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gods-no-longer-tread-here · 10 months

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“What do you want, warrior?”

The man soaked in blood grinned. His eyes were black, his skin was snowy, and the veins in his face and exposed hands pulsed with dark power; but he was no witcher. He couldn’t be. His grip on the silver-bladed sword was awkward, unused to the weight. He did not have the build of a monster-killer. If not for the magic, and the blood, he would look weak.

“I want my witcher, of course,” he rasped.

The lord scoffed and sipped his wine. “You cannot have him, and you will die if you continue this foolish quest,” he said flatly. “You may have cut your way through my men to reach here, but you are human. Humans cannot contain witcher magic. Do you want to die?”

The man laughed. It was a hideous sound, loud and rough and mad. The lord frowned, and squinted, looking closer. It was hard to tell, when the man was so far away, but…

The cup slipped from his suddenly cold hand.

“Yes,” the man soaked in blood said, his grin that of a madman who died a long, long time ago. “But it will be by his hand, and no one else’s. No one said I was human.”

“Jules,” the lord gasped.

“No. My name is Jaskier. Now give me my witcher, Father.”

Geralt pressed his fingers to his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He still wasn’t used to the hazy shadows where his vision used to be. Luckily the torturer was inexperienced; Geralt wasn’t fully blind. Yet.

His fingertips brushed gingerly against the raw, puffy scar at the corner of his right eye. He knew it was only a matter of time before they gouged the organs out of his head. He would fight, of course. He would kill. But his eyes were less important than--

The stench of blood. Metal and sweat. Rage. Witcher potions.

Linseed oil. Buttercups.

The sea.

Geralt attempted to stand, but his feet were still healing. His heart was beating too fast. He turned his head, towards the dim square of light that was the window of his cell. Surely not…

“Jaskier?” he whispered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. Geralt took a deep breath, and tasted the flat, salty-sweet tang of blood and offal. Under it was Jaskier, though—unmistakably his bard.

“Jask,” he repeated, and lurched to his feet. The form in the light gasped, then rushed forward to embrace him. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him too tightly, trembling with relief. Alive. Safe. Maybe the gods existed. Maybe Destiny had taken pity on him.

But… why did Jaskier smell like witcher?

Pulling away, Jaskier pressed a vial and a sword hilt into Geralt’s hands. Geralt sniffed the bottle as his fingers curled into the familiar indentations of the leather grip. Swallow. Potent. Too potent. It would make him sick to drink it.

“I need you to kill a monster,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Give me a scent,” he replied, “And their head will be yours.”

Jaskier held a piece of fabric up to his face. Geralt breathed in deeply, and growled in hate and anticipation. He knew that scent. It was carved into his memory as deeply as the voices of his brothers.

“He’s wounded,” Jaskier told him. “Not enough to slow him down, but enough to cause upset. Can you smell him, Wolf?”

“I smell him,” Geralt hissed, popping the cork from the bottle of Swallow.

“He’s all yours, my dear. I’ll clean up the trash behind you.”

Geralt growled again, drank the potion, and darted around Jaskier. A monster to slay, for his bard. There was no task better suited to him.

~~\0/~~

Ten Years Previously

It was a fine thing, to be free and untethered. Truly he was meant to exist this way.

But Jaskier had tasted the stability of love, and now he could not be satisfied with the adrenaline of lust. So he waited at the inn for Geralt to finish his latest contract, instead of leaving for the nearest court or brothel—one and the same, truly. Full of rich men paying for the use of others’ bodies. And Jaskier was tired of it all.

Nilfgaard had fallen. Cintra had been restored. That didn’t mean there weren’t still monsters to clean up—both beast and man. Whilst Geralt specialized in the former, Jaskier concentrated on the latter. Like now, as he wrote a letter to a contact in Redania containing coded and magicked information. The old men who called this backwater village home were good at hiding, but their soldiers were not. Jaskier had seen them, and their weapons, and their fine steeds. And their sorceress.

She was good, but Yennefer was better. And with the entire force of her Lodge behind her, she could easily sway the woman to give up her lord and his sons. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile as he signed the letter with a tiny bird. Yennefer still wasn’t his favorite person, but only because she wasn’t Geralt. Other than that small detail, there was no one he trusted more.

With the three of them on the trail, Ciri wouldn’t have an enemy on the entire continent within a decade.

Not that she knew the extent of her parents’ goals. The last time Jaskier had seen Ciri, she had laughed that they were all too protective of her. She was a woman grown, with a wife and a place as a weapons-teacher. It didn’t matter how grown she was, though. Not to them.

Jaskier frowned. It was wrong of him to be so protective of her, when he wasn’t even her father. But he would still burn the world to the ground in her name. Was this how her grandmother had maintained her station? This blind loyalty that ensnared the hearts of the powerful until they couldn’t imagine a world without her?

Did it matter? They would root out every speck of conspiracy, to keep her safe. They would kill everyone they had to.

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet abruptly and paced the room. These thoughts, though frequent, and often quite logical, frightened him. He had asked Yennefer to poke about in his head to find any seed of madness in him, but she had said there was nothing other than what all men had. Jaskier had not been violent when he was younger.

When he was ignorant.

He sighed, and sat again. Nothing for it. He’d have to hope Geralt came back without wounds, so they could spar, or fuck, or both.

“I do so wish I understood what’s happened to me,” he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand. “There’s so much beauty and delight in this world, and yet the one thing that doesn’t move me is death. Hmm.”

“Is that so, little one?”

Jaskier shot to his feet and whipped around, his hand going to his dagger. In the corner was a shadow, undulating, covered in eyes of green fire. The lights of the candles and setting sun seemed to leech away into the inky dark of the shadow. The scent of ancient blood on cold stone filled the room.

Jaskier scowled and took his hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mother,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Stop sneaking around like that.”

A wet chuckle, like a drowned person choking, and the shadow resolved into a tall, broad woman clothed in rags. She smiled, baring her fangs endlessly stained in blood. “But it is so fun, my dear boy,” she cooed, cupping Jaskier’s face in her sea-cold hands. “You are just as easy to frighten as your father. What funny creatures, men.”

“What do you need, Mother?” Jaskier asked. “We’re quite a ways away from the sea. A goddess of sirens should be with her people, in the waters.”

Her smile grew soft, her enormous wings mantling around them both as she pulled Jaskier into a gentle embrace. He hugged her back immediately, breathing her salty scent deeply. He’d missed her. Only a year, and he’d missed his mother, the daughter of Storms and Death.

“I need you to promise not to hate me,” she murmured.

“I could never hate you, Mother,” Jaskier replied.

“Not even if I granted your wish to know?”

“No. Your blood is in my veins. You know I want more than is good for me, always.”

She laughed again. “The sea takes, and takes, and takes, and gives but rarely. It is time I tell you.” She pulled back enough to tilt his face up to look into her eyes of storm-fire. Her expression and voice were gentle as she said, “My blood is in your veins. It is awakening. I am fading, and soon you will take my place, the lord of death at sea.”

Jaskier went cold. “Mother…”

“Hush. I am losing power. It is a cycle, like the tides. I Saw your coming fifty years ago, and that is why I seduced your father, married him in the way of humans, and bore you. Now you are coming into your own. You will take my place and feast on those who trespass in our beloved ocean. Do not be sad, my pearl. I am not dying. I will simply go where the ones before me went.”

“Mother.” Jaskier licked his lips, gathering his courage. “Mother, I can’t leave Geralt.”

His mother smiled indulgently. “You needn’t leave him. You can keep him in the depths, like my father kept my mother. You can even let your little sorceress friend visit once a moon. But you must come home when I fade. You must take up the chalice. There are too many humans who seek to tame the sea. They must remember why they worship us.”

“I’m not god material.”

“Neither was I. It comes to you. Don’t you feel it, my pearl? That jealous love. That lust for the blood of those who hurt those closest to you. That is the sea within you. Answer the call of the sea.”

#Geraskier #The Witcher #dark!Jaskier #dark!Geralt #idk if this should be continued I wrote it while listening to my most bloodthirsty playlist

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hannibard · 7 months

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"I'm choking from the taste (but I can't help but swallow)"

Chapter 2: The (not so) calm before the storm

Summary: Jaskier settles into his new life as things get progressively worse.

The first few months at the Redanian court weren’t too bad all things considered, (especially in comparison to what was to come, the bard thought wryly). One of the first things Jaskier had to do when he arrived at the palace was surrender his travel-worn clothes, together with his beloved leather jacket, and shave his patchy beard. The clothes were replaced by silk garments in various colors, made to fit Jaskier’s exact taste and measurements. He was also given a haircut, his hair now longer than when he first met Geralt but still relatively short. Apparently Radovid wasn’t a fan of his most recent hairdo. (Truthfully, neither was Jaskier, but he refused to voice that opinion.)

Radovid kept Jaskier on a tight leash, never letting him stray too far during their time together, but he was allowed to perform at banquets and the like. Those were his favorite moments while in Radovid’s presence. He could almost pretend he was a normal court bard when he was prancing around, dancing on tables and entertaining an audience. He had done this plenty of times in the past, but he always found courts stuffy, no matter how much he enjoyed the lavish balls, and usually tried to limit his stays to a season or two. It was the main reason he’d abandoned his noble birthright and became a traveling troubadour that ended up broke more often than not. Courts were only tolerable in small doses.

That’s also what the nobles knew him as. Radovid’s court bard. There were rumors going around, gossip being one of nobles’ favorite pastimes, and many suspected the true nature of his relationship with the king, but none of them knew the specifics. It’s not like they could just up and ask about it without evoking the king’s wrath.

Radovid’s physical changes were nothing in comparison to those in his personality or the way he appeared before others. The façade of the irresponsible naïve prince that only cared about the pleasures of life and knew nothing about politics was nowhere to be found. In his place stood a ruthless and commanding leader that ruled his people with an iron fist. ‘Radovid the Stern’ they called him.

Apparently, in the time between his enthronement and the present, Radovid had engaged in a long and intricate power battle with the spymaster Dijkstra and the court mage Philippa and had come out on top. Now both of them had been demoted to mere advisors, without any real say in the inner workings of the kingdom and forced to comply and assist the king with all his whims.

There was also another reason Jaskier cherished the time he spent performing, something that had nothing to do with the love for his profession. Being at the center of attention, unnerving as it could become occasionally, even for a seasoned bard like Jaskier, also doubled as a shield of protection. When everyone’s eyes were on him, Radovid kept his distance.

Many would argue that there was no better way of cementing a monarch’s reign than the birth of an heir, and since Radovid had yet to take in a queen, him having a male lover wouldn’t exactly be met with applause. Moreover, the king didn’t want any of his remaining family members to get any ideas in response to his sexual preferences. He had bigger problems to deal with petty attempts to usurp the throne by his ambitious relatives.

When he was left alone with the bard it was a different story. Jaskier didn’t have his own quarters in the palace, he was obligated to spend every night in the king’s company. No one could protect him in these moments. Radovid may not have been ready to announce their relationship to the world but that didn’t stop him from leaving a myriad of marks on Jaskier’s pale skin. It was the bard’s responsibility to cover them up as best he could, regardless of their placement. He didn’t know which he hated more, the knowing smirks or the pitying looks he was met with by the servants that helped him wash up and dress each morning.

Radovid didn’t always touch him. Sometimes he just wanted to engage in conversation and bask in the bard’s company. These instances were almost harder than the alternative because Jaskier was forced to pretend to be his usual charming and witty self, when all he wanted to do was scream at the other man to let him go.

Most of the time he was also under the supervision of the not-so-kind fellow that brought the bard to Radovid in the first place, whose name he later found out was Blade. (a bit on the nose if you asked Jaskier, but he named himself after a flower so who was he to judge?).

They had short auburn hair, hazel eyes and a lean physique that allowed them to move nimbly and blend in with their surroundings. It was a true feat because they usually kept their signature hood on, yet somehow their presence was hardly ever noticed.

Blade wasn’t always visible to the bard, preferring to stay in the shadows, but Jaskier knew he was constantly being watched by the ever-present tingling sensation at the back of his neck. And also because all his attempts to escape were immediately squashed.

The first time he tried was about a month in. He had played nice with Radovid in order to lower the king’s guard, while secretly mapping the castle’s interior in his mind. When he deemed his efforts sufficient, he made a run for it during a set break at a banquet. He managed to bypass a handful of knights and almost make it outside when Blade suddenly appeared, blocking his path. They rolled their eyes in disapproval and pulled out a knife, which they pointed at Jaskier and nodded for him to walk back towards the banquet hall.

Despite Jaskier’s fears, the king didn’t mention his little blunder that night. He acted completely normal, being sweet with the bard and talking about his day, to the point where Jaskier assumed Blade hadn’t mentioned it to him yet. But when he was pulled to the bed, it was with far less gentleness than usual. The king had placed him on his hands and knees, whereas he usually preferred positions that allowed them to make eye contact, and entered him after little preparation. He set a punishing pace, his hands leaving dark bruises on Jaskier’s hips, and completely ignored the bard’s pleasure. After he finished, he went to wash up, leaving the bard unfulfilled and dripping with Radovid’s seed on the mattress. They didn’t exchange any more words until the next day.

Some of his other notable efforts to break free included when he tried to sneak in a noble’s carriage unnoticed (it was stopped and searched at the gates), or when he pleaded with an old classmate from Oxenfurt, that had recently inherited his father’s title and had traveled to Tretogor with the intention of pledging allegiance to the crown, to deliver a message to Geralt. (Blade had interrupted them mid-conversation and told the noble that the king wanted to have a word. Jaskier never heard from him again.)

It was failure after failure, so Jaskier’s disheartened attempts became few and far in between. A part of him had even started to feel guilty for wasting Blade’s time. Following the bard around all day was probably tedious enough on its own. Privacy was a concept long forgotten but there was something almost comforting in the knowledge that Blade was never far behind, even if the bard couldn’t see them. Jaskier was so starved for genuine human connection that he was starting to become fond of his captor.

During daytime, while Radovid was busy dealing with his kingly affairs, Jaskier was left to wander around with no real purpose.

The library was, predictably, one of his favorite spots. It contained a vast variety of books that mostly focused on the politics of aristocracy and such topics, in contrast to those at the Oxenfurt Academy or the library in Kaer Morhen whose main subjects were poetry/sciences and encyclopedic knowledge on monsters respectively. Jaskier much preferred the latter two, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The kitchens were a precious place for the bard as well. The servants he usually encountered had at least some sort of idea of his importance to their king, while also being aware of Jaskier’s noble status, so their behavior towards him was strictly polite, maintaining a distance that none of Jaskier’s quips and jokes could manage to bridge.

The cooks and their helpers on the other hand, who were always steadfastly cooped up in their workspace, having no reason to venture outside of it as that’s where their responsibilities lied, knew nothing of Jaskier’s identity other than ‘renowned bard’. They had no clue what was happening outside their little bubble, and for that ignorance Jaskier was grateful.

The head chef, a kind older woman named Burneta, with distinct laugh lines visible around her eyes and messy braids wrapped in a bun, always welcomed him with excitement and treated him to bits and pieces of whatever she’d made that day, in return for a small exclusive performance that Jaskier gave with pleasure.

Her husband, Chleb, was more of the taciturn type, whose job was to help around with tasks that needed physical strength, like butchering entire cows and carrying in ingredients in bulk. He always glared at Jaskier and swiped at him with a towel when the bard made feign advances on his wife but the small grin as he did it gave his mirth away.

Sometimes Jaskier liked to take walks in the gardens. They were beautiful and well-groomed, containing hundreds of flower variations and a few rare species of birds that resided there. The sound of their chirping, the sun against his face and the light breeze that gently ruffled his hair made Jaskier feel alive.

Being outside gave him a sense of freedom, that though false, did wonders for his ever-declining mental health. Sadly, his access to the gardens had been recently restricted after yet another escape attempt. (He tried to jump over a fence only to find another, smaller garden on the other side. Blade was already there waiting for him unimpressed).

Nature had always been of big importance to Jaskier and being away from it made the fact that he was a prisoner all the more real. He couldn’t even look outside since most of the castle windows were decorated with stained glass illustrating Redania’s coat of arms, a crowned silver eagle on a red field, and other such designs.

Whoever created them was clearly skilled, every detail having been made with meticulousness. The colors were vibrant and yet the light that passed through them gave off an elegant glow without being blinding. Aside from their beauty they also served to inspire a sense of patriotism to the masses, while also showcasing the crown’s power and keeping the nobles in check.

When Jaskier was once dragged here by his father for official business as a child as the heir to the Lettenhove estate, he spent hours staring at them. It was the first time he was experiencing such awe. It inspired such powerful feelings to the young boy, the need to somehow captured them pushing him towards his first awkward attempts at poetry.

“I saw you back then.”

Radovid told him as they were lying in bed after a passion filled night. Jaskier had mentioned his long-time interest with the palace windows as a form of small talk, and he was surprised by the excited response he got. It almost felt like the king had been waiting for him to bring it up.

“I used to be a sickly child, and my brother was the heir, so I wasn’t allowed to venture outside my rooms much. My existence as a spare was rendered useless due to my poor health, with most considering the possibility of my survival to adulthood unlikely.” He twisted to his side in order to gather Jaskier in his arms. “Vizimir was nice to me though. He always made time in his busy schedule to come visit, even skipping his lessons on occasion.” He let out a wet laugh. “Though I suspect he was just using me as an excuse to avoid them.”

The king’s eyes were shining with unshed tears, his lips trembling. Vizimir’s death was obviously a raw subject still. This was one of Radovid’s rare shows of vulnerability that he only ever allowed in Jaskier’s presence. Those glimpses of his past self, the one the bard once fell in love with, made Jaskier’s heart swell despite everything.

Radovid shook his head to clear away the memories. “There was a council meeting that day and most of the servants were busy. Due to some sort of miscommunication, I was left unattended. When the hunger got too much, I stepped out by myself for the first time in search of food. The overall anxiety and the fear of being caught almost made me turn back on my heels.

But then, I saw a boy standing in the hallway. He had beautiful brown hair and the most stunning blue eyes. He didn’t notice me in his trance, seeming fascinated by the window décor. I had never met anyone my age and I didn’t know how to approach him, so I settled to just watching him. I think I was as fascinated by him as he was by the stained glass. He made me see it a new light. For me it was just part of the background, something I never thought to pay close attention to, but I wanted to understand the boy, see the world through his eyes. And so I looked again with this new perspective as if it was the first time. The beauty I’d overlooked for so long almost made me tear up.”

Radovid looked softly down at the bard and caressed his cheekbones with his knuckles. Jaskier’s mind was reeling from this revelation, not expecting it in the slightest.

“I later found out, after some pestering, that his name was Julian and that it was unlikely I’d ever see him again. That didn’t stop me from thinking about him though. When I heard the phrase ‘love at first sight’ a few years later, I knew exactly what it meant.”

The king chuckled and kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I had never asked for much until that point but this wasn’t something I could stay quiet about. Vizimir promised me he’d keep an eye out for news about him and soon after I was informed that Julian had enrolled in Oxenfurt Academy. I begged and begged but my father wouldn’t allow me to attend. When I turned 18 I made up some excuse to visit the Lettenhove viscounty, but when I got there I was greeted by your cousin Ferrant. He told me you had relinquished your title to him and left, managing to slip right through my fingers…

After that instance I stayed out of trouble until my brother could safely ascend the throne, and then I started drinking, partying and the like. I developed an interest in music and poetry and frequently invited bards to perform for me and my circle. My favorite pieces were created by someone called ‘Jaskier’, but I never managed to contact him. Nevertheless, I continued revisiting his work because for some reason it was the only thing that made me feel anymore.”

Radovid pushed a shaken Jaskier to his back with a glint in his eye and gave the bard a long, open-mouthed kiss. “Then a miracle happened. Dijkstra and Philippa wanted my help, the war having left them with few options. I was going to refuse before they mentioned your stage name. They wanted me to use my royal status to convince you to bring them Princess Cirilla, but I didn’t much care for that. I was just excited to meet the person I’d been a fan of for so long.

When I caught your lute and we made eye contact, I instantly recognized you as the boy from my past. Our kiss that night at the Thanned island was one of my happiest moments. But then I fucked up. I tried to take the princess and you started to resent me. When we met again the next day, despite all I did, you gave me hope, and I wanted nothing more than to earn your trust. I returned to Redania and told my brother that I had found someone I wanted to be with and asked for his blessing to go to them. Vizimir agreed but I regrettably never got to depart for reasons you already know...”

Jaskier stared at him in shock. Radovid was going to abandon everything for his sake? That couldn’t be true, could it? No one would go to such lengths for him. Destiny had created an intricate plan ready to play out and Jaskier was but a mere storyteller, fated to follow the main characters around and record their heroic tales. He could help lighten the mood when things got tough and offer what little assistance he could as a weak mortal, but that’s where his role ended. His importance was insignificant in the grant scheme of things and to the people around him.

And yet Radovid held a different opinion. To him, the king of a powerful nation, Jaskier’s sole existence was valuable. He had never felt so wanted in his entire life. He didn’t even think it was possible.

The emotions he felt overwhelmed him. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to burst through his chest. Jaskier grabbed Radovid’s head and pulled his face down, crashing their lips together. It was the first kiss he had initiated since their reunion.

The kiss deepened and Radovid’s hands moved lower down the bard’s body, his thrill at Jaskier’s response apparent. Jaskier’s senses were completely occupied by the man on top of him, he couldn’t see, hear, feel, smell or taste anything other than the king. That changed as soon as Radovid paused the kiss to start mouthing at his neck. With his eyesight back, Jaskier’s awareness started slowly creeping in. What was he doing? Why was he allowing this to happen? ...Was there even any point left in resisting?

Letting himself go would certainly be easier. He couldn’t get out of this situation either way so maybe acceptance was the best way forward. He could just pretend he was there willingly and ignore everything else… Jaskier was about to close his eyes and leave any rationality behind when Geralt’s disappointed face flashed through his mind. What would the witcher think if he could see him right now? If he saw how weak Jaskier was, how quickly he gave in? Besides, the bard didn’t choose this life and that’s not something he could forget no matter how much he wanted tried.

The king’s story may have sounded romantic at first but his actions spoke of something different, something darker, and Jaskier couldn’t allow this false narrative to override the truth.

Having made up his mind, Jaskier pushed Radovid off with as much strength as he could muster. The king was caught off guard and he stumbled backwards until he fell off the bed. It would have been a funny sight if it weren’t for the way Radovid immediately stood up, eyes blazing, and grabbed Jaskier’s hair to drag him close.

“What the hell was that?” All the sweetness from mere seconds ago had vanished.

Jaskier looked at him defiantly. “Something I should have done long ago. What you felt for me both in the past and present isn’t love. It’s obsession. You used the idea of me to help you get through hard times, I get it, and your feelings may have been genuine once but I fear that time is long gone. If you cared about me even a little bit you wouldn’t have fucking kidnapped me! All you care about is yourself and I’m done keeping quiet just to appease you!” he yelled, releasing all his pent-up frustration and misery. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was making him light-headed combined with the overwhelming surge of gratification.

Radovid’s jaw clenched but his expression was eerily calm as he moved his hand from the bard’s hair to wrap around his neck. He slowly started squeezing.

“If that’s what you think then there’s nothing I can do. You’ve had months to come to terms with the situation, and I’ve gone above and beyond to make you comfortable. I’ve been so fucking patient and this is how you repay me?!” Radovid’s harsh voice gradually got louder as he spoke. “I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.”

In the blink of an eye, he had maneuvered Jaskier on his back against the bed, choking him still. The grip was tight enough that the bard’s airways were completely closed, and he was left desperately gasping for air. He tried to claw Radovid’s arm away, which didn’t budge an inch.

“But there’s something you’re forgetting darling. Remember what I said to you at our little reunion when you refused to join me?”

Jaskier’s vision was beginning to blacken, but even then, the memory flashed clearly through his mind. He let out what was meant to be a whimper but came out as a choking sound.

Radovid understood the recognition in the bard’s eyes and he smirked cruelly in response. His free hand came up to stroke Jaskier’s torso, running through his chest hair and pinching a nipple when it came into contact with it. He leaned close to give a teasing little bite to Jaskier’s lower lip before hissing in his ear:

“If you won’t come with me willingly, I’ll just have to take you by force.”

That was the last thing Jaskier heard before everything went dark.

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chixkencxrry · 1 year

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some of y’all shit be reading like character ai…not suspicious at all…

#writing #the witcher fanfiction #black!reader #spiderman #jaskier x reader #bucky barnes x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #dark! steve rogers x reader #fanfic #fanfiction writer

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dapandapod · 10 months

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im playing a game, Kena bridge of spirits, literally just started, but this thought gripped me and I am making it your probem.

so (now on Ao3)

Jaskier is a spirit guide, his focus is his instrument. His job is to let spirits heal and move on, and Geralt is a spirit, but Geralt doesn’t know. The grief he carries from Blaviken festers in him, and he is unable to let go of the past, and Jaskier senses it. (also this is not meant to be mcd lol but Geralt is a spirit now). So Jaskier follows him, in Geralt's words, pesters him, forces him to work through his past, and Jaskier deals with what the festering manifests around them.

On the mountain, geralt lashes out, and jaskier is stuck up there to clean up the mess of the mountain, who is now grown dangerous, because of Geralt's outburst. When Geralt finally gets his head out of his ass, he realizes Jaskier never came down, and he has to go back up there and confront his past.

And maybe, like in Frozen, a shard of Geralt's pain hit Jaskier, and he is weakened. Until that shard is gone, he is unable to entirely cleanse the mountain and safely leave. And so, he becomes one with the rot, one with the pain. For Geralt to free Jaskier, he has to get up the mountain, that is now filled with shadows of both of their pasts; the abuse and the loss and the hurt and the loneliness they both carry.

When Geralt finally gets to Jaskier, he sees the bard is deeply entangled with it, the pulse of his pain is leaking into the ground, and Geralt sees the shadow of himself lash out, to fracture his hurt. His medallion is vibrating, he has never seen anything like this, but he has to fight through it, and make Jaskier wake up from whatever this is.

And Jaskier does wake, just enough to see Geralt succumb to his own shadows.

Geralt doesn't know really what jaskier is, just know that weird things happen around him,

so when Jaskier lifts his necklace, a crystal shaped like a tuning fork, and the air shimmers blue, and Geralt’s medallion vibrates, all goes black.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, and Jaskier is standing a safe distance away, with little spirits swarmed around his feet, clinging to his shoulders, and he is smiling at them.

Geralt has to acknowledge what Jaskier's task was, and what Jaskier risked, for him.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, not as a guide, but as a guardian, because now, because of the shard that jaskier carries, his shard, he can see what jaskier sees.

He sees the spirits, he sees the pain, and he finally sees himself.

They set out to find a little girl in Cintra, who is hurt and grief and pain, and so strong she can shake the foundation of the world.

#geraskier #the witcher #kena bridge of spirits #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #jaskier the spirit guide #cirilla of cintra #there might be a litle bit of the pixar movie Soul in here too #you know when people turn into thos dark shapes of obsession #that is what jaskier sees looming behind geralt #and jaskier has to keep the world safe from his hurt #and might be tasked with this yes but he also wants to #because underneath he can sense something much stronger than what geralt thinks #muted and dampened by mutations and self flagilation #i can spell that word #anyway #here have my brainrot #dapanda writes

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wren-of-the-woods · 2 years

Text

Title: Rest My Head At Night Content

Prompt: watching over them as they sleep/waking up together

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.6k

Five times Jaskier falls asleep before Geralt and Yennefer and one time they fall asleep before him. On AO3 here! @whataboutthebard

One

The first time it happened, Geralt was fairly sure the bard had been poisoned.

In his defense, it was not unlikely. Geralt had only been traveling with him for a few months, but he already knew that Jaskier had a penchant for eating anything soft or crunchy-looking within a twenty-foot radius and a ridiculous talent for making enemies. He could just as easily have eaten the wrong berry as run afoul of an angry spouse when they were last in town.

So, when Geralt turned around from where he had been sharpening his sword to see Jaskier passed out over a log on the other side of their camp, he was understandably panicked. His sword clattered to the ground as he scrambled off his own log and around the campfire to reach the bard. His hands flew over him, checking pulse and temperature as he scented for illness or injury and found—

Nothing. Jaskier was perfectly healthy.

“Mrph?” said Jaskier groggily. His eyes opened partway. He blinked a few times, then squinted up at Geralt. “Is something wrong?”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier’s bleary squint morphed into an expression of concern. He sat up a little, as though getting ready to run if necessary.

“Geralt? What’s going on?”

“I…” Geralt trailed off, unable to figure out how to say ‘I thought you were dying and I panicked even though you’re apparently fine’ without sounding like an idiot. “Nothing.”

Suddenly, Geralt found himself the target of the Jaskier’s most potent ‘my feathers have been ruffled’ glare. “Nothing! Why on earth did you wake me up, then? I was having a perfectly wonderful nap. You ruined my good dreams, Geralt!”

“Hmm,” Geralt apologized.

“Hmm,” Jaskier mimicked. He rolled his eyes with all the disdain of a middle-aged noblewoman hearing the latest gossip. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re insufferable. I’m going back to sleep.”

With that, Jaskier slid off his log, rolled pointedly away from Geralt, and curled up on the ground with his head on a nearby bag. Geralt stared at him. Jaskier closed his eyes, refusing to even glance at Geralt.

When Geralt did not move for another few moments, Jaskier cracked one eye open to glare behind him.

“Go away. I’m sleeping.”

Geralt decided not to point out the obvious falsehood. He returned to his seat across the camp and retrieved his fallen sword.

He tried to return to sharpening it, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Jaskier. Geralt’s heart was still beating a little too quickly, not quite recovered from his earlier scare. Across the camp, Jaskier’s breathing was regular. It had not quite regained the slow steadiness of sleep, but it was on its way there. His heartbeat was human-fast and familiar. His soft hair shone a little in the firelight, looking almost like fine strands of ruddy gold. His scent was calm. Jaskier was perfectly fine. He was simply… falling asleep.

He was falling asleep. He had fallen asleep. Deep in the forest, utterly alone except for a grumpy and antisocial witcher titled the Butcher of Blaviken, Jaskier had fallen asleep.

Geralt did not understand.

Geralt was dangerous. This was a well-known, universally-acknowledged fact. Geralt was a machine built for death. Geralt did not have friends. Geralt had no mercy when he decided someone deserved to die. Geralt could easily kill a human with his bare hands.

And yet Jaskier — fragile, human Jaskier, who was almost completely defenseless against any kind of physical threat, who was lying five yards away from him on the ground — was fast asleep.

He smelled content. There was a faint smile on his face. He looked young and soft and somehow, impossibly, safe.

Jaskier had done many strange things since Geralt met him, but Geralt thought this may be the most bewildering yet.

Slowly, Geralt returned to sharpening his sword. Jaskier did not react to the noise. He was already fast asleep. Geralt’s chest felt oddly warm.

Perhaps Jaskier’s oddness could be nice, once in a while.

Two

After that, it kept happening. Jaskier would fall asleep well before Geralt most nights, when they traveled together. Slowly, tentatively, Geralt became used to it. It was just another entry on the long list of Jaskier’s peculiarities. Geralt didn’t mind — quite the opposite, though he would never admit it to Jaskier — so he simply let it happen. He never brought it up again after that first night, though he thought about it more than he would like to admit.

Things between them settled into comfortable familiarity. Geralt knew what to expect from Jaskier. He knew where they stood.

Then, about half a decade after Geralt met Jaskier, Geralt’s world was once again flipped on its head.

The day started just like any other. Jaskier was with him, having just returned from a stint in Oxenfurt to see some friends, and was chattering away as usual. Geralt, who had spoiled Roach to his satisfaction when his last contract proved unusually lucrative due to some townsfolk singing Toss a Coin, was riding beside him and hiding his fondness as usual. He hadn’t expected Jaskier to join him when he set out, so it was a longer ride to the next town than Geralt would usually risk when accompanied by a human, but he wasn’t worried. The road stretched over gently rolling plains and farmlands. Jaskier should be fine.

The wide, flat landscape seemed like much less of a blessing when Geralt finally noticed the storm making its way towards them.

“Fuck,” he said, and Jaskier immediately stopped rambling to listen. The bard had little common sense of his own, so it was a blessing that he was smart enough to make use of Geralt’s from time to time.

“What is it?”

“Storm’s coming.”

“Oh.” Jaskier frowned. He looked around them, saw the plains stretching out in every direction, and his frown deepened. “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to outrun it.”

They did not outrun it.

They were still several hours away from the nearest town when the clouds broke over them. What started as a drizzle steadily turned into a downpour. The dusty road became more of a muddy line, and then, in low-lying places, a series of puddles. Both of them were thoroughly drenched, but Jaskier’s refusal to wear anything sensible for travel meant he had it even worse than Geralt. The bard’s walk turned into a trudge. He stopped talking after about an hour in the rain. After an hour and a half, Geralt caved and let Jaskier ride Roach. By the time they finally arrived at the village, Geralt was becoming concerned for the bard’s health.

They acquired a room at the inn with relatively little trouble (it seemed that looking waterlogged and pathetic had a few benefits), but it was the only one left after the influx of other travelers seeking shelter from the rain. The innkeeper had apologized, but Geralt waved her off easily. He and Jaskier had shared before; anywhere warm was fine by him.

When he and Jaskier opened the door to find only one bed in their room, Geralt wished he had made more of a fuss.

Jaskier would have to take the bed, of course. Geralt wasn’t cruel enough to ignore his human constitution. The bard needed warmth and rest, both of which would be easier to come by in a real bed. Geralt would have liked to sleep in comfort, of course, but he would be fine without it. Jaskier needed it more.

Once both of them had changed clothes and become marginally dryer, Geralt began unpacking his bedroll. It was at this point that his plan was interrupted.

“What are you doing?” asked Jaskier. It was the first thing he’d said at a volume louder than a mumble in over an hour. Geralt was relieved enough that he was talking to be unbothered by the way Jaskier looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Getting ready for bed. Obviously.”

“There is a perfectly functional bed right here, Geralt. I think. Unless you’ve noticed something with your fancy witcher senses. Are there bedbugs, Geralt? Or dried blood? Is it an illusion? Is there a monster under the bed? Is the bed the monster, Geralt? Geralt!”

Geralt suppressed the urge to laugh. That would only encourage him. “Bed monsters aren’t real, Jaskier.”

“How would I know? I didn’t think giant, terrifying insect monsters were real either, and it ate my best doublet!”

“I told you to stay away.”

“Well, I— nevermind. Why are you trying to sleep on the floor?”

“You’re taking the bed.”

Jaskier blinked. “So?”

Geralt shot him a glare. “So I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“Are we not sharing?”

Geralt stopped. Slowly, he turned to look at Jaskier. “What?”

“Why aren’t we sharing the bed? There’s enough room. It’d be warmer.”

Geralt looked at the bed. There might be enough room for both of them, but not by much. They would certainly have to get in each others’ space.

“You want to share the bed. With me.” Geralt felt like he had to check this. He was still reeling a little at the idea.

“Yes, you idiot. That’s what I’ve been saying. Just for sleeping, of course.”

“Of course,” Geralt echoed faintly.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone wanted to literally sleep with him. Quite possibly, it had been before the Trials.

“So?” said Jaskier.

“What?”

“Are you going to put that bedroll away?”

Geralt looked at the bedroll. He looked at Jaskier. There was no trace of hesitation anywhere in the bard’s body. He was tired, annoyed at Geralt, and a little confused, but there was no fear. There wasn’t even nervousness. If anything, Jaskier was impatient for Geralt to get in bed with him.

It was one thing to be able to sleep in the vicinity of a mutated, monster-hunting freak. It was quite another thing to fall asleep in his arms.

Geralt was beginning to think he would never understand Jaskier. Perhaps he should simply accept it.

Wordlessly, he began to repack the bedroll.

“Thank you,” said Jaskier. He clambered under the covers, settling on the side of the bed closest to the wall, and held up the corner of the blanket in invitation. Once Geralt had the rest of the room settled to his satisfaction, he obeyed the unspoken request and climbed in next to him.

Jaskier smiled and snuggled close the moment Geralt was lying down. There were a few seconds of slightly confused shuffling before they settled with Jaskier lying on his side, half on top of Geralt and clinging to him like an octopus, while Geralt’s arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him steady. Jaskier was between Geralt and the wall; he couldn’t get out of the bed without clambering over Geralt. He was, for all intents and purposes, cornered. He seemed utterly unperturbed by this fact.

“Goodnight,” said Jaskier. Geralt blew out the candle with a carefully-aimed Aard. Jaskier closed his eyes, snuggled closer to Geralt, and fell asleep within moments.

Geralt looked at him. His face was slightly smushed where he was using Geralt’s chest as a pillow. His hair tickled Geralt’s nose a little. His exhales ruffled the hem of Geralt’s undershirt. In Geralt’s arms, he felt heavier and more solid than he appeared. He was very warm. His breathing was steady.

It took Geralt a long time to fall asleep that night, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to mind.

Three

Time passed, and Geralt grew more and more used to how Jaskier looked when he was asleep. He grew to know the way his face relaxed, all the energy and enthusiasm of the day slowly seeping out until what was left was an expression of peace. He grew to like the steady, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat and slow breathing. He grew to love the easy trust inherent in the gesture, the inherent certainty that Geralt would never hurt him. Sleep was perhaps the most powerful lowering of one’s guard, and Geralt was honored that Jaskier chose to do so around him so regularly.

Geralt knew how Jaskier looked when he slept. That was why looking at him, lying there and looking so small in the middle of Yennefer’s huge bed in Rinde, felt so deeply and inescapably wrong.

Jaskier would never choose to lie neatly on his back like this, because he always slept on his side or on his stomach or in some strange, twisted shape resembling a mutated starfish. Jaskier would never lie still like this, because even in his sleep he was full of little noises and movements and life. Jaskier would never sleep in this bed without first getting to know its owner, because even he was not stupid enough to sleep in a place he did not believe was safe.

It was Geralt’s fault that Jaskier was here, injured and unconscious like a grotesque parody of what Geralt had feared was happening on that first day Jaskier fell asleep with him, all those years ago. Jaskier trusted Geralt with his life implicitly. Geralt had betrayed that trust.

Jaskier was still, but not resting. Jaskier was quiet, but not because he wanted to be. Jaskier was defenseless, but not by choice.

It was completely and utterly wrong.

Geralt could not do anything about it. He could not wake Jaskier and he could not heal him. All he could do to help was to aid this sorceress and hope against hope that she could do something.

It turned out, of course, that she could. Yennefer healed Jaskier and moved on to her various other schemes without a second thought.

She was beautiful and powerful and near-indestructible, and Geralt was spellbound.

Jaskier was confusing, but Geralt could understand Yennefer. Jaskier was ridiculous, but Geralt could take Yennefer seriously. Jaskier was terrifyingly fragile, but Yennefer was terrifyingly strong.

Before Geralt knew it, he and Yennefer were bound together and the path of his life was permanently altered.

Yennefer, it turned out, could also sleep near Geralt.

They slept together both literally and figuratively. Geralt grew to love the literal sense most of all. There was something indescribably beautiful about Yennefer when she let down her guard just enough to sleep, when she allowed Geralt farther past her walls than most people were ever allowed to get. Yennefer could easily kill someone before letting them see her vulnerabilities, and it would not surprise Geralt to know she had done so in the past. Any weaknesses she allowed Geralt to see were very thought-out, deliberate gestures of trust. The knowledge meant more to Geralt than he could express.

When Jaskier slept near Geralt, it made all sorts of complicated emotions tangle around Geralt’s heart. When Yennefer slept near Geralt, he simply felt happy and honored.

It wasn’t that all his thoughts about her were in comparison to Jaskier: far from it. Being in her presence was an all-consuming experience, more beautiful and intoxicating than the finest wines. It was one of the many, many things he loved about her.

When he did end up comparing her to Jaskier, though, his thoughts inevitably turned in that direction. Jaskier was charming and irritating and idiotically trusting. Yennefer was confident and powerful and beautifully calculating. Yennefer made more sense. Yennefer, for all her fiery danger, was so much easier for Geralt to love.

Geralt and Jaskier still traveled together frequently. They could still go weeks or months together without running into Yennefer. Slowly, though, Geralt stopped letting Jaskier sleep so close to him. One room at an inn turned back into two, and two bedrolls beside each other became two bedrolls on opposite sides of a campfire. When Jaskier was asleep, Geralt couldn’t stop remembering his horrible stillness after Geralt hurt him. He couldn’t seeing Jaskier’s vulnerability as just another opportunity to fuck up. He couldn’t stop feeling that Jaskier’s trust was something to fear.

Geralt and Jaskier slept apart from each other. Geralt and Yennefer slept together.

It was better for everyone that way.

Four

The first time Yennefer really noticed Jaskier sleeping, she didn’t have time to enjoy it.

She’d seen him resting before, of course, but she never really paid attention then. For most of the years of their acquaintance, she had seen him as nothing more than an irritation. It wasn’t until the dragon hunt, or maybe even until she saw him again in Oxenfurt, that she realized how much the twit had come to mean to her. His ridiculousness was somehow the only sanity she’d encountered in months.

When she felt herself unraveling in that Kaer Morhen laboratory, she found herself going to Jaskier without a second thought.

“I need your help,” she said, and at those words Jaskier came awake despite his grumblings. He followed her with his usual ridiculous chatter, grounding her as she talked through her thoughts and gave him the jasper. They went their separate ways, and then there was blood and danger and death and chaos in all its definitions.

She didn’t think about the encounter much until later that night, alone for the first time in days.

She lay awake in one of Kaer Morhen’s drafty abandoned rooms, unable to convince herself that she was safe. She knew, logically, that she had her chaos back. There was very little that could harm her now, and even less that could also get past Geralt and the other witchers. The knowledge was not comforting.

She could still feel the blood rushing from her wrist down her hands. She could still hear the screams: those of the dying witchers, those of Geralt and Ciri and Jaskier and even herself. She could still feel the keep shaking in wave after wave of Voleth Meir’s magic.

Her thoughts returned to Jaskier, then. He had looked so peaceful in those brief seconds of sleep she managed to witness. It was oddly anachronistic, seeing him there in such unfamiliar surroundings and in the midst of all her panic. She was almost envious. For all his dramatics, Jaskier had a peculiar kind of resilience that few people could match.

Right now, though, what she envied most was his ability to sleep.

Jaskier had a big bottle of alcohol with him when he was asleep in the lab. Perhaps Yennefer should try it.

She was seriously considering getting up in search of some sort of drink when, to her great surprise, there was a knock on the door to her room.

Geralt was talking to Ciri. The other witchers were cleaning and grieving. It must be—

“Yennefer?” asked Jaskier from outside the room.

“What is it?” asked Yennefer.

“Oh, thank Melitele,” he said, ignoring the question. “I was beginning to think I would never find you in all these corridors. Do you think someone would come looking for me if I got lost or fell into some forgotten laboratory? I’d rather not have to find out. Can I come in? It’s cold out here. You’d think a keepful of witchers might try to repair the place a little.”

Yennefer opened the door. Jaskier blinked down at her in surprise.

“Oh! Thank you.” He slid past her and into the room, then flopped down on her bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked. She hoped she didn’t sound as confused as she felt.

“Visiting the most disagreeable witch of my acquaintance. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I’m the only witch of your acquaintance.”

“Precisely.”

Yennefer huffed, then tried to return to her original question. “Why are you even awake?”

“I ran out of wine.”

“So you came to find me?”

“Geralt’s busy with that daughter of his. The other witchers don’t look like they want to be disturbed.” Jaskier’s charming facade broke for a moment. He looked startlingly vulnerable. “I… didn’t want to be alone.”

“Oh,” said Yennefer.

For a moment, there was silence. Yennefer felt oddly blindsided by the whole encounter. She decided to chalk it up to her exhaustion.

Jaskier sat up on his elbows and looked at her. “So? Are you coming?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Coming where?”

“To bed.”

“This is not the time, bard.”

“Not like that! I just want to sleep.” He paused, then made a face. “Dear Melitele. I’m starting to sound like Geralt.”

That startled a laugh out of Yennefer. “The old wives were right. Witchers are contagious.”

“Oh, gods, don’t make me think about it. He only pulls it off that whole brooding act because he’s so handsome. I’d just look stupid.”

“You already look stupid.”

“I— Shut up! Are you getting in bed or not?”

Yennefer probably should have refused. She probably should have kicked him out of her room and fallen asleep on her own.

She did not.

“Fine,” she said. “Shove over.”

Jaskier obliged, and Yennefer climbed in next to him. She settled down on her back the way she had been before Jaskier arrived, so Jaskier had to lie on his side and curl around her in order to fit. He did not seem to mind this at all. He snuggled up close to her, throwing an arm around her waist and tucking his head against her neck. His breathing started to slow the moment he was settled. Yennefer could feel his exhales against her neck.

Yennefer was suddenly struck by how long it had been since someone had held her like this. She wasn’t sure if she could remember the last time it happened. Even Geralt, when their relationship had been at its best, was never exactly the cuddling type.

That would explain the warm, fluttering feeling in her chest. It was because she had this human contact after so long without it. It had nothing to do with the particular person involved. Obviously.

Still, there were very few people she would allow to come this close to her. There were even fewer who would actually want to do so.

She didn’t know why Jaskier had suddenly become one of those people, but right now, she couldn’t quite bring herself to mind.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered against her throat. Yennefer startled a little. She hadn’t realized he was still awake.

“What for?” she whispered back. Somehow, in the darkness and quiet, she found herself without her usual defenses. She couldn’t summon the banter from earlier; she was left with nothing but earnestness.

"For being here," said Jaskier simply.

Yennefer thought of the blood running from her wrists in the battle. She thought of the pain of Voleth Meir. She thought of all the danger and pain she'd undergone in the last few weeks. Her eyes felt suspiciously moist.

For being here.

She didn't think anyone had ever said that to her.

"You're welcome," she whispered. Jaskier held her a little tighter. If her voice was a little shaky, he was kind enough not to mention it.

"Goodnight, Yennefer," he said. Within moments, his breathing had slowed to the deep evenness of sleep.

Yennefer stayed awake a little longer. She felt like she was savoring something, something precious that she might not experience again. Jaskier was a welcome warm in the cold keep. He snored a little. Yennefer, after making sure he was definitely asleep, ran a gentle hand through his hair. Jaskier snuffled a little and cuddled closer.

It was strange that the presence of this ridiculous, idiotic man could be so soothing.

She felt her heartbeat slow as she lay there, Jaskier's steady warmth against her side. Her eyes fell closed without her noticing. She shifted to press closer to Jaskier, and his arm around her tightened in response.

She fell asleep and slept soundly until dawn.

Five

Yennefer and Jaskier shared a bed more often than not, after that. Though they never discussed it, Yennefer could tell that they both slept better that way. They settled into a strange sort of routine. Yennefer spent her days with Geralt and Ciri, discussing strategy and magic and whatever else required their urgent attention. Jaskier spent his days off in the depths of the keep doing something or other: talking to the other witchers or composing, perhaps. No matter what they had been doing during the day, Yennefer and Jaskier met in Yennefer’s room about an hour after sunset. They didn’t talk about much of consequence; just having Jaskier’s company without pressure or expectation was enough to lighten Yennefer’s mood on its own. It was the only part of her day when she didn’t have to watch her every move for fear of upsetting the careful balance between her and the rest of the keep. She valued it more than she could say.

Sleeping better improved her mood, as well. She could feel herself slowly starting to recover from the peril and fear of the last few weeks. Jaskier looked better, too: he was gaining some lost weight, and the bags under his eyes had been significantly reduced. It was obvious that the rest was helping both of them.

Geralt, it seemed, was not so lucky. He was a little slower than usual and a little more irritable, though he did his best to hide it around Ciri. It was obvious to those who knew him that he was not sleeping well, but he did not say anything about it and Yennefer was not sure enough of where she stood with him to push it.

This stalemate held until shortly after she, Ciri, Geralt, and Jaskier left Kaer Morhen for Aretuza.

They were about a day’s journey away from the keep, still deep in the Blue Mountains. Geralt had hoped to make it farther that day — apparently there was a particular cave he usually used for shelter when he was in the area — but Ciri had been so exhausted by the journey that no one had the heart to push forward. The place where they had ended up was unfortunately open, with no trees and few convenient boulders to shelter behind. They set their tents beside the largest of the boulders and hoped it would be enough.

It was not.

They started the night in two different tents, with Yennefer and Jaskier in one and Geralt and Ciri in another. Yennefer was not sure if Geralt chose the arrangement because it was most similar to how the four of them had slept in Kaer Morhen or because he didn’t trust Yennefer with Ciri, and she was not about to ask.

The wind began to pick up soon after everyone was settled. The tents went from standing still to trembling to shaking violently. The canvas was loud, flapping and rattling against the tent’s poles. Yennefer, who was on the windward side of the tent, was hit in the face a few times by said overexcited canvas.

“I think this tent wants to become a kite,” said Jaskier. “How strong are the poles?”

“Shut up,” said Yennefer, rolling over and attempting to pin some of the most energetic parts of the tent under her. She heard a rustling sound from Jaskier’s side of the tent and worried for a moment that something had broken before she turned to see Geralt poking his head through the tent’s door.

“Yen! Is there anything you can do about the wind? Ciri’s getting scared.”

“I’m a sorceress, not a weather deity!”

“Can you at least make the tents a little sturdier?”

“The more spells I cast, the easier it would be for another mage to track us.”

“None of us are going to get any sleep if the wind goes on like this,” Jaskier said, chiming in. “It would also be very unpleasant if a tent broke while we’re in it.”

“I can’t strengthen both tents without risking our safety,” said Yennefer, sitting up. As soon as she stopped weighing down the canvas, it billowed again and hit her in the back. She grimaced.

“Could you just strengthen one of them?” Geralt asked, reaching up to hold the tent’s poles steady when they threaten to bend too far.

“I’d rather not—”

“But I would rather not spend the night like this!” said Jaskier, looking at her pleadingly. “Especially not when Ciri is scared.”

It turned out that Yennefer was not as immune to Jaskier’s pleading eyes as she liked to believe she was.

“Fine. Go help Geralt and Ciri get their things in here.”

It took nearly half an hour of fumbling and rather panicked maneuvering in the dark, but eventually they managed to collapse the other tent and move it and its contents safely into the remaining one. Geralt checked on the horses while Yennefer carefully cast spells to reinforce the tent and shield it from the wind. By the time everyone was finally safe inside the tent, the flapping of canvas and creaking of poles had nearly been reduced to nothing. Yennefer couldn’t safely do anything about the cold and the whistling of the wind outside, but her efforts had been good enough if the way tension bled out of Jaskier and Ciri was anything to go by.

“Thank you, Yen,” said Geralt, stepping back inside and closing the tent’s door behind him. Even he sounded relieved.

“You’re welcome,” said Yennefer. She let out a breath, ready to go back to her bedroll and sleep for a very long time. She turned back to where she was sleeping earlier. It was now covered by supplies and the packed-up remains of the other tent.

She looked around. The small tent was very, very cramped. There was no way they were all going to be able to lay out their bedrolls.

Jaskier frowned, seeming to have come to the same conclusion. “Hold on. Where do we sleep?”

There was silence for a few long moments as everyone looked around them with expressions ranging from annoyance (Yennefer) to constipation (Geralt) to thoughtfulness (Jaskier). Ciri was the first one to speak.

“I guess we’ll just have to cuddle,” she said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Sure. Do you think we can find all the bedrolls?”

“Hold on,” said Geralt. “Are you sure about this?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him. “Is the thought of sleeping near all of us really so repulsive to you?”

“I… No, but—”

“Can you think of an alternative?”

Geralt sighed. “No.”

“Then help us find the bedrolls.”

After a while of searching and trying to rearrange things within the tiny tent without hitting anyone else in the head, they managed to create a pile of bedding composed of bedrolls, blankets, and parts of the other tent in an area that was just barely big enough for the four of them to lie down. Ciri flopped down first, obviously exhausted, and began arranging the blankets to her satisfaction. Yennefer lay down next to her, and Jaskier curled around Yennefer. Geralt tried to lie down on Ciri’s other side. There was a crinkling noise as he almost crushed a nearby container of food and sat back up, grumbling.

Jaskier sighed and stood up again. Despite Yennefer’s very best efforts, she found herself missing the warmth of him the moment he was gone.

“You get settled,” he said to Geralt. “I’ll find a spot after.”

“You don’t have to—” Geralt tried to say. Jaskier interrupted him.

“Just do it. I’m marginally smaller and you’re exhausted.”

Geralt looked like he wanted to argue, but a glare from Jaskier quelled whatever argument he was going to make. He stepped over Ciri and Yennefer to take Jaskier’s place behind her. His body was warm against Yennefer’s back. She could feel the tension in his every muscle. She was not sure whether to be offended or sympathetic; she hoped his awkwardness was due to the strangeness of the situation and not the fact that he was forced to be close to her in particular. She pressed a little closer to him regardless. She did not feel like letting pride prevent her from enjoying his witchery warmth.

After looking at the three of them in consideration for a moment, Jaskier climbed on top of them. After a few moments of awkward rearranging, he managed to settle himself across all three of them. His head was on Geralt’s chest, his torso across Yennefer’s stomach, and his legs tangled with Ciri’s. Yennefer spluttered a little. Ciri giggled.

“What are you doing?” asked Geralt.

“This is the only way I can fit!” Jaskier said, the defensiveness of his words belied by the smile on his face. “Anything else would have me squashing our things.”

“So you’re squashing us instead?” asked Yennefer with a raised eyebrow, desperately trying to hide her own smile.

“Exactly!” said Jaskier.

“Oh, fine,” said Ciri. Yennefer couldn’t quite manage to hold back a laugh.

Jaskier shifted around a bit until he seemed comfortable, giving a happy little sigh before going still. The warm weight of him over Yennefer’s torso was surprisingly comfortable. She could feel his chest move as he breathed, the pace of it slowing as he relaxed. Behind her, Geralt was slowly relaxing as well. There was something soothing about Jaskier when he was like this, half-asleep and warm and so trusting that it still took Yennefer’s breath away sometimes. There were very, very few humans who would dare to relax in the company of Geralt, Yennefer, or even Ciri. Jaskier’s blithe indifference to how dangerous they all were was like open sunlight after a week spent indoors: difficult to adjust to, but beautiful nonetheless. Something about his trust that he was safe made her feel safer, too.

Within minutes, Jaskier was fast asleep, snoring slightly as he lay draped across the three of them. Yennefer twisted a little to look at Geralt and they shared a silent moment of fond commiseration. She was sure that Geralt was just as awed and amused by the bard as she was, even if he often refused to show it. The smile they shared made her feel almost as warm as the bard currently pursuing a new career as a blanket. It gave her hope that perhaps their relationship might not be as broken as she had thought.

Perhaps the wind storm hadn’t been such a bad thing, after all.

Plus One

Jaskier put down his quill and straightened with a satisfied sigh. He lifted his arms to stretch with some reluctance, because it meant moving his hand from where it had been resting in Yennefer’s hair. He was sore from sitting in one place for so long, though, and sacrifices had to be made.

After stretching thoroughly, he blinked around him at the room. He must have been composing longer than he’d thought. Darkness had fallen while he was lost in the world of paper and song; the room was now illuminated only by a single candle which Yennefer or Geralt must have lit while he was distracted.

They were in a rather unremarkable room in a rather unremarkable inn. Ciri was off on a short expedition with Lambert, presumably to learn how to make explosives. The three of them had been told to wait in this town until their return and so, remarkably, they found themselves with several days of free time. Geralt had completed all the available contracts, Yennefer had done all the witch-ing she could do, and Jaskier had, scandalously, almost exhausted the town’s patience for his ballads. That was how they ended up here, spending a quiet evening in each others’ company.

He looked down at his lovers. Yennefer had been reading, curled up with her head in his lap, but was now fast asleep even though Jaskier had been moving around. Geralt was slumped against Jaskier’s side, his head on the bard’s shoulder, also asleep. He had been repairing the handle of a dagger which now rested on a side table next to the bed. He was, to Jaskier’s fond delight, snoring slightly.

For a moment, Jaskier’s breath was stolen away by the sheer trust he was being given. Geralt and Yennefer were both deeply asleep, not simply dozing or meditating. Geralt’s dagger was within Jaskier’s reach; if he had wanted to, he could easily have taken it and slit one of their throats before even Geralt’s witcher-fast reflexes could catch him. There were very, very few people to whom Geralt would show such trust, and even fewer who Yennefer would permit to do so. Jaskier did not think the fact that he was one of these people would ever cease to fill him with awe.

Geralt’s position could not be comfortable, though; even a witcher could get a sore neck sleeping like that. Reluctantly, Jaskier resigned himself to waking him up. He shifted to gently shake Geralt’s shoulder.

“Geralt, dear heart,” he whispered, “You can’t sleep like that.”

“Hmm,” Geralt complained, doing his best to hide his face in Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier had to take a moment to breathe simply to avoid passing away from sheer love and delight.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said fondly, poking Geralt gently in the shoulder. “Now lie down properly so we can sleep without ruining our backs.”

Geralt continued to grumble wordlessly but did as he was told, sitting up enough to remove his shirt and let Jaskier put his notebook on the side table and slide under the covers.

“Wha’?” mumbled Yennefer, who had been disturbed by the movement. She shot a sleepy glare at Jaskier, looking rather like a disgruntled kitten. “Why’d you move?”

“To get under the blanket, love. Come join me.”

Yennefer’s disgruntled face was so similar to the one Geralt had made that Jaskier had to stifle a laugh, but she complied. She got under the covers and lay down right up against Jaskier’s side, then glared at him until he started to stroke her hair.

Geralt returned from where he had been folding his shirt and storing his knife. He joined them by flopping down on top of Jaskier, eliciting a grunt from the bard at the sudden weight. They had learned, over the months, that the only reliable way to get Jaskier to sleep without moving about and inevitably elbowing someone in the face was to squash him. Jaskier certainly did not mind — the extra warmth and weight was soothing, and watching Geralt and Yennefer try to decide whose turn it was for bard-blanket duties was an unending source of amusement.

Yennefer shifted so she was holding Geralt’s hand and Geralt hummed happily, burying his face once more in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier resumed stroking Yennefer’s hair and she made a sound of approval. If his lovers were cats, Jaskier thought, they would both be purring. The thought made him smile.

“Stop being fond and go to sleep,” Yennefer grumbled, and Jaskier laughed.

“Yes, milady,” he said. She made another approving sound and went still, her breathing already slowing.

Jaskier could feel his own heart slowing as well, the warmth and trust of his two absurdly powerful lovers soothing him better than anything else ever could. On top of him, Geralt was once again beginning to snore. He thought he felt a little bit of drool on his throat. Instead of indignation, all he felt was fondness and awe at the vulnerability. He really was hopelessly in love.

Geralt’s breath was warm and slow against him. Yennefer’s chest rose and fell steadily beside him. It was as though nothing existed outside of this bed, as though the whole of Jaskier’s world had been condensed to this tiny space of calm and contentment and home.

Jaskier was asleep within moments, feeling warm, safe, and impossibly loved.

#the witcher #geraskefer #geraskier #yennskier #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt #jaskier #yennefer #wren writes #here's hoping this one's legible on dark mode!#i think i fixed it #this one's been in my drafts since at least april so i'm delighted to have it out #and it's still the right day in my timezone!#fun fact part 5 is vaguely based on something that happened to me #enjoy <3

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