#geralt is the gruff dad & jaskier is the fun dad who’s almost like a brother

[thewitcherstan]

Prompt where Geralt leaves Jaskier in charge of Ciri and when he comes back its just... Chaos?

To be fair, Geralt should have known better than to leave Jaskier and Ciri to their own devices for any longer than a day.

But he couldn’t very well have them distracting him while he hunted down a drowner. The last time Jaskier had accompanied him on such a hunt, they’d both nearly died, if only because Jaskier simply can’t seem to shut up, even when faced with what would be most people’s worse nightmares.

So yeah, with Ciri now tagging along with them and as curious as ever, Geralt figured it’d be safer for everyone to leave them both at the inn for a couple of days. He left Jaskier in charge with a stern, “Don’t let her wander off.”

Jaskier had given him a mock-salute. “But of course not.”

“And don’t get anyone knocked up while I’m gone. We have enough to deal with without you buttering the wrong.... biscuits.”

“Aw, Geralt, euphemisms sound so crass when you use them.” At Geralt’s responding glare, Jaskier had given him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Besides, my faith lies with you and you only, my dear.”

“Great,” Geralt had responded, not feeling at all reassured.

A sentiment which he finds is completely justified upon his return, when he hears a mixture of shouting and cheering as he approaches the dingy tavern a couple evenings later.

He walks into the tavern and is somehow entirely unsurprised to find a crowd surrounding Ciri and Jaskier, who are facing off two large men bearing swords, one holding a ridiculously colorful coin bag which Geralt immediately recognizes as Jaskier’s, a purchase Jaskier had insisted was essential.

If they weren’t in immediate danger, the picture before him would be rather amusing. Ciri, with the dagger Geralt had given her to use until they arrive at Kaer Morhen, where he can finally start her formal swordsmanship training, and Jaskier, looking reluctant but ready to swing his lute.

Geralt swiftly pushes his way through the crowd, crossing his arms sternly.

“I believe that doesn’t belong to you,” Geralt grits out to the man holding the bag, and the man laughs.

“Oh, yeah? What’s it you? I think we’re all owed a little compensation after listening to this bloody banshee wail for three days straight,” he sneers, gesturing to Jaskier, and Geralt feels a low growl building in his chest.

“Just because you don’t have any qualities useful enough to earn you money doesn’t mean—”

Geralt closes his eyes for a second. Jesus. “Fiona,” he grits out to Ciri. “Quiet.”

She huffs, but closes her mouth. Her dagger, he notices, is still raised threateningly, just as he’d taught her, and he can’t help but feel a rush of pride. He turns his attention back to the two men.

“Hand over the bag and leave,” he orders, and they laugh.

“Oh no, witcher. That wasn’t part of the deal, you see,” the first man says, and Geralt shoots Jaskier a look.

“Deal?”

“Little Miss Princess and your side bitch here agreed to a duel for the money. We win, we get to keep it.”

Geralt shoots them an incredulous look, and they both shrug sheepishly. This, he thinks exasperatedly. This is why I always traveled alone.

“Great. I’m on their team,” Geralt announces.

“Ah, but three against one isn’t fair play, witcher!” one of the men protests.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at them before turning to Jaskier and Ciri. “Fiona. Out.”

“What!” she protests, enraged, and Geralt barely resists the urge to sigh. So much for keeping a low profile.

“Fiona, dear heart, why don’t you sit this one out?” Jaskier says soothingly. “I’d rather like to have this all settled quickly.”

“I can handle myself better than you can,” Ciri mutters, too low for anyone but Jaskier and Geralt’s witcher hearing to pick up.

Exactly, Geralt thinks. And no one can know that.

She cringes when she meets Geralt’s stern gaze and sighs, lowering her dagger and stepping out of immediate danger, and Geralt can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him. She, at least, is safe for now.

He turns back to the men. “Great. Now we’re even.” Geralt feels a sense of grim satisfaction at hearing how their heartbeats speed up in fear.

“Whatever. Time to exterminate this witcher scum, yeah?” the man says to their gathered audience. There are a handful of cheers, but for the most part, everyone is waiting with baited breath. Tired of playing, Geralt pushes himself in front of Jaskier, and swiftly makes the first move.

From there, the time passes quickly, Geralt dancing forward and back, swinging his sword in smooth arcs and sharp jabs, opting to disarm the men rather than kill them altogether. As much as he’d admittedly like to, he refuses to commit needless murder in front of Ciri, who has seen way too much of it for a lifetime.

Within minutes, both men are incapacitated, and Geralt snatches up the bag of coin, jabbing the unconscious man viciously despite himself. That, he thinks, is for threatening my bard and my kid.

Geralt straightens up and glares at the people around him. “Get these men out of here,” he growls out to no one in particular. He turns to Ciri and Jaskier. “You two. Upstairs.”

His face must say a lot, because for once, they shuffle out in front of him without protest. Geralt snatches a tankard of ale up before following them. He figures he’ll need it.

They make their way upstairs and Ciri and Jaskier quickly make their way inside, sitting on the edge of Geralt and Jaskier’s bed while Geralt stands in front of them.

“Jaskier, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Oh, I see,” Jaskier huffs, offended. “Just assume it’s all my fault, Geralt.”

“You’re the adult,” Geralt says, trying not to roll his eyes. “It is your fault.”

“Actually, it really isn’t his fault,” Ciri cuts in.

“Ciri, he’s right—”

“When those men took his bag, I was the one who challenged them to a duel.”

This time, Geralt really does sigh. “Why.”

It’s more of a statement than a question.

She shrugs. “To be fair, they looked like they’d lose against a gust of wind, so I really wasn’t all that worried,” she tells him.

“You can’t afford to not be worried!” Geralt snaps. “You don’t have the training to not rely on your abilities, and using them in the open could literally mean life or death for you right now.”

Her face falls a bit, and Geralt immediately feels a rush of guilt, though he stands by the sentiment. But looking at these two reckless, beloved idiots sitting before him, his chest aches at the thought of something happening to them.

He takes a deep breath and moves forward, crouching in front of her. He tentatively takes her hands into his, knowing that, just like Jaskier, Ciri responds best to touch and kind words, though not to the same degree as the bard.

It is a softness he’d scorn in anyone else. But he loves these two for it.

“Ciri,” Geralt starts, trying to get his words right this time. “You know as well as anyone that this world does not take kindly to people like us. Powerful people. We cannot afford to be reckless. I know this is difficult, but I made a promise to your grandmother, and to you. We will reach our destination shortly, and then I promise, you will have more freedom. Do you understand?”

She looks down at him and sags, all traces of playfulness leaving her face. For a moment, she looks like a lost, terrified child—and, really, she is—but then her face hardens in an echo of Queen Calanthe’s fierceness and nods.

“I understand,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

He squeezes her hand gently before reaching up to tenderly brush her hair out of her face.

“Go wash up while Jaskier and I talk,” he tells her kindly, getting to his feet again. She gets up and darts around him, grabbing his ale and taking a swig.

He reaches out to swat at her, but she darts away with a laugh, all at once the picture of a playful kid again. Jaskier shakes his head as she disappears into the washroom.

“That’s what you get for always letting her sip from your tankard,” he says pointedly. “She likes the stuff a bit too much, yeah?”

“You really think the daughter of Calanthe has never tasted beer before?” Geralt asks him, raising an eyebrow.

“Good point,” Jaskier admits. For a moment, there’s silence, and then Jaskier slumps. “Alright, go ahead. Lay into me.”

Geralt studies him for a moment, watching him squirm. “I’m not mad,” he says eventually.

“You’re—wait, what?” Jaskier says incredulously.

“Do you want me to be?” Geralt asks, amused.

“Well, no,” Jaskier sputters. “But I thought you were furious, what with the whole grouchy, ‘You. Upstairs,’ bit and the fact that we challenged some big scary men to a duel.”

Geralt tilts his head. “Annoyed, maybe. But not mad. You and Ciri are still healthy and in one piece. You did as I asked. Those men were shitbags, you couldn’t have stopped that.”

Jaskier sighs in relief, happy that Geralt isn’t furious with him. He tugs Geralt down onto the bed next to him, placing his head on the witcher’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Ciri. The duel,” he mutters into the crook of Geralt’s neck, listening to Geralt’s answering rumble of laughter.

“It was hardly a duel. You two really probably would have gotten by without my help,” Geralt comments.

“Yes, but I was rather hoping to avoid harm to my lute,” Jaskier admits.

“Shit, I definitely shouldn’t have stepped in then,” Geralt jokes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whines. “Don’t be rude.”

“Can’t help it. It’s my default,” he says as Jaskier falls fully into his lap. “Tired?”

“Mmmm,” Jaskier replies sleepily. “Hard work keeping a child alive.”

“Think of how I must feel. I have to keep two alive.”

“Shhhh,” Jaskier says, too tired to be properly offended. Besides, he knows Geralt loves taking care of them. “Sleepy.”

“Rest, then. Long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“‘Night, Geralt,” Jaskier slurs tiredly.

The witcher runs a gentle hand through his hair, sitting back and allowing himself to relax.

Trying to parent his wild Child Surprise alongside his bard, who has just as much of a penchant for mischief as their child, is a lot of work sometimes, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[write-ur-wrongs]

Request: Geralt and reader with their child (even though its impossible😂 lets just say some magic did it) when geralts mom visenna wants to see her grandchild ... but Geralt is torn because she left him when he was a kiddo

I had so much fun writing this!! Thank you sweet anon for the request :’) 

Word count: 2078.

                                ____________________________

It was always a welcome surprise when letters arrived at your doorstep. Sometimes your family members would write, keeping you posted on what was going on in their little lives across the continent. Sometimes your own witcher would write you, and while his letters were never long, you always had a laugh when Jaskier would scrawl over the back, adding his own little twist on their tales. Every now and then one would arrive from someone Geralt had saved somewhere along his travels. You kept these in a cherished old chest beneath your bed and pulled them out when you needed to be reminded why Geralt couldn’t always be home with you.

It had been ages since you had to pull out that chest for comfort, though. Nowadays, everything you needed was right here with you. You had Geralt to wake up to every morning, Ciri to raise, Roach to train and tend to, your dear friend Jaskier, and finally your beautiful daughter, Wren.

To say Wren was a surprise would be an understatement. Witchers couldn’t have children, you knew this. You also knew that you loved Geralt and Ciri more than anything. When you and Geralt decided to get married, it took you so long to convince him you’d be alright with just them; that with them, you’d be more than whole.  

You had a beautiful wedding. Ciri by your side, Jaskier serenading on the lute, Eskel as officiant. You had your friends and family with you, and Geralt had his. Together you made a blissful pair.

It was late in the evening, everyone was flushed with ale and laughter, and you had somehow managed to keep Geralt on the dancefloor for more than his standard two songs.

You watched fondly as Geralt’s old friends teased him mercilessly, their gruff faces warm with fond smiles. Watching young Ciri be twirled by Vesemir, Geralt looked softer than you’d ever seen him. You shook your head at them and laughed to yourself, thrilled to see your big, brooding witcher truly happy.

It was so hard to remember a time when you were happier.

The party had fizzled out by the time Yennefer appeared. She had kissed Ciri softly on her forehead before bidding her goodnight, and held Geralt in a long embrace. You watched them from across your yard with a tight smile; you knew you had no reason to be jealous, but still. It had stung a little.

That jealousy is something you’d regret for the rest of your days, because right after she let go of him Yen made her way over to you and gifted you with something beyond your wildest dreams; fertility.

And thus, was born Wren, your beloved and cherished girl. The first of her kind, surely to grow up to be as strong as her sister Cirilla and as enchanting as her Godmother Yennefer.

Now, sitting in the kitchen as the morning sun came pouring in, you watched with adoration as Wren mushed her breakfast between her chubby little fingers, pushing it around and painting bright streaks across her cheeks.

“Eat your berries my sweet girl,” you laughed, wiping what you could off her little face. Wren squealed gleefully as you pinched her stomach lightly, waving her sticky hands as she giggled.

Still laughing, you turned to greet Ciri as she came in the front door, dropping a basket of herbs on the floor.

“Mom,” Ciri said, out of breath from her excited run from the mailbox, “there’s a letter for dad!”

“Oh?” You examined the thick envelop between your fingers curiously. It was too high a quality to be from any of the villages Geralt had visited before your pregnancy, but not so luxurious as to be from a royal family he’d impressed years prior.

“Is it from Aunt Yen?” Ciri asked, through loud bites of an apple.

“I don’t think so, hon” you said, running your fingers over the fine penmanship used to spell out your husbands’ name. “This isn’t her handwriting.”

“Maybe she wrote it with magic?” Ciri mused looking over your shoulder, “an enchanted quill might have its own style.”

“I suppose you never know,” you agreed, brow furrowed as you weighed the envelop in your hands, finally dropping it on the kitchen counter. “We will have to wait for your father to return to find out.”

“Can’t we just open it now? You used to read his mail all the time.” Ciri said, still loudly chewing on her apple.

“That was long ago when your dad was still travelling, Ciri,” you chided, “and close your mouth when you chew.”

“Fine,” Ciri rolled her eyes and ruffled her little sisters’ hair, “but call me when he’s back. I’m going to train on the trail.”

“Be back for dinner please,” you said, reaching back to smooth down Ciri’s cloak.

“Got it, mom,” she said, kissing the top of your head and ruffling Wren’s hair once more on her way out.

You shook your head and smiled as you watched her run out the back door, turning your attention back to your tiny tot and doing your best to ignore the letter on the counter as you cleaned up Wren’s mess.

“Up you get you little goose,” you say as you scoop Wren up into your arms and carry her to your large basin in the kitchen. The water should be the perfect temperature by now, after all it’s been about an hour since you took it off the hearth.

Wren settled happily into her bath but it took almost all your energy to keep your focus off the letter on the counter behind you.

By the time Ciri had returned, the sun had set and Geralt was still nowhere to be seen. You spent all of dinner trying to distract Ciri – it seemed all she wanted to do was discuss the letter.

When Geralt finally came home, the moon was high on the horizon and Wren was blissfully asleep in your arms. Ciri practically jumped on her father, shoving the letter excitedly in his face, begging him to open it right then.

You saw the change in his face happen quickly. One moment he was beaming down at his child surprise, and the next he seemed numb, distant. The more Ciri spoke of the letter, the more you saw Geralt’s anger bubble to surface.

Unwilling to let Geralt blow up at Ciri – something you knew from experience he’d regret deeply – you quickly interjected.

“Ciri, baby, take your sister to bed, would you?” You said quickly, handing Wren to her sister before she could contest.

“Mom the letter –” she began.

“Cirilla,” you said, gently but with a tone that signaled finality, “take Wren to bed.”

She frowned at you slightly, big mousey eyes begging for a chance to be a part of what she knew would be a big discussion.

“I’ll come tuck you in later.” You said meaningfully, giving her arm a squeeze. Ciri gave you her big grateful eyes and you swallowed a smile and nodded her toward the bedrooms.

Once the girls were off to bed and out of earshot you turned back to Geralt, who had ripped the letter open and sat stock-still on the chair by the door. His golden eyes were vacantly scanning the letter he held in one hand while the other rested firmly over his mouth.

You made your way over to him hesitantly as his face grew sourer the farther he read.

“Is Yennefer well?” you tried, praying Ciri was right about the elusive writing style of enchanted quills.

When Geralt’s golden eyes met yours though, you knew you were wrong; or right, depending on the case. Yennefer hadn’t written this infamous letter, and by the looks of the man before you, you weren’t sure you wanted to know who had.

“Do – um, Is uh… Are you…?” you sputtered, desperate to find to right thing to say.

Geralt put the parchment down and crushed it in his hand. While you waited for him to make his next move, you sunk to your knees before him, placing a steady hand on his knee in comfort. Your other hand betrayed your nerves and trembled as you clutched at the necklace around your neck.

It felt like eternity before Geralt brought his eyes up to yours, and you could feel your heart beating through your chest as you waited.

“It’s… from Visenna.” He said through clenched teeth, barely audible.

It took you a moment to put two-and-two together, but once you did, your eyes grew wide.

“Your mother?” you asked, almost as quiet as he’d been.

He gave you a low, ‘hum’, in response, jaw tense as his eyes looked vacant.

When you spoke again, you brought your other hand to his knee and gave both a comforting squeeze.

“Why did she write you, Geralt?”

He closed his eyes and signed slowly through his nose, only relaxing his clenched jaw once his hand clutched around yours. You gave his hand another squeeze and leaned down to lay a gentle kiss atop your hands, looking up at him through your lashes.

“She wants to meet Wren.” He said quietly, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face.

You screwed your face in confusion. “How does she even know –” you started.

“Says she’s always wanted a grand-child,” he interrupted you bitterly, golden eyes dark with hurt.

You scoffed under your breath, unable to imagine the rationale of someone who wanted grandchildren sending their only child off to the Witchers for mutation. When you looked up and saw the expression on your husbands face though, you put your own strife aside and cupped his face in both your hands.

“What are you thinking, my love?” you asked gently, brushing your thumb along his stubbly cheek.

A single tear left Geralt’s eyes. He did his best to blink them away, hiding his face into your palm.

“She’s my mother –” he choked through tears, swallowing repeatedly to keep himself from sobbing.

“Okay,” you hum soothingly, stroking away his tears as they fell, “If she wants to meet Wren, she can do so with all three of us present. We can invite Jaskier and any of your brothers from Kaer Morhen – Hell, let’s invite Yennefer. We both know Yen would kill anyone who even thinks about harming her Goddaughter and Gods, Cirilla isn’t about to let anyone hurt her sister either,” you were rambling now, saying anything you could to see Geralt relax.

“You – You’d be alright with that?”

“Oh, love,” you said, running your thumb gently across his cheek, “my only concern right now is whether you are alright with that.” You waited a beat before adding, “You don’t need to let her into our lives if you don’t want to, Geralt. Mother or not, you owe her nothing.”

He let out another sigh before standing you both up, taking your hands in his. You held each other tightly with only the sound of the crackling fire of the hearth playing around you.

Geralt pulled away from you just enough to let your lips meet in soft kiss.

“You know…” you said lightly, quirking up a brow, “Ciri isn’t going to sleep until we tell her about the letter.”

Geralt hummed out a laugh, shaking his head at his daughter’s unsatiable curiosity. “Maybe we can wait her out, she surely trained hard today,” he said, tilting his head toward the filthy pile of clothes Ciri had thrown unceremoniously onto the floor of the entryway.

“I wonder where she picks up these little habits,” you laughed, hugging Geralt from behind and pointing to the bloody sword and boots he’d abandoned by the door just moments prior. You felt the low rumble of his laugh through his back and laid a small kiss between his shoulder blades before pulling away.

“You know don’t have to decide anything tonight, Geralt,” you said, brushing your fingers through his hair, “and you certainly don’t need to tell Ciri everything.”

He hummed happily as your nails scratched his scalp and turned to take you into his arms once more.

“Let’s discuss and decide it together, then,” he said with a smile, nodding his head towards girls’ room, “as a family.”

You smiled up at him then, certain that no matter what was you all chose to do, you would be okay.

“As a family,” you repeated, leading him down the hall.