little as he can move still and there’s a hiccup.

Not the bricks then.

Owlishly, he blinks and tries to move himself more. The sound comes from above his head but it’s so, so difficult to move.

“I – I thought you were – were dead,” the unseen voice cries and he thinks, well, it’s not wrong. He ought to be dead, no? Can he even talk still? Maybe he should try.

Yes, he tries to say but nothing proper comes out. Maybe a sound, it’s so exhausting. The sobbing grows louder.

“P-please don’t die,” she begs and it’s a she it’s a she and he needs, he needs to see her, he has to he has to it’s important he has to –

shovel shit.

No.

No no no no.

What?

He can feel his heart beating in his chest and it hurts it hurts so much. He keens or whines or he doesn’t know but he just wants to – he wants to –

Does this please you?

He just wants to count the bricks.

~*~

He’s panting into Iwo’s mouth as they come down from their heights. Now, yes, Julian always imagined his first time in a more luxurious space than an abandoned barn, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Iwo is the tailor’s son and he’s been – courting Julian – for a good two years. Maybe courting is the wrong word, but Julian doesn’t know what else to say for it. He likes Iwo, he knows. The boy is three years older than him, true, but it can work out. Julian’s not important anyway, so it won’t matter much which whom he gets married, right?

Iwo huffs a stinky breath into his face and stands up. Julian feels slightly uncomfortable and very sticky. He hopes that Iwo will get some water to clean them both up because there isn’t really any river nearby. And Julian is not going to the village’s well still dripping, no thanks.

“That was nice,” Iwo says and Julian nods. He’s frowning though, Iwo says it with such a weird time.

“See you later, lording.”

“Wha – Iwo, wait!”

But Iwo is already out of the barn.

“Bring me some cloth at least!”

He doesn’t yell very loudly. While the barn is abandoned, it’s not all that far away.

He wonders, then.

As he lies there, he wonders.

And later, in later days, when they yell after him, he still wonders.

~*~

The girl, he remembers. Her white hair, her green eyes, her dirty dress, her tear-stained cheeks, he remembers.

She clutches his broken fingers and sobs, begs him to not die. He doesn’t know if that was what he was doing. What is he even doing here? Why is he counting bricks anyway? What had he done before, he can’t quite remember.

“He’s gonna come, he’s gonna come,” she whispers in-between broken sobs and he believes her. Who’s he, he wonders and he doesn’t know who he even means by that. He blinks and wishes he could squeeze her hand. Why is she here, he wonders.

He knows her, he knows her like he knew the sun, once.

The flowers, and the sun and that horse.

A song on the wind, he tries to remember but it slips through his fingers every time he tries to catch it. He wishes he could ask her to sing for him, one last time.

His legs are frozen, they drag him under.

He frowns.

That’s not right.

He wants to talk, to talk to her. But he’s in a cage and caged birds don’t sing and –

He blinks towards the door.

All he needs is a hole, his hole in the ice.

He curls his fingers around her tiny hand.

~*~

A long time ago, in a winter long since passed, Julian breaks through the ice. He had wanted to go ice-skating even though his Nanny had mentioned this to be a bad idea. But Julian hadn’t wanted to listen, so off they went.

His Nanny is with him, but she’s standing far away on the safe ground. Maybe she’s screaming but all Julian can hear is the water around him. At first, he doesn’t realise he fell through. This is scary, he thinks. Breaking through the ice is bad; it’s what his Nanny always says. And yet, Julian swims in this lake during summer so many times and it’s never a problem.

He can see the hole he fell through, he thinks. He reaches out a hand for it but it’s so far away. Julian sinks further towards the bottom. He wonders, briefly, if he’s ever swum to the bottom before. Can he even hold his breath for that long? He should’ve tested that before now. But it’s too late now, it’s too late.

Do I want to die here?

No, he decides. He doesn’t. He tries to kick his legs to go back upwards but it’s so difficult. His whole body is heavy, so, so heavy and it drags him down. But he has to try, he has to try, he has to –

Does he?

Why should he try?

Julian closes his eyes. Who’d miss him, even?

But he’s five years old and he shouldn’t drown here.

He’s five years old and he should be loved.

He opens his eyes again and looks back up. The small hole is getting smaller and his chest is burning. He kicks his legs again, trying again and again and again.

With a heavy arm, he reaches upwards again.

Who will save him? Somebody save him.

Somebody somebody somebody –

He punches his hand through the water.

It’s so, so cold.

He tries so, so hard.

He remembers flowers.

Maybe he remembers more.

it would be to take you off my hands

~*~

He’s panting and his heart lies hard in his chest. He can’t feel his legs, can’t feel his body, but he screams, screams underwater and he won’t die here, won’t die, not here not yet.

The girl sobs and tries to stop and Julian waits. The door. He needs a hole, that’s all. When it opens, he is ready. His Nanny is standing on the sidelines, screaming and his mother is double-locking the cupboard. Julian grabs the man with the food and slams him against the wall. His legs are heavy but he is strong enough to save himself.

Something cracks and maybe it’s bone, maybe it’s wood but the door is open. She is breathing hard but she jumps up, next to him and she understands, she knows. Julian won’t let her drown, he won’t let either of them drown.

“We save ourselves,” he says and thinks of a hand that pulled him out of the water. He can’t remember if it was real or not.

On frozen legs, he leaves the bricks behind, their blood, and their tears.

He doesn’t know where to go. His adrenaline is fading fast and he doesn’t know how much time he has still.

“Which way do we take?”

The girl tries hard not to let her voice tremble. Julian doesn’t know. Then, there’s chirping and he turns his head. Down the left path is a child he knows, a child he’s left behind. It chirps and sings and it’s free and Jaskier turns, following it.

Away from the cage, away from the cupboard. Towards the open road, the open path and all the world beyond it. The girl grips his pant leg and follows him. Maybe she questions him, but she doesn’t say. It doesn’t matter. How could he not follow the chirping outside his window?

He walks, and she follows.

“They’re behind us!”

She screams, she panics but Jaskier doesn’t look back. He knows where the child leads and he’s ready. “Trust me,” he says, and he grabs her and picks her up. She squeals and protests and she is scared but that’s okay.

Jaskier isn’t afraid.

He runs.

He runs, like he used to do so long ago.

When he was Julian still, when he’d run across a field all by himself.

When he was young still, when his Nanny hated him but couldn’t leave him alone.

He runs, like he once ran away from home, picking buttercups on the way.

He runs, like he once ran away from his other home, strumming his stolen lute.

He runs, like he once ran from that mountain, listening to the wind taking him away.

He runs, he jumps, and then they fly for just one moment.

The girl screams and Jaskier leaves Julian behind.

They hit the water and they drown, drown, drown but there’s no ice, no hole to grow smaller.

Holding the girl tight, he looks up.

Jaskier can see the sun, the flowers. He knows what he’ll see when he gets up.

His legs are frozen, his legs are dead and done, but he uses them still, a remnant, to kick them both up, towards the sun, towards the light.

~*~

When he breaks through the surface, he breathes.

He turns and sees his Nanny in the distance.

He blinks and sees the horse in the distance.

He blinks again and both things seem to exist at once.

There’s Julian, and there’s Geralt.

He breathes and he’s Jaskier.

He’s Jaskier.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #hurt jaskier #the witcher jaskier #dandelion #hurt/comfort #fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #fanfic #open ending #geraskier #I mean in my heart ok #ciri #tw drowning

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bambirex · 1 year ago

Text

The World Is Yours, If You Seek The Good: Chapter 12

Pairings: Geraskefer, Yennskier, Geraskier, Yenralt

Characters: Jaskier, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt of Rivia, Ciri of Cintra, Lambert

Additional tags: implied/referenced abuse, forced pregnancy, mpreg, creature fic, fae Jaskier, creature Jaskier, creature Yennefer, captivity, enemies to friends to lovers, polyamory, found family, hurt/comfort, it starts out angsty but it will get better, completely made up lore, fertility issues, completely made up skills and powers, angst, angst with a happy ending, whump, Jaskier whump, Yennefer whump, intersex Jaskier, Ciri whump, Geralt whump, blood, nightmares, injury, wound care

Rating: mature

Full word count: 37,220 words

Chapter word count: 2,989 words

Chapters: 12/?

Summary: Used and abused by humans, Jaskier and Yennefer believe they are alone and with no reason to trust anybody. That is, until they meet each other - and then, a couple of other strange misfits.

Chapter summary: Jaskier and Yennefer have a heart to heart that helps the both of them get over their fears and doubts. Geralt teaches Ciri some important things.

Author's notes: MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING for a lot of pregnancy talk in this chapter, especially leaning into the forced/unwanted side of it, so if that's something that makes you uncomfortable, please, skip this chapter or at least the first half of it for your own sake!

Read on Ao3

Positioning his lute against his growing belly was getting harder and harder to do each day. The first time he experienced a pregnancy, Jaskier felt tremendously sad over this, since playing his instrument and singing along was one of the only small comforts in his life while he was in captivity. He wanted to bash his lute against the wall, claw his stomach open and tear himself from the inside out when it first happened. He screamed and cried and mourned the life that was taken away from him.

It never got any easier, but his emotions dulled enough for it to be a bit more bearable. He became desensitized to the discomfort, to the alien feeling of being a guest inside his own body. Jaskier could barely remember a time when it truly belonged to only him.

Strangely, now as he struggled to place his lute over the parts of his lap that weren't yet covered by his bump, he laughed. Something that used to be so humiliating, was now almost endearing. Somehow, he didn't hate the child growing within him.

He was never allowed to think of them as children because he knew he would get too attached, then, and it would hurt all the more when he had to give them away to the humans. He thought of them as invaders of his body, as things that were put in there for someone else's needs. He had to, because it made it easier to handle the heartache of seeing yet another baby ripped out of his arms. They were never his, not even for a fleeting moment.

Jaskier didn’t know what the future had in store for him, but he was certain he was never going back to Master. He would rather die than live like that again, as a pretty decoration, an entertaining toy. He found something that finally gave meaning to his sad, lonely life. Maybe it was too soon to say, but Jaskier felt like he's found himself a family. And he didn't want to leave them.

He felt a small kick against his belly and he chuckled.

"What, you like my misery? You find it funny that I can't play properly?"

Another kick. Jaskier ran his hand over the place where he felt the little feet. He swallowed when he felt them press against his hand.

"I don't know what to think of you," Jaskier told the baby honestly, rubbing over his swollen stomach. "What am I allowed to call you? Are you mine? Kick once for no, twice for yes."

Nothing happened. Jaskier chuckled at his own silliness. Then, two little kicks in quick succession. Jaskier's eyes welled with tears.

"Don't lie to me," Jaskier whispered, "I can't handle it if you're just joking."

He heard the soft sound of someone clearing their throat. He looked up to see Yennefer standing in the doorway, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

"Hey," Jaskier greeted her, forcing a smile through his tears. Yennefer stared at him for a few seconds with an unreadable expression, before she spoke.

"Hi. You okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Jaskier chuckled. "Just, uh, talking to myself. No big deal."

"You weren't talking to yourself," Yennefer pointed out as she walked inside the room. "You were talking to the baby."

"Fine, maybe I was," Jaskier held his hands up in defeat. "Ciri is downstairs cooking with Geralt. I'm bored."

"You could have joined us," Yennefer told him. She sat on the bed. "Geralt was asking about you."

"Oh," Jaskier felt his cheeks warm up. He shrugged with a sheepish smile. "He must be wondering why I'm not eating everything in his house for once."

"He likes you," Yennefer said, her smile genuine. "And I think you like him, too."

"Well, you can't deny he's a gorgeous hunk of a man, Yennefer."

"It's more than that."

Jaskier snorted softly. "Then I guess I'm not alone with that. I've seen how you look at him, too. You can't deny you've warmed up to the witcher."

The flush on Yennefer's cheeks, and her fleeting smile made Jaskier grin.

"Thought so."

"Shut up, you moron," Yennefer scoffed, her cheeks still pink.

She looked down on Jaskier's stomach, her small smile fading. Jaskier bit his lip. He knew what it meant. She tried to hide it, but she always looked at him that way. There was a deep ache, a longing in her eyes.

There was a time when Jaskier thought he and Yennefer would never get along well. There was a time where he thought that being from such vastly different species, they would never find common ground. And yet, there was a bond between them, which got deeper and deeper as they went through all the horrible things back at their owner - and now, they were going through something else together, something lovely. At the bottom of it all, there was him, a chatty fae who fell in love with a sassy witch. And he may have not known what exactly did Yennefer feel for him, he knew she trusted and cared for him.

He knew about the pain Yennefer hid under her angry exterior, the loneliness and the loss. And like he's promised her he would try and make sure she would get through things okay when she was dragged home from the market all those months ago, he was more than ready to keep caring for her the way she deserved.

And that care had to come with honesty.

"I know you think it's a gift," Jaskier started. He cupped his belly, Yennefer's eyes following his movements. She swallowed audibly.

"That I can carry children."

"It looks like that to me," Yennefer replied honestly. "I can't do that. I wish I could."

"It would be a gift, I think. If I was allowed to do it on my own terms."

He took a deep breath. The baby shifted in him again, as if trying to calm him.

"I was very young when I had the first child. I was terrified. I wasn't prepared. And I did not want it, not like that, with the knowledge it's not really mine. That they would be taken away at the end."

His throat tightened painfully. He felt Yennefer's eyes on him all the while.

"You carry them inside your body for months, but you don't get to cherish it. The kicks, the little movements... they do not belong to you. Your body... it's not yours anymore. It's a vessel for someone else. And you go through all that pain, that discomfort, completely alone. Not with a mate to hold your hand, not with a family to have your back. You have a heartless Master who only checks on you to make sure you would deliver a healthy product. That's what he called them. The babies. He called them products."

He blinked against the tears in his eyes. He heard Yennefer take in a sharp, shaky breath.

"I don't hate being pregnant," Jaskier explained quietly. "I guess I did, in the beginning, but only because it was forced on me. I wanna have a baby. A child. I do. I wanna know what it's like to bring my own child into this world, to myself and people that would care about them. But I never had that, and I kept brushing it under the rug but Yennefer, I hate that I never had that."

When he looked up, he noticed Yennefer's eyes were shiny with tears. It made his composure crumble even more.

"I was much lonelier than I let on. And then... you came along."

He gave Yennefer a wobbly smile. "You, and your strormy violet eyes, your death threats and your constant hissing. Your acidic insults and your thinly masked self-loathing that manifested in hatred for everyone. You... and your lonely, hurt heart. You and your emotions that you weren't allowed to feel. The kindness, the love, the gentleness in you. The beauty that was not dangerous, but soft. Something that deserved to be cherished."

A tear ran down Yennefer's face as she told him to stop it. But Jaskier wasn't finished.

"I love you, Yennefer," he told her as he wiped at his eyes with a wet little laugh. "You're my exact opposite and yet, you are just like me. Lonely. Used and abused by humans. Abandoned and humiliated. You came along and it was like looking into a mirror. I don't know what this thing is between us, but I know I never want to lose it."

He reached for Yennefer's hand carefully. Yennefer immediately squeezed his without hesitation.

"And then we met Ciri. This brave girl who's suffered like us, whose heart remained kind and pure despite what she's been through. A true inspiration. A wonderful child. The first child that maybe... will stick around. I love her. Like she's my child, and that's silly, right? But it's true. I care about her. And I don't care who wants to get their dirty hands on her, I won't let them. I will grow a whole forest around them and bury them under the trees before I'd let them hurt her."

"Who knew you had such a violent streak in you," Yennefer chuckled softly. Jaskier shook his head.

"You bring this out of me. Not violence, but... bravery. Something I lacked before. Geralt... he's making me brave, too. Because I see this man, who isn't even supposed to feel anything and yet he feels so much. He's a wonderful father, a great friend... so much more human than the ones who call themselves such. He's strong, not just in his body, but in his heart. He would do everything to protect his daughter, and now us. And it means a lot to me. That he had no reason to trust us, but he still does, that he's willing to put everything aside to keep everyone safe. I love him."

Tears fell onto his shirt, soaking the soft material as he looked down on his stomach.

"And this baby...I don't know, for the first time in my life, I think maybe I'll get to keep them? They might be a part of me that will finally stay. I want them to. I want them to be mine. I feel like after we escaped our owner, we all got a new life. And I want this life to be great, I want to share that life with you and Geralt and Ciri and maybe this baby, too... because I think I love this baby."

He broke down sobbing, wringing an arm over his face. He felt arms wrap around him and pull him close, fingers threading through his hair soothingly. He buried his face in Yennefer's chest as she shushed him.

"Thank you," Yennefer whispered, her own tears falling onto Jaskier's head. "Thank you, for telling me this. It means a lot, you know? Because I envied you so much for being able to get pregnant. I hated you for it. My own body did not belong to me either. It never did. It was used like yours. And it was hollow. Devoid of the things yours had. I always wanted to create something but the humans made sure I never could."

She pulled back to cup Jaskier's face, gently making him look into her eyes.

"But you know what? Fuck the humans. Fuck everyone who made us feel like we weren't worthy. Who told us we were only useful for our womb, or who made us feel like shit for the lack of it. Because we both create beautiful things, Jaskier. Look at us! Look at what we have together! Look at what we're doing with Ciri, with Geralt! It may not be much, but it means something, right?"

"Right," Jaskier sniffled. He let himself lean into Yennefer's touch as she gently wiped his tears away with her thumb.

"I never thought I'd have this," Yennefer admitted. She pressed her forehead against Jaskier's, taking a deep breath.

"I thought I would be alone all my life. And I kept saying I was fine with that, because who would ever love me, anyway? I was called scary, dangerous, hideous... I never had a bond with anyone. The closest to it was another drepima. We spent like, what, four days together? I did like her. But then she was beaten to death. And I promised myself I would never get attached to anyone. My kind isn't cut out for that."

"You never told me about this," Jaskier said quietly. Yennefer swallowed.

"I know. I only just told Geralt about it, too. He was the one that pointed out that it may have hurt me more than I let on. I believed I wasn't deserving of care, of friendship, love... of a family. And I genuinely did not like you in the beginning."

Jaskier chuckled. "Yeah, that much was obvious."

"I hated you for being everything I couldn't be, and I hated you for still being so kind to me. It scared me. To be treated with care. I wanted to keep you away from me, but... I love you too, you little asshole. You've grown on me like a particularly clingy, annoying moss, and you know what? I'm fine with that. And I'm fine with sticking with you. And Ciri... she does feel like a child to me, too. Something I thought I could never have. Geralt... yes, I do love him. He's different from what I imagined him to be. All my life, I've been surrounded by hatred and fear. Chaos and destruction. Now... now, it feels like I'm building something. A family, maybe."

"You deserve a family, Yen," Jaskier told her, the nickname slipping out easily. Yennefer didn't seem to mind, if her smile was anything to go by.

"We all deserve a family. I know I probably can't get my own back. I'm not sure they're even alive. But that does not mean I have to be alone, right? We could be a family. The four of us."

"Five," Yennefer corrected him softly. Jaskier noticed she was looking at his stomach again - and for the first time, instead of the painful longing and envy, he saw something else in her eyes. Something like awe.

"Can I..." Yennefer whispered, her smile wobbling, "would you mind if I...?"

"No," Jaskier replied softly. He took Yennefer's shaking hands and guided them to his belly. Yennefer took in a sharp breath as she placed her palm over the swell of Jaskier's belly.

"How do you feel?" Jaskier asked her. Yennefer opened her mouth, but no words came out. Then, she smiled again, bright and genuine. Jaskier's heart fluttered at the sight.

"Great," Yennefer replied earnestly. She let out a soft gasp along with Jaskier when the baby kicked again, fluttering excitedly against Jaskier's skin.

"They like you," Jaskier grinned. Yennefer laughed through her tears as she gently caressed the curve of his belly, making the baby kick and roll inside him again.

The sight of Yennefer smiling as she held his belly was everything to him. It was beautiful, genuine. It was perfect.

"Yen," he whispered, causing her to look up at him curiously. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Yennefer replied without hesitation. Jaskier gently cupped her cheeks as he leaned in and pressed their lips together. Yennefer's hands remained on his belly as she kissed him back happily, melting into him.

Ciri could barely believe her ears when Geralt told her it was time for her to learn some swordsmanship. She's been begging him for ages to teach her how to fight, but Geralt always refused, claiming it was better if she stayed out of trouble.

"What changed now?" She asked, curiously watching Geralt packing away their food and grabbing two swords. He handed Ciri the lighter one with a smile.

"I decided to stop being dishonest with you," Geralt told her. He placed a hand on her back as he led her outside. "Now you know everything about yourself. You know why I said the world was a dangerous place. You were right when you said you're stronger than anyone in this house. Not just because of your powers."

He placed his left foot forward and drew out his sword, motioning for Ciri to do the same. Ciri stood next to him and mimicked his movements.

"I will keep protecting you," Geralt promised as he swung his sword around in the air, deliberately slowing his movements down so Ciri could easily copy him. "But that does not mean you should be kept from protecting yourself. Yennefer will help you control your powers, and I can help show you how to fight even when you can't rely on them."

Ciri grinned at him. There was something different about Geralt now: he was a bit less stoic, a bit more open. Ciri wondered if revealing her family's history was what did this to him, or his clearly growing feelings for Yennefer and Jaskier. It was perhaps a combination of both.

"We're supposed to be training," Geralt reminded her as he caught her staring. Ciri laughed.

"I'm sorry. I'm just happy, you know? Things are so scary now, but you're making them okay."

She placed her sword down on the ground and hugged Geralt tightly. Geralt wrapped his arms around her in return.

"We're all gonna be okay, right?" She asked against Geralt's chest. Geralt hummed as he gently ruffled her hair.

"I'll make sure of it," he promised. "We all will. No matter what happens, we won't abandon each other."

"That includes Jaskier and Yennefer too, right?" Ciri asked, looking up at Geralt hopefully. Geralt smiled.

"Of course."

Ciri put her head back on his chest with a happy smile. Right now, no matter how uncertain the future may looked, she truly believed they would all be okay.

#geraskefer #yennskier #geraskier #yenralt #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #my fic #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #ciri #the world is yours if you seek the good

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fandom-trash-and-hyperfixations · 2 years ago

Text

Gasp. The brink! The cusp! Almost there!!!

[MASTERPOST] - Oh Geralt...

He is so, so close to getting the most important point about this, he's so close to realizing something, but for now he just finally gets that he left a pregnant Jaskier alone on that mountain.

#geraskier lovechild #geraskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #jaskier #geralt of rivia #omegaverse #listen geralt you can do it!! you are nearly there buddy #but the thing that is important to remember is that Geralt will never put himself into the equation because he KNOWS #in his head this always has been IMPOSSIBLE #it's not happening #to get him to think about the possibility - he has to be taken by the neck and pushed in there face forward #facts have to slap him in THE FACE #oh Geralt #spielzeugkaiser

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rebrandedbard · 3 years ago

Note

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

#asks #my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #you know i wish that i had jessi's tag #actually let's tag this as a ficlet too it's a bit longer than usual #ficlet

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years ago

Text

Oh, what’s in a name?

summary: Geralt accidentally calls Jaskier by the wrong name and Jaskier finds out that maybe that's a compliment

pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

word count: 3k

AO3

warnings: none

„Can you hand me the whetstone, Roach?”

Jaskier, already mid-motion to turn and ready to do what Geralt had asked him to, froze. Slowly, and with the biggest grin he could fit on his lips, he turned back to face Geralt again.

“What did you just say?” He could barely contain the laughter in his voice. Raising an eyebrow, he exchanged a look with Roach – well, he tried to exchange a look with Roach, but as usual, she didn’t cooperate – and let out a tiny snort.

Geralt’s brows furrowed in confusion and he gave a small grunt, before saying, “The whetstone.”

Jaskier blinked, his mouth already half-open to tease Geralt about growing old enough to forget the name of his dearest travel companion, but then he stopped himself. He squinted at Geralt, trying to find any hint on his face that he had even realised that he had called Jaskier by the wrong name, but he found none.

For a moment, he contemplated being offended by being mistaken with a horse, but then Roach trotted over to Geralt and nibbled at his hair, making the witcher look up with the softest smile as he petted her neck.

The sight of Geralt so relaxed and free with his smile, made something warm and fuzzy grow in Jaskier’s chest.

He decided not to say anything. At least for now.

Jaskier’s plans to tease Geralt about the name-thing later failed spectacularly. Not because Jaskier didn’t dare tease Geralt, of course, but because all of his attempts to subtly tease him didn’t work, and Jaskier was too proud of his finesse with words to take a more direct approach to his teasing.

He tried singing songs in which he exchanged Geralt’s name or moniker with something else, which only earned him an amused hum.

“Is calling me the White Wolf not enough anymore?” Geralt asked when Jaskier had finished his little ditty. “I thought you needed one moniker for me for memorability.”

Jaskier huffed and nearly opened his mouth to tell Geralt plainly why he had gone with the wrong moniker, but then he blinked.

“You listened to me while I told you about that?”

Geralt shrugged and turned to tend to Roach. Jaskier was nearly fully convinced that he only did it to have an excuse to avoid eye-contact.

“It’s nice talking to someone who talks back.”

Jaskier snorted. “My friend, I’d say out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s doing most of the talking.”

Geralt didn’t reply, proving Jaskier’s point.

Oh, but Jaskier had been wrong. He didn’t realise just how wrong he had been about Geralt’s penchant for taciturnity, until they had to spend more than a couple of days in town.

Had Jaskier thought Geralt didn’t like talking all that much before, he was now fully taken aback by just how little Geralt actually said. Jaskier would have thought that a town with many people – most of which were even somewhat friendly towards Geralt – would get Geralt to relax, but it only served to make him clam up and become more quiet.

That is, he was quiet, save for when he talked to Jaskier.

In comparison to how he treated everyone else, he was downright chatty with him.

After that discovery, Jaskier made a point of talking more about things that Geralt seemed to like talking about. He let him explain the importance of cleaning his swords so often, lest they rust from his touch. He let him talk for hours on end about how to take care of horses. Once Jaskier got him to open up about his family, Geralt almost didn’t stop talking about his brothers, recounting how he and Eskel had once caught a giant bumblebee or reminiscing about how Lambert had tried to set fire to the instructors’ beds when he had been a trainee.

Watching Geralt talk like that was an experience. Every word that he entrusted with Jaskier made his heart flutter and every small smile Geralt gave him as he talked, took his breath away.

“I think you’d really like them, Roach,” Geralt said to conclude his story about his brothers.

Jaskier’s lips twitched upwards, but just like the first time it had happened, Geralt didn’t seem to realise what he had just said.

Jaskier’s grin turned into a soft smile and he leaned a little against Geralt, letting their shoulders touch gently.

“If they are anything like you, I’m sure I’ll like them.”

A couple of weeks later, Jaskier had to admit to himself that he had been wrong once again. He really needed to be careful not to make being wrong into a habit. He had always prided himself in being intelligent – after all, he was a master of the seven liberal arts and years ago, he had made the most intelligent decision of befriending one Geralt of Rivia – and being wrong about things just wasn’t something he liked doing.

But when it came to Geralt, there were always new things to learn, new facets of him to discover. And that wasn’t something Jaskier minded. In fact, every time he learned something new about Geralt – every time Geralt trusted him with new information about himself – Jaskier’s chest felt like it was expanding with that happy little flutter inside.

It was enlightening to learn that Geralt rarely ever cooked with spices, not because they were too expensive, but because his senses were sharp enough to not need much of them.

It was interesting to find out that Geralt liked making up the witcher-code on the spot, whenever someone asked him to do something that he didn’t want to do.

It was endearing finding out that Geralt had named all of his horses Roach.

But it was utterly shocking, when after weeks of having gone their separate ways, Jaskier finally tracked down Geralt to find him talking to Roach.

He froze to his spot and listened enraptured as Geralt spoke to his horse as others did to their friends. As Geralt did to Jaskier.

No. No, that wasn’t it at all. Geralt wasn’t speaking to Roach as he did to Jaskier.

He spoke to Jaskier as he did to Roach.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide at the realisation. How long had Geralt been alone before Jaskier had attached himself to his side, with only Roach as company?

Jaskier thought back to all the times Geralt had looked insecure when speaking with Jaskier when they had first started travelling together, as if he didn’t know how to talk to people. As if he didn’t have much experience doing so outside of negotiating contracts or the winters that he spent with his family.

Thinking of it, Jaskier realised that he probably was the only friend besides Roach that Geralt had.

Jaskier swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and continued walking to Geralt, announcing his presence with a cheerful, “My friend! I missed you!”

Geralt whirled around to him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Jaskier’s chest twisted uncomfortably, unsure if he had maybe been a bit too enthusiastic, but then Geralt’s eyes softened and he gave Jaskier the smallest but most beautiful of smiles.

That evening, as they sat beside the crackling fire and Jaskier plucked a soft melody on his lute as background noise, Geralt talked to him again, telling him with only minimal prompting about the contracts he had completed while Jaskier had been away playing at court.

When the fire died down and Jaskier got too tired to stay awake any longer, Geralt softly nudged him towards his bedroll.

“We can continue this talk tomorrow,” Geralt said, a little hesitantly, as if he still wasn’t entirely sure if his voice was welcome.

“I’d love to.” Jaskier pulled his blanket up to his chin and smiled when Geralt’s shoulders lost the little tension that had taken hold of them with his last words. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Roach.”

Jaskier pulled the blanket a little higher to hide his smile. The last thing he thought, before sleep embraced him, was that it really wasn’t that bad being called by Roach’s name.

Now, Jaskier and Roach had never gotten along too well. He had tried to braid her mane despite Geralt warning him that she didn’t like people touching her and she had tried to bite his fingers off.

Sometimes, when Jaskier got peckish, he stole the apple slices Geralt would buy for Roach. Other times, Roach would swat at Jaskier with her tail as if he was an irritating fly, while he was in the middle of composing a song.

Safe to say, they barely did much more than tolerate each other’s presence for Geralt’s sake.

Now though, with Jaskier’s newfound knowledge about how important the mare was to Geralt, Jaskier saw her in a different light.

Oh, sure, she was still cantankerous and stubborn, but she was also Geralt’s oldest companion and friend on the Path.

So Jaskier made a point of always putting some coin aside to buy her treats whenever they got into town and composing odes to her beauty. He wasn’t sure if Roach appreciated the latter, but there was no doubt she liked the treats he got her.

It didn’t take long, until she allowed him to pet her soft muzzle and shortly after, she started following Jaskier around or approaching him happily when he came back after having split from Geralt for a while.

At first, Geralt watched this new display of affection between them warily, but all too soon, Jaskier caught him smiling when Roach nibbled at Jaskier’s hair or Jaskier went out of his way to brush her down.

One time, while Geralt had thought Jaskier was too deep in thought composing to hear him, he had whispered to Roach how happy he was that the two of them got along.

“Remember when I said you would like my brothers?” Geralt said one morning, completely out of the blue, while watching Jaskier try to catch the falling red leaves from the air.

Distracted, Jaskier missed the leaf just by a hair’s breadth. It landed on his head instead. Seemingly without thinking, Geralt brushed it off Jaskier’s head, lingering just a little too long to be a casual touch.

“Y-yeah,” Jaskier said, his heart jumping to his throat. “Of course I remember you talking about Eskel and Lambert.”

Something lit up in Geralt’s eyes. “You remember their names?”

“Naturally,” Jaskier said softly. “They are important to you.”

Geralt remained quiet for a little while, just staring at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. “They are,” he said finally. Geralt’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. “I was wondering…if maybe you would like to meet them?”

Jaskier’s brows shot up. “Are they near?”

Geralt shook his head and turned away, clearly pretending to check over Roach’s saddle.

“You could meet them if you came with me to Kaer Morhen.”

For once, Jaskier was at a loss of words. He must have stayed silent for so long that Geralt began worrying, for he turned back to him with a frown.

Before he could take his words back, Jaskier surged forward and slung his arms around him.

“I would love to come with you.”

On their way up the mountain, Jaskier needled Geralt with questions about the keep, but Geralt refused to give as much as a hint of what Jaskier had to expect from a winter with the wolves.

Jaskier considered pouting, but the twinkle in Geralt’s eyes made it impossible to even pretend to be mad at him. Not when it was clear that Geralt was going back to his taciturn ways to have the keep be a surprise for Jaskier.

And a surprise it was.

When the walls of Kaer Morhen came into view, towering over them, Jaskier lost all ability to speak. His eyes raked over the massive doors, the towers that stretched high into the sky and every part of the courtyard that he just itched to explore.

A soft noise beside him made him turn towards Geralt again. His breath caught in his throat when he met Geralt’s gaze, soft and holding more fondness than Geralt had ever allowed himself to show Jaskier while they were out there on the continent.

Geralt hadn’t lied when he had said that Jaskier would get along with his family. It didn’t take more than one night of drinking together, for Jaskier to decide that the other wolf witchers were his friends now too.

Eskel showed him his poetry collection and his eyes lit up when Jaskier promised to discuss every poem in it with Eskel.

Vesemir was happy to have someone who listened to him with enthusiasm when he talked about monsters and fighting techniques for once.

Lambert was a little harder to get to warm up to Jaskier, but after Jaskier had beaten Geralt in a round of gwent – granted, he had cheated shamelessly, but a victory was a victory – Lambert had barked out a laugh and ruffled Jaskier’s hair, proclaiming that he should come to Kaer Morhen more often.

It was mid-winter when the inevitable happened again. Jaskier had started to look forward to it, but he hadn’t realised just what it would mean if Geralt slipped up again while at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert, Geralt and Jaskier were just shovelling snow near the stables, when it happened. Well, maybe calling it ‘shovelling snow’ was a bit generous. That certainly was what they were supposed to do, but after Lambert had thrown the snow to the side with enough enthusiasm to –maybe? – accidentally hit Jaskier with it instead, it had turned into a full blown snow fight, in which Jaskier constantly shifted sides from ganging up on Lambert with Geralt and throwing his arms around Geralt in a hug to keep him in place while Lambert put snow down Geralt’s shirt.

“Stop it,” Geralt laughed and wriggled in his grip, enough to be playful, but coming nowhere close to using even half of his full strength. “Let go, or I’ll throw you into a pile of snow, Roach!”

“I’d like to see you try.” Jaskier smirked and tightened his hold. “Lambert, now!”

But Lambert was frozen mid-motion of grabbing more snow. He stared at Geralt with the biggest shit eating grin on his face.

“Roach?” He asked with a snort. “Did you just call him Roach?”

In Jaskier’s arms, Geralt stiffened. “I-“

He broke off, throwing a quick glance at Jaskier over his shoulder, before looking away again. Yet, it had been enough for Jaskier to see the look that he had come to understand as blind panic on Geralt’s face.

Before Jaskier could ask him what was wrong, Geralt shrugged him off, easily freeing himself from the hold he had so happily endured before.

“Geralt-“

But Geralt didn’t even falter in his steps. He all but fled into the stables.

Jaskier exchanged a quick look with Lambert who shrugged as if he didn’t care, but followed Geralt’s flight with his eyes and a hint of worry in his expression.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate any longer and ran after Geralt.

Geralt must have heard him enter the stables and hid, for when Jaskier’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, Geralt was nowhere to be found.

Jaskier’s steps slowed and he rubbed his fingers together nervously.

“Geralt?” He asked uncertainly. The only reply he got was the huffing from the horses.

Jaskier’s heart sank, but he set his brow in determination. In two strides, he walked over to the box with Roach, who blew a breath of hot air into his face in greeting.

“Hello there, Roach,” Jaskier began, loud enough that there was no mistaking that he fully intended Geralt to hear him, even though he knew it was unnecessary to raise his voice since Geralt would have been able to hear him even if he had whispered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, my dear lady. Did you know that Geralt sometimes calls me by your name?”

Roach huffed and Jaskier began stroking the white stripe on her face.

“Yes, I know,” he continued, “But I swear he doesn’t mean it as an insult to you. I for one am actually rather flattered. I’ve been called by the wrong name before, and usually it’s something that makes me feel like the other person doesn’t think I’m worth having my name remembered. Or as if they don’t respect me enough to learn it. But it’s different with Geralt.” His voice softened. “If he calls me by the name of someone who means so much to him, then that is the highest honour I can imagine. You have no idea how happy it makes me that he trusts and likes me enough to talk to me like he does to his other most faithful friend. And can I tell you a secret, dear Roach?” He got up on his tiptoes to get closer to her ear as he stage-whispered, “Geralt is really important to me too. And I really want him to know that I mean it when I say that he’s my best friend, whether he calls me by your name or mine.”

Behind him, straw rustled and the tapping of steps announced that Geralt was coming closer. Not only that, but the fact that Jaskier could hear Geralt approach, meant that Geralt put effort into not startling him. Jaskier hid his smile in Roach’s neck. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Geralt approach slowly, as if he was unsure about every step he took.

Finally, he reached them, standing on Roach’s other side. Jaskier heard him take in a deep breath and he already readied himself to listen to Geralt talk to Roach as he had just done, but then Geralt rounded Roach and came to stand before Jaskier instead.

In his eyes, fear and fondness fought a battle, that fondness won when Jaskier reached out a hand to softly brush it against Geralt’s. With a sigh that expanded Geralt’s entire chest, Geralt intertwined their fingers.

“I-thank you,” Geralt said, looking down at their joined hands. “For understanding. For not being angry at me. I – you are important to me too. More important than anyone outside of Kaer Morhen ever was.” He lifted his head again, giving Jaskier an intense look that sent shivers up his spine. With more meaning, affection and trust than anyone had ever spoken Jaskier’s name with, Geralt said, “You are the most important person to me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes stung and he let out a small choked noise. Without thinking, he tugged Geralt closer and flung his free arm around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he could and burying his head in Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s hand that wasn’t holding Jaskier’s still, came up to cradle the back of his head and Geralt’s cheek pressed against the top of his head.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice got muffled but the low rumble in Geralt’s chest as he hummed in acknowledgement told Jaskier that he could still understand him. “You’re my most important person too. My Geralt.”

“My Jaskier.”

Over the years, Geralt slipped up less and less. Jaskier would have been almost disappointed, if he didn’t like the way Geralt called him “my Jaskier”, or “my Buttercup” so much.

Well. Jaskier had been wrong before when it came to Geralt and as it turned out, he continued to have this terrible habit, try as he might to get rid of it. Because, when Jaskier had assumed that Geralt didn’t slip up on his and Roach’s names anymore, he had been dead wrong.

The thing was, after years of having Jaskier at his side, of being close to him and loving him with his entire being, Geralt had gotten so used to talking to Jaskier, that one day, while Jaskier was plucking away idly at his lute and Geralt was brushing down Roach, he heard the most curious thing, that made him smile wider than he had ever smiled before.

“There you go,” Geralt said as he brushed down Roach’s flank and she kept turning her head, trying to get to the treats in Geralt’s pockets. “You’ll get the treats if you’re a good horse and stay still for once, Jaskier.”

#geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt #jaskier #roach #fic #fanfic #witcher #witcher fic #the witcher #my writing #i posted this a while ago on ao3 and completely forgot if I had posted it here as well #fluff

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 3 years ago

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You Make Me Brave

i cried listening to ruin on the way home from work one night and this is what yall get lol. its a follow up to the sensate focus fic i wrote last year but can be read independently!

Pairing: Geraskier (romantic)

Warnings: they’ve been going to couples therapy for a year or so, past broken relationship, geralt’s anxiety mentioned heavily, but he’s aware of how much progress he’s made, feeeeellliiinnngggsssss, also cant speak to clinical accuracy - im not a therapist nor have i been in couples therapy its just a thought i had

__________________

“Sounds like you two had fun together!” Their therapist was beaming as Geralt and Jaskier told her about the couple of parties they’d gone to over the week.

Jaskier grinned and elbowed Geralt, “Even out in public!”

Geralt just sheepishly smiled. What he used to take as offensive now sounded much more like a brag gently disguised as a joke. Jaskier had even told him he was proud of him when they’d gotten home and Geralt had almost cried; he actually believed him. Every day it was getting a little easier to relax and remember they were in it together, that Geralt wasn’t just playing a part in the hopes no one would realize he’d bombed his audition and shouldn’t be there in the first place. Hell, they were even sitting closer together on their therapist’s couch. When they first started, they couldn’t sit farther away from each other, let alone look at each other while they spoke. Now their knees touched and if Geralt really wanted to he could reach out and grab Jaskier’s hand.

It was… well it wasn’t odd, but it was new. Geralt had never felt entirely settled in any relationship, as much as he thought he was when he’d married Jaskier, but now he was getting a handle on his place. He was figuring himself out just as much as he was getting to know Jaskier again.

“Hm, wasn’t as bad as I remembered,” he added, giving Jaskier a soft smile before turning back to their therapist.

She smiled, flipping through her notes to the beginning of her file, “It’s been a year since you two started coming in, do you want to hear how far you’ve come?”

Looking over at Jaskier to check, Geralt was greeted with a scrunched-up nose and a look of apprehension, “Maybe not?”

“Next time.” Geralt suggested, endeared but still a little exasperated at the way Jaskier refused to look back, even on pictures, from the year before.

“Maybe.” Jaskier countered.

“We’ll discuss,” Geralt decided, turning back to their therapist with a nod.

“Sounds good. I’d like to try something if you two are interested. I think you’re at a good point where it could be rather helpful.”

Geralt shrugged as Jaskier nodded excitedly. Geralt was learning his husband was much more eager to please than he’d thought, that when he knew what he could do to help he would do it in a heartbeat, sometimes to his detriment. It had riddled him with guilt for a while to realize the person he lived with and claimed to love was so kind and he’d taken advantage of it without even realizing it.

“Let's talk about what you need from the other person. I know we’ve been doing this since day one, but I want you to put it in your words and communicate it to them. What are the two most important things for you to feel loved and okay with being vulnerable?” Geralt stared at her like a deer in the headlights, every last word he’d ever known fleeing his head as soon as she’d asked the question. Jaskier, however, was frowning the way he did when he wrote and couldn’t condense a paragraph down like he wanted to.

“We’ll take the hour to figure it out if we need to,” she looked at Geralt for that bit with an expression Geralt had become all too familiar with, “But after, when you’re home, and only when you feel ready, maybe you can promise to be and do those things for each other. Only when you believe that you can, and really want to, follow through on those things. I don’t want you making any promises you don't intend to keep or think you can't follow through on. Deal?”

Geralt and Jaskier glanced at each other with little nervous shrugs before Jaskier took a deep breath and sighed, “Who goes first?”

That night, Geralt laid awake long after Jaskier had rolled away from him, mumbling something about being sweaty, and drifted off to sleep. The things Jaskier asked for weren’t hard… in fact, they were surprisingly simple. Part of him had worried that Jaskier hadn’t been entirely honest and was taking it easy on him- but he quickly pushed the thought aside. His husband had promised him he was being honest and their therapist didn’t call bullshit, and that was all he needed these days.

If he thought about it, he was already doing those things, albeit not confidently. But he was trying! And it was getting easier, not exponentially (hell, not even in a nice straight line), but just like telling his anxiety off, he was starting to do some of it out of habit. He finally slipped into unconsciousness thinking of ways he could go about bringing it up without making himself cry.

All the next day, Geralt worried himself near sick about it. Was he really ready for it like their therapist wanted? Or did he just want to be ready? Would it make Jaskier uncomfortable if he did it too soon? Before Jaskier was ready? If he cried? Given that Jaskier had told him point-blank that it is a relief when he cries, that one shouldn’t be a problem. But the anxiety seemed to be gaining momentum and he was scrambling to catch it.

When he got home from work, Jaskier was in the living room they never really used, plunking away on the piano he hadn’t touched since he started teaching and had a baby grand in his office. The old frame creaked as Jaskier opened the top and started tuning it. Geralt watched him in silence for a little while, biting back a smile when his husband mumbled to himself and swore as he scratched his head. It almost didn’t feel real. That sweet moment of peace and the warmth that spread through Geralt was still confusing, but he’d started savoring it. Hesitantly, he’d labeled it affection, but only because he didn’t want to jinx anything. He was almost certain it was that long brewed love that he heard couples who had been together forever talking about. It was close to what he and Jaskier had felt when they got married, just all the more fulfilling knowing it was hard-won.

Jaskier played a series of notes a few times over that sounded eerily familiar to Geralt but he couldn’t quite place it as his husband muttered to himself, “Which fucking one of you is being a bitch?”

“It's your A key,” Geralt supplied, a cheeky grin spreading on his face when Jaskier jumped and let out a shrill giggle.

“Come here, I need your ears,” Jaskier’s voice was melodic, rising and falling just like his laughter as he scooted over and patted the bench to the left of him.

Geralt settled in next to him, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before settling with his hands in his lap, “How was your day?”

“Oh ridiculous,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, pausing to press the offending A key and glancing toward Geralt.

“Sharp. You fiddled with it too much. What was so ridiculous?”

Jaskier stood to reach in the piano and let a tiny bit of tension release on the string before sitting back down and plunking away as he spoke, “Oh one of the other professors had some sort of presentation with bonus points for dressing up and half the students were wearing feather boas! The other half were dressed like me in college, which I proved to them by showing them a picture and we wasted half a lecture but I had fun. I was going to have them do something incredibly time-consuming to fill up the hour anyway.”

“E flat needs more flat,” Geralt took his pause to tell him what he’d noticed and continued, “Which pictures did you show them?”

The smile he got in return was absolutely brilliant as Jaskier once again reached into the piano, “The Summer Social pictures where I had blue hair and you had an undercut with the Nirvana smiley face shaved into it.”

“Mmh, and that took a half-hour?” Geralt laughed, one hand resting on Jaskier’s knee as he sat back down.

“Oh yes! I’ve got a lot of talkers in this one. One asked me to do their undercut when I told them I’d done yours,” Jaskier snickered, leaning closer to Geralt as he began plunking that same familiar tune from before.

As they lapsed into silence and the soft notes filled the room, Geralt felt he could almost place the song. It was almost something he should know the name of immediately, he knew for sure that he’d heard Jaskier play it before, but it was just out of his reach until Jaskier looped his arm around Geralt’s elbow and rested his head on his shoulder. All at once Geralt remembered sitting at a different, clunkier piano that had given them splinters and plunking out a song together. A simple little melody and a simpler accompanying line that Geralt could play with one hand and keep up.

Hesitantly, Geralt rested his left hand over the keys he thought he remembered and started tapping out his line. Jaskier squeezed his arm briefly to show he noticed, but neither of them said anything until they’d finished the song out.

The final three-note harmony seemed to ring in Geralt’s ears as his heart beat furiously, “Hey Jaskier?” he whispered, gently leaning into his husband to get his attention.

“Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier whispered back, mimicking Geralt’s little nudge.

“I- I promise to be patient. And I promise-” Geralt had to pause to sniff and swallow back his tears, “...to be brave for you. I love you.”

For a few horrifying seconds, Jaskier didn’t make a peep. Right when Geralt was about to risk looking over at him, Jaskier gave a horrible snotty sniffle and a little squeak as he ducked under Geralt’s arm and wrapped himself around his torso.

Jaskier couldn’t keep the warble out of his voice as he replied, gasping through his tears, “Thank you. I’m so proud of you- I really really am.”

As Jaskier descended into tears, Geralt felt his grip on his composure slipping. He pressed his face to the top of Jaskier’s head and inhaled, trying to keep himself together and failing as tears streaked his cheeks. A year ago he might have rolled his eyes and called Jaskier a liar, afraid to trust that he actually meant it and afraid of feeling so vulnerable. But his words were comforting now; they silenced the little monster in his head, if only for a moment.

Only a few seconds later, Jaskier untangled himself from Geralt, holding his hand and sitting back to look at him while he spoke, his voice still squeaky and unsteady, “I love you so much it’s not even fair. I promise not to hide behind my jokes. And I promise to be brave for you.”

Geralt squeezed his eyes closed, committing everything he could about the moment to memory as he nodded, tears falling from his chin to his chest.

He squeezed Jaskier’s hands and whispered, “Thank you,” before his first genuine sob of the night pushed its way out of his throat. They sat on the piano bench just holding each other and crying for what felt like hours. Years of fear and loneliness were finally seeping out of their home as they cried and cried and wiped their snot on their sleeves and cried some more.

As they petered out to deep breaths and little giggles of relief, Geralt’s stomach growled.

“Hungry?” Jaskier teased, poking Geralt’s stomach and looking up at him like the picture of innocence.

“Apparently.”

“Post-cry-pasta sound good? Or pizza?”

Geralt kissed Jaskeir’s forehead before digging his phone out of his pocket, “You’ll want the leftover pizza for lunch tomorrow.”

Nodding and tapping the edge of Geralt’s phone, Jaskier chirped, “I will. Can we get bacon on this one?”

They stayed sat at the piano, playing their song and trading soft lingering kisses until the pizza arrived and fell asleep wrapped up in each other, lulled into peaceful dreams by their food comas and the comfort of each other.

#geralt goes to therapy #jaskier goes to therapy #geraskier #geraskier fluff #emotional geraskier #married gerasier #geraskier goes to therapy #ruin refference #geraskier whump #?#its cathartic okay #they needed it #the witcher #the witcher fic #geralt of rivia #geralt #geralt fic #jaskier #jaskier fic

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mostfacinorous · 2 years ago

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Whumptober No. 7 THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER Geralt & Jaskier Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack

They’d made it. Barely.

Geralt had spent the first three hours in Triss’s care vomiting up black sludge, and Jaskier had been horrified and all too certain that it was his partially liquified organs.

Thank goodness for Triss, who had every drop of emotional maturity and bedside manner that Geralt routinely lacked. She calmly explained what was happening to Jaskier, calmly gave him directions for how he could help, and made sure that he remained calm as well.

He could tell she had some sarcasm in her, as well as some hurt feelings where Geralt was concerned, but he would get that story from Geralt later– for now she was keeping it packed away, and it was only polite for him to do the same.

And so he followed directions and held Geralt’s wound together with tremulous hands, silently hoping that his shakes wouldn’t interfere with the healing or cause it to be uneven or make the scarring worse…

At the end of it, they had gotten Geralt sewn back up and laid out comfortably, and were just waiting for him to recover and wake up.

“I’m going to go get some rest… I take it you’re going to stay with him?” Triss asked.

Soundlessly, Jaskier nodded. Triss dropped a gentle but exhausted hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll just be in the next room. If something changes, let me know.”

“I will. Thank you, Triss.” Jaskier turned to watch her leave, and was not entirely surprised when she paused at the door. “He’s lucky to have you, Jaskier. You saved him. Don’t let him forget it.”

Jaskier snorted, but turned his attention back to Geralt, stretched out on the table, looking smaller than Jaskier had ever seen him look before.

It seemed more important that he not forget it. There was something about writing those songs, about traveling with him, that made Jaskier forget that Geralt was still mortal. He slayed the sort of monsters that most people would never even know existed, if they were lucky. He walked away from so many of the types of battles that few ever lived to talk about. And he poisoned himself on the regular, just to be able to stay standing to do so.

If things had gone just a little differently, Geralt would be dead. And Jaskier would be partly to blame, for having given him the potion in the first place.

His hands were shaking again, and he folded them together almost viciously, squeezing until his joints protested.

He had almost lost him, and it had almost been his fault.

He’d managed to hold it together to get them to this point, but now there was nothing to do but wait, and he found the last ropes of his self control fraying to the point of snapping.

He stood quickly, lest he knock over the stool he was perching on and disturb Triss or wake Geralt.

The last thing he wanted right now was an audience.

He moved to the farthest part of the long living space and put his back into the corner, not really understanding why that felt right. He wasn’t being threatened, he wasn’t in danger, but his heart was thrumming as if he was, and he felt like he was going to go mad, or vomit, or cry, or maybe all three.

He slid down the wall until he was crouching, his fingers tangling in his hair and pulling at it as he shook, his breaths coming out fast and shallow and his throat feeling tight.

Geralt had almost died. He’d almost killed Geralt.

On the bed, Geralt stirred a bit, and Jaskier let out a gasp, which he knew was too loud.

He shoved the knuckle of his first finger in his mouth and bit down, swallowing the whimper and trying to force himself to remember to breathe out of his nose.

He concentrated on being as silent as he could. The last thing he wanted right now was an audience.

He had no idea how long he sat there like that, curled up small, trying to breathe without waking anyone, wishing for his heart to stop bruising itself against his ribs.

It ended gradually, a slow release, an unclenching, and at last all he felt was empty and exhausted.

But he’d managed. He did it– he’d succeeded in not making himself a burden for anyone, at least not this time. Not now, when there were so many more important things to be worried about.

When he could, he stood, his legs feeling weak and like still warm pasta. He made his way slowly, carefully, silently as he could, back to the stool, and sat himself back down beside his friend’s prone form.

“We’re going to be okay, Geralt.” He whispered. And, selfishly, he knew it was really a reassurance for himself.

#whumptober 2022 #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #thewitcher #whumptober #that writing thing I do

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wishicouldpostfromsecondaryblogs · 3 years ago

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(Geraskier, fake marriage, fae jaskier, angst with a happy ending, tw abuse and prejudice. fic has gotten out of hand very fast. @enbycasper hi!! im so honored u wanted to be tagged!! although i had planned to have this be a 'middle finger and leave' situation kinda fic it very rapidly devolved into this)

[Part One] [Part Two] Part Three!!!

"And what," Lady Lettenhove says with an arch of her eyebrows, gathering herself together and raising her nose at them in disdain. She's clearly looking for a denial, even though most here have already put it together. "Would that be?"

Geralt bares his teeth at her in the barest facsimile of a smile. "We are already handfasted. Have been for twelve years. You understand why that might complicate a few things."

She turns onto him with a ferocious sneer, eyes blazing, showing the ugliness underneath. "I didn't ask for your opinion, mutt. I will not be addressed in my own home in such a tone by the likes of you, you filthy animal mutant freak-"

"YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO MY HUSBAND LIKE THAT!" Jaskier shouts, taking two steps towards her and flinging a hand out to throw an elaborate glass showpiece to the floor. Lady Lettenhove stumbles back in fright, eyes wide in shock, and even Geralt's heart skips a beat. At the sudden noise or at Jaskier's proclamation, he can't tell. "How FUCKING dare you, woman. I don't care how much you natter on about me and my profession, I don't care what you say or do to me, but don't you dare talk to Geralt like that."

The Viscountess leans back in genuine fear in the face of Jaskier's anger for a moment, before the indignance returns. "And what power do you have to stop me? I rule these lands. I have the means to ruin you if I want to. I can have you executed if I want to. I'll speak to your mangy pet however well I damn see fit."

Jaskier throws out a hand to hold Geralt back, his rings digging hard into his chest, and Geralt pulls himself back at the last moment from where he ready to pounce on her for the threat. Blue eyes flick to his commandingly, a small tilt of his head conveying the trust me, and Geralt reluctantly subsides.

Jaskier turns back to the Viscountess, his smile the exact same as his mother's and twice as vicious. "You may have power over these lands, Viscountess, but do not forget- I am Jaskier, the Witcher's Bard. I know people in every corner of the Continent, I have the favour of half the nobles in the land and my family is far more powerful than you can ever hope to be. Do people even remember your name five miles outside the land's borders, hm? Do you think any of them will care if I call in a few favors and make this place mysteriously lack any importance whatsoever? Will bat an eye if you are never heard from again?"

It's a bit too much on the dramatic side for a monologue this public, but everyone around them is eating it up eagerly, eyes wide and scandalized smiles on their faces as they whisper to each other excitedly. Geralt eyes them warily, but they all look starved enough for drama that they don't pose a threat. The Viscountess takes a step backwards to the crowd and looks at Jaskier like she's never seen him before, pale and smelling of fear. "You- you're bluffing."

Jaskier scoffs at her dismissively. "If believing that helps you sleep at night." He walks back to Geralt, straight-backed and graceful, sliding a possessive hand around his waist and reeling him in so roughly that Geralt almost stumbles flat onto his face. He ends up plastered up against Jaskier, and hurriedly rearranges the arm caught between them to look as natural as possible, hanging it on Jaskier's shoulder.

Which- great. Now he looks like a helpless damsel in a bad play.

"Apologize to my husband at once for all your discourteous remarks," Jaskier says, tone frigid and sharp, one that he's never heard before. Geralt... may be slightly more affected by that than he'd been originally expecting, feeling his skin tingle and heart skip a beat. "Is this any kind of hospitality to show your guests?"

"Guests," The Viscountess repeats scornfully. "You're a member of this household and he's not even human. I'm not apologizing to a dog."

How the fuck did Jaskier walk up to him in Posada if this is what he grew up with? Geralt wonders, even as he raises his eyebrows at her condescendingly and leans in to adjust the necklace on Jaskier's chest as it starts vibrating under the force of the effort to keep the glamour on the bard intact, Jaskier's wrath lashing at Geralt's own chaos and demanding to be let out.

"I became a guest when you threw me out of the estate at sixteen," Jaskier snarls at her, to scandalized gasps from the people around them, the whispers increasing in volume and speed around them. "And my husband has more claim to being human than you, you unfeeling bitch."

The Viscountess colors in shame, eyes flickering desperately around the crowd staring at them, trying to regain some power. "Alright, fine. But let us take this to a private setting, please- you're causing a scene, Julian."

"If you can insult him in public, you can apologize to Geralt in public," Jaskier snaps. He turns to Geralt and the anger immediately slides away into a beautiful smile, holding a hand out, voice gentling into his most charming tone, "Darling?"

Geralt raises an eyebrow, but takes it anyway, taking the few steps forward until he's in front of Jaskier's mother.

She glowers at him, mouth twitching like it hurts her to say it, but inclines her head in the barest hint of a bow. "Apologies for my uncouthness, Witcher. It has been a stressful time."

It hasn't really- from the little he'd gleaned from the whole thing all they'd done was promise their exiled son to someone and ordered him to come home without expecting to be disobeyed, but Geralt swallows down his anger and inclines his head in return. "I accept your... words, Lady Lettenhove. I would hold no grudge against the family of my beloved. And I will not either in the future- unless Jaskier is hurt, threatened or harmed, because I will protect him above myself and treat him as my own."

The words are dangerously close to the standard noble sentences recited to the bride's family after ceremony- and everyone in the hall knows it, judging by the furious muttering and the breathless gasp of rage from the Viscountess, her face going red with anger, fists trembling as she glares at him with rage and hatred.

But she's no Calanthe, no threat- and Geralt smiles as politely as he can, although it wavers a bit at the sudden arousal that slams into him from all sides. Fucking nobles.

The Viscountess only huffs and hitches up her skirts, making way for them to walk inside. "The Viscount shall speak with you both shortly. Please, come in."

She walks off in a flurry and Jaskier slides into place next to him, pinching his arm. He's shaking with suppressed laughter when Geralt looks over, eyes bright and entertained and gleeful. Geralt smiles back mischievously and Jaskier bumps their hips together, shaking his head mock-reproachfully.

"Alright?" He murmurs to Jaskier as they walk in, under the cover of the whispers. He looks around for exits as the doors shut behind them- the huge ceiling to floor windows are all open and unguarded and the first floor balconies are all low enough to jump from, which makes escaping much more easier than usual, if things went sideways.

"Hm," Jaskier says noncommittally, making Geralt turn back to look at him carefully- Jaskier will never admit when something is actually wrong. And just as he'd thought- the bard's face is blank, eyes scanning the room full of people staring at them and whispering to each other behind their cupped hands, looking fitfully at objects around the room and seeing the history behind them that Geralt can't. His elevated heartbeat is the only indication that he's nervous, with the blood-warmth of his anger fading away from his cheeks and leaving him pale, the genuineness of the smile freezing into rigor mortis.

Geralt gently slides their fingers together and steers Jaskier out of the hall into an empty passageway. He lets go to put both palms on Jaskier's cheeks again and tilt his head up. "Jaskier? Don't lie. Are you alright?"

Jaskier looks flayed open by Geralt's words for a split second before he gathers himself together again. "Not really. I mean, I knew it was going to be hard, but..."

Geralt nods. Jaskier sighs, before brightening. "Still, strong start! I stood up to that bitch at least. I must admit, I was a bit scared that I would come here and fall back under their thumb in fright, and prove that all these years of horror and hard work were for absolutely nothing at all."

Geralt leans forward and presses a short kiss to Jaskier's forehead. "Even if you had, it wouldn't have been a weakness, Jask." He murmurs lowly, a bit sadly. "They hurt you, badly, when they were supposed to protect you. That fucks you up, no matter how long it's been."

Jaskier huffs, a small smile on his face. "Well yes, I know. But I would have been disappointed in myself, regardless. I- I nearly did," He says quickly. "For a moment, I almost capitulated to her whims when she ordered it, considered just giving in to make them happy. But then you- I remembered why I left, what I had waiting for me back home. And I wasn't going to stand back and let her insult you."

Geralt exhales shakily as Jaskier looks up at him fiercely, as protective of him from the worst of humanity as always, determination winning out over his fear, and he chokes on his own emotions as he tries to reply.

He kisses Jaskier instead, slow and chaste. The bard's eyes are bright and serious and quietly ecstatic when he pulls back.

"Is that something we're going to be doing more often, then?" He asks quietly, twenty four years of history in the question. Two decades of friendship and devotion and longing and dancing around each other in a bid to not lose something they prized more.

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, their bodies gravitating closer as he tries to find the words for an answer. "I-"

"Julian!" A young man strides down the hall towards them and they break apart quickly. He adjusts the sword on his hip gesturingly as he catches Geralt watching- although the sword in question is so badly made in favour of expensive jewels on the hilt that Geralt is actually pretty sure he can snap it in half with his bare hands. The man looks back to Jaskier commandingly. "Mother and Father are calling you."

A sibling. Not the good kind either- but why would he be, if the parents are shit?

"We'll find our way to their study," Jaskier says, with a fake smile. "Now if you would kindly go the fuck away-"

He trails off meaningfully and the man scowls. "Absolutely not. You're going to be married tomorrow and you're not going to sully our halls with your dalliances and cavort with freaks under our roof the day before- what if people see you?"

Jaskier makes an agreeing noise, nodding sarcastically, and reaches up and threads a hand into Geralt's hair to yank him forward into a deep, filthy kiss right there in the halls.

"What?" He says innocently to his fuming brother. "You said no cavorting or dalliances- you never told me not to kiss my husband. And I'm not getting married tomorrow, so get that out of your head, Marianne."

The man snarls and jumps forward to curl his fingers into Jaskier's collar threateningly. Only Jaskier raising a hand to stop Geralt saves him from being thrown into a wall. "Do not call me that. That is not my fucking name."

"It could be if you wanted it to," Jaskier hisses back just as sharply. "Why are you still here, Marianne, when everyone else has run?"

Oh. The woman's face crumples, even as she demands angrily, "And who's going to take care of our people, them? You lot all fucked off well and good, but I can't leave the villages to the mercy of those bastards."

"Excuse you, I did not leave, I was fucking thrown out, and so were Julie and Keene," Jaskier snaps. Marianne looks to the side guiltily, shoulders hunching, and Jaskier visibly loses some of his anger. "Just- come on, Marianne, please. I'm already handfasted, it won't work."

"You don't understand," Marianne whispers, hunching down and smelling of fear. "They've changed, Jaskier. They've gotten worse- Lettenhove has lost half its wealth because of them and you don't know the lengths they'll go to get their luxuries back."

Jaskier looks wretched, stepping forward to hug his sister. "Marianne-"

"They're going to get the others back too, marry everyone off to the richest contenders they can find," She continues urgently, even as she clings on tight like she hasn't been embraced in ages. "I can't- you can't stop them, Jaskier."

"Yes, we can," Geralt says firmly, stepping in. He places a hand on Marianne's shoulder and she looks up at him, desperately trying to hope, just a scared woman trying her best. "Don't worry- we'll figure something out."

"There, see? Haven't you heard any of my songs, sister? Geralt and I have faced hundreds of monsters and warriors, all much worse than our parents."

"Hundreds of cuckolded spouses too," Geralt says dryly. "Although normally it's not me who's the deciding factor there."

Marianne laughs slightly, even as Jaskier makes theatric noises of offense and shoves Geralt a little. But she sobers quickly. "And mages? They have a mage, and all the guards here are loyal to them as long as they have their payment."

Fuck. He's really starting to hate mages. "We've faced those too, although it makes things difficult," Jaskier says reassuringly. "Don't worry, darling, we'll find a way. Now come on, Geralt, let's go see if we can talk things out first."

Marianne looks doubtful, but nods as she breaks away. "Wish you the best. I have to go, but... It was nice seeing you again, Jaskier."

Jaskier reels her in by the wrist to kiss her on the cheek. "You too, sister. What you've done for the village is truly nothing short of heroic- I'll make sure they all know."

She smiles, pleased, and inclines her head at them before walking away.

"Right," Jaskier sighs when she's out of earshot, clapping his hands together. "Fuck."

"Fuck," Geralt agrees.

"Looks like we're going to have a bit more trouble with this than originally planned," Jaskier says, leading the way. "Sorry for that."

"When isn't there trouble, with us? Besides, I'd much rather be here than have you face this alone, this place is a fucking nightmare," Geralt says honestly. "What the fuck would you have done if I hadn't agreed?"

"Oh, that's not really a consideration- you're completely wrapped around my little finger, you see- ow!" Jaskier steps away with a giggle as Geralt pinches his side. "But, fuck- I'm a bit worried about them getting their hands on my siblings more than anything. They've all settled down across the continent, you see, living peaceful lives- I don't know how any of them would fare against a mage, or whatever other horrors my parents have up their sleeves."

"It's like you completely forget that I'm a Witcher sometimes, you know?" Geralt muses, and laughs when Jaskier amusedly smacks him in the shoulder. "Don't worry, Jask. I can handle whatever they try to throw at you all."

Jaskier nods, smiling a bit. "But really, Geralt. Thank you for coming."

Geralt pulls him close and kisses him again, unable to stop himself now that he's gotten a taste. "You don't need to thank me. And to answer your earlier question- yes."

Jaskier beams at him, skin shining for the briefest of moments before ducking his head in sudden apparent shyness. "Well. That would make things easier, wouldn't it?"

Geralt hums, smile wide on his face. Jaskier kisses him again.

"Melitele, I can't believe I'm saying this, but we really should stop," Jaskier says hoarsely five minutes later, although he's the one who's pinned Geralt up against the wall and is trying to kiss him even as he's talking. "Parents are punctual."

Geralt groans, not in the good way, and thumps his head back onto the wall. "Fine, let's go," He grouses, even as he has to peel Jaskier off his neck to move and would like nothing more than to find an empty space and put all those years of Jaskier's sleeping around to good use.

"But hey, maybe with this streak of luck, we'll get them to see some reason about the whole mess!" Jaskier says cheerfully as he drags Geralt down the halls, looking lighter for the first time since he'd approached Geralt in the stables. "Even they can't marry a married man."

They do not get Jaskier's parents to see reason.

"I cannot believe you, Julian," The Viscount snaps. "We've spent all this money on you, despite your monstrous heritage, and you dare throw it back in our faces like that?"

"And the scene you made!" The Viscountess exclaims, no longer faking politeness now that they're not in front of a crowd. "Do you know how many important people were present just now? I should have you put in the stocks for that speech alone- much less embarrassing me by making me apologize to a Witcher."

Geralt growls at them, and they both shrink back, cowardice immediately taking over them. He's quite sure his presence is the only thing holding them back from physically hurting Jaskier, and the thought only makes him growl harder.

"Love," Jaskier says softly, and pulls him back a bit. The mage in the corner lowers his hand as well. "It's fine, darling."

The Viscount bristles back up as soon as Geralt moves back. "Oh, don't try and fool us, Julian, he's a Witcher, a monster hunter! I bet he'd kill you on the spot if he knew what you actually were- there's no way you married him."

The words are said with smugness, like the Viscount actually believes it, and Geralt is hard pressed not to snap his neck right there. "I do know what Jaskier is. I've travelled with him for years and I've loved him better than you pathetic fucks have ever loved anything in your life. We are already married, so call the damn wedding off."

The Viscountess gets to her feet with a wordless shout of rage, slamming her hand on the table. "Witchers aren't- they aren't people! They don't count! Your bride is two seats away from the throne, Julian- think about it!"

"How dare you-" Jaskier growls, stepping forward, but is cut off by the Viscount setting his glass so hard it cracks.

"They're not going to listen to us, Mary," He says grimly. "Not this changeling, not any of his ungrateful brothers and sisters."

"I agree," The Viscountess snaps. Geralt doesn't like the sudden cold look in her eyes at all, taking two steps back to the door, curling his hand around Jaskier's wrist. "Are they all here?"

The mage looks out the window from his station in the corner of the room. "Yes, ma'am, all thirteen within the grounds."

"Wonderful. Put the barrier up."

Geralt jerks and pulls Jaskier through the door, grabbing at the nearest vase to throw at the mage. But it's too late- even as they run through the halls, he can see the glimmer of a magic barrier fall over the entire estate.

They burst out the doors anyway, and Jaskier screams something in a foreign language at the group of wagons and horses making their way through the front gate.

One of the women riding a draft horse reacts first- turns her mount and canters through back to the gate, the others turning with her.

But as she approaches, the barrier glows red and she screams, pulling the horse back sharply, falling to the ground.

"IRENE!" Her siblings scream in one unnaturally sing-song chorus, jumping off carts and horses to run back to their sister on the ground.

Jaskier reaches last, knees skidding on the ground as he pulls her into his arms. They're all talking over each other desperately over Irene's sobbing, and a few of them are using the cover of each other's bodies to grow healing plants to press to her face and arms.

Geralt turns to the barrier, trying to see what the mage had made it do. He holds a hand out carefully, waiting for the pain as he steps forward.

But it never comes. He steps cleanly out of the gate, enough to grab the woman's horse and rein her in, and after a second of hesitation the other men and women- husbands and wives and even a few children, all step cleanly out of the barrier.

"Jaskier!" He calls out. Jaskier looks up and frowns at him. He gently places Irene in another woman's embrace and jumps to his feet.

He jogs closer and stops, hesitating a second before holding a hand out to the gateway. It goes red immediately, the sound of sizzling and the smell of singed flesh filling the air, and he collapses to his knees with a cry of pain.

"Jaskier!" He shouts and runs to his side, the magic sliding over him harmlessly again.

"Geralt," Jaskier replies, shaking, holding his burnt hands out and staring at him with frightened eyes.

There's iron in the wards.

"What?" The Viscountess's voice rings out sharply, and all the Pankratz siblings flinch as one, fear rising from them as they swivel around to look at them. "Oh, you had me and your father fooled for years, you lot- pretending Julian was the only fae-touched one among you, but we found your chest of glamours in the basement- yes we did!"

"You're all going to do your duty to this house, as thanks," The Viscount says authoritatively. "Our land needs the money and we've arranged for marriages for all of you- your dalliances and flings and whatnot are all free to leave if they want. So- QUIET!"

All the outburst stops immediately and Geralt has to remind himself that there's a mage behind them and that he can't risk the safety of anyone here by moving now.

The Viscountess continues, voice deadly. "If you resist, or try to pull something, we'll make the wards smaller and smaller. If anyone else here resists, we'll have them killed immediately. Now, come inside- we must prepare for tomorrow."

"Come on," Geralt says to everyone as the three of them walk off. The whole group looks towards him. "We'll figure something out soon. Right now, they have the advantage- we need to regroup and come up with a plan."

"Yeah," Jaskier says, getting to his feet, ushering the nearest person to their feet. "Inside, everyone, come on now, let's rest a bit."

"But you'll get them out, right?" A man says desperately, clutching at Geralt's armour. He doesn't look like the siblings- no mousy brown hair, blue eyes or two sets of canines that all the Pankratz siblings seem to have, unlike their parents- meaning he's one of their husbands, probably human.

"Yes, I will," Geralt says firmly. There's no choice.

Jaskier looks up at him, a hint of fear in his gaze even as he comforts his siblings, all shaking and skittish and crying. The other few are all staring at them like they've never seen their spouses and parents like that before- reduced to tears because of how horrible their parents had treated them.

Geralt exhales. There's no choice.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my fic #the witcher #fae jaskier #fae au #tw abuse #tw transphobes #whoo yeah it REally got out of hand. its wont get too dark tho promise #geralt and jaskier five minutes into the fake marriage: ive been in love with u for years #next part soon i cant stop writing this everything else is on hold #part four is final cause i have other stuff to do lmao

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samstree · 3 years ago

Text

Being loved by Geralt is easy.

After the mountains, after wounds are healed and lost brothers mourned, Geralt shows his love, and it’s easy as breathing.

He approaches Jaskier with a cup of mulled wine and takes him to the highest tower of Kaer Morhen. The stars blink amongst the green northern lights, and Jaskier is warm between the wine and the arms around his back.

Under the night sky, Geralt tells Jaskier of his love for the very first time.

Both of them return to Geralt’s hearth-lit chamber with red cheeks and glistening eyes, and they laugh and kiss and fall into bed together. Jaskier drifts off with a smile and dreams of a future with Geralt’s hand in his.

When morning comes, Geralt promises to do better. Guilt should be left in the past, Jaskier wants to argue, but the promise seems equally important to Geralt himself, so Jaskier listens carefully with his palm pressed against the slow-beating heart of his witcher. He’s always trusted Geralt with his life, and now his heart too. Despite all the broken parts of it, he trusts Geralt with his heart.

And Geralt keeps his promise.

He is not perfect—neither of them is, really—but he tries so hard with his imperfect, clumsy love. There are quiet nights when Geralt’s kisses span across Jaskier’s back, counting the specks of birthmarks with his lips. It’s a constellation, he says. They guide me home, like you.

There is also his infuriating protectiveness, his heartbreaking self-hatred. It drives Jaskier away, but never far and never for long. Soft apologies always follow, soothing away all that is angry and difficult between them. There are separations and reunions, messy tears and joyful laughter.

Geralt’s love is easy. So, Jaskier wonders.

Nothing is easy by nature. A witcher’s skills are honed through decades of training, through every swing of his blade, every parry, every kill. It’s why the ease of Geralt’s movement is a terrifying sight for his foes. If handling Jaskier’s heart looks easy, he must have gotten the practice somewhere.

The answer comes one day when Jaskier is alone. His hand slips on the strap of Geralt’s pack and all the notebooks within spill out on the floor.

There is a red book, sprawled open with its pages full of Geralt’s lean, neat writing. Jaskier’s eyes are caught by his own name between those lines.

It’s a notebook he’s watched Geralt use countless times while lazily resting his head on Geralt’s thigh and trying to draw his attention.

“What are you writing?” Jaskier asked once. “Another one of your boring bestiaries?”

“Boring bestiaries save lives.” Geralt looked down, putting down the quill. “And no, it’s not a bestiary.”

“What is it then?”

Jaskier remembered all Geralt’s notebooks: the green ones titled Herbs, the brown ones with Monsters and Locations written across the first page. He didn’t recognize the red one. A secret book, then. It only made him more curious.

“Nothing,” Geralt answers, putting the book down to join Jaskier in the nest of tangled sheets. “Just…thoughts.”

“Thoughts about me?” Jaskier asked cheekily. “Love thoughts?”

“Hmm.”

At the time, Jaskier teased but did not pry. Geralt rarely gets to keep things for himself, and Jaskier delighted in the fact that Geralt could find comfort in keeping a journal.

Now, as the notebook lays open on the ground, Jaskier finds his name all over it. He picks it up and flips to the first page, and finds the title. It’s just one word, one name.

Jaskier.

A book written in his name. A book he never gets to read.

When he flips another page, the entries begin with lists of food. Fruits, pastries and wines, followed by stores to buy the best of them in Ard Carraigh. The combination rings a bell, reminding him of a surprise picnic a while ago. He marveled at how Geralt could gather such a feast without him knowing, and only got an absent hum as reply.

The next page records another date of theirs, detailing Geralt’s careful preparations even though the words are scribbled and crossed out at times.

There are other things. Thoughts.

Thoughts of love, of regret and hope, pride and fear. These are thoughts of Jaskier and their future.

He read slowly as if holding Geralt’s heart between his hands, skipping some passages when the emotions grow too tender, making him ache at the self-doubt that bleeds through these pages.

He has no reason to stay. Jaskier reads on, his heart breaking. And yet he does. I don’t know how to deserve him. I don’t know if I ever will.

The notebook isn’t completed yet, and the last entry consists of the names of many towns and cities. It’s the planning of their next journey, Jaskier realizes, following the route they will travel and diverting for all the local festivals. A coastal village in Cidaris is underscored twice. Jaskier vaguely remembers mentioning its name years ago on a hot sunny afternoon. He went on about how nice the water was there, and how he dreamed of going back. It’s the same place he thought about when asking Geralt to run away with him during that dragon hunt.

Geralt wants to take him there now, after all these years.

Jaskier closes the book with a shuddering breath and puts it back into the pack. Guilt churns in his stomach for having gotten a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have.

When Geralt returns, Jaskier has tidied up the mess. He puts on a smile and hugs his witcher close. Tears prickle his eyes still, and the attempt to hide them fails spectacularly.

“Hey,” Geralt says, confused. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier’s voice breaks, and leans into the strong hands running up and down his back. “I just…love you.”

Geralt lets out a quiet oh and brings Jaskier flush against him. Even without looking, Jaskier can picture perfectly the slightly panicked frown on Geralt’s face.

“You’re upset.” Geralt murmurs gently. “Shh, it’s alright.”

“It is.” Jaskier sniffs. “You are here.”

That earns him an amused huff. Geralt continues, “you know, I just had this idea. How about we go to the coast? I heard Cidaris is nice in the summer. It’s on our way north, and it could…cheer you up?”

Geralt is so tentative, the nervousness thrumming under a thin layer of nonchalance, and Jaskier nods.

“It’s a nice thought.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier pulls away to meet Geralt’s gaze, and this time, his smile is genuine. “I’ve wanted to see the coast for a long time.”

The subtle pride at the corners of Geralt’s lips is more beautiful than the sunrise at sea.

Jaskier doesn’t mention the notebook of unsaid things. It’s a book that holds all the soft parts of Geralt’s clumsy heart, and of course it’s something Jaskier will protect.

He’ll protect the quiet love Geralt bestows on him by tucking the book away in the corner of his heart. He’ll let Geralt try, and try, and try.

And Jaskier will meet him halfway.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #established relationship #soft geralt #soft jaskier

784 notes · View notes

roughentumble · 10 months ago

Text

I Didn't Kiss You Right Before, Can I Try Again?

Tags: Fix-It, Time Travel, Blood and Gore, Body Horror(mild)

Words: 6,752

Description: Geralt is sent back in time to make different choices during key moments, unaware of how it happaned or what's going on. All he has to go on is the strange urge to keep moving, and the dizzying feeling this has all happened before.

Also on AO3

===========

Geralt wakes up in a daze.

There's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. He fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. His body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. He doesnt even recall falling asleep. He sees-- Jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. He could get angry about it, or-- or...

He places a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, and Jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. Jaskier starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but Geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "I think you were right. We should go to the coast."

Concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "You-- really? Actually, you'd want that? What caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" He waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before Geralt can interject. "Doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. I'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old Roach, and I can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because I am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just love the coast I'm certain of it! Fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! To die for, truly!"

Perhaps he did hit his head. There's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. It all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. He reaches out to take Jaskier's hand in his own, and Jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. That feels right, too. In the same way he cant put his finger on. He'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. For now he just pulls Jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

They leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

===========

He doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. Sand isnt great for poor Roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because Geralt of Rivia does not do being afraid. It's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. A certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

He likes Jaskier at the coast, though.

Happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. Fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

Foolish bard, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go. Out loud he says "I'm in love with you."

He watches closely the play of emotions across Jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. In the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab Geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. They kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

The incoming waves claim just one of Jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. Geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls Jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "You'll be compensating me for that, witcher," he warns, shaking his finger.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Geralt responds, breathless with joy, and Jaskier sinks into his grip.

========

"I want you to come with me. To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. It isnt an offer given lightly. Even in all their years of on-again off-again, Geralt never extended this particular invitation to Yennefer. Maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? She's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. She said no, and he found-- he found--

Years he's spent, dragging his feet. Years, and with Jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. He wants Jaskier with him, now and always. "This winter, the two of us. Up in the Blue Mountains."

Jaskier is nodding before Geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "I want that too, love. Gods, you know I'd follow you anywhere." And then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound Geralt's ever heard in his life. Jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and Geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. Inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

===========

They keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because Geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. Can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. He climbs the rocky outcropping while Jaskier waits by Roach, idle and bored. He wants to be wrong. Wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with Jaskier. He looks out over the path below.

He is not wrong.

A sea of black and gold. Cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

===========

He tells Jaskier to wait in the Cintran marketplace. If this works, Geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. If it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in Jaskier's path too. He's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by Calanthe's men-- he has no doubt Jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. He holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. Wishes that it didn't.

When they fall through the portal, dodging Calanthe's trap, Jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. Geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

He's led through bullshit and lies, attempts to buck fate, but he can feel the tightening noose of destiny and knows its all pointless. He'll walk away with his child surprise, it's just a matter of whether that leaves him with a target on his back.

Calanthe orders him gone, and Eist escorts him.

"I remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. What changed?" Geralt asks, needs to provoke something real out of one of them, desperately hopes for a chink in someone's armor.

"I had a granddaughter," Eist throws at him blithely.

"So protect her," Geralt says through gritted teeth. The conversation feels like one he's had a million times. "What if Calanthe's wrong? What if they come and Ciri is trapped?" He presses.

"I fight side by side with my Queen," Eist replies, unmoved.

"You put too much faith in that woman."

"Well, you weren't there. After Pavetta died, Calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken." Eist shakes his head, looking off in the distance as he relives the memory. Geralt's temples throb, lips ghosting over the words along with him, wondering why the hell it's so familiar. "Someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence 'till my final day."

Geralt wants to scream. It's not enough. It isnt enough. Why do their minds never change?

"I need your promise you won't come back." Eist says, and Geralt pauses in the entryway, weighs his options.

It's so godsdamned familiar. And yet, he can't say anything but the truth. "If I hear Ciri's in danger, you know I can't do that."

"I know."

The bars fall.

Jaskier was browsing nearby. He hears the clatter, and comes running. It's so like them-- somehow they always find each other.

He calls for Geralt, running up to place his palms on the bars, face screwed up in fear and outrage.

Guards close in, shouting at Jaskier to step away from the prisoner, and Geralt whips around to face Eist. "Don't hurt him." Geralt pleads.

"He's your companion. A weasly little thing, there when you claimed the law of surprise in the first place. How do I know he won't try to break you out? Or take the child surprise for you?" Eist asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"You're a reasonable man, Eist. I understand your commitment to Calanthe, but Jaskier hasnt done anything. He isn't bound to Ciri by destiny, he has no claim to her. Nilfgaard is nearly at the border, don't doom him by locking him in the dungeons when he's harmless." He grips the bars tighter, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip.

Eist looks considering, so Geralt presses on. "Please. As one old friend to another, he's just a bard. Don't punish him for my folly."

"We were never old friends," Eist disputes. "...but I don't see the harm one bard could cause." Relief hits Geralt like a tidal wave, and he lets out his breath in one big exhale. "I don't think I've ever seen you scared before." Eist cuts a look at him, and his eyes seem to pierce through Geralt. He steps closer to speak in a low tone. "Nearly at the border, you say?"

Geralt nods, trying to project just how seriously he means it. "I wouldn't lie about this."

Eist thinks for another moment, then says "I'll get him a guest room in the castle."

Geralt's knees nearly buckle with relief. A guest room he can move freely in, and the castle will be the most well-fortified place during the inevitable seige. Jaskier has a chance of survival. "No!" he hears for behind him, and he turns his head to stare at jaskier.

"No, Geralt, I won't leave you! They can't imprison you, you havent done anything!" He presses, tears of fury welling in his eyes. He knows what's coming as well as Geralt does, and he stinks of fear. Geralt walks to the other side of the small cell to grasp Jaskier's hands through the bars.

"Jaskier, it's alright. I'll be right where I need to be. It's destiny, remember? I just need to know you'll be safe while I do it." Jaskier looks unconviced, but Geralt squeezes his hands tighter. "Promise me you'll stay in your room. Promise you'll wait for me. Promise."

Jaskier blinks back tears. "I promise," he says, and Geralt lets out another sigh of relief. He leans forward as Jaskier does, foreheads as close to touching as the bars will let them.

"Alright. Let's go." Eist says, and a guard finally steps forward to place a hand on Jaskier's elbow. He looks Geralt in the eye, shoulders squared, a silent promise that they'll see each other again.

Geralt meets his gaze. And then he's taken away.

===========

+++++++++++

"This is Cirilla. Ciri, this is--"

"Ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, I get to say it so rarely, after all," he says, cutting Geralt off and turning to Ciri. His shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "My name is Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Graduate of Oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard Jaskier. At your service." He bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

There's a beat of silence. "...my partner." Geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. Ciri mostly just seems surprised. "Don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

Jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "You! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you great big oaf, I don't know why I put up with you!"

Ciri giggles nervously, then claps a hand over her mouth, a much needed moment of levity for the young girl. It can't last forever, though. Geralt says "We need to go to Sodden Hill."

"Why?" Ciri asks, dread filling her stomach at the thought of all that destruction, and Geralt places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I think Yen is there and I need to find her," he explains, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Always chasing the old witch," he says, with maybe an undercurrent of jealousy, insecurity. It's something Geralt will need to address, but not now. Not like this.

"Come on, bard," he says as he mounts roach and pulls Ciri up with him.

"Oh, left to walk as always while she gets the royal treatment? Just a simple, gruff 'come bard', like I'm some dog who'll heel for you, I see how it is. So much for partner," he says with a sniff, and Ciri giggles again, still a little uncertain. Geralt bites back a smile.

"You can walk the other way, if you please," he replies, and Jaskier sputters once more.

They quiet as they reach the battlefield, empty but for destruction and corpses. Jaskier holds his nose for the stench.

Geralt steps away from them to speak to the first person he sees, a woman in obvious shell-shock, looking around as if she's lost everything. Perhaps she has. She looks at and yet through Geralt as he speaks to her, seeing him without seeing him. Then she speaks, and all of Jaskier's disdain falls away with a gasp, hand flying to his chest.

"Yennefer is dead."

It hangs in the air, dampening sound, stilling the trees. Yennefer is dead. She is no more.

Geralt's heart pounds in his ears, and he has so much and so little that he wants to say. He opens his mouth, and then stops. Feels so faint, blinks away the fog in his mind, as certainty overcomes him.

"No, she isnt," he says, and Tissaia looks at him with such pity, like he's in shock. And he doesnt know why he said it, except that it feels true. He feels almost lightheaded, shaky on his feet, anchored only by his knowledge that Yen is alive.

"We are bound by fate. I would feel it if she were dead," he says, and he doesn't know if that's true, but he knows the certainty, and has no other explanation for it. It makes something like hope flicker across Tissaia's face, warring with the absolute desolation.

"It can't be," she says, unwilling to trust the words of a strange man she's never met, one who couldnt know.

"I'll find her," he says. "We'll meet again."

===========

"I'm sorry." Jaskier says, his voice so quiet. Ciri is uneasily asleep, and Jaskier and Geralt sit around a fire.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. We'll find her again." Geralt says, because it has to be true. It feels true. It must... it must...

Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt's arm, his voice soft and sympathetic. "Then I'm sorry she's missing," he says, even though he clearly doesnt believe it.

The jealousy and insecurity have bled away now that she's gone. Now that he thinks she's gone, anyway. "All our old fighting... it was all so petty. even up till the last--" he stops himself, changes tracks. "...it was all so pointless. I know I pulled you between two people you cared about very much. And I'm sorry for it."

"I never minded. Not really, not the little stuff. You and Yen wouldn't be yourselves if you didn't bicker." Geralt says, and Jaskier shoots him a wane smile. He leans in to kiss Geralt's cheek.

"Then I promise I'll find something to be catty about when we find her again," he says, tucking Geralt's hair behind his ear. "Just-- I know this insecurity is gauche, considering the circumstances of her... disappearance. But if we do see her again, you'll still pick me, right?"

"Yennefer means very much to me. But now that I have you, you're it for me, Jaskier. I promise." He leans in to kiss Jaskier on the mouth, short and quick and still so emotional. "She's my destiny, but you're my choice."

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, and pulls geralt in for another kiss.

===========

"Tell me, friend, who changed you."

Geralt smiles to himself as he considers his answer. "Yennefer. Ciri." He pauses, looking over at his companion, currently fiddling with a tchotchke on a shelf. "...Jaskier." Said man turns around when he hears his name, then freezes as if caught, item still in hand. When he meets Geralt's eyes, though, he smiles, and Geralt smiles back.

"Well, you've the girl and the bard. But where is this lovely lady Yennefer?" He asks, and Geralt's smile falls.

"...She's gone," he says, and Jaskier's mouth twists.

"Last we heard, she was dead." Jaskier says gently, and Geralt flinches. He still refuses to believe it.

"She isn't," Geralt insists, "but... wherever she is, she's still lost to me. Who knows where she's gone to lick her wounds."

There's silence for a moment, pity etched into Nivellen's eyes. "...I am sorry," he says, and Geralt nods. Let him think what he likes. Geralt knows better.

===========

+++++++++++

Eskel says that if he had a princess surprise he would fuck her, and Geralt feels blind rage rising in his chest, overpowering his mind as he thinks to Ciri, little Ciri, broken Ciri, his Ciri. A child.

Eskel would never say that, Geralt thinks to himself, the absolute wrongness of it all settling over him like a cloak. Something in his chest urges him forward. He wants to take Eskel aside and slap sense into him, wants to know what happened to his most trusted brother, his most beloved, his other half, but he feels that same faintness in his head. He's starting to notice it, but it doesnt want to be noticed, it leaves him foggy and confused.

A vague impression seats itself in his mind. it almost sounds like 'I should have...' but it's gone just as quickly. He moves as if in a dream, filling a tankard with white gull, dosing it with sedative hidden away from when they were boys, when they needed to subdue witchers for medical treatment in a full keep.

Eskel takes the mug and drinks it so fast, drinks like he's trying to outrun something, drinks like there's horror nipping at his heels. He falls asleep at the table, and Geralt volunteers to bring him back to his room. Vesemir offers to help, and he has no excuse to turn him down when carrying a full grown witcher's weight is such an ordeal, though he sweats under the collar when Eskel cant even drunkenly stumble between them, fully dead to the world. Vesemir must know something is wrong. He must.

They get him to his room with a lot of grumbling but no real issues, throw him down on the bed. "He drank himself into quite the stupor," Vesemir says with shrewd eyes, brow furrowed.

Geralt doesnt know what to say. "What's going on here, Geralt?" He asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"I have to-- I can't explain, I just have to--" he starts, struggling for the words. "Something is wrong. He's hurt." Vesemir sends him a look that screams 'duh'.

"So you drug him to work on him in secret? This isnt like you." Vesemir says, and Geralt gets the crazy urge to laugh, because it isn't like him, he doesnt know what the fuck he's doing, except that he must.

Witchers are allowed to lick their wounds in private, they're allowed to come home angry and changed. Geralt pushed them all away after Blaviken, and none of them held him down, forced him, none of them acted like the mages that made them. He feels sick.

"We have to. Vesemir, we--" he starts, grabbing Eskel's shirt and lifting it to look at the damage. Vesemir holds out a hand to stop him, and then they both fall still with a gasp. There, in his chest, right above his heart, is a piece of embedded wood.

It's big, not like a splinter, maybe the size of a fist, with spindly roots that anchor it, spreading out like veins under the surrounding skin. It pulses, just a bit, and embedded within the center of it is something else, a chunk of rock that almost looks like obsidian. Rock gives way to wood gives way to flesh.

"We have to get it out of him," Geralt says suddenly, going for the knife at his hip.

"We don't even know what it is," Vesemir says, though the disgust is plain on his face. "What if removing it kills him? It could be in too deep."

"And what, just let it grow? It's right above his heart, it'll kill him soon anyway. And it's moving." Geralt says, and Vesemir looks pained.

"...I'll keep him out using somne," Vesemir says, "we need to get it out fast but careful. Don't leave a single branch behind."

They nod to each other, and Geralt heats up the knife using igni, lets the flames lick the blade, then he gets to work.

Eskel screams in his sleep, fighting against the drugs, against Vesemir's hold, the first touch of heated metal enough to make his whole body tense. The wood contracts, roots tightening visibly beneath his skin, and Geralt grits his teeth. One by one he pries them out of his guildsman's flesh, the wood sizzling and popping when touched by the hot blade. Blood streams down Eskel's chest, and he screams again, whole body arching.

The roots convulse in the open air, trying to return to the safe haven of his veins, only to be cut off and thrown to the floor. A new root tries to grow in the old one's place and Geralt cauterizes the stump, pressing the flat of the knife to it to produce even louder sizzling. If the thing could scream it would be, and Eskel convulses once just like the thing in his chest.

Suddenly, footsteps. The others had heard his screams. Lambert bursts in, shouts "What the fuck's going on?!" and Geralt shakes his head, knowing what a strange scene they make, how threatening he looks holding a red knife.

"There's no time!" He says.

"Go get every healing potion in the keep, now!" Vesemir shouts, struggling not to break his own concentration. There's stillness, and then some of the gathered witchers run to do as told, while the rest watch in silent horror.

Geralt gets his nails under the edges of the thing and begins to lift, Eskel once more arching up to follow him. It moves agonizingly slow, tearing Eskel's flesh as the bark is dragged past his delicate muscle tissue. It seems to go on and on as Geralt pulls, and to his own horror, he realizes something. It isnt just growing out, it's growing down. Down into him, down towards his heart.

Sweat drips down Vesemir's forehead from holding the sign so firmly and so long. The root on the bottom extends down into Eskel's chest, down towards his heart. Geralt has to act fast and careful all at once.

His knife wasnt made for cutting wood, but he pushes it between the lump and Eskel's body anyway, carving away at the spot where the root connects to the whole. There's so much fucking blood, he can barely see, and he has to drag the knife back and forth to get even the tiniest bit of progress, utterly devoid of leverage or the proper teeth to dig into the plant's flesh. Then, finally, with a twist of his wrist, he snaps the wood chunk free from the root, cauterizes it, and throws it to the floor. Only one last step.

He pushes flesh aside and sees the root go down, wrapped firmly around a rib, and then...

His heart. Beating. Right out there in the open, skin and muscle shoved aside to make way for that thing. The root is wrapped around the heart, squeezing, causing his convusions, and geralt feels sick, but there's no time to stop or wait. Vesemir's control is slipping. Blood is flowing faster now.

His fingers slip through blood and fat and viscera and things meant to be kept inside as he tries to untwist the root from the shock-white of Eskel's rib bone. It snaps, apparently brittle now that it's disconnected from the whole, and Geralt throws another piece at his feet. His hands aren't clean, aren't washed, but there's no godsdamn time, so he slides a finger down beside his other half's very heart and hooks the back of the root. Pulls so slow, so careful.

It pops free with a spray of blood, and all falls still.

"G'r'lt?" comes slurred from the bed. "Did th't come outta' me?" Eskel asks, and then immediately falls unconcious once more.

Vesemir slumps against the wall. "Gwain, Coen," he says, panting just a bit, "the pig we were keeping for meat? Slaughter it. We need a skin graft, clean and quick. Everard, Merek, sutures and everything else we need to clean and bandage."

Only Lambert remains, pale and silent, staring at the floor where the pieces of now inert wood rest. Time seems less linear, suddenly, and nobody has much clue how much time passes. All they know is that Lambert cleans up the pieces of foreign blood-soaked thing into a jar for safekeeping, and the supplies filter in. Eskel gets healing daughts poured down his throat, and Geralt keeps working to stitch his chest together with pig skin, wont let anyone else touch him. They both breathe easier once the final stitch is in place, and Geralt steps back with shaking hands as the other witchers wipe down his skin, slather it in healing poultices, and cover him in bandages. Geralt falls asleep on the floor, trembling, without the sense in his head to clean away his brother's blood.

When Eskel wakes up, he thanks them. Tells them his head felt wrong, something whispering in it, ever since that leshen got one lucky shot. Says the leshen didnt look right, didnt act right, that he couldnt remember how to kill it once it embedded in his chest. "It's like it went to seed in him," Vesemir says in horror, and everyone shakes their heads, and they dont know what to do. But Eskel is there. He is weak, and he is bedridden, and he is there.

Finally, Kaer Morhen can rest.

===========

Vesemir doesn't think these flowers are the answer. He doesn't recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. Still, though, it doesn't sound right to his ear, even if he doesn't know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. He can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. He thinks back to Eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. He feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

The little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. And even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. The metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, chained in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. Like it's nothing. Like it isnt horrific.

But it's all he has. And it's what they needed.

His fingers curl around the paper. "How many other people know of this blossom? Would be likely to put two and two together?" He asks.

"Not many at all, I would imagine. Even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge, or enough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. And it's only a theory, anyway, I can't confirm it as of yet," she replies, watching him closely.

Their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. The continent is running out of monsters, but it hasn't run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and they're dwindling. And yet...

He flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. A little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "Can't let anyone know how we're made; sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. No telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. And... there will be no more boys."

He looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "I thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but I urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. And if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then I can only pray your approximations were wrong."

She had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

There will be no more potions. No more blood spilt for these old stones. And there will be no more boys. He never even mentions their clandestine conversation to Ciri. She deserves her choices, but she's a traumatized child, and he's an adult. He doesnt need to burden her with this.

===========

+++++++++++

"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Jaskier says in awe. Can't believe Geralt was right. Can't believe she's alive. "Should've known you wouldnt stay dead, rotting necrophage that you are," he says, catty and mean and a little breathless because she's alive. But then her arms are around him, and she's hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and he lets out a shocked grunt. "Uh? Hugging? You're hugging me, you do know you're hugging me, right?" He asks, mouth running faster in his confusion.

"Oh Jaskier," she says, "it's so good to see you."

"Good. To see me. Did you hit your head at Sodden? Is that where you've been all this time, wandering the countryside mindlessly?" He asks, and she snorts. Snorts! Like he's funny! Which he is, but she's never admitted it before.

"Oh how I miss when my problems were as small as a single sing-songy twit." She says fondly, taking him by the shoulders and leaning back to take a look at him.

"Now I'll never admit to having said this, I'll deny it if you ever try to tell... but I am very glad you're not dead, Yennefer." It comes out so damn soft, and for all their bickering it's hard not to be soft about someone you've known at least ten years. He cradles her arms in his palms, so they're both holding each other but at arm's length. "But I really must ask, where the hell have you been? We've been looking for you."

"It's a long story," she says evasively, and he narrows his eyes.

"Ah, well, if it's long then you certainly wouldnt want to tell it twice," he says, and leads her down the corridor, towards a closed door. "Here," he says gently as he pushes it open, "I figure if you're here, you'd like to see Geralt, too."

The room goes so still. "I knew," Geralt says. "I knew we'd find each other." And Yennefer runs into his open arms for a hug, stress melting away as she tucks her face into his neck. For the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Jaskier watches them fondly, shoulder resting against the doorway. They'll have time for questions and answers. For now they can just be happy the world has a touch less death in it.

===========

"Yen," he says gently. "I'm sorry for what I said. You would make an excellent mother."

Yen's face does something complicated. "Geralt--"

"Ciri will need one," He says, and Yen recoils in shock, to hear him offer it so plainly.

"So-- what, you want you and I to play house with your little orphan?" She asks, and it comes out harsh, but she doesnt take it back. Geralt shakes his head.

"It wouldnt be like that. I'm... I'm with Jaskier now." Geralt replies, and that makes Yen's eyebrows fly up in shock. "We wouldnt be... together like that. But we would be friends. Partners. Equals. I think it might be good for us, to take the heartache out of the equation. And Ciri needs a teacher, someone like you. I think you'd be good for each other." He pauses, and when Yen has nothing to say to that, he says "Think about it."

She steps through a portal with Ciri anyway. She sees him beg them not to leave, and she walks away anyway. But his offer rings in her head as loud as Voleth Meir's promises, and halfway to their destination Yennefer brings them to a stop. Ciri is so bright. So bright and beautiful, and with such great power, hair like Geralt's and a heart like Geralt's, so hurt and yet longing so deeply for love, and she looks at Yennefer with such trust. So much trust, and she's leading this doe-eyed girl astray, what could be hers, what should be hers, and Yennefer is tired of sacrificing and sacrificing and sacrificing. She loves hard and she loves vicious and she loves selfishly, and when Ciri demonstrates her powers Yen thinks My daughter did that. My. Mine.

She thinks You cannot have her, she thinks You will not take this from me, she thinks, I will no longer have no choice. I have a choice. I am making it.

And she turns on her heel and leads Ciri in an entirely different direction. She leads Ciri away from doom that Ciri never even knew was hanging over her head. Voleth Meir screams, and she walks away anyway, down a road where she knows an equally angry Geralt will find her. She only hopes she can talk him out of his rage before he sends her away.

===========

"I want to know where Yennefer of Vengerberg is going." Geralt says to Codringher and Fenn. They look at each other, and then back at him.

"And you think we know this? We don't keep track of every person on the continent, Geralt." Fenn replies

"I don't have time for games. I just need something, anything. Where was she recently. She has--... someone very dear to me. And I must find them." Geralt says, hands balled into fists.

They exchange a look. "We truly can't tell you her whereabouts. She hasnt been seen in quite a while. All that's known is that she was mumbling to herself last she was seen, before she vanished."

"What was she saying?" He presses, and Codringher looks thoughtful.

"Something like 'turn back to the forest, turn back to your mother'?" He says, scratching his chin.

"Turn your back to the forest, hut hut. turn your front to me, hut hut." Geralt says, understanding dawning on him.

"Could be. Our ears on the ground didn't hear it any clearer." Fenn says, seemingly annoyed that there's information she doesn't know.

"I know where she's going," he says, throws a bag on coins on the table, and leaves as quick as he came.

===========

Geralt has his sword drawn before they even see him, terror lancing through him at the idea of Ciri being taken, being given to that demon. Ciri shouts with joy when she spots him, then with fear as he presses his sword to Yen's throat. She lets him, no fight in her.

"I couldn't do it. I turned back. Back to you," she swears, and Geralt glances between the two of them, trying to assess if Ciri is alright.

"Geralt, what are you doing," she begs, looking so young and so frightened.

"What did she promise you? Money? Power?" Geralt asks, betrayal running deep, burning him up inside, because he'd trusted Yen, and first chance she got she ran off with his child. His. to sacrifice her to something old and foul.

Yen looks decimated. "...I can't be Ciri's teacher. My magic... it's gone." Yen says, answering his original offer and his most recent question all at once and geralt startles at that. Then she whispers, soft and broken and desperate, "Geralt, she's in my head."

Suddenly Geralt sees her for what she is. Someone very hurt, and very alone, who fought through the promises and manipulations of a demon to bring his daughter back to him. He slowly lowers his sword and pulls Yennefer into an embrace. "We'll fix it." Geralt promises.

===========

It doesnt get any easier to ignore Voleth Meir, but she looks around and sees Kaer Morhen, and the family that she's been welcomed into, and remembers that she's allowed to stay. That she has fought tooth and nail for every inch of her life until now, and she can keep fighting. That Ciri is hers.

She teaches magic anyway, without demonstrations. It's hard for Ciri, and it's hard for Yen, but she isn't as worthless as she feared she'd be powerless. Ciri looks up to her. Ciri hugs her. Ciri asks her hair be plaited for dinner. Ciri is her choice, and she makes it every morning.

Until one morning, it changes.

It starts small, just a creep, just a tickle. But she snaps her fingers, and a book by her bedside begins to float.

She'd burned herself out, ran her magic dry, scorched the channels it flowed through, but it healed. It came back with time. It was always going to come back with time.

She collapses to her knees and sobs, sobs like a child, for what has been returned to her.

And without her magic to tempt her, Voleth Meir loses her foothold in Yennefer's mind. The whispers quiet and fade until theyre nothing but a memory.

And finally, Yennefer is free.

===========

When Geralt lays down that night, he dreams.

"I've found a djinn," Dream Yen says,

and Geralt sees himself ask "Another one?"

"Except I won't try to tame this one," Yen says, insists that it could be the answer to their problems. "We could keep Ciri safe, teach her how to use her powers, if we phrase them just right the wishes could be the thing that saves us."

The scene changes. Once more, he has a seal in his hand. "I wish I had the hindsight not to get into these problems anymore," he says, because he never makes the right choice.

The dream falls away with the sunlight streaming in, bright on his face. He looks down around him, at the little family he's created; Jaskier by his side, Ciri's head in his lap and feet near his face, Yennefer asleep on a cot with her hand on Ciri's. And he decides that this time he did make the right choice. He decides that he's happy.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #writing tag #witcher #geraskier #time travel fix-it

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bamf-jaskier · 4 years ago

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So I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about how imbalanced Geralt and Jaskier’s relationship is in the show and while I might make another post about it, I don’t think anything shows that better than by comparing the Djinn scene in The Last Wish vs the show.

For the set-up to meeting the Djinn in the books, Geralt and Dandelion are fishing together. They are both holding onto a line in and manage to haul in a 12 foot long catfish by working together and on the other line they have in the river Jaskier pulls out the Djinn’s amphora. In the show, Geralt is hunting the Djinn in an attempt to try and get some peace of mind. Jaskier happens to run into Geralt and watches as Geralt pulls out the Djinn.

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Ha!” Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. “Do you know what this is?”

“It's an old pot.”

“You're wrong,” declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. “This is a charmed jar. There's a djinn inside who'll fulfill my three wishes.”

The witcher snorted.

“You can laugh.” Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. “But there's a seal on the spigot and a wizard's mark on the seal.”

“What mark? Let's see.”

“Oh, sure.” The poet hid the jar behind his back. “And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes.”

“Don't touch that seal! Leave it alone!”

“Let go, I tell you! It's mine!”

“Dandilion, be careful!”

“Sure!”

“Don't touch it! Oh, bloody hell!”

The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

The witcher jumped back and rushed toward the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn't move.

The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion's eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

Compare that to the scene from the show:

Jaskier: Wow. Wow. What is- What is that?

Geralt: [inspecting the stopper] It’s a wizard’s seal. The djinn.

Jaskier: Do you mind if I- [He grabs the pot.]

Geralt: Jaskier...

Jaskier: Take back that bit about my fillingless pie. Take it back and then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.

Geralt: Let go.

Jaskier: No! No, let go, you horse’s arse! [Geralt accidentally pulls out the stopper. Jaskier upends the pot, nothing happens.] Hm. That’s a bit of an anticlimax. [A sudden breeze ruffles their hair.] Or is it?

Now, it’s important to note that the dialogue is actually quite similar when Geralt and Jaskier are arguing about taking the jar and the seal. However, where it really differs is the context.

In the show, Geralt finds the Djinn and Jaskier takes it from him without asking and Geralt is clearly annoyed by this.

In the books, Dandelion finds the amphora and Geralt doesn’t believe it’s a Djinn while Dandelion does and Geralt tries to warn Dandelion of opening it because he considers it dangerous.

It’s the difference between Geralt being genuinely annoyed at Jaskier vs Geralt being concerned for Dandelion’s safety. There is a weird amount of contention between Geralt and Jaskier in the show that makes their relationship feels honestly unhealthy in many ways.

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Djinn!” said Dandilion, stamping his foot. “I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—”

The head snapped its beak, which wasn't really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

“Run!” yelled the witcher. “Run, Dandilion!”

“My wishes,” continued the poet, “are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there's a count's daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—”

No one ever found out Dandilion's third wish.

Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Dandilion screeched.

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show:

Jaskier: Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die. Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms, and very little clothing. Thirdly-

Geralt: Jaskier! [He grabs the back of Jaskier’s top and pulls him backward.]

Jaskier: Wha-

Geralt: Stop! There are only three wishes.

Jaskier: Oh, come on, you always say you want nothing from life. So how was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?

Geralt: I just want some damn peace!

Jaskier: Well, here’s your peace! [He throws the pot to the ground where it breaks. Geralt bares his teeth and growls before he bows down to collect the pieces, missing the fresh cut on his forearm. The wind intensifies and Jaskier raises a hand to his throat.] Geralt… Geralt… it’s the djinn! [Geralt casts a magical sign at the black, transparent smoke rushing by. Jaskier doubles over and clutches his throat.]

Geralt: Jaskier. [Jaskier vomits blood.]

Again, while the dialogue is very similar, especially in the case of Jaskier/Dandelion some of it being word for word in fact, Geralt in the books tries to protect Dandelion while the only thing Geralt focuses on is the wishes themselves. As well, in the books, Dandelion’s injury in the books is due to his own folly and arrogance while in the show, the writers make it indirectly Geralt’s fault.

It’s another weird choice that seems to suggest a dislike and a hostility between Geralt and Jaskier. It seems that even subconsciously Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier around.

Scene from The Last Wish:

“A troubadour,” repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. “That's bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell's action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise…This might be irreversible.”

“That means…Does that mean he won't be able to talk?”

“Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.”

Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show:

Chireadan: His throat was attacked. If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, that damage might be irreversible.

Jaskier: Wha- [vomiting more blood]

Chireadan: And the longer he goes untreated, the more likely it is to spread. He could die.

Jaskier: [gasps] Fuck! Geralt.

Geralt: Uh... Yeah, we won‘t let that happen. [pats Jaskier’s back]

In the books, Geralt shows genuine concern for Dandelion and is heartbroken by the idea that he might not be able to sing again. Remember, in the books, Dandelion’s injury is a result of his own folly and Geralt still feels this obvious and clear sadness. In the show--he just has this awkward grimace and pats him on the back. He almost seems to be there out of a strange sense of duty and doesn’t seem to feel too much guilt about his part in Jaskier’s injury.

Even when they are reunited after Yennefer heals Jaskier, it is very different in the two mediums (I actually want to do another post about Yennefer in Bottled Appetites vs The Last Wish)

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Dandilion!” Geralt shouted, holding Krepp back, who was clearly getting ready to perform an exorcism or a curse. “Where have you…here…Dandilion!”

“Geralt!” The bard jumped up.

“Dandilion!”

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show:

Jaskier: Oh, Geralt. Thank the gods. I might live to see another day. We need to go.

Geralt: Jaskier, you’re okay.

Jaskier: I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.

Geralt: Let’s not jump to conclusions. What happened?

Geralt and Jaskier are overjoyed to see each other in the books meanwhile in the show Geralt is just...okay about it.

And it’s really strange because Netflix!Geralt can show emotion when he wants to, he does with Yennefer in Bottled Appetites and Rare Species, he shows fear when she is with the Djinn and care when they are in the tent together and yet --- this emotion is not extended to Jaskier. This isn’t simply a difference of Geralt’s characterization.

In the show, the writers created an imbalanced relationship between Geralt and Jaskier where Geralt never asked Jaskier to be there. The bard is constantly inserting himself into Geralt’s life when he is not wanted and testing Geralt’s boundaries without permission. He almost seems like an invader in Geralt’s life and it makes it so that I honestly can’t believably see Geralt and Jaskier traveling together for 20 years.

Dandelion and Geralt protect each other, care for each other and worry about one another. Even from the beginning of the Djinn incident, they were fishing together. Geralt and Jaskier on the other hand have a relationship where Geralt begrudgingly tolerates Jaskier while Jaskier plows along blindly. It’s not healthy on either side. Geralt is putting up with someone he doesn’t seem to have a genuine connection with and Jaskier is pushing boundaries and constantly talking to a man who has no interest in listening.

There is no reciprocal relationship between Geralt and Jaskier and I think in the end that’s why there is this hostility between the two of them.

#which honestly makes me begin to wonder why Gerlion was never particularly popular with book fans while Geraskier is such an popular ship #but I also feel like a lot of people have a rather different perception of Geralt and Jaskier's relationship #I know I did at one point #but honestly the more I rewatch it the more I see Geralt resenting Jaskier #and Jaskier speaking over Geralt #Geralt almost never gets a word in when Jaskier is around #and we know Geralt talks #he talks with literally anyone else in the show who isn't Jaskier #I feel like people seem to think that Geralt and Dandelion in the books is similar to Geralt and Jaskier in the show #when it couldn't be more different #yeah so just some lengthy thoughts here #long post #the witcher #geraskier #gerlion #geralt #jaskier #dandelion #the last wish #the witcher books #the witcher netflix #myposts #meta

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valdomarx · 4 years ago

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A Marriage of Convenience

Octoberfest romcom tropes day 1: fake dating

Jaskier pushed his ale aside and broke the wax seal on the letter. As he read the contents, his face pinched into a frown.

“Anything important?” Geralt asked, glancing up from his soup.

Jaskier chewed his lower lip. “Not really. It’s from my family.” He took a breath. “They’re going to disinherit me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What did you do this time?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Nothing, thank you very much! But it’s my 35th birthday next month, and the stipulations of the Lettenhove family will are quite clear. If the oldest son isn’t married by the age of 35, inheritance passes to the next married cousin.”

“Very keen on weddings in Lettenhove, are they?”

“Rather less keen on unmarried bachelors, actually.”

Geralt grunted. “That’s too bad. I imagine a viscount’s fortune could have come in handy for you.”

“Oh, I don’t care about the money.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just,” he sighed. “I have younger sisters who rely on me for support. If the inheritance goes to cousin Edward, he’ll turn them out without a penny to their names.”

“That’s unkind.”

“It is.” Jaskier slumped. He was glad to have left Lettenhove and its court intrigues behind, but the thought of his sisters being at the mercy of his greedy cousin was unconscionable. He knew too well all the terrible things that could befall a woman alone in the world.

“This will,” Geralt said, stirring his soup absentmindedly, “does it have any rules about who you have to marry?”

“No. Any old wedding will do. But it’s not like I’m going to find anyone willing to tie themselves to me in the next month.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll marry you.”

Jaskier choked on his ale. “You?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he broke off and mopped the sweat from his brow. Because I’ve been in love with you for decades. Because I’ve fantasised about you saying this in a million different ways. Because having to pretend it’s real is going to break my heart.

Geralt reached over the table and patted his hand. “It’ll just be pretend,” he said, as if that were in any way reassuring. “This is a problem easily solved. Let me help you.”

Jaskier sagged. This was going to be a disaster.

“This is going to be a disaster!” Jaskier paced anxiously around their room. “There are so many ways this could go horribly wrong.”

Geralt sat on the bed counting bundles of herbs. “It’ll be fine.” He was infuriatingly calm. “We’ll head to Lettenhove, have a quick wedding, get your family off your back, and be on our way. It’ll only take a few days.”

“But,” Jaskier kept pacing. “We’ll have to. You know. We’ll have to do couple things. There are certain… expectations of a newly married pair.”

Geralt got to his feet and placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, stopping his anxious traipsing. “We’ll manage. Can’t be any worse than fighting drowners.”

Jaskier looked into amber eyes and felt his heart turn over in his chest. “Everyone will expect us to be holding hands, and kissing, and gods know what else. And you can’t do that.” He sighed. “You don’t even like men.”

Geralt leaned in closer, close enough that strands of his silver hair tickled Jaskier’s cheek. “I like men just fine,” he said, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then Jaskier did something terribly foolish. His body moved before his mind, his feet stepping closer, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck. He kissed him, hard, and to his astonishment Geralt kissed him back hungrily, lips parting to allow Jaskier to taste him fully, tongue exploring, hands roaming, and by the time they broke apart Jaskier was flushed and breathing hard.

“See?” Geralt said, his deep voice sending a shiver up his spine. “We can do this.”

Jaskier wrote to his family to tell them the good news, and he and Geralt wasted no time in heading off to Lettenhove. The journey was long but nothing they were unused to. They traveled by day, slept under the stars by night, and Geralt even picked up a few quick contracts to help pay their way.

It was comfortable, and normal, and Jaskier could almost forget about what he was about to put himself through.

At least, until they reached the outskirts of Lettenhove and they heard the whoosh of an incoming portal. The ground shook, the air rippled, and through the rent in reality stepped Yennefer, terrifying and beautiful as ever.

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to come up with a snarky reply as she swept past him and went to Geralt. He stood back and watched the two of them, powerful and dazzling together, each other’s equals in capability and composure.

He had never had a chance in this competition, he thought bitterly. He would be pretending with Geralt, while she had his heart for real.

Jaskier was left at camp while Geralt and Yennefer went off to do... whatever it was they did together. (He could guess what that was.) He spent a cold, lonely night with no one but Roach for company, berating himself for feeling so hurt by something he knew from the beginning was nothing but a ruse.

With their arrival in Lettenhove proper, there was nothing to do but face his family. The brightest spot of his day was walking into the estate and having his sisters squeal and jump on him just as they had done as children.

He stopped laughing and caught his breath long enough to introduce them. “Essi and Priscilla, this is Geralt.” My husband to be, he thought, and something twisted inside him at that. “Geralt, these are my troublesome sisters.”

Essi dipped her head and Priscilla performed a theatrical bow. “We were wondering if Jaskier would ever settle down,” Essi said with a sly smile.

“But seeing how handsome you are, I can’t blame him!” Priscilla replied, and the two of them broke into fits of giggles.

Geralt, for his part, took them with good humour. Where Jaskier had been expecting him to be dour, he smiled indulgently and took each of their hands in turn and pressed a kiss to their knuckles, resulting in another uproar of giggling.

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier said quietly as they made their way to the room waiting for them.

Geralt inclined his head. “Have to make a good impression on the future in-laws,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking upward in amusement.

The rest of his family were predictable as clockwork. Cousin Edward was sour, his father was distant, and his mother was simply relieved to see him married off as was proper. Geralt sat through all of it with more patience and good grace than Jaskier would have thought him capable of.

The day of the wedding itself passed in a blur. With such short notice the ceremony was terribly paired down by noble standards, but still, there was the formal breakfast, the dressing in formal garments, the journey to the temple outside of the city, the clamour of priestesses and officials and his family, the exchanging of rings, the reading of texts, and of course the formal dinner.

Jaskier barely remembered any of it. Looking back, the only thing that stuck out in his mind was the feeling of Geralt’s hand clasping his own during the handfasting. And the way that, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed over the course of the day, Geralt’s hand would find his own and give a comforting squeeze.

Finally the ceremonies were complete and they were left in peace in their chambers, the two of them alone for the first time all day. Geralt’s hair had been braided into two slim plaits running either side of his face, though by now they were starting to become mussed. He’d even put on a shirt of dark blue silk as opposed to his standard uniform of all black. The effect was quite stunning.

As the door closed, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped and he breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

Geralt cupped one cheek tenderly. “You good?”

Jaskier exhaled, letting the anxiety and stress of the day slowly unwind. He looked into Geralt’s warm eyes and felt, for once, safe and unjudged. “I’m good.”

Geralt brought their lips together, soft as could be, and Jaskier’s knees shook. He grabbed Geralt’s forearms to hold himself upright and, desperate for some sort of control, some sort of meaning, he pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss.

This was a bad idea, he was aware, but Geralt felt so good in his arms. He ran his hands through silky silver hair like he’d always wanted to, he pressed himself close to that muscled chest he’d spent more time than he should have admiring, and he moaned unrestrainedly when Geralt picked him up, locking his legs around his waist.

This was a terrible idea, he knew, but Geralt carried him over to the bed with firm, confident steps, and the temptation to touch, to hold, to kiss was overwhelming. This would only lead to heartache, but he was weak in the face of love, as always.

Geralt laid him out and took him apart with soft lips and careful fingers and a wicked tongue, and it was everything he’d been dreaming of for years, and yet so much more intense than anything he could have imagined. Geralt was dazzling beneath him, warm amber eyes and pale scarred flesh, beautiful and kind and more than he could possibly deserve.

Nuptial celebrations in Lettenhove were mercifully brief, and with the ceremony completed and recorded to the satisfaction of the genealogists, they were free to depart.

There were, however, some customs which could not be avoided.

“You’ll be honeymooning nearby?” Jaskier’s mother asked, with the understanding that this was not a question.

“Actually, we thought -”

“They’ll be staying in my cottage, won’t you?” Priscilla interjected. She’d availed herself of her position, such as it was, to secure a tiny ramshackle cottage on the Kerack coast. It wasn’t opulent but it was, thankfully, far from prying eyes.

Jaskier gave her a tiny nod of thanks and she winked.

“A cottage?” His mother’s lip turned up in distaste. “How quaint.”

“And there’s ever so much to pack, so we must be on our way -” he excused himself with a bow, tugging Geralt behind him.

Out of the view of their parents, Priscilla and Essi set upon him with hugs and kisses, thanked him for saving them from the horrors of cousin Edward, and packed up an obscene quantity of cheeses and wine to take with them.

By the time they departed the estate, Jaskier was even smiling.

It was quiet and calm on the coast. The cottage overlooked the sea, rolling and tempestuous, and had just enough space for a kitchen, a bed, and a bath. They had everything they needed, even a stable for Roach outside.

Even though it was only for a few days, Jaskier imagined Geralt would be bored and unhappy, feeling trapped in a place so small. But he seemed content: riding along the coastline in the morning, brushing Roach out, going fishing in the afternoon, preparing the catch for their evening meal.

Jaskier showed him his favourite spices and how to prepare the fish with butter to make it rich and indulgent, and in the quiet moments he wrote poetry or simply sat on the battered chair on the porch of the cottage and watched the waves.

Geralt returned to the cottage with a net bulging with fish and a smile on his face. He’d been doing that more recently, Jaskier had noticed, smiling in a way that seemed natural and unforced. He even left his armour and swords in the cottage and waded down to the sea in just his trousers and shirtsleeves, disarmingly casual.

It was comfortable, almost domestic.

And it was a torment, showing Jaskier a tiny glimpse of a life he’d never have.

Their last night on the coast, Geralt cooked the remainder of their provisions into a feast, poured the best wine they had, and set a fire in the hearth. He piled up blankets and pillows, laid down their warmest furs, and pulled Jaskier into his arms in front of the flames.

“Thank you,” he said, dotting kisses in a line up Jaskier’s neck, “for taking such good care of me.”

Jaskier fidgeted unhappily. “You’re the one doing me a favour,” he reminded him. That seemed important to remember. This was a favour from a friend, nothing more.

Geralt hummed against his neck, the vibrations rippling against his skin. “I can see some advantages to me,” he murmured, continuing his line of kisses up Jaskier’s jaw and toward his lips.

Jaskier, stupidly, allowed Geralt to turn him around, hands delicate around his waist, allowed him to bring their lips together. He allowed a kiss, soft at first, and then another, more intense, moaning into Geralt’s mouth.

“Can I interest you in an early night?” Geralt purred in his ear, and everything in Jaskier’s body said yes, and everything in his mind said no.

Eventually, his mind won out and he pushed Geralt away.

“No,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry, Geralt, but this was a terrible mistake.”

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Geralt’s sad expression. He was hit by the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Geralt’s voice was so soft behind him. “It’s okay, Jaskier. Whatever it is. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I won’t do it again.”

Jaskier deflated. He turned to face Geralt, watery eyes and all. “That’s not the problem. I don’t want you to stop. I want this to be real.”

Geralt stood carefully still. “What do you mean, real?”

Jaskier took a breath, tried to imagine how to explain himself, how to convey what he felt. “I’m in love with you!” he snapped in the end. Not his most eloquent work, but perhaps his most honest.

Geralt tilted his head. “I know,” he said. He looked down at the ring on his finger. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The point?” Jaskier exploded. “The point!” He couldn’t stop himself from waving his arms as he ranted. “Oh, sure, I’m certain that the ideal marriage is between one person who’s hopelessly in love and one person who’s indifferent and besotted with another. I’m sure Yennefer will be delighted when she hears about this whole situation.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m in love with Yennefer?”

“Yes! Obviously!”

He paused, obviously weighing his words. “That night when she visited us outside Lettenhove, she wasn’t surprised by the news. She told me congratulations, and that it had taken long enough. I think she knew long before I did that I wasn’t in love with her, not really. My heart already belonged to another.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “You mean… You and her, you’re not...”

Geralt shook his head. “What she most wants is something I can’t give her.”

“And you?” Jaskier asked, dreading the answer.

Geralt took his hand. “What I most want,” he stroked his thumb over the ring around Jaskier’s finger, “is something I already have.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt. It was almost too much. It was overwhelming. “You really love me?”

Geralt smiled softly. “I really do.”

Jaskier threw himself into Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “Tell me again,” he said, because he was needy.

“I love you,” Geralt said, kissing down the side of his face. “I love you,” he said, lacing their fingers together against the furs. “I love you,” he said, their bodies moving together, finally free to feel with the intensity they had been hiding for so long, their scents mingling together with the fresh salt tang of the sea.

The sun shone brightly and the wind whipped their hair as they packed up Roach the next morning. Jaskier paused to admire the view one last time: The rolling waves, the steep cliffs, the shingled beach.

Geralt slipped his arms around his waist from behind and dropped a kiss just beneath his ear.

“What does our life look like now?” Jaskier asked, eyes on the waves.

He felt Geralt’s smile against his hair. “Much the same as before,” he said. “With perhaps a few improvements.”

Jaskier turned then and kissed him fully, no need to hold himself back, taking Geralt’s hand and running his fingers over the ring there.

“Ready to head back to the Path?”

Geralt smiled, and Jaskier would never tire of that. “Ready if you are,” he said with softness in his eyes, “husband.”

#this just in: i am secretly soft #squeezing this in before midnight #geraskier #lesdemonium #thank you for the prompt inspo!!#octoberfest #the witcher #my writing

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