#cradled. against his bard. is there nothing better in this life

[lanternlightss]

hello dear mutual. clingy bardven doodle for u :]

HELLO DEAR MUTUAL !!! THEY ARE SO CUTTEEEEEE

oh the way both of them are just 🥰 and ☺️ and ^_^ they are so Squishy and soft here !! like those plush animals filled with beads …. do not separate, they are a package deal, hugging …. !!!! they will both be very sad if you do :( !!!

god i esp love how bard has both arms around venti and venti has a hand on his chest. the little tilting of their head towards each other too …. ohhh this has to be so nice for both of them AAWWH 🥺🥺

[cynettic]

Burning Things with Genshin Impact Characters

Summary - Burning things together, escaping burning buildings, and raiding Hilichurl camps <3 Ahh, the epitome of love.

Pairings - Chaotic Reader x Albedo / Venti / Ayaka / Scaramouche

Warnings - Mentions of fire, alcohol, suggestive themes, and uhm- ✨ c h a o s ✨

A/N - Bro- this is just my mental break after writing 6.9k of smut in my last post ;-; And my next two posts are supposed to be for Genshin women and their smut so… I need some cute fluff before I get into that.

Albedo

“Y/n… calm down.”

Urgent eyes darting over the vicinity of your apartment, you hardly spared the light haired boy a glance. “‘Calm down?’” You asked incredulously, flapping your arms around as if that would solve the issue of smolk. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, but our house is ‘burning.’” The bits of ash stung your arms, smoke seething against your eyes.

“I’m aware, I’m just asking you to get off the windowsill.”

Looking down at your already prepped foot right on the metal of the only opening the room, you flashed him a glare. “Uhm… no? I’ll have you know I have things to do and places to be, I’m a very important-”

“‘Y/n,’” Albedo interrupted, exasperated. “Please, come here.”

“No!” You shot back, “‘You’ come here, you aren’t going down in flames with your lab experiment. No matter how important it was.”

You could slowly see the patience from Albedo’s face melt away. An incredible feat, it was far too bad you didnt have the time to admire his ticked off face. “And you plan to jump off and break a couple bones?

“Better than death by fire.”

This time, the alchemist simply pointed to the experiment table, unable to form words.

“Yes and? I already know you messed up your experiment.”

“And,” he continued, irritated. “The table is the only ‘damn’ thing on fire. ‘The only thing on fire.’ The entirety of the house is just ‘dandy.’ Now help me put it out.”

You removed your foot of the ledge. “Oh, now that you mention it…”

Albedo put a hand to his head, sigh escaping as he rubbed his temples. “You’re almost worse than Klee… no, scratch that. You’re worse. Klee wouldn't have run away, she has the decency to stick around and out the fire out.”

“I thought it as a life threatening situation!”

“Mhm,” he hummed, displeased. “Whatever you say, get over here.”

Venti

Your drunk figure stumbled across the plain of grass, arms outstretched as you spun around. The wind rushed past your face, cool against the heat that ran through your veins. You felt dizzy, the world spinning in circles around you.

“Hey!” You spun around, foot sliding around the grass as you struggled to keep yourself from falling back. “You- you over there.”

“Yes?” The bard spoke, whisking the alcohol bottle in his hand in circles. He too had chugged a few too many bottles, but nothing to get him as wasted as you were at the moment. “And I do have a name you know- I’m aware you’re drunk, but it still hurts to know you’ve forgotten it~”

Squinting your eyes, you racked your mind for a name. “Oh.. uh…” It took only a moment till the name flashed in your name, and with a giggle, you turned back around. “Venti!”

“Yes?” He responded, this time with a wide grin.

All that stretched in front of the two of you was a wide field of grass, a grand tree, and a hilichurl camp. The two of you were too far away to quickly make it to the tree, and far enough not to arouse any suspicion with the monsters.

Of course your focus was on the hilichurl encampment.

“Look!” You pointed to the wooden pillars perched upright, two or three hilichurls dancing around a fire. “Lets destroy it!”

Venti nearly choked on the beverage in his mouth, swallowing it before he let out a chuckle. “Destroy it?” he repeated bemused, staring at your knocked up state. “I’d be surprised if you managed to make your way there-”

As if to prove him wrong, you started sprinting.

“Uh oh- hey! That wasnt what I meant!!” And he was sent racing after you.

By the time you made it to the camp, the Hilichurls had taken notice of you. All three of them standing up with some kind of weapon in hand. Your joyous laugh sent shivers down their spine, wobbly walk making them back up.

You were ‘scaring’ them.

“C’mere,” you cooed, arms wide. “I don’t bite.”

“Yes you do,” Venti mumbled once catching up to you. Too low for your ears to catch.

When the hilichurls didnt move, you whirled around to grab the vodka from his hand. A high percentage of course, Venti couldnt get drunk on normal wine or too low of a vodka. With a squeak of surprise, he reached for the bottle.

But it was too late.

You’d throw the bottle right at the hilichurls, who dashed away right at that moment. They abandoned camp and sprinted towards the meadow to find some refuge in the trees.

But that wasnt the end of the chaos.

Oh no, the bottle just ‘had’ to spill its contents onto the grass. And well, knock over a torch light stand while it was at it, which meant what? Fire.

“Its burning!”

“Oh dear…”

Venti pulled you away from the camp, sending a gust of wind to pick up the remainder of whatever was burning and put it out. “What am I gonna do with you…” he whispered in a groan. You happily skipped alongside him, giggling at his remark. “My little menace.”

He made a mental note not to bring you to the tavern again.

Side note - No Hilichurls were harmed during the raid-

Ayaka

“‘I’m saving her.”’

Hanging on a tree just beside the Kamisato residency, you and Thoma crouched on a single branch, tipping from side to side to regain balance before falling. That wasn’t the main issue, because just beside you was Ayaka, trapped in a burning building as she frantically tried to put the fire out.

“I’m her bodyguard,” Thoma beside you seethed, pushing you lightly to get you to move. “Therefore its my jobs to protect her, move.”

You shoved back, “And she’s the girl I love, got an issue with that?” You stuck your tongue out, “Or maybe you’re just ‘jealous’, wanna play hero and get her to fall in love? Too bad, you know we’re a thing, get over it.”

“Do you ‘want’ me to hurt you?”

“No thanks, save that for your new girlfriend and your bsdm kinks.”

“HEY- I DONT HAVE-”

But you’d already jumped, grabbing with both hands onto the window ledge and hoisting yourself up. The smoke hit you, burning your eyes and making your nose scrunch up in distaste. If this was your first reaction- how was Ayaka?!

You looked around, spotting the girl trying to put out the fire. It wasnt a big one, in fact it was just the cooking stove and a tinge of the carpet was on actual fire. The rest was just too much smoke, and a coughing Ayaka spilling water over everything.

Racing over, you began stomping on the flames of the carpet. Noticing you, she put her attention on the stove, and the two of you managed to clear away all the fire in no time.

It was when she put her hand over her mouth to cough that you realized you needed to get her out of there. Picking her up with ease, you cradled her in your arms as you dashed to the window. You didnt want to know what the rest of the house, and if there was any more fire, Thoma could put it out right?

Unfortunately for you, that wasnt even your main worry as you made it to the window. Water had somehow made it just below the windowsill, and instead of jumping out with precision, you slipped you with Ayaka in your arms, screaming out in surprise.

So you did all you could do, tuck her in your arms with your back to the ground and hoped you didnt die.

“‘Umph’- holy you’re heavy.”

You weren’t dead but…

‘Being in Thoma’s arms is worse.’

His face said the same, so he dropped you and instead held Ayaka in his arms. You watched as his face morphed into one of worry and compassion, “Princess- are you alright?”

“I was the one who caught her!” You blurted from your position on the ground, stumbling up to stand.

“And I caught both of you,” he corrected, flashing her a grin before giving you a look of distaste. “By accident, it was by pure luck that you happened to be holding onto her.”

You flashed him the middle finger, “Well your jobs done, saved the day, now fuck off.”

“‘You’ fuck off.”

“You have no reason to be here.”

“And leave Ayaka with an incapable fool? How did you slip out of a ‘window?’”

“Water you dumbass, now let go of her before I beat the shit out of you-“

“Ha- I’d like to see you try.”

Meanwhile, Ayaka rest cradled against Thoma’s chest, a look that your bickering was getting to her, and that she was seriously getting ticked off.

“Can you both just ‘shut up?’”

Scaramouche

Everything was ‘burning.’

Scarlet flames licking the wooden planks, crackling as splintered logs came crashing down and silenced by the background screams. Chaos strewn from side to side, a contrast from the normal pace of your footsteps, the calm collected look on your face.

“That was fun,” you simply stated to the boy beside you, squeezing his hand. “We should do it again some other time.”

He squeezed your hand back, a gesture far beyond him. However, he didnt reply, just walking alongside you with your hands interlocked and casually walking away from the crime scene.

Side note - you could really tell I got hit by writers block on the last one ;-;

[sezja]

For when you are ready:

taking the other’s hand to look for injuries

Hand-holding Prompts (Always accepting)

"You cannot sit there," Sanson says, futile, as Guydelot hops up to sit on the countertop. "Guydelot, there are perfectly good chairs-"

"They're all the way over there." Guydelot plucks a few notes, strumming along to the percussion of his own heel knocking gently against the cabinet below. "And you're all the way over here."

Shaking his head, resigned, Sanson resumes cooking dinner - there is no arguing with the bard, a lesson he has more than learned. Whatever whim has inspired him tonight, all Sanson can hope to do is allow it to run its course. Besides, perhaps he enjoys the implication that Guydelot wishes to be near him, though the counter cannot possibly be more comfortable than a proper chair.

Two weeks have passed since Sanson's rescue, and life has at last begun to settle back into normalcy - if Guydelot seems a touch more attentive of late, if he checks in on Sanson more often, if he doesn't wander off half so frequently... well, Sanson supposes, who can blame him? It has not yet become suffocating. A touch mortifying at times, perhaps; the very last thing he needs is to be reminded of his failure, but it is a welcome reminder that Guydelot cares - and the attention is as much for the bard's own reassurance as it is for Sanson himself, of course. The abduction left Guydelot shaken.

And if the man must needs perch himself on a kitchen countertop to better be near Sanson, if doing so stills his still-frayed nerves, well, who is Sanson to stop him?

"Smells edible," Guydelot comments, glancing down at the pot.

Sanson rolls his eyes. "'Tis hardly in my own best interests to feed you inedible stew." The stew itself is something of a hodgepodge of ingredients he'd needed to be rid of quickly, but neither of them are particularly picky eaters; it will be gone within the week. Sanson composes a list in his mind for the market - they are unlikely to be sent far afield for the immediate future, while he focuses on reviewing potential recruits for his unit...

Lost briefly in thought, he allows his attention to wander a moment too long; as he stirs, his hand grazes the rim of the pot.

"Ah-" He hisses, releasing the spoon and clutching his burned hand against his chest.

"Let me see." With alacrity, Guydelot is there; Sanson didn't even see him slide down from the counter. The bard gently draws Sanson's hand into his own, turning it to get a better look at the burn - only a small pink line, shiny in the light. Sanson's skin tingles, and he isn't certain it is the burn alone.

"It's nothing," he says, but doesn't pull his hand back, letting Guydelot cradle it; the bard's hands are so much larger than his own. "I doubt it will so much as blister."

"Aye." Guydelot lifts the hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against the too-warm skin before finally releasing him, returning to hop back up on the counter. As though nothing had happened at all. "Aye, well, mind yourself, eh? And don't let the grub burn."

Sanson returns to stirring with a roll of his eyes. "You could help."

"I'm helping!" He collects his harp from where it had been hastily set aside, and plucks a note. "Where would you be without me, Chief?"

"Where, indeed."

[write-ur-wrongs]

Nature’s Nurturing Ways

Hi y’all! This pandemic has really taken the wind out of my sails these past few weeks (maybe months? Time is completely untraceable right now). This piece is born out of a lovely anon’s request, bolded below. As always, I haven’t proofread this mess, so please forgive the typos! I’ll do my best to correct them post-publishing. I seriously can’t thank you enough for taking the time to send me your ideas, and I promise I’ll get better at writing actual drabbles LOL. I hope you enjoy :) 

Hii can you write something abt Geralt being w a plant-based reader where she loves animals and nature? Tysm

_____________________________________________________________

Geralt and Jaskier had been travelling for hours when the beating sun finally wore them down. There hadn’t been a breeze in days and the hot, stale air was starting to suffocate the uncharacteristically quiet bard, who wouldn’t dare compete with the surrounding cicada’s symphony.

“Geralt,” he rasped, “do you hear any running water? Drips or gurgles? I’ll take anything.”

“Jask, it hasn’t rained in days and it’s hotter than the depths of hell,” the Witcher sighed before continuing, “I said no yesterday, the answer is the same today.”

“Euughh!” Jaskier threw his head back in despair before hanging his head in exhaustion. “Geralt, I don’t want to be dramatic -,”

“Ha!” Geralt twisted in his saddle to look back at his friend with a quirked brow.

“- but I will fall off this horse and die of exposure if we don’t find water soon.”

Shaking his head, Geralt knew that despite the bard’s tendency to embellish, the situation was getting dire. They’d traveled this way dozens of times before and had always relied on the steady creek that ran alongside the trail for water. The region wasn’t known for dry spells and while Geralt was sure he could manage either way, his companion on the trail was not so durable.

They wouldn’t arrive at their destination for another three or four hours, at his level of dehydration and with probable heat exhaustion, Jaskier might not have that much time.

With another gruff sigh, Geralt pulled back on Roach’s reins and redirected her off the road and into the forest, turning back to ensure Jaskier’s horse would follow.

Geralt knew that there was a small clearing off the road where the thick leaves from the old trees made a lush, and shaded, canopy. He’d been there before a handful of times. It’s where he shared a tender first kiss, where he’d laid his head on Y/N’s chest before falling asleep feeling the cool, lush, grass cradling his large frame. It’s where he first said I love you.

Shaking his head slightly to pull himself from his memories, he dismounted and grabbed both sets of reins, leading the horses into farther the clearing. Once they’d reached the middle of the small field, Geralt released Roach’s lead and gave her a neck a scratch before leaving her to graze.

“Come on Jaskier,” he said, reaching into the gelding’s saddle bag for some food, “get off your horse and lay down in the grass.”

The bard fell out of his saddle with a thud while Geralt continue to root around the bag, huffing as he kept coming up empty.

“Did you eat the last of the cheese?”

“Mmpft,” Jaskier replied incoherently, face down in the grass.

“Hey –”

“Oi! You kicked me!”

“Where is the food? We had bread, cheese, and meat left over last night. Did you fucking eat it all?”

“No, you oaf,” he said, rolling over onto his back, “we ate the rest of it this morning.”

“Fuck!” Geralt cursed under his breath, pulling his hair up off his neck to cool off. He could barely remember what they’d done earlier that day. The heat had been unbearable all evening, and the rising sun only made it worse.  

“Don’t worry about it Geralt! No need to apologize for accusing me so harshly.” Jaskier said, words dripping in sarcasm.

Geralt merely looked down at the bard with disdain and rolled his eyes, refusing to admit the sun might be affecting him too.

“Shut up and take off your shirt –”

“Oh-ho!” he laughed weakly, wiggling his eye brows at the witcher. No matter how beaten and battered the bard may be, he’d never miss an opportunity to tease Geralt.

“No, Gods! Fuck,” Geralt went on, flustered, “the grass will cool you down a hell of a lot faster if you’re in direct contact. And besides, Y/N will kill me if I let you die of exposure.”

“Always so serious, eh Geralt?” Jaskier chided playfully, pulling off his tunic before laying back down onto the grass, “Oh-ho-ho-ohhhh yes… Sweet merciful goddess of all that is good, this feels amazing! Yes, yes, yes!”

While he was sure the bard was still mumbling gratefully, and disgustingly, at the feeling of the cool grass against his skin, Geralt’s mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in this clearing, wild heliotropes had bloomed and the sweet, almondine scent was pulling him into a memory.

“Geralt! Witchers use herbs, mushrooms, and flowers in all kinds of magic,” you said, your hands resting high on your hips, “I find it incredibly hard to believe that in all your years and extensive travels, you’d never learned to forage?”

“All my years, eh?” he’d replied, cat-like eyes gleaming back at you.

“Well of course,” you teased, “I mean, unless you mean to tell me that silver head of hair is a choice born out of vanity?”

“I’m going to make you pay for that later, Y/N.” He laughed, taken aback and a little impressed that you felt so comfortable with his mutations as to mock him playfully.

“Ha! Me and what coin?” you reply with a light laugh, bending over to collect the generous mushrooms growing through the bed of leaves and needles.

Geralt turned his head towards you to hit you with a winning comeback, but found himself lost for words when his eyes failed to meet yours.

You get up slowly, peering over your shoulder to find your witcher’s eyes on your backside. Smirking to yourself and quirking a brow flirtatiously, you toss a handful of dirt and wet leaves his way, hitting the poor soul right in the chest.

“Distracted, Geralt?” you said, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you straightened up.

Geralt swallowed thickly, desperately trying to string together at least a couple words – witty at best, coherent at least – when he heard a twig snap in the surrounding forest.

Quick as a flash, he drew his sword and his attention towards the source of the disturbance, a large boar. Chest already swelling with pride at the thought of providing you with a hearty meal, Geralt prepared his attack on the creature before him.

Seeing that the “threat” in question was nothing but a passing porcine, you dove before him with a shout, dropping the mushrooms on the way. Your scream coupled with your sudden movement startled the beast, and it dove deeper into the brush to escape.

“Geralt, no!”

“Damn it, Y/N,” he swore, “I could’ve had it! We could have had a decent meal! We – we would have been set for days!”

“No, Geralt! We have food, right here in this clearing. We needn’t take lives from the forest to eat.”

“Gods, Y/N,” he sighed, dropping his sword to the ground in frustration, “do I need to remind you of the cycle of life? Creatures live, they die, and they get eaten so others can live –”

“Yes, and by leaving that gentle giant to its ruminations, we’ve allowed it to go on, to feed its young, or hell! By leaving that boar to live, we might have secured a lifeline for a fellow wolf or fox. Geralt look around you; mushrooms, flowers, these thick leaves, those berries? You see that tree there? At its roots there are nuts, and over there? Those flowers? Means there is garlic. The forest will feed us with ease if we simply care to drop our weapons, and look.”

Geralt looked at you and with soft eyes, he took in the way your eyes burned with passion, the way your chest rose and fell with every energized breath. He looked around you and really looked at the plants around him, beyond scanning for any toxic or dangerous herbs, he did his best to see the forest through your bright eyes.

Looking at you he felt his chest swell once more, but this time the feeling was warm, grounding.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said quietly, pulling you into his arms, “so, so much.”

You looked up at him with tears in your eyes. You knew he loved you. You had known for months, but you’d made peace with the fact that he loved you however he could, and that that would have to be enough, even if it meant you wouldn’t hear him say it.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet dove,” you murmured, reaching up to lay a soft kiss on his forehead, “I love you too.”

Geralt was wrenched from his thoughts by a swift kick to his shin, courtesy of the bard.

“Shhht!! Geralt!” Jaskier shout-whispered, still kicking at the witcher’s shins. “A deer! A d- dinner! Food! Geralt!”

Side-stepping out of the bard’s frantic little kicks, Geralt looked around him in a quick movement, spotting the deer with his hand primed above his sword’s hilt.

The world seemed to go quiet and still when his eyes met the doe’s. Despite himself, he could hear your voice in his head telling him that she’s a young, vibrant member of this forest’s population. That at her age, she’s likely a first-time mom or about to be. That she has more life to live and more to give to the land than be a poor man’s meal.

Jaskier watched in hungry-horror as Geralt waved his large hand at the creature, turning his back to it before looking down to meet his shell-shocked gaze.

“What the fuck, Geralt!” he spat, “what happened to “Y/N would kill me if I let Jaskier die”? What the fuck! That was food! Survival!”

“You’ll be fine Jask, shut up and lay in your grass.”

“As long as you don’t make me eat it.” He grumbled, not quietly enough.

A laugh rumbled through him as he walked towards to forest line, spotting thick dandelion leaves, mushrooms, and bushes ripe with nuts. He might not necessarily need to feed Jaskier the grass beneath his feet, but he was going to make him eat his words.

***********************************************************************************

“There you are my intrepid explorers!” You damn near squealed at the sight of them, dropping your basket of recently-purchased produce as you ran towards them.

At the sight of you, Geralt dismounts and runs to meet you in a tight embrace. You hold each other tightly, breathing in each other’s scent; his cedar, damp earth, and cut grass, and yours sweet almond.

You pull back just enough to look him over quickly and, spotting no fresh injury or new scars, pull your brows together curiously.

“Did you get lost?”

“Not at all,” replied Jaskier, clapping Geralt on the shoulder, “You’d be impressed, madam Y/N! Our dear witcher made quite the feast. Pulled me right out of the greedy jaws of death, he did!”

“Oh?” You said, brows furrowed in a silent question. Knowing what you meant, Geralt shook his head and kissed your temple to reassure you.

“Picture me this, Y/N,” Jaskier mused as he untacked his gelding, “I’m wilting away, inches from Death’s grip, and Geralt sweeps me under a lush canopy of trees and lays me in the grass…”

“Lays him in the grass? Should I be jealous?” you whispered.

“Never my love,” he replied softly, his forehead against yours.

“… then our honorable friend bid the deer a fond farewell, letting him get away! Yes, Y/N, there I lay, starving, thinking the sun must have cooked the sense right out of him when he marches out of sight only to emerge moments later with a bounty!”

“A bounty?” you mock-gasp, egging the bard on to Geralt’s great displeasure.

“Yes! We ate like kings in that forest, Y/N. All we did was eat but I felt hydrated and renewed! Truly a culinary delight.”

“A delight, Geralt!” you giggled, giving his waist a squeeze.

“Gods, won’t he ever shut up?” he grumbled, ghost of a blush creeping up his collar.

“Oh hush, my love,” you cooed, “without Jask’s bragging, I’d have never known what a big softy you’ve become.”

Wordlessly, Geralt looked down at you in mock-contempt, unsure that this wasn’t a veiled insult. He was instantly reassured though, when his eyes met yours.

“You left the deer.”

“I did.”

“And you foraged, found just what you needed.” You spoke softly, admiration and love rounding your features out beautifully.

“That’s right.”

“Now where did you pick up skills like that, my dove?” You chanced another tease, twirling a lock of his white, dust-packed hair around a finger before giving it a light tug, your head cocked to the side.

“Oh, I had an exceptional teacher…” he said, wrapping an arm tightly around your waist and bringing his other hand up to cup your face, pulling into a deep kiss.

[drowningbydegrees]

As it turns out, falling into bed with your very best friend who you are privately very much in love with isn't nearly so nerve wracking as waking up with them the morning after.

Read on AO3

He can’t remember the last time waking up was a remotely soothing experience. Geralt’s sleep muzzy mind has no other word for the body plastered against his front from shoulder to hip, the steady heartbeat against his palm where his hand is splayed out across someone’s chest. His nose is tucked against the nape of someone’s neck, and the scent is far too familiar to be jarring.

“Jaskier,” he rumbles quietly, his mouth miles ahead of the rest of him. The quiet, absent pleasure of waking up tangled with someone who smells sleepy and content and like they’re his leaves no room for reason. There’s no room for anything really, except to press a kiss to whatever patch of skin he can find, savoring the soft sigh it earns him.

Jaskier is… The night before rushes back to him, and Geralt almost jerks away, even though it would be entirely pointless to bother with that now. He cracks an eye open and is met with the disaster that Jaskier’s hair, mussed in the night by sleep, and by Geralt’s fingers buried in it before that. Even as worry begins to creep in, he sort of wants to do it again.

This isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. This probably isn’t even the hundredth time they’ve shared a bed. This is most definitely the first time they’ve done so with so little clothing between them, none to be exact. There’s only the blanket tucked around them both, warm and lovely and unexpectedly distressing.

Geralt isn’t sorry, per se. Jaskier’s chest rises and falls under Geralt’s palm in the slow rhythm of sleep. It’s the loveliest thing Geralt can remember waking up to, and therein lies the problem. An emotion fed only grows, and this unruly, sprawling affection is the worst offender. Stupidly, Geralt had thought getting this out of his system would quell it, but the longing reaches a fever pitch instead.

Jaskier is beautiful, all the more so for the way he shifts in his sleep, closing the gap Geralt has tried to put between them. Geralt could happily wake like this every day for the rest of his life, but it isn’t a fair thing to ask of someone who flits from one love to the next like a butterfly between flowers. He will not trap Jaskier in this just because he happens to be besotted. Somehow, the resolve not to try to keep this does nothing to ease the guilt welling up that he wants to in the first place.

Nothing Jaskier said the night before conveyed meaning beyond a playful desire to tumble into bed together. Moving the target now would only be cruel. He should be rolling out of bed, hastening them back to normal. He should be proving that this has done nothing to harm their friendship. It isn’t Jaskier’s fault, after all, the way Geralt wants to breathe him in and kiss him senseless and forget the rest of the world until the innkeeper boots them out.

“Geralt?” Jaskier startles the witcher from his worries, wriggling impossibly closer and laying a palm over his knuckles. “You okay?”

“Thinking,” Geralt replies vaguely.

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” Jaskier teases, still warm and lethargic with sleep. Geralt almost manages to take advantage of the levity of the moment and extricate himself, but before he can, Jaskier rolls over so they’re nearly nose to nose. His fingers cradle Geralt’s cheek and any attempt to escape now would just be graceless. “What about?”

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer, so he only hums noncommittally and hopes Jaskier will let it lie. Of course, Jaskier being Jaskier, does no such thing. He takes advantage of the change in positions to tangle his legs up with Geralt. “I can’t tell you to knock it off if you don’t tell me what it is.”

“We should get going.” Geralt tries once more to escape, frowning when Jaskier shows no sign of releasing him. It’s silly of course. Jaskier couldn’t hope to hold him here if Geralt was set on leaving. He just can’t actually make himself do it.

“Was it that bad a night?” It’s an easy opening, an invitation to stray back to their usual banter, but Geralt gets no further than a raised eyebrow before Jaskier is clasping a hand over the witcher’s mouth. “Wait. Don’t answer that or I might have to smother you with a pillow and that’ll just be unfortunate for both of us.”

Right there, with Jaskier smiling at him, Geralt can almost believe they’re going to survive this. Almost, but almost still leaves a distance he cannot cross. As soon as Jaskier pulls his hand back from Geralt’s mouth, the witcher opens it. “They’re not going to let us sleep in forever.”

“They might if I convince them to let me play again this evening. We could move on tomorrow,” Jaskier ventures, but something in Geralt’s face must give him pause. “Oh do not look at me like that. The world isn’t going to end just because you stop to take a breath once in a while, Geralt.”

“That’s not…” Geralt starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. There are no words that convey the razor wire sensation of facing down the impermanence of Jaskier’s affections, of realizing how deeply his own feelings run far too late.

“Shh.” Geralt knew what to do with impulse, with Jaskier’s mouth crashing into his, with Jaskier’s hands scrabbling at him to shed his clothes. He doesn’t know what to do with the tender, intentional way Jaskier regards him this morning, lips pressing to the witcher’s brow and lingering afterwards. Does it mean something, or does Jaskier grant all his lovers this subdued, aimless devotion? Lust was so much simpler than this aching sort of affection that puts down roots even as Geralt tries to burn it away.

Geralt doesn’t precisely surrender, but he resigns himself to the lazy attention Jaskier is so determined to lavish on him. If he lets Jaskier turn him away later instead of now, there will be at least this one pleasant thing to remember. So he doesn’t complain at Jaskier’s fingers combing through his hair, or the bard’s body pressed warmly to his. If every touch feels like a harbinger of their demise, it’s still hard to let go of.

He almost passes things off as okay, he thinks, until Jaskier kisses him. It’s a brief thing, immediately withdrawn. “Geralt?”

If realizing the hopeless situation he’s stumbled into was uncomfortable, the idea of talking about it is nothing short of torture.

“Well, you haven’t shoved me out of bed yet, so you’re not mad. Talk to me,” Jaskier coaxes, his expression so openly concerned and affectionate, Geralt could scream.

“It’s no-” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shut him up with a theatrically sour look.

“I swear if you say nothing,” Jaskier threatens aimlessly, an easy smile on his lips, but underneath, Geralt can hear the way his anxious heart threatens to vibrate right out of his chest.

“I don’t know what this is,” Geralt admits because that, at least, is safe. It’s nothing about how he feels in relation to anything. It’s nothing about the want that simmers under the surface despite his guilt.

Jaskier’s brows scrunch in a way that would be endearing if the entire ordeal didn’t feel so fraught already. “I don’t think I follow. I mean, I know having a conversation isn’t your usual wheelhouse, but it’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

“Not. That.” Geralt bites the words out, tight and clipped while he gathers his frayed nerves enough to explain. “You’re not in the habit of keeping people. I don’t know what you want.”

For just a second, Jaskier looks like he’s been struck and Geralt wants desperately to take the whole thing back. But the bard’s expression smooths out and then twists up in a wry smile. “Of course I don’t. What would I even do? Drag someone else along on our travels?”

There’s a point Jaskier is making. It’s right there. He knows it is, but it eludes Geralt anyway. “You could have stayed somewhere if there was someone you wanted to stick around for.”

Jaskier laughs, just a giggle at first, and then so hard that even his efforts to bury his face against Geralt’s shoulder do nothing to stifle it. “You are absolutely right. I could fall completely and utterly in love with someone and choose to stick around.”

“I don’t see how that’s funny,” Geralt says flatly, staring at the far wall of their room. The urge to curl around Jaskier and forget the whole stupid conversation in strong, and maybe he’d have been better off doing that in the first place, but he doesn’t surrender to it.

“Well, you’re one of the smartest people I know, so these moments where you decide to be an absolute idiot happen to be hilarious,” Jaskier teases. The bard must take pity, because his palm slides to cradle Geralt’s jaw, and Jaskier puts himself right at eye level where the witcher can’t look away. “Don’t you realize? I fell in love with someone, and I chose to stick around. It happened ages ago.”

Geralt has long since given up on trying to anticipate what Jaskier will say to any given prompt, but that is… somehow not even on the same continent as anything he might have expected. “What?”

“You really are determined to make this as difficult and stressful for me as possible, aren’t you?” Jaskier asks. There’s a tightness around his eyes when he looks at Geralt, leaving the witcher with the awful realization that Jaskier must be flying as blind as he is. He’s probably as unsure of Geralt’s intent as Geralt is of his. And yet… “I chose you, you ridiculous man. I always choose you.”

That… that explains a lot, actually. Geralt swallows thickly as Jaskier’s nose bumps against his. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

“Ah yes. ‘Hello my very dear emotionally… hampered witcher who will sometimes, on a very good day, admit that we are friends. Would it it complicate things overly much if I also happened to be completely, utterly in love with you?’” Jaskier huffs out a helpless, almost panicky sort of laugh. “Tell me Geralt, is there any time in the last few years where that would have gone well?”

Years? Now, confronted with the full force of it, Geralt isn’t sure how he even missed it last night, let alone for so long. Now that he knows it’s always been a bit painfully obvious. And much as he’d like to, he can’t really argue against Jaskier’s point that it probably wouldn’t have gone well to say so. “What changed?”

Jaskier sighs in that dramatic, overdone way he tends to when he’s being asked what he thinks is an exceedingly silly question. “You did.”

“Hmm.” Geralt doesn’t comment and Jaskier doesn’t press for further conversation. It’s peaceful, this thing blossoming between them, now that his most immediate concerns have been silenced.

That Jaskier laid his heart on the line and asked for nothing back isn’t lost on Geralt though. The words catch and stick on his throat, so Geralt writes them into the tender way he traces the curve of Jaskier’s spine with his fingertips. He presses them against Jaskier’s lips, jaw, throat with lazy, lingering kisses.

“So tell me-” Jaskier starts, the words interrupted by a soft sigh as Geralt’s thumb skims the divot of his hip. It’s an unmistakably promising sound all by itself, even ignoring that delightful way Jaskier presses into the touch. He finishes his thought, but it’s unmistakably breathless. “What are you thinking now?”

The recognition that this isn’t some fluke settles warmly around him. This could be always. There are so few things a witcher really keeps, but for now he’s willing to entertain the notion that this might be one of them.

“I’m thinking…” Geralt mumbles against the side of Jaskier’s neck, delighting in the way the bard’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug. “That maybe we’ll leave tomorrow.”

[the-order-of-fools]

[Jealousy - Part 2]

Author's corner: I thought I would divide this prompt in two parts, but this one came out quite big so I'll post this piece for now. Lo and behold, here's me being the workaholic I am

Harboring ill feelings towards the dead is foolish, you tell yourself as you gaze at Specter Knight. He’s perched upon the windowsill, cradling his beloved keepsake. Silence all around you. Not a word spoken, not a look in your direction, just the shifting of his cloak and your steady breaths. It feels like you’re the phantom here. You sit somewhere and he seems not to notice.  It hurts. It would be much better if you were able to hate him, at least. It would give you a good reason to confront Specter and tell him how you feel. But how can you? How can you deprive a mourning man of the only reason he still feels worthy of forgiveness? How can you tell him to leave it all behind? How can you hate poor Luan whose only fault was to be killed in an accident? And how can you blame Specter for the way he feels, when Donovan was reckless enough to put his thirst for adventure and desire to please before the very safety of his mentor? The only person whom he loved? Luan had no reason to be hated in life, let alone in death.  Yet you feel like you have to compete for Specter’s love. Compete against a dead man, whose memory cannot be but bittersweet and full of kindness. You still have a life in front of you, one full of potential mistakes that could drive your beloved away from you. Luan has none. Luan can only be loved, as even the mistakes he might have made in life are eventually edulcorated by all the good memories. There’s no competition. You grimace and turn away as if an invisible force slapped you.  The locket closes with a click. “Come here”, you hear a voice say. You turn to Specter and you realize he was staring at you. He’s pointing at a spot next to him on the windowsill. “Sit”. You gingerly do so and just as you approach him, he puts the locket away and places his cold hand upon yours. It feels both like a century and the span of a second, but the next thing you know, he has his fingers intertwined with yours. “Thank you for being patient”. His voice sounds so soft now that you’re next to him. “You gave me a reason”. He knows where his feelings stand. He knows what’s in the past and what’s in the present. With time, and small gestures, he’ll make sure that you’re always reminded of it.

Tinker Knight has many qualities as well as many flaws, among the latter being an impatient person. Impatience doesn’t suit a busy engineer, not when his work requires attention to details and the ability to withstand high levels of stress. Hence, Tinker often gets impatient. When he gets impatient, he gets annoyed. When he gets annoyed, he gets curt. Blunt. Even rude at times. Like when he told the Bard off after he tried to talk to him about the properties of sound. Like when you step into his office and he tells you to go away. You look at him with the face of a kicked puppy, quietly turning on your heels. You wait outside, greeting the workers as they sporadically come and go from the very office you’re not currently allowed to enter.  You scowl. You made time to be with him. You paid him a visit. You greeted him with a smile on your face and he did nothing but tell you to f off. As if he didn’t need human contact himself. So what, has he made himself some inflatable doll or anything? Or maybe he prefers the warmth of engines and artificial light to your tender touch? No matter what you do, his work always comes first. You’re jealous of the people coming and going. At least they can talk to him, interact with him. You feel like a nail that somehow got stuck in a gear mechanism.  Out of place.  You sigh and kick your feet for what feels like an eternity, until you notice no one has come by for quite a long time. Then, the door to Tinker’s office opens. There he stands, tiny, ruffled and covered in motor oil and grease. He would look kind of cute if he hadn’t made you wait outside for who knows how long. “The job is not complete yet”. Oh.   Good. Fantastic. Oh hooowwww splendid. You came here for nothing then. You roll your eyes. “Alright, I’ll just leave…” “No!” He stops you mid-step. “I’m at a delicate point now”. You shoot him a confused look, to which he responds by rubbing his grease-covered gloves together. “I-I can’t do this without you. I’ve told you to wait so you could step in at the right moment. Work has been remarkable since you started aiding me with projects, the projects themselves have perceived substantial improvements as well… ”  He clasps his hands together. “...I need you beside me, fundamentally”.  You stare at him. Then you laugh. Then you scoop him up in a tight hug, much to his surprise and “urgh!”s.  All that fuss for nothing, you think. At the end of the day, you know he needs you more than he could ever be able to express, and that he loves you just as much as he needs you. You’ll remind him about your time holding value for you too, hence you won’t have to wait this much anymore. That’s a problem for another day, though. Now, you have a long night ahead and an engine to attend to. Oh, and a tiny knight wriggling in your arms whom you should probably free.

[witchersgoldenbard]

Summary: Eskel's mind is running in circles and he's too restless and anxious to fall asleep. Jaskier comforts him.

Word Count: ~800

Warnings: descriptions of anxiety, kind of non-verbal Eskel (issa theme apparently lel)

Good Night, Love

“Darling,” Jaskier’s smooth voice disrupts the quiet of the room. Eskel looks over, doesn’t turn around in the bed they’re sharing, scared that if he moves, his limbs will join his mind in restlessness. He meets Jaskier’s eyes and smiles, because how could he not?

The bard is not fooled by that, though, and shuffles closer. Eskel itches for his touch but finds himself unable to ask for it, unable to move himself, unable to do anything but stare.

“Is it one of those nights again?” Jaskier asks and Eskel wants to cry because yes, yes it is. It’s one of those nights again where he can’t sleep, where he feels like he’s shaking but isn’t, where his mind won’t stop running in circles around something he can’t quite grasp.

It’s one of those nights again where he feels scared, afraid, anxious, like the world is about to cave in and it’s going to be his fault, leaving him all alone in his mind and in the world.

Yes. It’s one of those nights again.

The blanket is too light, not enough to ground him. Jaskier is too far, the space between their bodies filled with worries and pleas unasked and minds trying to weave their own realities. Nothing is right and Eskel doesn’t know how to fix it because if he tries, he will just be reminded of everything else in the world that is not right.

He takes a deep breath and dares to move, curling up on his side, never once looking away from those bright blue eyes. Because that is one thing that could never be wrong. His love for Jaskier, the bard’s smile and words and friendship and love, they could never be wrong. Not even to his tired, anxious mind. Jaskier is like an anchor, like a heavy blanket, a light in the darkness that does not mean to blind him.

“Hey,” he whispers and shuffles closer, reaching out to grasp Eskel’s hand in his. He presses a kiss to it and Eskel wants to cry as his mind slows down and focuses only on his love. “Do you know that I love you?”

The witcher smiles, too many emotions welling up inside him to do anything else. He knows all these emotions have names, humans are very creative with that after all. But to him, every single one has the same name, the same three syllables that sound so gentle on his tongue, feel so good in his heart and so calming in his mind. He allows himself to just feel.

“Good,” the bard continues and presses another kiss to his hand, shuffling closer and pressing his forehead against Eskel’s. “Good, because I do. And do you also know why?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, only leaves a dramatic pause for Eskel’s lips to twitch with another smile. “I love you because you are so, so good. I love you because you are sweet and kind, never fail to make my heart beat faster, as though it is trying to write the happiest, most uplifting song only for you.”

Eskel closes his eyes and lets his love’s words wash over him, his voice as smooth as silk, a welcome contrast to the sharp-edged anxiety that held his mind captive.

Jaskier’s other hand comes up to cradle his cheek, another comforting touch that is just there for him to focus on.

“The world is better with you in it even though it fails to show you sometimes. My life wouldn’t be the same without you. It would be dull, empty, lacking in love and happiness. And all of that, my love, all of that will be the same when you wake up. The night won’t change a thing. You will fall asleep and then you will wake up, still loved very deeply. By so many people, and possibly even more than that. There will still be monsters to slay, obstacles in your way -- oh, that rhymes!”

Jaskier interrupts himself and Eskel sobs out a laugh, shuffling even closer to his sweetest love because the shaking feeling has ceased enough for him to do that. He is welcomed with a warm hug that never fails to make him feel safe.

“What I was saying,” Jaskier continues with an audible smile on his lips that is so, so contagious, “is that you don’t have to be scared to sleep. You have always woken up. You will wake up again. And when you do, I will be right here, ready to love you. Always loving you.”

Eskel nods against his bard’s shoulder, surrounded by his warmth, his words, his love. He doesn’t know how Jaskier does it every time, but the world begins to feel heavy in the right way, and so does the soft blanket above him as his mind finally comes to a halt and he’s slowly falling asleep.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier whispers again and Eskel believes him. “Good night, my love.”

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 2/5 - AO3 - Previous - next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe… I’ll add them later if I remember any.

_______

They’d reached Kaer Morhen by dinner. The keep was… not as impressive as Jaskier had imagined. Deep down he’d known that the home of the wolf witchers had been severely damaged long before Jaskier had taken his first breath, but in his head he’d always imagined a beautiful awe inspiring castle that rose from the mountains and dominated the horizon.

It was barely more than a ruin.

A very pretty ruin, one that Jaskier would normally find absolutely fascinating from an academic perspective, but… he was supposed to be living here during the harsh cold winter.

Perhaps this really had been a bad idea.

He swallowed, debating hiding behind Geralt as they entered the keep, but there was a reason that he’d become a bard instead of inheriting his noble title. If there was one thing Jaskier could do, it was perform. He took a deep breath and plastered a blinding smile onto his face. It was time to act. He laced his fingers with Geralt’s and flashed his witcher a wink before pulling him through the big heavy wooden gates. Another silver-haired witcher grunted as Jaskier flew past him.

“We made it!” he cried with false cheer, spinning both him and Geralt round in a circle. The witcher thankfully loosened his grip on Roach’s reins and she trotted off towards the stable. “I can’t believe we finally made it, oh darling it’s beautiful.”

Geralt’s flushed, a pretty pink that was stark against his pale skin. “Jask,” he groaned but let himself be pulled around, much to Jaskier’s delight.

The other witcher cleared his throat and Jaskier ground to halt, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and pressing his face into his chest with a giggle. “My deepest apologies!” he exclaimed, pulling away from Geralt but keeping an iron tight grip on Geralt’s hand as he bowed deeply. “I am Jaskier, Geralt’s partner.”

He gave the witcher a charming smile and winked as he extended his hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, as the other witcher stoically ignored his greeting. “Stop flirting.”

Jaskier pouted, but sighed and curled back up into Geralt’s side, taking advantage of the heat. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Geralt had been blessed by fire nymphs. It would explain the smokey musk that followed Geralt everywhere, even when they hadn’t been near a campfire in days.

“Geralt, what is this?” the other witcher grumbled, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his face clear in its stony disapproval.

“Jaskier, my bard, partner,” Geralt muttered. “He’s staying with us this winter. Jaskier, this is Vesemir.”

“Hi,” Jaskier said with an awkward wave.

“Take him to your room and then come down to the library.”

Vesemir walked away before either of them could argue. Jaskier let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. That didn’t go so well.”

“He’s just protective,” Geralt insisted, squeezing Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier looked down at their linked fingers, surprised that they were still together. As far as Jaskier could tell, Vesemir was the only witcher at the keep, and thus the only one they had to convince for now. There was no need for Geralt to keep hold of his hand… and yet, here they were.

“I just want them to like me,” Jaskier sighed.

“They will.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Darling,” the pet name rolling off his tongue without thought, “It took you years to warm up to me.”

“That’s not true,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is!” he said as he poked Geralt in the chest.

Geralt hummed and stalked away, pulling Jaskier with him as if he’d completely forgotten they were even holding hands. Jaskier yelped and tripped over his own feet, gripping onto Geralt’s arm to steady himself. It was going to be an interesting winter indeed.

_____________

Geralt’s room was very lovely. He had a large double bed pressed up to the one wall. It was covered in furs of varying types, mostly wolf fur by the feel of it. There was also a large heavy rug in front of the fireplace that was blazing. As a result, the room was actually warm, almost too warm after the numbing cold of the mountain. There was a warm scent of lavender in the room that Jaskier hadn’t expected. It was a scent he enjoyed himself and he frequently chose perfumes and oils that were lavender based if the coin allowed. He found a small incense on the windowsill, the source of the smell. He inhaled deeply and smiled. Whilst Geralt was away he could imagine that the witcher had chosen this particular scent to keep Jaskier with him over their months, sometimes even years, apart.

It was nonsense, nothing but a dream, but it warmed Jaskier’s heart nonetheless. He flopped down onto the bed, exhausted in both mind and body. It was larger than the ones they’d had to share at the inns on the road. He was strangely grateful for that. It meant he’d be able to put at least some distance between him and Geralt. He would need that if he were to survive the winter. He rolled onto his front and pulled his lute case from off the floor. Once his precious instrument was safely unpacked and in his hands, he rolled back, staring up at the ceiling as he plucked tunelessly at the strings.

The cold had ruined the tuning just like he’d suspected it would. It was hard enough to keep the damned instrument in tune without the sudden changes in temperature, but at least it gave him something to focus on. He closed his eyes and fiddled with the pegs one by one, plucking at the strings with possibly more force than necessary, until his darling instrument was once again the envy of all the Continent.

He sighed dramatically and began to pull a heart wrenching melody from his baby. It had no words yet, but the message was clear to even an untrained ear. It was melancholic, full of longing, heartache… and lust.

He hadn’t even noticed he was crying until a sob tore from his throat. He cradled his lute to his chest and let the tears flood down his cheeks. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he was crying. Perhaps the whole journey up the mountain had just been a bit much for him. Physically he was completely exhausted. He wasn’t sure his toes would ever recover from the cold and even though they’d taken it slowly, the mountain path was called The Killer for a reason. It would have been hard enough even without the emotional toil that had accompanied it.

The hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. He gasped and shuffled until his back hit the headboard. It took him a moment to notice the soft yellow eyes looking down at him.

“Ah, Geralt,” he greeted with as much cheer in his voice as he could muster.

“You’re crying,” Geralt whispered, behaving uncharacteristically soft for the witcher. Jaskier bit back a groan of confusion at the concern lying in those familiar amber eyes. His heart was too fragile right now for this emotional whiplash and Geralt’s odd behaviour was opposite of what he needed at the moment.

“Just tired,” he muttered, wiping the tears from his face.

Geralt carefully took the lute from his hands and returned it to its case. Jaskier felt an urge to hug Geralt and never let go. No one had even treated Jaskier or his belongings with such tenderness. Gods, he was a mess. He was almost crying again because Geralt had touched his lute and didn’t break it.

“You’ll feel better after some food and then we can come back upstairs. Vesemir won’t be expecting our company this evening. We won’t have to pretend.”

Jaskier chewed his bottom lip to stop himself from blurting out that it wouldn’t be a pretence. That would be far too dramatic even for his tastes. Instead he nodded and let Geralt pull him from the bed. Of course, being the disaster that he was, he tripped and practically fell into the witcher’s arms. Geralt caught him but Jaskier hadn’t expected to be so close to the witcher. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room as he glanced up at Geralt. Well… more across. Geralt really wasn’t that much taller than him despite his fearsome appearance.

They were close.

Too close.

Jaskier could feel the tickle of Geralt’s breath on his lips, that smokey musk mixed with leather and oil washing over him. He licked his lips, speechless for possibly only the fifth time in his entire life. For a moment he thought he saw Geralt’s eyes flicker down to his lips, but that couldn’t be right. That would just be an illusion, wishful thinking. He cleared his throat and patted Geralt on the shoulder.

“Alrighty! Thank you, Geralt,” he stammered and pushed away.

Gods, when had things become so difficult. They’d been friends for years and Jaskier had never been afraid of physical contact with Geralt before. Why couldn’t he just relax, be himself? He was going to ruin everything. Vesemir would never believe their performance if he kept acting like a scared rat, and Geralt would likely start becoming suspicious if he didn’t get a grip soon.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes flashed up in surprise. Of all the reactions he’d expected from Geralt, an apology hadn’t been on the list. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re scared of me.”

Jaskier gaped, opening his mouth and closing it several times before letting out a long sigh. “No, I’m not.”

Geralt snorted. “I can smell it, Jaskier. There’s no point in lying to me.”

Jaskier swallowed. “And what else can your witcher senses pick up?” he asked. Okay, so maybe he was a little afraid, but not for the reasons that Geralt would think. If Geralt could smell fear, then it was only natural that he could smell other emotions, love for one, lust for another. Oh gods, how many times had Jaskier come back to camp after a moment alone to himself? He’d never even considered that Geralt could smell it on him.

“On you?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier would praise all the gods if he never had to hear that again. For once, he would just like Geralt to use his damn words! He was tired of trying to translate all the bloody grunts. Whilst he was unusually proficient in it, he was also a troubadour, a poet, a wordsmith. He took a deep breath, ready to give Geralt a piece of his mind when Geralt cut him off, pressing his palm to Jaskier’s lips. He huffed and glared at the witcher.

“Let me think, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. Jaskier rolled his eyes and did the only rational thing he could think of. He licked Geralt. The witcher snarled and pulled his hand away. “Urgh!”

Jaskier cackled and put his hands on his hips. “Serves you right, darling.”

Geralt growled and shoved Jaskier lightly in the chest so he fell back onto the bed. “You stink of many things, bard.”

“Oh?”

“Lust mostly, bloody hell I’ve never known anyone to reek of arousal every fucking hour of the day,” Geralt grumbled but there was a fondness in his voice. Jaskier felt himself blush at the witcher’s words. He didn’t mention that his arousal around Geralt didn’t necessarily equate to feeling it all the time. That was a fun little fact for another time, possibly never. One to write into his songs perhaps. “and then something… sweeter.”

“Sweeter?” Jaskier asked, his heart beating faster than any percussion at Oxenfurt. There was still time to run right… maybe the trek down the mountain wouldn’t be as hard as the journey up.

“Not sure what it is,” Geralt admitted and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

Oh.

Jaskier’s relief didn’t last long at all. Geralt didn’t know what it was… because he’d never experienced it. Didn’t have the knowledge to put a name to it. He knew fear, and lust… probably anger too.

But he didn’t know love.

Jaskier wanted to kiss him. He wanted to worship him. He wanted Geralt to know how much he was loved, adored, but he was a coward; a fucking coward.

“Ah, right, well… I have no idea what that could be. New perfume perhaps?”

“Hmm,” Geralt answered, not sounding very convinced and Jaskier didn’t blame him.

“Shall we go?” Jaskier asked quickly, changing the subject before Geralt could press. “I am starving!”

Geralt led him through the stone corridors of Kaer Morhen, occasionally pointing out rooms that Jaskier might need to be able to find. He learnt that they were expecting two more witchers for the winter; Geralt’s family, Eskel and Lambert. He’d heard rumours that Lambert had made a friend on the road but, like Jaskier, he wouldn’t be allowed to winter with them unless they were in a relationship.

Jaskier scoffed haughtily. “You do realise that that is a stupid rule, right?”

“It protects us.”

“And you need protection from your friends? Is romance really that much stronger than friendship?” Jaskier muttered. It was bullshit, but he was a little smug that Geralt was prepared to break the rules for him.

Their friendship meant more to the witcher than he’d realised.

“Geralt, bard,” Vesemir greeted with a grunt, gesturing to the bowls of stew that didn’t look too dissimilar to the bowls of food that Geralt pulled together on the road. Jaskier was grateful for his years of acting training at Oxenfurt, because otherwise he would have pulled a terrible face that would have only offended Geralt’s father figure.

Instead, he swiped up his spoon with a cheerful smile and slid into the bench. Geralt silently moved to sit next to him and Jaskier, taking advantage of their situation, pressed a little closer than he would normally dare. Their thighs touched under the table and Jaskier felt a blush creep up on his face. He hooked his foot around Geralt’s, ignoring the startled look he received.

“Good evening,” Jaskier greeted with faux cheer “Oh this. This smells delicious, I can certainly see where Geralt’s gets his culinary skills from.”

Geralt almost choked on his food. Whilst Jaskier’s words sounded like a compliment, they both knew how much Jaskier had complained about Geralt’s cooking over the years. In fact, Jaskier had taken to bringing his own seasoning and herbs on their travels. Anything to save him from the bland never-ending stews of the road.

Vesemir smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Geralt has the culinary skills of a queen, bard.”

Jaskier flushed; rumbled. “Ah well, it does look rather similar.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

Jaskier dropped his head, feeling sufficiently shamed. Only he would accidentally insult their hosts on the first days whilst trying to make a quick-witted joke at Geralt’s expense.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and ate a spoonful of his soup. The flavours exploded in his mouth and he moaned around his spoon. “Oh, dearest Melitele, this is good! My sincerest apologies, Vesemir. Lesson learnt.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Whilst their cooking skills were vastly different, Geralt and Vesemir’s conversational skills were apparently not so far apart.

“Oh, you have got to tell me how you made this, it’s bloody delicious! Not even the finest banquets in all the Continent can hold a candle to—”

“That’s enough now, bard,” Vesemir growled but there was mirth in his eyes.

Jaskier nodded and went back to his soup. Dinner was a quiet affair. Vesemir asked Geralt a few questions about life on the path, mostly professional curiosity from one witcher to another. Geralt’s answers were monosyllabic and boring, hardly a story to tell. Jaskier vowed to retell their adventures to the Kaer Morhen witchers over the winter. He would do them justice, and contrary to what Geralt thinks of his ballads, he would even tell the truth. They only needed a minor embellishment here and there. The winter would hopefully give him plenty of time to work on a new set. The time he’d normally spend teaching could be spent creating masterpieces, the likes of which the Continent had never seen before.

“Well, this has been very lovely, I thank you once again, my dear Vesemir, for the exquisite dining, but it’s been a long day and we really should be getting to sleep,” Jaskier announced with a flourish, giving Geralt a wink.

“Just remember, bard, that witchers have better hearing than you can even imagine,” Vesemir said with possibly the best poker face that Jaskier had ever seen. It was only the slight twinkle in his ancient eyes that gave away the joke.

Jaskier laughed and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. “We’ll be sure to remember that, thank you.”

_________________

By the time they got back up to Geralt’s—no, their room—Jaskier was panicking. It had been an innocent joke on Vesemir’s part, a warning that privacy was not something they could expect. It was possibly even a plea to keep any sexual activities as quiet as possible and at reasonable hours of the day.

But…

Jaskier was panicking.

“Geralt?” he asked as he paced around the room.

Geralt was busy stripping off and getting ready for bed. Normally Jaskier would try to peek little glances, but he was too anxious. He didn’t have the luxury of ogling Geralt at that moment. They had a problem.

“Hmm?”

“Geralt, we have a problem.”

Geralt snorted. “We always have a problem, Jaskier, and normally you’re the one causing it.”

Jaskier gaped, his hands flying to his hips in a display of outrage. “Geralt! That is just rude! Mister-Let’s-Call-The-Law-of-Surprise-Even-After-We’ve-Just-Seen-How-Bad-It-Can-Be. You are rude and grumpy, and I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

Geralt turned, giving Jaskier a rather lovely view of his bare torso, and raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have been there at all if you could keep your dick in your pants.”

“Oh ho ho! No, no, no. You are not blaming that one on me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Focus, Jask.”

Focus…

“Oh bollocks, yes, yes. Focus! Where was I?”

“You have a problem?” Geralt reminded him gently.

“We have a problem, darling. Witcher hearing,” he announced, his arms wide.

Geralt just stared at him blankly.

“They’ll know if we don’t�� you know?” Jaskier hissed, but Vesemir’s words still rang in his head.

“So?”

“Oh come on, Geralt. That’s just not realistic! I assume you have at least mentioned me in passing over the years and the umm… well the trouble my umm… my habits can cause.”

“Fuck.”

“Precisely!”

[wherethewordsare]

Right Where You Left Me

Real quick. Two things. Thank you @kuripon for being just an absolute gem and beta reading this for me. I’m sorry for all of my yelling. You’re an actual factual life saver.

SECONDLY!! Some Content Warnings upfront: Post Mountain, Post Torture, Near Death Experiences, Descriptions of Injury (though not graphic.) and some mild drugging. Just... Jaskier Wump ahead. Happy ending though, I swear. 

Jaskier felt it in his bones, the way his body was starting to give out. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. They had been zealous in his interrogations, all of them. He huddled in the corner of his cell and took a deep breath, wincing at how it pressed against his broken ribs. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking him, not mentally at least. Bodily however, he knew he didn’t have much left to give. 

They had pulled him off the road to Oxenfurt as he was returning from the dragon hunt. Though he was still broken-hearted and angry, he still wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to be responsible for one more heap of shit shoveled in Geralt’s life, maybe it was because despite the way his heart broke, he would still remain loyal to that bastard. 

He coughed, his body shaking, and he knew that the next time they came to collect him for the information he would not give, they would only find his body but Jaskier would be well far away from this hell. At least he thought so.

Large hands gripped him and hauled him up and when his feet did not find purchase on their own, he was scooped up and carried. He might have heard a small huff and a hum that sounded familiar but he had been hearing that everywhere recently. His eyes had been swollen shut for the past day and what he could see was merely a blurry collection of lines.

Jaskier ached and he was so tired and there was a sickening feeling like the world had turned the wrong way for a moment. Still the guard held him, silent as he was carried. Jaskier was determined not to go out without at least a few biting remarks but his mind was so muddled and his throat had been screamed raw weeks ago. 

“You’ll never find him,” he wheezed, choking on the words as the figure laid him down on- 

Jaskier knew he must have finally snapped. The surface under him was soft and there was a blanket, warm and clean being pulled over him. 

“He’s worse than I’d have imagined,” said a voice he couldn’t quite place, a woman’s voice that made something old and familiar turn in his gut. 

“He’ll make it. Jaskier’s always been a stubborn shit,” came another voice, gruff and also familiar. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries and he didn’t have time to really think about it before he was slipping into darkness. 

~

Jaskier woke slowly, his mind fighting back against the hazy sleep that kept pulling him down time and time again as he slowly realized his body was healing. It still hurt, but the pain wasn’t as deep. There was something warm pressed against his face, gently rubbing against his cheeks and forehead and a soft humming. He wanted to turn into the presence and cling to the comfort that washed over him. 

The cloth pulled away from his face and he knew the whimpering he had heard was his own as he tried to chase the feeling again. A large warm hand cupped his cheek, calloused fingers grazing against his jaw. He could weep with how good it felt after months upon months of that dungeon and those guards and their mages. 

“Can you hear me, Jask?” someone murmured only inches from him. Jaskier could feel the tips of his hair brush against his neck. “Jask, you have to wake up.” His voice sounded tight and wounded. “I’m-” Geralt made a hurt noise as a thumb brushed his temple. 

“Hmm, G-rlt?” He turned his face into the palm that held him, sighing as though it had been the balm to all his aches. The hollow pang of loss in his chest flared again as he slowly gained his bearings. Oh, this wasn’t a dream but a nightmare. Geralt, the Geralt he knew wouldn’t touch him like this, wouldn’t be this soft. The Geralt he knew, the one that had thrown those words at him on the mountain, wouldn’t care about him now, not like this. 

Tears came unbidden. He had been so careful not to let the guards of Nilfgaard see him break but some tricks were far too cruel not to hit their mark. He tried to pull away from the hand, fighting every fiber of himself that wanted it to be real, needed it to mean he was safe. He sobbed as his heart finally cracked open. 

“Jaskier, no. No no, you’re-” Firm hands lifted him up gently by the shoulders and he felt his head rest against a broad chest as he was being cradled. The feeling turned his stomach and he struggled to pull away. 

“You might need to axii him,” came another male voice from somewhere beyond Jaskier’s senses and the chest under his head expanded with a sigh. 

“I don’t want to make it feel like I tricked him, I need him to believe it’s real,” Geralt said from above him, those calloused fingers now sliding into his hair. 

“Geralt, he’s not with it yet. Just let him sleep a little longer,” said the voice. This one he didn’t recognize. 

Jaskier tried to thrash, to pull away. He wanted to fight this but he had no more fight in him to give. The man above him sighed again, almost sadly and Jaskier felt a twinge of magic against his scalp. By his cheek, a round metal piece seemed to hum for a moment and then there was darkness again. 

~ 

The next time Jaskier woke, he was alone in a large room, cocooned in a pile of furs and pillows. The room was bright and outside the window, a craggy landscape stretched as far as he could see. It smelled of pine and clean air and the very tail end of summer. 

“You’re awake, bard.” A man walked in, carrying a tray with what looked like a bowl and two cups, steam rising from all of them. 

“Where am I?” Jaskier croaked, wincing at how his words scraped against his throat. He knew he wouldn’t be singing again any time soon. 

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, home of the witcher keep and the school of the wolf,” he gave a smile that tugged at the scars that ran along the one side of his face though he had let his hair fall in a way that looked like it was meant to hide them. 

“You’re a witcher?” Jaskier found himself leaning away slightly, not trusting his own eyes. 

“Last time I checked, yes. Eskel. It’s good to finally meet Geralt’s bard,” Eskel set the tray down on the edge of the bed and backed away to give Jaskier room. He sat in a dusty arm chair in the corner, fishing a book from his pocket. 

“I’m not Geralt’s anything,” Jaskier said automatically. It had been what he had told Nilfgaard, again and again and again, even as they continued to break his bones and burn his skin and invade his mind. “Geralt isn’t anything to me,” he added, swallowing around the taste of ash in his mouth. 

“Eat, then we’ll talk,” Eskel only gave him a small smile and turned back to his book. 

Jaskier looked down at the tray. One cup remained and the bowl, a broth with onions and small bits of root vegetable floating in it. Jaskier immediately recognized it as the same soup Geralt had made when he had caught a fever a few years back. He picked up the tea, foregoing the broth for the moment, not ready to swallow those memories just yet. 

It occurred to him that all of this may have been some kind of trick. He had never met Geralt’s brothers in arms, he had never been to Kaer Morhen. Maybe they thought he had and they were waiting for him to mess up. But there was nothing to mess up any further. 

Eskel lifted the other cup of tea that Jaskier hadn’t seen him take, sipping slowly as he disappeared into his book. “Broth too, bard.” It felt like a gentle chide, though he glanced up with an easy smile. 

“Are all witchers this bossy?” Jaskier grumbled as he lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping. It turned out to be nothing like the broth Geralt had made him, this was so much better. The moment the liquid touched his lips, he realized he was famished. He made only a small attempt to go slow at first before simply tilting the bowl back to drink it down. It burned his throat but it warmed his limbs with a deep kind of comfort. 

When the bowl was empty, Jaskier leaned back against the headboard, cup of tea in hand. He let the quiet stretch between them for a few moments, Eskel still in his book, Jaskiser in his thoughts. 

“Now, let’s start with the easy stuff,” Eskel set his book aside but made no move to stand or come near Jaskier. “We heard Nilfgaard had you about six months back. We finally managed to get you out four weeks ago. You were not in good shape but you’re doing better now.” 

It had just frosted when he was taken from the road, Jaskier thinks. Now it looked to be the end of summer. He had been captive for almost a year. He took a sip of his tea and nodded. 

“So this isn’t a trick?” He said flatly, curling his toes to test his minimal strength. They ached with the rest of him. 

“No. We understand that you’re going to take some time to trust that, but we’re not going to rush you. Anything you want to know, we’ll answer to the best of our ability and you are, of course, welcome to stay here,” Eskel looked down then, scuffing his boots along the floor boards. He seemed to be trying to word his next statement carefully. 

“You’re asking that I choose to stay peacefully. I’m not a captive, but leaving isn’t a good option,” Jaskier bit out. The tea and broth and rest had rekindled a fire in his gut that Nilfgaard hadn’t quite managed to bank and he felt like he was burning with it. 

“Just for now, till we know it’s going to be safe for you,” Eskel shot back. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. 

“Safe for Geralt and his child surprise you mean. I’ve seen your hidden fortress and am now a liability,” He knew it to be true but it didn’t take the sting out any more. 

“Jaskier, that’s not fair. Geralt-” Eskel clicked his mouth shut quickly. 

“Oh no, no no, go on. Tell me what that asshole said, hmm? Did he mention that he threw me aside? Is that why you’re worried I’ll turn him in so quickly? They had me for three seasons and the most I gave them was trouble,” Jaskier shook, suddenly exhausted. He found that he struggled to keep his eyes opened and he looked back down at the bowl of soup. “At least you had the decency not to axii me this time,” he spat. 

Darkness took him again, but before it did he heard another voice from the door, “I’m sorry, Jask.” 

~

He was alone the next time he came to, though he hadn’t been moved to any kind of dungeon which was a relief. His chest tightened at the thought of going from being the prisoner of an army to the prisoner of someone he had once considered his friend. 

He stood slowly, letting his weight shift gently onto the balls of his feet as he made to get up. He nearly collapsed again, grunting at the way his muscles refused to hold him. He scolded himself for not having seen it coming. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood, let alone walked under his own volition. 

Jaskier took a deep breath as he let his fingers pry gently along his healing body. He found that the worse of the damage had been healed though he still ached and he was certain he would have to rebuild his strength again. It would take time, time that he probably had now that he was a resident of circumstance in Kaer Morhen. All those years he had wished of coming here and how he longed to be anywhere else. 

He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. He had just wanted to go home and forget the war and the witcher and the mountain. 

The tap on the door made him jump but when he looked up, Geralt was standing there. He was without his armor, his hair pulled back, and his arms crossed over his chest. Geralt frowned at him, his brows knitted together. 

“Jaskier,” he started then stopped again, his jaw clicking shut as he shifted. He didn’t budge from the door, only looked out the window as he took a deep breath. 

“I won’t fight. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. I-” It was Jaskier’s turn to look away. He hadn’t had much time to consider just how he might have made it out of a heavily guarded Nilfgaardian fort alive but with Geralt standing there looking all the world like a man put out by one underfoot bard, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. “You didn’t have to come rescue me. I would have-” he swallowed around his next words. I would have still protected you with my last breath, Geralt. “Thank you, anyway.” 

Geralt rubbed his face and took a hesitant step forward before retreating back to the door again. “Jaskier, why?” There was something wrong with Geralt’s voice, like it had been rubbed and frayed. 

“Why? Why am I staying? Because I don’t really have much choice, do I? Apparently I’m not done healing, and now I know where you and your child surprise are hiding, I’m a liability, aren’t I?” He let his hands fall into his lap in defeat. 

“I don’t want you to stay,” Geralt said quickly, his hands coming up in surrender. He looked up for a moment and shook his head before he opened his mouth again. 

Jaskier felt like his heart had finally snapped. “Right, well. Now that we have that settled, I’ll just give myself enough time to get up to snuff and then I will be on my way, shall I? Should have known you didn’t want me here.” He sounded wounded, even to his own ears. “Don’t understand why you went through all that trouble to rescue me if,” Jaskier tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears there to not fall. They did anyway. 

“I didn’t mean to shovel more shit, Geralt. I don’t know why you didn’t just let me die in there doing the one thing I’ve always tried to do,” he looked at Geralt then, wincing, “try to make your life a little easier.” 

“I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to,” Geralt said softly. He took a hesitant step forward as though Jaskier had the strength to cause any real damage to anyone other than himself. “You didn’t give me up, even after the way I… after the hunt,” Geralt rubbed his face. “I just don’t understand why you did it, why you wouldn’t tell them even as they…” His words trailed off and they both seemed surprised to find that he had knelt down beside Jaskier, his hands wrapping around one of Jaskier’s. “Why did you do that, Jaskier?”

“You’re a fucking fool,” Jaskier spat. “Because I love you. Because I’ve loved you for nearly twenty years and even after you tore my heart out, I couldn’t bring myself to give you over,” Jaskier cried. He could feel Geralt fighting down a flinch where their fingers met and a small part of him was pleased. He was shaking, his mouth impossibly dry as he pressed his free hand to his eyes. “Geralt, how did I get here?” 

Geralt moved to sit beside him on the bed, not letting go of his hand, his eyes never quite meeting Jaskier’s. He was getting his words together, Jaskier knew and he gave him the time. 

“We had heard they had a travel companion of a witcher. There are… very few of those who exist, let alone one Nilfgaard would be interested in. When we sprang Yennefer, she confirmed that she had heard you had been taken prisoner too,” Geralt gave a small smile then. “She had heard that you would just sing to them, all of your songs instead of giving them information.” He sounded almost proud as he said it, but then his face fell. 

Jaskier sat in stunned silence, trying to pay attention to Geralt’s words as he seemed to hyperfocus on the warmth of his hands around his own. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, trying to make sense of what was happening. Either his confession was going to be left unacknowledged or Geralt was working up to let him down easily for once. He had to beat him to the punch for once. 

“I’ll get my strength back and then I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. I’ll lay low, maybe head to Creyden or somewhere out of the way.” He clasped his hands together, pressing where his skin was still warm from Geralt’s touch. Twenty years of wanting stuck in his throat. Then he thought of the mountain and swallowed them down again. He had always been good at that. 

“You don’t have to leave here, Jaskier. You’ll be safe,” Geralt said, tilting his head down slightly to meet Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I’d be in the way,” Jaskier reasoned. 

“You…” Geralt sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “No, Jask, you wouldn’t. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped here. Just… Give me some time?” Geralt winced as he looked back at Jaskier. 

“What am I doing here, Geralt? I don’t want to be kept around just to absolve you of some guilt you’re carrying,” Jaskier asked again. 

Geralt made a low noise, somewhere between wounded and relieved. “I shouldn’t have yelled, it’s true, and it’s my fault they took you in the first place. But I brought you here, because this is where I wanted you, where I thought I could keep you safe.” His jaw worked for a moment as he chose his next words carefully, though he seemed stuck.

“I don’t get it. Help me understand, Geralt. I didn’t even think you cared,” Jaskier frowned, his fingers fidgeting. 

Geralt looked up at him and his eyes had gone soft around the edges. “I’m a fucking fool.” His hand came up and cupped Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears Jaskier could no longer hold back. He couldn’t help but lean into the touch, his stomach swooping. “I love you, I’ve loved you for… far longer than I was willing to admit.”

Jaskier gave a soft laugh, trying to cover his sob. “What the fuck do you witchers put in your soup?”  

Geralt went still for a moment before he snorted, ducking his head. “It’s the onion.”

Jaskier gasped as he pulled away from Geralt dramatically. He only just managed not to start cackling. “I knew this was a trap! The Geralt I knew would never-” a pillow hit him in the face, knocking him back. He grinned madly from where he had landed only for it to be lost into a yawn. He hadn’t realized how taxing the conversation had been. 

Geralt stood, leaning over to adjust Jaskier’s bedding. “Rest, bard. You’ve still got healing to do and we have a lot to talk about.” He hesitated for a moment before leaning down, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Jaskier let himself settle into the bed again as he watched Geralt leave the room. He felt it in his bones, the way his body melted into the furs around him. He’d be on his feet in no time and he was free to follow them wherever they took him, though he knew he’d still happily follow Geralt anywhere he went.

[abluescarfonwaston]

Hi! So, um,, I know this isn't something you should ask a writer so please feel free to ignore this. I was wondering,, , your "the white wolves" story has brought me so much joy and I am grateful that you wrote it! I was just wondering, if you're not going to finish it (this isn't meant to pressure you. If you don't want to finish it that is 100% fine and your choice and I'm thankful for the five chapters you gave us!!!) so, anyway, I was wondering what the conclusion was going to be? If you're comfortable answering that. If not, that's absolutely fine of course and I'm sorry for asking.

Thank you so much for your lovely stories and I hope you're having a wonderful day!

Okay first off, we're totally cool don't even worry about it. I am always touched people still care about and think about an unfinished piece from like 10 months ago. And now that I have seen that it's almost been a year I feel it is important to point out that while this fic has clearly been physically abandoned, it has not been emotionally. Or Else I would not have spent the last hour pacing back and forth angrily lamenting that I do not have more hands. I do not want to provide you with an unsatisfactory summary in an undercut about how the story was going to unfold. It is not that I mind sharing these details - I have done so to others who have asked. It's just that admitting something I still love so dearly may never get done hurts.

Hopefully one day I will find that voice again.

Spoilers for a fic that will (probably) never get finished under the cut. It is 2.6k and includes most of the final section.

The next sequence in the story is them all taking a nap on the side of the road. Jaskier gets up and calls Yennifer for help. Do you know that part in the books where Yennifer saves Dandelion and he doesn't know why? Because I owed you one. You kept him from being alone. I think about that alot. I think that's why she comes. Not then. She meets them at the keep in a few days time. She is too tired to arrive before then.

There is a scene of the four of them in an inn. Of Ciri, afraid to sleep least she destroy the inn like she destroyed that forested grove. We have a moment when he looks at candle on the inn nightstand and remembers a inn fire that almost killed him and how he hadn't wanted to sleep in an inn ever again. (I foreshadowed it. It's allowed. I once read that Regis saved Dandelion from an inn fire. I thought it was canon. I know its not. I think. I only ever read the short stories. They sit on my shelf. One day I'll read them.) He understands. Still he tucks her in and tells her it will be alright. That is the empty words of adults who lie to children that they think do not know better. No. It is the empty words of a bard whose job is to write lullabies that get children to bed on time. Besides it will be fine. Even if things go bad, we will be with you the entire time.

These are the two scenes I largely blame for the fact I stopped writing this fic. I got stuck on Yennifer's conversation and then wasn't sure how to get that inn scene to actually play out. Anyway. Back to the part you were actually asking about. What's the deal with the wolves? Both of them.

They arrive at the keep. They are greeted and loved and yeered at and pestered. Jaskier is nervous and concerned as he eyes the silver in their blades. It is strange they believe the doppler. But he was a very good Doppler. He digs his fingers into white fur. Remember you promised. You promised you were him. Don't let it be a lie.

And oh I have lost the voice but they are in the great hall with Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert and Geralt and Geralt and Yennifer. She peers into his eyes and does not reveal him. Silver medallions brush against skin and he does not flinch or melt. Geralt of Rivia is Geralt of Rivia. Of this there is no doubt.

The conversation turns to Ciri and Jaskier quietly slips out. It is snowing, just a few flurries on the still air. The wolf flows him to the room they set their bags in. Geralt's room.

This was not how it was meant to go. This is not how it was meant to go. Yennifer was supposed to look at the doppler and then at him and go what the hell and they would slip away and break the curse on the wolf - on Geralt. And they would quietly change hands. The Doppler into the wolf. The wolf into Geralt. Ciri would not know of the quiet deception they had pulled. The magicians trick with revolving mirrors.

Because clearly the doppler loved them. Because clearly the doppler had chosen them. Do you ever think about how in the short story Geralt is ready to kill the doppler that wears his face and it knows this because it is also him so it turns into Dandelion. Because he Knows Geralt would never hurt Dandelion? It's falling in with a lie. It is so easy to in love with a lie. Jaskier knows this.

It was supposed to be like this. Laying in a bed in the Keep with a white wolf next to him. Playing ballads for Geralt and Yennifer and Ciri and not hurting. Because he'd lay next to the wolf at night and bury his face in its fur. And in the spring they would run off to the coast together. You can wear a different face, whatever one you'd like, and will prove to you again and again that I still love you.

I am good at loving people. You know this about me. I might not be able to love you first. That might be why you love me. Because I loved Geralt of Rivia first. So completely that whatever motive you had you abandoned for the sake of it. For the taste of it. I know what it is like to want so desperately to be loved. Wearing different faces and personalities in the chance that someone might.

I know that very well.

But unlike you I'm always still just Jaskier.

The wolf slips in the door behind him.

Jaskier rounds on him. 'What the actual fuck? What the fuck are you? You Promised me. You Promised me you were him." The medallion bounces off his chest and he hates it. Rips it from his neck and brandishes it like a weapon. "I kept this for you! I thought you were him! You promised me you were him! What are you?! I told you I would help you even if you weren't him! Why?!"

The circle of the medallion cuts into his hand.

"Is this funny to you? Bringing me all the way up here and making me look a fool?! Making me watch Geralt picker her Again? Is this funny to you? You and this sadistic game?!"

And he throws the medallion. It hits the wolf dead on. Hit's his bowed forehead. Right between the eyes. Just in front of his flattened ears.

He has always been a good shot.

It is snowing outside. Just a few more flurries. The winter stretches out, immeasurably long in front of him.

He knows who Geralt chooses. That those 'I love you's are lies. No. Not lies. Geralt did not mean to lie. Not intentional. But it was so easy when your heart is broken to bury yourself in someone that does. Love you. Drowning men love life boats but they'd much rather be on the ship that cast them out.

He knows. It exactly what he was doing too.

I love you doppler. I could love you too.

The winter stretches immeasurably long in front of him.

"I can't do this." There is a bag in his hand. A case. "I can't do this."

There is a whine but he does not hear it as he rushes out the door. He can't do this. Down the stone hall. Wind whips through a hairline fracture in the Keeps walls and cuts his cheeks red where they are wet. He can't do this. Out the doors. Through the large wooden gates. He can't do this.

The winter stretches immeasurably long in front of him.

In the great hall a sickening feeling curdles in Geralt's gut. Honestly its seeing Yennifer again. This is all so wildly out of hand. Even if he knows they need her. That Ciri needs her.

"It's startin' to snow. Your idiot better come back soon."

"What?" He turned to Lambert who had curled up in a mountain of blankets in the window nearest the fire.

"Said it's starting to snow, dumbass."

"No the other part."

"Peacock left a while ago. Think he had the right idea. If I'd know she was coming I'd have stayed down south."

"What?" Snow was coming down hard. Big wet flakes. Could hardly see the keep walls through them. "Why didn't you say so sooner?!"

He shrugged. "His dog went after him."

His gut does a funny thing then. It eases in relief before his brain catches up and yanks tight in terror.

The wolf went after Jaskier.

Jaskier is alone.

With the wolf.

In a snow storm.

Jaskier is is alone in a snow storm. He walks down the mountain alone. As he knew he would. Why did he think it would be any different this time? Why does he never learn? He is a fool.

The wind picks up. The snow buries the path. He huddles in a protected alcove and wishes he'd been thinking clearly enough to steal one of Geralt's cloaks. Just to be petty.

He is probably going to freeze on this mountain. Walking down it alone. He might die. But even if he doesn't something will have died. Something in his chest that he cradled like wounded bird.

How many times must you touch fire, how many times must you be burned before you learn? How many times Jaskier? How many times?

He pulled his doublet tighter around him.

Just the one more time it seemed. Just once more.

Barking. Just one voice barking. Barking into the snow and wind in the distance.

Are you looking for your pack? Did you get lost? Separated? I hope they find you. I hope they answer you. I wish I had a pack to call out to.

The snow drifts down in heavy blankets and there is nothing to do but sleep. All he wants to do is sleep.

There is warmth in his dreams. Heavy and warm and soft and reeking of wet dog and something deeper. Something less domesticated and tame.

"You found him?"

Geralt's voice. Deep and soft. Reaches him. Buried in the snow. Cruel and kind in equal measure. To make him hear that voice before he, probably, dies.

"... Thank you."

There is a gasp. He recognizes it. That shocked little inhale of Geralt's.

"I think... That druid overpaid."

He wakes up to a stone ceiling. To thick and heavy furs covering him. to a wolf pressed into his side. To a man known as the white wolf pressed into the other.

Words will find him soon. But for now they are held back by a dam of confusion and exhaustion.

Geralt reaches an arm over him and scratches at the wolf's forehead. "Hm." Got it. The hum says. The same one he uses when Jaskier reminds him to pick something up in town. Hm. Got it.

The dam breaks.

"Oh so you're just okay with each other now? Everything is hunky dory? Jaskier goes out into a snow storm and you drag him - Unwillingly mind you - back here and now you're best fucking friends?! Well it's not all A-O-Kay over here so perhaps you might let me up so I can demand Yennifer do me the solid of getting me out of this godforsaken keep?" He wiggled under the mountain of blankets that held him captive.

"Wha-" Geralt's hand pressed down on his chest. Preventing escape.

"Or you know just go back to the love of your life, take your one goddamn blessing and leave me be!"

"Jask-"

"Oh don't give me that- you're gonna run right off after Yennifer and we both know it and you," Glared. Bared his teeth at the wolf. "Are a lying manipulative bastard and I hope she turns you into a gnat or a pigeon or - or something!"

"Jaskier!"

His jaw clicked closed. He did not soften his gaze.

"We- He - it's not. He didn't lie."

He scowled harder at Geralt.

"You remember that druid Ciri told you I helped?"

"... Vaguely."

A woman and woman who was not her wife. But was. In his story, in his song, he would tell it as if she was.

You saved my heart, I don't know what I'd have done if she. She. Witcher how can I ever repay you?

What food do you have on you?

Uh.

Fine. We don't have time. Don't tell them which way have gone.

No that's not- perhaps the law of su-

No. No. Lie. That will be enough.

It's not!

"He," Nodded to the wolf. "Was how she decided to pay."

He studied Geralt. Then the wolf. Their matching golden eyes.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Geralt grimaced. Hair falling over his face. "He's a familiar. She made him for me. Of me."

He studied the wolf again, distrustingly. "How does that work?"

Shrugged a shoulder. "You'd have to ask Yen."

"Don't care that much." He tried to wave his hand and the idea off but couldn't get it free from the covers. "Shouldn't you have known then? If he's made of you?"

"We weren't... connected. You have to. Touch."

"Oh and she thought you'd just go out of your way to touch a big white wolf? Honestly what was the plan there? You'd have just killed the damn thing."

"Mhmm."

"Seriously what kind of mad man goes out and pets a two hundred pound wolf? Could have at least tied a note to its neck for explanation before setting it loose on the countryside, wandering around looking for you."

"It wasn't..." He hummed his prodding question. "Looking for me. That's not what it was supposed to do."

"And pray tell what was it supposed to do?"

Geralt was quiet. The charged quiet that said he knew the answer but didn't want to tell him.

Eventually. With a fair bit of glaring and wiggling on his part, he answered.

"She was repaying the favor."

"Oh and what's that supposed to mean?! What you saved her partner and she sent the wolf to go out and save yours?" He scoffed. "What did she magic you 'a white wolf to protect your heart when you could not?' as you did for her? Is that it? Absolutely absurd, I wouldn't write that drivel."

Neither Geralt met his eye.

"Geralt...?"

"That's..." He ducked his head. "Hm."

Right.

"But then why-"

A wolf appears in the darkness. All white fur and golden eyes. Protects him from the bandits. Brings him a rabbit when his stomach growls.

I love you Jaskier. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize.

They lay on the bedroll and Geralt kisses him like a thousand drunken kisses. Like a thousand sober ones. And the wolf follows after Ciri and comforts her when they cannot.

The wolf seeks him out in that ruined clearing while Geralt cradles Ciri. While Geralt debates with Yennifer and Vesemir over Ciri's fate. Her training.

I love you Jaskier.

Protect his heart, white wolf, when he cannot.

"Oh."

He let his head fall to the side. Watched Geralt watch him with those golden eyes he had memorized decades ago. Listened to the sound of his breathing that was more familiar than his own.

"Tell me again."

Geralt cocked his head a fraction. Brow furrowed in confusion.

"Tell me again, what I did not believe. If it is true. Tell me again. Geralt of Rivia."

"Tell you...?"

"I love you, Geralt. Despite all sense and reason. Do not lie to me. Do not pretend if I am fated to walk down that mountain alone again. Do not lie to me."

His eyes widened. He pushed himself up and over him. Caged him in his muscular, scarred arms. Shoved the wolf aside.

It grumbled. Huffed. Walked out of the room. Towards Ciri. Towards his heart.

"Jaskier. I love you." He said again.

And this time. This time he believed him.

"Then, You absolute fool and dullard." With only Geralt to hold him down he worked his arms free. Held Geralt's head in his hands. Traced the stubble of his jaw that he could, if he needed to, shave blind. From memory alone. "Kiss me. I have waited long enough."

Geralt leaned down and did.

He remembered the barking of a single wolf. It's howls into the storm. Searching for its pack.

I hope your pack finds you. He wished to its unseen form.

Mine did.

[flowercrown-bard]

To give without knowing (20/20)

AO3

previous /  masterpost

word count: ~4k

Epilogue

Geralt and Jaskier’s room at Kaer Morhen was lit with an assortment of candles that painted a faint golden glow onto Jaskier’s skin. From his place - his head lying on Jaskier’s lap - Geralt looked up at him, with no need to hide everything he felt for the bard.

He looked beautiful in this light. He always did. And so Geralt told him, because there needn’t be any more secrets. Finding the right words was still hard for Geralt and more often than not, he closed off and tried to hide away instead of confronting Jaskier about his feelings, but he knew that at the end of the day, he could talk to Jaskier and that he would stay with him. That he loved him.

“You’re beautiful.”

Jaskier’s fingers that were running through Geralt’s hand in a soothing motion, faltered for a moment, but then Jaskier’s lips spread into a wide smile.

“You are too,” he replied, his hand leaving Geralt’s tresses for long enough to trace his face; smooth out the perpetual crease between his brows, caress his cheeks and run a thumb over his lips. Without thinking, Geralt pressed a small kiss against his thumb, making Jaskier’s smile brighten.

He didn’t need to think anymore, didn’t need to doubt or agonise over his or Jaskier’s feelings. If the weeks travelling with Jaskier by his side in which he had been allowed to kiss him and tell him how much he meant to him, however often he wanted, hadn’t been enough to convince Geralt that he had no reason to be scared, the months they had been together at Kaer Morhen had left no doubt about how Jaskier felt.

Geralt closed his eyes again, giving a content hum as Jaskier’s fingers trailed his nose, his brow and found their way back to his hair. Absentmindedly, Jaskier began to part his tresses and weave them into a lose braid.

If anyone had told Geralt a year ago, that he could have this, he would have snorted in disbelief and turned away, despite his heart aching for it.

Now, though, it was as natural as breathing – as natural as loving Jaskier - to let him run his fingers through his hair whenever he pleased. Geralt had dreamed about this for so long and yet the reality of it was better than anything he could have ever imagined.

When Geralt had searched for the carvings, he had imagined Jaskier talking endlessly about whatever held his interest at the moment and he would have been happy to listen to Jaskier if that was what he wanted to do. But Jaskier didn’t rant about the pranks Lambert kept pulling on him and his plans for revenge, nor did he gush about the elven poetry Eskel had showed him in the library. Instead, Jaskier quietly hummed to himself. Geralt wasn’t even sure Jaskier realised he was doing it, but with every note Jaskier sang, Geralt felt lighter.

“Sing the words for me?” he asked softly enough to not interrupt Jaskier’s humming.

Jaskier didn’t falter in his song, but without missing a beat, he added words to the melody. They were the exact same words that had torn into Geralt’s chest with icy claws, not five months ago. And yet, as Jaskier now sang of moonlight-strands of hair and blazing eyes of liquid fire, Geralt felt warmth flood his insides and he couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips. He didn’t want to stop himself either. Not when he now knew that those words that had caused him so much agony, had been meant for him all along.

Low enough that Jaskier might not be able to hear it, Geralt hummed the melody as well. The bitter winter winds howling outside created a haunting harmony to their song. Theirs, because this too had been written for Geralt.

Geralt snuggled closer against Jaskier’s warmth, knowing that soon enough, Vesemir would tell him to go fix the roof of one of the towers or spar with his brothers. For now, though, Geralt was allowed to be with his beloved, for no reason other than that they simply wished to be close to one another.

Jaskier finished the braid and let his hands caress Geralt’s face again. As he sang of hands so gentle and so strong, Geralt reached out and enclosed Jaskier’s wrist with his hand. There was a slight hitch in Jaskier’s breathing and an amused and curious note entered his voice, but he didn’t stop singing. When Geralt opened his eyes, he was met with a gaze so soft and loving that it took his breath away.

Slowly – not because of doubt or fear, but because he wanted to savour the moment – Geralt brought Jaskier’s hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss against each of his knuckles.

When he was done, he brought his other hand to Jaskier’s face and tugged him closer. Jaskier followed his lead happily and leaned over to kiss Geralt.

The position wasn’t comfortable for either of them, with Geralt having to lift his head off Jaskier’s lap and Jaskier having to bend his back to meet each other’s lips, but Geralt wouldn’t exchange this for anything else. Jaskier moved slowly against him, smiling into the kiss as Geralt cradled the back of his head.

“Jaskier?” Geralt pulled back just enough to speak, but still holding Jaskier close.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up just the same as they had the first time Geralt had said it.

“I love you too.”

They didn’t need to say it out loud - both of them knew how the other felt – and yet, Geralt’s heart beat faster every time the words fell from his lips. He didn’t need to say them, but he could. And he wanted to. After spending so much time thinking that Jaskier wouldn’t want to ever hear those words coming from Geralt’s lips, he relished in seeing Jaskier’s face brighten whenever he uttered them, just as much as he loved hearing Jaskier say it back.

Geralt’s hand wandered up, brushing the scar that was barely visible anymore above Jaskier’s brow. He leaned up to press a soft kiss against it, but fell back onto Jaskier’s lap with a frustrated growl. This really wasn’t the best position to do this.

The muffled sound of Jaskier’s laughter made Geralt stop his grumbling and when Geralt threw him a mock-glare Jaskier’s shoulders only shook more.

“Do you want to sit up?” Jaskier suggested with a grin. “Might be more practical.”

Geralt huffed, drawing his brows together in a frown that he knew wouldn’t fool Jaskier.

“I’m comfortable where I am.”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully and tugged lightly on a strand of hair that had come loose from Geralt’s braid.

“But consider this: If you sit up, we can kiss more comfortably.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and as if he still needed to contemplate Jaskier’s words. He cocked his head, which must look strange as he was still lying down.

“Could we hug too?”

“You know you don’t have to ask.” Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his expression softened. “But yes, we can hug too.”

He opened his arms a little and immediately, Geralt sat up and turned so he could wrap his arms around Jaskier and bury his head in the crook of his neck. Jaskier’s content sigh ghosted over his neck and made goosebumps erupt all over his skin, as he rubbed small circles into his back.

The very same motion had been used so often to soothe each other, to comfort and tell the other that they were protected. Now, though, it was just a caress, a drawing of lazy patterns, simple as that. They didn’t hold each other close to fend off the cold and there was no need for comfort. They simply embraced because they wanted to.  

For a moment, Geralt closed his eyes and just took in the feeling of having Jaskier in his arms. He nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, laughing lightly when Jaskier complained that the bits of loose hair tickled.

When Geralt opened his eyes again, his gaze fell onto the shelf Eskel had helped install on the wall opposite the bed. Most of the shelf was occupied with little trinkets and knickknacks Jaskier had insisted were important to bring with him. Books, hair brushes, a small vial of perfume and Jaskier’s attempts at knitting, which Geralt had come to accept as part of their room now. All of it was something Jaskier valued for one reason or another and seeing it in the room that used to be so barren and cold most winters, ignited a bright flame in Geralt’s chest. All of those things were a reminder that Jaskier belonged here with him, that he had chosen Geralt and intended to stay.

And yet, despite how much meaning Geralt read into these things, it was nothing compared to the feeling he got when his eyes fell onto the top shelf. There, in a neat row, sat the carvings Geralt had given Jaskier. His lips quirked up and he let out a small laugh when he saw the stick sitting between the cat and the fish. Over the months, they had made a game out of Geralt pretending to throw the stick out and hiding it away until Jaskier found it again. Jaskier had become better and better at finding all of Geralt’s hiding spots. Granted, Geralt had never truly tried to make the snake unfindable. If he wanted to keep things hidden, he had ways to do so. Thankfully.

“What’s so funny?” Jaskier asked, and pulled back just enough to be able to see Geralt’s face. His hands slid down Geralt’s shoulders and arms until he was tenderly holding Geralt’s hands in his.

“Nothing,” Geralt said, giving Jaskier’s hand a light squeeze. “I’m just happy that you’re here.”

There were only two figures missing from the collection. The wolf and the horse stood on the nightstand next to their bed. Whenever Geralt held Jaskier at night, he could see them watching over them. He would have thought that after months, he would have gotten used to that sight and what it meant, but then again, he hadn’t gotten used to being able to the way Jaskier’s back fitted against his chest either. But he was more than happy to spend the rest of his life getting used to it. He doubted the warmth in his chest and the wonder that overcame him whenever Jaskier snuggled closer, would ever go away.

Jaskier followed Geralt’s gaze and let out a contemplative hum.

“I don’t want to leave the figurines here when we leave Kaer Morhen again.”

“I could always make you knew ones.” When Jaskier’s brows rose up, Geralt added, “Yes, I know that I don’t need to give you gifts.”

Jaskier nodded, pleased and lifted Geralt’s hand to press a kiss against his knuckles. Geralt couldn’t help but think that it felt like a reward.

“You could always take half of them with you,” he suggested. “You could put them in your rooms in Oxenfurt.” He hesitated, but one look in Jaskier’s eyes made him stomp down any doubts before they so much as became full thoughts. “So you won’t have to miss them when we spend the next winter there together.”

Jaskier’s face lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea. Especially since you so rudely thwarted our plans of having you come visit me there. I was looking forward to that.” He playfully jabbed a finger at Geralt’s chest. “Spending the winter there will more than make up for that.”

Geralt huffed in response to Jaskier’s teasing. He really could get used to this. He wanted to have moments like this one for the rest of his life. He wanted to have Jaskier with him for the rest of his life.

“I have something for you,” Geralt said, the sudden seriousness in his voice a stark contrast to the earlier playfulness. “I wasn’t sure when to give it to you, but if you’re worried about missing the carvings…this might help a little.”

He made to get up, but Jaskier stopped him from getting farther than a step, by holding fast onto his hand.

“Geralt, you just said – “

“I know,” Geralt interrupted softly. “I don’t need to. But I want to give you this. It’s…it would mean a lot to me.”

The fondness in Jaskier’s eyes as he nodded warmed Geralt from the inside. Geralt took another step away from the bed, but then he stopped.

“Close your eyes.”

Jaskier lifted an eyebrow with a grin. “Seriously?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and immediately Geralt narrowed his. He leaned in again and long before his lips ever reached Jaskier’s, a smile played around Jaskier’s mouth.

“You peeked,” Geralt said, just before brushing his lips against Jaskier’s.

“No I didn’t,” Jaskier said, still pretending rather badly to have his eyes closed.

Geralt snorted and reached for the shelf to pull down the scarf - if it could be called that – that Jaskier had attempted to knit over the course of the winter.

“Oh come on.” Jaskier’s grin took away the effect of his indignant tone. “You don’t need to blindfold me.”

Geralt didn’t reply, just placed the scarf around Jaskier’s head and secured it gently, making sure no hair got stuck in the knot. For a moment, he just took in Jaskier’s pout, the excited twitching of his hands and the way Jaskier tried to move his head in the direction Geralt was.

“Geralt?” he asked, making Geralt realise that he had gotten so lost in watching Jaskier that he had forgotten to move. “Are you still there? You know, this is really unfair, what with you moving soundlessly.”

“I’m still here.” Geralt pressed a kiss against the crown of Jaskier’s head, before turning away again and opening the chest in the far end of the room. He pressed against the inside of the chest lid, and the secret compartment he had built in there years ago, snapped open.

He hesitated a moment, before his fingers closed around the thing he had hidden in there. It might be too much, too soon. Despite having worked on this for longer than he had any other carving to perfect it, a spike of doubt shot up in him. Perhaps it wasn’t good enough. Maybe he should wait a little longer before he gave it to Jaskier.

One glance at Jaskier, bouncing a little on the bed in anticipation, dissipated all of his doubts. His fingers tightened around the gift and he walked back, kneeling onto the bed behind Jaskier.

Taking one last deep breath, he draped the thin chain of the necklace around Jaskier’s neck and clasped it. Immediately, Jaskier’s hand shot up to run over the wooden pendant lying above his heart. His breath hitched as he traced the fine carving on it.

“Geralt?”

Geralt unfastened the knot holding the scarf in place and moved so he could see Jaskier’s face as he took in the necklace Geralt had made for him.

Jaskier’s breath hitched.

“It’s-“ His words broke off with a choked sound as his eyes lit up with more joy than Geralt had ever imagined he could bring to him. His voice was but a breath, when he finished, “- beautiful.”

Jaskier truly was. He always had been. When the sunlight shone onto him, his hair would turn nearly golden. When he smiled, his eyes would crinkle at the sides and when he woke up and yawned in a truly undignified manner, his tousled hair would make Geralt want to run his hands through it to smooth it out.

Now though, with a wooden wolf medallion resting against his chest, Geralt was sure that Jaskier had never looked more beautiful.

“It’s just like yours,” Jaskier marvelled as he tilted the pendant to see all the details and the shading Geralt had burned into the wood with a controlled igni, that he had had to practice with Eskel first before he had been confident enough in his skill to use it to adorn Jaskier’s gift.

Geralt hummed, a pleased flutter in his chest at how happy Jaskier sounded at the prospect.

“Not quite,” Geralt said. When Jaskier gave him a quizzical look, Geralt added, “Flip it over.”

Jaskier did as he was told and when he realised what was on the other side of the medallion, he let out a small gasp and his eyes widened. Almost reverently, he stroked a finger over the delicate buttercups that were engraved into the wood.

“This might be a little easier to take with you on the Path,” Geralt said, catching Jaskier’s hand and holding it gently. Months of fear told him to amend what he had said and add that Jaskier didn’t have to take it with him if he didn’t want to. He was well aware that with this carving, there would be no doubt whom he had gotten it from. He knew he shouldn’t doubt, but still… “You can wear it so others can only see the buttercups, if you don’t want to be seen with the wolf medallion.”

Jaskier’s brows kitted together and he dropped the medallion back to his chest.

“The only reason why I would wear it like that is so I could keep the wolf closer to my heart.”

Geralt’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“You like the gift then?”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkled at the sides with a smile as he gave Jaskier’s hand a light squeeze.

“I love it.” He leaned forward to steal a kiss from Geralt. “And I love you.”

When Jaskier pulled away again, Geralt chased the kiss, burying his free hand in Jaskier’s hair and relishing in the feeling of Jaskier smiling against his lips.

“Greedy,” Jaskier teased.

“Can’t I be?”

“When it comes to kisses? Always. There’s nothing I would rather give you.”

Geralt took it as an invitation to steal another kiss. Jaskier laughed lightly, breaking the kiss with the sound. Geralt didn’t mind. There was no sound more beautiful than Jaskier’s laugh and no feeling better than knowing Geralt had been the one to get Jaskier to make that sound.

Geralt’s hand left Jaskier’s hair and played with Jaskier’s two-sided medallion.

“You never gave me an answer,” he began slowly, “when I asked you why you had chosen your name to be a flower.”

“Ah.” The hint of a shadow fell onto Jaskier’s face. “I never did tell you, did I?”

A spike of uncertainty pierced Geralt’s chest and he drew away.

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I just…I might have been a bit dramatic when I chose that name.”

“As opposed to now, when there’s not a single dramatic bone in your body,” Geralt deadpanned, earning him a snort and a swat to the arm from Jaskier.

“Oh shush you,” Jaskier said, with laughter in his eyes. “I mean it. I might have been a bit…melodramatic. One might also say, I was feeling terrible about myself and I wanted to take that and make it into something good.”

“You don’t need to downplay how you felt,” Geralt said seriously.

“I know.” Jaskier’s twitched into a thin smile that slowly grew warmer as he exhaled. “Buttercups aren’t exactly the most beautiful flowers out there. Or the most useful ones. Or the most resilient. When I was a child, I tried to make a bouquet of buttercups and the petals had fallen off before I could give it to my mother. I don’t remember much, it’s been so long ago, but I do remember that I cried and tossed the stems away. My mother found them and together we planted a little patch of buttercups in the garden, where I could see them from my window. She taught me how to take care of them so they would grow and I loved doing that whenever I was frustrated from my lessons. I have no idea how much time I spent staring at these buttercups every time that I failed at something. When I didn’t understand my lessons on how to become a viscount, when I had an argument with my father, when I felt like I was wilting away in that place.”

A line between his brows had appeared at his first words and deepened as the story went on, but now it smoothed away, as Jaskier rubbed the pendant between his fingers. “I felt like those plucked buttercups. It was only a matter of time before I too would fester like they had. But If I could just find the way to care for myself in the right way, if I found my garden and people who cared for me like my mother and I had for the flowers, I could grow. I thought that though I might still not be very useful, or resilient or…or good enough for anyone to want to keep me around, but maybe I could find someone who would look at me and find comfort in me.”

“You did,” Geralt said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could.

Jaskier’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “When I told my mother, she helped me leave Lettenhove and go to Oxenfurt. I know my father wasn’t happy about my going away, but…I think he has accepted that I’d rather be a bard than a viscount. And he knows I’m happier like this. But I don’t know for sure. I haven’t seen them in so long. Only once, since leaving Lettenhove and that was even before the two of us had met.”

“We could visit them, if you wanted.” Geralt shifted his weight a little, as he tried to find the right words. “If you miss your mother, we could meet her. If your parents watched you perform, I’m sure they would be proud of you. I know I am.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembled and his grip tightened around the pendant. “I think I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

“So. Oxenfurt, Beauclair and Lettenhove. We’re going to have a busy year.”

Jaskier let out a small laugh and his eyes glinted with joy that made that delicate thing in Geralt’s chest glow brighter than the sun.

“Oh, don’t forget that we’ll have to go back to the coast again to tell Essi about everything that happened. And I’ve already promised Lambert and Eskel that we are going to meet up with them again in summer.”

“If you keep making so many plans, they aren’t all going to fit into just one year.”

Jaskier gave him a boyish grin and nudged him playfully with his elbow. “Good thing you’re not going to get rid of me anytime soon, then. We have all the time in the world.”

The notion was so strange, so wonderful. Even after all this time, imagining a future together felt like a dream. Geralt’s words got stuck in his throat and he could do nothing but hum in agreement.  Jaskier understood him even so.

“Well, anyway,” Jaskier gave a mock bow, “that was the glorious tale of the meaning of my name.”

“I like it.” Geralt’s voice was strangely rough. “And I think buttercups are plenty beautiful.”

“Flatterer.” Jaskier let out a snort, but his expression remained soft.

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Poet, then.”

Geralt let out a groan, that quickly ended in a chuckle. “Now that’s more an insult to you than to me, masterpoet.”

“I don’t think so. You can be quite good with words. Occasionally.” He winked and tilted his head to the side, a glint in his eyes. “Like when you told me what your gifts meant. I assume that there’s meaning to this carving too?”

Geralt hummed in agreement.

“So what does it mean?” Jaskier asked in a way that made it clear that he knew exactly what it meant.

“What do you think it means?”

Geralt leaned closer to press their foreheads together. He closed his eyes, focussing on Jaskier’s touch, as he played idly with Geralt’s fingers and drew small patterns onto his skin.

Jaskier didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. Both of them already knew what it meant. They saw it in each other’s eyes when they later sat together with the rest of the wolves, joking and laughing. They felt it in each other’s touch, when Jaskier brushed his side when they were preparing dinner together. They heard it in each other’s voices when Jaskier cheered Geralt on while he sparred with Lambert and Geralt gave snarky commentary just for the sake of Jaskier’s entertainment.

And later, when the keep had quieted down again and they laid in each other’s arms once more, Geralt leaned closer to Jaskier and whispered it in his ear. And Jaskier caressed his cheek gently and whispered it right back.

---

tag list: @persony-pepper @talna-kanin @lookatgeraltmyboi @talkinaboutwhatiknowabout  @ happilymysticalcat   @alllthequeenshorses @ lettherebelovex   @justjess94

[cherryjuicegf]

breathless

Five breaths and a sigh. (ao3)

i.

The fire cackles. The night is calm, as calm as a summer night could be, with all the liveliness that seems to rule nature in such a season, when the leaves of the trees wake up and rustle in the light breeze, when the cicadas hold their competitions of who will sing better in a melody that will spill inside the forest, invisible, making it feel as if the stars themselves have come closer to earth to sing.

It’s hot. Not unbearably. It’s the warmth of the wind that shuffles your hair and tickles your nose as if whispering I’m here, feel me, I’m here.

I’m here.

Jaskier fixes his eyes on his notebook, on his fingers clutching the pen. Breathless.

One would say it was the hotness of the air that deprived him of breath. He is the one. He would very much like to say that. Of course, it’s summer, humidity clings on your lungs, sucks thirstily the oxygen supposed for you. So he wouldn’t be wrong to say that. Not wrong. Just lying.

A pair of amber eyes is trailing his face, his shoulders, his hands. He dares not to meet those eyes. He feels them, clutching at his shirt, dragging him closer and closer, only that he’s still there, a fire burning between him and his breath, the same fire burning his cheeks, his throat, his lungs. He feels those eyes devouring the whole of him, greedily and yet, he has them spitting him back out. It’s okay, really. You need to breathe out to take another breath.

But he still holds his.

His pen falters on the sheet. He lifts his head abruptly as if to prove something to himself. Of course he was looking at you. Of course he had no reason to. He’s not you. His eyes rest on the figure across him near the fire, undisturbed, cleaning a blade. No sign of previous staring at his direction. Only some strands of hair, swinging wildly over the blade.

Jaskier stares. And lets out a breath.

Geralt holds his.

 

ii.

Geralt opens his eyes for the tenth time that night, once again to find the ceiling staring back at him in the darkness of the room. He swallows. He should be able to sleep, he found no reason not to. He’d been craving a soft bed for weeks. The hunt had been a success. He’d been met with dozens of grateful eyes, dozens of relieved smiles. Two tankards of good ale that made his feet go numb. He was tired. All was there. So he finds no reason to be awake.

Only that he does.

He does tonight the same as he did so many other nights, the same as he refused to acknowledge even the barest hint of the burning desire that made his heart thump and his mind dizzy. Not the same as he realizes that this time, he is already on his side when the thoughts come in.

He’d never felt that warm before, he thinks. It’s the kind of warmth that makes your hair stand in content and leaves you hazy, as if bewitched by a magic potion. It’s the kind of warmth that has Geralt stare at the bare back turned at him, moving in steady breaths, as if it’s the most precious of silks.   

He finds the reason. He finds it and grips it, cradles it as if he hasn’t found it a thousand times before.

The pillow smells of lavender. Lavender and wildflowers. The sheets too. The silk too. He sucks the scent, as though it’s the only way he’s going to keep breathing. Gulps it, lets it burn his nostrils, his lungs, even if it’s a bit strong, even if it Jaskier indulged himself for once with the soap, even if Geralt had held his breath in displeasure when he first smelled it.

Now he takes a deep breath. He thinks, quickly as if his own thoughts are chasing him, and raises his hand, and as he embraces Jaskier’s waist, oh so gently, he inhales the scent, buries his nose in soft hair, closes his eyes, and Jaskier stirs. And Geralt does not release the breath. He thinks, if lavender and wildflowers are the scent he takes to his grave, if Jaskier is the scent he takes to his grave, then so be it.

But Jaskier returns to quiet. And Geralt thinks for a moment, then gently tightens his embrace. And breathes out.

 

iii.

A bloody cloth is thrown on the floor, beside a bucket of blood red water. The last tears fall on the bed sheets.

 He’d been lucky, Geralt said. He could be dead now. Jaskier thought he heard his voice quivering for a moment. But probably it was his imagination. Don’t move now, he said.

He doesn’t even consider of moving his shoulder at this state and definitely not while Geralt is prickling his skin with a needle, the stitches reaching his left collarbone, leaving him weeping however grateful he didn’t lose a hand or worse. He’d have to avoid playing the lute for two weeks or so now.

The needle prickles once more and he takes a deep breath he doesn’t release. It’s the pain, obviously, stitches are not a lighthearted process. It’s not only that, although he struggles hard to refuse to acknowledge it. But it’s also Geralt’s fingers cradling his neck, holding him steady, tracing his skin, whispering words directed at him, like a lullaby not supposed to be heard.

Almost done. Don’t cry. We’re almost done.

Jaskier sniffs and feels his insides wailing from the lack of oxygen. From the way Geralt’s fingers curl for a moment on his neck, tremble, before cutting the thread and Geralt looks up, nods in affirmation. And slowly, almost unwillingly, stroking as if on silk, his fingers abandon feverish skin.

And Jaskier, his lashes dropping in exhaustion, exhales heavily.

 

iv.

Oh. That’s close. That’s too close.

Geralt swallows as Jaskier spreads over him on the chair like the tide splashing between rocks, his voice echoing in his ears like the fierce wind of the coast. Jaskier laughs, and nudges him, and sings, and drinks, and drinks. And he’s drunk.

Geralt could leave. He really could. He doesn’t even know why he had been sitting there all this time in the first place. If he thought about it, there’d been nothing keeping him on this damn table, surrounded by stinking drunkards and the smell of burnt sausages along with cheap ale. Because the ale is cheap and if someone tries to convince him otherwise, he will swear to the gods he doesn’t even believe.

So he doesn’t know why he’s still sitting.

Except for the warmth Jaskier’s eyes radiate as they fix on him, even now, even hazy and drunk. Except for the soft puffs of breath on his neck as Jaskier hides his face and laughs, and his lips touch exposed skin, and Geralt damns himself for taking off his armor. He dares close his eyes, just for a moment. Thinks of how soft these lips are, how he craves to feel them until the end of his days. He opens his eyes. He’s a fool.

He picks Jaskier up and stands, heading straight to the stairs. Ignores the bard’s wriggling in his arms and the slurred mutters that he supposes are something close to put me down, you absolute brute.  He enters the rooms, closes the door. All but throws Jaskier on the bed, steadying him before he falls forward.

Only that he does, and as he kneels to take of his boots, suddenly his lips are too close. Geralt’s breath hitches. Stops.

Geralt is a man of honour. And also desperate with feelings. Jaskier is not.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips. A taste of tongues. Cheap ale that Geralt now finds he’d willingly tone out the rest of his senses to taste once more. A soft moan, but it can’t be him, he’s not breathing. And then Jaskier’s head bumps limp on his shoulder, and he hears silent snoring.

He closes his eyes. And breathes shakily.

 

v.

We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.

Silence. Not even a hum. Not even a batter of lashes. Not even a look.

Jaskier waits. He waits as if he doesn’t know the only thing he’s going to hear is the voices of the dwarves in the distance and the howling of the wind whipping against the mountain slopes, against his heart. One more chance.

Life is short and silent. He never wanted his life to be silent. Filled it with unending songs, elaborate words, heartfelt verses that sounded as if the pounding of his heart echoed in each rhyme. A great name he loved to hear pouring from others’ lips. Yet the silent void walking beside him at all times was too silent to fill the last part of his heart, the one he dared not let splutter further than a few songs. And that void, oh it was unbearable now.

Composing your next song?

No, I’m just. Just trying to find out what pleases me. 

He stares. Takes a deep, torturous breath, as if the answer is the only thing his lungs depend on. And waits. That was it. The furthest point. And look where it’d gotten him.

Not even a hum. But it’s okay, Jaskier thinks. He needs time. Maybe he’ll think about it. Maybe he can hope. That’s what he thinks, and stands up. Decisions take time, he knows.

He could laugh at himself.

He does. Later, when Geralt enters another’s tent. When he has his answer.

He laughs. And releases the breath.

 

vi.

His grip is tight. He knows it’s tight because even he feels his fingers going numb after a while. Or it could be the lack of oxygen. He didn’t dare to guess.

He swims and kicks and even with one hand he manages to reach light, away from the waterfall, he manages to get his head out, grab a tree branch as if trying to hold the last string of life from breaking. He manages to pull himself out, his hand never releasing, and he pulls Jaskier along from under the water. He drags them out and, still holding on, he slumps on soft grass. Tries to catch his breath.

Only that the hand in his is limp. Has been all this time.

And suddenly, he forgets how to breathe.

“Jaskier.” He drags himself beside the bard lying motionless on the ground and nudges him hard. “Jaskier!”

His hand twitches but doesn’t release. He leans his head on Jaskier’s chest, searches for the sound of his heart. Hears none. Freezes. “Fuck.”

He kneels properly and if he’s feared death before, now it rose like a dark wave above him, ready to swallow him whole. He put his hands on the bard’s chest, pressed hard. Persistent. Then takes his head in his hands, cradles it like it’s fragile, opens his mouth and breathes in. Presses again. Then breathes. Even if he himself is out of breath.

His hands are trembling.

“No, no, no. Jaskier.” Presses and breathes.

Come back. Breathe. Not yet.

Jaskier is beautiful, he thinks, and his vision blurs as he breathes in once more, desperately, and it’s different, so different from that one time, now Jaskier tastes of water and bitterness, now he smells of death. Come back.  Please. Please.

Presses and breathes.

Please don’t get away without me.

 A wet gasp. Water runs down Jaskier’s lips and he opens his eyes wide, coughing and coughing and gasping as his body doubles in effort. And Geralt sobs.

Hands hover blindly on the air. “G-Geralt…” Geralt catches them, holds him and Jaskier raises his head, breathless in all his breathing and looks at him, touches him. Geralt leans into the touch. I’m here, feel me. “I’m here, Jaskier.” I’m here.

Jaskier feels rough, trembling hands cupping his face his neck, moving wet hair away from his eyes. Looks into amber eyes and Geralt could swear he goes a little limp in his arms. His heart is almost thumping out of his chest.

Geralt is a man of honour. Still. His lips brush on Jaskier’s and he hears a soft moan. So he kisses him. Deep and possessive and desperate and sweet, he kisses him until they’re out of breath, stealing the oxygen from each other’s lungs and laughing and clingling on each other is if it’s the last branch of life. And then they separate, inches apart. Sparkling blue eyes. Geralt smiles. “I love you.”

Jaskier shivers, closes his eyes. “Say it again.” Say it to fill the void.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Geralt trails his lips on cold skin, down Jaskier’s neck, smelling him in, thristily, touching, whispering, devouring. I love you, I love you, I love you.

And Jaskier laughs and cries and kisses back and gazes, oh so lovingly. “I love you too, Geralt. Too much.”

Geralt realizes then he doesn’t have to hold his breath anymore. And heaves a deep sigh.

[jaskierek]

Wildflowers

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: Geralt finally found Jaskier, months after the dragon hunt, and now he has to find out what happened to him.

--

It took a minute for his mind to catch up. His palm rested on the ridged bark of the willow. He tried pushing, not really expecting it to move but not knowing what else to do. Jaskier had been right there. He’d been right there.

“Geralt?” His name came from behind and the Witcher fumbled on his knees to turn around, scrambling until his back hit the trunk of the tree. His instincts were going haywire, medallion vibrating incessantly. Something was very wrong and his impulse to attack warred with his need to protect because Jaskier was standing right in front of him. It was Jaskier but it wasn’t. There were parts missing.

He felt familiar, the curve of his nose, the line of his jaw, the tilt of his head. It was his strong brows, arched and hidden under the soft, brown fringe that had grown out. His eyes were still blue and open. His faded-blue doublet was open, revealing a soft chemise and dark chest hair that used to drive Geralt insane.

It was Jaskier, but it wasn’t.

Every living thing has a presence, one that most people can sense. It’s the feeling of being watched, being followed. The person before him had none. He had not sensed it as he had approached, he did not sense it when he was behind him.

“Geralt.” Not-Jaskier said again, lowering himself onto his knees so he was level with Geralt. He smiled. He smiled as if they had merely parted for a few weeks and had run into each other again. He smiled as if they were to go on another adventure together, to set off on the Path once more. Nostrils flaring, he tried to keep his breathing steady. This Jaskier’s eyes weren’t as bright. They were glazed over, as if he wasn’t really seeing what was before him. His once-pink lips and rosy cheeks were pale.

“Jaskier.” The name came from Geralt’s lips like a breath. He wanted to reach out, to touch him. He wanted to pull back and run away. He wanted to push Jaskier, have him land with a dramatic yelp and a scolding on his lips. He wanted Jaskier to push him, to be upset with him, to ask him why. He wanted anything but this pale imitation and gentle smile.

“Jaskier,” he tried again, “what-what happened to you?”

The bard’s brows pinched curiously, the smile looking more uncertain.

“What…happened.” He frowned. Red shocked the white of Jaskier’s chemise. It soaked through and spread like an ink stain on poetry. Blue eyes looked past the Witcher and his smile fell. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear his sight.

Geralt could only watch.

“Jaskier.” He whispered again. At the sound of his name the bard’s eyes snapped back to Geralt’s, soft confusion on his face. Red continued to dye his shirt. It gathered at the corners of his mouth, slipping down his chin and falling onto the green blades of grass between them. It was as if he couldn’t feel it, had no reaction to it.

Geralt couldn’t take it anymore. He reached out again, reached out to cup the bard’s face. Jaskier didn’t move to stop him, only continued to look in confusion. His hand paused before the bard’s skin. He ached to make contact, to sweep his thumb across Jaskier’s cheekbone.

Before he could, the air rippled and Geralt was left facing the leaves of the willow. He inhaled shakily, arm still outstretched. All he could see was the image of Jaskier, blood trickling down his face, seeping through his shirt. He clenched his eyes shut, pressing his palms into his eyelids until his vision went white and spots danced before him when he opened them again. Jaskier was still gone and the leaves were still there, hanging limply.

Geralt pulled his knees up, curling in as tight as he could. He felt himself shake as he rested his forehead against his knees.

—

“That one’s Draco.” Julia said, pointing up at the clear sky above them. Julian looked up from where he’d been pulling up grass with stubby fingers.

“Where?” He asked, squinting.

“There!” She insisted, still pointing. “See? There’s the tail and there’s the head.”

Julian huffed. He was no good at constellations. Julia had taken a liking to them recently, spending hours pouring over dusty, old books that Julian couldn’t care less about.

“Doesn’t look much like a dragon.” He muttered, looking back down at the grass and clenching it in his little fists.

“I thought you’d like it.”  

“Why?”

“Dragons, adventure, I don’t know. They’re always in those games you like to play.”

Julian looked up at his sister. Her shoulders were slumped and she was doing that thing when she was upset where she pushed out her bottom lip. Guilt settled heavy in his stomach. He knew she’d been sad lately and was just trying to share with him what made her happy.

He looked up at the stars again. It’s not that he didn’t like them, they were pretty and he could see why Julia had taken such a liking to them. It was just that they’d taken so much of her time that he was left playing adventure outside by himself. All the boys that his parents wanted him to befriend were older and mean to him so all he really had was Julia. Julian was learning that he didn’t like to share much, but he knew that that was unfair.

“It’s more of a wyrm than a dragon.” He offered weakly. Her blue eyes looked at him curiously. “Wyrms are long like snakes, dragons have big wings. It doesn’t have wings - the star.”

“The constellation.” She corrected but she was smiling. “Draco’s a better name than worm though, what an awful thing to call a collection of brilliant stars.”

Julian scrunched his nose.

“It’s not worm, it’s wyrm.”

“Sounds the same to me.”

“I hate you.”

Julia laughed and Julian realised it was the first time he’d heard her laugh for a long time. He looked down at his hands. He was getting that itch in his nose that he got when he wanted to cry. He pinched his nose, trying to get the feeling to go away.

“Hey.” His sister said softly. He heard her shuffle so she was sitting in front of him crosslegged. The end of her dress was green with grass stains. Mother wouldn’t be happy. Julia reached out and pulled his hand away from his nose, holding it in hers. He hated holding hands but he let her take it. “What’s wrong, buttercup?” It was that voice she used when things were too harsh for him and he wanted something soft.

Julian looked up. Julia’s eyebrows were raised, a small smile on her lips. Her blue eyes were darker in the nighttime. He thought they suited her better a bit darker anyway.

“Tell me about the harp one again.” He asked. She rolled her eyes with a sigh.

“It’s not a harp, it’s a lyre.” She said, sounding playfully tired of explaining it, but he knew that she loved talking about it. She gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go to point at the star. “It’s that one. See those five stars?” Julian nodded. “It’s called Lyra.”

She turned to him with a smile and he looked to her with big eyes.

“That one’s yours,” she said, “that one belongs to the artists.”

Julian watched her gaze up at the stars as if she wanted to be up there with them, miles and miles away.

He couldn’t help but hate them just a little.

—

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, curled up.

Eventually,  Roach’s impatient whinny brought him back into the present. Geralt lifted his head from his knees, peering at the mare through the leaves of the tree.  She shuffled a couple of feet away from the edge of the willow, tail tucked between her hindquarters. Running his hand down his face, he picked himself up. He glanced back at the trunk of the tree, not knowing what he was expecting to see. Nothing. Just the serrated edges of the bark.

He pulled back the curtain separating him and Roach. She skittered nervously but allowed him to place his hand on her muzzle. Mumbling gently, he tried to soothe her despite his own instincts itching at him to leave.

Jaskier’s bloody chest flickered through his thoughts and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Roach’s snout.

He couldn’t leave.

“I may not be able to find his physical body, but I can perhaps find his spirit.”

A spirit separate from the body.

Not an Ethereal nor any type of Wraith. Most Spectres resemble the state of their physical body. Geralt fought down the bile rising in his throat. If Jaskier were truly dead and appearing as some sort of ghost, he would appear decomposed in some way; blackened fingers, green-tinted skin, bloating.  There had been no signs of that on the apparition of his friend. Until the blood had begun to seep through, Jaskier had seemed normal, if a bit pale. That would not have been a possibility if he were a Wraith.

Geralt cradled that knowledge close to his heart.

Nevertheless, his medallion had confirmed the presence of magic. It didn’t resemble any spell he was familiar with, yet he wasn’t well versed in the more complicated magics.

There had been a time in Toussaint where a woman had been turned into a tree, he remembered. The love of her life had never returned and she was left, waiting for him forever, dwelling in her longing and grief. People living in the neighbouring town would hear her wails distantly when the wind rustled her leaves. Her sobbing had also been heard when the tree was harmed, blood spilling out of a wound on the bark instead of thick sap.

Reluctantly, Geralt turned back to the willow. It was not a plant he ever would have associated with the bard. Pale where he was bright, tired where he alive, weeping where he was…

Giving Roach one last pat, he pushed past the vines, tracing the knife at his side. His thumb brushed the space between the hilt and sheath. He pulled it out and rested the steel gently against the bark, breathing in.

He was hesitating. Why was he hesitating? Jaskier, bloody and confused flashed through his mind.

He pressed his hand against the trunk, right next to the point of the knife.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed the blade in and dragged it down the bark, revealing the lighter shade of wood underneath. No blood.

Geralt didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He was left hanging in the space between.

Ah, the face of loneliness.

—

Not really sure what to do with himself, Geralt set up camp in the clearing not too close to the willow. He doubted he’d be able to sleep through the unease if he were too close. He wasn’t far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to spot someone underneath it though. He briefly thanked his enhanced vision.

He’d laid out what he needed at the edge of the field, his back to the line of trees. He doubted anyone came by often, or else he would’ve seen a notice for the extraction of a Wraith in the nearest town. Consequently, he felt comfortable leaving Roach and the beginnings of a fire pit as he went to hunt down his dinner. He tried to be quick about it, not wanting to miss Jaskier if he appeared again. He’d exhausted his rations of dried meat and bread on his trek to find Yennefer and then Jaskier.

He didn’t know how long he’d stay there. He knew he needed to find Yennefer, to ask her for help yet again. It was more likely she’d be aware of whatever curse had afflicted his bard. He knew this but he couldn’t help but long to see him. At least once more.

The Witcher returned with a rather thin rabbit. He’d gone for the first animal he’d seen. Yellow eyes scanned the open space as he returned. Nothing. No sign of the bard. Just the rustling of leaves. He looked to the willow, ears straining. No wails. He breathed a brief sigh of relief.

Sitting down beside the fire pit, he placed the dead animal down and started the fire.

“Hey!”

Geralt’s head snapped up at the shout. His medallion shuddered. Witcher eyes cut through the darkness to see a man sitting in the middle of the field. He swallowed, put the knife down and stood up, stepping around the fire to get a better look.

“I’m stargazing!” He yelled again, waving his hand and urging him to step closer. The impatient gesture was so familiar, Geralt almost smiled. He left the light of his fire and stepped further into the clearing.

The closer he got, the more Jaskier came into view. Brown hair blowing and blue doublet open against the cool wind. Bleeding mouth and reddened chemise, soaked through.

He felt the breath leave him. Something screamed in him to leave.

He stopped in front of the bard. Jaskier patted the grass next to him.  

It didn’t feel right, sitting beside him. Jaskier smiled and lay back, lifting his arms and resting his head on his hands. Blue eyes darkened, reflecting the sky. Geralt suppressed the trembling beneath his skin and lay back next to his friend.

A memory tugged at the Witcher, the same one that had pulled him to the meadow before. A warm day, their day together. One with flowers and colours and humming.

It was a sick imitation of it.

His throat tightened, he felt choked by it. He felt out of breath.

“Geralt?”

Geralt closed his eyes in a long blink as he turned his head.  

It hurt to look at him.

“What happened to me?” Jaskier asked, eyes still gazing at the stars. An elegant drop of red slid down from his lips. It fell to the hair curling at his nape. Geralt reminded himself that whatever he was, he wasn’t dead.

He was silent for a while, watching Jaskier look up. He hated it, the quiet. The undercurrent of Jaskier’s heartbeat had followed him for too long for him to be looking at the man and not hear it.

“I don’t know.” He finally responded. The bard smiled, a watery, wobbly thing.

His hair looked soft in the starlight. If he touched him again, would he disappear? Would he come back? Geralt didn’t know why he was appearing to him again now. Was he tied to this place or did he go somewhere else when he disappeared? Where was his body? He didn’t know if he wanted to see it if this was how Jaskier looked now. The image of Jaskier’s body, bloody and limp lying in a ditch somewhere flashed through his mind.

“I’ve always thought that Lyra belongs to the artists.”

Geralt was snapped out of his thoughts. He looked up at the constellation.

“Placed there by the gods, taken from the dead hands of a musician killed by a vengeful god.” Jaskier said. “Value only after death.”

The Witcher knew the myth. A lyre so great, it was said to have charmed even the rocks and streams. Music that quelled the voice of sirens, yet existing as a form of it itself. Although it had never been the lyre, had it? It had been the man.

“It doesn’t look much like a lyre.” Geralt commented.

There was a burst of laughter and Geralt jerked to look at the man next to him. He was looking back at him, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I knew you’d say that.”

—

Yennefer had been watching the bard for some time now. To be fair, his performance drew very many eyes. The sorceress grudgingly admitted to herself that he had some talent, him and the ensemble backing him up. It was a shame he was wasting it on bawdy tunes and bloody tales. She briefly wondered what a her own ballad would sound like. Though she had to admit, her’s would be its fair share of bloody.

The second she’d spotted the bard, her violet eyes had swept the hall for a certain gruff Witcher. She cursed herself for being disappointed when she hadn’t spotted him. Nonetheless, she’d brushed it off easily. It meant that perhaps the bard would stay away from her.

However, she was curious as to why he was here in Temeria alone. She distinctly remembered seeing him a year ago in Redania at a similar gathering, only three years after they had first met in Rinde. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s desire for entertainment, their second meeting was rather uneventful. They had both steered clear of each other, the large banquet hall allowing for easy steering.  

Being a known sorceress meant that she was invited to many parties thrown by lords and dukes and any other form of aristocracy. She didn’t often attend, it was her bad luck to run into Jaskier twice now. Though it was to be expected, being a bard. What was not expected, however, was the bard’s seeming association with the leader of the Redanian Intelligence. His presence in Temeria, whose relationship with Redania was rather tense at the moment, was curious.

She took a sip of her crimson wine and tuned back in to what the lady beside her was saying.

“-prayer, oils, herbal treatments. Nothing’s worked!” The woman, Lady Webb, continued to explain her issues with infertility. Yennefer’s grip on her goblet tightened infinitesimally and she tilted her head politely. High society clients have deep pockets, she reminded herself. And all sorts of connections. And whilst she may not have found yet a treatment for her own…issues with fertility, she could perhaps be able to help this woman.

“-and when we mixed it, we learned that it was indeed me and so-“

“My Lady,” the sorceress interrupted, “come visit me tomorrow and we can ascertain what exactly the problem is. There are certain remedies that may work, but I cannot promise anything at the moment.”

The woman beamed at her and clasped Yennefer’s left hand, the witch held the goblet in her right afar so as not to spill it.

“Thank you so very much, dear.”

Yennefer gave her a tight smile, removing her hand from her grasp. She registered the end of the musicians’ set and set her glass down, excusing herself a bit curtly. Perhaps the bard would be a bit more fun and Melitele knew she needed a distraction.

The cast of musicians had disbanded for a brief interlude and she could spot Jaskier not too far from the stage, already chatting someone up.

“Jaskier.” Yennefer greeted. He turned from the young lady he’d been talking to, his face abruptly falling.

“Yennefer. What brings you to Temeria?” He asked, almost conversationally but the sorceress picked up on the undercurrent of displeasure. She gave him a lazy smile.

“Oh, you know, a smile here, an enchantment there and suddenly I’ve found myself with a lovely little cottage and an invitation to some local Count’s party.”

Jaskier bristled.

Yennefer watched the small blonde behind him look her up and down over the bards shoulder. With a disappointed sigh and a not-so-subtle glance at the man’s ass, she turned away and walked over to a table, grabbing a healthy glass of wine. Yennefer pitied her mildly, she had no intention of stealing the girl’s evening prospects from her.

“I am interested, however,” she continued, “as to what you are doing here?” He raised his brows questioningly.

“Really? You’re interested in what a bard is doing at a party? I would’ve thought my lute would give me away.” He said, pointing to the instrument resting on the small stage behind him.

She had to admit, he played the part well.

“Only interested as, if I recall correctly, you and Sigismund Dijkstra seemed very well acquainted in Redania only a year ago.” A knowing smirk and a tilt of her head had the bard gritting his teeth. “And whilst I know your taste is broad and varied, I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type.”

Blue eyes glanced around sharply, before an idle smile slid onto the man’s face.

“A travelling musician must take work were he can, sorceress, not all of us can have someone spilling their pockets at the snap of a finger.”

Yennefer let the subtle bite wash over her without a blink. She knew the bard did not think highly of her. The feeling was mutual. Though she had to admit, she was vaguely impressed. He wasn’t quite the ditzy bard she had thought, following his Witcher around like a lost puppy.

Yennefer hummed. “Do you remember the punishment for espionage in Temeria, bard? Was it death or simply a whipping?”

“What a macabre thought to have in the middle of such a lively party. Honestly, Yen, learn to live a little.” With a quirk of his lips, he turned back to his set, calling out to the guests to gather and dance. Not thrilled over the prospect of being caught in a crowd, she stepped away.

She’d catch Jaskier flitting around for the rest of the evening, chatting up lords and ladies, landowners and aristocrats. She’d also catch him scrutinising her occasionally, likely trying to determine some sort of ulterior motive. She let him watch as she created her own connections. Many were interested in having an Aretuzan witch at their beck and call and for now she’d let them believe she’d answer.

As the night drew to a close, few were left in the banquet hall. A table of men, determinedly still drinking, lovers in dark corners and balconies, the few who’d found good conversation and were languidly refilling glasses.

“Off to the lovely little cottage for you, then?” A voice asked from above. She looked up from her seat at an empty table. Jaskier stood, head tilted slightly, lute strung over his shoulder. His cheeks were pink, from performing or drink she didn’t know, and the ends of his hair curled from the heat. Yennefer swirled the wine in her goblet, watching the plum-coloured liquid ripple.

“Lovely cottages unfortunately don’t include free wine.” She answered, looking ahead and hoping the bard understood the dismissal in her voice. Whether he did or not was unclear as he took a seat beside her anyway.

“Let’s see then.” He said. Yennefer turned to him, confused. His hand was outstretched, reaching for her wine.

“Not afraid I’ll poison it, bard?” She crooned sweetly. Jaskier smirked and shook his head.

“Death or whipping, right?” He responded, smooth as silk. Yennefer blinked. She couldn’t help but laugh lightly, handing the goblet to him.

He took a sip and hummed, licking the red off his lips. She assumed he hadn’t been drinking much if he’d asked for it now. It was likely challenging to obtain state secrets when intoxicated.

“Not quite the wine of Toussaint, is it?” He handed the drink back. Yennefer tilted her head in agreement. With the state of Nilfgaard in the Continent at the moment, the famed wine was difficult to acquire. She’d tried.

“Does he know?” She asked, referring to the one person that connected them.

“No.”

Yennefer brought the wine to her lips and passed it back to the bard.

She wouldn’t say she liked the man, but it wasn’t a bad way to end the night, drinking together.

—

Jaskier appeared again the next morning.

Geralt was woken by his medallion not long past dawn.

This time, the bard was sitting under the tree.

As he approached, he saw the lack of blood on the man’s shirt and the tightness in his chest was relieved somewhat. This way, it was just Jaskier, his friend, sitting under a tree, waiting for him to join him. Still, it pained him to look into those pale eyes, not quite as blue as they used to be.

Jaskier watched him pull back the leaves of the willow and walk closer to him, sitting down with his back against the tree. He wished he could feel their shoulders brushing.

They were both silent for a while. Was he waiting for him to speak first? Geralt wanted to apologise but felt the words get caught in his throat. Would this Jaskier even remember what he’d said to him on the mountain? His memory seemed spotty. Selfishly, Geralt hoped he wouldn’t remember.

“My dear Witcher.” Jaskier said, so quietly he almost missed it. Geralt ached at the endearment. “My dear Witcher, do you think I’m dead?”

“No.” The answer came so swiftly it had surprised the Witcher himself. Yet his bard remained impassive.

“I think I am dead.”

“You’re not.”

“I feel it.” He was looking at Geralt with a mellow sort of sadness. “I feel this pain in my chest. Sometimes I’m choking on blood, other times I feel it in my throat but it’s dry, stuck to the walls of my larynx like peeling paint. Sometimes there’s so much of it, I can’t speak. All I can do it let it pour out of me as I heave. I’ve tried closing my mouth, but it comes nonetheless, it bursts at the seams like too much wine around a cork.”

He looked down at his hands with a frown. “My hands are so pale, I hate it. I bet my face doesn’t look much better. I bet it looks grey and ashen.”

He looked at him as if he expected Geralt to confirm his guess.

When he didn’t, he continued, “At least there’s no blood on me this time. I quite like this chemise and I don’t like seeing it ruined. I still think I’m dead though. I’m not quite sure where my body is.” He turned to look at him again and his brows furrowed in concern. “Why are you crying Geralt?”

He hadn’t even noticed the unfamiliar wetness of his cheeks until he’d asked. He touched his cheek gingerly and pulled it back, looking at the wet shine of his fingertips.

“Jaskier-“

“I know, I know, you hate it when I go off on a ramble but I feel like I should be let off just this once. I am dead after all-“

“Jaskier, shut up.”

“Come on, Geralt, I still-“

“Please,” the word cracked in his throat, “please, please stop talking. Stop.” He turned away from the man and pressed his palms into his eye sockets, trying to stop the tears yet they came unbidden like…like too much wine around a cork. He tried inhaling a shaking breath. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt looked at the bard. He was looking at him as if he didn’t quite understand why he was so upset but sympathised anyway.

“You’re not…,” he began then trailed off, not quite able to force the word past his lips, “you’re under some spell, Jaskier. I’m going to find Yennefer and she’s going to help you.”

“Yennefer,” the bard repeated with a sad smile, looking past Geralt somewhat, “longing and heartache and lust.”

Geralt frowned. “Jaskier, what-“

“Don’t leave.” He said, pale blue eyes snapping back to the Witcher. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I need to find Yennefer-“

“You always need to find Yennefer.”

“I need her to help you.”

“She cannot help me. You cannot heal the dead.”

“You are not- you’re not- Jaskier-“

“Just for a while. Just...just stay with me for a while, then you can go back to her.”

Geralt paused.

Weak. He was weak.

“She was the one that helped me find you.” He said after a while.

Jaskier huffed out a laugh.

“Guess that hagstone didn’t work then.”

—

Jaskier was humming as he strolled around the meadow. Geralt wondered what he was thinking. He walked in circles, following the line of trees. Every time he passed the Witcher’s camp, Roach would get skittish and step away, huffing nervously. He would give her a sad look and walk on. It was Jaskier’s form of quiet. Yes, he was humming, but the usual string of inane pondering and chatter was absent.

Still, Geralt felt a sort of comfort. The quiet stifled him now and the bard was to blame. He couldn’t bring himself to begrudge him for it. He thought he knew what being lonely was but only when he had driven Jaskier away did he learn true, aching loneliness. Geralt watched him scuff his heel on the ground, frowning, then carrying on.

Geralt was still not used to the incessant buzzing of his medallion whenever the bard chose to appear. The itch to find Yennefer and get her to help was ever-present. He was adamantly sure she could help. He didn’t allow himself to think otherwise. But Jaskier wanted him to stay. It pained him to think of the bard existing here alone. He had said he didn’t know how long he’d been there, but Geralt suspected he’d been there since all news of the famed bard had ceased. Two months ago.

“What are you doing?” He finally asked on his latest lap, putting his sword down where he was sharpening it. Jaskier stumbled, as if not expecting Geralt to say anything. He stopped and faced the Witcher.

“I’m walking.”

Geralt levelled him an unimpressed glare.

“Why?”

“Exercise.” He replied flatly.

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“I wonder where I got that from.”

The Witcher didn’t respond, knowing that the silence would eventually be filled. Jaskier huffed and sat down across from him, elbows on his knees and cheeks resting on his knuckles. He looked like a crabby child. He looked down at the grass as Geralt waited for him to speak.

“I can’t leave.” He finally said, looking up at him. “The meadow.” He added on at Geralt’s look. “It’s like there’s a wall blocking me from moving past the line of trees.”

Geralt nodded slowly. He’d assumed as much. There was a part of him that hoped that Jaskier would have looked for him if he could have. He didn’t want to ask.

Geralt still questioned where Jaskier went when he wasn’t there. Maybe he didn’t go anywhere, maybe he simply chose not to reveal himself, present in the form of a willow tree. He wondered what his connection to it was. He knew now that the tree hadn’t been there the last time. Whatever had happened to Jaskier, he and the willow were linked, tethered together.  

“If I am dead, this is surely purgatory.” Jaskier muttered, pulling at the grass half-heartedly. Geralt watched him rip it out of the ground, opening his hand and letting it scatter back down.

He’d learned to become aware of the bard’s moods, spotting slumped shoulders and tight smiles. He just didn’t know what to do with that information. At first, he had believed it wasn’t his job to keep the man happy. He had chosen a life of hardship beside a Witcher, and he had to deal with the consequences. Yet Jaskier had a way of tearing down walls and situating himself firmly in someone’s life, earning affection, and it had grown harder to ignore him.

Nonetheless, Geralt still didn’t know what to do. Witchers weren’t particularly well-versed in the intricacies of human emotion, even less so their own. And while knowing physical comfort and soothing words supposedly helped, he still couldn’t figure his way around it. Jaskier had done it for him before, when Geralt was injured or what the bard annoyingly called ‘grouchy’. Geralt had yet to puzzle it out for himself.

He watched Jaskier pluck out another clump.

The silence itched at his skin.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” The bard asked sharply, eyes hard.

“Pull at the grass.”

Jaskier blinked at him then broke out into a grin.

“Why not?”

“It’s bad for it, makes it harder to grow back.” Eskel had told him that when they were children at Kaer Morhen. Geralt had found it difficult to care about much during the trials yet Eskel’s soft words and concern for the turf of the dark castle had made his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry.” Jaskier replied, biting his lip to keep from smiling. He tried smoothing the grass back awkwardly, as if to apologise. Geralt felt his lips quirk. “I’ll try to rein in my habit next time.” He informed the Witcher and Geralt grunted and nodded like a teacher satisfied at a lesson learned. Jaskier laughed softly and stood up, wiping his hands down his trousers before continuing on his circle of the field.

It was only later, as Geralt was falling asleep, that he realised that Jaskier had physically touched the grass. When he’d shot up out of his bedroll, the bard was nowhere to be found. He was somewhere in the space between his spirit and his body and Geralt ached to hold him.

—

Gods, it had been a long day. Dijkstra had said that his most recent case had been requested personally by the king. Jaskier didn’t believe that for one second. He didn’t know what to think of King Radovid, if he was honest. On the one hand, a brilliant strategist, on the other a paranoid, slightly brutal nutter. Consequently, the validity of this current job was a bit in question, but he accepted it nonetheless. The months apart from Geralt, though more comfortable in terms of lodging and food, proved decidedly less exciting.

Yennefer’s question two years ago rang in his head “does he know?” Jaskier shook it off. Geralt didn’t have to know everything. Melitele knew he didn’t. Fortunately for him, the Witcher didn’t seem interested in delving into the bard’s past, as opposed to the bard himself who made it his mission to glean everything out of Geralt that he could or that he was comfortable with sharing.

He’d been renting a small apartment in the Redanian town for three weeks. Two weeks in and he’d been practically tackled to the ground of the local marketplace, only catching a glimpse of blonde before he was bracing himself against a stall wall. He’d somehow found himself with an armful of Priscilla.

“Jaskier!” She’d exclaimed, arms around his neck.

“Priscilla,” he couldn’t help but smile, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“The real question is what the hell are you doing here?” She asked, pulling away.

Jaskier frowned, tilting his head in confusion.

“When I was passing through the next town over on my way to Tretogor, I heard that the famous master Jaskier was staying nearby.” She clarified. Despite having what some might call an over-inflated ego, Jaskier couldn’t help but flush. “Nearby in this lovely shithole of a place.” She added with a smile

“Ah, yes, I’m currently hired by Lord Bachar for a while.”

“Never heard of him.” Blunt as ever.

He wasn’t surprised, it was a small town but quite valuable for mining as it was close to the mountains. However, that did make it freezing which Jaskier noted as he regarded Priscilla who was most definitely not prepared for such weather. She noticed him gazing down at her dress, much too thin for the crisp air.

“I left most of my clothes with my horse, bard.” She clarified, rolling her eyes as they began to walk together, arm in arm. Jaskier laughed.

“You’re not allowed to say bard like that, you’re a bard.”

She tutted, waving her hand dismissively. “Semantics.”

“Right, of course,” Jaskier said, shaking his head, “are you staying long then?”

“Why? Looking to have a little fun?” She asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively. Jaskier briefly thought back to a couple of rather pleasurable nights but shook the thoughts out of his head. He was there for a reason, after all, and Priscilla’s rather lovely curves would have to wait. Anyway, he’d rather resentfully discovered that sex was not quite as enjoyable when one’s heart was dreaming of another.

“I’m only teasing.” She acquiesced. “Honestly, I wasn’t planning to, but after seeing you I realised truly how long it’s been.”

Jaskier looked away, guilt nagging at him. With travelling with Geralt and his swiftly flourishing career, he had to admit, he hadn’t seen much of his friend. Their time in Oxenfurt during the winter really being the only time he got to visit his peers. And Priscilla truly did hold a special place in his heart.

“I know, my dear, I’ve missed you terribly but duty calls.”

“Duty meaning trailing Witchers and singing for unknown Lords?”

“You make it sound as if my songs haven’t reached every corner of the continent.”

Priscilla snorted and rested her head on his shoulder as the walked.

“They truly have, Jaskier.” He couldn’t help but preen slightly at the pride in her voice. “Anyway, I was hoping that I could stay with you for a bit, if you’re going to be working for this Lord Barbar for some time.”

“It’s Bachar. He may be rather unknown but he can still send his guard after you.”

“Please, I’m too famous for that.”

After that, it was difficult to say no. Priscilla was already aware of his arrangement with Sigismund Dijkstra, however he’d hoped to keep her out of this case.

Lord Bachar had eagerly employed Jaskier the minute he’d heard of the famed bard’s presence in his town, throwing multiple banquets and events in the three weeks Jaskier had been there. The Lord had been raring to display Jaskier to everyone who’d watch. The bard supposed that was the drawback of ruling such a small town, the need to prove something.

Fortunately, but in Lord Bachar’s case more unfortunately, Jaskier had accepted. In the time he’d been hired, he’d grown to somewhat earn the trust of the Lord. Pushing ale into his hands between performances, Jaskier had managed to loosen his tongue enough to learn that the rumours that the Redanian Intelligence was concerned about were true.

With access to the manor under the pretence of needing to accommodate his set to the “echo of the Lord’s mighty hall”. He’d easily picked the lock to the office, praying that the lock wasn’t old enough that it would break under the damage of the picking. The drawers of his desk held the evidence he’d needed to send to Dijkstra. Papers detailing the illegal human trafficking that had been happening in the small but somewhat economically valuable town.

He’d also had to drug a guard that had been waiting outside of the study, bringing him some spicy wine for them to share. Jaskier knew how to use his natural talents, blinking big blue eyes and pouting his lips, leading the man to a storage closet with a sway of his hips. The wine hit him just as they made it in and the guard slumped against the wall. He’d likely woken up thinking they’d had sex and Jaskier had left. It didn’t bother the bard much, the man was attractive and if he was going to tell others about his time spent with the famous musician, however false it may be, Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to be bothered by it.

Lord Bachar’s wife was rather meek but he would feel her eyes on him as he’d perform or talk to her husband. Not only was he being watched by her but also by the Lord’s witch. Jaskier had no clue as to why a small-time town needed a sorceress but he’d steered very much clear of her. She tended to stay by the Lady’s side anyway, leaving Lord Bachar open and vulnerable.

Jaskier’s long day in question had been at the end of his stay when he’d been asked to preform for a lunch banquet, the perfect occasion for Dijkstra’s Special Forces to storm the place and arrest the Lord. In the rush of events, people had been herded out, Jaskier among them.

He gave Dijkstra a quick nod before riding the wave of people flooding out of the hall. A shoulder pushed past him, trying to part the crowd, pushing through it and into the room rather than out. Jaskier caught a glimpse of dark hair as he stumbled from the force of the hit, clutching his lute to his chest. He quickly regained his footing, glimpsing over his shoulder before being pushed forward. He managed to catch a glance of Lady Bachar struggling in the grasp of a guard, trying to rush forward and run away with the crowd, eyes shining - in anger or desperation he didn’t know.

He hoped that she had nothing to do with the illegal activities he’d revealed.

“So,” Priscilla started as Jaskier pushed through the door of their rooms, “today was the day, huh?”

Jaskier groaned and went straight for his bedroom, throwing himself onto his bed face-first. He heard Priscilla come in, felt the bed dip when she jumped up beside him.

“How did Lord Rubarb take it then?” She asked. Jaskier couldn’t be bothered to correct her.

“Not very well, I think.”

Priscilla hummed sympathetically, lying down and stretching herself out beside him. Jaskier turned his head to look at her.

“Don’t know what he expected, honestly. Did he think he’d get away with it?”

Jaskier thought for a minute.

“Maybe he thought they’d let him.” Priscilla gave him an incredulous look. “I just mean, with the threat of Nilfgaard, trading routes are collapsing. Redania’s economy is already suffering. Maybe he thought, with some forced labour, he’d revitalise the kingdom through the mining industry and it would be overlooked because…”

“Because the rich would get to stay rich.” Priscilla finished.

Jaskier looked at her for a minute. Her blue eyes were focused on the ceiling, brows pulled up in frown. With a sigh, he turned onto his back, looking up. They lay in silence for minutes.

“His wife cried.” Jaskier said softly.

“Was she nice?”

Jaskier hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Priscilla nodded, then sucked in a breath and Jaskier knew from experience that she was about to say something that she wasn’t sure she should be saying.

“I’m worried about you.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise and turned to look at her, finding her light blue eyes already looking back.

“Why?”

“Why?” She asked disbelievingly. “Maybe because you spend half your time hunting monsters and the other half among…a different kind of monster.”

Jaskier gnawed at his lip. She had a point. He hadn’t even realised how dangerous his life had become, yet inexplicably he felt safe. How could he describe to her that he’d never felt safer and more alive than when he was with Geralt? That he couldn’t imagine spending his life beside anyone else?

“Well,” he began uncertainly, very much making it up on the spot, “I’m not doing the monster hunting, an actual monster hunter is, I just tag along. And really, the other stuff doesn’t take up nearly half of my time and it’s normally just dancing around and talking to people and as you know, I’m quite good at that.”

Priscilla scoffed but didn’t respond. Jaskier could tell he hadn’t soothed any of her worries but he really didn’t know how to.

He wouldn’t stop, he knew. It served as a thrill when he and Geralt split ways. A thrill that paid well and allowed him to travel comfortably and not sleeping on dirt ground. He couldn’t imagine himself settling down just yet, he was too restless, he needed to move. And this way he could spread his music throughout the continent.

After several more quiet moments, Priscilla broke the silence.

“I paid a mage to turn Valdo’s hair green.” She blurted so quickly, it took Jaskier a second to catch up. He looked at her to see if she was kidding, finding her grinning wolfishly to herself, clearly reliving the experience.

He laughed so hard, he rolled onto the floor.

—

Jaskier hadn’t appeared for two days. It was time to find Yennefer.

As Geralt was strapping his bags onto Roach’s saddle, he wondered if Jaskier would appear when he was gone. His mind conjured Jaskier’s pale blue eyes when he’d asked him not to leave. He of course planned to return, but Jaskier hadn’t seemed so sure. Would the bard even remember that he had been there in the first place? There was so much unknown about his current ghost-like state. Maybe he only recognised Geralt’s presence when he saw him, otherwise forgetting that he’d been there, that he’d looked for him.

Geralt scowled as he led Roach through the clearing, feeling like he’d swallowed a stone.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s soft, questioning voice drifted from behind him. Geralt closed his eyes, dreading having to explain his leaving. He slowly turned, coming face to face with the bard.

“Jaskier.” He grunted, trying to string together a convincing sentence in his head.

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question, yet it remained muted, not accusatory. Geralt still felt a needling of guilt.

“Yes.” He urged himself to say something more, to tell him why, to tell him that he needed to save him. And he couldn’t do it alone.

Jaskier nodded, brows pinched. He opened his mouth and Geralt braced himself. Then he disappeared. He blinked and felt something unpleasant tug at his ribs. He rolled his shoulders and contemplated staying a bit longer. He imagine the smile on Jaskier’s face when he’d tell him that he was staying.

He’d begun to catalogue Jaskier’s smiles over the many years, ever since he’d noticed the pattern of warmth spreading through his chest at the sight. There were the smiles he gave his crowds during a performance he was proud of, thriving on the high of attention and adrenaline. There were the breathless smiles he gave Geralt after they’d nearly escaped with their lives from a beast. It was a face-splitting, red-cheeked thing. And then there were the smiles when Geralt did something for him; stitched his torn pants, allowed him to sleep in briefly, bought him a warm meal. Though they were more rare and far between, those were soft and Geralt’s favourite.

Roach nudged his face with her snout, snickering at him. He gave her a look that said yeah, yeah, I get it.

He was about to turn back to his path when he saw Jaskier appear again. This time a few of steps in front of the willow tree. He saw him reappear and he saw him stumble back. Red spread across his chest and he looked down slowly. His knees buckled and he hit the ground hard.

And Geralt was running. Leaving Roach and sprinting to his bard, his Witcher speed carrying him headlong in a blink. And suddenly he was on his knees, skidding forward and catching Jaskier as he keeled forward onto himself.

Except he didn’t, his hands slipped through, Jaskier falling through his fingers in a ripple as he clutched his chest and gasped raggedly. The gasp giving rise to the blood flooding his throat. He heaved heavily onto the grass, pressing a palm to the ground, trying to hold himself up.

A noise escaped Geralt’s throat, one he didn’t remember making as he tried to grasp the hand braced on the ground. Of course, he only passed through, feeling only grass. He clutched it tightly in his fingers, feeling dirt press under his nails. He tried to call his name, only for the word to get caught in his throat, choking him as he watched Jaskier choke on blood.

The bard whimpered and pulled the hand away from his chest to reveal more of the red spreading, blooming across his white chemise like a rose unfurling. The arm holding him up shook and he looked up, looked up at something past Geralt’s shoulder. It was the first time he got to see the bard’s face fully.

Face pale, eyes glassy and pleading, swimming in tears. It looked like he was looking to someone. He opened his mouth, only to retch out more blood, spitting it out onto the grass. The begging in his eyes made Geralt look behind him, finding nothing yet wanting to scream help him please help him. He turned back to the bard whose arm had finally given up. He was pressing his head to the cool soil.

You feel like you just want to rest your head forever.

And Geralt felt terror claw at his throat, clearer than it had been for decades. He wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to yell at the bard to get up, to not give in to the ache in his body that was telling him to rest. He wanted to scream, to hold him, to press on the wound, to cup his cheek, to lace his fingers in his own and promise safety and everything that Jaskier deserved.

He wanted anything other than this powerless, helpless static where the words got caught behind a wall and his fingers passed through flesh with nothing but a mocking shimmer.

Jaskier rolled over with a grunt and only surrounded by green grass and budding wildflowers did Geralt notice the lack of blood pooling. It shocked the white of his shirt and stained his hand red but did not stray from the bard’s body. Jaskier released a shaky breath, blood spluttering over his lips and spilling onto his cheeks.

And Geralt was left to watch desperate, painfully vivid blue eyes pale and cheeks turn ashen until the only colour left was the stark red of blood splatter.

He was beautiful in death. Hair falling over and sticking to his brow in messy curls, skin porcelain, fingers curling in his hand and a shirt so scarlet like the indulgent silks he used to buy.

Geralt scrambled back and retched into the grass, heaving violently. Eyes wide and lungs struggling to inhale, Geralt found he still could not make a noise. He tried to scream, to cry out. The sound built up in his throat and got caught. Geralt painfully swallowed it down.

He turned and found Jaskier still there, unseeing eyes looking up as if cloud-watching. Crawling back, he let his hands hover over the body that he knew was not really there, that would pass through his hands like sunlight through the air.

He couldn’t look at him anymore, so he turned his gaze up to the clouds and lay himself beside his bard. Another cruel mockery of a day they’d already lived. His heart clenched painfully at the memory of sun-warmed skin and Jaskier’s voice. He felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped out the contents of his ribs and left him to lie.

And so two corpses lay together, chests gouged out.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

HC for you: Geralt is actually really fucking smooth romantically and Jaskier tries to call him on it and ends up getting the absolute life flirted out of him (I hope your day gets better my love, mwahmwah)

(I hope you’re okay with my pirate au because I missed the boys so I leaned in for some more seafaring content)

This is just...very soft and self-indulgent. Geralt is the Nicest Boy.

warning: kinda horny?

---

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, wading his way through the bustling tavern to meet the younger man at the bar. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, little nymph.”

“I told you where I’d be going,” the younger man pouts cutely, sticking his lip out. Geralt leans down to nip at it, uncaring about the other patrons’ reactions. Jaskier blushes and buries his head against his husband’s broad, strong shoulder. He glances up through his eyelashes the way he know Geralt likes and asks, “Get everything traded off, paid for, and dealt with?”

“Aye, and we’ll resupply tomorrow,” the Captain explains. Jaskier nods his understanding. He’s been aboard long enough to understand the basic procedures involved with selling stolen cargo and restocking the ships’ stores for their next venture. He’s even helped Starkey take stock of the galley before. Not to mention his childhood spent among the nobility, which allows him to identify rare or expensive items aboard their target ships better than most of the others. He regularly keeps them from getting cheated by merchants or fences.

“So what are your plans for this evening then, Captain?”

“Well, Jaskier,” the pirate murmurs, sliding his hand along the skin of his darling’s waist, just beneath the hem of his shirt, “I was thinking we could spend some quality time together.”

“And if I’d like to stay ashore and drink a little longer?”

“You, my sweet wife,” the Captain continues to speak lowly and sweetly, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s slender hips, “Can do or have anything you’d like.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier teases, eyes roaming the tavern’s support beams as if his answer lies there, “Perhaps I’d like for you to do something impossible.”

“For you, my love, nothing is impossible,” the white-haired pirate asserts, slowly bringing their chests together by sliding a hand up Jaskier’s spine. He ghosts his lips against his little siren’s ear as he speaks, leaning down and nearly caging the younger man in against the bar with the mass of his body. He can hear Jaskier’s breathing growing more and more labored as he tries to remain calm. The bard doesn’t look panicked, though, so Geralt continues with his breathy onslaught, “I would sail the Kaer Morhen up to the stars if you so desired, and fashion you a circlet made of night. I would turn myself in to the Redanian authorities and let your Father keep me in his dungeon for as long as he wishes. I would fight to the death with any man here if you willed me to do it, love.”

“Geralt,” the half-siren gasped, breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs. “You-”

“Are madly in love,” the pirate asserted. The hand resting between Jaskier’s shoulder blades reached up to cradle the back of his head and the bard sighed, lips parting to accept Geralt’s claim on them. The White Wolf trails kisses across his little nymph’s jaw and over to the spot behind his ear where he knows the younger man is sensitive. The Captain whispers again, clearly enjoying the effect he has on his darling wife, “Anything you want, anything that catches your passing fancy, I will give to you.”

“Well, it’s more than just a passing fancy,” Jaskier replies, blue eyes captivated by Geralt’s gold, “But I would like to claim your heart as my own.”

The White Wolf’s fingers move from behind his siren’s head to finger the red silk bandanna holding his brown locks out of his eyes. “Remember when you stole this from me for the first time?”

“Yes. That was also the day of our first kiss,” Jaskier blushes.

“You said that I could have this piece of fabric, but that you wouldn’t give my heart back,” Geralt rumbles. “And as far as I know, you’ve had it ever since. I cannot give to you what you already own, my dear little nymph.”

Jaskier tears up and kisses his Captain. His husband. His love.

“You sap.”

“Hmm. Your Captain.”

“Aye.”

[belettewrites]

In which Geralt wants to show Jaskier that he cares, and his only braincell finds it a good idea to gift him things. Around 1,6k words.

Geralt is a silent man. He saves his words for when he needs them, careful with how they might be understood. Oh, he knows he has a dry sense of humor and doesn’t hesitate to sass people, but his conversations are mostly about contracts that he’s about to take.

It means that he doesn’t quite know how to use his words when it’s not about his path. For instance, telling Jaskier that he cares about him is nearly impossible. At first it’s because he doesn’t even know that he does, and then-. Well.

He still wants to show Jaskier that he cares. He has to, right? That’s what friends do. He thinks. So he tries to show it every day, when he makes a bigger fire for Jaskier to stay close to, or when he discreetly buys spices that he knows Jaskier likes to add to the rabbits he catches.

It’s not after the djinn accident that Geralt realizes how much he truly cares for the bard. He might have known, before, that the bard’s death would cause him some sort of pain, but what he didn’t know was that the thought of it would hurt that much. Seeing Jaskier, blood on his mouth, calling for his help-

Well. Geralt got scared. He still is quite spooked, to be honest. He knows the bard is magic to a certain extent, he knows that he’s as immortal as Geralt can be, but one hunt going wrong, one spell thrown at him could be enough to- to-

Geralt makes a good wish. Yennefer survives, and he knows that should he need help one day, she’ll be there. But he says goodbye, and he and Jaskier leave together, Jaskier humming softly and Geralt deep in thoughts.

He needs to show Jaskier that he cares. He already shows the bard that he trusts him – no one else but him can play with his hair like this – but he needs to prove him that he cares. Trusting equals caring for Geralt, but he knows that his friend speaks a different language than him and Geralt needs to know how to translate it in a way that Jaskier will understand.

And because Geralt doesn’t know how to tell his friend, his best friend, that he is, well, his best friend – he offers him things. That’s his brilliant idea: giving small gifts to Jaskier and hoping it’ll be enough.

A new blanket (“It’s darker, safer” he says. “I saw that you were shivering these past two weeks and your old blanket is damaged beyond repair,” he doesn’t add.)

A few words after a performance (“I- liked the last song,” he blurts out one evening as Jaskier is making his way back to him. “Seeing you perform, something that obviously makes you happy, is enough to brighten my days” he doesn’t say.)

Geralt still doesn’t think that what he did was enough when they part way that autumn, Jaskier leaving for Oxenfurt and Geralt going back home at Kaer Morhen. But he has all winter to think about it, and that’s what he does. Well, sulk about it is more like it.

Jaskier doesn’t need anything, he already has everything, he thinks as he repairs the leaking roof.

There’s nothing I could offer him that he’ll find of use, he sighs as he’s chopping wood.

Nothing will ever be enough to show him that he means a lot to me, he despairs one evening in the library, before Lambert throws a book at him for being “a brooding idiot.”

Spring is in the air, and Geralt still doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t ask his brothers. They wouldn’t understand, and he knows that Lambert would tease him until the end of his life – and would come back as a ghost just to tease him some more.

A few days before he can leave to meet with Jaskier again, the cover of a book lying on the kitchen table catches his eyes. It’s a- romance book. Glancing left and right to make sure that no one is here, he takes it in his hands. It must belong to one of his brothers, or to Vesemir. The cover displays a golden bracelet, and it reminds Geralt of something.

He doesn’t remember when it happened – he mostly remembers Jaskier’s fond smile. They had been in a market, in a town he since has forgotten the name of, and they had walked past a group of teenage girls who were gifting each other the same wristbands. Jaskier had glanced at them, smiled at him, and said that it was poetic, that those wristbands linked the girls together. They were cheap, dark wristbands, but according to Jaskier it didn’t matter.

Geralt puts the book back where he found it and thinks about it some more. Jaskier doesn’t think like him; maybe Geralt has been doing it all wrong, maybe his gifts don’t need to be practical. Jaskier likes jewelry, Geralt has seen him linger near the jeweler stand in multiple markets.

But Jaskier doesn’t wear bracelets. He wears rings, of all sorts.

Geralt could offer him a ring, but the bard would find it weird; so that’s a no go. Geralt tries to forget about the idea, and when he leaves a few days later, he’s not sulking. He’s not, not matter what Lambert might say.

He still isn’t sulking as he makes his way towards Oxenfurt and passes across a little town.

He needs sugar cubes for Roach, because Jaskier, being the kind soul that he is but mostly trying to bribe her into liking him, gave her some and now she’s grumpy when she doesn’t have them, so he goes to the market.

He lets himself enjoy seeing humans so carefree. There aren’t that many of them, the town is quite small and surprisingly friendly, so he stays as relaxed as he can be in the company of others. Children are running and laughing around him, and Geralt regrets for a second that Jaskier isn’t there: he would have loved to see it.

One of the kids falls face first on the ground, and an older boy who Geralt assumes is the child’s brother goes to him, gets him back on his feet, kisses him on the cheek and tells him to go back to playing with his friends.

It would have made Geralt smile if he had been one to smile. Jaskier would have; he would have taken Geralt’s arm, and said something about the laugh of children, and how it heals souls in pain.

Or something like that. Geralt isn’t the poet between the two of them.

He turns away, still thinking about Jaskier, and his eyes fall on a ring that is exposed in the stand next to him.

No he tells himself. Don't.

Geralt leaves the town with the ring safely packed in his bag.

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of his journey; and everything he might have wanted to say to Jaskier when they meet again is forgotten as soon as Jaskier beams at the sight of him.

The ring is still in his bag that night. They’re not in Oxenfurt anymore, Jaskier wanted to leave immediately; Geralt suspects it has something to do with Valdo Marx and how the man teaches there during spring.

They’re in their room at an inn, Jaskier happily talking about things that happened during winter, (“I actually took notes Geralt, because you’re the only person I can trust with these information and I didn’t want to forget anything”), and Geralt realizes that now is the perfect time to gift it to Jaskier.

The bard is sitting on the bed, cross-legged, a sheet of paper in his hand. Geralt knows better than to try to read it: Jaskier’s handwriting is illegible.

He stands up, and Jaskier stops talking.

“Everything alright, dear?”

The pet name almost makes him smile. It’s a gift from Jaskier, to him, every time he is called dear heart or dear or my friend.

“Hmm. I just- there’s something-”

Actions speaks better than words, so Geralt takes his bag and searches for the ring. He takes the small purse out of his bag – it’s a simple thing, brown with a lace to close it – and slowly makes his way back to Jaskier, who’s frowning at him, apparently worried. Geralt feels oddly nervous.

“I don’t-”

“For you,” Geralt interrupts, and puts the gifts in Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier who, for once, is speechless. Geralt shifts nervously as Jaskier opens the purse, and takes the ring in his hands so delicately, as if it will break if he’s not careful enough.

He feels ready to bolt out of the room, and then Jaskier looks up at Geralt with something akin to awe and adoration in his eyes and- are those tears?

No, that wasn't the plan at all, why is Jaskier crying-

"Thank you, Geralt," he then says softly, a smile on his lips. "It's..."

Geralt looks down; he’s not strong enough to look at Jaskier, he knows the ring isn’t as beautiful as Jaskier would have wanted it to be.

Well, he didn’t asked for any rings, but he knows his traveling companion’s tastes, and this doesn’t fit in them.

He’s an idiot for ever thinking that-

"It's the best thing I could have wished for."

Huh? Geralt looks up again, and Jaskier is cradling the ring to his chest, as if it were something precious. Jaskier smiles again, a watery smile, and puts the ring on. It fits perfectly.

"Now, don't take it badly,” he laughs, a small laugh that makes Geralt feel warm all over, “but I'm going to hug you and there's nothing you can do about it."

Jaskier stands up, and Geralt meets him halfway. He puts his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he feels more than he hears Jaskier’s soft sigh. He can feel the ring against his back, colder than Jaskier’s hands, and if he smiles, well. No one will ever know.

[drowningbydegrees]

Totally self indulgent fluff written for the Music Prompt List: 

4. dolce (Italian: sweet) Sweet or sweetly Thank you, @goodheavensgwen, for kindly betaing this for me on short notice! <3 <3 <3 

Read on AO3

Jaskier does nothing quietly. He is bright colors and endless conversation. He is music and theatrics. He unapologetically takes up space, bold and loud and impossible to ignore. Jaskier does nothing quietly.

Except for this.

It’s the early hours of the morning, three days late, when Geralt makes his way back to the inn. Before he even reaches their room, he spots the flickering light of a candle under the door. He opens the door quietly, allowing himself to think Jaskier dozed off writing again, but Jaskier is doing no such thing. He is sitting on the bed, stripped down to his chemise and smallclothes, miles away from anything like slumber.

"I wasn't sure when you were coming back." Jaskier crosses the room by the time Geralt gets the door closed, his voice hushed. The ‘I wasn’t sure if you were coming back’ hangs silently between them, but neither of them give the sentiment any room to breathe. He sets to work unfastening Geralt's armor with a deftness born of having done it a hundred times. It's hard to say when Jaskier learned to suss out what fatigue looks like on Geralt, but there’s rarely any hiding it now. Geralt knows. He has tried.

"I'm not hurt." It's a token protest as his gaze shifts to follow Jaskier’s hands as they skim his shirt sleeves down to his vambraces. There are no wounds to bind and Geralt does not need this, but they both know he'll silently acquiesce to Jaskier's tenderness here.

“Mmm,” Jaskier acknowledges and keeps right on, setting armor pieces aside with just enough care that Geralt can’t quite justify grouching about it. Before long, the breastplate is gone too, replaced by Jaskier’s arms wound around him. “Better?”

The question cracks whatever composure Geralt is holding onto. His hands find their way to Jaskier’s back of their own accord, like they’ve always belonged there. Burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt mumbles what would have been a damning confession once. Now it comes easily, as easily as words ever do anyway. “Missed you.”

“Yes, well you can miss me even less if you take off your damned boots and come to bed,” Jaskier grouses, the effect ruined by the kiss he presses to Geralt’s temple while extracting himself from their embrace.

Geralt is just tired enough that the absurdity of that statement only catches up with him when he’s got one boot off and the other halfway there. He huffs out an amused sort of sound as Jaskier snuggles into the blankets and pulls back one side for him. “That’s not how missing people works.” “Excuse me. Who is the feelings expert here? Whose entire livelihood is built in a faithful orbit around the complexities of love and devotion and-” Jaskier’s rant cuts off with a satisfying ‘mph’ sound when Geralt flops down on his side of the bed and leans in to press a kiss to the bard’s lips.

There are nights where kissing is a punctuation of something else, where Jaskier’s fingertips are fire licking down his spine, and Geralt can feel himself unraveling as teeth scrape across his bottom lip. There are times when Jaskier welcomes him back and he can’t think, can hardly breathe in the face of how much he wants. But this is nothing like that. Instead, it’s a quiet sort of affection carved into a life that made no room for it. Jaskier withdraws enough to murmur against Geralt’s lips, “Yes alright, fine. I missed you too.”

Geralt had always sort of assumed Jaskier would love the way he does everything else — in grand gestures and pageantry — and sometimes the bard does. But there’s this too, the two of them curled up together without a soul to see the way Geralt melts under the soothing cadence of Jaskier’s fingers dragging through his hair. There are overwrought declarations caught up in Jaskier’s songs that simultaneously squeeze around Geralt’s heart and make him want to melt through the floor, but this is what feels like the truth. Close as they are, it’s clear that Jaskier is as tired as he is. The evidence lives in the dark smudges beneath his brilliant blue eyes, in the slight lethargy that Geralt can’t assign to any specific action, but is there all the same. Absently, Geralt wonders how long Jaskier stayed up last night, and the night before, worrying over his absence.

“Shh,” Jaskier says with a softness he only ever seems to reserve for Geralt. It’s accompanied by Jaskier’s nails scratching pleasantly at the nape of Geralt’s neck.

“I didn’t say anything.”

He feels Jaskier laugh as much as hears it. “You may as well have, as loudly as you were thinking.”

“I-” There are words he means to say, but his mouth refuses to take the shape of them. An honest sentiment shouldn’t be so difficult, but it sticks to the roof of his mouth like molasses. One day he hopes it will be simple, but for now he leans into the quiet and wills for Jaskier to somehow hear him anyway.

“I missed you,” he says again, because that at least will come. There’s a steady pulse against the heel of Geralt’s hand when he cradles the side of Jaskier’s neck. There are fingers under the fabric of his shirt, traversing scars old and new with a reverence that makes Geralt feel a little undone. There is a home where Geralt never realized he was lacking one.

“I know.” Jaskier swallows like something is caught in his throat. He blinks furiously and Geralt thinks his eyes might be a little too bright, but the smile he gives the witcher dispels any notion of sadness. Geralt doesn’t get much of a chance to appreciate it before Jaskier folds around him like he’s the one of the two of them who needs protecting. Jaskier’s forehead presses against Geralt’s, leaving them too near to see anything anymore. It’s barely more than a whisper that reaches Geralt’s ears, “Oh Geralt. I know.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3