#frightened jaskier

[thedemonofcat]

Right now, there’s a thunderstorm going on where I live.

Do you think Witchers, with their heightened senses, might be a bit frightened by the thunder?

Picture Geralt, determined to keep Jaskier close during the storm. His insistence on staying together usually leads to a cozy cuddle.

[darkverrmin]

*Geralt’s idea of being a supportive friend*

Jaskier: Don't worry about meeting Geralt, love. He may look frightening, but he's harmless as a kitten.

***

Geralt: I like you because you make Jaskier very happy.

Radovid: Wow, thank yo-

Geralt: Break his heart and I swear I will murder you.

Radovid:

Geralt: ...So, do you play gwent?

[artistsfuneral]

@starlghtstarbrite

Pokey

Geralt should have known better.

The feeling of suspicion, a peculiar itch in the back of his mind that was only ever caused by the kind of trouble Jaskier created, had been bothering him for hours. If not that, he should have paid attention to the lingering smell in the air, the way a weak wave of Chaos tickled his senses every now and then, or how the bard suddenly seemed to struggle with the weight of his pack. It was almost frightening, how used he had to have gotten to Jaskier's antics to not notice the enormous dark omen following their every step. Either that, or Jaskier got better at hiding things from him. Geralt didn't know which was worse.

When he finally did realize that Jaskier was carrying something with him he definitely wasn't supposed to be carrying, it was due to the muffled sound of a thick eggshell cracking and a rush of dopamine in the air around his bard. Geralt, always two steps ahead of Jaskier, turned around sharply and growled at the man. "What did you do?!"

"Nothing!" Jaskier squeaked aloud, which might as well have been the boldest lie he ever told, as it was accompanied by yet another crack. "I mean- I didn't- Not- It just sat there Geralt! Alone! Orphaned! It's Mama dead because of those horrible creatures you fought. How couldn't I have?"

Realization dawned on Geralt's face, followed by a look of horror. "You didn't. Jaskier- Tell me you didn't." He knew exactly what creature Jaskier was talking about.

"It's a baby, Geralt! A helpless little creature that needs our protection. Who knows if it even would have hatched if I hadn't taken it with us."

"For fuck's sake Jaskier! Get that thing out of your bag right now. They're perfectly able to fight and kill the moment they've hatched and last time I checked you weren't a maiden pure of heart so it will attack you the moment it's head is out!" Already one hand on his silver sword, Geralt stepped towards his bard and the still hidden hatchling. Thankfully Jaskier seemed to take the witcher's orders seriously as he slowly lowered his bag on the ground, just to quickly flip it open and jump a step back.

The egg inside was bigger than a human head, off-white in color with irregular pale pink spots. Chaos radiates off of it in waves that grew stronger each time the creature inside knocked against the cracks in the shell. It did so once, twice, three times in total until the shell of the egg finally gave away and horn first, a small foal-like head peaked out. Immediately after seeing the little creature, Jaskier threw all caution to the wind and knelt down in front of his pack, cooing at the hatchling with big eyes. Ignoring Geralt's hissed out warnings to back away from the creature, Jaskier reached out to help it get rid of a piece of gooey eggshell and softly stroked a thinger over its velvet head. "Geralt," he whispered, voice full of awe, "it's so tiny."

"Jaskier, get back. It will bite your fingers off," the witcher growled, sword drawn and steady as he inched closer towards the hatchling. The creature watched Jaskier wide-eyed and with open interest, copying his cooing noises between quiet huffs and puffs. "Oh, come on, Geralt," the bard said in a hushed voice, "It's just a teeny-tiny unicorn. A little baby. Look, it's so cute, it wouldn't hurt a fly."

The witcher, who was very well aware that a freshly hatched unicorn possessed the powers and capabilities to kill up to three drowners on first sight, was about to grab Jaskier by the collar and yank him back, when the foal fully stepped out of its egg, shook itself and then proceeded to to invade Jaskier's space by gently bumping into him. That... Was not what the witcher had expected. The unicorn liked Jaskier. It was, in fact, bonding with him. Jaskier, who was still cooing over it like it was some defenseless wet kitten. "Oh, look at you. You are so beautiful with your tiny mane and your adorable little horn. And Geralt thinks you're scary. Who's a little pokey unicorn? Who's my little Pokey?"

Oh gods, Jaskier was bonding with it too. "My sweet Pokey, yes you are. Such a sweet unicorn. You will come with us, won't you? We'll introduce you to Roachie and Pegasus and you can learn all the horsie things you need to know and then you will be the bravest, strongest, prettiest, bestestest unicorn ever. Won't you, Pokey?" The unicorn neighed in response and Geralt knew he was fucked.

[headcanonthings]

[after seeing Geralt fully potioned up for the first time]

Alderman: Melitele's tits!

Townspeople: *screams*

Jaskier: People, please! We're all frightened and horny.

[fangirleaconmigo]

Noises

“What.” Geralt burrowed deeper into the blanket.

The bard made a nervous, uncertain noise. He shifted and the floorboards creaked softly. “Uhhhhh.”

“Spit it out.”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “There are noises, Geralt.”

“No there aren’t.”

"Um. What? Yes there are. There are so. Why would you say that?"

Geralt flopped one arm over his face. "Witcher senses. I can hear everything. It's quiet out there. So what do you want, cuddles? Go back to bed."

Silence.

There was silence. And then more silence.

Geralt had only known Jaskier for a short while, but he had never known him to be silent.

Then there was the sound of bare feet padding back to the other bed.

Fuck.

He had wanted cuddles. The sunny, handsome, famous bard wanted to cuddle. Him.

Fuck.

Now Geralt was stone cold awake. Now he stared at the ceiling in silence.

"Geralt."

"What."

"I can practically hear you thinking. Stop it. Just leave it."

"But."

"No, just forget I ever-"

"No but I think you're right. There are noises. Now that I'm awake I can hear them."

A pause.

"Is that so?"

There was hope in the three words. A smile, even.

"It is so."

Then Jaskier was standing next to his bed again. "And are you frightened, dear witcher? Do you need protection?"

Geralt had to remind himself sometimes that while he could see people in the dark, they could not see him. Jaskier was probably staring down into what looked like a dark gloom, whereas he could clearly see the bard's shit eating grin and bright eyes like a beacon.

"Geralt, I asked--" Jaskier's teasing voice broke off into a squeal and an 'oof' noise, as Geralt dragged him into bed.

"Jus get your ass down here."

Geralt pulled Jaskier into his arms. He slung a leg over him, and burrowed into his neck. "You're gonna regret this though. I kick in my sleep."

Jaskier laughed and softly stroked his hair. "Somehow, I don't think I will."

[jaskiercommabard]

Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛

I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams. 

Not Jaskier.

It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice. 

Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest. 

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”

He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot. 

Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town. 

“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”

It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.

It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.

“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”

Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too. 

The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-

And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth. 

It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.

"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears. 

The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.

“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!” 

For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter. 

They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.

The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone. 

What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus. 

The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.

**

The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.

He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty. 

Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-

“In here, Geralt!”

In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own. 

“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”

His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.

“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”

Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer. 

“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway. 

There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over. 

The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.

“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.” 

The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.

“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.” 

“Jask. Stop.” 

Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms. 

He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further. 

After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.” 

“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster. 

“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-” 

He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.

Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.

“It had my voice.”

He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.

“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword. 

“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay. 

Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy. 

“Did you know?”

A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.

“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”

The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.

“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart. 

He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?

"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling. 

Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.

Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying. 

He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.

Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.

[starfirewildheart]

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 3,936

Chapter 1

Ciri was trying to hide her chuckle at Geralt’s low growl but couldn’t keep quiet. The red spot on his forehead was already fading to soft pink due to his witcher healing powers. She’d been frightened at the goat-like creature that had jumped from the bushes at first because it looked like the demons she’d read about in books. Geralt had told it to go away but it shot a metal ball at him from a slingshot, catching the witcher in the forehead with a loud thunk. After a low growled “fuck” Geralt was off of Roach and had the little menace pinned to the ground. The entire scene was more than funny to Ciri and even though Geralt cast her a very frustrated glare she couldn’t help but laugh. 

This lifestyle was a far cry from what she was accustomed to as the princess of Centra and coupled with the loss and trauma she’d suffered she was glad for the levity. It had only been four days since she’d managed to find her protector and while she felt safe with him she was still uncomfortable with what being someone’s ‘child surprise’ meant. What were the implications of being a child surprise? Was she to be the Witcher’s mate when she got older? Was he just to be her guardian? What was expected of her? Was he now her owner? Could he sell her if he wanted to? Did she have any say in what was going to become of her? There had been no time to ask any of these things because it seemed something was always trying to kidnap or kill her. She’d seen Geralt fight several times in just the short time they’d been together and as reluctant as she was to admit it, even to herself, the witcher intimidated her greatly.  

Geralt had led them to a small town to get a room for the night. Ciri had never been more grateful for a hot bath and a bed. At dinner, she was introduced to the bard, Jaskier, who had been performing at the inn. She was surprised Geralt and Jaskier were friends as they were so different. They were like night and day. She wasn’t happy when her protector left her with the bard with a simple rumbled, “Stay.” She protested but he told her he had to take a contract and earn some coin if they were going to continue to eat. She sat at the inn for nearly a full day before he returned. He was covered in blood and muck and what looked to be entrails as he swept into the bar. The silence was deafening as he approached the mayor of the town and dropped a cloth bag containing a severed Endrega head on the table in front of him. The next morning he used some of the coin to get a horse for Ciri and they headed off, that was two days ago. 

Ciri finally worked up the courage to speak. “Where are we going?”

“Dorian.”

The witcher was a man of very few words and sometimes having a conversation was like pulling teeth. “Why?”

“Information.” Geralt wasn’t trying to be difficult but something was off. He felt a hum throughout his body. It was similar to when a monster was near yet not quite the same and he didn’t know what it was. It had him on high alert and he was trying to focus on their surroundings. 

“Can you speak in full sentences?” she huffed softly thinking he wouldn’t hear her.

“Yes, I can,” he arched a brow in her direction. “I may be a mutant but I am an educated one.” Geralt hissed and cringed; his shoulder and back felt as if they had been licked by fire. He could feel blood trickling down his skin and pulled Roach to a stop

“I didn’t mean to…” she blushed. “Geralt?” she asked worriedly.

He was off his horse and removing his shirt with a hiss. “Fuck!” The air felt electric and the pull he felt was even stronger. He wanted to run into the woods and find whatever was doing this. He looked up when Ciri came to him. “Hand me the kit in my pack.”

“What happened?” she gasped as she saw the large slash that went from his right shoulder down to his waist in a slight inward arc.

“I don’t know.” He laid out the kit and found the healing potion he needed. He poured half of it down his back on the wound itself, the sting making him growl then he drank the rest. “What the fuck is happening?” he wondered aloud. 

Ciri took one of the bandages, wet it from one of the water skins and started gently dabbing at the bloodll. Geralt tensed, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t but you can’t get to all of this to clean it on your own. What happens if it gets infected?” She took her hand and turned the witcher back around. She knew it was only because he allowed it but still she wanted to be of use. His muscles were rigid and tense the entire time she was touching him. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” He tried to hide the unease in his voice. He wasn’t used to someone caring for his wounds unless he was at Kaer Morhen. It made him uncomfortable. 

“There, finished,” Ciri said as she got the last of the blood off his skin. The wound was no longer open and bleeding but it still looked very red and angry. 

Geralt pulled his other shirt from his bag and quickly put it on. “We need to keep moving.”

They rode in silence for a bit before Ciri spoke again. “Has anything like that ever happened to you before?”  

“Quiet” he whispered as he pulled Roach to a stop again. The feeling was much stronger now. It was pulling him toward the forest. Whatever it was that was guiding him didn’t seem dangerous but he couldn’t be sure. His first instinct was to ask Vesimer but of course, that would have to wait until he saw him at Kaer Morhen. For now, he had to trust his instincts. 

A loud wolf’s howl ripped through the air and made Ciri jump. “Geralt!” 

“Stay on your horse. You aren’t in any danger,” the witcher assured her. He slid off of Roach and handed her reins to Ciri. “Stay close.” He walked farther down the trail, sword at the ready. The scent of blood and sulfur hit him before he saw the remains of the first body. “Wait here.” 

Ciri was frightened but did as he told her. Somehow the witcher seemed to have a calming effect on her even though she was scared. 

Geralt walked farther away from the road into the woods and he saw a small camp. As he looked around the area he counted the bodies of about twenty Nilfgaard warriors littered on the ground. It looked as though they had been torn apart by animals and fed upon. They were in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. Suddenly he saw movement. Someone was alive. He rushed over to the prone body and knelt down. 

Naurel saw someone approaching but did not have anything left in her to fight with. This was the end for her and she was grateful for it. The pain was finally over she thought to herself as she saw a giant cloaked figure approach. Just as hands reached for her the world faded to black.

Ciri gasped when she saw Geralt running back toward her with a woman in his arms. An unconscious, bloody woman. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. There seemed to be a fight of some sort. Maybe with a beast or animal, I’m not sure. She is the only survivor.” He knelt on the ground lowering her gently so he could examine her. “Get my bag and bring me the bandages and my kit,” he ordered as he moved to unbutton the top of the woman's dress. 

 Ciri knelt down beside him to help and she had to look away from all the gore. “What would do something like that?”

“No beast that I know of,” Geralt growled. “This was done by humans.” He wiped away all the dirt and blood he could in an attempt to help her. “This is beyond my skill,” he sighed. “We need to get her to Lakeside. They will have a healer and with any luck, Triss will be there.” He knew the sorceress frequented Lakeside and stayed there with the healer a lot. She enjoyed the quiet and the herbs that grew by the lake. Geralt lifted the woman onto Roach and climbed up behind her. “We must ride quickly. Keep up,” he ordered as he urged Roach on. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Triss smiled as she heard people start whispering about the approaching witcher. One thing about a small village was that news of visitors spread like wildfire. She was anxious to see Geralt. It had been too long. Her smile faded however when she opened the door and saw the near lifeless woman in his arms. “Get her on the table, quickly.”

Geralt laid the woman down and helped Triss start removing her dress. He noticed among the wounds was one just like the one he got on his back before finding her. “Found her in the woods. She was the only one left alive out of about twenty Nilfgaardian soldiers. No sign of what or who did this though.” They stopped short of bearing her completely. No one noticed Triss's friend the healer slip out the door.

“These wounds are not from a beast or animal Geralt. A human; likely a sorcerer or mage did this to her,” Triss worried. She turned to the young girl that was with them. “Fill the tub with hot water. Use the tea tree oil and add some of the liquid soap to the left.” She saw Geralt arch his brow in question. “There are so many wounds the best way to ensure we cleanse them all is to put her in a tub loaded with antiseptic. Normally I wouldn’t because it will be incredibly painful but she’s unconscious.”

Geralt removed his armor and dropped it on the floor out of the way before tossing his shirt aside as well. As soon as the water was ready they rid her of the last of her clothing and he lifted her into his arms. Carefully carrying her the few steps over and lowering her into the water. The maiden’s eyes snapped open at the searing pain and she started to thrash about and struggle. Geralt grabbed her wrists in both his hands and held her still. “Shh, you’re going to cause yourself further injury. We are here to help you. My name is Geralt and this is Triss. She is a sorceress. She’s going to heal you.” 

The maiden’s mouth opened to scream at her to get away but the only sound that escaped her was a wheezing rasp. She wanted nothing to do with another sorcerer. Why couldn’t she just die? What had she done to anger the gods enough to make them let this happen to her? She could feel the restraints around her wrists and it took a moment to register that they weren’t metal cuffs but huge hands holding her still. For the first time, she forced herself to focus on the looming figure above her. Her emerald green eyes met gold and she slowly calmed down. She didn’t know why but all the fight drained from her as his low, growling voice soothed her and her eyes slipped shut again.

Ciri positioned another bucket of water under the woman’s hair as it draped over the back of the tub. She began scrubbing and picking muck and bone fragments out of her hair while Triss and Geralt cleaned her body. Ciri couldn’t help but stare at the witcher as he gently cleaned and cradled the maiden's arms and legs. She hadn’t seen the gentle side of him and it helped her relax to know he wasn’t always such a brute as he seemed. 

The snarl Geralt let out when he started washing her feet made them all jump. Triss quickly moved to see what he was so upset about. There were bruises and lash marks from a cane where the bottoms of her feet had been beaten raw. “It’s a war crime,” he growled in answer to Triss’s unspoken question. “They do it so the person can’t stand to run away. I haven’t seen anything like this since Falka’s Rebellion.”

Once she was cleaned Geralt moved her back to the table and Triss covered her breasts and pelvis with towels to preserve what she could of her modesty. “I can’t heal all of this,” she sighed. “I can heal the internal injuries, probably the broken bones and the worst of the burns but she is going to have a very long recovery.”

Geralt nodded, “do what you can.” 

“Girl,” Triss called to Ciri, who was now sitting in a chair by the fire. “I need to go out behind the cabin and collect all the wildflowers you can for me. I need the stems to be about this long,” she showed her with her fingers.  “Take those two baskets and that cloth bag by the door. As quick as you can.” Ciri nodded and ran out the door. 

Triss pushed up her sleeves and prepared for a long session of healing. “ Hold her so she doesn’t hurt herself more. Healing bones is extremely painful and the burns won’t be much better.” Several hours and most of the flowers in the village later Triss was passed out in her bed, exhausted and Ciri was asleep in the den.

Geralt sat beside the woman and kept the fire going in the kitchen. He put his shirt back on but was too tired to even bother buttoning it as he leaned back in one chair and put his feet up in another. He finally took the time to really look at her and study her features now that she was stable. Her hair was fire red, her skin as pale as his own, and her eyes almost crystal green. She was tall, with long legs, slender but muscular build. He could tell she was used to hard work be it on a farm or as a servant. She had several scars on her back and legs that looked like she’d been whipped and beaten throughout her life and he wondered where she’d come from. He took her small hand in his large one. “Who are you m’lady and what drew me to you?” he asked.

[writersblockedx]

The End of What Could Have Been

Pairing - Jaskier x Fem!Reader Summary - Jaskier finally gives in at trying to flirt with his favourite barmaid - something that only makes her fall harder for him. Warnings - alcohol, mention of a brothel? Words - 2.1K

A/n - Hi, I’m back! I know I’ve been gone for a little while; writers block has been killing me. But I’m back at it again, hopefully back at posting regularly again.

Masterlist

It had become the cycle of the night. As the stragglers of the Inn began to make their way back to their own beds - or hay stacks for some of them - he would appear. Far too wide-eyed for this time in the night, lute strapped over his shoulder and a glistening smile most female bar keeps had never been able to resist. Well, most expect for yourself.

Jaskier was sweet, that was true, but he was equally greedy. And the whole town knew of it. The stories of his lewd behaviour with his several different partners were laced throughout his lyrics, right alongside the fantastical story of the Witcher and the many creatures the two fought off together. Though, with that very bard in front of you now, you struggled to believe he had the same strength of a Witcher.

"Same as always, Y/n." His elbows leaned against the wooden bar as he slid a couple of coins across for you. Always a couple extra for your own pocket.

You simply nodded your head in an act to show your acknowledgement of him before turning to gather a pint of beer for the bard. "Not in the mood for conversation tonight?" He questioned while you had your back turned.

You only said anything when the cup that was brimming with frothy ale was in your hand. "Not with you. Not tonight." Ever so bluntly, that snap in your tone slipped from your tongue as you placed the drink down in front of him with a thud.

He flashed his puppy eyes; he had gotten good at doing that. "And whys that?"

Your expression never faulted. You didn't dare. You had told yourself for almost a month while Jaskier had been playing at this pub that you wouldn't be one of the many to fall prey to his sweet smile and his even sweeter words. "Because the only conversation you want to have is one where it ends with you getting into my pants." You said it so sternly. So casual. Without a lick of embarrassment as if it were a passing comment, lacking any source of meaning.

But Jaskier's response had proved different. He stiffened and struggled to swallow the ale that lingered on his tongue. "Can't blame a man for trying." His response came a second too late - attempting to get over the initial shock that had stunned him too much to speak straight away.

"I can when, despite getting your answer, you're still trying." You didn't break. With every word, you lean slightly closer, till there were only inches between you.

"Well," He sighed lightly and leaned back, "I still haven't heard you tell me to stop."

You couldn't help but laugh, "I know you're a bard, but you're not stupid, surely."

"You didn't have to go there."  He quipped. "I personally don't think you want...this to stop." His words were as cautious as one in a sword fight. One wrong move and he was frightened you were about to stab him in the back.

For the first time, you became hesitant. You were uncertain. Of course, you could admit Jaskier did have that sweet smile and the charm to accompany such. He also was easy on the eyes, had a slick manner and was, as much as you hated to admit it, the type of bachelor you could see yourself spending the night with - or several. But he was infamous for such behaviour. He travelled from town to town, bed to bed, and you were not about to the 90th woman on his list. That of such, was what you refused.

So you shifted, and slipped back into your stern facade as if nothing had ever happened, like there had never been a blink of uncertainty. "This," You pointed between the two of you, "Never even started." Words so sharp they cut through Jaskier's heart like a knife to butter. While the man was fine to break others' hearts, his was too just as fragile and sensitive. And to hear such from a woman he had grown to admire over the weeks shook his core. With the words written out in front of him, he knew he could no longer ignore them.

And so you straightened your back and stared at the boy you were forced to resist. "You finish your ale, I'll close up." You announced, without any input from him. Normally, he would last at least another three drinks. But tonight, neither of you wanted the company of the other. The air between you had become tense and rigid. Air of which you were not in the mood to breathe.

So you took it upon yourself to make that decision. You started stacking the chairs around the pub, cleaning the sticky tables and making sure everything was as it should be. The only thing left was Jaskier. He took his final sip. He placed the cup back on the bar and let out a deep breath; he knew this was the end. This was the point in which you had drawn the line, you had told him no once and for all. And you had given him no choice but to listen.

There as he stood, he turned to you. At first, he looked you up and down, taking in the last of what remained—this night marked the end of what could have been. He locked eyes with you. Neither of you moved. Neither of you said a word. After that moment of acceptance passed, he provided a nod. With that, he left the Inn without a trace. That night, in your lonely bed, you struggled to sleep, plagued by the ever-yawning question of if you just made a mistake.

By the next morning, you came to face the consequences of your own actions. You strolled in for your shift as you always did to find the Inn relatively empty. In fact, more empty than it ever had been in the past month. The only ones to occupy the Inn were the same stragglers which never seemed to leave. It didn't take you long to figure out why; the lack of strumming music in the Inn was likely the culprit. And, after that conclusion, you came to assume that it was partly the fault of yourself and a certain encounter from the night before.

"No bard today?" You queried your boss, the Innkeeper, as he stood cleaning the wooden bar.

"No bard anymore." He answered. A part of your brain was tugged with curiosity, the other knew that you shouldn't want to know. You cut the ties. You were at fault. You should leave things as they were. "Get used to how things used to be. Just the regulars again." That was one, if the only, good thing about Jaskier: the customers he brought. You could never deny his lyrical beauty and the lull of his lute. So brilliant, in fact, it almost brought you a pay rise.

Your head dropped in thought. No matter how much you wanted to accept this, a part of you wondered if this decision came from a reaction of the night prior. "Where is he staying?" You spat the words out before you could stop yourself. "The bard?" You added, suddenly aware of how strange that question may sound to your boss.

To be expected, the man raised a brow, "I'm not sure," He shrugged his shoulders lightly. "That cheap Inn up the road probably. Or a bench." With that, the grumpy old Inn keeper turned his back to you, going back to sort out the several types of ales.

For a moment, you stared. But the thought nagged you too much; Why not? He was leaving, what else was there to lose? He was sweet, admirable and you couldn't help yourself. You had only wished you had realised such fact the night before. Without thinking twice, you left. You took off without another word and headed to that cheap Inn your boss had pointed to.

By the time you arrived, you came to realise it was perfect timing. Jaskier was getting ready to depart. He had a couple of bags hung over his shoulder as he slung them over a horse. His expression was, until you came into his sights, set into a stern hold. And then, a glint of wonder reached his face, and the very corners of his lips twisted upright just slightly. He wouldn't admit it yet, but he was happy to see you had come back to him.

"And the barmaid returns." He gleamed, trying to not let that smile on his face grow any more than it already had done.

You tilted his head at him, "You didn't tell me you were leaving last night." You stated, choosing it best to ignore his greeting.

"You think that would have changed how things went?" There. You caught it right as it happened; that flirtatious speck in his pupils that never seemed to leave him - sometimes, no matter who he was talking to. When he received only a stern expression in return, he sighed and changed his tone as if he had never made that comment. "I didn't know I would be leaving until after I left." He answered, honestly.

A moment of silence passed as you settled in the realisation. You only needed confirmation: "Was it what I said?"

Another grin graced his face. But not flirtatious or cheeky, rather bittersweet. "I know you're just a bard maid,  but you're not stupid." He reiterated your own words from last night.

For that, you swallowed the lump which had suddenly grown in your throat. Then, with a breath, you replied, "You don't have to leave, the money's good here, no?" You knew your boss must have been paying him a decent paycheck.

He shifted on his feet, "I don't like staying in the same place for too long." The boy admitted.

"Then why did last night change your mind?"

He took a moment and fought himself so as not to repeat what he had said prior. "Most of the time, I can find anyone to entertain myself with, no matter where I am. But," He paused, thought on his words as if they were of utter importance, "But just the way when I walked into your Inn-"

You cut him off, "You mean when I told you to piss off because we didn't like silly lute music being played?" Saying that now was laughable.

And Jaskier had let out a chuckle, "Yes, then. I thought you were a shell I wanted to break and I found myself not bothered with anyone else. Not even with the mistresses at the Brothal. I wanted to get to know you and, I don't know, I looked forward to every night when I'd finish my set and it would be just the two of us in the bar." He explained, him too going off the idea of what else was there to lose now? "You didn't want me and it made it all the more enticing. To fight with the idea of hatred boarding on love was something intoxicating and it only made me want you more."

And, honestly, you were at a loss for words. It wasn't often many people spoke to you in such a poetic way, with such romance trickled into their words as it rolled right off the tongue like smooth butter. Most of the time, you were only met with drunk stragglers, boarding their words on sexual harassment. So this was only a breast of fresh air and you were indulging in it like it was some sort of drug.

When you looked back to Jaskier, you were at a loss for words. You weren't quite the lyricist he was. "I think-" You took a breath as if it were giving you the courage needed in that very moment. "I think I did want you. Oh, I know I did. But a bard who, as you said is always on the move, wasn't something I could get involved in." Like that, a weight slipped from your shoulders like melting ice.

Jaskier took a step forward, cautious in his action. When you showed no sign of disregard, he settled. "You've no idea what I would change just so you would get involved with me." There, his flirtatious smile return. And, this time, you couldn't resist it.

He started leaning in and rather than stopping it, so did you until your lips met in a soft embrace. It was long overdue and you could see how addicted you could get to that feeling if you weren't too careful. But a part of you had started to put trust into Jaskier - you just preyed the bard would never break it. As now, this was the start of something. Something neither of you wanted to ever end.

[annmarcus63]

An ugly, translucent shape opened at the gates of Kaer Morhen. A portal. Mercenaries and a mage, the firefucker.  The witchers defend their home and their cub, but they're too many. Ciri gets badly wounded and Rince is about to drag her through the portal, away from her home, away from her family. Geralt feels terror, they can't take her. The wizards fight with all their might, eliminating them one by one in a matter of second. A defeated Rince mocks them and before fleeing, he reaches into the portal to pull out a person who instantly falls to the ground. 

"This one sang beautifully, witcher. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have found Princess Cirilla. And her blood" the mage's face twisted into a crooked smile as he looked at his blood covered dagger. Blood holds power, especially Ciri’s. But before Rince can escape, Lambert appears out of nowhere, taking him by surprise to cut off his head instantly. 

On the ground there's a shaking figure. 

A pair of frightened eyes looks around. Jaskier. Geralt had not seen the bard for years, he tried not to think about him either. But Ciri is wounded, bleeding and whimpering for Geralt because it hurts too much. The witchers carry the princess inside without looking back, to the shaking man on the ground. Geralt and Eskel heals Ciri as much as they can. She's going to be alright.  

Later, he sees Vesemir, through Ciri's bedroom window, approaching a shrunken figure at the stables and after a few breaths said figure following the aged witcher inside the fortress. 

Jaskier is there the next morning, sitting in the dining hall, shoeless and wearing simple clothes that are too big for him. But he doesn't want to see him, he can't, Ciri almost died because Jaskier was the one who gave the information to Rince. With a shrinking heart, Geralt turns away to find something to occupy his mind while Ciri recovers. 

-

Guilt is eating Jaskier up, even the pain cannot compensate for his heavy conscience. He hides his hands in a pair of thick gloves that rub against his burned skin, but it is worse to have them exposed. He had never been to Kaer Morhen before, but he had never imagined it would be like this. He never imagined he would be an outsider, a traitor. 

He finds a pretty good room, it's small and only has a hole in the wall, so it's not so cold. The wolves are uneasy, uncomfortable with his presence and he totally understands it. Geralt has barely given him a glance. Eskel is kind, he smiles at him whenever they run into each other and even gives him a pair of boots and a cloak.

The day after his arrival he spends the day working on the stables, cleaning and feeding the horses, it's not an easy task due to his damaged hands but he can manage. In the afternoon, Jaskier goes inside and sits down in front of the fire in the hall to warm his freezing bones. Not too close, of course. 

Geralt and Lambert enter speaking in hushed voices, Jaskier makes himself as small as possible so as not to attract attention. He's the prey. They are talking about Ciri, she is apparently well and that is reassuring. And suddenly...

"Shh, It's not safe to talk here." It takes him a few seconds to register what Lamber said.  Jaskier looks up to find two pairs of yellow eyes, predator's eyes, looking down at him with weariness. Something breaks inside him, something essential, it could be his core, his heart at the very least. In a hurried move he stands and leaves the room to find another place to get warm. 

At night the pain is too much to bear. He can't sleep and he's so damn tired so he cries for a while until he decides he’s had enough. He leaves his room barefoot so as not to alert the witchers and a single oil lantern to light the dark corridors of the keep. He wanders around for a while until he finds the lab, surely there must be something here to help ease his pain? he sniffs every jar and bottle whose contents seem familiar when a voice calls "If you smell that one you'll die" Jaskier yelps, turning around. 

Vesemir is at the door 

"I...I...I wasn't doing anything wrong, and maybe that's not the smartest thing to say. I'm sorry, I’ll just...go" 

"...what do you need?" 

"Something for the pain" The witcher approaches a cabinet 

"What kind of pain?" 

Jaskier is biting his lips to decide whether to tell the truth or... "Bard" Vesemir scolds him. 

"...burns" Vesemir stops to turn to look at him, his heavy eyes landing on the gloves on his hands. The witcher resumes his search and in a couple of minutes spent in silence he hands Jaskier a vial full of white stuff.  

"Thank you" Jaskier smiles sincerely. 

"Put shoes on or you'll lose your feet too" 

He cries all the way back to his room. 

The salve helped a little, but he still couldn't sleep. He's so tired and he doesn't want to be here anymore. He wonders if the snow is thick enough to kill him if he leaves in the night. 

It's hard to peel potatoes and Eskel notices upon entering the kitchen. "Are you ok?" says signaling the odd way in which he's holding the knife. Jaskier smiles at Eskel with a nod, afraid that if he speaks he won't be able to stop. The witcher is handsome even with the scar that splits his face. He has a quiet air about him that makes the bard sure that if they had met in different situations they’d surely be good friends. 

"You should go to the springs, the one in the middle will help you heal. Just don't go to the one on the right or you'll be burned alive" Jaskier flinches "Thank you, Eskel. I'll be sure to save you an extra portion of broth." the witcher laughs and pats the bard's shoulder before leaving. Jaskier wants to ask about Ciri but knows he has no right. 

-

Geralt is watching over his cub when he hears a door opening outside followed by unsure steps. Jaskier. He still hasn't decided if having the bard here is a good idea, he doesn't trust him, not quite. Eskel says he is too hard on him, also says he's injured to some extent. Geralt makes sure that Ciri is completely asleep before he follows the bard. He's in the springs. It is too late at night for another witcher to be there too, so Geralt decides that this may be the perfect opportunity to finally talk to him. To question him about his betrayal, even if it pains Geralt to know the answer. But he stands frozen in the entrance, Jaskier's back is turned to him, naked.  Hand marks decorate the bard's back, ugly burns across his arms that have not fully healed. 

Something breaks in Geralt and he is overcome by an unbearable grief and anger towards himself, towards Rince. The witcher watches as Jaskier removes one of the gloves. How had he not noticed the gloves? To reveal a completely burned hand, missing pieces of flesh and blackened areas beyond repair. The bard is weeping quietly, even the touch of the air causes him immense pain. Geralt gulps, wishing he could rewind the time, lift Jaskier off the ground and ask him if he was all right. He wants to turn back time to never shout those cruel words at him on the mountain.  

[imrockbottom]

Fanfic Rec List

Some of the fics I've loved most since the start of the year and my 2024 Fanfic Reading Challenge.

The Reanimator of Rosemerrow

by Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness (@cap-sweet-and-salty-sadness); Geraskier, E, 34855 words

In 1819, Jaskier accidentally buys an old abandoned inn in the middle of nowhere, England. Haunted, as if this mountain of dust and debris wasn't already enough of a problem. At least he has a handsome carpenter to help him renovate it.

briar & bone

by griesly, inflomora and Lama; Steddie, E, 44590 words

Ten years ago, jaded rock star Eddie Munson made a terrible mistake. Cursed by a fae to take a hideous, bestial form, he retreats from the world into a mansion in the middle of nowhere, while the curse begins to spread. Stranded in a snowstorm after a car accident, Steve Harrington is forced to seek shelter in the house every child in Hawkins knows and fears. What he finds inside will change the course of his life - and the monster within.

That Which Dwells At Ash Manor

by frankie_31, Steter, E, 23392 words

After agreeing to a marriage of convenience to save Peter Hale's reputation and his own father's coffers, Stiles finds himself Lord of Hale Manor. He is met by a strange collection of folk within the gloomy manor and a widowed omega who wants little to do with him. Stiles is stranded in a trap of his own making, a prisoner to the peculiar, storm-razed lands of the Hale estate and to the frightening manor within which something secret and dark lies. Stiles navigates the turbulent family within the manor while chasing the ghosts that haunt it's halls. Love is not anything he expected to find in his dark, vicious omega and Stiles begins to think he never will.

Custom Made

by stfustucky (@stfustucky); Geraskier, E, 122787 words

Jaskier was kidnapped by Cat witchers, mutated and trained into the perfect sex slave. He comes into Geralt's possession completely by accident and Geralt swears that he would never take advantage of Jaskier that way... except that somewhere in the midst of all the mutations done to him, Jaskier's body has stopped craving sex and starts needing it. When he begs that beautifully, when he smells that tantalizing, there's really no choice but for Geralt to give Jaskier everything he wants.

Shackles

by LadyInStarlight; Radiodust, E, 44214 words

Angel is mortified when Charlie approaches him and suggests that maybe his…flirtations…are making Alastor uncomfortable. Naturally, he stops. After all, there’s nothing more embarrassing than chasing a man who isn’t all that into you. Alastor doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. Smut ensues.

Laufey's Mate/ Ice Maiden/ Laufey's Bride (It wound up with three titles)

by Icemaidenstory; Laufey/Loki, E, 135371 words

Loki was born right at the end of the war and was given to Laufey as his betrothed. That's why he is marked with Laufey's family scars, it was a part of the ceremony. The final stage of their marriage is the consummation which would have happened when Loki came of age. Then Odin showed up, totally misread the scars and took Loki away. Fast forward to the events of the movie, only this time Laufrey sees Loki get grabbed and turn blue. He realises what has happened and grabs Loki off the battlefield to claim him before Thor figures out what is going on.

Dereliktion

by AMidnightDreary; Frostiron, E, 203592 words

When the second prince buys him as his personal pleasure slave, Tony is quite certain that he's fucked. It goes both better and worse than he expects.

Echo

by ravenbringslight (@kingthunder); Geraskier, E, 29599 words

Jaskier loses his voice the morning after a concert. As he and Geralt find new ways to fill the silence between them, they realize it isn't only Jaskier's voice that's been lost—and getting it back will bring them closer than they've ever been before.

5 Times Dream Was a Complete Weirdo About Wanting Intimate Contact + 1 Time He Actually Asks Like An Adult

by YarvaDaemonicusEtrigan; Dreamling, E, 16357 words

Dream has noticed that Hob likes to absently play with fidget/sensory toys. Dream would like to be played with too. Dream is bad at articulating his wants and needs. Things get stupid, but fortunately, Hob is very indulgent and open minded. In other words; this is total crack fic about Dream manifesting different stim toys as his junk so Hob will touch him. Enjoy the madness.

[thedemonofcat]

When Jaskier was a small child, he had wandered away from his mother during an afternoon in the garden.

He was found by a group of Fae who mistook him for a doll to play with. Frightened, Jaskier tried to sing the lullaby his mother always sang to him.

This turned out to be a mistake, as the Fae cursed him. "That is the wolf's home; he shall turn into a dandelion."

Jaskier didn't think about the curse for years, almost forgetting it until Geralt brought him to Kaer Morhen.

One night there, Jaskier woke up coughing up petals.

[changenameno]

My Own (Chapter 3)

Summary:

Geralt finds himself once more on the path, gloomily looking at what lies ahead.
And you? You had no one, no home and certainly no coin. Well that’d be something you had in common. No coin. You two are surely off to a great start…

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem. Nymph Reader

Warnings: 18+, cursing, angst, accidental flashing, sexual tension, MDNI (there will be smut in the future)

Word count: 1.2 K

A/N: Okay so they are finally interacting with each other and sexual tension ensues. Again all reblogs and comments are much appreciated (please be kind though)! Hope you enjoy reading!❤️✨

(FYI: This won’t follow the exact timeline of the Witcher. But Geralt has met Jaskier already.)

!The Witcher characters and world are not mine!

 

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

(In case you’ve missed CHAPTER 2)

 

CHAPTER 3

With a start you woke up, sitting bolt upright.

Pulse racing, rapidly taking in your surroundings. At the moment your thinking capabilities were sluggish at best though.

Geralt didn’t dare move, frozen in his hunched over position by the fire, sharp eyes fixed on you.

Clearly you’d been out for quite some time, as the heat of the day had vanished and been replaced by the cooling dark cover of night. Next you noticed a horse, standing in front of you. Whose was that?

Suddenly the hairs in your nape stood on end, someone was watching you. So you twisted your upper body to look behind. There, by a happily crackling fire, squatted a hunk of man with white hair, wearing all black.

Trying to calm your obvious unease, the Witcher smiled at you. Instantly regretting it, as he only received a very frightened look from you in return. Striking eyes, scanning his more than slightly battered body. Shockingly, none of that diminished his ravishing good looks whatsoever.

Cautiously you turned around completely, sitting on your knees now facing him, “Who the fuck are you?”

If it weren’t for the palpable tension between you two, Geralt would have laughed, especially at the peculiar wording of your question.

Instead he remained frozen in his spot, not wanting a repeat of what had happened earlier, since his whole face still hurt somehow. Shifting his unrelenting stare up and onto your face.

His usually slitted pupils were blown wide, as he rasped,”Geralt of Rivia.”

You tilted your head sideways as if unsure, if he was telling the truth. Then you felt it, or rather didn’t feel it. The pain. It was gone. Confused, your left hand reached up, over your right shoulder, searching for the shaft you’d accidentally broken off.

There was nothing there anymore. “What did you..,” you started, only to be interrupted by his rich baritone, “I didn’t do anything, you- your blouse was like that already.”

“My blouse?” Now you were even more confused, what was with your blouse? Originally you’d wanted to ask what he’d done with the remains of the arrow.

Unthinkingly Geralt blurred out the first justification that popped into his mind,” I mean, you’re beautiful don’t get me wrong, but I’d never…you know…touch…I’d never do anything like that…to an unwilling… unconscious woman…ever.”

Still feeling fuzzy, you tried catching up, but had difficulty understanding what he was getting at. Not even registering what he’d called you. Sitting more upright, you noted that your right sleeve was barely hanging onto the rest of your garment.

Heat suddenly rolling through you in waves as you looked down at your chest. To your dismay the sleeve wasn’t only handing off your shoulder, it also hung incredibly low, up front. Exposing your right tit, down to your erect nipple.

Gasping, your hands scrambled to get a hold of what was left of your blouse, to cover all, that needed covering.

After snatching up the tatters, your gaze snapped up, glaring directly into Geralt’s stunned ambers.

Earlier he had naturally followed your movement, looking down your body a second time and taking in, just how much you’d revealed.

Unfortunately for him, this time he hadn’t averted his eyes fast enough. Having been caught red handed staring at your shapely tit, he felt a certain flame of arousal spike. Breeches all of a sudden a smidge tighter.

“YOU PERVERTED, little…,” you began yelling, outraged at the brazen ogling he’d done of your body. However slowly petering out, as Geralt had stood up, drawing closer. Now within reach and menacingly towering over you. Thus you finished the sentence with the least insulting thing you could come up with, “Snowflake?”

Kneeling before him made you feel absurdly small, especially because you were craning your neck, to be able to look at his face.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he levelled you with a glare; “What did you just call me?!”

Your body naturally reacted to his domineering presence, subtly rubbing your thighs together, however it didn’t escape the Witchers attention. An uncomfortable dampness had started to form between your legs.


Ignoring the blazing heat of your body, you blinked up at him with feigned innocence, “Snowflake?”

“Mmh. Really? And before that?”

You tried to suppress the sudden urge to whimper. Geralt’s laser focused eyes, fixed onto yours.

Clearing your throat, “Ehm, no-nothing.”

He shook his head in disappointment, then he harshly commanded, “Get up.”
Trembling, you rose to your feet, still being inexplicably turned on by this massive, angered man.

“Turn around,” he growled, sharp white teeth on display.

Bit by bit you turned, until you faced his chestnut coloured horse anew. You flinched as one of his big paws landed on your right shoulder, a small moan escaping your mouth. Mortified you held your breath, waiting on his next move.

His rough hand advanced more to the front, then it slowly descended, stopping when his fingers brushed yours, which held onto the fabric. Without delay he pulled it from your grasp. Before you could protest, he’d torn the sleeve in half, making you jump at the demonstration of his power.

Geralt had positioned himself so close to you, that his chest touched your back. Leaning down, his nose brushed against your ear. When you felt him breathe against it, your whole body became rigid.

Flaring his nostrils, he tried breathing in your scent. The one that had awoken him, this morning.

Rather than the unnatural sweet smell from before, there was another mixed into it. A musky, distinctly salty one. Your arousal. It made his mouth water. He wanted, nay needed to taste that sweet nectar of yours.

Though the hammering of your heart, brought him back, into the present.
He straightened his spine and nimbly pulled the tatters of your blouse up, knotting them together over your shoulder, as a makeshift sleeve.

Then a loud crunching noise sounded, as he’d stepped on a branch, making his way towards Roach.

A little embarrassed by your behaviour and wantonness, you drew in a few breaths to calm down enough to make sense of what had happened.

Geralt couldn’t really explain this sudden onslaught of lust either. But he had knowingly removed himself from the situation, from you. Before doing something he’d have regretted.

Not that he didn’t want you — because he obviously did, very much — but because you were special and he knew that. Felt it the moment he’d seen you. Therefore he could not, under any circumstances, fuck this up.


CHAPTER 4

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻



Taglist:

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[artistsfuneral]

part 18

"What really happened to me?" Geralt asks, his voice so deliberately neutral it makes Jaskier sick. Black dots dance across his field of vision. It's getting harder to breathe.

"You asked me to do it. And I didn't want to, of course I didn't want to,” he gasps, “but you told me you'd be fine- You promised- Geralt, you promi-” Jaskier's head falls to the side and hits the ground.

You see, the bard muses, the funny thing about time traveling is that it is very similar to passing out. Jumping through time is as easy as falling unconscious – you don't really have to think about it to do so and the more often it happens the better you get at not hitting your head. The catch though – because even if you're not literally caught there's always a catch, isn't it – is that no matter how many times it happens to you, waking up is always incredibly disorienting. So Jaskier can't really be blamed when he wakes up with his head in Geralt's lap and for a moment thinks that everything is alright again, that they're on the Path, camping somewhere out in the woods waiting for Ciri to join them.

Reality has never been that forgiving, so when the familiar wooziness leaves him it takes Jaskier's wishes and dreams with it. He gratefully accepts the waterskin that Geralt hands him after helping him sit up again and drains it in one go, before solemnly apologizing for passing out on the witcher mid conversation. Geralt doesn't say much at first, but Jaskier can see that there's a lot on the witcher's mind.

The silence between them is uncomfortably heavy and Jaskier can't stand it. Just as he's about to open his mouth Geralt finds his voice again. “It was blood magic.”

Their eyes meet. Geralt's golden orbs dark, almost angry and Jaskier's blue full of surprise. He remembered more. “It was a trap,” Jaskier fills the space in Geralt's thoughts. “The sorcerer was already dead, but Ciri wanted us to look for an artifact she needed. We- We thought it was safe. Good riddance, the place was already dusted over!”

“It made us careless,” Geralt adds, looking lost in his thoughts.

“It was my fault,” Jaskier says, full of anger. “I activated the curse, because I wasn't paying attention, but you-” His eyes met Geralt's again and he shook of anger and despair. “You told me not to worry! You told me you knew what you were doing, that I just had to trust you! And I did, I bloody fucking did because the walls were caving in around us and I was so fucking scared we wouldn't make it this time and I thought I would be fine with it, I thought if I died by your side it would be alright, but I just couldn't stop thinking about Ciri, about Yennefer, about your brothers, our family waiting for us to come home just to be frightened more and more every day we didn't show and I-” He gasps, ringing for breath as his body continues to shake uncontrollably.

“I stabbed you, Geralt. I put a knife through your chest, because you promised me it'd be fine. And I believed you, because you are the love of my life and I trust you to keep us safe.”

remember to like and reblog if you voted :)

Only two more parts 👀

Sooooo for the next story I was thinking you will have to navigate Jaskier through the wilderness to find Kaer Morhen? Eat the berries, Jaskier, it will be fiiiine, Jaskier. (possibly with someone in tow? Ciri, or Aiden? Or maybe a witcher turned into a child? 🤔🤔)

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[d-andilion]

a gesture

my first prompt for @whataboutthebard!

prompt: whump: destruction of sentimental property/theft, wuv: giving gifts, mending clothing

(geraskier, T, pre-relationship, s2 compliant, post-mountain angst, hurt!jaskier, hurt/comfort, 1k, read on ao3)

Geralt can’t for the life of him think how everything went so wrong. This was supposed to be a good moment. He was supposed to be presenting his bard with a thoughtful, timely, and very expensive gift. They were supposed to be making up for lost time, maybe mending some old wounds. Jaskier was supposed to be happy.

The bard is not happy.

Even if Jaskier’s body language—tight shoulders, clenched fists, eyes pitched low—weren’t enough to clue Geralt in, the refusal to lay so much as a finger on the instrument lying on the bed between them certainly does. Where he was lounging comfortably mere moments ago, Jaskier is now perched like a leaf on a cliffside waiting for the slightest gust of wind to send him toppling over, and the lute before him might as well be a gathering storm for the glare he gives it.

Geralt would never claim to be an expert on the subject, but he thought the lute was just fine when he purchased it at the market yesterday. It could never compare to the elven one Jaskier received all those years ago, but nothing ever would. Surely the bard knows that. If he is waiting for another ancient heirloom from the elven people to fall into his lap, he’ll be waiting until the end of time.

This one is a perfectly good replacement. It’s used, but in good shape to Geralt’s eye, and the merchant was spoken highly of when he asked around. The finish is intact, the strings are brand new. It even has delicate yellow flowers embroidered into the shoulder strap. Geralt had thought it a fine gift. A chance for him to show Jaskier that he’s trying.

But Jaskier hates it. Worse, he almost looks frightened of it.

“You’re upset,” Geralt says, forever stating the obvious.

“I’m not,” Jaskier replies, smiling tightly. Geralt suppresses a frustrated groan.

“You don’t like it? Is it… I don’t know, the wrong wood?” The merchant said spruce was standard, but Jaskier has always liked to be different. Would be have preferred pine? Cherry? Do those kinds of lutes even exist?

“No, it’s lovely,” Jaskier says, though he makes no move to retrieve the instrument. “Thank you very much, darling.” 

Jaskier isn’t lying about that, Geralt can hear as much, but he clearly isn’t pleased. On the contrary, he looks to be at the brink of tears, and he’s rubbing his fingers together the way he does when he’s nervous. It’s a new tick of his, one more thing about him that Geralt has had to relearn since their parting. Jaskier does it all the time now, even when his hand was still bandaged from his run-in with—

With the fire fucker. Fuck.

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand but the bard snatches it away. It stings more than it should. Another reminder of all the liberties he hasn’t yet earned, the ones he once took for granted.

“You told me you were healed.”

“I am,” Jaskier lies, heart skipping.

“Let me see.” Geralt holds out his hand, an offer this time rather than a demand. Jaskier doesn’t accept it.

“It’s fine. See?” Jaskier waives his hand quickly in front of his face before tucking it into his lap. “Barely a scar.”

“But it’s still bothering you.”

That earns a hollow laugh. 

“Does it hurt?” Geralt presses.

“It doesn't anything anymore, Geralt!” The admission yanks at whatever remains of Jaskier’s composure, bringing an edge to his voice and a tear rolling down his cheek. He’s trembling a bit, anger and despair curling sourly in the air around them. 

“I have no feeling there,” Jaskier continues. “I... Sometimes I think I feel something, but it’s never real. It's gone.”

Geralt can’t think what to say to that so he says nothing, letting the silence draw out into a long tense pause.

Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath. “This is the one thing I can do without ruining it. If can't do it anymore, I'd rather not find out. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Frustration with Jaskier for keeping this from him builds and dissipates in a single breath. The bard has always been quick to hide his hurts, terrified that Geralt would leave him behind. And he did, didn’t he? Things have been better since Voleth Meir, Geralt thinks, but he has hardly earned the full breadth of Jaskier’s trust yet. Not even close, he wagers.

If things weren’t so broken between them—if Geralt hadn’t been the one to break them—he might have some hope of offering Jaskier the comfort he so clearly craves right now. Tactile is Jaskier’s base state of being, even more so when he’s upset. But now he pulls away, curling in on himself instead of reaching out for Geralt the way he has so many times before. 

Geralt doesn’t dare reach for Jaskier again, but he lays his hand on the blanket between them, beside the offending lute, a gesture of whatever Jaskier will accept from him right now.

“You don’t ruin things, Jaskier.” It earns him a watery smile he probably doesn’t deserve. Geralt returns it with a small grin of his own. “You know how to play like you know how to breathe. If you practice, you might get the feel of it again.”

“Maybe,” Jaskier agrees. He doesn’t look quite convinced, but not entirely hopeless either. Geralt can work with that. “I need a bit more time, I think.”

Geralt nods. He can give Jaskier time. “And this?” he asks, nodding to the lute. It looks imposing now in a way it wasn’t before.

Jaskier picks the instrument up with shaking hands and sets it in his lap. It doesn’t look quite at home and neither does Jaskier, but Geralt is certain that will change. It has to change.

“Might as well keep it, hm?” Jaskier smiles. “It really is lovely.”

“Not sexy, though?”

The bard laughs brightly at that and it drenches the room in warmth. He holds the lute a little firmer. “Maybe a bit sexy.”

~~

w.a.t.b. masterlist

[fangirleaconmigo]

I Will Bring You Ruin

Prince!Jaskier x Gladiator/Bedwarmer!Geralt AU

Please see the masterpost for all of the TWs.

Part 9

Geralt is standing naked in his cell, arms at his side.

He hears the prince’s haughty voice outside. He is doing well with the guards. Sure, he sounds angry and slightly unstable. But it works, given that he is supposed to sound angry at Geralt. 

When he bursts into the room, the remnants of his arrogance still swirling around him, Geralt is standing before him naked.

The prince falls backwards his descent only aborted by the closed door.

“Oh my,” he croaks. “Oh, my.”

Geralt stalks towards him, and stops, about an arms length away. The prince stutters and stumbles over his words. He is insensible.

Geralt is enjoying it far too much. 

“No, but no.” Lust pours off of him, but also something else. Geralt isn’t sure what it is. It could be love. Whatever this prince thinks love is.  “You. You don’t have consent. I don’t have choice. No. Um. I mean. Bad.”

He is babbling. His face is flushed and his pupils are dilated. 

This is the moment that Geralt meant to kiss him tenderly and convince him that he had feelings for him. True feelings. The this was a freely given choice. That the prince had won his heart. Then he meant to drop to his knees. 

But there is something else in Geralt’s breast. It is a wolf. The prince’s charming refusal and gallant horror is like raw meat in it’s jaw. Geralt looks at the soft expanse of the prince’s neck and the wolf gnashes its teeth in want.

So, Geralt does something else. It is something he hadn’t planned, but it is something that he actually wants to do.

He walks over to pick up his shackles. He stands in front of the prince, almost touching his clothed body with his nude one, dangling the chains near him. He looks down into his handsome, royal face, close enough so that they breathing the same air. The prince’s heaving chest almost meets his when he sucks in breath to steady himself.

“This is how you will prove to me that you are willing to give me free choice. This is how you will give me power. Ultimate power. Put them on.”

The prince is trembling. He forces a dry swallow, and looks into Geralt’s eyes. 

Geralt wishes he could stop himself. This is idiotic. He is supposed to be simpering. He is supposed to be flattering. This aggressive little stunt will run the prince off for good. But, just like his mentor always says, he is ruled by emotion when he should be ruled by good sense. This is what he wants to do. And he is sick of not being allowed to do what he wants.

Geralt waits. The prince’s expression very slowly transforms, as he holds Geralt’s gaze. It solidifies into resolve. Into something deeply stubborn. 

He takes the shackles from Geralt’s hands. Without breaking eye contact, he clasps each of them onto his wrists with a metallic click. Geralt can feel the finality of each click in his spine. 

Geralt never scents fear from the young man. It is beginning to frighten Geralt. But he steels himself. 

When the prince is done, Geralt glances down at the ankle shackles. He holds his breath.

The prince kneels and clicks them on. 

Geralt looks down at the prince and clears his throat. He can see much from this angle. He sees the broad noble shoulders flex. He sees expanses of chest hair in the opening of his shirt. The man looks back at him with the widest eyes Geralt has ever seen. 

Geralt lets out the wolf.

----

I am taking so long to write this, I thought I'd give you guys another draft chapter so you know I am actually working on it.

I have about 33k of real, completed fic written, plus drafts for like ten more chapters. It is coming along, and I think you guys are gonna like it. I hope. Fingers crossed.

[medusapelagia]

Family Dinner

This was supposed to be an entry for an event... but I just realised that the story should have been canon-compliant.

Ops.

Well, here is a whump Modern Alternative Universe Witcher fic!

Rating: Mature Relationship: Jaskier/Gerlat WT: gun violence, blood and injuries, injury recovery, violence, hospital, blood Words: 1166

It’s not the first time that Geralt has been hurt, but it’s the first time he almost died on Jaskier's watch.

Eskel asked him so many times how that could have happened and Jaskier as no answer to that.

They were walking toward Jaskier's apartment, chatting about the pleasant dinner they had with Geralt’s family, it was the first time Geralt introduced Jaskier to them and the young singer was really worried about that, but his family was warm and welcoming, well apart from Lambert, Geralt young brother, but Jaskier wasn’t worry about that. Lambert was jealous and he could totally understand that. He was already thinking about how he was going to win the young boy’s heart when Geralt stopped so abruptly that Jaskier bumped into him and finally noticed that they were surrounded.

One of the boys started to insult Geralt, calling him a pig for being a policeman, and then another aimed the gun at them.

After that, it was the chaos.

One of the boys shot at them and Geralt shielded Jaskier with his body, before falling trying to reach for his gun with a scared and desperate expression on his face, and Jaskier never felt guiltier in all his life because, at that very moment, he realized that he has asked Geralt not to bring his gun at a family dinner.

That’s when Jaskier started to scream.

When Gerald was lying on the pavement in a pool of blood, and Melitele listened to his prayers and sent Eskel, Geralt’s older brother.

“There was so much blood…” Jaskier keeps repeating while they are waiting at the hospital. His clothes and his hands are still covered in Geralt blood, but whenever anyone tries to propose to him to clean up a bit he refuses and starts to scream so loudly that nobody insists “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” Jaskier insists, looking at his hands “I told him not to bring the gun. I told him that it was just a dinner. I told him…”

Eskel squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder “It’s not your fault, ok? You weren’t the one holding a gun. You weren’t the one waiting for him with a bunch of criminals to take vengeance. It’s not your fault, ok? Jaskier, look at me. Please.” The man begs, and the young boy slowly lifts his face turning toward Geralt’s brother, but before Eskel can comfort him anymore Lambert, who has gotten to the hospital with their father, stomps in the room.

“It’s all your fault! If you weren’t there he could have got rid of those morons in a blink of an eye! But no! You had to be there, right? You had to suggest to take a shortcut! You had to tell him not to bring a gun. You are a fucking hippie and that almost killed my brother!” Lambert yells and his screams reverberate in the entire hall.

Jaskier tries to make himself even smaller, hiding his face behind his hands, but they are still covered in blood and all he can do is stare at his hands in horror, his breath coming in faster and faster.

“Jaskier, you have to slow down your breathing.” Someone is saying, but Jaskier feels underwater, the noises are muffled and his vision is tunneling.

“Boy. Look at me.”  A stern voice tells him, and Jaskier turns his head when he feels cold hands cupping his face “Good.” An old man murmurs to him, like he is a frightened animal “Can you take a deep breath for me?” the man tells him and Jaskier nods, he would do whatever this man would ask him to “Good boy.” He praises him while he takes his first trembling breath. It’s not deep enough but somehow Jaskier’s chest feels less constricted.

“Another one. In and out. Slowly.” The man commands and Jaskier does exactly what he asks from him and slowly the room gets back into focus.

“What…”

“A little panic attack. Nothing to worry about.” The man smiles at him, sitting next to him, and at that moment Jaskier notices that Eskel is not there.

“Eskel?” He asks, confused.

“He and Lambert got outside a bit, to take some fresh air.” The man replies, squeezing Jaskier’s leg.

“I’m sorry. Lambert was right… It’s all my fault.”

“It is not, kid. And I’m glad you are fine. Do you want to know why?” Jaskier nods softly “Because I know my kid will be ok, but I’m not sure he would have ever been ok if something happened to you. He likes you, Jaskier, he likes you a lot.” The old man says looking at the young singer in the eyes.

“I…We… we just met. I mean… we have been together for just a couple of months…”

“You are the first that Geralt brought into the family. And family means something to us.”

Jaskier lowers his eyes, he knows nothing about families. His parents didn’t want him and abandoned him when he was born and he moved from a foster home to another until he came of age and finally got out of the system and started to play in the underground for a few coins.

That’s how he met Geralt. The policeman was supposed to ask him to move, and he did, but he asked him if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee with him after his shift and Jaskier agreed.

“My kids… they are not mine. Not by blood.” Vesemir says, turning his head “They have different stories and come from different families, but it doesn’t matter to me. They are my kid. And they feel the same. We are family. But we also know that the family is precious and must be protected at any time. That’s why I’m telling you that you are special to him.” Vesemir squeezes Jaskier’s leg again and then he gets up as soon as he sees his two kids getting back.

Lambert's eyes are as red and puffy as Jaskier’s when he gets closer to him and murmurs something that sounds like I’m sorry, but Jaskier is not really listening, he gets up and hugs the younger brother, crying on his shoulder and, after a moment of surprise, Lambert hugs him back, not caring about the blood that is tainting his coat.

They stay like that, holding on to each other until a doctor finally comes to talk with them and tells them that the surgery wasn’t an easy one but they manage to remove the bullets and that Geralt will fully recover in a few weeks.

When the nurse guides them toward Geralt’s room Jaskier is hesitant, he feels like he is intruding: he is not a family member after all. But Eskel takes his hand and drags him gently but firmly into the room, letting him sit in the plastic chair at the bed’s side.

When Geralt finally opens his eyes, hours later, the first thing he sees are Jaskier’s curls, and he smiles.