#geralt is overwhelmingly in love with jaskier

[proheromidoriyashouto]

witcher modern au where witchers have to put those colorful claw caps over their toe nails so they don't tear their work boots, floors and carpets, and blankets up by walking or instinct based kneading and they all absolutely hate it.

its their version of humans not wanting to touch their eyes even for medical reasons. melitele forbid they need to trim a hangnail or treatment for archspore fungus under their nails.

they will Ignore The Problem. this infection is for the job. i have too many toes anyway. i will just buy news boots more often. i did not stub my toe on the coffee table and start to cry. i am a Powerful Mutant.

Jaskier is sneaking the caps on Geralt when he's in a post-hunt potions crashnap. Ciri gets Geralt to trim them during 'spa day' pretend play because he can't deny his precious daughter anything, but always escapes before she can even glance at the glue because its so smelly, so Jaskier takes his turn to strike in the wee morning hours. (these ofieri rugs were a gift from the prince, geralt! you animal!)

Aiden is a fastidious groomer and forces himself into a salon chair because the smell of neglect is especially foul for a witcher and getting ahead of problems makes for an easier existence, but he's also not a complete degenerate like some Cats--read: Gaetan.

Lambert "happily" goes along with Aiden because he wants to make a good impression, and he likes to think he is the smartest of his brothers which would make destroying things he pays money for in a gig economy monumentally stupid, but his inner wolf is howling with misery the songs of his people the entire time a stranger is putting their hands on his pawsfeet. Aiden knows how much of a brave face he's actually putting on for his sake so rewards Lambert accordingly at home. (they have so many in-tact kneading blankets the other Cats think Something Is Up when they poke around)

Eskel grits his teeth and does the work himself often enough he doesn't have to wear the nail caps. The glue stench is overwhelmingly bad even after its cured, he can't imagine how Geralt's twice-mutated nose handles it. (he doesn't know Geralt doesn't do it himself and has to be "dog medicine pill wrapped in cheese and ham"-ed about it until after Jaskier goes an a rant after a particular tiff they've had. Eskel never lets Pretty Boy live it down.) People already don't like his face, the last thing he needs is people assuming he's as much a beast as they think witchers are by neglecting basic hygiene and the state of one's home.

Vesemir is an old dog of a witcher living in his mountain keep. He doesn't bother with that city-slicker nonsense and walks around barefoot. He only wears boots for jobs which he doesn't do much anymore, and if they rip, well, he can blame a monster. The floors of the keep were built with hard stone they'd be pressed to scatch if they tried so whats it matter. Until an old flame, the dignified and ever as lovely Countess Mignole, buys a home at the base of the mountain and suddenly it matters so much to be presentable. It is difficult to be a charming old man when your feet smell of neglected archspore infection strongly enough a human can be offput by it and you don't have boots that might last a day walking through town with a woman on his arm. (the boys and Aiden have to hold him down as he fights like a dying bear while Jaskier and Eskel Do Something about his horrible old wolf paws.) in the end, Mignole finds the assorted colors of the nail caps very charming indeed. Vesemir complains about it for the rest of his days when she's visiting the grandchildren out of town.

[madwickedawesome]

(on the left those r technically the same character ITS NOT A SHIP im going to go against my own wishes and merge both the game and netflix versions of this character bc i want to make him more general)

dandelion propaganda: ok so basically. dandelion is junocore first of all. but basically hes a bard and hes just SO dramatic like hes so fucking funny ill put this one photo of him below HE IS SO DRAMATIC. hes also a slut so like love wins and also hes canonically bisexual i do not fucking care what anyone says i decided its canon hes bisexual so get fucked. HES JUST SO SILLY IDEK WHAT TO SAY hes also just wildly codependent towards geralt who is like super cold and undramatic. so they create the funniest dynamic ever LKHDFFSKHSA OF dandelion trying to talk to him constantly and geralt being like Can You SHUT IT. which like ok couple goals. dandelion my fav annoying bitch

orpheus/eurydice propaganda: theyre made for each other. ok but anyways. orpheus is overwhelmingly junocore and it makes me upset HES JUST A BIG LOVESICK PATHETIC LOSER WHO LOVES HIS SONGS AND HIS WIFE like he Loves his wife he literally goes to hell and back for his wife and Nothing Goes Wrong Hahahhaha!!!!!!!!! but he has a lyre (guitar. in hadestown) and just sings his little songs to bring spring quicker and he has this one song that idek the title of but he just keeps going lalalalalallalaa and i can sing the FUCK out of that song. so it works. also eurydice is just like kind of cold initially bc shes being HAUNTED and everything is going wrong for her always except when she falls for orpheus. and god theyre just so in love it makes me so sad theyre in love nothing ever went wrong for thjemrn fbn bnb , . (sobbing actively)

dandelion photo below

[king-finnigan]

Geraskier prompt- geralt is in deep denial, and goes to a brothel and finds a mage who offers to give him a vivid vision his mind conjures up with his deepest desires for a few more coin. Geralt, intrigued, accepts and is blessed with none other that Jaskier and romance ensues. When geralt wakes up there’s major angst, then eventual fluff and smut :)

Despite what he always tells Jaskier, he really does enjoy the bard’s company. Sure, he never entirely shuts up, and if he does, he’s either humming or singing or tapping his fingers. It’s loud, and it’s annoying, and it took a long while for Geralt to get used to it, even longer for him to appreciate it. At some point, a few years ago, though, he realized he’d come to miss the bard whenever they’re apart.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from parting ways with Jaskier every winter, Geralt going to Kaer Morhen to spend the coldest season with his brothers, Jaskier most often going to Oxenfurt. And while, yes, he does miss Jaskier during those long, dark months, he has his brothers to keep his mind off the bard - repairing the run-down parts of the keep, training in the courtyard, bickering and nearly beating each other up from time to time - so the winters aren’t too bad.

It’s those weeks in between that are the worst. Those weeks when he leaves Kaer Morhen and heads to the south-west, in search of Jaskier. It’s those weeks when it’s almost too quiet for his mind to bear, the silence sneaking up on him, making him feel lonely and slightly jumpy, making him wish he just had Jaskier back already, someone to keep his thoughts from spiralling downwards into self-hatred. 

Jaskier’s always been good at that: keeping Geralt sane.

A few weeks after setting out from Kaer Morhen, he passes through a large town in Redania called Inerith. He decides to check the notice board for any contracts - after all, he’ll probably need the money, at some point; he can’t live off his supplies from Kaer Morhen forever. It’s empty, which is a bit strange for such a large town, but he figures it’s just a quiet neighbourhood. 

Well, the notice board is empty, save for one sheet of paper. It’s an advertisement for the brothel, at the corner of the main street. It offers the reader their ‘deepest, darkest desires’. ‘For only sixty crowns more!’ it announces cheerily. Geralt scoffs at the notion, though there is a certain curiosity stirring in his stomach. He thinks for a second, about how it’ll take another few weeks until he reaches Oxenfurt, until he’s no longer alone.

He sighs, and heads to the corner of the main street. Sure, it won’t chase away his loneliness completely, but a warm body next to him might keep him from getting stuck in his own head for at least one night. And, admittedly, he is a bit curious to find out what his ‘deepest, darkest desire’ is. Probably a good talk with someone he trusts, or a nice ale. Jaskier crosses his mind for a fleeting second, but he pushes it away, nearly laughing at his own ridiculousness. Sure, the bard is a good friend of his, but nothing more than that - just a friend.

He stops in front of the brothel. It’s a very nice building, with white walls and a purple door, large windows tempting passerbys to look inside, yet there are purple curtains blocking everything from view. He sighs, heading inside, and is greeted immediately by the madame. She looks him up and down, head tilted slightly in curiosity. 

“I will not allow permanent harm to be done to any of my girls or boys, Witcher. And hurting them costs extra.”

He frowns. “I’m not seeking to do harm to anyone. I’m merely seeking someone to keep me warm.”

She nods, face relaxing slightly. “I believe you. Forgive me for being so direct, but the rumours, you see...” Geralt nods. He knows about the reputation Witchers have, has had this talk with plenty of madames before. “So, a boy or a girl, tonight, Witcher? I might have to see who’s willing to bed you, but I think either can be arranged,” she continues, as she leads him to a spacious living room, filled with couches the same colours as the curtains, prostitutes lounging on them, casting curious glances in his direction.

It’s a good question, and he’s not really sure - he doesn’t really prefer one over the other. He looks at the covered windows, sees a hint of blue sky peeking out between two curtains, and without thinking twice, he says: “Boy.”

The madame nods. “Have you read about our special service, on the notice board?”

Geralt nods. “I have. What does it entail?”

She smiles at him. "A Mage will look into your mind, and conjure up a vision of your deepest desire, one you might not even know about yourself. It could look like an older person, or a younger person, or the hatefuck you’ve always wanted, or the person you’ve been too afraid to confess to. Of course, it’s just a vision, the whore stays the same underneath the glamour, but it’ll look and sound and feel like the real thing. Costs only sixty crowns extra, on top of the amount you already have to pay, of course.”

He stares at the wall behind her for a few seconds, biting the inside of his cheek, as he thinks. He’s not really sure what to expect, but he’s got the money and the curiosity, and he figures that if he doesn’t like it, he can always leave, so he turns his eyes back to the madame, nodding once.

She smiles. “That is arranged, then.” She snaps her fingers at a man with blonde hair and warm, brown eyes, laying on one of the couches. “Adrian, are you up for a Witcher, tonight?” 

The man- Adrian, stretches out, looking Geralt up and down for a few seconds, and the Witcher can smell a hint of lust trickling through the heavy perfume of the room. “Certainly am,” Adrian says, before standing up, sauntering over to Geralt, laying a hand on his chest. “He’s a fine one, this Witcher,” he mutters to the madame, and she nods in agreement. “So,” the whore whispers, leaning up a bit to meet Geralt’s eye, “did you take the special service?”

He swallows thickly, then nods, earning him a soft chuckle from Adrian.

“Curious to see what the big, bad Witcher desires most,” he purrs into Geralt’s ear, before stepping back, extending his hand, which Geralt takes. “Come on, big boy, let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”

Geralt follows Adrian up the stairs, towards one of the rooms. It’s spacious and quite luxurious, painted white, with a bed the same purple as the curtains downstairs, but Geralt doesn’t really pay attention to it too much. Adrian lets him in, but keeps the door open, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes hungrily taking Geralt in. “Just a minute, Witcher. Have to wait for the Mage, first.”

Well enough, a few seconds later, Geralt hears footsteps approaching them, a middle-aged man appearing in the doorway. The Mage rubs his hands together, pulling his eyebrows up at Adrian, who nods in confirmation. 

“Alright,” the Mage mutters, extending his hand towards Geralt, palm flat, fingers slightly spread. “Ready whenever you are, master Witcher.” Geralt frowns, but steps closer, letting the Mage touch the side of his head with his fingers, before the man reaches out and holds on to Adrian’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Geralt feels dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He gasps for air, his vision going white for a couple of seconds. The hand on the side of his head disappears, and he hears footsteps, before a door is closed softly.

He feels a gentle hand against his cheek, callouses on the fingertips, and it grounds him back into reality, calms him down. 

“Geralt, are you alright?” a familiar voice asks, and his eyes snap open. The Mage is gone, and so is Adrian. Instead, he sees Jaskier, blue eyes staring at Geralt with concern, his familiar scent of roses and lemon tingling in the Witcher’s nose. 

“Jaskier?”

“If that’s who you want me to be, then yes.”

He frowns, thoroughly confused, until he remembers what the madame had said. Sure, he may look, feel, and smell like Jaskier, but it’s not him - it’s still Adrian. But fuck, if it doesn’t seem so incredibly real - if it doesn’t seem like Jaskier is right there, in the room with him, like they never parted ways for the winter at all. He hadn’t expected the bard to be his deepest desire, but now that he’s here - now that it looks like he’s here - smelling of himself and arousal, Geralt can’t deny that he wants this, more than anything.

He contemplates running for the door, getting the hell out of here before he complicates the friendship he has with Jaskier, when Jaskier- Adrian, steps towards him, plastering himself against Geralt’s chest, lithe arms wrapping themselves around his neck. “How long, Witcher?” He even fucking sounds like Jaskier.

“Months,” Geralt replies, hands settling on Jaskier’s- Adrian’s hips off their own accord, and he feels warmth seeping into his skin. “It’s been months since we last saw each other.”

Jaskier- Adrian, godsdammit, tuts, nose brushing against Geralt’s. “Not what I meant, darling. How long have you wanted me?”

His breath catches in his throat when Jaskier’s lips brush over his. “Years,” he manages to choke out, before he pulls the bard closer, kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t - because it certainly feels like he will. Years of tension, of longing looks he wasn’t even aware he was casting, of secret dreams of the bard’s body against his, shattering as Jaskier softly moans into his mouth, opening his lips and inviting Geralt to deepen the kiss. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more, as Jaskier moves one hand down, palming Geralt’s already hard cock through his trousers, making the Witcher gasp slightly. 

“Gods, you’re so big, Geralt,” Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier mutters, nipping at Geralt’s lower lip. “Wonder if that’s all going to fit, darling.”

“I- you... you don’t have to,” he whispers, shivering slightly as Jaskier runs a soft finger along his cock, rubbing the head gently through the fabric, barely more than a tingle.

“I want to, darling. Want to split myself open on your cock, see if I can come on it untouched.” He bites his lower lip, lashes fluttering slightly in excitement. “Have been waiting for this for years,” he whispers. 

The illusion breaks for just a second, then, as Geralt remembers that this is not really Jaskier, this is not his dearest friend who he’s known for decades. This is Adrian, a whore who he paid to fuck. He’s about to pull back when Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier drops to his knees, tongue hot and wet against the fabric of Geralt’s trousers, and he groans at the sensation, threading his fingers through brown curls - Gods, they feel as soft as they look.

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, looking up at him through thick lashes, “want to suck you so bad, feel you come in my mouth.”

He has to choke back a needy sound, and nods, lets Jaskier unlace his trousers, lets lithe fingers pull out his painfully hard cock. Jaskier gives him two long, languid strokes with just the right amount of pressure that it leaves Geralt’s head spinning, nimble fingers catching beads of precum, smearing it out across his skin.

“Fuck,” he utters, fingers tightening in those brown curls. “Please, I need you-” He groans, deep and guttural when Jaskier wraps his lips around the head of his cock, sucking harshly - bordering just on the right side of painful - before letting go again.

“Gods, Geralt, I love hearing you beg.”

He chuckles, wiping some stray hair away from Jaskier’s forehead, as those familiar, blue eyes look up at him, pupils blown wide. “Of course you do.” He sighs softly as Jaskier kisses the tip of his cock, lips catching a bead of precum. “Fuck, please, Jaskier, need you so bad, please-” His sentence is choked off again, as Jaskier takes him in his mouth, sinking halfway down, before moving back, taking Geralt’s cock deeper with every slow bob of his head.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the soft pressure of Jaskier’s mouth, combined with his slow movements, not enough to bring him closer to the edge, but enough to drive him insane; those searing, blue eyes, continuously staring at him, even as tears glaze them over whenever Geralt’s cock hits the back of his throat; or the knowledge that this is all just a beautiful illusion.

It’s the last realization that makes something in him snap, and he grabs the back of Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s head, stilling him. “Tap my thigh if you want me to stop,” he says, and Jaskier nods obediently, clearly aware as to what’s coming. Jaskier lets himself go slack, hands holding on to Geralt’s thighs but doing nothing more - just holding on - spit starting to drip down his chin, as Geralt starts moving his head, up and down his cock.

The hands around his thighs clench a bit, the first time Jaskier chokes, but he soon relaxes again, lets Geralt fuck into his mouth, blue eyes falling shut, his own cock straining against his trousers.

“Fuck- feels so good, Jask,” Geralt mutters, cock twitching at the soft moans Jaskier lets out, at the wet sounds that come out of his throat every time the Witcher thrusts deeper. Way too soon for his own liking, he finds himself near his climax, and he pulls Jaskier’s head back, off his cock, ignoring the needy little sound the bard lets out.

“Jaskier, I’m going to-”

“Please, Geralt, come in my mouth, please. I want to taste you.”

“I- alright.” He lets go of Jaskier’s hair, and the younger man moves forward again, taking Geralt’s cock in his mouth with renewed fervor, sucking eagerly, and before soon, he feels himself hurtling over that edge, coming with a strangled “fuck!” 

Jaskier gently sucks him through his orgasm, before eventually pulling back when the pleasure starts to border on pain, making a show of swallowing, blue eyes staring up at Geralt intensely.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, softly petting Jaskier’s hair, who grins at him. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.” He moves his hand under Jaskier’s chin, and the bard stands up, letting Geralt pull him into a searing kiss. 

It isn’t long before Jaskier (not Jaskier) starts palming at Geralt’s cock again, though. “Need you, Geralt,” he whines against the Witcher’s lips. “Want you inside me.”

Geralt can’t help but grin at that, reaching down to put his hands around the back of Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier seems to get the message and jumps up, wrapping his legs around the Witcher’s waist, pulling him in for another kiss while Geralt carries him to the bed. 

He lowers Jaskier onto the soft sheets, the bard quickly undressing himself as Geralt does the same, settling between Jaskier’s legs afterwards. “How- how do you want...”

Jaskier sits up, pressing a soft hand against Geralt’s chest. “However you want.”

He swallows thickly. “Well, I don’t- I don’t know...” In all reality, he’s dreamt about this moment a billion times and now that he’s here with Jaskier (not Jaskier), he doesn’t really know what to do. All he knows is that he just wants to please the bard, in whatever way he can.

Jaskier sighs softly and rolls his eyes, though smiles anyways. “Alright, fine, I’ll decide, then.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second, contemplating his choices, arousal spiking in his roses and lemon-scent, before he turns around, his knees on the soft, purple sheets, head on his forearms. “Like this,” Jaskier whispers, looking over his shoulder. “I want you to fuck me like this.”

Geralt can’t help but smile, though softly, as he runs his palm along Jaskier’s spine, earning him a shiver. After a few more gentle strokes, he moves his hand towards Jaskier’s ass, resting just on top of it, the other pulling his cheeks apart. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, as he sees the round end of a wooden plug. “Oh, prepared, aren’t we?”

Jaskier grins over his shoulder, wiggling his ass softly, invitingly. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, taking the end of the plug between his fingers, tugging softly, earning him a sharp hiss and a spike in the scent of arousal, hanging heavily around them. “You’ve always been impatient.”

“Yeah, well, still am,” Jaskier huffs, attempting to move his hips, only stopped by Geralt’s hand, keeping him still. “Please, Geralt, I need you to fuck me, and I swear to all the gods, if you don’t do it right now, I won’t talk to you for a week.”

He chuckles softly, though a distant part of him wonders if the Mage planted Geralt’s memories of Jaskier into Adrian’s head, because good gods, does he sound exactly like the bard - from his accent, to his impatience, to the way he words his sentences. It’s uncanny, and he strains to fight the blurring of the lines between the whore in front of him and the real Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He looks up at Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s voice, soft and concerned, meeting searing blue eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods. “Fine,” he grunts, tugging at the plug, pulling the thickest part past Jaskier’s rim, to distract both himself and the bard- whore- bard. It works, and Jaskier lets out a breathy moan, Geralt’s cock twitching against his stomach in interest. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing the plug slightly back in again, before completely pulling it out, just to hear Jaskier moan.

“Sweet Melitele’s tits, Geralt. Please, please, just-” He keens, high and sweet and more beautiful than any music Geralt’s ever heard, when he pushes the head of his cock past Jaskier’s rim. “Oh, fuck, feels so good, please, pleasepleaseplease-” 

His begging dissolves into breathy moans and soft pants as Geralt pushes in further, until he’s completely seated, sparks of pleasure shooting through him as Jaskier twitches around him. He stills for a second, lets Jaskier get used to the size of him, forces himself to move back from that edge a bit, before he pulls his hips back, slamming back in. It earns him a loud moan, so he does it again, and again, and again, angling his hips differently every time, until he finally finds the spot that makes Jaskier scream.

“Oh, gods, oh gods, ohgodsohgodsohgods-” Jaskier (not Jaskier, dammit) mutters, body shaking with pleasure, cock steadily drooling precum on the purple sheets. Slowly, Geralt increases his speed, thrusts growing more and more shallow, until he’s barely pulling out anymore - though he finds he doesn’t need to, when Jaskier comes with a strangled shout underneath him, painting the sheets and his own chest white with cum. He clenches around Geralt, and the pressure is enough for the Witcher to come as well, groaning softly, stilling completely.

After a while, he pulls out, collapsing next to Jaskier, who has rolled onto his side, facing Geralt. He closes his eyes for a second, lets himself revel in that post-orgasmic haze, in the feeling of someone next to him, in the soft patterns long fingers without callouses trace into his chest. He frowns, the sleepy, content haze suddenly gone, and he looks to his side, finding Adrian looking back at him.

His heart shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, it really shouldn’t.

He gets out of there as fast as he can.

---

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself it wouldn’t change the way he looked at Jaskier. He told himself everything would be fine and he could go back to the way things were, as if nothing had happened at all. He told himself he could forget all about it.

He now knows he’s wrong, as Jaskier pulls him into a tight hug, grinning into Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! It’s so good to see you!” The bard pulls back, holding the Witcher at an arm’s length, blue eyes sparkling. “Something the matter, Witcher?”

Geralt blinks, tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s lips, forcing the memory of how they had looked wrapped around his cock to the back of his mind. He shakes his head. “Been a long journey, is all.”

Jaskier grins at him, looping an arm thought Geralt’s, dragging him to an inn at the corner of the main square of Oxenfurt, near the university. “I understand. Kaer Morhen is a long way away, my dear Witcher, so how about we get you some rest and a nice bath? I bet that’ll make you feel better.”

He knows it won’t, as he looks at Jaskier, and can’t stop his mind from wandering to that one night, a few weeks ago, but he lets himself be led to the inn, anyway.

---

He sits in the bath obediently as Jaskier dumps bucket after bucket of clean water over his head, chattering excitedly about all the taverns he played in during the winter, all the people he’d had drinks with, all the classes he gave at the university. Geralt lets himself be near-manhandled as Jaskier scrubs at his back, pointedly ignoring the proximity and the warmth radiating off the bard.

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing in roses and lemon, trying to push away the memory of how it had smelled with arousal mixed into that scent. He breathes in again - roses, lemon, and... pine trees. His eyes snap open, and his hand snatches Jaskier’s wrist, bringing it to his nose, ignoring the bard’s confused protests.

There it is, again, as Geralt pushes his nose against Jaskier’s pulse, breathing in deeply. There’s a lingering hint of pine trees and musk beneath those familiar roses and lemons, but it’s barely there, almost as if Jaskier desperately tried to scrub the scent away.

He lets go of the bard’s wrist, as Jaskier keeps staring at Geralt, confused. “You were with someone else. Not long ago. A man.”

Jaskier blinks, then blushes furiously, looking away. “Alright, yeah, maybe I was.” He looks at Geralt again, shrugs. “But what I get up to during the winter isn’t exactly your business, Witcher.” He sounds defensive, and quite honestly, Geralt doesn’t blame him. He knows full well he has no right to comment on the company Jaskier keeps, has no right to demand an explanation.

Has no right to feel so jealous.

So, he turns back around, letting Jaskier scrub shampoo into his hair, a little bit more harshly than usual - but still softer and kinder than Geralt deserves. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, doesn’t deserve his friendship, his company, his kindness, his sparkling blue eyes. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, and Jaskier deserves better than him - deserves someone to keep him company during the cold, long months, when Geralt’s fucked off to Kaer Morhen, someone who smells like pine trees.

“Was he good to you?” The question is out of his mouth before he knows it, and Jaskier’s hands still in his hair for a split second.

“Who?”

“The man you were with. Was he good to you?”

Jaskier hums softly, arousal spiking in his scent, which is answer enough to Geralt. “Yes, he was. He was very good to me, but...” His voice trails off, and he gets up to grab another bucket of water, dumping it over Geralt’s head, who wipes it out of his eyes.

“But what?”

“Well, he was...” He hears Jaskier sitting on the stool behind him again, feels a comb through his hair, teeth lightly scraping against his scalp. “He was nice, and comfortable, and safe.”

“Those are all good things.”

Jaskier sighs softly. “Well, yes, they are, but it’s not... what I want. For some people, comfort and safety is what they want in life, but not for me. I want- need something... more. So, being with him was nice. But only for a while.”

“And what do you need, then?”

It’s quiet between them for a while, Jaskier still combing Geralt’s hair, though there are no longer any knots left. “Adventure,” Jaskier says, eventually. “The thrill of danger, the feeling of adrenaline in my veins, travelling around the Continent, never truly settling down.”

It explains why Jaskier’s still around him, he supposes, explains why Jaskier always joins him on the Path, even after spending an entire winter apart. But it doesn’t explain why Jaskier sticks by Geralt’s side, specifically. Hell, the bard could walk the roads alone, and he would get exactly what he wants. Maybe he keeps close to Geralt for safety, maybe for songs, maybe for the Witcher’s hunting skills. He doesn’t know. And he’s too afraid to ask - scared that if he does, Jaskier will realize he doesn’t really need Geralt and leave him on his own.

Jaskier chuckles softly behind him. “What? No scathing remark? No telling me that I’m romanticizing danger? Not even a hmm?”

Geralt smiles softly. “Hmm.”

Jaskier laughs, patting Geralt on his shoulder, before standing up, drying off his hands. “Alright, then, I guess that’ll have to do.”

And with that, he’s gone, presumably to go get some food downstairs, and Geralt gets out of the bath, drying himself off, pointedly ignoring the lingering feeling of Jaskier’s hands against his skin.

---

They continue travelling after that, heading east on Jaskier’s request. Everything is back to normal - or at least, it should be, but Geralt can’t stop the memories of that one night resurfacing every time he looks at Jaskier. Hell, sometimes he forgets it was all an illusion, a vision created by a Mage. Sometimes he forgets that it wasn’t Jaskier at all, and it makes him slip up a few times, the boundaries they’ve created between them over the years suddenly unclear and slightly blurry. It gets worse the longer they travel together, Geralt slowly letting his guard down too much.

One time, Jaskier sat down next to him after a performance, gulping down two cups of ale before basically inhaling the plate of food Geralt had gotten for him. The Witcher had put his hand on the bard’s thigh under the table, had told him to take it easy or he would choke on it. Jaskier had simply nodded, and Geralt’s attention had strayed to the rest of the tavern, making sure there were no potential threats coming their way. It was only when he had noticed Jaskier staring at him, that he’d realized his hand wasn’t just still on the bard’s thigh, but that it had strayed up a bit. He had snatched his hand away, cleared his throat, and excused himself for the night, getting the hell out of there as quickly as he could manage. Jaskier hadn’t mentioned it.

There was also that one time that Jaskier was reading something, and Geralt had looked over his shoulder to see what it was. Without thinking twice about it, he had turned his head, brushing his nose against that sensitive spot under Jaskier’s ear, inhaling roses and lemon. Jaskier’s stuttering breath and skipping heartbeat had shaken him out of it, and he’d gone to brush Roach, scolding himself for what he’d done.

And then there was the staring. He couldn’t stop his eyes from straying to the bard every time they were in the same room, couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing, along with a suffocating wave of longing. It had come to a point where even Jaskier was a bit freaked out about it, it seemed, furrowing his brow in confusion every time he caught the Witcher staring. Hell, he even asked about it a couple of times, asked if there was something wrong. Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell him, so he merely grunted something noncommittal and turned away.

---

He doesn’t realize they’ve travelled so far to the east, until Jaskier one day closes the door to their room at the inn after a performance and says: “Can we go to Inerith, next?”

There’s something familiar about the name of the town, something nagging at the back of Geralt’s mind, but he ignores it. “Why?”

Jaskier clears his throat, looking both excited and a bit embarrassed. “Well, there’s a brothel there-” Geralt snorts. Of course it’s about sex, it almost always is with Jaskier. The bard ignores it. “-where they offer a special service, I’ve heard. They can show you your deepest, darkest desire and project it as a vision. Heard it really works, as well.”

Oh. Oh no. So that’s why the name had sounded so familiar to Geralt, it’s the town with... where he... He squeezes his eyes shut for just a second. “No, not going back,” he says. After all, he can’t face what he’s done, can’t risk anyone recognizing him, can’t stop himself from going to the brothel again, if they were to pass through the town.

He doesn’t realize what he’s said, until Jaskier asks: “What do you mean, going back?” 

Geralt freezes in the middle of cleaning his swords, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth, Jaskier’s rapid heartbeat, and his own faltering one. “Nothing,” he says eventually.

“Oh, nonono, you don’t get to say something like that and not acknowledge it,” Jaskier quips, standing in front of Geralt, hands on his hips. “You’ve been to Inerith, haven’t you? You went to the brothel.”

Geralt sighs, putting his sword to the side, wiping a hand over his face. “Hmm.”

“Did you- did you see your deepest desire? What was it?”

He swallows thickly. “No, I didn’t see it.” he lies. “I didn’t have the money. It was just a normal fuck.”

Jaskier purses his lips, something mischievous and gleeful shining in those blue eyes. “I know you’re lying, Geralt. Come on, what did you see?” His eyes widen slightly. “Or who did you see? Was it the sorceress, the-” he waves his hand a bit “the scary one with the purple eyes?” 

He looks at Geralt for a second, gaze intent, and the Witcher looks away - he can’t bear the heaviness of those eyes on him.

Jaskier gasps slightly. “It wasn’t the witch? Oh, now you have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” Geralt snaps, and moves to get up, pushed back into the chair by Jaskier’s surprisingly strong and firm hand against his chest. “Really?”

Jaskier grins at him, a wicked edge to his smile. “Really. You’re going to tell me what you saw, Witcher.”

“I will do no such thing.” He stares at Jaskier, who stares right back, unyielding, unrelenting, curiosity and glee in those impossibly blue eyes. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, the memories resurfacing again, Jaskier’s gaze too intense to bear, and he looks away, guilt creeping up on his mind.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt looks back at the bard, sees his eyes widening in realization, face going slack. “Oh. It was me, wasn’t it? You saw me.”

He can’t hide it anymore. The truth has already been threatening to spill over, these past few weeks, the realization in Jaskier’s eyes the last drop. “Yes.” Jaskier’s hand is still on his chest, his entire mind narrowing down to the heat and the weight of that one point of contact, only distracted when Jaskier leans forward, crowding his vision, forcing Geralt to look at him.

“Oh, you bastard,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt resists the urge to close his eyes, resists the urge to get the hell out of here. This is what he’s been fearing, these past few weeks - that Jaskier would find out and hate him for it.

He startles when the bard climbs into his lap, knees around Geralt’s hip, heels under his own ass. Surprisingly strong hands tighten around his shoulders, as Jaskier bites his bottom lip. “You bastard. You got what you wanted, you got to fuck me, but I didn’t get to fuck you? I can’t believe this.”

Geralt frowns, tries to blink away his confusion. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“Haven’t I flirted with you for years? Haven’t I offered several times?”

Jaskier has offered to keep him warm, to help ease his tension and stress, but- “I thought you were joking. I didn’t think you meant it.”

Jaskier laughs, a bit bitterly. “Gods, you’re so stupid.” He smiles at Geralt, something hot and heavy mixing with his scent of roses and lemon, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Tell me,” he whispers. “What did he do for you? What did he do while looking exactly like me?”

Geralt’s mind shortcircuits, and he finds himself unable to put the memories to words, to tell Jaskier, though the sight of the bard’s pupils dilating, of his cock straining against his breeches desperately makes him want to. He swallows thickly. “I- he...” 

“Can’t find the words?” Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier’s grin only widens. “Alright. Show me, then.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs, and he hooks his hands under Jaskier’s legs, holding him up as he gets out of the chair, walking to the bed. He tries to gently lay the bard down, he really does, but his own excitement and nerves make his hands falter, dropping Jaskier down unceremoniously. The bard yelps as his back hits the sheets, but giggles soon afterwards, fighting to kick off his boots.

Geralt kneels at the foot of the bed and helps him, before moving up, untying the laces of Jaskier’s breeches, as the bard watches him, pupils dilated, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Finally, the laces are undone enough for Geralt to pull the breeches down Jaskier’s legs, discarding them somewhere behind him, leaving the bard in his underclothes.

Jaskier yelps again when Geralt pulls him towards the edge of the bed, positioning the bard’s legs over his shoulders. He looks up at Jaskier. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispers, and Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows, carding a hand through Geralt’s hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a soft groan from the Witcher.

“I’m not worried about you not stopping, I’m worried about you not goddamn starting, Geralt,” he mutters, pulling one eyebrow up in challenge.

Geralt doesn’t respond. Instead, he dives down, closing his mouth around the head of Jaskier’s still clothed cock, earning him a soft moan and another tug at his scalp. He looks up as he licks a few stripes up the shaft, slowly wetting the fabric, and meets Jaskier’s intense gaze, the bard’s lips parted as he pants slightly. 

“Gods, you’re gorgeous like that,” Jaskier mutters, loosening his grip on Geralt’s hair in favour of running his fingers through the strands. If the Witcher could’ve blushed, he would’ve, but he decides that he’s teased Jaskier enough, and pulls away slightly, earning him a soft whine that turns needier when he tugs Jaskier’s underclothes down far enough to release his cock.

He wastes no time wrapping his mouth around Jaskier’s cock, licking away beads of precum before he swallows him down completely, basking in the bard’s moans, in the soft tugging at his scalp as nimble fingers tighten in his hair again.

Jaskier’s cock hits the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, fighting the urge to gag, as he holds still. He only starts moving again when Jaskier pulls him up, letting the bard guide him as he sucks.

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters when Geralt hollows his cheeks around the head before moving down again. “You’re perfect- so fucking gorgeous...” His whispered praises turn into soft babbles, and Geralt knows he’s getting closer to that edge. He looks up at Jaskier again, stroking one hand up and down the bard’s hip, trying to convey his message with his eyes.

“You-” Jaskier gasps softly, panting for air. “You want me to come in your mouth? Is that it?”

Geralt’s hum of agreement is enough to send Jaskier over the edge, back arching off the bed as he comes, legs spasming slightly. Geralt diligently sucks him through his orgasm, swallowing every drop Jaskier has to give, only letting go when the bard twitches away from him, overstimulated.

He sits back, letting Jaskier’s legs fall off his shoulders in favour of tugging the bard’s breeches off, before undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s shirt. The bard sits up, lets Geralt tug the rest of his clothes off, before he starts pulling at the Witcher’s shirt, as well. “Not fair that I’m the only one naked,” he mutters, and Geralt can’t help but smile. “I want see you.”

Geralt lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it away, before standing up, fumbling hands working on the laces of his trousers, eventually managing to push them down and kick them off. He stands there sheepishly for a couple of seconds, as Jaskier gapes at him, lips parted slightly, hungry eyes raking up and down Geralt’s body. He can’t stand the intensity of those blue eyes for long, and steps forward, leaning down to kiss Jaskier, the taste of the bard’s spend still on his tongue, relishing in the soft, content sighs Jaskier lets out.

“Did you fuck him?” Jaskier eventually whispers against Geralt’s lips, and the Witcher frowns, slightly confused. “The whore that looked like me. Did you fuck him?” Jaskier clarifies.

Geralt had forgotten about that one night at the brothel in Inerith, in all honesty, too occupied with the real Jaskier, right in front of him, to remember. “Yes,” he manages to choke out. 

“How?”

“On his knees.”

Jaskier sighs softly, biting his lip, eyes suddenly uncharacteristically insecure. “I... I don’t want that. I understand if you do, but not... not the first time.” 

Geralt ignores the slight whooping feeling in his stomach at the insinuation that there will be more times to come, and nods. “I understand. I don’t want that, either. I want to see you.”

Jaskier smiles at him, pressing a soft kiss to the Witcher’s lips. “May I?” he asks, hands softly pushing against Geralt’s shoulders, and he nods, letting himself be gently pushed and pulled until he’s the one sitting on the bed, Jaskier in his lap. His hands fall on the bard’s waist like it’s second nature, and he can’t help but press soft kisses against the side of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in roses and lemons and the salty tang of sweat. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against Jaskier’s skin, the words too heavy to say them to his face. “You’re beautiful and you’re perfect and I- I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Jaskier whispers, hands softly petting Geralt’s hair, the gesture so tender it’s almost overwhelming. 

“Oil?” he asks, and he feels Jaskier nod above him, pulling back a bit to reach down for his bag, at the foot of the bed. 

“Good thing I left this here,” he mutters, and Geralt smiles softly. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to let it all sink in. The fact that Jaskier loves him back, that he’s right here with him, his warm body pressed against Geralt, that he’s showering the Witcher with soft touches and softer kisses and even softer words. It’s almost too much, his chest not able to contain the happiness and love that he feels, but he resists the urge to take off, to run away from all this. For Jaskier. He’ll do anything in his power to make sure Jaskier never gets hurt again - especially not by Geralt himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier’s voice is impossibly soft and tender, his finger gently tilting Geralt’s chin up, and he opens his eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods, ignoring the stinging in his eyes. “Yes, it’s just... a lot.”

Jaskier frowns softly, cradling Geralt’s face in his hands. “We can stop, if it’s too much. It’s alright, I understand.”

He shakes his head a bit. “No, I want to keep going. I want you, Jask. Now and always.”

Jaskier smiles, kissing the tip of Geralt’s nose softly. “You’re so cheesy,” he whispers, earning him a chuckle from the Witcher. “Alright, we’ll keep going then. I just need to open myself up, first.”

Geralt smiles up at Jaskier. “May I?” And by all the gods, he’ll never forget the sight of Jaskier blushing softly at his request. 

“Well, if you really want to. Most people just prefer that I do it myself, get it over with-”

“I want to.” He holds up his hand, and Jaskier puts the vial of oil he got from his bag in his palm, looping his slender arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt, in turn, pops open the vial, pouring some chamomile oil into his hand, spreading it around and between his fingers, before reaching behind Jaskier, pressing two fingers against his rim.

Jaskier hisses softly, pushing his hips back. “Gods, yes, just like that.” Geralt smiles, pressing soft kisses against Jaskier’s jaw, as he pushes one finger in, slowly but steadily, basking in the soft whimpers the bard lets out. “More,” Jaskier demands, almost immediately, and Geralt can’t help but chuckle at that.

“You’re so needy,” he whispers, but obliges anyways, pulling the finger out, before pushing two back in. Jaskier moans softly, arching his back, pushing his hips back against Geralt’s hand. He slowly works Jaskier open, only adding a third finger when the bard is practically begging for it.

“Do you need a fourth finger?” he whispers and Jaskier frantically shakes his head. 

“No, just need you. Please, Geralt-”

He chuckles softly, taking the vial of oil again, slicking his cock up, Jaskier’s hungry eyes following his movements. “Alright, alright, no need to get impatient.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, but bats his hand away, giving Geralt’s cock a few firm strokes that leave the Witcher’s head spinning, before positioning himself just above the tip. Gently, slowly, he lowers himself on Geralt’s cock, eyelashes fluttering softly as he pants, the Witcher’s hands settling on his hips just to have something to hold on to.

Once Jaskier’s fully seated, he stills for a few seconds, hands on Geralt’s shoulders, breath coming out in shallow bursts, red-kissed lips parted slightly. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks, wiping Jaskier’s sweaty hair from his forehead, fingers trailing down to the bard’s lips. Jaskier smiles at him, kissing his fingers softly.

“Better than alright.” Geralt can’t help but smile back. 

Slowly, Jaskier pushes himself up, before dropping down again, impaling himself on Geralt’s cock, moaning softly. “Fuck, Geralt, feels so good...” He does it again and again and again, and Geralt lets him take the lead, his hands only tightening around the bard’s hips and helping him fuck himself on Geralt’s cock when he senses that Jaskier’s getting tired.

He forgets about his own pleasure, as he watches Jaskier’s unfold across his face, watches the bard bite his lip, watches his eyelashes flutter, watches his mouth fall open, losing himself in the scent of roses and lemons and sweat and lust - committing every little detail to memory, just in case. He’s sure that if there’s a paradise, then he has found it right here, in Jaskier’s arms.

“Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier whispers, and he realizes with a small start that, he himself, is as well, so lost in the man he loves that he’d forgotten about his own body. 

He reaches between them, taking Jaskier’s leaking cock in his hand, giving him a few firm strokes. “Come for me, love,” he whispers, and Jaskier cries out, his head tipping back, spilling all over himself and Geralt. A few more thrusts later, Geralt comes as well, choking out Jaskier’s name.

They sit there for a while, softly panting, until Jaskier pulls himself off Geralt, collapsing onto the bed next to him. The Witcher, in turn, gathers all the strength he’s got, and pushes himself off the bed, walking to the wash basin with wobbly knees, wetting a cloth. He walks back to the bed, cleans the spend off the bard’s stomach and from between his legs, before cleaning himself.

He lies down on the bed, Jaskier scooting up until he’s got his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his arms around the Witcher. “So,” he eventually mutters. “Was I better than what you had in Inerith?”

Geralt smiles, pulling Jaskier closer. “Yes. You were perfect. You will always be perfect.”

“Hmm.” He hears Jaskier’s smile more than he sees it, feels lute-calloused fingertips tracing patterns into his skin.

“I meant what I said, earlier.” It’s important to him that Jaskier knows this, knows that he means it more than he’s meant anything in his life, that he didn’t just say it in the heat of the moment. “I love you.”

Jaskier smiles up at him. “I love you, too.” Geralt nods, feeling slightly relieved, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

He slowly lets himself get comfortable with the feeling of being happy. It’s strange and unfamiliar, and he still has to fight the thing in his gut that tells him this can be snatched away any moment - this might be snatched away any moment, but he slowly sinks into it, like a comfortable, soft bed after a long day.

He notices after a few minutes that Jaskier’s fallen asleep, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the bard. He really is beautiful like this - hair tousled, skin sticky with dried sweat, lips and cheeks rosy - and he’s more than Geralt can ever deserve. He leans back in the pillows, closing his eyes, eventually, and lets sleep overtake him. 

Lets himself get used to the feeling of being happy, everything he’s ever wanted right here in his arms.

[kueble]

Worn Out

Some sleepy Geraskier for @kuripon and @jaskierswolf

Gen. Warnings: None. 600 words.

Geraskier

---

"What a night!" Jaskier exclaims, hands flying everywhere as he rushes past Geralt and into their shared room. Geralt rolls his eyes, but it's done with love. His bard is right, tonight really had been a lot to handle. While he's gotten used to accompanying Jaskier to all kinds of feasts and balls, they never seem to get any less draining. He has no fucking clue how the nobles manage to get through them all. Hell, he spent most of his night sipping ale and hiding in the shadows, and he's still worn out from too much socialization.

Jaskier keeps talking, but Geralt can't focus right now. He's weary down to his bones, in a way fighting never really gets him. He focuses on the rise and fall of Jaskier's voice, letting it wash over him while he tries to strip out of his fancy clothing. He throws it on the table, knowing full well Jaskier will scoff and fold it for him as soon as he notices. Right now he just wants to be horizontal, and everything else is just not happening.

Geralt manages to toss on a sleep shirt and crawls into bed, leaving the covers pulled back so Jaskier can join him. He lays on his side and props his head up on a hand so he can watch his lover flit about the room, going through his nightly routine. No matter how many times he watches, it always seems ridiculous and calming at the same time. Jaskier prides himself on his appearance, and he takes time to wash the day's dust from his skin, humming happily as he splashes in the small basin of water their host left out for them. Geralt watches as he rubs cream into his face - for the wrinkles apparently - a smile spreading across his face at the sight.

Fuck, he loves this man.

"Oh Darling," Jaskier says, laughing lightly, "You aren't paying attention to me at all, are you? Worn out?"

"You sound nice," Geralt mumbles, hiding his face in his pillow. Even after years of being together, he can't get over the urge to hide any hint of vulnerability. He feels the bed dip as Jaskier joins him, curling up against his side. And then there's a hand in his hair, petting him slowly. Leaning into it, he can feel his chest rumble and glares into the pillow at it.

"Who sounds nice?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt feels his cheeks heating up as Jaskier teases him. He can't help purring, though, not when he's so warm and safe and well-loved. Jaskier pokes and prods at him gently, and he gives in and turns to look at him. He purrs deeper at the sight of his love-sick bard beaming down at him. “Love it when you purr for me.”

"'M tired," Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier nods before rolling onto his back and propping himself up against the pillows. He pats his thigh in invitation and Geralt sidles closer to lay his head on it, throwing an arm over Jaskier’s hips. His sleep pants are soft linen, and Geralt feels overwhelmingly comfortable. His eyes are already fighting to stay open, and he lets out a deep yawn before reaching a hand up to trail his fingers through Jaskier's chest hair. he sleeps shirtless like the slut that he is, and Geralt loves the familiarity of it. "What about you? You're still riding the energy from performing?"

"I borrowed a poetry anthology from the Duke this afternoon, but I haven't had time to look at it yet. Don't worry about me, love. Just rest," Jaskier tells him softly, and Geralt nods before shutting his eyes again. He falls asleep to the warmth of Jaskier's body beneath his cheek and the slow turning of pages. It's strange how an unfamiliar guest room can feel like home.

---

Tags under cut

Tags: @halerune @honeysuckletook @mayastormborn @dani-dandelino @feraljaskier @jaskierswolf @littoraly-art @tothedesert @dapandapod @theweirdlynx @tedrakitty @sharinalein @theamazingdevilgivesmehope @iamaqt314 @silvermintnightprincess @rockysstupidity @live-long-and-trek-on @hayleynzlive @holymotherwolf @thesynysterunknown @rebard-main @larawrmonster @gryffinqueen-blog @lovelyscot @fangirleaconmigo @mothmanismyuncle @fontegagrilledcheese @thestarkwinter @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @allthequeenshorses13 @221birl1823 @strippiluolamies @concussed-dragon @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @clarebear66 @feral-jaskier @j-u-s-tmyself ​ @thisislisa

[d-andilion]

Omg, I just read your modern internet celebrity! Jaskier au and I would love another part for it!

a snapshot from a few months into their relationship! i hope you like it 😊

part 1// part 2/

~

omg theyre so cute 😭😭😭

damn talk about a silver fox

@jaskier_p where did u find this man???????

Comments have been rolling in at a nearly untrackable pace since Jaskier posted the photo hours ago, but he watches them anyway, reading as many as he can before the feed refreshes and a whole new crop appears. He hasn’t clicked away from the post long enough to check, but he’s pretty sure he’s never had so much activity on a single photo before.

To be fair to his fans, it is an adorable picture. Jaskier’s own face takes up most of the frame, smiling in the bright, genuine way that he usually reserves for the real people in his life rather than the usernames online. He couldn’t help it, not when he felt Geralt’s arms around his waist and his nose tucking itself into the curve of Jaskier’s cheek. 

You can only really see half of Geralt’s face, his eyes closed and mouth curved into the slightest little grin. Jaskier has plenty of photos where they’re both facing the camera with big smiles and silly faces, but those are just for them. This one is for all the world to see.

Surprisingly, going public had been Geralt’s idea. 

Keeping the romantic part of their relationship private suited them both fine for the first few months. Geralt was a private person by nature and Jaskier was in no hurry to plaster what they had all over the internet, especially not in those tenuous early stages. Jaskier posted a few innocuous photos on his private account and referred to his new friend every now and then in vlogs, but other than that, mum was the word about their budding romance.

But that could only last so long. Jaskier warned Geralt that one hundred percent secrecy would most likely be a temporary state of affairs, and around their six-month anniversary, his prediction came true. As his fanbase grew, Jaskier started to be recognized quite regularly while out and about—and outings with his boyfriend were no exception.

Jaskier’s viewers started to chatter online about the guy they’d seen him with who looked suspiciously similar to the man he’d described in his hot neighbor video. Rumors swirled and the longer Jaskier refused to acknowledge the buzz, the louder it got. It even ended up in a few trashy online tabloids, complete with blurry fan photos of him and Geralt walking down the street.

A few days after the smattering of speculative articles made the rounds on Twitter, Geralt asked Jaskier if he wanted to make their relationship public. 

“We’re telling them by not telling them anyway,” he’d said, picking nervously at his nails. 

He was right, of course, he was right. But for the first time in a long time, Jaskier was apprehensive about putting something online. What if it changed things? Jaskier has seen plenty of people in the public eye lose a significant other over a rabid fanbase. What happens if his own viewers turn on them?

Geralt—amazing, perfect, wonderful Geralt—had been there the way he always was to keep Jaskier from spiraling. Reminding him how much his fans loved him, that everything would be okay. And if it wasn’t, well, then Geralt would be there to make it better.

Thus far, it seems Jaskier had nothing to worry about. There’s the odd troll and a few wildly inappropriate questions, but the response is overwhelmingly positive. His fans are raving at breakneck speed about how happy they are for him.

“Are they calling for my head on a pike yet?” Geralt flops down on the sofa beside him and Jaskier lets himself be bundled into his boyfriend’s arms.

“Not yet. But there’s still time.”

Geralt hums, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

Jaskier grins. “They’re asking to see you in a video.”

“I said you could film me in your vlogs sometimes.”

“No, love,” Jaskier says, tilting his head up to catch Geralt’s eye. “They mean, like, a whole video. The comment asking for a boyfriends Q&A has five thousand likes.”

“Boyfriends Q&A?” Geralt raises a skeptical brow. He’s helped Jaskier sort through Q&A questions before and he knows exactly how personal fans can be when offered a peak behind the curtain.

Jaskier drops his head onto Geralt’s shoulder with a chuckle. “Don’t worry darling, I don’t expect you to do that.”

Geralt hums again, a soft and familiar rumble. “Tell them maybe.”

“You’re too good to them,” Jaskier says, but he won’t pretend the prospect doesn’t excite him just a little.

~

more fic from me

[dancingwiththefae]

The New Years Party

This is already on AO3 but for some reason I never posted it here so

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier x Yennefer | Geraskefer

Warning/tags: Modern AU, alcohol, smoking, implied sexual content (not explicit)

Summary: Jaskier thought he wouldn't get a new years kiss at his own party. He gets two

Word count: 1993

The party was in full swing when Jaskier realised that he was overwhelmingly surrounded by couples. And, to be honest, he was feeling a little bitter about it. He would like to be nursing his recent heartbreak in peace thank you very much. Not being made to watch happy people laughing and joking with each other and making out in places where they think no one can see them.

Tucking yourselves away into the corner of the kitchen is not hiding. We can all see you. Please keep your tongues inside your own mouths for Melitele’s sake.

He had only come in here to grab another beer. He would not suffer this night sober after all. He gave the couple one last withering look before stalking out of the kitchen. The nerve of some people. In his own home too. The best thing his parents ever did for him was leave him their obnoxiously large manor house and now friends and strangers alike were using it for their own personal fuck-fest. Jaskier probably wouldn’t have minded so much if the option were available to him too, but it wasn’t. It seemed he’d have to welcome the new year single and alone. A string of failed relationships, intense flings that crashed and burned and one night stands left him with a reputation  as a renowned lover, but not exactly as boyfriend material. It wasn’t his fault. Mostly. He just fell in love quickly, and often before realising that they are totally incompatible. Or they neglected to mention that they already had a boyfriend or a husband until said boyfriend or husband walked in on them in a compromising position and (aside from a few very very memorable occasions) became outright murderous at Jaskier’s suggestion of joining them.

And his reputation as a less than great boyfriend definitely had nothing to do with two beautiful friends of his who only had to snap their fingers and he would drop everything and come running. No, nothing at all. The sound of the doorbell pulled him out of his thoughts. He opened the door to find one of those beautiful friends who he in no way spends too much time thinking about standing in front of him. Geralt was stood in the doorway carrying a six-pack of beer. He was wearing his usual biker jacket and leather pants. His white hair pulled back into a bun, stray strands falling onto his face.

“Geralt, it’s a party,” Jaskier said, dramatically waving his arm towards to commotion behind him, “you couldn’t have made an effort?”

“Could have. Didn’t.” Geralt shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Not even for yours truly?” Jaskier gasped dramatically.

“Definitely not,” the other chuckled. Jaskier gave him a playful smack against his chest at that.

“Come on, get in.” He sniffed the air as Geralt walked past him through the door. “You smell like you slept in your garage.”

“I did.”

Jaskier led him into the main living area. By now people had begun to disperse around the house so there was room for them to stand and chat. Jaskier hopped up onto the sideboard which was definitely too old and expensive to be sitting on and the ominous creak it gave out at the additional weight confirmed it. Geralt put his pack of beer down beside Jaskier and opened a can. Jaskier stared down at his now empty bottle and then back at Geralt, pouting. With a sigh, Geralt handed him the open can and got himself another one.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” he grumbled, leaning against the sideboard beside Jaskier. Together they watched a group of Jaskier’s old schoolfriends deal a deck of cards around a pint glass on the coffee table.

“So, how’s the garage doing?” Jaskier asked.

“Good,” Geralt replied, taking a swig of his can, “Vesemir still comes in a few times a week.”

“The old man will never retire,” Jaskier laughed.

“He says he trusts me completely but he still can’t help watching me over my shoulder every time he comes in for a so-called chat.” Geralt shifted, placing a hand on the sideboard next to Jaskier’s, as simultaneously around the table, the group pointed up to the ceiling and laughed. “old man would sooner keel over than hand the keys to me willingly.”

Jaskier nodded and chuckled. The pair fell into companionable silence, watching Essi pour some of her red wine into the pint glass that was already a quarter full with beer. The clean-up tomorrow was going to be a nightmare. Jaskier made a mental note to leave the housekeeper a substantial tip.

“Is Anna here tonight?” Geralt asked, breaking the silence. Of course, it had been a few weeks since Jaskier saw him last so he hadn’t heard the news.

“No,” he sighed, “the little weasel went back to her piece-of-shit ex. But who am I to judge eh?”

“Any of these your date for the night then?” Geralt’s eyes scanned the room.

“What? Oh no. Definitely not.” Jaskier put his hand to his chest and tipped his head back dramatically, causing another loud creak to come from the sideboard. “I am afraid I must see out the year alone and broken-hearted, my friend.”

Geralt turned towards him, face unreadable.

“You should get down from there before you fall on your ass,” he said eventually.

Before Jaskier could reply, or indeed get his feet on the ground, Geralt turned and his attention was suddenly elsewhere.

“Yen’s here. I’ll see you later.” He gave him a pat on the shoulder and left.

Jaskier huffed.

Typical.

He didn’t stay to see who would pull the last king and be made to drink the near-black concoction in the middle of the table that was sure to make the drinker ill, choosing instead to wander through the house. He wasn’t looking for Geralt and Yennefer. He wasn’t. But if he happened to see them it would be polite to say hi to her. Maybe join in their conversation. Only because he would be trying to be friendly after all.

He found them by the stairs in the hall. They were away from the crowd, huddled close. Yennefer had her hand on Geralt’s arm and was talking to him in hushed whispers. It seemed like a private conversation and as much as Jaskier wanted to interrupt, he had enough self-restraint to wait until they had finished. Instead he admired the way that Geralt stood over her, as though his body was being pulled towards her. His features were soft as he looked her in the eye. He admired the way that Yennefer’s black dress accentuated her curves perfectly. Her raven locks rippling down her back like water. They were an attractive couple, had to admit. And then Yennefer smiled and Geralt leaned in to kiss her. He should probably leave them be. It was a private moment, obviously. Jaskier shouldn’t be there. It hurt to look at, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Jaskier forced his feet to move and practically fled from the scene. He made his way back to the kitchen which was now, thankfully, empty. He needed some air. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the drawer and stepped out into the backyard. The cold night air hit him at once. It was a welcome relief from the suddenly stifling atmosphere inside. He took a drag of his cigarette and watched the smoke permeate the air as he exhaled. It was here that Yennefer found him. She stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.

“You know those will kill you, right?”

“You two have made up, I see.” Jaskier chose to ignore her comment.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” Yennefer mocked.

“Am not,” he pouted.

“Who are you jealous of? Me or him?”

“I am not jealous,” he insisted.

Yennefer gave him a flat look.

“If I was jealous it would only be because even you two have someone and I have to host this stupid party all alone. And while everyone else here is all over each other I won’t even get a kiss at midnight.”

Yennefer’s face turned sympathetic, which was somehow worse than her mocking him.

“But I’m not jealous.”

“You’re not jealous.”

“No.”

“Nope.”

Jaskier took another drag and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall behind him. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to continue the conversation, Yennefer huffed and went back inside. He hoped that she wasn’t going to get Geralt. Jaskier wasn’t sure he could handle them both together right now. Jaskier was sulking. He knew he was sulking. But he didn’t care. He was a broken hearted man. A broken hearted man who was hoping his best friend would distract him from his misery. But no, his sexy insane girlfriend had to come and take him away from him. With her stupid perfect hair and beautiful violet eyes. It seemed everyone was going to see in the new year with someone. Except Jaskier. Doomed to be alone for the rest of his days.

He was brought out of his maudlin musings by the sound of the door.

“If you’re quite done being a ghost at your own party, me and Geralt want to talk to you.” The sound of Yennefer’s voice came from the doorway. Jaskier crushed his cigarette into an ashtray with a little too much force and followed her inside. She led him back into the living area where Geralt stood waiting for them.

“So what did you want to talk about? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s almost midnight so shouldn’t you two be, I don’t know, canoodling somewhere or something and leaving me in peace?”

Geralt sighed, both in fondness and exasperation.

“Geralt and I have a proposition for you,” Yennefer jumped in, “we know you saw us by the stairs. And don’t think I’ve never noticed you ogling me when you think I’m not looking.”

“I do no such thing!” Jaskier spluttered.

“And despite how hard he tries to convince everyone otherwise, Geralt is not stupid either,” Yennefer continued, unperturbed, “don’t you want to know what we were talking about?”

Of course I do but I’m not going to say it, am I?

They both closed in around him and Jaskier was starting to feel a little bit like prey.

“You’re feelings for us are not unrequited.” Yennefer spoke slowly and softly, emphasising every word. It still took him a  moment.

“Wait, what?”

Jaskier was shocked. So shocked, in fact, that he didn’t even register the drunken chorus around him, counting down. Yennefer stepped right into his space and Geralt followed suit, Cupping his cheek, Geralt guided his face towards his and kissed him. It was soft, gentle and Jaskier melted into it. Before he knew it Geralt was pulling away and another hand brushed his cheek. Using both of her hands, Yennefer pulled his face away from Geralt and kissed him too.

He felt Geralt push up against his back as Yennefer pulled away with a cocky smile.

“And you thought you weren’t going to get kissed.”

Any smartass reply he had died on his lips. They were both looking at him with such softness, such fondness.

“Why me?” He asked instead.

“Me and Yen” – Geralt pressed himself against Jaskier’s back and put his arms around his waist – “we’re like sparks, like fire. And it burns bright. But it can be destructive. We need someone to temper it.”

Yennefer pressed close to him too, her hands coming up to play with the collar of her shirt.

“We like who we are when we’re with you,” she purred. She leaned upwards to kiss him again. “Happy new year, Jaskier.”

Jaskier swallowed thickly. He searched her eyes for…something. He wasn’t sure. But he found the answer he was looking for anyway.

“Should we take this upstairs?”

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Geralt gets cursed to have a mini angel and devil on each of his shoulders that only he can see and one of them tries to convince him to make a move on Jaskier while the other thinks it would ruin things between them

oh now this... this is good shit, anon. yes! yesssss!

tw: Geralt has some anxiety

---

“To guilt and love I give a voice,

Don’t take too long to make your choice!”

And with that, the mage disappears in a cloud of dark, greenish smoke. Jaskier coughs, blinking back tears, his sleeve pulled down to cover his nose and mouth. “What the fuck was that about, do you think?”

Geralt shakes his head to clear it and stumbles back to his feet. “A curse, I think.”

“Well which one of us was it for?”

“Him!” Geralt hears Lambert’s voice from his left shoulder. He turns his head and finds a miniature version of his brother standing on his pauldron, grinning like mad. “Hello, big brother.”

“Hello!” chimes Eskel, who is sitting comfortably on his right shoulder. 

“Me,” Geralt groans. Jaskier raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t see anything wrong with you. I wonder what she meant by to guilt and love I give a voice; what do you think, Geralt?”

“I have a sneaking suspicion that I won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” the Witcher grimaces. Jaskier shies away, moving toward Roach. 

“I’ll stay out of your way and be quiet, then.”

“Poor thing,” Eskel pipes up. “He cares for you so deeply; must you always snap at him like that?”

“He’s just along for the fame and fortune,” Lambert scoffs. “He’s using you for your reputation and adventures. He just wants to use you to make a name for himself.”

“Why would a Viscount need to make any more of a name for himself?” Eskel fights back, their bickering voices unusually soothing despite the topic of conversation, which is actually making Geralt’s skin crawl. He hates confronting his feelings for Jaskier. They’re annoyingly, overwhelmingly positive. “He could be taking a hot bath every night and sleeping on silk sheets, yet here he stands, silently waiting for our dumbass brother to get a move on.”

Geralt takes the prompt and stalks forward to swing himself up into Roach’s saddle. It hadn’t been a pleasant afternoon and he suspects that things aren’t going to get much better. Jaskier’s shoulders are slumped and his fingers toy nervously with the strap of his lute.

The Witcher mumbles, “You can hum, Jaskier. It’s... fine.”

“Oh,” the bard smiles up at him, blue eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light. “Thank you, Geralt. I’d like to try to work out this rather finicky new melody if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm.”

“You could... praise him?” Eskel offers. “You did so well just now, it was nearly a full compliment.”

“Psh, and reveal the secret he’s been hiding for damn near a decade? The bard would be crushed.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out loud. He’s frustrated already, and he suspects that until he confesses or swears to keep silent about his feelings forever, these two conjurations won’t be leaving any time soon.

---

“Kiss him,” Eskel urges, tugging a lock of Geralt’s hair. He’s established that Jaskier cannot see the tiny Wolf Witchers; the nature of the curse would be too obvious if he could. “He looks so lovely in the firelight, don’t you think? Actually I do know what you think. You think he looks lovely all the time, you just won’t admit it.”

“Why should he admit it? That would ruin a perfectly good friendship. Like you said, Eskel, Jaskier is a Viscount! He can’t stay on the Path with Geralt forever. Eventually he’ll need to return to Lettenhove to marry and settle down. He’s titled, and we can’t expect him to follow a monster around forever, much less fall in love with one.”

“He has never once thought of Geralt as a monster!”

Geralt wants to cry. He wants to rip out his hair and run, screaming with madness, into the dark embrace of the woods around them. Alas, the bard would be Wyvern-bait without him there for protection. 

And the curse would stay with him no matter how far he ran. 

He closes his eyes and kneels, but the quiet respite of meditation never comes. 

---

Geralt is fucking exhausted. His brothers never stop talking. Arguing. Debating. Pleading. 

He’s gone truly mad. Jaskier stirs in his sleep, four nights after the curse was cast, and Geralt flinches. His scent is otherworldly and the Witcher’s patience is thinner than tissue paper. Eskel has been very convincing as of late.

He smells like the damp earth after a summer rain, sweetened by something unnamable but floral. He smells like springtime. Youth. Beauty. Geralt whines unconsciously, the sound creeping out from somewhere high in his throat. Jaskier stirs again and blinks his sleepy eyes open. His cute pink tongue darts over his bottom lip and Geralt bites off the sound with a sudden gasp. 

“Sorry for waking you.”

“What’s wrong?” the deep concern in Jaskier’s sleep-soft voice stirs the love in Geralt’s heart violently. “You sound wounded. Are you alright?”

“I-” Geralt falters. Falls to his knees in the dirt next to Jaskier’s bedroll. Cups the bard’s face gently with one hand. Lambert begins to swear violently as Eskel cheers him, egging him on. “I love you, Jaskier.”

His brothers disappear. 

His ears ring with the sudden silence, the only ambiance coming from the crackling fire.

Jaskier balks up at him, a look of utter terror written plainly on his face. “Geralt? Is this... the curse? Why would you say that?”

“Do you- Are you angry with me, Jaskier? I understand if-”

“No, you fool,” Jaskier laughs, sitting up and leaning closer. “I- I love you, too. I didn’t think you’d ever- That you could ever- After Yennefer...”

Geralt kisses his bard with such sweetness that Jaskier melts against him, his hands braced against that familiar, broad chest. They kiss until sunrise, and then they kiss some more. There’s a lot of lost time to make up for, a lot of poor decisions to be rectified.

But they manage. They always do.

[concerningwolves]

I finished Witcher season 2 and I'm... I mean. there was a Lot (much of which I really enjoyed!). but what's really sticking with me right now is jaskier's queercoding. the way they went really hard with his "They'll come after everyone who is 'other'" speech and then pulled back really sharply to "eventually no artist will be safe"

on the one hand it's a valid comment on censorship and how the arts have a history of being seen as inherently "deviant" (and therefore a target for censure) but everything prior in that scene screamed "queer jaskier" so overtly that there is no way the writers were oblivious. Burn Butcher Burn has the most breakup song vibes, and then jaskier literally talks about heartbreak in relation to geralt. were the writers just throwing fans a bone to acknowledge the abundance of geraskier fanon? or was it more on the lines of Jaskier feels everything very deeply, and therefore views even a platonic "breakup" on par with a romantic breakup?

I don't know. so far The Witcher has been overwhelmingly heterosexual, as much popular fantasy is. in terms of the broader Netflix Witcher 'verse, our only explicit queer rep was in the animated prequel Nightmare of the Wolf, where a character mentions getting a male whore. (I think in season one there was some snide remark from Yennefer alluding to a man's "proclivities" in the Djinn episode, but I might have misunderstood that bit)

what I'm angling towards is.. in terms of treatment of women in high action fantasy, Netflix Witcher has been brilliant. I've loved every little way they've flipped the script, especially considering that one of the main characters is very much the Male Action Manly Man type (superficially, at least). I just think that doesn't mean they ought to sit back on those laurels now, when they could continue to bring that fresh perspective to other areas of representation in the show, too. except that hasn't happened, and it's sad.

[innocentbi-stander]

I've been thinking about Modern Witcher and lockdown. I feel like Geralt would be immune so would help where he could, Yen would try find a cure and Ciri and Jaskier will be ordered to stay at home, imagine the mischief?!?

@thebeckybear you might be onto something here.....

the literal SECOND geralt and yennefer hear about going into lockdown, they prepare themselves for absolute Hell

a half elf jaskier may be, but an overprotective yen and geralt are in no way willing to test his immunity, no matter how pro this idea jaskier is

and of course ciri staying home is 100% The Rule

due to his witcher mutagens geralt is immune, and a few decades ago during a fit of boredom he had gotten his nursing degree, so, Extreme Sense of Duty witcher that he is, he immediately starts helping at a hospital

yen meanwhile is determined that all of these scientists are just idiots, and by proxy she is the best suited person to cure covid

these are both stellar plans, but what they fail to realize at first is that this leaves jaskier and ciri stuck at home, alone and unsupervised

cue the insufferable amount of mischief that a bored ciri and jaskier get into during lockdown (spoiler: it’s a lot)

geralt couldn’t count on two hands the number of times he’s come home to at least one bedroom door plastered over with ciri and jask pretending there was never anything there

there was one time he came home to find them sealing THEMSELVES into a bedroom and almost turned around and went back to work

ciri and jaskier’s bread making phase was LEGENDARY (and by legendary, I mean they amount of loaves of bread they managed to burn to a crisp because neither of them know how to fucking bake)

just as neither of them can bake, neither ciri or jaskier have any idea how to cook, which resulted in a solid diet of ramen, tea, and microwave popcorn until yen found out and flipped her shit

there was also the time ciri and jaskier filled the entire bathtub with orbies and proceeded to get them all over the house

the time they dedicated weeks to slowly moving every piece of furniture in the house to the left, centimeter by centimeter

their sneaky redecoration of every room in the house, including one day where they painted the kitchen a rather violent shade of orange

their slow collection of plants until the living room resembled more of a greenhouse than a place for human beings

when geralt had to threaten to disconnect the house phone because of the sheer number of prank calls being sent a day

the time yen and geralt came back to find ciri’s head shaved and jaskier’s hair purple (that same day Roach the Cat was discovered to have been turned a lovely puke green color)

the time they topped Spotify charts by making extensive playlists of nothing but geralt’s snores

the time they became tik tok famous because they were overwhelmingly bored

their long standing fort in the tv room, expertly crafted out of sheets, books, blankets, every pillow in the house and propped up with geralt’s swords (don’t tell geralt)

the time they had a sword-fight with geralt’s swords in the living room and stabbed a hole in the wall now covered by the couch (don’t tell geralt)

the time they mixed up a few potions made of random ingredients they stole from yen and woke up five hours later having switched outfits, painted each other’s faces blue, and apparently baked the most delicious loaf of bread known to man 

the day they did nothing but binge watch the office and order an obscene amount of take out food

the time they scaled the side of the house and then promptly got stuck on the roof until geralt had to rescue them

geralt begins to wish he didn’t decide to be so noble because he’s never been more afraid to come home than when there’s infinite possibilities of what jaskier and ciri have done now

hopefully yennefer will have the cure figured out before these two idiots kill themselves

___________

I hope you enjoyed! I love ciri and jask up to no good while the responsible ones are off saving the world!

[theautumnbard]

The Picture of Health (Chapter 3)

Title: The Picture of Health chap.2

Prompt: Whump: Sickbed or deathbed (There’s gonna be wuv in there too ;) )

A good ol’ 5+1 fic

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Chronic illness (non-specific), vomiting, discussion of feeling ill, pooping (it’s not very graphic), Jask trying to get through it by himself.

Author's: thank you for all the love this is getting, especially over on AO3 - I'm living for your comments.

[[MORE]]

Well, shit.

 

Jaskier had done it again. Listened to his heart instead of his head – it was like that was the only option around here and he was sick of it.

 

Huddling behind a tree as black as the night that engulfed him, Jaskier clutched his lute to his chest and tried not to breathe. He listened, straining to hear the horrific clicking and whirring noise of the monster that gnashed its teeth in rage at Geralt. He swallowed, resisting the urge to sigh in relief at the grunts of his Witcher and the slicing of his sword.

Stay quiet Geralt had said.

Stay quiet or you’re dead.

One shuffle, one breath too loud and it’s over.

It didn’t matter that it was the darkest pits of night for this particular beast. And of course, Geralt could see perfectly fine whilst Jaskier could see fuck all.

 

The Witcher had warned him this contract would be particularly brutal. He was surprised Geralt had even let him come (well, surprised he’d managed to get about half way before Geralt realised he’d been followed.)

So, naturally, Jaskier had gone ignoring absolutely every single one of his body’s warnings, had decided this would be an absolute picnic. A treasure trove of lyrics. A tale for the ages.

And now, he was dying.

 

Sweat was building on his brow, he clutched the neck of filavandrel’s lute so tight it could snap (Why did he even bring it!?) When he realised, with abject horror, that he needed to shit. Using the word “needed” very loosely, as in, it was going to happen whether Jaskier wanted it to or not.

 

Fuck.

 

This was how he was going to meet his end, head ripped off with his breeches round his ankles in the midst of a shit.

 

Jaskier cringed as his lute knocked against the tree. He tilted his head, listening as the pants went down, but the sounds of fighting continued.

 

Thank Melitele’s tits it was practically silent. He was doing it, and he wasn’t dead.

He finished, and by some miracle, he still wasn’t dead.

 

He paused again, sagging in relief at the monsters waning cries and the steady slice of Geralt’s sword.

 

But then he felt it, that familiar swirl in his stomach, before he even managed to lace up his breeches. The nausea churned quick and harsh in his gut, and before Jaskier even had the chance to will his body into silence, he retched.

Loud. Clear. And cutting through the night like a knife.

The sound was horrific and there was no way around it.

 

The beast was in front of him, screaming, all spindly legs and scythes and reeking of death, before he could even suck air back into his lungs.

 

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, preparing to meet his end when the thing lurched forward—

 

He opened his eyes to the heavy thud of it’s head meeting the woodland floor, leaves sticking to tacky blood as it rolled to a stop.

 

Jaskier couldn’t remember how to breathe before Geralt was there, in his face and screaming. Jaskier knew it, he knew he’d been an idiot to come along, regardless of whether or not he’d felt ill in the first place. He nodded along, he had been reckless, and he felt beyond awful.

He couldn’t help himself as he flinched away from Geralt’s raging.

Geralt noticed that. Of course he did.

He stopped, a pained look flitting across his features.

He seemed to take a minute, take stock of their surroundings.

The spatter of the creature’s black blood across Jaskier’s overwhelmingly pale face and shirt.

His body shaking hard and twitching with some unseen cause of pain.

And the pile of… literal shit and vomit that surrounded him.

 

“Jask…?” He started. “Are you…” Concern overtaking every element of his being, it was a strange look on Geralt.

 

Jaskier’s head started shaking profusely of its own accord.

No. He wasn’t alright. He was far from it. And he knew Geralt could smell the pain and the fear and the hopelessness, and the disgustingness of everything else.

 

“Fuck.” Geralt muttered. Jaskier let out a strained laugh.

 

He wasn’t really with it enough to be excited at the prospect of being scooped up in Geralt’s arms. Any other occasion and it would have been positively swoon-worthy, but he couldn’t even hold his own head up. Instead, he nestled into the crook of Geralt’s neck and neither of them addressed the tears flowing freely or pet names uttered.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

mock the meat it feeds on

For the prompt: could you do geraskier "Don't you trust me?" / "You're not the one I don't trust..." with jaskier being jealous over/worried about triss? (in the books+games she does some manipulative stuff to be with geralt.)

I’ve only ever seen the show so I wasn’t too sure about the shady stuff regarding Triss and couldn’t find a simple explanation of it when I tried to look it up so I kinda took a different route because I really like show Triss so hopefully you still like it! Also on ao3!

And I’m gonna tag @roughentumble again!

In all the years that Jaskier has known Geralt, since that very first day in Posada, he's never known him to tolerate cities well, let alone actually enjoy them, which is why his sudden affinity for Novigrad is so vexing. Well, that and the reason for his newfound affinity.

Her name is Triss Merigold. She's a sorceress, of course, because Geralt apparently has a type and much to Jaskier's disappointment it's decidedly not talkative bards, and Jaskier trusts her about as much as he trusts a rabid dog.

The first time Jaskier meets her, he and Geralt are in Novigrad to replenish Geralt's dwindling supply of herbs and elixirs after a string of back-to-back contracts along the northern Redanian coast. They're searching for an apothecary, Geralt in the same foul mood he always slips into when they're forced into larger cities for whatever reason, his enhanced senses easily overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds and smells of the city, making him incredibly susceptible to sensory overload and the consequent migraines that followed.

Jaskier's done his best over the years to accommodate for Geralt's sensitivity, content with either avoiding large cities altogether when traveling with Geralt or taking it upon himself to venture into busy marketplaces or meet with aldermen while Geralt waited on the outskirts of the city. But buying food or delivering severed monster heads to aldermen was a far cry from collecting the necessary ingredients Geralt needed.

Geralt himself was a walking encyclopedia of flowers and herbs needed for his potions, but Jaskier only possessed a rudimentary understanding of them, garnered from explanations Geralt had supplied when Jaskier had sufficiently wheedled him enough for a herbology lesson. Making the potions used by witchers was a precise science; one wrong ingredient or combination of such could result in a potion meant to staunch bleeding instead thinning the blood and preventing clotting or an elixir meant to heal instead being little more than poison.

And Jaskier would rather Geralt not die because he confused puffball and sewant mushrooms.

With no other option and Geralt's supplies running dangerously low, too low for him to risk even thinking about taking another contract, Geralt's reluctantly accompanied Jaskier into Novigrad.

They initially avoid the main marketplace in favor of backstreets and narrow alleyways in search of a more niche apothecary, hedge witches or homeopaths selling their wares out of their small homes. But after finding three small-scale herbalists' inventory severely lacking, they're forced to head to Hierarch Square in the heart of the city where the crowds are busiest.

They're scanning the overwhelmingly busy Square with its many shops and storefronts and throngs of swarming shoppers for a larger apothecary when they stumble onto Triss.

She's standing outside of a three-story house right on the Square, dressed in resplendent orange robes the color of fresh tiger lilies and, unsurprisingly, marigolds. The color, and the bright midmorning sunshine, brings out the bronze and auburn notes in her thick brown hair and highlights the brilliant sage green of her eyes, even at a distance.

She's watering a row of plants in a red brick planter that Jaskier immediately recognizes as healing herbs, yarrow and nettle and chamomile, milk thistle and Echinacea. Affixed just above the door to the home she's standing in front of is a large sign advertising her expertise as a sorceress, specifically one specializing in healing magic.

Jaskier's torn quite evenly between relief at finding someone who should have all the herbs Geralt requires and immediate distrust. Neither of them have very good track records in regards to sorceresses. They tend to want nothing more than to bed Geralt and get him wrapped around their little finger and tend to despise Jaskier solely for the fact that he exists.

If Jaskier didn't know better he'd say they were jealous, his friendship with Geralt always outliving the witcher's whirlwind affairs with his sorceresses. But Jaskier does know better and it wouldn't do to believe such a foolish notion, to think that Geralt truly wanted him more than he did any of his past lovers.

Now, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, weighing their options, or rather the lack thereof, when he notices Geralt noticing the sorceress, his eyes lighting up with recognition. Without any further warning, he strides through the crowd of busy shoppers with Roach in tow to greet the sorceress with one of his rare half-smiles.

She returns Geralt's smile with a radiant one of her own and him into a quick hug, leaning up to peck him on the cheek. Jaskier can only watch dumbly, feeling like a knife has just been plunged into his heart, reopening old wounds along the way.

After a moment, Jaskier hurries after Geralt, weaving in between people who don't seem to acknowledge his existence, stomping on his toes and elbowing him in the ribs as he rushes over to Geralt. Triss greets Jaskier with a wide smile, more polite than he expects her to be as she introduces herself when Geralt fails to bother with proper introductions, leaning in to give Jaskier a hug of his own.

Brushing a few of her curls behind her ear, she invites them in for tea and quite generously offers to help replenish their supplies as much as she possibly can. They sit in her drawing room that's fragrant with sage and neroli, full of dried herbs and various crystals displayed on a shelf above the large fireplace, sipping the orange blossom tea she pours them in delicate porcelain teacups while she and Geralt catch up.

Jaskier listens attentively as Triss explains how they'd first met in Temeria, about the striga and the witcher who fell victim to it before Geralt had arrived, about King Foltest's scandalous affair with his sister, about how she had soon after left Temeria in favor of setting up shop in Novigrad. She's much friendlier than Jaskier is used to sorceresses being, smiling warmly as they talk and laughing when Jaskier jokes about Geralt being much more tight-lipped when Jaskier had asked him for the story about the striga.

After they've finished chatting, Geralt lists off the various herbs and other ingredients they're in search of at Triss' request. With a radiant smile directed at Geralt, Triss rises from her seat and starts bustling around the room, gathering herbs and flowers and small glass jars to store them in, leaving Jaskier and Geralt to finish their tea.

She's across the room with her back to them, standing at a work table scattered with potted herbs, meticulously gathering leaves and petals, when Geralt suddenly stands and crosses the room to stand beside her, leaving Jaskier alone at the table with Triss' cat, a giant fluffy orange beast of a feline with a smushed face that bats at his hand whenever he tries to pet it. Jaskier watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as Geralt leans in close to Triss to say something to her that has her blushing and giggling as she turns to playfully swat at Geralt's arm, their faces intimately close.

Jaskier forces himself to look away as they continue talking softly amongst themselves, his honeyed tea suddenly bitter on his tongue. The knife in his chest twists.

Triss sends them on their way an hour or so later after providing them with everything they need, declining any sort of payment when Geralt reaches for his coin purse. With a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder, orange painted nails a sharp contrast to the black of his armor, inviting them to visit her again the next time they're in Novigrad. Jaskier selfishly hopes they need never again enter the city.

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Quite predictably, Jaskier’s hopes are cruelly dashed and not two months later they're returning to Novigrad to collect a bounty for a fleder that had been terrorizing an old cemetery not far from the city proper. As they approach the city gates, Jaskier offers to take the proof to the local alderman, hoping to spare Geralt the inevitable migraine, but Geralt just grunts something about having another errand to run.

They head to Hierarch Square immediately after seeing the alderman, Geralt's pockets heavy with coin as he leads them directly to Triss' home. It really is a lovely him, a pale cream color with dark wood timbering and a steeply pitched brown clay roof. It's a shame Jaskier despises the mere sight of it.

Triss greets them at the front door with a smile, the warm afternoon sunshine on her face highlighting the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She's enchanting in a sage green dress that matches the shade of her eyes, yellow and orange marigolds embroidered along the hem and modest neckline.

She invites them in much to Geralt's visible pleasure but Jaskier politely begs off, lying about needing to pop into Books and Scrolls across the way for a few things and ignoring the look Geralt gives him at the obvious lie. If he truly did need anything from the bookshop, he would have mentioned it to Geralt, something he and Geralt both know but it's the first excuse that springs to mind aside from being brutally honest and explaining that he has no interest in watching them flirt again.

He does actually head across the Square to wander aimlessly through Books and Scrolls in hopes of distracting himself from thoughts of what Geralt and Triss could be currently doing now that they had no audience. He chats with the proprietor for a bit, then indulges himself and purchases a few inexpensive chapbooks of poetry and a new leather-bound songbook, the pages gilded and the top right corner of every page stamped with the image of a charming little nightingale, a familiar symbol to a poet like himself. By the time he returns to where Roach is waiting outside of Triss', Geralt and Triss are still inside.

He scratches Roach behind the ear the way she likes and feeds her a carrot he's been saving in one of his bags for her, sits on the edge of one of Triss' planters and halfheartedly strums his lute, figures he might as well try to make some coin while Geralt's...preoccupied.

He's made enough coin to afford a nice room at the Kingfisher by the time Geralt emerges from Triss' home, a small self-satisfied grin on his face. It's a shame, really. Typically Jaskier would be basking in the rare sight of Geralt smiling but at this moment it just sets his heart plummeting.

Jaskier would like nothing more than to leave Novigrad as soon as possible but it's growing dark and he'd like to indulge in some creature comforts only an inn of fine repute in a large city can offer, rich wine and a large tub and feather mattresses. Geralt doesn't argue, either in too good of a mood from his dalliance or simply because he enjoys said comforts just as much as Jaskier does, leading the way to the nearby inn while Jaskier forces enough enthusiasm to prattle on about how it was one of his own ballads that led to the particular naming of the Kingfisher.

He performs the very song that evening at Olivier, the innkeeper's, request, stealing surreptitious glances at Geralt in the dark corner he's claimed as his own for the evening as he sings of an unrequited love so painful and all-consuming that when the young maiden learned that the knight she so adored had eloped with a gorgeous princess, she threw herself into the sea. It was only the compassion of a sympathetic goddess that saved her from her fate, turning her into a kingfisher so she could sing of her lost love forevermore.

Jaskier thinks of the nearby harbor, with its fishing ships and sailors, and wonders what kind of bird he'd become if he threw himself to the mercy of the sea.

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To Jaskier's disdain, the pattern continues for the next several months.

Any time that they're even remotely close to Novigrad, they make a detour to the city, booking a discounted room at the Kingfisher (the rate generously halved by Olivier who gives Jaskier his drinks for free and always insists he grace them with a performance or two of his ballad about the kingfisher) that Geralt scarcely uses, constantly at Triss' home.

Jaskier splits his time at the Kingfisher, catching up with Olivier or performing with Priscilla, or the Passiflora, baring his heart and soul to the Marquise Serenity's sympathetic working girls who always coo over him and let him wax poetic about the brave, stoic, unfairly handsome witcher who will never return his affection. In the evenings, when Geralt deigns to return to the inn, always smiling the smile of a well-fucked man, Jaskier forces conversation while Geralt plays Gwent with Olivier or other patrons of the inn.

But most of all, he aches.

It's harder, somehow, with Triss. With Yennefer, while just as powerful and ever-present, the jealousy he felt was accompanied by the fact that he simply disliked Yennefer altogether, even before she and Geralt started their weird, complicated, fucked up relationship.

It wasn't difficult to dislike her when she had threatened him, held him at knifepoint, demanded he make a damn wish at the risk of losing his manhood if he refused. She would've easily killed him in her pursuit of the djinn and never lost a wink of sleep over it, disliked him just as much as he disliked her.

But Triss, Triss is sweet and kind, unassuming and about as intimidating as a kitten regardless of the powerful magic she wields. She smiles warmly whenever she sees Jaskier, greeting him with offers of tea and sweetcakes or questions about how he is rather than with snide comments about his age or appearance or his singing.

She's altogether lovely, nurturing and generous and absolutely gorgeous. Someone Geralt deserves. And Jaskier hates it. Hates her, as petty and vindictive as it may be. Hates her kindness and her gentleness and her warm melodic laughter. Hates that the man he loves seems to love her.

He hates her. But not nearly as much as he hates himself.

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Not a full month has passed since the last time they've graced the streets of Novigrad and here they are once again back in the city after hearing word of a siren that's wandered into the busy harbor to prey on merchants from Skellige and local fishermen alike.

Accustomed to sirens hunting in packs, the way fish swim in schools and seabirds scavenge in flocks, Geralt had finished the contract in record time, lugging the siren's head and tail from the harbor to the alderman's home to collect his payment. By now Jaskier knows that it's useless to waste time hoping that they can simply leave Novigrad now that's Geralt job is done.

So when Geralt abruptly announces he has business elsewhere in the city, Jaskier just sighs and informs him that he'll be at the Passiflora in the event that Geralt needs to find him. Rather unlikely given that Geralt will be occupied with Triss for the next few hours. Fucking witcher stamina.

He ignores the odd, irritated look Geralt gives him as they part ways. Like Geralt has any right to be bothered by him seeking out his own pleasure with the ladies at the Passiflora when he's off getting tangled up in expensive sheets with a bloody sorceress.

It's not as if Jaskier's actually going to the Passiflora to indulge in the services offered there. Geralt knows that he loathes the concept of having to pay for a fuck, not when he can seduce nearly anyone he chooses with his charm and wit alone, as evidenced by the scores of married men and women whose beds he's graced.

No, Jaskier's heading to the famed brothel for much more selfish reasons than wetting his wick. To strum melancholy chords on his lute and cry and complain about his one-sided love.

Which is exactly what he does. This early in the day the Passiflora isn't very busy, the ladies milling around the extravagant front parlor with its thick red brocade curtains and exposed wood beams, relaxing on red velvet chaise lounges and large tufted couches big enough to host an orgy on.

They greet him with kind smiles and calls of his name, like they're welcoming an old friend, and he manages a smile that isn't entirely forced. He sits on one of the chaise lounges and begins playing, another melancholy ballad about lost love and heartbreak, the ladies gathering round to listen to him sing, charitably ignoring the way his voice shakes.

He leaves the Passiflora a few hours later feeling a bit lighter for having aired his grievances to his enraptured audience, heading straight to Triss' house to collect his witcher for supper. Roach isn't waiting outside like she typically is but Jaskier just assumes Geralt left her in the warmth and comfort of the Kingfisher's meticulously maintained stables under the care of Olivier's best stablehand.

Jaskier isn't sure what exactly possesses him to actually head inside to collect Geralt, should know from experience to be wary about poking his head in on Geralt and his sorceresses. And yet he strolls right into Triss' home like a lamb to the slaughter.

The drawing room, filled with multiple bouquets of marigolds and orange dahlias, is empty aside from Triss' cat. The great orange beast is sprawled out on its side on the green velvet sofa, watching Jaskier with its pale yellow eyes rather judgmentally. Quite childishly, Jaskier sticks his tongue out at it.

He continues through the house to the kitchen, Geralt's name on his lips, and immediately regrets it.

Triss is leaning against the edge of her wooden kitchen table, nearly sitting on it to accommodate the large witcher standing between her parted legs, knees bracketing his hips. The dual swords, silver for monsters steel for humans, strapped to Geralt's back are all that he can see of him. That and one of his big callused hand as they slip under the rucked up hem of Triss' deep green robes to gently clutch at her bared thigh.

It's like Rinde all over again, helplessly watching Geralt in another's embrace as his heart shatters in his chest with enough force it could shake the earth itself. His entire chest aching like he's just been sucker punched, Jaskier averts his eyes and starts spouting half-formed apologies, stepping backward and accidentally knocking a mortar and pestle off a nearby counter with a loud clatter in his haste to retreat.

It's as he's still profusely apologizing that he belatedly realizes that Geralt doesn't have any scars on his left wrist. Unlike the wrist connected to the hand on Triss' exposed thigh. And that while he saw the broad shoulders and dual swords of a witcher, he didn't spot a single white hair, instead what appeared to be a thatch of dark hair.

He looks up sharply, trailing off, to see Triss hastily pulling down her skirts, cheeks darkened with a blush. And standing beside her is...

"Eskel?!" Jaskier gasps, looking the witcher up and down in shock. He's unmistakable with his dark wispy hair and spiked jacket and handsome smile, not to mention the rather distinctive scars running down the right side of his face.

They've only met on a few occasions, on contracts serious enough to attract more than one witcher. Such an occurrence would typically lead to the witchers trying to beat each other to finish the contract in order to claim the reward for themselves but in the case of two Wolf School witchers such as Geralt and Eskel, it simply led to the contracts being finished quicker than expected, the reward evenly split, and Eskel regaling Jaskier with embarrassing childhood stories about Geralt.

Now, Eskel greets him with a crooked smile, rubbing the back of his neck as though embarrassed about being caught. "Jaskier! You manage to drag Geralt to Novigrad?"

The mere mention of Geralt's name sets Jaskier alight, in an instant absolutely fuming as he cries, "What in the hell is going on here?! I would expect this from the likes of you — he points an accusatory finger at Triss, then turns to Eskel — "but you?! My gods, what's Geralt going to think?! His own brother...! Melitele's tits, how in the bloody hell is going to handle this-this despicable behavior?! You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

To his chagrin, Eskel merely laughs, turning to Triss who sends him a confused look. She turns back to Jaskier, still smoothing out her skirts, and opens her mouth, undoubtedly in an attempt to defend her cruel deception.

"I don't want to hear it!" Jaskier snaps, incensed. He throws up his hands in frustration and turns on his heel to stomp back out of the kitchen, through the drawing room, and out of Triss' home, slamming the door behind him, fully prepared to storm across the Square and retreat to his and Geralt's room at the Kingfisher.

He has no plan, no inkling of what exactly his next step is beside waiting for Geralt to return to their room and somehow explaining that once again his sorceress lover has hurt him with her selfishness. The thought of breaking such dreadful news to Geralt is daunting; Jaskier doesn't ever want to be the cause of such pain for his friend.

He may act the careless rakehell when it suits him, ricocheting from one whirlwind affair to another, but even he isn't immune to the sting that comes with being left for another. He's grown attached to lovers time and time again only to be cast aside in favor of someone else, someone younger, prettier, less annoying, the pain always just as sharp as the very first time.

He thinks of the careless way the Countess de Stael had abandoned him for her new lover, of how she had callously ousted him from her home and her life, of how he'd drowned his sorrow in women and wine and a wasted wish on a djinn that wasn't even under his command. Of the horrible pain he feels every time Geralt goes chasing after Yennefer, leaving him behind with his bruised and battered heart still on his sleeve.

He only gets a quarter of the way across the Square, still trying to sort out how exactly he's going to explain the horrid situation, before he quite literally bumps into Geralt, having paid no mind to the bustling crowd around him in his anger.

Geralt's clearly on his way to Triss' home; it's the only reason he ever steps foot in the busy Square, otherwise avoiding it like a plague even he wouldn't be immune to. Jaskier plants one hand on Geralt's chest and points back at Triss' house with the other as he resolutely declares, "You do not want to go in there!"

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts, rolling his eyes and pressing forward, making Jaskier slide backward across the stone-paved street, propelled by the unstoppable force that is Geralt of Rivia. Roach offers no assistance. "I need to see Triss about getting more wolfsbane, I'm out."

"Not right now, you don't!" Jaskier insists, holding up a finger in Geralt's face. Geralt ignores him, continuing to walk forward as Jaskier's boots make a horrendous sound as the soles scrape over the cobblestone. Jaskier lets out an affronted squeak. "Geralt! For once in your miserable life will you listen to me, you stubborn oaf! Especially when I'm trying to protect you!"

"Protect me?" Geralt echoes, abruptly freezing in his tracks. His hand immediately goes for his swords. "What's in there?"

"Oh, put your swords away, it's not a monster," Jaskier says, though he certainly considers anyone who would hurt Geralt in such a way to be quite monstrous indeed. Regardless, the swords aren't entirely necessary. Jaskier sighs. "I just... I don't want you going in there, alright?"

Geralt narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, little more than a slight squint as he looks at Jaskier, dropping his hand back to his side. "Don't you trust me?"

"Oh please, Geralt," Jaskier scoffs, rolling his eyes. "It's not you I don't trust..."

"Jaskier," Geralt says again, patience wearing thin.

Jaskier sighs again, feeling absolutely awful about having to relay the terrible truth to Geralt. At the very least, he can spare Geralt the pain of witnessing it himself, from having the sight of his lover and his brother tangled together in an intimate embrace ingrained in his mind's eye forevermore.

"Geralt, I'm so sorry," Jaskier begins, unable to stop the nervous fidgeting of his fingers, alternating between wringing his hands together and picking at his cuticles. "I... I was looking for you at Triss' and I found her. With Eskel."

He hopes it's self-explanatory enough to be a sufficient explanation, that he won't have to delve into the lurid details, but Geralt simply stares at him expectantly. "And-And, oh Geralt, I'm so sorry. They were in a rather...compromising position."

"And?" Geralt demands when it becomes apparent Jaskier has nothing else to say, cocking a brow. He seems entirely unfazed by what Jaskier's just revealed to him, as though he had simply reported the weather and not an instance of infidelity.

"And? And?!" Jaskier repeats, aghast. "And, I'm sorry that your lover has been unfaithful! With one your own brothers of all people!"

His voice raises without his volition, the slightest edge of hysteria sharpening it. Fortunately, the dull roar of the marketplace around them drowns it out a bit and keeps him from making a spectacle of himself.

Still, Geralt does not react beyond the confused look plastered on his face. Jaskier doesn't exactly expect a jealous outburst or for Geralt to break down in tears but he does expect a reaction of some sort! Anger or resignation or upset. Anything! Something! Not confusion, not this otherwise blank expression.

Jaskier's about to ask if Geralt heard him when the other man finally speaks.

"Jaskier," he begins almost cautiously, like he has something of grave importance to inform Jaskier of and fears he might startle the bard. "Triss is not my lover."

Ooh, lovely, now Geralt's lying to him. It reignites Jaskier's anger with a vengeance.

"Oh, please, Geralt! Despite what you may think I am not an idiot! You hate cities, can barely tolerate them for more than a moment, and yet over the past year, you've made us stop in Novigrad whenever we're even remotely nearby! You spend hours with her doing Melitele knows what while I'm relegated to playing at the inn to earn coin for a room you scarcely even use!"

"You never gave the impression you wanted to sit with us," Geralt answers, as though that's what Jaskier is upset about, feeling unwelcome during their little trysts. "You seemed content keeping Roach company, but you were always welcome, Triss said so herself."

Jaskier lets out an outraged squawk, gesturing aimlessly in his frustration. "Welcome to what?! Watching the man I've been in love with for half my life and his new lover?! Well, no thank you! I may be a glutton for punishment but I am not a bloody masochist and I have no interest whatsoever in subjecting myself to such a thing!"

He barely has a moment to register what he's just said, what precious secret he's just so carelessly divulged, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth the bell tower across the Square erupts into sound, filling the afternoon with the clamor of bells. It's too much for Geralt, much too loud much too fast, the sound most assuredly deafening with his heightened sense of hearing. He immediately winces, squeezing his eyes shut and raising a hand to his temple.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier says, tone softening as he steps closer to Geralt to lay a hand on his shoulder. Geralt just hums, sounding pained. It immediately spurs Jaskier into action.

Keeping his hand on Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier sets his other hand around Geralt's right wrist, guiding him across the Square and letting him lean some of his rather considerable weight on him. Geralt maintains his light grip on Roach's reins like an anchor, earning a soft, soothing nicker from the mare as she gently bumps her snout against the side of his arm.

"Come now, we'll get you to the inn and get you some peace and quiet away from all this hubbub," Jaskier needlessly explains as he ushers Geralt down a less busy side street towards the Kingfisher. He bites his lip to keep from rambling the way he tends to when he's anxious or nervous, not wanting to exacerbate Geralt's migraine.

Fortunately, Geralt allows himself to be led to the Kingfisher and up the two flights of stairs to their room that's significantly quieter than the busy streets outside without any complaints, only speaking up to insist Jaskier make sure Roach is properly stabled. Jaskier leaves Geralt's side just long enough to ensure that Roach is content in her cozy stable with fresh hay and a few apples the size of his fist.

Returning to Geralt's side, Jaskier sits him down on the edge of the bed, helping him strip out of the heaviest pieces of his armor until Geralt waves him off to finish removing it himself, kicking off his boots in the meantime. As Geralt finishes removing his armor until he's in just his dark shirt and leathers, Jaskier bustles around the room making him some tea.

He boils the water over the fireplace, briefly lamenting the fact that he can't instantaneously boil it with a quick Igni, and prepares the dried chamomile flowers he keeps for just such an occasion. He digs a chunk of ginger root out of the bottom of his bag, grating a bit of it into the dried chamomile; just a touch so as not to overwhelm Geralt's sensitive palate.

He wraps the chamomile and hint of ginger in some cheesecloth as a makeshift teabag, setting it in a teacup Olivier has brought up at his request. The teacup is hand-painted, the delicate ivory-colored porcelain adorned with a ring of forget-me-nots and kingfishers in mid-flight. The irony of both symbols makes Jaskier's chest ache and a hollow laugh slip past his lips.

Once the water's done boiling, Jaskier pours some into the teacup, letting the tea steep for a few minutes before bringing it to Geralt who's still rubbing at his forehead. He instructs Geralt to drink it all then steps out to fetch a fresh pot of water from the kitchens, ferrying it back up to their room as quickly as he can. He dips an old rag, also taken from the kitchens, into the pot of cold water, wringing it out until it's damp rather than sopping wet before folding it and gently draping it across Geralt's forehead, setting his empty teacup aside.

He's holding the rag against Geralt's forehead, hoping it'll help alleviate his migraine to some degree, when Geralt's fingers curl around his wrist. His other hand comes to rest on the small of Jaskier's back beneath the hem of his doublet, reeling him in closer until their chests are nearly molded together, his shins hitting the side of the low mattress and his free hand settling on Geralt's shoulder.

Geralt's expression is significantly less pinched than it was in the Square as he looks up at Jaskier, pinning him in place with his gaze alone.

"Jaskier..." he rumbles, voice like an incoming thunderstorm. "What you said earlier..."

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, the memory of what he'd said outside Triss' washing over him like the rainstorm accompanying Geralt's thunder. Once again his careless tongue has gotten him into trouble, only this time instead of enraging some twopenny duke or sweet maiden's father, he's potentially ruined the most important relationship in his life.

He's said too much, like he always does. Always blathering on like the lovesick fool he is, using all sorts of pretty words and melodies to hide the ugly things he feels, like his jealousy and distrust, his petty resentment towards those whose only sin was that they'd had Geralt in the way that he's always wanted but can never have.

And now it's going to cost him Geralt, the way he's always known it would eventually. A foregone conclusion he'd tried to delay for as long as possible.

Now that Geralt knows that Jaskier's in love with him, now that Jaskier's so carelessly confessed his most well-guarded secret, he's sure to leave Jaskier in the dust the way he's always threatened. And Jaskier will be without the man he's devoted so much of his life to, with only memories and unsung love songs to keep him warm at night.

He waits patiently for Geralt to continue, pressing his lips together as he tries valiantly to steel himself for the inevitable. But bracing oneself for heartbreak is like bracing for a hurricane; being prepared did not alleviate the devastation that was wrought, it only made it slightly more manageable.

"Triss and I aren't lovers," Geralt says instead, and Jaskier just barely refrains from laughing in his face. "We're friends, acquaintances, really. Nothing more."

There's something about the tone of Geralt's voice, some undercurrent of steel and soft thunder, that makes it impossible for Jaskier to doubt the veracity of his statement, not when for all of Geralt's tendency to deflect Jaskier's prying questions he rarely ever lies to him.

Jaskier opens his eyes, looking down at Geralt with a confused frown. "But—"

"Last winter Eskel told me he'd met her on a contract in Novigrad, that they're...involved," Geralt elaborates. A small smile curls the corner of his lips up, it's the same small smile he wears when he teases Lambert or decides to make a joke at Jaskier's expense. "I've been visiting her to tell her about him. Old stories of dumb shit he's done, mischief he caused that led to a hiding."

Jaskier gapes at him, trying to wrap his mind around what Geralt's just told him. Once he does, he can't contain his incredulity. "You mean to tell me that for the past year you've been venturing into a city you despise solely to tell your brother's lover funny stories about him just to embarrass him?! Oh, gods, what am I even saying? That's exactly something you'd do you-you... You bloody muttonhead!"

Geralt's smile persists. "Muttonhead? You're the one who thought I was fucking Triss."

"Of course, I did!" Because you were always off slipping away to go see her at all hours, always whispering and cooing like a pair of lovesick mourning doves! What was I supposed to think? How was I to know you were just trying to embarrass your poor brother!" Jaskier defends, throwing up his free hand, indignation swelling within him before ebbing away to be replaced by a tide of embarrassment. He groans, hanging his head and closing his eyes. "I'm such an idiot, I cannot believe I've made such a fool of myself! Over a bloody misunderstanding of all things! Oh, sweet Melitele, I'm a fucking fool."

He draws in a sharp, ragged breath, raises his chin and tries to brace himself, staring over Geralt's shoulder. "And now... Now I'm sure you'll be taking your leave. Suppose Olivier will let me stay for a bit until I regain my bearings, as long as I perform my song about the kingfisher for him, he really does love that ballad."

"Jaskier," Geralt says, cutting off Jaskier's rambling before he can manage to embarrass himself any further. How very charitable of him. "Why would I leave?"

"Why would you...? Geralt! I just professed my love for you not half an hour's time ago! What else should I expect you to do? Pick me up in your arms and declare your endless devotion to me?!" Jaskier's impassioned diatribe trails off with a deep sigh. Still pressing the damp rag to Geralt's forehead, ever gentle to compensate for every hand that's touched him with nothing but cruelty, he breathes deeply and meets Geralt's eyes. "I told you, Geralt, I'm not a masochist. I would not torture myself with such grand delusions."

"I know well that you do not reciprocate my feelings. I understand, of course, and I've made my peace with it," Jaskier goes on, forcing himself to go on even when he feels his throat tighten. "I didn't intend on admitting it in such a way — in any way, really — and I apologize. I would be happy to continue traveling with you, truly nothing would make me happier, but I understand if you wish to part ways. I would never...hold it against you or any such thing, I swear."

"Did you mean it?" Geralt asks, catching Jaskier off guard. He's not sure what exactly Geralt's referring to.

He frowns at Geralt, sure his confusion is scrawled across his face. "Did I mean what?"

"What you said," Geralt says rather helpfully. Jaskier raises his brows expectantly. He's said a great deal this afternoon.

"When you said you love me," Geralt clarifies, meeting Jaskier's eyes with no trace of hesitation.

Jaskier manages another weak smile, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Of course. With every breath in my body. Every line in every song."

"Jaskier..." Geralt breathes, sounding wounded. His eyes slide shut and he tips his head to the side until his nose and cheek graze the heel of Jaskier's palm. He presses his lips to the spot where Jaskier's wrist and hand, softly kissing it.

Jaskier's breath catches in his throat at the fleeting touch of Geralt's lips, his stubble rasping against the smooth skin of his inner wrist. Hearing the hitch in Jaskier's breath, Geralt opens his eyes, gazing up at Jaskier with those buttercup gold eyes of his that always make Jaskier melt, knees weak from naught but a look.

With the hand he has on the small of Jaskier's back, warm through the fabric of his chemise, Geralt pulls him even closer. So close that Jaskier has to straddle Geralt's knee to avoid falling on his ass.

The movement startles another gasp out of Jaskier. He drops the wet rag with a muted thump against the hardwood floor as Geralt places another barely-there kiss to his wrist, just shy of where his own fingers are still curled around Jaskier's forearm.

Geralt raises his head and Jaskier can't resist the urge to cup Geralt's cheek in his hand, only having to move it an inch or so to rest his palm against Geralt's jaw, his thumb automatically brushing over the sharp cut of his cheekbone. Geralt leans into the touch the same way that Roach leans into scratches behind her ear, full-bodied and surprisingly trusting.

Chests brushing and Jaskier's knees bracketing one of Geralt's, they're dangerously close together. He knows Geralt would never hurt him, knows he could likewise never be able to be truly afraid of him. But Jaskier's heart pounds against his ribcage like waves crashing against the rocky shore, the ebb and flow thundering in his ears like warning bells.

Geralt's face is close to his, only a few scant inches apart, a temptation like he's never known. Geralt's always been a temptation, a constant one dangled in front of Jaskier but just out of his reach, closer than a brother. But he's never been *this* close.

Jaskier's been good for the past twenty odd years. Has resisted all of his selfish urges and one-sided wanting. Hasn't let his hands linger longer than could be deemed friendly, hasn't succumbed to his ever-present desire to just throw caution and consequences to the wind and kiss Geralt with all the passion and longing he's managed to contain thus far.

He's been tortured with temptation over the years, nearly driven mad by it all. By the temptation of helping Geralt out of his armor and sullied clothes, face to face with miles of pale skin and mouthwatering muscle greater men than he would find hard to resist drooling over, ignoring his baser desires in order to help bathe him. By the temptation of waking in a shared bed with Geralt only an arm's length away, if even that far, his handsome features softened by sleep and the early morning sunshine bathing him in rays of pale gold.

But he could never make that leap of faith, could never close the distance between them even for the most chaste of kisses. He was too worried about losing what he already had and cherished so dearly in his pursuit of more, afraid he would lose his world while shooting for the moon.

He wasn't lying when he said he would be happy to continue traveling with Geralt, content to have Geralt in his life as a friend rather than the alternative of not having him in his life at all.

But Geralt's eyes flicker down to his lips for a long moment, a flash of brilliant gold promising treasure far beyond any precious metals or priceless gems and Jaskier can no longer resist the temptation, yielding to it instead.

He leans down toward Geralt at the same moment Geralt raises his head, pulled together like two magnets, binary stars drawn towards one another by mutual attraction. He's not sure who exactly kisses who first or if they simply crash together at precisely the same time, Jaskier's hand slipping into Geralt's hair when Geralt releases his wrist in favor of cupping the side of Jaskier's face in his big hand.

Kissing Geralt is like feeling the first rays of morning sunshine wash over him, like walking in the first rainfall after a long drought. It's like the rush of performing for a large audience at a prestigious event and like the intimate camaraderie formed when performing for just a small tavern full of attentive listeners.

It's honey and salted sea air, steel and silver and snow, blood and ambrosia. Like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once.

Jaskier never wants to stop. Knows he could easily get addicted to it if Geralt let him, could grow drunk off the bouquet of his lips like the finest wine. And, wonder of wonders, it seems as though Geralt just might.

Because Geralt's kissing him with the same remarkably focused, single-minded intensity he uses when completing an especially difficult contract, when he's sharpening his swords by the firelight, when he's taking care of Roach. Being the object of such intensity is heady, rather flattering.

Geralt's right hand is warm on Jaskier's back, his little finger dipping under the hem of his chemise, using the hand cupping Jaskier's face to guide his head just the slightest bit to the side as he deepens the kiss. His lips are slightly chapped but addictive nonetheless as he curls his tongue against Jaskier's in a way that nearly makes him see stars. Jaskier's knees are perilously weak, knees gone to jelly like the strawberry preserves Geralt fancies so much at the first touch of his lips.

The position is a bit awkward. With how low the bed is, Jaskier's forced to crane his neck at an awkward angle, head tipped to the side to avoid simply mashing his face against Geralt's like a schoolboy having his first snog. He can feel a crick in his neck that's going to plague him for days if he doesn't move but the thought of tearing his lips away from Geralt's is downright torturous and he'd rather stand there forever in slight discomfort if it means he can continue to kiss his witcher for just a moment longer.

But Geralt, ever vigilant, seems to notice the uncomfortable way Jaskier's head is angled, moving farther back on the mattress and pulling Jaskier with him until the bard's crawling on his knees on the mattress, now straddling Geralt's thigh rather than his knee. They're of a height now, easing the way as Jaskier pours all of himself into the kiss with renewed passion.

But even with the lungs of a singer, Jaskier has to break the kiss to catch his breath, chest heaving as he presses his forehead against Geralt's. Geralt shifts his hand from Jaskier's face to his hip as he brushes the tip of his nose across Jaskier's cheek, practically nuzzling him, and mutters, "Never wanted her, Jaskier. Just you. Only you."

Jaskier can't help the groan that's wrenched out of him at the hushed confession, lowering his head for another deep kiss, fisting his left hand in the fabric of Geralt's shirt. His heart feels fit to burst at the confirmation that his feelings aren't one-sided, that his love for Geralt is reciprocated to some degree, enough for him to be straddling the man's lap and kissing the daylights out of him.

A few moments later, he again reluctantly drags his lips away from Geralt's for the sake of breathing, smiling when Geralt grunts almost petulantly as Jaskier pauses their kiss. Catching his breath, he runs his fingers through Geralt's hair, the glide of the silk-soft strands through his fingers both soothing and exhilarating.

Geralt ducks his head to bury his face in the side of Jaskier's neck, peppering kisses down the side of his neck from just below his ear to the collar of his doublet. Jaskier lets out a soft breath, hand tightening in Geralt's hair.

"I... I should apologize to Triss," Jaskier manages to say in spite of the cloud of lust filling his entire body, mind clearing for a moment even as Geralt very lightly grazes his teeth up the long line of his neck. "I said some rather awful things to her..."

"Hmm... Later..." Geralt rumbles against his throat, lips rasping over the sensitive skin and making Jaskier squirm atop him. Jaskier shudders as Geralt starts laying open-mouthed kisses on his throat, wants him to leave a mark, a bruise in the shape of his mouth as proof that this isn't just another midday fantasy or late-night dream, that it's real. He doubts Geralt would be adverse.

"E-Eskel, too," Jaskier says shakily, eyes fluttering shut as Geralt continues showering his neck with attention, his tongue occasionally darting out to taste his skin. He gasps out a sharp moan when Geralt nips at a rather sensitive spot just behind Jaskier's earlobe, apparently not a fan of Jaskier saying other people's names while wrapped in his arms. Jaskier can't exactly fault him for that, dipping his head to press his lips against Geralt's.

The hand on Jaskier's back slips more fully beneath the hem of his chemise, fingers fanned out across the small of his back, Geralt's other hand on his hip squeezing gently. Jaskier shivers again, Geralt's bare skin on his own sending a frisson of pleasure down his spine, heat pooling low in his gut.

He blindly feels for the front laces of Geralt's shirt, humming happily when he finds them. He abandons his grip on Geralt's hair to settle both hands on Geralt's broad chest, sturdy and warm beneath his palms, fingers toying with the laces.

He unlaces them as much as possible, revealing a wide swath of his chest, scattered with old scars and dusted with hair. Jaskier can't resist running his hands over the bared skin, tracing his fingers over familiar scars he knew the stories of by heart: claw marks from a griffin, an old stab wound from a lucky bandit, a slash from the tail spikes of a forktail, all of them part of the man he loves so much, features rather than flaws.

He wants to touch more of Geralt's chest, wants to strip him of his shirt and run his fingers over every scar he can find, press kisses to each one. But he also wants to bury his hands in Geralt's hair again, to brush his fingertips through the silky strands that smell faintly of jasmine bath oil. He wants to cup Geralt's face in his hands, brush kisses across his cheeks and forehead and eyelids and chin. He'd also very much like to get his hands on Geralt's ass.

Years of wanting have left him with so many desires to touch, all of them getting muddled in his head in his haste to accept whatever Geralt's willing to offer even if it's just a few more kisses. But his mind is still clear enough for something to occur to him.

"Oh!" He gasps, pulling back for a moment, panting a bit. He winces theatrically, genuinely contrite. "You may not ever be able to go to the Passiflora again. I may have told all the girls there that you're a heartless cad who's quite thoroughly shattered my heart with your gallivanting ways."

Geralt quirks a pale brow, clearly annoyed that Jaskier's once again put their kissing on hold in favor of prattling on. But there's a smirk slowly tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks up at Jaskier. "Is that what you were doing there?"

Jaskier nods a touch sheepishly, chewing his lip. He runs his thumb over Geralt's bottom lip and the cleft in his chin, feeling a bit foolish as he admits, "You know I don't like paying for sex. I needed a shoulder to cry on. The girls were always rather sympathetic."

"Hmm," Geralt replies, reaching up to card his fingers through Jaskier's hair, brushing his thumb over his cheek. His eyes flicker down to look at Jaskier's mouth, lips pink and kiss swollen. "Somehow, I think I'll manage without their services. Now shut up, Jaskier."

And Jaskier, well, he's more than happy to comply. For now. The sea won’t be claiming him tonight. He’s found his halcyon days.

[drowningbydegrees]

This is very sappy smut written for the Music Prompt List:

17. Ritenuto (Italian: held back) slow down at once~smell the roses, stop before we go any further

NSFW. Technically a sequel to Nothing But the Background Noise, but it totally stands on its own as well. 

READ ON AO3

Jaskier makes it exactly three steps out the door. Coincidentally the third step is where the bit of roof that shields his doorstep gives way, and where the slightly inconvenient amount of snow he’d stepped into becomes absurd. Scowling, he grumbles under his breath about the lengths he goes to for his students.

Oh, who is he kidding? Nobody is going to trudge through this for a lecture, not even if he’s the speaker. There’s not a soul even outside besides him, from the looks of it. There’s only the quiet hush that sweeps in with the snow sometimes when there’s no one around to interrupt it. It’s quite beautiful if he’s being honest, almost poetically so.

Beautiful. And cold. If he’s not going to class, there’s really no point in standing there with snow nearly reaching the top of his boots. So for once in Jaskier’s life, he does the sensible thing and goes back inside.

The house is as quiet as the world outside it, though considerably warmer. As he hangs up his cloak and quietly traverses the stairs, he keeps expecting some sign of life. But the bedroom door is still swung open the way he left it and there is a distinctly witcher shaped lump under approximately all of the blankets, white hair peeking out in long tendrils.

He’s never gotten to see this before, a time where Geralt finally stops to take a breath. Looking back, Jaskier recognizes the moments now and then that show he’s enough of a fixture in Geralt's life that his presence doesn’t register as a threat. But this is more and he revels in it. Geralt trusts him, recognizes him so instinctively as not to even stir when the bard comes close enough to tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear. It says more than words ever could. Watching the steady rise and fall of Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier thinks he’s never been so in love.

It seems a shame not to indulge a little, since he’s not leaving anyway. Stripping down, Jaskier crawls in on his side of the bed. He fits himself against the slight curve of Geralt’s back and rescuing some of the blanket from the witcher’s clutches. Even then, Jaskier only gets a soft, wordless grumble before Geralt settles once more.

They fit like they were made for basking, tangled up with each other in the comfort of a warm bed while the snow falls outside. He could go back to sleep, Jaskier thinks. It’s winter. He might be teaching, but it’s still a break of sorts. If he can’t sleep in now, then when can he?

Idly, he drags his palm down Geralt’s flank. There’s comfort in the familiar topography of the witcher’s body, and isn’t that a heady thought? Geralt is - has allowed himself to be - familiar territory. It seems a silly thing to be so giddy over, but Jaskier smiles as he nuzzles against the nape of Geralt’s neck.

He means to drift off, back towards a well deserved sleep. It’s just that when Jaskier’s fingertips sleepily map out the divot of Geralt’s hip on their way to settle against his stomach, the witcher’s breath hitches ever so slightly. Jaskier might have missed it entirely if he didn’t know Geralt so well, but he does and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find joy in that too. He knows the subtle shifts in Geralt’s expressions, recognizes the changes in Geralt’s body language as if they were his own, and now there’s this. A sharp, quiet inhale, the very slightest angling of his hips like Geralt’s instinct is to chase after Jaskier even if his mind hasn’t caught up quite yet.

Jaskier has always thought Geralt was rather beautiful, but it’s all the more true like this. Beautiful and his, and Jaskier is absolutely certain that last bit is never going to stop leaving him a little bit stunned. He grins because he can’t help himself and gently mouths at Geralt’s shoulder, delighting in the shudder it earns him.

Geralt pulls out of Jaskier’s grip, but only enough to roll over on his back and pull the bard in close. He presses sleepy kisses to Jaskier’s lips, not even bothering to open his eyes as he rumbles. “Thought you had class?”

“‘Had’ being the operative word. Now I don’t, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me instead.” Jaskier indulges Geralt’s whims for a moment before he strays to nip at the juncture where the witcher’s jaw and throat meet.

“That’s t-” Geralt’s breath hitches in the most positively satisfying way as Jaskier sucks a bruise into the delicate column of his throat. “Terrible.”

“The worst. I’m sure. However will you stand it?” They’d been frantic in the beginning, like any moment now this was going to slip away from them, but there’s none of that now. Jaskier maps out the crook of Geralt’s neck with lazy, open mouthed kisses, and Geralt’s fingers curl in his hair so haphazardly that Jaskier would think the witcher was dozing off if he didn’t know better.

“That is the question.” Geralt breathes out in an amused huff when Jaskier nips at his collarbone. “I imagine I’ll manage somehow.”

Jaskier means to say something snarky, but before anything takes shape, he finds himself distracted by the indulgent drag of Geralt’s fingertips down the divot of his spine. It makes Jaskier cant his hips forward and he grins against Geralt’s skin at the quiet, pleasured sound that drags from the witcher.

It’s encouragement enough for Jaskier to lazily continue his downward trajectory. After all, they’re both here and he’s still thrilled that he’s allowed to do this and Jaskier has every intention of making the most of it. He’s only just begun to map out the rise of Geralt’s chest with his tongue when the witcher reaches out to stop him. Judging from Geralt’s expression it isn’t a ‘not in the mood’ sort of thing, but he treads carefully anyway.

“I had plans for you, witcher,” Jaskier teases. When Geralt hums in acknowledgment and idly pulls at Jaskier’s shoulder, he finds himself biting down on a fond smile. It’s unexpectedly endearing. Geralt’s fingers tighten in his hair, which is far less endearing, but it is very much something else, making Jaskier’s eyes cross and his throat go a little dry in anticipation.

“Have them up here,” Geralt grumbles, as if Jaskier isn’t already letting himself be herded back to eye level. Somehow, he’s never taken Geralt for much of a romantic, but with the witcher’s hand clasped around the nape of his neck, pulling him close enough to kiss, Jaskier is pretty sure he was just so desperate not to fall in love that he missed it entirely.

Not that there’s anything particularly innocent about the way Geralt’s legs splay out, heels pressed against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs to draw their bodies flush. There’s a distinct sense of purpose to the cadence with which Geralt’s body arches up to meet his, lined up so that the drag of Jaskier’s cock between their sweat slicked bodies leaves him momentarily breathless. Geralt’s teeth drag playfully at Jaskier’s bottom lip, entirely indecent, but all a bit wondrous anyway.

There are parts of Geralt that have always been Jaskier’s but the shape of this is entirely new. He has known for ages the harsh urgency of Geralt yanking him out of harm’s way, but never the barely restrained clutching of the witcher’s fingers, caught somewhere between reverence and desire. He’s always recognized Geralt’s capacity for tenderness, but has never been the focus of it. Now there are soft, half formed endearments whispered between kisses, and stuttered breaths as Geralt rocks up to meet him and Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut in the face of it for fear that he might just fall apart.

Of all the things that are his now, this is perhaps the one Jaskier cherishes most. Not the sudden tension of Geralt’s body beneath his, though that is overwhelmingly lovely. Not the sharp press of Geralt’s nails scrabbling at Jaskier’s back, surely leaving red marks in their wake and threatening to drag the bard right over the edge with him. It’s the moment Geralt is too undone to hide his own vulnerability any longer. Their pace goes a bit frantic and uneven and Geralt tucks his face against the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing out in harsh pants. He mostly tends to be as quiet when he comes as he is in everything else. It would be a shame, but he clings to Jaskier’s back like he might be swept away in some invisible tide, and he stifles a quiet moan with his teeth against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier wants very, very much to be the source of this particular surrender for the rest of his life.

Love and pleasure are an intoxicating combination, leaving Jaskier struck stupid with the fleeting notion that if all there was to this was Geralt shaken down to his foundation, it would be enough. Maybe it would even, though the idea is immaterial when he's in the midst of chasing after his own release. Geralt shudders and pulls him closer and even if Jaskier wanted to, there wouldn’t be any holding off.

He doesn’t want to. What he wants is Geralt’s shaky sigh against the sensitive skin just under his ear, a quiet sound that might possibly be a whimper. Jaskier's own climax wrenches Geralt’s name from him like a prayer, whispered desperately against his lover's temple. The pillow caught in his fist doesn’t feel like enough to hang onto, but somehow Geralt’s jaw cradled carefully in his open palm does.

It's a lovely feeling, this careening off into nothing, but strangely, Jaskier finds what he wants the most is the aftermath. The sweat and come stuck between them is going to be dreadfully unpleasant later, but Geralt noses against Jaskier’s jaw in another one of those tiny, inconsequential gestures the bard collects like a magpie. He can feel the way Geralt’s mouth turns up in a rare smile and somehow the mess feels entirely unimportant when there’s that to think about.

There are a great many things Jaskier would like to say, but the bridge they've built is new and fragile and now is not the time for grand declarations. He settles for turning his head enough to briefly catch Geralt’s lips against his own. “So, the lesson I’m taking away from this is that I ought to wake you up more often.”

“Menace,” Geralt grumbles. There’s no bite in it, but even if there were, Jaskier can't possibly mistake it for anything but affection. Geralt is currently dragging the fingers of one hand through Jaskier’s hair, the other coming to rest at the base of his spine like he something precious enough to hang onto. This is the moment Jaskier covets most. No music. No monsters. The whole world narrowed down to something Jaskier feels little need to label.

“Most definitely,” Jaskier agrees solemnly. In a momentary fit of bravery he adds. “Your menace, though.”

Yours. That is... sort of a label, Jaskier supposes.

But the fallout he braces himself for, the rejection he fretfully anticipates never comes. There's no sudden tension. Geralt’s fingers don’t even go still against Jaskier’s scalp the way he expects them to. As if he knows somehow what Jaskier is afraid of, Geralt affectionately rests his cheek against the bard’s. “Yeah. Suppose you are.”

YOU CAN FIND THE REST OF MY WITCHER FANWORKS HERE. <3

[witchersjaskier]

realizations

Geralt thinks there’s no one big moment but rather a series of smaller ones, piecing together a puzzle that still leaves him stunned.

It’s Jaskier’s gentle smile when he sees something that moves him deeply. That small smile that only Geralt and Roach are privy to, none of his usual theatrics and energy, just him and the view.

It’s Jaskier’s gentleness when he cleans and dresses Geralt’s wounds, something he learned just for the Witcher. Before he started to travel with Geralt, the bard had almost no knowledge of field medicine or treating a wound, but now he’s an expert and his hands are far more gentle than Geralt deserves. Than he’s used it.

It’s Jaskier’s utter fearlessness when it comes to touching Geralt. Be it gentle or forceful, profound or playful, the bard just does it without a thought. Hr braids Geralt’s hair. shoves at his shoulder, caresses his arm during the night. And he always just smells like comfort and flowers and the air before the storm.

It’s Jaskier’s fire whenever someone insults Geralt or tries to cheat him. It’s his protectiveness and the feral glint in his eyes, chemise stained with someone’s blood. It’s the fire blazing brighter than anything Geralt saw before, even on the hands of powerful sorcerers.

It’s his voice and music and praise and thousands of other different thongs that Geralt can’t help but notice. Over the years, somehow, the bard becomes Geralt’s home in a way Kaer Morhen never managed to do. Jaskier isn’t stained with blood and pain and suffering.

Jaskier is quiet sunsets and raunchy songs and playful insults and long stretches of empty road between towns. Jaskier is everything Geralt doesn’t deserve but desperately wants.

Still, even after all these years, Geralt isn’t sure when exactly did he fall in love with the bright bard. He’s not sure when his heart started to skip a beat whenever Jaskier smiled or when his lips pulled into a small smile because Jaskier complimented him. There’s a lot Geralt doesn’t know, but he knows the gentleness of Jaskier’s touch and the comforting smell of him and the road in front of them.

“Hey Geralt?” Jaskier asks one day over the sound of the waves crushing against the beach. Geralt turns to face him and his breathing stops when he sees the gentle smile on Jaskier’s face. He lets Jaskier take his hand in his smaller one and, after a moment of hesitation, gives it a squeeze. “You know that I know you, my Witcher, right?”

“Yes?” he half-asks, half-states, making Jaskier chuckle. His blue eyes are almost overwhelmingly soft and loving.

“I don’t know when it started either,” Jaskier says. “But we’ll figure it out, right?”

“Together,” is all Geralt can say but it seems to be enough, as Jaskier leans his head against the Witcher’s shoulder and nods.

“I don’t think we know any other way.”

[stars-in-my-damn-eyes]

For the Witcher!Jaskier prompt thingy: How about Jaskier giving up his Bard persona/ glamour/ what-have-you in order to save a witcher that he heard took a contract and never returned for payment, only to find out the missing witcher was Geralt ? (forgive me, i do love this trope)

YES YES YES PERFECT

Post episode 6 because yes :)

Featuring Griffin!Jaskier because I'm obsessed with Griffin!Jaskier. One day I'll write him from a different school, but that day is not today

***

There was nothing inherently special about the town, of course there wasn't - one backwater village was indistinguishable from another, as a general rule. The only thing that might have been of note, insofar as the plentiful little shitholes that littered the continent went, was that Jaskier was not allowed to return to some of them.

It had been difficult enough, come to think of it, to keep track of which unwelcoming cesspit he was allowed to enter when he'd only had one list of them, and now, he had two - one for Jaskier the Bard, and one for Julian the Decidedly Not a Bard, but in Fact Most Certainly a Witcher.

This specific town, Jaskier was sure, figured on one of his lists, and he was also sure that it was the Julian one. While he'd never been as far north as Poviss as a bard, excluding that one occasion with the utter cock-up of a dragon hunt and also this current moment - mainly because he hadn't actually left afterwards - he had, in fact, frequented the area when he was younger and particularly more... stabby.

Alright, sue him, he was avoiding his problems like there was no tomorrow. Geralt, Jaskier knew, mainly frequented Kaedwen, Temeria, Aedirn, and perhaps occasionally Redania. Consequently, Jaskier had stuck mainly to Kovir and Poviss since the hunt.

As a witcher, however, it was a vastly different story. Jaskier had trained in Kovir, and, suffice to say, he hadn't been as fond of travelling in his youth as he was now. It made things infinitely easier to keep track of, anyways - if it was in Kovir or Poviss, perhaps Kaedwen or northern Redania, he was banned as a witcher. Further south, he was banned as a bard, and in one little hovel by the banks of the Gwenllech, he was banned as both.

The point was, he was fairly certain he wouldn't be thrown out on his arse if he walked into this town as he was.

And wasn't that all the incentive that he needed?

Jaskier, with his glamour firmly in place - ring jammed nigh-immovably on his finger, as always - and his lute on his back, ambled into the town with a casual air.

At first, there had been nothing of significance, nothing particularly stand-out about... Well, anything, really. He went to the tavern, played for coin, had a drink or two, and, come the afternoon - a bit earlier than he would ususually turn in, but he figured he deserved a break - he started off towards the inn to book a room for the night.

The tavern was, in a most inconvenient manner, a fair few streets from the inn, and so Jaskier found himself weaving through the town anyways - he was definitely banned here as Julian, though he had absolutely no idea why - trying to locate the desired building.

That, then, was when he heard it, a muted discussion between two passing residents that the absent-minded bard wouldn't even have been aware of, had it not been for the benefit of his excellent hearing.

The conversation, Jaskier would have liked to say, was one that piqued his interest, but it was a little known fact that Jaskier was an avid eavesdropper who never tuned anything out - his interest was very easily piqued. As such, the decleration remained rather ineffectual, but that didn't really change anything, here.

"...never returned from that contract, did he? Thank the gods we never paid him upfront, eh?"

"Shove it, mate. Maybe you get to keep your coin, yeah, but that fucking creature's still out there, innit? They're gonna be asking for triple when they hear there's already been a witcher who ain't managed to kill it, mark my words."

At this, Jaskier would admit that a chill ran down his spine. This was Poviss, and so the nearest school was - or rather, had been, Jaskier mentally correcting himself with a note of bitterness welling in his heart - the School of the Griffin. Jaskier's school.

It stood to reason that the missing witcher was one of Jaskier's brothers, and gods damn it, even if he hadn't been around for the attack on Kaer Seren, traipsing around after Geralt as he was, he would be damned if he turned a blind eye to this witcher's suffering, especially given that Griffins - which this witcher quite possibly was - had become quite the rare breed, recently.

So, he did the only logical, rational thing he could think of.

Unarmed save for the dagger he kept in his boot, lute strapped to his back, and acutely aware that if anyone were to recognise him as Julian of Kerack...as himself, really he would immediately be shooed from the village and quite possibly also chased by a mob for his troubles - all of these unfavourable circumstances forgotten, he chased after the two men, still discussing the witcher.

"Excuse me," Jaskier called pleasantly, jogging up to the men, projecting his very best I'm a very non-threatening but curious bard, hello air. "I couldn't help but notice that you were talking about a witcher, a contract?"

One of the men, a balding, middle-aged individual, spat on the ground. "What's it to you, bard?"

"Just.. idle curiosity, I suppose," Jaskier shrugged. "I was wondering if you could point me in the direction he went?"

The balding man scowled, but his companion - a man who had the most magnificent bear that Jaskier had ever seen, was forthcoming with an answer. "He went into the woods down that very road. Been gone almost a day now, I think."

"Many thanks, gentlemen."

With an exaggerated bow, Jaskier immediately turned tail and left.

He fell easily into a run, not breaking into a sweat even as he left the town and started speeding through the undergrowth of a forest.

Evidently, his refusal to waste coin on a horse had in fact saved his stamina.

He picked up on a familiar scent soon enough, though he couldn't place it - he'd never been good with smells, it was something of a major failing of his, really - but it definitely smelled like witcher.

So he followed it.

He dodged stray branches and tangled shrubs with an almost unconcious ease, speed only increasing when the coppery tang of blood on his nose, and fuck, that was strong, that was a lot of blood - the fight had either gone overwhelmingly well or unthinkably terribly for the mystery witcher, and, judging by the constant buzzing of the medallion hidden in the sole of his boot, it wasn't looking too good - and Jaskier made it to the clearing where the smell originated from in record time.

The first thing he realised was that the reason that the scent of blood was so strong was because both the witcher and the fucking forktail he was fighting were bleeding most admirably, though neither were quite dead yet.

The second thing Jaskier realised - and it probably should have been the first, in actuality - was that the witcher was not, in fact, a Griffin.

No, it was, because of bloody course it bloody was, Geralt of fucking Rivia.

The third thing he noticed was that Geralt was losing.

Badly.

It had been a battle of endurance, it seemed, and Jaskier could see thag Geralt was on the verge of passing out.

Fuck. For all the man had hurt him, Jaskier had absolutely no wish to see him dead. Quite the opposite, actually - he would risk his own life to see him safe.

So, slamming his lute case down on the forest floor and leaping into the clearing with all the strength the posessed, that was exactly what he did.

Perhaps his method was a bit... callous, but he needed to arm himself and get Geralt out of the forktail's path, and this was the fastest way he knew how to do that.

He slipped under Geralt's guard, grabbed his arm, and twisted his silver sword neatly from his grip, delivering a ferocious kick to the man that sent him flying across the clearing, far, far away from the forktail's reach.

It was maybe not the best way to minimise injury, delivering a forceful blow to the stomach of an already wounded man, but it was efficient, and besides Geralt was a witcher. He'd be fine. Probably.

Rounding on the forktail with Geralt's unfamiliar sword, he didn't stop to deliberate. He fell back into the familiarity of the fight with an almost disturbing ease, and leapt at the forktail, already slashing.

He caught the creature across the neck, slicing a gash far too shallow for his liking, and ducked under the creature's belly, tearing another wound in its flesh, before slipping behind it and striking at its tail with all his strength, aiming to sever it.

Geralt's blade cut deep into the forktail's muscle, not quite a clean amputation, but Jaskier struck a second blow that rent it from the creature's body with clean efficiency.

The creature gave a roar of agony, and Jaskier took the opportunity to leap on its back and drive the sword straight through the forktail's throat.

It thrashed a few times before falling, and Jaskier pulled the blade neatly from the forktail's throat, rolling out of harms way as they both dropped to the ground.

"Well," Jaskier said, surprisingly not breathless. "That went well."

Geralt. He still had to tend to Geralt's wounds from the forktail, given that he'd spent the gods only knew how long wearing it down for him, which Jaskier was thankful for. He probably would have lost rather terribly, come to think of it, had the forktail not already been in such poor shape, wings torn, bleeding from multiple wounds.

He turned to focus on where Geralt lay - where Jaskier had kicked him to - and found yellow eyes surveying him intently.

Well, shit.

"I can explain," he grinned, trying not to seem too visibly nervous as he spied Roach, at the edge of the clearing, and made his way over to her to nab some of Geralt's supplies.

"Since when?"

The growling voice was tinged with an undertone of pain. Jaskier winced.

"Since when, what? You'll have to be a tad bit more specific, I'm afraid," Jaskier said, instead, making his way over to the White Wolf. "Here, where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," Geralt grunted. "Since when can you-" a pause, a pained pause- "can you take on a forktail?"

Jaskier shrugged, focusing on removing Geralt's armour to tend to his wounds. "Since some point between when I was born and now, I suppose."

"That's not an answer."

"Oh, so now you're entitled to know all of my personal information? After how we parted?"

Geralt gave a grunt that might have been a whine, if Jaskier felt like reading a bit too much into it.

The bard scoffed, old hurt welling up in his chest. A crawling discomfort made its way across his skin, and he shivered. "And there it is, your famous monosyllabism. If you want anything from me, you're going to have to use your big boy words. Can you do that Geralt, or is it beyond you?"

"You... kicked me. Across a clearing. Stole my sword. Beat a forktail."

"Yes, well." Jaskier's deft hands had removed Geralt's armour by that point, and he could see the many, slowly-healing gashes that littered the man's torso. Death by a thousand cuts, indeed. "You softened it up a lot, first. I'm not exactly in the whole... Well. The whole monster-fighting business."

"Jaskier."

"Don't you Jaskier me," the bard groused, uncorking a potion bottle. "You owe me an apology, you know. Several apologies. And then, I might consider telling you all of my deep dark secrets. I'm not in the business of baring my soul to people who I... Oh, how did you so eloquently put it? Whenever you find yourself in a pile of shit, it's always me, shovelling it."

If Geralt winced, it was definitely because of Jaskier's treating of his cuts. It wouldn't do for him to go and fool himseld into believing that the man had finally grown a heart, after all. Nothing good ever came from that kind of assumption.

The crawling feeling intensified.

"I... I was wrong," Geralt ground out. "It's not you shoveling shit. The djinn and Ciri... were my decisions. You were just there."

"And do you mean that, or are you just trying to butter me up so that I'll satisfy your curiosity?"

"Jaskier. I'm sorry. You saved my life."

"I did," Jaskier mused. "And now I'm going to stick my finger into your open wound, painfully, because you're a massive dick."

Geralt didn't manage to hide his flinch, but Jaskier could see that he was steeling himself for Jaskier to actually go through with it.

"I'm kidding, Geralt. I don't take pleasure in hurting you. Much."

"Hmm."

"I'm going to give you stitches now."

"Jaskier. I really am sorry."

Raising an eyebrow, the bard decided to put the man out of his misery. "I know. You don't say things lightly, I'm just fucking with you. Fuck."

The needle pierced through Geralt's skin swiftly, in a practiced movement - they type of movement that came from years and years of repetition.

"Ciri."

"Ciri?" Jaskier queried, not looking up. "Your child surprise? What about her?"

"She's. In the inn."

"Ah. Well, you should let me stitch you up, then, and you can get back to her. I'll be out of your hair shortly."

"I want you to meet her."

"Really?" Jaskier rocked back on his heels as he pulled on the thread of the stitch - an unwise movement, but the bard didn't fuck anything up.

No, he was just screwing with Geralt, a little bit.

"Please."

"Ah, so you do know what manners are. Of course I'll meet with her, how could I refuse an audience with the Lion Cub of Cintra?"

Finishing the last of the stitches and moving onto the next particularly deep wound, Jaskier met Geralt's eyes and grinned.

"I'll only stitch the more life-threatening ones, now, don't worry. The rest, we can deal with back at the inn."

"We?"

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "Yes, we. You can't just inquire after my dark and sordid past and not expect me to stary clinging to you like a barnacle again, now, Geralt. Who knows? If you're nice enough to me, I'll even tell you."

Geralt's mouth twitched - just the barest hints of a smile. "Your singing is beautiful, and your eyes are divine."

Jaskier fluttered his lashes. "Why, thank you, Geralt, but they're not exactly- oh, fuck."

The white-haired witcher tried to sit up, on hearing the note of panic in Jaskier's voice, but the bard laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?"

He followed Jaskier's eyes, his gaze landing in Jaskier's ring - Jaskier's ring, which was sporting a large, gaping crack.

So that was what the crawling feeling was.

"A glamour."

"Yes," Jaskier said, flatly. "One that seemingly has given up the ghost... Or is about to, and any rate.

"You're wearing a glamour?"

"Yes, Geralt, keep up," Jaskier said, tone light. "Completely unrelated, I am unfortunately unable to return to town with you, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to close your eyes while I finish your stitches, and-"

"What are you?"

Jaskier exhaled. "I'm sure you'll find out in a minute or so. I don't exactly carry a spare."

"Jaskier-"

Geralt's tone was soft, but Jaskier waved his concerns away. "Oh, don't worry, it's nothing you'd have to kill me over."

The bard focused on stitching Geralt's wounds as the glamour began to flinch, and, as the ring finally dulled, dissipated completely.

The change wasn't significant, by any stretch of the word - Jaskier was still Jaskier, the same face, the same body - but old scars began to resurface, patterned across the bard's skin, and the eyes that met Geralt's when he looked up were no longer blue, but slit-pupilled and yellow.

"Witcher," Geralt breathed. "You're a witcher. And... You have been. All this time."

Jaskier huffed. "I'm honestly surprised that wasn't your first guess."

"What school?"

"Oh, come now, I have to keep some secrets fpr myself," Jaskier grinned, flashing fangs he'd honestly forgotten he had.

"Griffin."

"Oh, for the love of- how? How did you guess that?"

Geralt shrugged. "You act like a Griffin."

"I act like a-" Jaskier mouthed. "You brute! Take that back!"

The White Wolf smiled at him - actually smiled at him, after twenty damn years, and it was all to be a little shit - and patted his arm awkwardly. "Don't fret, Jaskier. I understand why you'd want to keep it a secret. It would be embarrassing for the Griffin School to admit that they produced someone as incompetent as you."

Outraged, Jaskier gasped in betrayal. "Well, I'm sure I won't be helping you next time you're in mortal danger, Geralt! I broke my glamour for your sake! Quite by accident, I'll admit, but still!"

Geralt - gods damn him - smirked.

"In all seriousness, Geralt," Jaskier groaned. "Do you know how many towns in Poviss have banned Julian of Metinna from entering?"

"Is it most of them?"

"It's most of them. I was - ah, I was rather stabby in my youth."

Geralt shrugged. "The people who could recognise you are all dead by now."

"Hah! You'd think," Jaskier grinned. "Our schoop was in operation for far longer than yours, you know. I'm not actually that much older than I claimed. I just took off the six years I spent actually working as a witcher."

"You gave up after six years?"

"I had other callings!"

"No, I'm just surprised you lasted that long in the first place."

"Oh, fuck off- Next time, I am leaving you to die, Geralt of Rivia!"

"You wouldn't. Julian."

"Shut up. Just- get your Child Surprise and let's go to a country I'm actually welcome in. I don't need to stay in Poviss now that I'm not avoiding you any- fuck."

"Is that why you're here, Jaskier?"

Geralt of Rivia's grin was shit-eating as he no doubt resolved to tease Jaskier about that for the next decade or so, and Jaskier couldn't help but think, as he finished Geralt's last stitch with hands that had become so unfamiliar to him over the last two decades, that being able to stay by the man's side again was absolutely worth it.

[aeide-thea]

This is a gentle request for any Geraskier fics you want to rec, because the number of them in the tag is a bit overwhelming but I KNOW there are gems in there 👀

i’m pretty sure i’ve reblogged things in the past! but it’s true that i haven’t done that in any systematic way, so—let’s see. under the cut are 20-ish recs alphabetized by author, which seemed like a good way of avoiding having to make any hierarchical declarations:

o, empathy by almostnectarine/@nectarine-pit: bodyswap! i forgot how much i loved this fic. geralt and jaskier walk a mile in each other’s shoes, and learn to appreciate each other better; this is keenly observed and thought-through, and frequently extremely funny. a thoroughgoing delight.

Jaskier pulled a face and swiveled the straps such that both swords almost fell from their scabbards at once, ruining the moment. “Geralt,” he said, “this leather itches. You’ve lived five lifetimes—” “Not that old,” said Geralt, in protest, and then, considering: “Maybe three.” “—and you never once thought, hm— oh, I see why you do that all the time, it is quite fun, isn’t it— hm, maybe I’ll add a little padding?!” His mimicry of Geralt’s tone was very good, although perhaps it was cheating, when the voice was already the same.

public displays of affection by autoschediastic/@bluesoaring: geralt and jaskier go to a sex party! (not to be confused with the other fic by sospes in which geralt and jaskier go to a sex party, which is also excellent.) if that wasn’t enough of a sell, well, you confuse me, but—the flavor of the power dynamic here is a little complex and unusual in a way i enjoyed, plus frankly the description of geralt stripped down for this party is really, uh. really A Lot. i admit to being biased in favor of sex party stories in general but this one is definitely a keeper.

to you always, also by autoschediastic/@bluesoaring: in which geralt is a demanding, insatiable bottom. ...honestly, this fic has significantly more emotional weight to it than that description might suggest, but i still stand by it. also the initial setup is just really funny to me, because jaskier getting hilariously outraged by geralt’s sheer infuriating geralt-ness is, like, my fave flavor of jaskier. (that’s a lie, every flavor of jaskier is my favorite flavor of jaskier, but i do really delight in this one.)

@blossomsinthemist’s mixing memory and desire series (wip) is basically my favorite thing ever, like, just truly perfectly crafted to please me personally. it’s h/c, and just astonishingly luxuriant and languorous and lovely—or, okay, let me actually just quote a comment i left on an early chapter:

this is just so exquisitely tender and molasses-lovely-sweet so far, my god the glimpses we get dimly through geralt’s hazy bemused perception of what jaskier’s feeling are so heart-clenchingly poignant—and then of course the glimpses of what geralt himself is feeling for jaskier without understanding it, this stunned rapt gratitude for everything jaskier is doing but also everything jaskier is, the lovely gentle sturdy solicitous gift he is & keeps making of himself to geralt, who would probably call it undeserved except that of course we can see precisely what in geralt has tugged this tenderness from jaskier, this terrible aching wounded gallantry that’s so astonished to meet with respite…

the meet death sitting (wip) series by @bomberqueen17 is my other favorite thing—much plottier than the previous, with a much wider cast of characters, and while i’m ultimately in it for the geralt/jaskier and therefore being strung along in exquisite agony while all sorts of plot things get in the way of any real resolution of that, it’s honestly worth it; what you lose in immediate gratification you gain in, like, a sense that this story inhabits a real, full world, with real events that aren’t just arranged to suit our heroes’ convenience. if i could only get you to read two things it would be this series and the previous one: between them they have my heart. anyway i guess i may as well quote myself again:

it’s the rich realistic interweaving of things that’s so remarkable here, how the absolute throat-thickening aches run abruptly up against the entirely mundane and all of it has to be coped with, because that’s life, and this story has life within it, in a realer way than probably anything else in the fandom, maybe anything else i’ve read in a long time. and of course a large part of me is so, so desperate for geralt and jaskier to finally come back together, with enough time and space to settle into a mutual secure tenderness instead of the current wordless, longing, poised-always-to-spring-away-like-deer-in-a-forest situation; but the story is coaxing me into a more adult patience, an appreciation for the smaller quieter incidental pleasures that aren’t the one subsuming great love, and then also teaching me to live with the wounds one inevitably acquired along the way, the pull and ache of those that makes the whole thing real, not a shining fantasy but a homely pie with a rich satisfying filling, savory and bolstering.

my body bruises at your touch by @brawlite: jaskier gets tied up by geralt as bait for the monster of the week, and discovers he likes it quite a bit. smut (and then aftercare) ensues.

demand an encore (wip) by emamel/@theaceace: jaskier is a witcher of the viper school, or used to be. he doesn’t remember it, but geralt does.

it’s been a while since i read this, but the way the layers slowly start fitting together is really satisfying: all the joy of what i think the kids call ‘identity porn,’ with the twist that here, it’s geralt who knows both identities, and jaskier who’s still in ignorance. ugh, i want chapter 3 now.

musica universalis by flirtygaybrit is bookverse and clearly so—it’s not romantic, but there’s a particular ambiguous flavor of solicitous tenderness that elevates this ‘friendly drunken hookup’ scenario to something memorable for me.

of cherries and dandelions by heyriel: in which a still-virginal jaskier bites off more than he can chew, and tries to disguise it until he can’t anymore. as i said to the author:

this is lovely and realistic in its navigation of, like, trying to Be Cool and the ways that can sometimes get you in trouble as a young sexplorer—geralt is so good to jaskier here and i’m having feelings about it!

also geralt uses a dildo on jaskier, which was not a thing i’d known i wanted before reading this, but it turns out i’m very decidedly here for it! i haven’t seen a ton of sex toys in geraskier fic and this story makes me wish there were more.

gentle-sharp and strange by lisztful has some excellent touch-starved pining geralt, also a performatively public bath scene with very satisfactory sexual tension, also an Ancient Tradition which is maybe the thing i remember most about this fic.

i know that you would want it (if i could sink my teeth into you) by objectlesson is... look, there’s an actual emotional arc to this story, but really what i always remember about it is that it’s got the most overwhelmingly visceral rimming scene i’ve maybe ever read? it’s a lot, it’s a gift, go read it.

@pasdecoeur has several stories that are very funny with some very piercingly erotic moments! briefly sketched in some ways and more pining than porny but no less effective for it.

benefits by @shastafirecracker is a pwp story in which jaskier is first surprised to find geralt wants him to top, and then determined to give geralt the best dicking he’s ever had. jaskier’s inner dialogue in this one is really fun; geralt’s exterior dialogue is true to the show in that it’s minimal but nonetheless includes a bad pun. :)

even a small love by shecrows/@leighway is like. you think you know how things are going to go, and then jaskier balks and it abruptly swerves sideways and develops a whole plot, and then comes back around to where it started, but deeper and better. don’t you love how you can summarize a fic without saying anything meaningful or even helpful about it? anyway: read this one.

snowmelt by silklace/@silkcoeur is a/b/o and somehow both extremely hilarious and extremely hot in full measure. the banter is a fucking delight but so are the tension/sex/feelings.

It wasn’t until they were well on the road away from town that it really hit him, though possibly he should have been paying attention to the way the backs of his knees had started sweating the minute he’d seen Geralt walking towards him outside of Yennefer’s manor, or to the way his throat had gone hot and dry despite the taste of sweetness still on the back of his teeth from the wine skin he’d pilfered from her pantry on his way out. In his defense, he’d still been recovering from spending the prior evening steadfastly spitting his insides up onto his outsides. Also, he tended to always get a little sweaty around Geralt, a fact they were both apparently extremely united in assiduously pretending was not happening.

the sevenfold path by star_flaming/@europeansdomusicalsbetter: in which jaskier is demonstrably extremely well educated, and geralt has feelings about it. (i also have feelings about it, but mine are in my pants.)

you are in my blood by @suzukiblu​: au where jaskier is a bruxa. this alters his character significantly—hard to be too skittish about bloodletting when you’re a vampire!—but the story’s so engaging you probably won’t care? plus, uh, hot. :)

Jaskier’s just debating how much trouble he’s actually in when Geralt, marvelously, talks them out of it. After that, well... Jaskier still wants to eat him very badly, but he supposes it’d be a bit ungrateful of him. Geralt isn’t very impressed with the song he writes for him, unfortunately—which, rude—but doesn’t try to run off and leave him either, so.. Well, Jaskier’s a bit smitten. A delicious-smelling witcher who can talk his way out of being murdered is very impressive. And he always has wanted a pet.

taran (@iamtaran)’s manhandling without plot series has no sex but lots of violent, compellingly visceral hijinks and i like to think of it as preslash. three times geralt hauls jaskier out of trouble.

Jaskier is flat on his back with his chemise rucked up to his armpits, salve burning on his bruised ribs, breathing hard; he is drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he was when he threw that first punch; Geralt is stupidly strong and has him pinned beneath one hand and the sheer girth of his own hips, looking grumpy and short on patience, and under everything—the aromatic menthol and chamomile smell of the salve, the aching of his cheek and lip, the relief of seeing Geralt just as upright and uninjured as he had been when he left, Jaskier is… He had thought he was furious. He still is, somewhat. Like… like a seed is a flower. It was, at first, before it became something else. And given enough time it might become such again. It is what it is in the meantime, however. Fury. Seeds.

last but not least, @toyhto​ has a bunch of fics that crack me the fuck up: geralt is unbelievably oblivious to his own emotions even as he acts on them, and it’s just—it’s so, so funny. also sometimes quite sweet, and sometimes quite painful! there’s a particular air of, i don’t know, almost see-spot-run impenetrability to the writing here that lends itself perfectly to the thing the stories are doing, where geralt is just operating totally on a surface level and, like, feelings are moving in the deep but he can’t quite see them...

...and that’s all for now! more to come later, maybe; but this seems like plenty for a first pass, and anyway i’m blurbed out.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Hiiiii Booouuunncccceeeeyyyyyy 🥺🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️❤️

Could I get a wee story, where Jaskier (who has a chronic illness/fatigue) feels weak and just needs a cuddle, but he's trying hes best to keep walking for Geralt. Geralt knows that sometimes he needs rest and just tells him he's okay and settles him🥺❤️

ooooooh yeah baybee

tw: chronic illness/fatigue, past injury mention (not graphic)

---

Jaskier glares down at the ground before him as if that will make the slow and terrible ache crawling its way up his spine more bearable. It doesn’t. 

Of course it fucking doesn’t. 

It hadn’t been so bad in the morning but now, after several long hours of walking and carrying his lute, his body is on fire. He’s desperate to sit down and take a break or even lay down for awhile, but that would inconvenience Geralt. The last thing Jaskier wants to do is inconvenience his beloved Witcher. He has to prove himself a worthy traveling companion, after all, and stopping so early in the afternoon to rest would be silly. It would eat up too much precious sunlight.

Jaskier, so focused on keeping his outward reactions from becoming suspicious, falls silent. Geralt notices. He also catches a few wayward whiffs of misery and pain on the breeze, like rotten fruit and burnt sugar. Horrible, he thinks. And even more horrible that they’re coming from Jaskier.

The Witcher slows his horse to a stop and slides from her back, his booted feet barely making a sound as they hit the packed dirt of the road. “What’s wrong, bard? You’re too damn quiet.”

“First I’m too noisy and now I’m too quiet?” Jaskier huffs playfully, his eyes crinkling in agony even as he smiles through the pain. “What will it take to please you, master Witcher?”

“The truth, Jaskier. Now.” Geralt doesn’t mean to sound so authoritative and angry but it can’t seem to be helped. He cares deeply for the bard and he’s disappointed in both of them (but mostly himself) for not stopping to deal with this sooner. 

“It hurts,” the bard admits, voice high and pinched. “E-Everything hurts. Walking is...”

“Let’s stop for the night, then. Come here,” Geralt says. Before Jaskier can protest, the Witcher lifts him into a sturdy bridal carry. He whistles for Roach and heads off the trail, into the woods. “Been around here before. There’s a cave nearby. We can stay there for the night.”

“I’m so sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mea-”

“Hush,” the Witcher smiles, only darkening the blush staining Jaskier’s cheeks. “It’s okay. You need to rest and you should rest. Walking through the pain doesn’t make it any easier, Jaskier. It just hurts. I don’t... I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”

“Oh,” the bard breathes. His gaze breaks away from Geralt’s as he lowers his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

The Witcher builds him a warm fire and feeds him and rubs his sore back with strong, careful fingers that leave him in a moaning pile of limbs. He cares for Jaskier all through the afternoon and into the night, holding the bard gently as he sleeps. 

“I understand what you mean,” Jaskier mutters, half-asleep. “When you hum like that, all noncommittally. You’re saying I love you in whatever strange language Witchers have.”

“Not Witchers,” Geralt replies, not disagreeing in the slightest. “Just me. And just you.”

“Alright then,” Jaskier snuggles closer, burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s warm neck. The Witcher shivers pleasantly and tightens his arms around Jaskier’s waist. 

“Hmm.”

Jaskier falls asleep smiling, the smell of pain overwhelmingly displaced by the honey-lavender scents of contentment and love.