#geraskier but with extra steps

[joestarlight]

Throwing this into the Geraskier void.

I love this painting, “The Meeting on the Turret Stairs” and would love to see an artist do a Geraskier take on it. I unfortunately cannot draw, but I offer you a little drabble inspired by it. Hope you enjoy!

Jaskier was still getting used to Kaer Morhen. The drafty hallways, the rooms that hadn’t had a person in them for decades, and the Witchers in it who bathed even less than Geralt. Still, they were a rowdy bunch who loved a good song and a pretty face. Jaskier provided them with both, and they were his best audience in years.

But he’d be damned if he ever figured out these staircases. There were so many within the keep, many with uneven stone steps that were easy to miss when one was distracted by the beautiful view out the window. Snowy mountain tops covered with evergreen trees, and the sun looming high over the landscape captured his attention every time.

Still, he had to grab his lute to practice before dinner. He had a new song in mind, one that had been growing for a long time, but tonight, he finally wanted to share it. He had a sneaking suspicion it might make a particular Witcher blush, and he was determined to find out. So he climbed up a few more stairs, only to see his Witcher standing before him, armor on and eyes fixed on Jaskier. 

“Geralt…a little late to be training, isn’t it?”

“I promised Eskel a spar.”

“Mmm, well may the best Witcher win.” Jaskier took a step up, raising his hand to brush against Geralt’s armor as he moved. Much to his surprise, Geralt raised his hands and held tight to his arm. 

“Tonight…” Geralt began, and Jaskier sighed, resting his head against the wall as his Witcher leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. “Tonight what? You’ll hold me for warmth? You’ll curl up against me and fall asleep without another word?” Jaskier glanced down at him. “And you’ll leave me wondering if I am anything more than an extra fur in your bed." He watched Geralt’s lips part in protest, and The Witcher shook his head.

“Tonight, bring wine up to my room. We’ll talk. And then take it from there.”

Jaskier took one of Geralt’s hands and pressed it to his lips. He knew exactly where he planned to take it, if Geralt would allow him to. And tonight...just maybe he would. 

“Don’t be late for dinner. I’m going to play. And then we can…talk.” Geralt nodded, and their touch slowly slipped apart. Jaskier continued up the stairs, choosing not to linger by the next window. He had some practicing to do before dinner, for if this was to be the song he finally woo’d Geralt with, he damn well would make sure it was perfect.

[officerjennie]

for the 500 prompts: geralt/jaskier + body swap? i was thinking geralt/eskel swap bodies and jaskier doesnt know so he says something embarrassing to eskel about geralt (who is really geralt). hope that makes sense xD feel free to change it up any way or add eskel to the ship <3 thank you i love your posts!!! -flutejoy

@flutejoy - tumblr won't let me tag you, but like. A year later, I come bearing a fic. Hope it crosses your dash someday 😂

No real CWs. Geraskier, >2k

It really wasn’t all that different being Geralt, Eskel thought, turning his face this way and that as he studied himself in the mirror. Geralt was a touch taller, his hair much longer, and his bulk was more hard muscle than soft, but despite the extra round of mutagens he really wasn’t that different.

His hearing was a bit better. Eskel had always thought that Geralt would have had better night vision, but he’d been wrong about that. Stretching, he turned away from the mirror, wondering if Geralt was having any luck hunting down his witch to switch them back.

A witch was the reason they were like this to begin with. Eskel gathered Geralt’s swords and strapped them to his back, finding it much easier to do when he wasn’t as thick (though he noted Geralt’s body got colder at night than his did). The witch had thought to confuse them, give herself enough time to escape when they’d raided her hut, but it hadn’t been enough in the end. Though they’d been a bit off balance, she still hadn’t been a match for them.

It had been a few nights since then, and for the most part they’d gotten used to it. Some things had been a bit awkward at first but they’d gotten over it out of necessity, growling and grumbling but accepting that this was their lot in life for a while.

Yennefer would fix it, Geralt had been certain of it. Though Eskel had no great love for her and had no desire to help find her. Last time he’d met her, she’d been throwing furniture out the window at Kaer Morhen. He’d thought it best to stay clear of her and hope Geralt could find her himself.

It was a bit dreary outside that afternoon. Eskel threw on Geralt’s cloak to shield himself from the rain, staring up at the grey clouds when he stepped outside. Grateful that he managed to stay warm under most any weather conditions, he set off down the street, deciding a drink and some food would do him good.

There was a bit of a crowd at the local tavern. Music drifted through the cracks in the door and windows, a few drunk stragglers leaning against the outside walls and just out of the rain. Eskel didn’t look at them but felt their eyes on him, making sure to keep his expression cooled to give them no reason to give him trouble.

He would have no trouble taking them out if he needed to, but that made the world all the harder for witchers. It was better to let them be and hope they did the same to him in turn. 

The noise and smells rushed over him when he opened the tavern door. Music, a lute and a lovely baritone voice, but loud laughter and chatter joined it. Stew and bread, not fresh but not spoiled either. He closed his eyes for a second and forced himself to get used to it all fast. Then he closed the door behind him.

It was good luck that the barkeep didn’t give him any trouble. The look he gave him was more wary than anything else, not sure whether to trust the stranger or not. Out of habit, Eskel touched his face and looked away, but his fingers only found stubble on his cheeks.

He wasn’t himself anymore. It was his hair and eyes that gave him away. That and the two swords.

Ale on its way and a bowl of stew in front of him, Eskel tuned the tavern out as he settled into a table in the corner. He kept the music to his side, facing the door so he could keep the clearest route to the exit in mind as he ate. A few times he glanced over at the bard that was performing - and it certainly was a performance: his gestures wide, his voice loud and clear, his smile wicked as he worked the crowd up around him.

While Eskel watched him, the bard stepped up onto a table, the crowd roaring. Eskel didn’t know a lot of bards (he knew of Geralt’s bard, of course, though he’d never met him) but this one must have made a name for himself, for everyone there seemed to know him. The man bowed with a sweep of his arm, hat clutched in his hand - and when he looked up he caught Eskel’s eyes.

Eskel couldn’t look away, and for a second it felt like he couldn’t breathe. It felt like that man was staring into his soul. And then he broke eye contact and looked away, and Eskel could breathe again.

“Thank you, thank you!” The man bowed again and hopped off the table, his cheeks red from working himself, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Alas, I must retire for the evening, but fear not! This won’t be my last performance!”

Being a bard was good business, Eskel noted, only watching the bard out of the corner of his eye then. The crowd cheered and gave him enough coin to cover a room, a bath, and probably several meals if the bard was good at budgeting. And the man took it all with grace, thanking everyone who paid him, and made his way through the tavern with a flirty grin on his face for almost everyone he passed.

Dangerous to throw it at everyone, but bards weren’t exactly known for keeping it to themselves. Eskel drank his ale and decided he wouldn’t stay long. With the crowd less distracted, they were more likely to turn to other forms of entertainment. 

Though the bard didn’t seem to be done making his rounds around the place. Eskel did his best to not actively watch him but it was difficult when he was getting closer. Slowly working his way through the crowd, stopping to call a few by name, to touch a few shoulders, to whisper a few words here and there. Eskel rolled his eyes and rolled his right shoulder - was it always this stiff? Must have been from an old wound. He’d have to check for knots later and work them out once he was himself again.

“You really do just have a special way of brooding.”

Eskel blinked up at the bard, who was leaning against a wooden beam near his table. There was a knowing glint in his eyes, a twitch of a smile on his lips, and for a moment Eskel wondered if they knew each other.

But he hadn’t really been introduced to any bards. Maybe the bard just liked talking to everyone, witchers included. So all Eskel did was shrug, and wince when it pulled the tight muscles in his shoulder - he really needed to work that out later.

“Didn’t expect to see you until Oxenfurt.” The bard didn’t take Eskel’s silence personally, helping himself to a seat right next to him as he plopped down with a sigh, a rather cute pout on his lips as he looked over at Eskel. “For the best, really. Turns out Valdo is teaching there at the moment, and I’d rather not have to deal with him. Do you still need to meet Triss there?”

Eskel blinked, and cocked his head. Triss in Oxenfurt - ah fuck, he shook his head before tipping his ale back and draining the last of it.

This must be Geralt’s bard. Jaskier. He looked at Eskel and saw Geralt. 

Would it be better to explain, or just pretend like nothing was wrong? Eskel wasn’t sure, and Geralt wasn’t there to tell him which would be easier either. 

“It’s settled then!” Jaskier grinned, reaching over to squeeze Eskel’s arm, and Eskel wasn’t sure whether Geralt would have allowed that or not so he just didn’t move. What was Geralt’s relationship to his bard? “We could go to Toussaint instead. I’d love to see the vineyards, and you deserve a rest, love.”

Love?

Eskel shook his head, and scowled because he knew Geralt would have. “It’s not near winter yet.”

“Yes, yes, and ‘a witcher’s job is never done, Jaskier’,” Jaskier lowered his voice in a mimic of Geralt’s, scowling for dramatic effect. “‘We can’t relax, Jaskier. We can’t have fun, Jaskier. Think of the children, Jaskier’.”

“I don’t sound like that” - except Eskel had to bite back a laugh, thinking that grousing sounded pretty spot on.

“You do and you know you do.” Jaskier sniffed delicately, and then took Eskel’s ale to drink some of it. Eskel could only blink as it happened - he did it without any sort of hesitation. “And despite how much you love to work yourself to the bone, you deserve to relax. Honestly, do you think you’ll be of any use to anyone if you collapse again?”

Geralt had collapsed? That was certainly news to him. Eskel made a face and took his ale back, draining the last of it so the bard couldn’t steal anymore.

“That’s what I thought.” Scooting his chair closer, Jaskier leaned on Eskel, resting his head against his shoulder - did Geralt really let the bard get this close to him? “A few extra months won’t mean the end of the world, but it will mean you’ll have a better start next year. Better rested, more strength to fight off all the baddies. And you’ll be able to better help your brothers that way.”

Eskel hummed, and refused to look at the bard even when he was giving him doe eyes. 

“I’d very much like to meet them.” 

That got him to look. Jaskier was smiling up at him, his arms wrapped around Eskel’s, his cheeks flushed from alcohol. He was certainly a pretty picture all snuggled up to him like that. Something told Eskel that Geralt would have thought so, too.

“You’ve already met my family, it only seems fair.” That sweet smile turned a little sharper, mischief coloring Jaskier’s eyes. “Maybe it can be my turn to drunkenly go on about how pretty your eyes are.”

Met his family? Drunken ranting? Eskel was being thrown for a loop, and desperately needed an explanation - especially for that last part. He tore a chunk of bread loose to toss in his stew, trying his best to not grin wickedly himself.

Apparently, Jaskier and Geralt were closer than Geralt had been letting on. And apparently that meant Jaskier had stories to share.

“Don’t recall ever ranting about your eyes, bard.” The little verbal nudge made Jaskier’s grin turn all the more wicked, and Eskel couldn’t wait to continue nudging information out of him.

Geralt had a boyfriend, and that boyfriend was going to give Eskel enough ammunition to embarrass his brother for the rest of their lives. And with that considered, Eskel thought it wasn’t all that bad being Geralt for a few days.

--

@fontegagrilledcheese @damnbert @mothmanismyuncle @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @jaskierswolf @oldandkinky @blooodymoon  @kan0chan @silvermintnightprincess @flowercrown-bard @sharinalein @concussed-dragon @hayleynzlive @feral-jaskier @sweetiepieplum @stonedstargazer666 @deafeningnightcollection-things @luteandsword @kmuir1 @little-boats-on-a-lake @dani-dandelino @rurousha @renewlucifer

[d-andilion]

in perpetuity

another one for @whataboutthebard!

prompt: whump - forced marriage and forbidden love

(geraskier, T, prince!jaskier, knight!geralt, secret relationship, angst, i hurt myself with this one folks, 2.9k, read on ao3)

As a child, Geralt dreamed of becoming a knight. He saw himself atop a noble steed adorned in gleaming steel armor, flying the colors of a great house. His sword would be the bringer of justice, the upholder of order. In the name of his liege, he would protect the innocent and drive out evil from the shadows. He would be a peacekeeper. A hero.

Witchers were not knights. Vesemir spent decades drilling that fact into Geralt’s head. He killed monsters, yes, but his protection extended to whoever paid him. Innocence and wealth rarely came hand in hand. Too often, the lords he had once wished to serve and the knights he’d idolized were the monsters no one could fight, much less a lone Witcher. Still, Geralt did the job he’d been trained for and took contracts for the smallfolk when he could. It was all he had.

When the monsters died out, Geralt and his brethren were left with only their swords. Just steel now. The silver, they buried in the rubble at Kaer Morhen. Witchers were no longer needed, but mutants made good mercenaries. It wasn’t so different, really. Geralt swung his sword for the rich and powerful, and was paid well for his trouble. And when the odd penniless farmer with hungry little mouths to feed offered him shelter to drive off a stray wolf or a few bandits, he did what he could.

Geralt never expected to bear the knighthood the nameless child he once was dreamed of. He didn’t want it, not anymore. Taking orders from spoiled shitheads for a living was grim enough without pretending he deserved a commendation for it. Every knight he’d ever met was a pompous moron who’d never seen a real fight. The last thing Geralt wanted was a place among their ranks.

Then he took a contract from King Arthur Pankratz.

It was an unusual contract. Geralt typically found himself handling border disputes or guarding wares for trade, half a world away from seats of power. He rarely had cause to meet the nobles that employed him, but this one brought him to the steps of Lettenhove Castle. Some sort of epidemic had swept their tiny kingdom the winter prior, crippling their defenses. Geralt and the few hundred others who accepted King Arthur’s contract were to serve as palace guards and city patrol until more citizens could be recruited and trained.

The work was dull but the wage was more than fair and the barracks were far finer than his usual accommodations, so Geralt was happy to sign away twelve months of his service. He even earned himself some extra coin and palace lodgings to help train the new recruits. It was shaping up to be the best year he’d had in half a century.

Prince Julian arrived a few weeks after Geralt did. The king’s youngest spent a few years touring the world after he graduated from the Continent's most prestigious institution, but his father had called him home in the wake of their kingdom’s recent turmoil. 

Geralt didn’t think much of the news. Julian had three older siblings in the palace and Geralt could count the times he’d seen any of them on one hand. The few veteran guards Geralt worked with on training duty were sure the prince would find a way out of the castle as quickly as he’s come, but they warned Geralt to be wary. Prince Julian—Jaskier as he insisted on calling himself—was made of trouble, they said. Better safe than sorry.

The day they met, Geralt didn’t even realize he was speaking to a prince. No one bowed to the fop in a sunny yellow ensemble as he marched onto the training grounds, a lute slung over his back and a crown of dandelions in his hair. No one seemed to blink an eye as he meandered lazily between sparing circles and drill sessions like he belonged there. He wore no gold or jewels, sported no attendants or complement of guards. He looked like a bard if Geralt had ever seen one.

The bard eventually made his way to where Geralt stood supervising his recruits, flashing Geralt a grin that dripped confidence and scanning him up and down with bright blue eyes.

“Now you look interesting,” the bard drawled. “I love the way you stand there and brood.”

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt replied. There was a choking sound to his left and the guard beside him started to cough vigorously. Geralt shot him a curious glance and turned back to scrutinize his recruits. 

The bard just laughed. “Come on now, I’m sure you have a few stories to tell. I’ll give you one in return if you like.”

“Busy,” Geralt barked.

“What about later, then?” the bard asked. He was close enough now that Geralt could feel the heat of his body along his side. “I’d be happy to find somewhere more… private to chat.”

Geralt was never the most sensitive man, but he knew when he was being propositioned. Credit where it was due, the bard had balls. Geralt leveled him with a stony glare. The bard could certainly have fallen into the vague category of Geralt’s type. Tall with broad shoulders hidden beneath artfully tailored fabric, an undeniably pretty face, eyes that could set him apart in a sea of faces. And he had this spark about him, a fire burning under his skin that made him a beacon Geralt didn’t want to resist.

Geralt hadn’t realized he was about to accept the bard’s offer until much later. Regardless, he never got the chance. A harried palace attendant interrupted whatever little moment had bloomed, panting her way across the courtyard.

“There you are, your royal highness!” she called between harsh gulps of air. “You will be late for the council briefing. We must go at once!”

Prince Jaskier breathed a disappointed sigh. “To be continued,” he muttered for only Geralt to hear. Then he turned on his heel and followed his attendant, to her palpable relief.

Geralt had been sure he would be executed, but no one came for his head that day or any day after. The other guards assured him that Jaskier was unlikely to demand retribution for Geralt’s disrespect. On the contrary, the prince had taken a shine to him. The trouble would come, they warned, when that shine turned into something a little more tangible. The prince didn’t mind sleeping with commoners, but his father was far less forgiving. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.

But Jaskier kept coming back. To the training grounds, to Geralt’s patrol routes, to the canteen where the guards took their meals. At first, his constant chatter was infuriating, but Geralt came to find it almost soothing, a rhythm he could sink into and even find a bit of comfort in. Before long, Jaskier coaxed stories out of Geralt too; about monsters, yes, but about him, about his path as his life. He found himself telling Jaskier more than he’d ever told anyone besides his brothers.

The spoiled, reckless royal Geralt envisioned Jaskier to be disappeared day by day. Jaskier could be impulsive and sometimes even careless, but more than any of that, he was free. His heart flew on a summer breeze and his smile carried pure sunlight. He was warmth given form like nothing Geralt had ever known. Inescapably beautiful. 

Falling into bed together was a terrible idea, and Geralt knew that. By the time he finally gave in, he knew it didn’t matter if he fucked Jaskier or not. It was too late to save anything from breaking. Geralt was already completely, enduringly in love with him.

When Geralt’s contract with the king ended and Jaskier begged him to stay, he didn’t even think about saying no. Where would he go without Jaskier anyway? Who would he be there? How could he fight another bandit or guard another wagon of grain when he knew what it felt like to hold the sun’s fire in his hands without burning?

To stay at Jaskier’s side, Geralt swore himself to his service. A loyal sword to guard the prince’s back and keep his council, in perpetuity. Forever. It was the only vow Geralt had ever made and he intended it to be the last. By the law of the land, a royal sworn sword became a knight the moment his vow left his lips. Geralt’s dream finally came to pass.

His fantasies had never been quite like this.

In one of Lettenhove’s many fine receiving halls, sunlight pours through high stained glass windows onto a sorry scene indeed. Jaskier is slouched in his chair, golden crown crooked atop his head as he glares down from the raised dais he occupies. Geralt stands at Jaskier’s right hand as he always does, trying with limited success to focus on scanning the room for potential threats. The lord kneeling below them, whose name Geralt forgot moments after he heard it, has been droning on for what feels like days.

Knighthood is very little like Geralt’s childish imaginings. There’s no armor or billowing cape to start. Geralt flatly refused to wear them in any context that wasn’t ceremonial. He’s not letting Jaskier be run through by an assassin because his sworn protector was too slow under four stones of armor to save him. When they’re off palace grounds, Geralt wears a better-kept version of his old leather armor. Most days, he dresses in a fine but flexible doublet with his sword at his hip.

There isn’t a great deal of fighting either. Outside of the training grounds, Geralt hasn’t seen a real scrap since before he took his vow nearly three years ago. The vast majority of his days are spent like this: following Jaskier as he goes about his business through the castle, watching his back and offering input on matters when requested. 

As of late, their time has been occupied by more and more lords and ladies of who-fucking-cares, coming to make their bid for the hand of their prince. King Arthur let it be known a few months back that his youngest child would marry by the end of winter. Now the leaves have begun to turn and the castle is filled to the brim with would-be suitors. 

Jaskier has been notoriously hostile to every single one of them, but no one has yet been deterred from trying. The current Lord Whatshisface has been walking them through his entire family tree to illustrate what a strong couple they would make for the better part of the last hour. Even the lord’s own staff look to be flagging; the knight on his left has yawned three times in the space of a few minutes. The lord starts up on a tangent about his sixth cousin’s great-great-grandmother, and that seems to be the limit for Jaskier.

“Fuck’s sake, I can’t take another minute of this,” Jaskier says.

The lord blinks stupidly. “Your royal highness?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so bored in my entire life! Were your born this way or did you have to work at it?”

Geralt contains a snort as the lord begins to flounder, sputtering in place of a reply. Jaskier stands and removes his crown, then drops it in the hands of the nearest servant with none of the delicacy required for a thousand-year-old family heirloom. Geralt follows Jaskier dutifully, a smug grin on his lips, as Jaskier marches down the steps of the dais and out of the receiving room without sparing the lord another glance.

They’re quiet in the halls—too many ears with ulterior motives to speak freely—but the moment they’re back in Jaskier’s rooms, he sprawls over the settee and begins his tirade.

“Can you believe that bumbling idiot?” Jaskier groans while Geralt makes a quick round of the room. He doubts very highly that someone is snooping behind the drapes, but being overly cautious is part of his job description. “I mean, honestly, do you think they breed them to be this dull? Is there a secret storehouse of mind-numbingly boring people with impeccable manners that I don’t know about?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. Jaskier doesn’t really need him to at this stage of ranting. Instead, he pokes his head into each chamber in Jaskier’s rooms as part of his rounds. When he returns to the sitting room, Jaskier has thrown his doublet across the back of the settee and his boots are somehow on opposite sides of the room

“What did you think of that one?” Jaskier asks. Geralt snorts.

“Useless popinjay like all the rest of them.”

Jaskier laughs at that. “At least he kept any miserable excuses for poetry to himself. What was it the last one called me? Lady Whatsername?”

Geralt remembers that exchange all too well despite every attempt to forget it. “‘Julian,’” he recites, “‘my dewy frog in the shining swamp of desire—’”

“Oh dear, that’s quite enough, thank you,” says Jaskier with a face like he’s smelled something awful. “And my father genuinely expects me to marry one of them. Lucky for me, I have no intention whatsoever of going through with it.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. It’s suddenly unbearably quiet, the sort of quiet that starts to scream after a while. They don’t often discuss what King Arthur’s winter deadline means for them. There isn’t much to talk about from Geralt’s perspective. He can’t do anything to stop it. 

Jaskier has made his intention to frighten his suitors away very clear, but his father doesn’t seem to ever run out of options to put in front of him. His only other coping strategy seems to be statements of denial, each one a little less confident than the last. In the spring, his voice was sure and his eyes burned with defiance. Now, with the autumn treeline visible from his window, he makes himself small. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries tentatively.

“I won’t do it,” Jaskier snaps shakily without looking up. His hands ball up into white-knuckled fists in his lap. “He can’t force me.”

Geralt takes a deep, slow breath. Inhale. Exhale. “You well know that he can. And if he has to, he will.”

“He can’t!” Jaskier cries into the blaring silence. He makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a snarl as he tries to breathe. “It isn’t… It’s not fair.”

Jaskier looks up at him then, and Geralt wishes he hadn’t. His blue eyes sparkle with unshed tears. He looks helpless, furiously helpless, and there’s nothing Geralt can do about it. The vow Geralt took to protect him is meaningless here. He can’t save Jaskier from this.

Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s flushed cheek as gently as he can with his rough, calloused fingers, and Jaskier leans into the touch. Anything Geralt could say feels woefully inadequate right now, so he says nothing.

Jaskier stands, fingers curling tightly into the front of Geralt’s doublet. His eyes search the empty space in front of him for something he can’t seem to find. An answer, a hope, a prayer.

“My great grandfather’s younger sister married a knight,” he says. “There’s precedent.”

“It isn’t the same to them. You know it isn’t,” says Geralt evenly. Most knights hail from noble families. The gaping loophole in their code of fealty is the only reason Geralt is standing here right now. Jaskier’s father would never let him marry a commoner, a Witcher, knight or not.

Jaskier barks a hollow tearful laugh. “So you are good enough to die for me, but not good enough to love me?”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s face with both hands wordlessly and presses a kiss to his forehead. Jaskier trembles under his touch. When Geralt pulls back, Jaskier’s eyes bore into his, and Geralt can see Jaskier’s heart breaking in them, though he still hasn’t shed a tear. His prince, so beautiful, so brave.

“What happens to you, then?” Jaskier asks. “When I’m marching down the aisle with my useless popinjay, where will you be?”

“Guarding your back, the way I always have.”

“And then?”

Geralt brings their foreheads together, his nose brushing Jaskier’s. 

“I swore you an oath of fealty,” he says. “Not the kingdom, not your father, not the gods. You. I’m not proud, Jaskier. I don’t need to be your husband to stay by your side. Whoever you marry, it doesn’t matter. I’m yours. In perpetuity.”

The echo of Geralt’s vow hangs heavily between them. He made it selfishly, as means to dig out a place for himself in Jaskier’s life, but Geralt still meant every word of it then and he means it now. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, but Geralt keeps looking. He wants to drink in every detail of what it feels like to hold his prince, his bard, his sun, in his arms.

“We could run away,” Jaskier whispers wistfully.

Geralt knows Jaskier doesn’t mean it. For all his fury and threats, Jaskier loves his family and his people. He would never abandon them, not for anything.

“Alright,” Geralt whispers back. “Where?”

“Anywhere. The coast.”

An image comes to Geralt’s mind. Jaskier, shirt billowing in the ocean breeze, bare feet sinking into the sand. The sunset casts him in shades of gold as he laughs without a care in the world. He is safe. He is happy. He is free.

Geralt closes his eyes on that faraway dream.

“The coast it is.”

~~

w.a.t.b. masterlist

[fangirleaconmigo]

Just stopping by to say that your blog is great. Good shit from all angles. I somehow ended up reading a mess of "twn critical but actually just want to shit on geraskier as a concept and dandelion sucks" posts somehow so I've come back here for a reset. Time to reread all your Canon or Fanon posts.

ahhh thank you. That means a lot to me to hear that. I try really hard to be a presence in fandom that is accepting and positive.

By that I don't mean I like every part of every part of every piece of fiction that I discuss, but that I try to see the good in it as well and respect that others may feel differently.

I feel like a lot of 'critique' I see is just people being assholes with extra steps. If it gets to the point where you are making people feel stupid (or morally suspect) for just liking some fiction, well, that is the literal polar opposite of what we want.

Being a nerd is about passion. It's about joy. And yeah we can be so passionate that we are pedantic and unyielding in our opinions, but guess what, we can even do that without treating other people like crap.

You really CAN critique fiction WITHOUT being an asshole. AND you really can love something without freaking out when other people critique it. It is all possible folks.

[gwaciechang]

Bobby Hayes/Clark Kent

Thank you @harperhug for the beautiful birthday fic! And thanks for letting me post it here and take all your credit, lol.

The spot smelled like old plastic, rotting food, and all the other cast-offs people tended to leave in their wake. And as long as Clark didn’t think too hard about which of those were seeping into his shirt, it was pretty soothing. The place where he had been buried smelled like the wood of his coffin, the formaldehyde his suit had been soaked in, and faintly of flowers that his mother had brought day after day. Next to the dumpster smelled like none of those. The closest thing to home that he had was a packet of hot chocolate powder he had taken from the hotel, simply because it was the same brand his mother had always used, just different packaging. Smoother, or maybe his fingers were just less sensitive than they had been before.

He had forgotten, in the time since he had come back, just how strong his senses could be. At first he had been sheltered, ironically, by the grave he escaped, and when he got out, that he was out at all meant no one minded when he needed to crawl into a dark space and just breathe. And when that had passed, he was at home the home he’d grown up in with the woman who raised him. He’d foolishly assumed, when he could look at the ring Lois returned without feeling like he was being stabbed in the chest all over again, that he was ready to return to, if not being a superhero, then at least to helping people through his journalism. The invitation from an English journalist who had been caught by the drug smuggler she had investigated, asking for help, seemed like exactly what he needed.

And now he was hiding behind a dumpster, where he couldn’t help anyone, not even himself. He rubbed his thumb on the packet of cocoa powder, feeling it soften minutely with every stroke.

Someone kicked down a door, one block down. He raised his head and listened carefully. A man begged someone to take off his shoes, another man was demanding information on someone named Harry Clayton, and there was a person of indeterminate gender who was breathing heavily and not moving.

Clark was in front of them before he was aware he had moved. “Come on,” he hunched his shoulders to make himself seem smaller before he motioned for the figure, frozen in fear, to approach him. They ran toward him, flashing him a grateful smile, and made it to the stop just before the bus arrived.

A shout from the mysterious apartment made them pause before boarding, and they looked at Clark with a plea written plainly on their face.

“I’ll take care of it,” he promised, waving them off.

They smiled and turned around. Clark waited until he heard the bus carrying them away before he super-sped into the apartment, pausing only for a second to take off his shoes, and managing to arrive just in time to place his hand over the barrel of a gun.

“Now, I’m sure you’re not threatening this good citizen,” he let the familiar voice slip smoothly through his lips.

“You think you’re Superman or something?” the gunman snorted before turning back to the young man behind Clark. “Did you hear-”

The man rattled off a phone number.

With a glare, the gunman hid said gun somewhere Clark couldn’t see, and walked out. The young man slid down the wall, trembling and muttering...something in rhythm with his rapidly tapping fingers. Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and winced at the painful amount of disinfectant that seemed to permeate every inch of the room, which still somehow didn’t get rid of the strange chemical bitterness he could also smell.

“Is there somewhere else you can stay?” Clark asked. He received no response, except more counting, so he knelt until he was about eye-level with him. “My name’s Clark, Clark Kent. What’s your name?”

The man swallowed six times before saying “Bobby Hayes” so quietly that Clark could barely hear it, even with his advanced ears. He said it five more times, each quieter than the last.

“Hello, Bobby,” he held his hands up so they were clearly visible. “Can I help you in some way?”

Bobby shook his head, still shaking like a leaf, but he didn’t look like he was about to wither underneath Clark’s height anymore.

Clark swallowed back his helplessness. He knew he had once stood in a room with the last of his planet and an innocent family, and what his hands had done, but.... “I’m going to touch your back, OK?” he asked as steadily as he could.

Bobby flinched and his shaking grew more intense, but it almost immediately petered out until his spine relaxed into Clark’s hands. Clark, however, was tensing at the feeling of every single knob on Bobby’s spine through a worn, over-starched shirt.

“Could I use your kitchen?” he asked suddenly.

Bobby nodded wordlessly, eyes closed.

“Where do you keep your mugs, Bobby Hayes? Here?” Clark asked, one hand already on the smooth handle of the wooden cabinet in anticipation of acquiescence.

“NO!” Bobby shouted as he dove for the handle. “Don’t touch my things, please go,” he pointed to the door.

“Alright,” Clark raised his hands up again. “But I’d like to make sure you have something warm to hold first, alright?” slowly and telegraphing every move, Clark moved one of his hands into his jacket pocket to pull out the packet of cocoa powder. “My mom used to make this for me when I was scared of storms, and I was scared of them a lot.” Of course, he had heard more storms than most children, but there was no need for Bobby to know that. “I hope it makes you feel as safe as I did,” he said as he handed it over.

Bobby stared at the packet like it was a bomb, a comparison Clark didn’t stop making when he took the packet between his thumb and index finger gingerly. With his bare arms extended, Clark could see the open sores in the crook of his arm. So that was the strange chemical bitterness he had smelled.

“Whatever you’re mixed up with, it’s not too late to get out,” Clark implored.

“You should go,” Bobby said tonelessly without looking at him. They stood there at an impasse, until Clark finally realized Bobby wasn’t going to move until he left. He gave himself a second to put his shoes on at the top of the stairs to the door, as well as to familiarize himself with the sound of Bobby’s rapid heartbeat.

When he finally got back to his apartment (walking, not flying, he wasn’t sure he could still fly) he heard the heartbeat slow, smelled the warm sugar of familiar hot chocolate, and didn’t smell the chemical bitterness of cooked heroin. His heart lifted. For the first time since he had died, he thought he may be able to fly again.

[aramblingjay]

To have and to hold Geraskier, ace!Geralt, touch-starved, outside POV (3K)

Master Witcher visits her establishment once a year with enough coin to earn two hours of anything he wants in the world. And every year, what he wants is to be taken to the room with the largest bed and held in her arms. Until the bard.

ao3

-

Master Witcher is her favorite customer. And often the most difficult one, too. He’s a walking contradiction like that—rough and gentle, scary and scared, monster and human.

When the door opens to black armor and yellow eyes, Mistress barely has to glance in her direction before she’s stepping forward and leading him toward a room in the back with the coyest head tilt and smile she can manage. It’s all part of the game, really—it wouldn’t do for anyone to guess what they get up to inside, not even Mistress. He deserves that much privacy, at least.

No one else services him. She won’t allow it. He’s been her customer from that very first time, when he walked in a scared, nervous colt half-waiting to be turned away before he crossed the threshold—he would’ve been, too, if she hadn’t been desperate enough for money to risk laying with a Witcher.

(If only she’d known, then)

“The usual?” she asks today, expecting nothing else.

Now, there is no fear or desperation. He knows she’ll give him what he so desperately craves. And she knows that what he wants is not, as she once imagined, the depraved fantasy of a mutated monster—just the simple wish of an aching heart.

A nod. He looks weary, tired—she wonders what the rest of the Continent would think of Witchers if they could see him like this now.

“Okay.” She smiles and flips over the medium-sized hourglass on the table by the door.

As she gets a fire going in the fireplace, he strips behind her—just the boots and socks and armor, the tunic and trousers staying on as always—and lays down on the feathered bed at the center of the room, shoulders curled inward to make himself as small as possible.

She still remembers that first night, the way he tensed as she approached and nearly jumped out of his skin when she laid down beside him. There’s none of that now, just a long, relieved sigh as she slides into place—her chest against the top of his back, an arm around his shoulders, his head tucked just under her chin.

By all rights it should be uncomfortable, an awkward shuffling of bodies into an unnatural position, but it’s never felt that way—most importantly, he’s never seemed to feel that way, if the steady drain of tension from his limbs is any indication. The coin he pays Mistress is enough for two hours of anything he wants, and they spend every minute of it like this, quiet and still, Master Witcher tucked into the curve of her body as the fire crackles behind them.

It’s some of the easiest coin she makes in a year—and also some of the hardest. Normally her job is a performance, and she can act with the best of them, but this is different. There’s no script to follow, no distraction to take her out of her head, just the rhythm of his breath and the slow, slow beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

Something about existing in the same space as another person, nothing but simply existing, can be the hardest thing of all.

The two hours pass like water through a river, calm and peaceful but moving steadily forward, until the last grains of sand drop through the hourglass and time is up.

“That’s time,” she says, but doesn’t let go.

As always, he pulls away immediately, sitting up and reaching for his coin purse. He has already paid Mistress, but this is extra, slipped into her brassiere before he leaves—a personal tip that Mistress can’t take away.

She’s fairly certain it started as an incentive to stay quiet about what they do, but nine years on and still no one the wiser, he can’t really believe her lips will loosen now.

No, she likes to think it’s because he knows just how difficult it is to live on the edges of society. Berated and ostracized for a service that’s nevertheless needed by many, spat at and kicked away into dark corners to be used and not seen. Earning just enough coin for one more meal. Always living on one more meal.

“Thank you,” he says in that gravelly voice of his, and it strikes her that these are the only words he’s spoken to her today.

She smiles. It’s not coy this time. “It’s been a pleasure, Master Witcher.”

He hesitates. “Geralt.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Geralt,” she says, and it’s the truth.

-

A year passes. As the spring turns to summer, warm and sticky, she waits with near-baited breath for that familiar pair of yellow eyes to darken the doorstep. He always comes in the summer.

The days roll on, one after another after another, and there is no sign of him. Leaves turn from green to red, then brown. Still he does not come. When the trees are little more than bare skeletons bracing for the winter frost, she starts to worry he is not coming at all.

Perhaps he has found a new establishment for his needs. Or perhaps he has finally been killed by those monsters he fights.

She cries at the first snowfall and cannot, even to herself, explain why.

-

Geralt returns the next year, just before mid-summer.

She wouldn’t have made it this long without knowing how to observe, and Geralt always has plenty to say, even if not with words. He is gaunt and thin. Dark shadows lurk in his eyes. His armor is more patchwork than leather, faded from its usual imposing black to a muddy brown. Even his medallion seems duller, as though it can sense the fading energy of its owner.

Still, he pays Mistress his due and follows her to his usual room. When he strips off his armor and lays down on the bed, he is even thinner than she imagined.

He fits in her arms better than he ever has before, and she hates it.

When she calls time, he reaches as always for his coin purse. She closes his fist over the coins he has taken out and shakes her head. “You need it more than I do,” she says. “You can gift me double next year.”

“Thank you.” His voice is scratchy with disuse—she wonders when he last spoke, and to whom.

“Until next time, Geralt.”

A full-body shudder runs through him at his name. It does not surprise her—she has heard the stories of the white-haired Butcher of Blaviken, though it seems so far removed from the man she has come to know. Likely it has been months since someone has spoken his name without revulsion—or spoken it at all.

He flees from the room without another word.

When she goes to clean the bed, she finds a single gold crown waiting for her under the edge of the sheet, and pockets it like a promise.

-

The next summer Geralt comes to see her is after their hardest winter in living memory.

It shows in her spindly joints and stretched-thin skin, her body whittled down to naught but bone. Business is tough as a result—few have the coin to spend on pleasure, and those who do don’t want her. She is no longer soft or curvy or sweet.

There’s a new Mistress in charge now, one who hasn’t met Geralt. Mistress balks when he walks through the door, is halfway to stammering that they don’t serve his kind in here—as if he’s not just as human as the rest of them, breathes and sighs and aches and wants just the same—before she steps up with a smile.

“Leave him to me, Mistress,” she says airily, dropping her eyelashes just enough to plant the right suggestions in Mistress’s mind.

“You’re in luck, Witcher,” Mistress says, every word laced with disdain. “She’s desperate enough. But you pay double, up front.”

Geralt nods and pays double for his usual two hours and follows her quietly to their usual room. Compared to last year, he looks good—his usual breadth and bulk, at least, medallion shining a brilliant silver. She smiles at him, as she always does.

Today, he smiles back.

Her heart skips a beat.

His smile is a small, little thing, but it changes the whole contour of his face—softens the planes and lines, bathes his eyes in brilliant, luminous gold. Like this, it’s easier than ever to see the man beneath the Witcher, though it’s been many years since she thought of him as just a mutated monster killer.

When he smiles, in fact, one could almost call him beautiful.

She doesn’t know what caused this change in him, or perhaps more likely who, but it leaves her warm. Of all the men she has met over the years in this line of work, he deserves it.

“The usual?” she asks, and can’t decide whether she expects him to say yes or no.

Geralt shakes his head, and she is only a little surprised. “Sit with me,” he rumbles as she closes the door to the room. The faint nervous thread in his voice reminds her that this is still the same man who trembled so hard it rocked the whole bed the first time she held him, overwhelmed with what must have been a tidal swell of emotion.

But he has never asked for something she would wish to deny. “Of course.”

They sit side by side on the edge of the bed, feet brushing gently over the ground. This close, Geralt’s characteristic heat radiates off him in waves, and it leaves the space around them so warm that it’s several minutes before she notices that she hasn’t stoked the fire. Even in the summer, this room is normally always cold, one set of stairs beneath the ground and surrounded on all sides by stone slabs for walls. Not today, it seems.

“I wanted to thank you,” Geralt says to break the silence.

On instinct, her eyes flicker to the hourglass to see how much time has passed—before she realizes that is yet another thing she has forgotten to do. “Thank me?” she repeats, a little dazed.

“For the past eleven years.” It seems he, too, has been keeping track. “Well—twelve now, I suppose. You—” He lets out a small, frustrated groan (and she can’t help but smile at the simple humanity of it) before starting again. “You have done more for me than you know.”

“I’ve done my job, nothing more.”

Geralt huffs, clearly amused. “I’m quite familiar with just how rarely that line is true.” He sets a coin purse in the space between them on the bed. It thunks against the sheet, hefty. “With double, for last time.”

It should feel wrong to accept the payment when this is the furthest thing from work she could be doing, but coin is tough to come by these days.

Besides, she recognizes the gift for the goodbye that it is.

“You found someone?” She makes sure her voice is entirely neutral, revealing nothing. It’s rumored that Witchers can smell emotions, but there’s nothing she can do about that anyways.

Geralt takes his time answering. When he finds the words, they are full of quiet wonder. “I hope so.” Another huff. Is that his laugh, she wonders suddenly? Soft and breathy, easily missed even in a quiet room if one isn’t paying attention—has he learned to contain his joy, too, in the same way he contains his ache for intimacy? “It might be more accurate to say he found me.”

A he, then. Another Witcher, perhaps? She does not pry.

They are both lost and broken things, discarded to a life in the shadows, and she is nothing but pleased that he has found someone to share it with. That he has found someone who can hold him how he desires, whenever he desires, with the genuine love that such an embrace should embody, instead of paying for a poor imitation of it once a year.

Perhaps, she hopes, it means that one day she will find her someone too.

The conversation lapses into silence after that. It’s a peaceful silence, calm and companionable. Her mind wanders and she lets it drift, thinks about what lies to spin when Mistress asks about the Witcher’s preferences, about what she can buy at the market with Geralt’s coin, about what it must be like to constantly smell someone’s fear and hatred before they ever even open their mouth. It’s a sad thought, and she casts it away.

When Geralt eventually takes his leave—and she can’t tell for sure, the hourglass untouched on the table, but she would hazard a guess that it’s exactly two hours to the minute after they sat on the bed—she knows, deep down, that she will never see him again.

The thought only brings a smile to her face.

-

Three years later, she is Mistress.

She changes the name of the establishment to The Gold Crown and displays a crown, Geralt’s crown, in a frame on the wall. Many of the patrons and even some of the girls ask for the story behind it—she tells many, many stories, each one more colorful than the last, but none the truth.

It is not, after all, entirely her story to tell.

(And it seems, given the performances she has been hearing in the tavern of late, that someone else has started telling his story already)

-

Four years after the last time she saw Geralt, she meets the bard.

He is fairly unassuming when he first walks through the door, bright blue eyes and a bright orange doublet, nothing much to distinguish him from any other client. After several moments of scanning the room, clearly trying to determine who is in charge, he walks straight up to her and asks for her by name.

“I did go by that name once,”  she says, aiming for seductive. It's a good bet, with men like this. “But you can call me Mistress, now.”

To his credit, he doesn’t even blush. “Of course Geralt picked the one who went and became the boss of the whole place,” he mutters instead of a response, and her breath catches in her chest.

Geralt?

She looks him over again—while it would probably take him singing to confirm it, this could be the bard. Geralt’s someone, who turned him from the Butcher of Blaviken to the heroic White Wolf he deserves to be remembered as.

(She doesn’t actually have any proof that Geralt’s bard and his someone are in fact the same person, but what else could the bard’s songs be, if not carefully crafted acts of love?)

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” she says, taking care not to betray anything further in her voice. It’s an art she has only perfected, since becoming Mistress.

“I am Jaskier, a bard, and I belong to no one but my music,” he says, though she doesn’t miss the way he smiles at the possessive reference. “But yes, usually that music is about Geralt.”

Everything fits so far, but something about this doesn’t seem right. “What are you here for?”

The bard—Jaskier—sobers. “I want to know. Geralt has told me many parts of his story, but this one—he says it’s not his to tell. Not fully his, anyways. So here I am, to hear it from you.”

Oh, Geralt.

She thinks she understands, but she has to be sure. “You came all this way for stories of how he fucked me?”

“I think we both know that’s not what he likes.”

“Either way, I don’t kiss and tell.”

Jaskier scoffs. “There was no kissing involved.”

“And how would you know?” How would he, indeed? There’s no way he could be here without Geralt having told him something—everything, perhaps? It’s becoming clearer that the bard is indeed who he says he is, and knows Geralt exactly as well as he claims to. “Perhaps Geralt was not entirely truthful with you about our interactions.”

“That’s not what he likes,” Jaskier repeats, and arches an eyebrow. “I know him. And I know, vaguely, what you did for him. But getting him to talk, especially about himself, is like trying to draw nectar from a blank-faced stone, which brings me here, to you.”

Every word is wrapped in so much fondness that any remaining doubts fall away.

But Jaskier isn’t done. “Geralt said you would talk to me,” he continues. “So please. Talk to me.”

She relents, beckoning him forward. “Follow me.”

By a stroke of luck, or destiny, or Destiny, the first empty room she finds is Geralt’s usual. She closes the door behind them with a wry smile, and it’s been four years, but something in her still startles when she turns around to Jaskier sitting down on the bed with his legs dangling over the edge, a perfectly imperfect echo of Geralt’s last time in this room.

“Tell me about him,” Jaskier commands softly, and she does.

The words roll off her tongue—she has never shared this story before, and likely never will again, but it’s entangled so deeply in the core of who she has become that it flows out as easily as her own name.

She doesn’t look at him as she speaks, sitting beside him as she once sat beside Geralt and staring straight ahead.

When she finishes, she finally looks over to see a single tear rolling down Jaskier’s cheek, shining in the candlelight. He doesn’t move to hide it or brush it away—this is not a man who believes emotions are a weakness.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

“I only did my job,” she replies.

Jaskier snorts, and she wonders if he, too, knows just how rarely that is actually true. “You did a lot more than that. Your kindness and your care, it helped him. And for that, I thank you.”

She accepts the gratitude with a nod, doesn’t trust herself to speak. Now that the story is told, it feels as though all her words have dried up—she has only tears left to offer, for the pain she saw in his eyes year upon year upon year, as he curled in his shoulders and asked to be touched with care for one day in a year. But this is a moment for the future, not for the past.

There’s only one thing left to ask. It’s important enough that she swallows and finds her voice. “How is he?”

Jaskier smiles, and the depth of emotion in his eyes is blinding. “Good and bad, depending on the day, like we all are. But so, so, very loved.”

And really, in the end, isn’t that all any of them can ask for?

Jaskier leaves soon after that, with promises to cajole Geralt back here again one day if they ever pass by for a contract. She doubts it’ll ever happen—in some ways, she almost hopes it doesn’t, their imprints on each other indelible but better left in the past.

Just before he walks out, she pulls the gold crown from its frame and presses it into the palm of Jaskier’s hand—she can always put another crown in there, to keep the allure going, but this one no longer belongs with her.

Jaskier closes his fingers around it like another promise, and with that, she lets him go.

[kueble]

Tactile

This is my discord exchange fic for @srapsodia. I tried to fit in as many of your likes as I could. Hopefully this hits the spot!

Teen. Warnings: touch-starved Jaskier. 1,600 words.

Geraskier

---

Jaskier tries not to mope, but he’s afraid the facade of faux happiness is starting to crack. Geralt has been studying him all night, little furtive looks over the top of his mug. Jaskier does his best to stay cheerful and ignore the way his skin is itching beneath his clothing. He laughs at Lambert’s absolutely filthy joke, trying to focus on him and not his own silly needs.

The thing is, Jaskier is a tactile person. He’s always been this way, has always sought the soft touch of others whether it be sexual or not. Normally, his winters are filled with lots of singing and hugging and curling up around tavern tables or in front of fireplaces with his friends at the University. He uses it as his time to recharge, to get his fill of the little every day touches he craves while he’s traveling with Geralt.

Geralt is and always will be his best friend, but he’s far from touchy-feely. The closest they get is sharing a bedroll for heat or helping each other with an injury. It’s normally enough to fill that gaping hole inside his chest, but he hasn’t had any of the normal excuses since they’ve been here. He has his own room, because it’s not like Geralt needs to share with so much empty space to go around.

But oh, how he’d give anything for a night curled up against Geralt’s solid body. He knows it’s useless to think they’ll ever be more than friends, and it’s a dream he’s drowned at the bottom of many bottles throughout the years, but the lack of a comforting touch makes him wish for it that much harder.

Truth is, he aches, and it’s making him shamefully desperate for the spring thaw.

“You with us, bard?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier blinks back to the conversation. He drains the rest of his ale and slams the mug down on the table, choosing his words carefully.

“Drifted off for a moment,” he says, laughing bashfully. Nobody seems to notice his hands are shaking, but he stands and stuffs them in his pockets. “I’m afraid I’m dead on my feet. Enjoy the rest of your game, and I shall see you in the morning.”

He hardly notices as they all wish him a good night, so wrapped up in trying to appear normal to focus on anything else. But he leaves the room with a smile before trudging up the stairs to his room. The fire is still going, but it’s died down considerably. He adds enough logs to keep it burning until morning and then starts going through the motions of his nighttime routine. His body moves on muscle memory, his fingers unbuttoning and unlacing until he’s dressed for bed in his cotton nightshirt and sleep pants.

Jaskier stands at the end of the bed, feeling stupid that he’s so distressed by such a simple thing. He wraps his arms around himself in a mockery of a hug, but it does nothing to calm the churning in his gut. Grabbing an extra blanket, he spreads it on top of the rest and climbs into bed. He’s about to close his eyes when a rap at the door makes him jump up. He holds the covers against his chest like some scared maiden on her wedding night, shaking as he stares at the door.

“Jaskier? Are you still awake?” Geralt’s voice calls through the heavy wooden door. With a sigh, Jaskier rolls his eyes and answers him.

“Come in!”

Geralt steps into the room and tilts his head, studying him for a moment. Jaskier fists his hands around the edge of his blankets, trying to appear as normal as possible. There is absolutely no reason for his friend to worry about such a silly issue. He’ll push through it on his own.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt finally asks, his voice so low it’s barely more than a whisper. Jaskier avoids his eyes, staring at the curves of his shoulders instead.

“Nothing. I’m alright,” he says brightly, but Geralt just narrows his eyes and walks closer to the bed.

“Are you sick?” he asks, pushing the issue.

“Healthy as a horse,” he responds with a smile. Geralt sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, looking him up and down as if trying to solve a problem. It’s a problem Jaskier doesn’t need out in the open, though, so he does his best to remain calm. Stupid witchers and their bloody senses. He knows Geralt can hear how fast his heart is beating in his chest.

“If you’re not sick, then it must be that you hate it here,” Geralt says slowly. “You haven’t been yourself for weeks now, and I can’t stand seeing you wilt like this. Everyone is concerned.”

“I love it here!” Jaskier blurts out, because the last thing he needs is Geralt thinking he hates his home. It’s not as glamorous as life in Oxenfurt is, but the keep is sturdy and solid and full of Geralt’s family. Of course he loves it. “I…I don’t want you to think less of me,” he adds before trailing off. He picks at his fingers, rubbing them together as he avoids Geralt’s gaze.

“I would never,” Geralt says quickly, and Jaskier sighs, knowing he’s been beaten.

“Fine,” he huffs out. “I’m lonely. I feel like I haven’t been touched in ages, and my body is calling out for a gentle hand. See? It’s stupid.”

“Touched as in…sex?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shakes his head quickly.

“No, not that. I just…I’m used to being held, you know? You and the rest of the witchers are fantastic, but you’re not the sort to be overly affectionate. I’m not complaining…I just miss it,” Jaskier explains.

“Would you,” Geralt starts but then pauses as if choosing his words carefully. “Would you like me to hold you?”

“No need to trouble yourself,” Jaskier says with a dry laugh. “I can push through this.”

“What if it weren’t any trouble?”

“How so?” Jaskier asks, feeling like they’re standing on the edge of something here. He can hear his pulse quicken and swallows thickly, finally meeting Geralt’s eyes. They’re full of so much concern that it hits him like a bucket of cold water to the chest.

“I…uh, fuck,” Geralt cringes, his nose scrunching up as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I invited you to come home with me this winter in the hopes that you’d enjoy spending time with me. Just me. Not together on the path with monsters and songs and people getting in the way. I thought maybe…maybe you would see me as more than a friend?”

Jaskier gasps and leans closer, his security blankets forgotten. He places a palm on Geralt’s chest, feeling his warmth through the thin shirt, and they both stare down at it. “How much more?” he asks softly.

“Everything you’ll have me for,” Geralt admits, and Jaskier can’t hold back any longer.

He’s moving before he realizes it, pressing his lips against Geralt’s in a gentle kiss. It’s chaste and light and still somehow manages to make his whole world flip upside down. Geralt’s mouth is soft beneath his, and he melts into his embrace. Geralt growls and reaches out to grab hold of him, his hands settling on his hips as he tries to move Jaskier into his lap. Only he’s tangled in the mess of blankets, and they both end up pulling back to laugh.

“I used to be smoother than this,” Jaskier says, giggling as Geralt snorts.

“You really weren’t. I’ve watched you in action,” Geralt reminds him, and Jaskier can feel his cheeks flushing and the tips of his ears getting warm. He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, still laughing as they cling to each other.

When he finally pulls himself together, he leans back and cups Geralt’s face, meeting his eyes properly. He looks as lost as Jaskier feels, and it makes hope well up in his chest. “Perhaps I’m smooth enough for you, though?”

“You’re perfect exactly how you are,” Geralt breathes out.

And then they’re kissing again, hands roaming freely as their tongues slide together. There’s a fire sizzling just beneath the surface, but Jaskier knows they won’t take things too far tonight. He’s been tired for too long and is content to just be able to touch and feel for the first time. Geralt nips at his lower lip, teasing him as they break apart. He rests their foreheads together, and Jaskier lets his eyes slip shut and focuses on how it feels to share breath like this.

“I love you, you know,” Geralt whispers. It’s hardly a grand declaration, but somehow it’s exactly what he needs. It’s a perfectly Geralt thing to say.

“I did not, but I’m glad I do now,” Jaskier tells him softly. He smiles - his first real smile in weeks - and brushes their lips together again. “I love you too, dear heart. Hold me tonight?”

“You’ll never sleep alone again,” Geralt promises with a smile of his own.

They slide under the covers, and Jaskier curls up against Geralt’s chest. He tucks his face in the crook of his neck and breathes in the familiar woodsy scent of him. Geralt’s large hands are warm and comforting as they move up and down his back, and he feels so fucking loved that his chest aches with it. He knows they have more to discuss, but for now this is all he needs. He falls asleep surrounded by Geralt, happy at last.

[lambden]

that cliche prompts post is so good,, if youre still taking requests i actively need geraskier for 33 honestly <3

i made this extra cheesy just for you <333 thanks for the prompt! this one is so perfect for them aahhh

33. Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you're dangerous G, 1.1K, no content warnings

The clouds rumble as Geralt cleaves the last drowner’s head from its shoulders, and when the beast slumps onto the riverbank a drop of water hits his temple, inoffensive but perfectly aimed. Geralt grimaces; how fitting. When one problem ends, another begins. And he’s sure that there won’t be only one raindrop— they tend to come in hordes.

By the time he’s done looting the bodies for alchemical supplies, he’s starting to loosen a little. His limbs are still bitterly stiff from the potion racing through his blood, and he knows he must look a fright, but he doesn’t feel so on edge. Geralt abandons the unsalvageable drowner corpses and returns to Roach’s side, patting her neck and whispering softly. Perhaps the susurration will calm her enough that Axii won’t be necessary to distract her from the oncoming storm.

The dirt path back to the village quickly liquefies into sticky mud that he’ll have to pry out of Roach’s hooves later. These people should thank their gods that they don’t live in any colder a climate, or else the rain on the road would freeze overnight. But it’s temperate even with the downpour, and Geralt finds himself in surprisingly a good mood. He hadn’t needed to dip into his reserves, and shortly he’ll have the promised reward from the contract. The locals can return to their fishing, and Geralt can pay for a hot, clean bath and even share it with Jaskier.

As Roach canters and Geralt’s mind wanders, he nearly misses a woman hurrying past in the opposite direction. When he notices her their gazes meet, and then she screams so suddenly that he and his horse both startle. Geralt hadn’t even hung a trophy from this contract off of Roach but the woman shrieks anyway, tripping over her own feet as she lands in the mud.

Geralt pulls the reins in one hand and leans out of his saddle to offer her the other, so shaken by her sudden appearance and distress that for a moment he forgets his appearance. For a moment, reaching out with bare fingers and an open palm, he forgets who he is.

Then the villager spits, “Don’t touch me! Get back!” and scrambles backwards, dragging her dress through the mud without a care. Geralt stiffens, returning to sit straight in his saddle, but the woman’s screams follow him even as he rides away. “Go away! Monster! Monster!”

A similar welcome awaits him on the edge of town, where some children running through the rain gawk at the sight of him and hop a fence in their hurry to get away. A merchant packing up his wares for the evening stares in obvious terror at Geralt. Should he have bathed himself in the river? He reaches up to wipe the slimy monster blood from his neck and jaw, wishing the rain was more torrential. Then no one would dare step foot outside, and he could pass through the village without frightening a soul. Perhaps he would emerge on the other side of the storm cleaner than before.

But he can’t pass through the village without stopping. There’s a spot for Roach inside the stables, and more importantly, there’s a fool awaiting him inside the tavern. Sighing under his breath, Geralt deals with the first matter before rushing to the second. He can always collect payment later when the storm has let up. For now, he wants someone to look at him without screaming.

Even though the bard has seen him in far worse states, Geralt is still nervous when he approaches the tavern. He ducks into an alley to try and scoop some rainwater from a puddle and rinse off his face, but it only ruins his hair and leaves slimy streaks down his armour. Then when he steps out of the laneway a villager heading for the tavern sees him, gapes, and whirls right around to run back to his house.

There’s no avoiding this, so Geralt gathers his complicated emotions and shoves them deep down where they won’t bother anyone. He enters the inn slowly, easing into the soft music and pleasant buzz of conversation. But the music stops quickly, notes lingering in the air as Jaskier bounces over. Geralt tries very, very hard not to give away how pleased he is to see his friend, deadpanning before Jaskier can say a word, “You’re performing. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Geralt, that wasn’t a performance!” Jaskier scoffs. He smells of wildflowers, and Geralt is all the warmer just standing near him. While every other person had near shit themselves at the sight of the wild witcher, Jaskier drinks in Geralt’s appearance the same way Geralt is staring at him. “But you aren’t going to make us leave now, are you? I mean, I’ve only just got my hair to sit nicely, and that dreadful downpour out there will fuck it all up again.”

The bard pats down an invisible cowlick atop his perfect head, lower lip slipping out as he pouts. Geralt can’t tear his eyes away. If Jaskier only asked, Geralt would move into this bumfuck village and never want for anything again. He’d bury his medallion and trade it in for a ring or a collection of fisherman’s sweaters, retiring in peace and love. “I shouldn’t stay,” he tells the bard, carefully neutral. Neither peace nor love are on the table for someone in his profession. “Not sure these people are used to seeing a witcher.”

“Then show them what they’ve been missing,” Jaskier continues without hesitation, with that familiar gleam in his eye that always precedes some bullshit. “We have coin for drink, and there’s a fellow in the back corner with a Gwent deck. Why not take a load off just until the storm lets up?”

Because it’s easier than trying to hammer in the point that these people do not want him here, Geralt merely says, glancing back over his shoulder through the grey window, “The rain will never stop.”

He thinks Jaskier might know what he means anyway. His friend tilts his head but there is no pity or indignation poisoning his smile. Only love— enough to frighten Geralt into nearly saying something he shouldn’t, or stepping forward to get drowner guts all over Jaskier’s fancy doublet. Voice trembling with that same love, Jaskier says, “Then there’s no rush.”

“... Hmm.” Geralt glances over at the barkeep, who very quickly pretends to not have been staring at the pair of them. “One drink, and you’re buying.”

“Then you’d better repay my investment later,” teases Jaskier, looping his arm through Geralt’s without a care for the viscera or how soaked his armour is. Geralt inhales the scent of wildflowers, and warmth, and a love so deep he could drown in it. He can’t sense any fear coming from Jaskier at all— he never has.

[jaskierswolf]

Title: One Single Heart

Prompt: There was only one Bed

Pairing: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: Implied prejudice against witchers

Written for @whataboutthebard

_

The best thing about not having a lot of coin was, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, getting to share a bed. The first time was awkward, a fumbling of limbs pressed into a too small space, but they were both adults and Jaskier had needed to press up against Geralt's body in the harsh cold of night when they were camping. So sharing a bed had just been the most logical thing to do. One room, one bed, less coin, but now Jaskier’s songs were starting to circulate more and more. Not for the first time he’d walked into a tavern to find a bard already singing his songs.

People knew him, and that building level of fame paid well. The tavern owners were excited to see him, less excited to see Geralt but Jaskier made it quite clear that if Geralt couldn’t stay then he would rather sleep in pig shit . So Geralt stayed, and they shared a bed, because it was cheaper.

Only because it was cheaper.

Because even if Geralt was getting more coin on his contracts these days, he still needed the money to maintain his armour, stock up on potion supplies, and make sure darling Roach was fed and watered. If their purses were filling out then it just meant Geralt could afford to be fussy with his contracts, sticking to the witchers’ code which Jaskier was starting to suspect was very much a Geralt code.

And Jaskier enjoyed the warmth of Geralt’s body pressed against his. Sometimes he would curl up on Geralt’s chest, snuggling into him and listening to his heartbeat, other times, Geralt would come back from a hunt and flop down on Jaskier’s chest like he himself was the mattress. Jaskier liked those days the best. He could comb his fingers through Geralt’s hair and pretend that the whole setup was something more than it was.

It was truly Jaskier’s favourite part of the day.

Which is why he was stuck in the doorway, both hands on his hips, gaping at the room they’d been allocated for the night.

“What is this?!” he whined, pouting at the two single beds pressed against each side of the room.

From behind him, Geralt snorted. “A room.”

“We asked for a single room, they’d better not have charged extra for this. Bloody idiots!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.

“Honestly, I have half a mind to go back down there and get our coin back. This is a complete disaster! If you can’t afford new ingredients at the market then it will be this bastard’s fault if you die. No! No, no, no. I’ll go sort out this mess immediately, I will be right back!”

“Jaskier!”

His jaw snapped shut as Geralt pushed past him into the room. Pouting at the witcher, he tracked his movements across the room. Geralt grunted as he pulled one of the bed frames into the centre of the room, and Jaskier furrowed his brow as the witcher then did the same with the other bed.

“Geralt?” He cocked his head as he tried to work out what the fuck the witcher was up to until Geralt stepped back to reveal a makeshift double bed. “Oh.”

“Get in.”

“Right, right, yes… Good. I mean, the brigand still probably swindled us, I should-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled, scooping him up in his arms.

Jaskier squeaked as he was dumped onto the mattress, clothes and all, but he couldn’t help his smile. He really really loved sharing a bed with his witcher.

-

@geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @unyielding-as-the-sea @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire

[wherethewordsare]

How about 28 or 40 and Geraskier for the prompts? <3

Hey! So I know we talked and you picked another prompt and you picked 39! i really hope you enjoy it!!!

39. Having a bad day and the other noticing.

It had been far too humid in the field to share a bed roll as they usually did and the rain had snuck up on them overnight and Geralt woke to Jaskier cursing every living and dead thing on the continent. He looked over to see that Jaskier had set up his bedroll on the down side of the slope and had been flooded out. The bard stood there in the pouring rain, shirt soaked through and his hair sticking to his face as he tried to ring the worst of it. They packed camp shortly after that and trudged toward the nearest village.

Along the path, Jaskier didn’t get stuck once, but twice in the washed out roads. The mud was thick and clinging. The second time however, his entire boot was left behind when he went to step forward, his socked foot going straight into a deep muddy puddle. Geralt frowned as he dismounted Roach to help Jaskier up. He couldn’t help but notice how cold his hands were and how tired his face looked.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Jaskier cried when they finally managed to find an inn. Jaskier had walked in ahead of Geralt and nearly barreled back into him as he retreated again. “I look like a shit beast and probably smell like one at this point and fucking Valdo Fucking Marx is in the fucking tavern fucking playing my fucking songs!”

Geralt took hold of Jaskier’s elbow gently, pulling him in under his cloak. “Do you want to find somewhere else?” he asked gently. Jaskier seemed to slump into his chest and huff.

“No, I am soaked and I would love nothing more than to collapse onto the first slightly softer than rock flat surface I can find.” Geralt watched as Jaskier plastered on the same face he used at courts and sauntered into the inn like he was the most finely dressed bard in the next three kingdoms.

There had always been days with rough weather and soaked boots but Jaskier usually just groused. This was something altogether different. He had noticed it the night before too. It didn’t sit right with him. He quickly put together a plan and set to work.

~

The housekeeper had been extremely understanding when Geralt asked after hot water and for some help getting provisions. So when a basket of bread, cheese and wine as well as the tub were brought in even before Jaskier could dislodge himself from that Marx bard, Geralt paid her extra.

He had just put the kettle of water by the hearth to stay warm and cut up slices of bread and cheese and a sausage when Jaskier finally slunk in. He stopped at the door, looking around confused. There mud starting to dry in his hair and he was visibly shivering.

“C’mere, lark.” Geralt said softly.

Jaskier practically collapsed into his arms, already sniffling. He was known to be dramatic, but Geralt could feel the bone deep weariness in his bard. All he could do was rub soothing circles into his back. Jaskier was pliant under his hands, letting himself be undressed carefully.

“You don’t have to-”

“I know, but I want to. Let me take care of you.” Geralt spoke softly as he worked Jaskier’s boots off carefully. His shins radiated cold and Geralt's frown deepened. Once he had Jaskier undressed, he helped him into the tub and pulled up a stool. When Jaskier reached for the soap, Geralt gently batted his hand away. “What did I say?”

The smile he got was small but genuine. “Geralt…” he looked around to where the food was waiting for them on a bed overfull of pillows. His bottom lip trembled slightly and it took everything in Geralt not to lean in and try to kiss it away. He wouldn’t, not yet at least.

“You don’t have to tell me, not right now, even never if you don’t want to. But for now, lets get you clean and warmed up.” Geralt murmured.

Geralt started with Jaskier’s hair, scratching over his scalp the way that made him melt under Geralt’s fingers, rinsing with clean water he had set aside before reaching for the soap. He was gentle with the cloth as he wiped away the grime that had seeped under Jaskier’s clothes, paying attention to his fingernails. Jaskier was always so finicky about his nails.

He watched as Jaskier melted further and further into the bath and his weariness transformed into comfortable drowsiness. Geralt hummed happily as he finished. He grabbed the towel from the table and helped Jaskier to his feet. They spent the rest of the evening picking over the plate Geralt had put together in comfortable silence. It was peaceful and Geralt could see changes slowly move through Jaskier’s features.

When they finally crawled into bed, Jaskier tucked his head into Geralt’s neck and gave a wet little chuckle. He smelled of tea and the soap Geralt had used and woodsmoke. Geralt pressed his cheek to the top of Jaskier’s head and pulled him tight.

“I’m sorry for-”

“There’s no need for that, Jask.” He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, a hand coming up to card through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He tilted his head back to look at Jaskier’s face, kissing his forehead before letting him retreat back into Geralt’s neck.

“Yesterday was my mother’s birthday.” Jaskier said simply, the weariness back in his voice. And Geralt knew instantly.

“Lark…” he was afraid if he held Jaskier any tighter, he would hurt him.

“It’s alright. It’s easy most of the time these days, but sometimes it’s the big days that are still just-” he trailed off, his hand coming up to trace Geralt’s pendant, knowing the shape even in the dark.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt rested his chin on Jaskier’s head and swallowed thickly. He tried not to let his blood boil too much when Jaskier talked about his parents but the thought of throwing them into a pit did cross his mind every now and then.

Jaskier nodded from where he was and Geralt hummed softly to let him know he was listening. They laid like that for hours, Jaskier working out his anger and hurt in the safe space of Geralt’s arms. When he finally dozed off, Geralt laid there for a little while longer, making sure that the sleep Jaskier fell into was restful and deep before following him into slumber.

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

Have a Geraskier AU concept. Dunno if I’ll do anything with this but here it is:

CW: attempted rape

Geralt is a Gladiator of the Colosseum. The famous White Wolf. People travel from all over just to get a glimpse of this mighty warrior, and will pay a hefty amount for his ‘company.’

Vesemir is a very particular slave trader who takes on orphaned boys, trains them up, and sends them out to fight. His Wolves are the very best of the best. Geralt, the White Wolf is his most proudest achievement. Closely followed by Eskel the Red Wolf, and Lambert the Black Wolf. Each subjected to the harshest of training techniques. Each emerging as the strongest, unfeeling fighters. Vesemir has the emotion beat out of them until they learn to repress it. Emotion is a weakness, and by the Gods are his warriors the opposite of that.

Kaer Morhen is a villa up in the mountains with its own small arena. This is where Vesemir lives and trains his gladiators, transporting them once a month to take part in the tournaments at the Colosseum and then back again. He also enters them in smalls events, parades, sells their bodies for sex, anything really that will make him the extra coin.

At one of these smaller events, the execution of several prisoners transported back from Britain is being organised and Vesemir offers Geralt as the arenas champion.

The idea is that each slave will get a chance at earning their freedom if they can defeat the arena’s champion. Of course, they don’t stand a chance. But the fights are entertaining enough to gain crowds. And with the White Wolf as the executioner, the organisers and Vesemir stand to make a pretty penny.

Geralt fights and kills several slaves, each a trembling terrified wreck, each falling to his sword after barely lifting their own. It’s almost monotonous for him. Almost boring.

But then another slave is shoved before him. A young man with dark chestnut hair and dazzling blue eyes. The man is scared, it’s obvious in his shaking hands, but he holds himself with dignity, a look of defiance on his face and he spits at Geralt’s feet, throws his sword down and refuses to fight. He wants to die with what honour he has left, Geralt realises.

The crowd around them boo and jeer, but the young man is unwavering, meeting Geralt’s masked gaze with an admirable steadiness.

Geralt hears Vesemir shout at him to do something, so, he back hands the slave, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The noise the young man makes at the blow is almost heart wrenching, but Geralt doesn’t feel. He doesn’t.

The slave wipes his split lip on the back of his hand, then slowly pushes himself up again, resuming his determined stance, refusing to fight him.

Geralt smacks him down again.

Pick up your sword, he growls at the man, fight me.

The slave gets to his feet again, his legs shaking slightly.

I stand strong in the eyes of my god, he shouts out so that he can be heard above the clamouring crowd, I will not send him my soul tainted by the whims of yours.

Geralt sends him to the ground again, stomping on his chest to prevent him from getting up, tilting his chin back with the point of his sword.

The young man glares up at him, breathing hard, eyes blazing, unwavering, and for the first time in Geralt’s life, he falters.

There is a strength here, very different from his own, an… emotional strength. And he needs to know more.

The crowd are calling for the slaves death. Geralt looks over his shoulder to Vesemir.

His master’s expression is hard to read, but after a moment, Vesemir shakes his head and Geralt concedes, stepping away from the slave and sheathing his sword.

The crowd let their contempt at the decision known, but Geralt doesn’t bare them a second thought. He does as he is told.

The young slave is taken from before him, and Geralt spends the next few days doing nothing but think of him.

Eskel calls him a fool. Lambert mocks his soft heart. But Geralt cannot get rid of the look the young man gave him, challenging him to kill him and accepting his fate.

They return to Kaer Morhen not long after that and to Geralt’s surprise, he sees the young man among the household slaves. He looks just as wretched as he did back in the arena but is now wearing the grey tunic embroidered with the Wolf sigil associated with Vesemir’s house.

Vesemir tells Geralt that he’s assigning the slave to him personally. The young man will be at his beck and call as Geralt requires him, as well as carrying out duties around the household.

There’s a sense of pride that flows through Geralt. He himself is a slave. Owned by Vesemir. Being given a slave of his own is a huge honour, and the other Wolves would be jealous if they could feel.

Geralt quickly learns that the slave is called Jaskier and once Jaskier starts to eat properly and fill out, the more Geralt realises how beautiful he is. He doesn’t talk much, not that Geralt is all that interested in what he might have to say, but he watches Jaskier go about his duties, and wonders where that fire went. The defiance and the stubbornness. It almost seems like the young man has given up, which is hugely disappointing to Geralt for some reason.

Until, one of the Gladiators in training catches Jaskier behind the sleeping quarters and tries to rape him.

Geralt hears a commotion as he passes and head down to see what’s going on.

He sees the trainee pinning Jaskier to the wall, trying to stop him writhing about so he can get between his legs. But before Geralt can react, Jaskier twists out of his hold, grabs the knife in the trainee’s belt and stabs him through the neck. The trainee dies with a gurgle, blood bubbling on his lips and soaking into the ground. Jaskier stands over him, shaking, drops the knife, spots Geralt, his face drains of colour.

Vesemir has one rule about this kind of behaviour. His slaves’s bodies are not their own. He decides how and when and with whom they have sex. If they are caught with each other, they are severely punished. This goes for all his slaves. His household and Gladiators alike.

When Jaskier is brought before Vesemir, Geralt stands up for him, explaining what happened. Shocked at himself because what does he care? But for some reason he does, he cares about Jaskier. And by the gods he will not let him be harmed if he can help it.

Vesemir accepts Geralt’s version of events, not even giving Jaskier the chance to explain himself, and sends everyone on their way.

After that, Jaskier is a little more open to Geralt, a little warmer, engaging in conversation now and then, watching him with furtive looks and curiosity.

Geralt learns about his life before the Romans took him. His family. His home. His love of music.

All Geralt has ever known is the arena, but Jaskier makes him long for a life outside the Colosseum walls. Makes him long for freedom.

Very slowly his walls come down and the emotion he has been repressing for years creeps back in and he realises that he’s fallen in love with Jaskier. And he promises himself that he’s going to get Jaskier out of here, take him somewhere safe where no one will hurt him ever again. Give him the life he deserves, the life that was taken away from him. By the gods he swears it, he will set Jaskier free. Even if it kills him.

[contemplativepancakes]

enough to drive a man mad

~7k geraskier fake dating, because that is what this fandom needs. read on ao3 here!

Jaskier smells anxious. He reeked of apprehension all of yesterday, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or stop tapping his foot on the wooden floorboards this morning. 

It’s grating on Geralt’s last nerve. 

“What, Jaskier?” he finally growls. 

Jaskier jumps, almost falling out of his chair from where he sits tapping his quill idly in his notebook. 

“What?”

“What has you so worked up?”

Jaskier looks Geralt in the eyes before glancing away again. He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, don’t sound so unconvinced,” Jaskier complains. 

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning his back to Jaskier to finish settling all of his things into his pack. He wraps the glass jars carefully and tucks them between Jaskier’s shirts, so they don’t break. “If nothing is wrong, you’re ready to go then, right?”

Jaskier grumbles, but he tucks his notebook away and gets to his feet. 

They make it about three hours before Jaskier finally broaches the subject. 

“So, Geralt,” he starts. “Dear friend of mine.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother to look back at him. Nothing good can come with this as a conversation starter. 

“Have I ever told you about my parents?”

“No.”

Jaskier sighs. “I suppose not. Well, they’ve written to me. They want me to visit.”

Geralt thinks back to the letter an innkeeper had handed to Jaskier a few weeks ago, the one that made him eerily quiet the rest of the night and that he had clammed up about when Geralt questioned him. Jaskier was perky and practically completely back to normal the next morning, so Geralt had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, Jaskier had not done the same. 

“Hmm.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Dreadfully inconvenient for you. What will you do without your loyal companion?”

Geralt frowns. He hadn’t even thought about that, just registered the smell of unhappiness coming off of Jaskier at the thought of his parents. Jaskier  is  rather helpful, though. He’s never afraid to step in the middle of pay negotiations, inevitably getting Geralt more coin, and he’s certain Jaskier has stopped them from getting kicked out of at least three towns after Geralt had stumbled back to the inn covered in viscera. 

“Do you want to visit them?”

Jaskier trips over his feet, and Geralt dutifully looks away, pretending not to have noticed. “Not particularly. But I have to.”

Geralt won’t pretend to understand how a typical human family works, so he just accepts Jaskier’s words at face value. He’s never felt  obliged  to return to Kaer Morhen every winter; it’s something he looks forward to—to seeing his patchwork family. But Jaskier deliberately never speaks of his family, and gets twitchy every time anyone brings them up, so Geralt had accepted it as one of Jaskier’s many quirks and moved on. 

“Hmm. Well, I can travel with you there, at least. I’m sure there will be contracts in the area somewhere.”

Jaskier flushes red. “I was...I was actually hoping you would come with me.”

“What? I’m sure that’s not what your parents had in mind when they wanted you to visit. They wouldn’t want to meet  me .”

“Well, they said it’s unbecoming for someone of my age to be a bachelor. And, so I. I, um.” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “I told them I wasn’t. And I maybe sort of perhaps insinuated we were together.”

Geralt can feel a stress headache brewing.

-

Marilla looks down at the letter in shock. 

Dear Mother,

I fear I am not quite as much of a bachelor as you suppose. Have you heard any of my songs? I have gone and fallen head first into my muse. Typical, foolish me, but I’ve never been happier. We’ll visit soon. 

Julian

She doesn’t like to think about Julian’s songs, about how he couldn’t even keep the name she had given him. She thrusts the letter to her husband. “He’s coming to visit,” she says in disbelief. “When’s the last time we saw him?”

Ethbert considers this as he reads the letter. “At least five years.”

“And I can’t believe he hasn’t spoken of this ‘muse’ any sooner. I’m not sure I believe him.”

Ethbert gave Marilla a placating smile. “He’s probably just ashamed he hasn’t found himself a wife yet. We’ll find out when he comes, doubtless with an excuse about where his beloved is.”

Marilla sniffs. “You’re right.”

Nell looks down at the scene in the kitchen with wide eyes from her spot crouched down between the banisters at the top of the stairs. Her brother? With a wife? She could scarcely imagine it. She thinks back to the last time Julian was here, the way he had boasted to her about his conquests for hours, away from the prying ears of their parents. 

Well, surely if he had someone, he’d have talked about her in his songs. She resolves to get her hands on some of his music. She’ll solve this mystery before Julian even gets here.

-

“The first thing to know is that they’re awful,” Jaskier says, ticking down one of his fingers as he walks along beside Roach, seemingly uncaring of the dust that’s drifting up from her hooves and onto his doublet. “Well, except for my sister. Be nice to my sister, please, Geralt.”

“I’m nice to everyone.”

Jaskier stifles a laugh. “Mm. Be extra nice to her, then.”          

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You need to loosen up, too. They’re never going to think we’re together when you look all...constipated like that.”

Geralt huffs. 

“You’re lucky opposites attract,” Jaskier says, before dragging a hand down his face. “This is never going to work, is it?” 

-

Nell squints at the lyrics spread out before her. This doesn’t sound very romantic to her at all. Maybe a breakup song?  She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss , Nell hums. She can’t help but notice there’s three different people the song is talking about, though. Odd. She shakes her head and moves onto the next song. 

This one is just a ditty, so Nell turns the page to see a song about the witcher Jaskier travels with. And then another, and another. Is he all Julian writes about? She expected to see love songs, not this nonsense. She goes through more of his catalogue, briefly regretting spending her allowance on the songbook, but she supposes it supports her brother, after all. 

She’ll just have to see what she can wheedle out of him while he’s here. 

Finally, after flipping through no less than four more songs about the witcher, she lands on one titled “The Eternal Flame.” 

Interesting. 

Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh

  Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall

Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun

It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all

An eternal fire, hope for each one

There, Nell can read some romance in. She rubs the ends of her hair together in thought. This one song certainly isn’t enough proof that Julian has actually found a wife. More like he’s still pining over some old flame. It doesn’t seem like he’s written very many good love songs at all. 

Nell rolls her eyes, thinking back to all the raunchy songs in his catalogue. Typical. 

There’s the squeak of the door opening downstairs, and Nell hastily slams the book shut and hides it under her mattress. She doesn’t want Julian seeing and getting a bigger head, after all. 

She straightens her dress and runs down the steps, eager to see if Julian’s by himself, which is her guess. She comes to a skidding halt when she sees who is with him. 

Oh.

She supposes he does write love songs, after all. 

-

Geralt shifts uncomfortably from the scrutiny Jaskier’s family is giving him. He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. He looks over to Jaskier for help, and Jaskier shrugs off his arm and takes Geralt by the hand, leading him forward to meet them. 

“Mother, Father, this is Geralt. Nell, this is a very large, scary witcher who will eat you up if you don’t behave.”

Geralt frowns. He thought Jaskier told him to be extra nice to his sister?

Nell laughs, a delightful, tinkling thing that reminds him of Jaskier’s. “He’s going to like me better than you by the time he leaves.”

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, only to see him sticking his tongue out at her. Right. Their relationship is definitely more antagonistic than Jaskier had prepared him for, so Geralt is glad he had Lambert to prepare him for these things. 

He’s not sure his interactions with Lambert would be appropriate to apply to Jaskier’s sister, though, so Geralt will let Jaskier handle the ribbing. 

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt finally says. “Jaskier’s told me a lot about you.”

Which, of course, is a lie, but Geralt knows that’s the polite thing to say. 

“He’s never even mentioned me, has he?” 

When Geralt waffles, Nell sniffs dramatically and casts Jaskier a betrayed look. 

Jaskier shoots that look right back to Geralt, and Geralt is so impossibly out of his depth right now. “Hmm.”

“Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made him regret agreeing to meet you in the first place!” Jaskier cries. 

“That’s quite enough, Julian,” Jaskier’s mother cuts in, and—Julian? 

He shoots Jaskier a puzzled look. Obviously, there was a little more he should have told Geralt before they came here. 

“Well, I’m afraid we are absolutely knackered; we’ve been riding all day. I’m going to head upstairs…” 

Geralt shoots him a look. 

“I mean,  we are going to head out to the stables and make sure that Geralt’s very polite mare is taken care of.”

“We have someone—”

“No, no, Geralt is very picky about who cares for his horse.”

With that, Jaskier drags Geralt out of the house and to the barn. “I thought the goal was for them to like me?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier snorts. “Gods, no. The goal is to have them believe that we’re in a relationship, and they would never believe I would choose anyone they actually  liked .”

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Geralt. It’ll be fine. Just stop acting like you’re terrified of me every time I touch you. Maybe we should practice.”

Jaskier gets a gleam in his eye as he darts a glance back to the house, and then his very warm mouth is on Geralt’s. Geralt’s surprised for a second before he relaxes and kisses Jaskier back. He’ll show Jaskier he’s not  terrified of him. Geralt would scoff if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. 

Geralt brings one hand up to rest on Jaskier’s jaw and one to wind through his soft hair. Geralt strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and Jaskier melts against him, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and tugging him closer. 

“What was that for?” Geralt says, trying to keep his breathing even after they pull away. 

Jaskier peers around him and looks back up at the house. “Well, they  were  watching through the window. Figured we’d give them a show. Alas.”

Jaskier turns and heads to the stables. Geralt trails behind him, surreptitiously bringing a hand up to his medallion to make sure it’s not vibrating. 

He is in way over his head. 

-

Nell stares at them with wide eyes from her bedroom window. She had...not exactly doubted them when Julian showed up with his witcher in tow, but she hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Who could let Julian trail around after them for years and not get sick of him? 

If she hadn’t witnessed them kissing with her own two eyes, she never would have believed it. She pulls the book out from under the mattress and looks at the songs again, this time with a more critical eye. She can’t believe she didn’t see it before. Especially “Her Sweet Kiss.” She’d never admit it to Julian, but she’s glad he won over whoever this  her  is. He looks happy, in a way that he never did while he was here. 

Her mother calls for her, so Nell sighs and puts away the book. She runs down the stairs. “Yes?”

“I need help with supper.”

Nell sets the table, noting they’re using the fancy silverware, which is a surprise, because her mother has never taken a particular interest of what Julian thinks of her before this, so this is an interesting time to start. She’s sure their meal is going to be a very uncomfortable affair. Well, not for her, unless it starts to become painful to hold her laughter in. 

She can’t wait. 

She’s just finishing arranging the cutlery when her mother turns back to her. “Can you believe Julian? I knew witchers were for hire, but I didn’t think their services extended to...this.”

Nell barely holds back a snort. 

-

Jaskier looks over to Geralt and suppresses a sigh. He had just planted a hand on Geralt’s thigh, and he’s sure his parents think that he just stabbed Geralt, from his reaction. He scoots his chair closer over to Geralt and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Relax,” he whispers into Geralt’s ear. 

Geralt does, marginally, but Jaskier can still see the doubt on his parent’s faces. 

Jaskier’s father clears his throat. “So, Geralt, um. I suppose we know what you do, but, um. Um.”

“Honestly, haven’t you heard any of my songs? They are all the very true accounts of what Geralt gets up to,” Jaskier butts in. 

Geralt takes a gulp of wine from his goblet to avoid commenting. 

Jaskier notices, and elbows him in the ribs. “Geralt loves my songs, right?”

Jaskier’s parents are staring right at him, and it’s more than a little unnerving. “Right. They’re...very romantic.”

Jaskier’s grip around Geralt’s shoulders tightens. “Thank you, darling.”

Geralt is sure Vesemir once told him witchers can’t blush, but his face feels hot all of a sudden, and everyone is looking at him expectantly. 

Geralt takes another drink. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt’s been so nervous about meeting all of you. The poor dear is overwhelmed.”

Geralt shoots him a glare, before softening the look into something more akin to convincing Jaskier’s parents that they’re very happily together. Jaskier hastily bolts down the rest of his dinner before he drags Geralt up the stairs and to his room. 

He shuts the door behind them, leaning against and tugging at his hair. “There’s no way they’re buying this,” he moans. 

“I thought I was being rather convincing.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitch, so Jaskier hits him with a pillow. “You did not, you brute! Geralt if you’re doing this on purpose—”

“Hey, hey,” Geralt soothes. “I’m not. It’s just. Acting is not exactly on my list of talents.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and huffs. Geralt tugs him over to the bed and makes him sit down, plopping beside him. “What can I do?”

Jaskier throws his arm over his eyes and lays back, rather over dramatically, if you ask Geralt. “Nothi—Well, actually.”

Geralt does not like the sound of that. He was offering more to be nice than anything. 

“We have to have sex.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

Jaskier scoffs. “This is no time to act the blushing virgin, Geralt,” he says, before his hands are on Geralt’s clothes, tugging them and unbuttoning. 

Geralt jerks back, but Jaskier is already done. “There. Nice and dishevelled.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment, giving Jaskier the opportunity to muss his hair. Geralt growls.

“I know, I know. That took you hours to accomplish.”

Geralt catches his wrist. “Just, hold on a second. What are we doing?”

“We have to consummate my childhood bed, Geralt,” Jaskier says, completely seriously. “Or at least make my parents think we did.”

Jaskier starts moving his hips on the bed, making the headboard brush up against the wall with every gyration. “Mmm, fuck, Geralt, right there!” he cries.

“ Jaskier!”  Geralt hisses, but Jaskier pays him no mind. 

“You feel so good, darling!” He throws Geralt a wink, and Geralt tries not to combust. 

Jaskier undoes three of the buttons of his doublet, revealing a thicket of chest hair. Geralt casts his eyes to the ceiling. Gods help him. “You know, you don’t have to be so stoic all the time, dear heart. You can let me hear you,” Jaskier says, pointedly prodding at Geralt. 

Geralt shakes his head furiously. This is  not  what he agreed to. 

Jaskier gives Geralt a put on sigh before clearing his throat quietly. “Oh, Jaskier,” he says in a deep voice. 

“That doesn’t even sound like me,” Geralt whispers furiously. 

Jaskier just arches an eyebrow, and Geralt knows that’s a challenge. He swings his leg over Jaskier, straddling him and trying to ignore both of their pounding hearts. It’s the heat of carrying out their plan, Geralt is sure, and not at all Jaskier’s proximity. 

Geralt rocks the bed back and forth, making the headboard  slam against the wall now. 

Gearlt gives a half hearted moan, and Jaskier gives him a glare. “You’re making me sound like a terrible lover who’s left you horribly unfulfilled!” he hisses. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and gives a more enthusiastic moan this time. Geralt begrudgingly keeps this up for a few more minutes before he grunts and clambers off of Jaskier. “A little quick to the finish line?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shoots him a rude hand gesture. 

Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Why don’t you go get me a wash rag?” he suggests. 

Geralt glares at him; this is taking the charade much too far, if you ask Geralt, but he follows Jaskier’s direction to the bathroom—where Jaskier’s mother is standing. Geralt suddenly becomes conscious of what a mess he must look like right now, thanks to Jaskier. “Hello again,” Marilla says. 

Geralt grunts and nods to her, before remembering he should probably say something, anything. “Hi.”

Geralt grabs a washcloth and flees. 

When he gets back to Jaskier, Jaskier is sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, scribbling away in his notebook, the inkwell balancing precariously on the mattress. He still has his buttons undone, and Geralt curses himself for even noticing. 

“Did you run into anyone?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt’s disgruntled expression must be answer enough, because Jaskier rubs his hands together in delight. “Excellent.”

-

Marilla scurries back to her room, completely scandalized. She can’t believe they would...defile her home like this. It’s bad enough that Julian couldn’t choose anyone they suggested for himself, and now he brings home a  witcher ? He’s trying to make her gray even faster. 

She shuts the bedroom door behind her and looks to Ethbert. Her expression must linger on her face, because he asks her, “What?”

“They—” She makes a floppy hand gesture. 

“Are you sure? What would a witcher want with Julian? There’s something not right about this.”

Marilla fans herself. “I know. They’re not even wed. It’s impropriety, is what it is.”

Ethbert squints doubtfully. 

-

Geralt is not a morning person. When Jaskier first discovered this, he was puzzled. Geralt is the only person who dictates his schedule, so no one would yell at  him  if he chose to sleep until midday. 

The more Jaskier thinks about it, though, the more it makes sense. Of course Geralt would wake up at the asscrack of dawn; he probably thinks of it as a punishment or some other such self loathing nonsense. 

It’s certainly more of a punishment for Jaskier, because he’s the one that has to put up with Geralt’s bearish attitude every morning. 

Geralt blinks awake and squints at the rising sun like it’s personally offended him, and Jaskier closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. 

“Morning,” Geralt grates out. 

Jaskier’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Good morning.”

“I know you weren’t asleep,” Geralt says, sounding annoyed. “You could have woken me up.”

“Mm. And deal with a grumpy witcher first thing in the morning? I don’t think so.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Right.”

Geralt swings his legs out of the bed and begins getting dressed. Jaskier stretches into the warmth Geralt left behind, tugging the blankets up over him. 

What? He never said  he was a morning person, either. “Where are you going?”

“Into town.”

“For what? Do you need things for potions? I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, I’m just going to see if there’s any contracts; you stay here.”

Jaskier gives a sly grin. “Does my family make you nervous?”

“ No .”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says. 

“Shut up.”

“Well, don’t go gallivanting off without telling me where. You know I worry.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “No need.”

Jaskier adopts a high pitched voice. “Why, thank you, Jaskier, my dearest friend. I’m so touched to know someone is looking out for me.”

“It’s pretty sad if you have to imagine someone to be your friend.”

Jaskier splutters as Geralt walks out of the room, a smile tugging at his lips. 

Jaskier sighs as the door shuts behind him, wanting to bundle himself back in the blankets and Geralt’s scent, but he resists the urge and stumbles out of bed to pull on his clothes. 

He makes it down the stairs and to the kitchen, picking up a bowl of eggs and whisking them, the need to be helpful overriding his desire to collapse in a chair and go back to sleep. 

“Good morning, Julian,” his mother says stiffly. “Where’s your beau?”

Jaskier lets himself smile at the image of Geralt’s reaction to being heard of himself referred to as Jaskier’s  beau . 

“He’s out looking for a contract. He’ll be back for lunch, I’m sure.” 

He gives his mother a bright grin. He thinks he should have made Geralt suck a hickey on his neck, but, to be honest, he’s not sure if he could have beared that. Geralt had already been so unbearably close to Jaskier when he  straddled  him. Jaskier’s not sure what had possessed Geralt to do that, all the while expecting Jaskier to keep his hands to himself. 

He’s not sure Geralt’s looked in a mirror anytime in the past fifty years because of the whole monster-staring-back-at-him thing (complete horse shit, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, not that Geralt cares to listen to it), but Jaskier is forced to look at him every day, and he suffers. 

He suffers every time he trails behind Geralt atop Roach, watching the subtle shift of his back muscles as he rides, and he’s devastated when Geralt deems Roach too tired to carry him and leads her in his tight leather pants. If Geralt hadn’t been wearing just such a thing when Jaskier met him, Jaskier would be convinced Geralt does it just to personally spite Jaskier. 

To doom him to look but not touch for the rest of his life. As such, he had never expected Geralt to actually agree to this whole charade. But, he did, and now here they are. Here they are, with Jaskier knowing exactly what Geralt tastes like (less onion than one would expect), but still having to not just kiss the blank looks Geralt likes to give him right off his face. 

It’s enough to drive a man mad. 

-

Geralt looks at the pitiful notice board and sighs. He tugs down the one prospect to examine it more closely. Something is stealing a farmer’s sheep. There’s a few possibilities for what it could be, ranging from minor nuisances to things that he shouldn’t even mention to Jaskier because he’ll nag at Geralt until he lets him tag along, and those are always the kind of jobs that Jaskier should be nowhere near. 

Geralt’s not sure how someone with the survival instinct of a fly larva is still alive, especially when he insists on following Geralt around, but Geralt’s not going to let Jaskier get hurt on his watch. 

Geralt pockets the notice and goes to talk to the farmer who set the contract, but he has very little useful information to tell Geralt. All he offers is that the sheep have been disappearing without a trace. Geralt walks the edges of the property and a bit into the woods, doing a cursory inspection for the carcasses, but he doesn’t find them, either. 

Hmm. 

Geralt turns and heads back to Jaskier. 

-

Geralt’s acting out of sorts when he returns from town, so Jaskier tugs him aside. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt just grunts and shakes his head. 

Jaskier sighs. Typical. “Weren’t there any contracts?”

“There were, just—I don’t know what it is. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

Geralt even tries to give him a bracing smile, and even though it looks more like a grimace, Jaskier knows it’s not good if Geralt has stooped to trying to comfort him. 

Jaskier hums at him and leads him to the table where his family are waiting on them for lunch. Jaskier keeps a hand on Geralt’s knee, because he’s allowed to, at the moment. 

He delights in watching Geralt make awkward conversation with Nell, but it seems like they’re quickly warming up to each other. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry at the thought of them teaming up on him. They would truly be a menace. 

Jaskier’s mood is quickly soured when they finish eating and Geralt insists on heading back out. 

“Shouldn’t you wait until the morning? You know, be well rested?”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s been taking the animals at night. Better chance of finding it if I go now.”

“Geralt, we’re not exactly short on coin right now. Why even go?”

“If I don’t take care of this, who will?” Geralt huffs. “This farmer’s livelihood is at risk.”

Jaskier grins. “Geralt, you unbearable softie. You make me look callous.”

Jaskier darts a glance over to his family, who are pretending not to watch them. He takes that as license to tug Geralt in for a chaste kiss. Geralt stiffens against him, and Jaskier is just about ready to pull away, before Geralt starts kissing him back. He makes it  decidedly  less chaste, and Jaskier puts a hand on his chest. He lets himself savor it for one, two, three seconds before he takes a step back. 

“Geralt, there are children present!” he says in a scandalized tone, grinning at Nell. 

She glares, and he shoots her a wink. 

Geralt clears his throat, and Jaskier jerks his attention back to him. “Right. Well, if I’m not going to talk you out of it, be safe.”

“I always am.”

-

Ethbert watches as Julian paces back and forth as he waits for the witcher to return. “Sit down,” he says gruffly. 

Julian looks at the clock, then out the window, completely ignoring him. Ethbert snorts. Good to know nothing’s changed, then. 

“Surely it can’t take this long to murder one measly little thing,” Julian mutters. 

“He’s fine,” Ethbert says. “It’d take a lot to overpower a witcher, right?”

Jaskier sits down in a huff, and Ethbert starts to wonder if maybe their relationship is less of a farce than he thought. It’s certainly an odd one, and he’s still clueless as to what they could possibly have in common, but Julian is painting a convincing picture right now, especially as he tugs his cloak off the hook and settles it around his shoulders. 

“Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

Ethbert jerks out of his seat with a splutter. “You can’t be serious. You think you’re going to be able to handle whatever a witcher couldn’t?”

Julian pauses. “Well, no. He’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere, slowly bleeding to death. Oh gods, what if he’s out there bleeding to death?”

Julian becomes even more frantic and rushes out the door and to the stables. 

Ethbert resigns himself to a long night. 

-

Jaskier clambers onto one of the smaller mares. He doesn’t have the patience to go through the whole process of putting all the tack on, so he clings to the horse’s neck and prays he doesn’t fall off. He digs into her with his knees, and away they go. 

Jaskier has no idea which way Geralt went, but there’s some fairly fresh hoof tracks in the wet dirt of the road, so he follows them and hopes they’re Roach’s. Eventually, they go off the road, and Jaskier is left to squint at trampled grass. He wonders if Geralt would be proud of his tracking abilities, and he smiles thinking about the inevitable jab. Jaskier would respond with something about how Geralt was no better than a dog sniffing the air, and all would be well.

But first, he has to find him. Jaskier slows the horse to a walk as the trail becomes fainter, squinting as he looks at the ground. He comes to an outcrop of rocks with an opening just big enough to go inside, and he dismounts his horse cautiously. He certainly doesn’t want to deal with whatever calls this place its home. 

Jaskier notices blood, and his heart kicks up a notch. It’s a rust red color, so it’s not very recent. Jaskier follows the splatters, and as he goes, they get brighter and brighter, until Jaskier’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest with the panicked tap dance it’s doing. 

It certainly doesn’t help matters when he finds Roach wandering through the woods by herself. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, and she snorts at him helpfully. 

Jaskier casts a look at the blood glistening under the leaves underfoot and knows Geralt has to be close. Roach gives an agitated whinny before she turns and trots off, and Jaskier rushes after her. 

In the end, Geralt’s not all that far away. Jaskier sees his hair before he sees anything else, and then he’s sprinting over to him with little thought for anything else. Jaskier drops to his knees beside Geralt. He looks paler than normal, even though Jaskier hadn’t known that was possible 

There’s so much blood, and he’s not moving. Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Geralt? Geralt?” he asks, his voice getting louder and more panicked. “Geralt?”

Jaskier resists the urge to shake him and jostle whatever injuries he has, but there’s bile rising in his throat, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do—

His eyes latch on to the infinitesimal rise of Geralt’s chest, and the pressure on his own suddenly lifts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Geralt isn’t dead, and he can work with that. 

Jaskier takes a closer look at Geralt and finds there’s a chunk missing from his side. It’s still bleeding freely, and Jaskier tries to resist the urge to be sick. He works Geralt free of his armor with shaky hands, so he can take a closer look. 

Geralt moans and starts to stir, and Jaskier plants his hands on Geralt’s chest. “Just stay still; you’re going to be fine.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurs. 

“Yes, yes, it’s me, and you know I’m far too stubborn to let you die.”

“My pack—”

Jaskier could slap himself for not thinking of that. “Right. Um, your potions.” 

He whistles for Roach, and she approaches skittishly. Jaskier glances back down at Geralt, and his eyes are slipping shut. Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?”

Geralt murmurs something Jaskier doesn’t quite catch, but his eyes open wider. Geralt’s pupils are so dilated, there’s barely a ring of yellow left around the outsides. Jaskier clambers up to look through Roach’s saddlebags, and his heart clenches when Geralt’s hand comes up to clutch at him as he moves away. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes. 

He rustles through the saddlebag. “Fuck, Geralt, do you really need so many tiny bottles?”

Geralt gives him a weak chuckle before he hisses in pain. 

“Which one do you need?” Jaskier asks, hoping Geralt is coherent enough that he’s not about to poison himself. 

Jaskier pulls the pouch out of the saddle bag to show him the options. Geralt points to a few, and Jaskier eyes them doubtfully. He uncorks them anyway, sitting back down and settling Geralt’s head into his lap, helping him get the elixirs down, even when Geralt tries to bat his hands away. 

“Save your energy for something useful, would you?” Jaskier tuts. 

Jaskier prods at the wound in Geralt’s side, jerking his hand back when Geralt winces. “I forgot just how delicate you were, my apologies.”

Geralt barely manages a huff at that, and Jaskier furrows his brows in worry. He pulls Geralt’s shirt away from the wound, biting his lip as it pulls skin away. The wound looks a sickly green underneath all the blood, and Jaskier gasps a little. This is much worse than he thought. 

“Geralt, it’s—Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, and Jaskier scrabbles at him, trying to make him wake up again, but he stays stubbornly still. The only thing giving Jaskier even a tiny glimmer of peace is that his chest is still rising and falling. 

Tears are threatening to burst to Jaskier’s eyes, but he pushes them down and takes a deep breath. Somehow, he manages to heave Geralt across Roach. Roach snorts, disgruntled, and Jaskier runs a hand over her flank, trying to soothe her. 

He looks around, but he has no idea where the mare he rode out here went. Oops. Hopefully it will wander back to his parent’s estate, but if not, well, will they even miss it?

Jaskier gathers Roach’s reins in his hand and leads her back towards town at a steady trot. 

-

When Geralt comes to, he’s sweltering. He seems to be in a tomb of blankets, and the fire is roaring in the corner of the room. The room? He’s not quite sure how he got here; he would have expected to be lying on the cold ground instead of a soft and yielding bed. There’s even less lumps than he’s accustomed to.

He groans when he tries to move, and there’s a rustling from beside him. Geralt looks over to see Jaskier jerking from his chair to fuss over him. Jaskier’s eyes are red when he finally looks up.

“You promised me you were going to be safe, you terror,” Jaskier sniffs. 

Geralt doesn’t have his wits about him enough yet to be dealing with crying bards. “Hmm.”

“Geralt, you—What was it?”

“A cockatrice. It got me with its tail; spit a little poison at me just for fun.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in the ass.”

This makes Geralt look even grumpier, if possible. Jaskier’s glad; he much prefers that to the slack expression Geralt had had while he was sleeping, and Jaskier was terrified he wouldn’t wake up. 

Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt can’t help himself when he reaches out to swipe away Jaskier’s tears with his thumb. “I’m fine,” he murmurs. 

Geralt tosses the covers off himself so he can see his wound. It’s wrapped rather nicely, and when Geralt pokes at it, it feels like there’s some kind of poultice under the bandages. He raises his eyebrows at Jaskier, waiting for an explanation. 

“A healer.”

Geralt’s surprised Jaskier found someone who would treat him; most people aren’t too keen on helping witchers. 

“I yelled at him until he helped you,” Jaskier admits. 

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I’m sure he was terrified.”

Jaskier finally cracks a grin. “Hey, you’re not the only scary one around here.”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to his hand, the one that was just on his face, and fuck, what was Geralt even thinking, but Jaskier reaches out and puts his hand over Geralt’s. 

“I was worried,” he says softly. And then, sharper, “Don’t you dare say  hmm .”

“Hmm.”

Geralt laughs, and there’s a warmth that settles in his chest when Jaskier does the same. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier finally says. 

There’s a lengthy silence, and when Geralt looks up, Jaskier is staring back at him.  

“You got the trophy, right?” 

“Geralt, my ears must be deceiving me. You cannot possibly be worried about that right now.”

“How else am I going to get paid? Last time I checked, you liked to eat. It needs done before something else drags the carcass away.”

Jaskier sighs and huffs and does everything short of stomping his feet before he gathers his cloak from the back of his chair. He glares at Geralt before he slams the door shut behind him. 

Geralt rubs a shaky hand down his face. 

He’s an idiot. 

-

Jaskier grumbles to himself as he makes his way back out into the chilly night. His advances are obviously unwelcome, if this is the kind of punishment Geralt is doling out to him. Well, that’s fine. Jaskier will just let him bleed out next time. 

Okay, he won’t, but that doesn’t mean he won’t consider it for a few seconds. 

Stupid emotionally repressed witchers. He can’t say he wasn’t hoping something would happen with Geralt while they were here, but he should have known better. 

Jaskier trudges all the way back to near where he found Geralt, pointedly not looking at the blood stain on the grass.  He’s fine , he reminds himself. Jaskier pokes around for a little bit until he remembers the cave he had seen earlier and some vague knowledge that cockatrices prefer them. 

He’s half expecting another to show up as he plucks some feathers and cuts off the head, for good measure. He almost gags as his knife goes roughly through the bone and sinew, but he manages to keep his supper. He looks around for any last creatures that are just waiting to murder him, but none appear. 

He sighs and makes the trek back. 

When he arrives, Geralt is sitting at the table, talking to his family, and Jaskier wonders for a moment if he should be concerned about a doppler. Nell is eating up every word Geralt says, and Jaskier hopes she has pried some good stories out of him that Jaskier can repurpose as songs later. 

For now, he swings the cockatrice head up onto the table, and silence falls. “There you go, love,” he says cheerfully. 

Geralt is looking back at him with a peculiar expression, and he rises from his chair stiffly. Jaskier rushes over to him to help, and Geralt reluctantly drapes an arm over his shoulder. Geralt leads him to the bathroom, and Jaskier makes sure to say loudly enough for the rest of his family to hear, “Well, if you needed help holding it you only had to ask.”

Geralt huffs in exasperation and shuts the door behind him. Jaskier raises his eyebrows in question. “Did you actually need help, or…” Jaskier trails off, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, warm and hungry, and anymore of Jaskier’s thoughts fly out of his brain. 

His arms automatically come up to wrap around Geralt’s waist, until he registers that this is  Geralt , and he puts a hand on his chest. “Um. Do you need your head checked out, as well? I thought it was your side, but I can go get the healer again.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier’s not convinced Geralt hasn’t sustained a lasting brain injury, but then Geralt is saying, “I should have done this a long time ago,” and kissing him again. 

What is Jaskier to do but kiss him back? It’d be terribly impolite not to, after all. When Geralt finally pulls away, Jaskier asks breathlessly, “What was that for?”

Geralt shrugs, considering. “You looked kind of hot carrying that cockatrice head. The trachea hanging down really got me going.”

Jaskier stares at him in disbelief for a beat before they both dissolve into laughter. 

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. “You’re  my idiot.”

-

Ethbert looks across the table, where what his son is doing can only be called  terrorizing  his witcher, and harrumphs to himself. This is not exactly who he pictured Julian ending up with, to say the least. 

He wonders the etiquette for having a son in law older than he is. He supposes he’s going to have to find out. 

[d-andilion]

GERASKIER FAKE DATING

sorry for yelling I'm excited

okay i took my time filling this one but i think the results are worth it - i hope you think so too 😊

~

Jaskier is, surprisingly, a very good boyfriend.

Though being around old school friends and distant relations must have tempted him to abandon his anti-social plus one, he’s hardly left Geralt’s side all day. He introduces Geralt to everyone who approaches them and takes the lead in every conversation to minimize how much Geralt has to talk to strangers. After every interaction, Jaskier leads them inconspicuously to the edge of the room for a welcome break from the buzz of the reception hall around them.

Of course, being a groomsman and brother to the bride means Jaskier has had to step away for round upon round of pictures, but he never goes far and he returns the second he’s able. The only point over the course of the entire wedding where Geralt has had to speak to someone by himself was just after the ceremony, and even then it was only Jaskier’s grandmother. 

She was a sweet, stout old woman who smelled of the boiled sweets she pulled from her handbag every so often and popped into her mouth. She ambled up to Geralt the moment Jaskier stepped away, taking his arm as if she belonged there.

“Diedre,” she said. “But you call me Nan, everyone does.”

Geralt could only nod, but she didn’t seem to mind or even really notice. She chattered to him about how handsome he was, how polite and well mannered, nothing at all like anyone Jaskier had brought home before. Apparently, her “little Buttercup” had a habit of falling for unsuitable folk. He was just too sweet, she reckoned.

Jaskier hustled over to rescue him the moment his sister set him free from post-ceremony photos, kissing Nan’s cheek and transferring her from Geralt’s arm to one of the many cousins milling around.

Before Jaskeir could steer her away, though, she patted Geralt’s lapel with her gloved hand and smiled at him. “Perfect for my Buttercup,” she said. Jaskier’s blush could have stopped traffic.

Geralt imagines he could have done worse for solo social interactions in this crowd. He didn’t actually have to say anything to Nan before Jaskier saved him, and no one else has tried to corner him since. It’s been a long, long day, but Geralt has had worse. The food is amazing, the champagne flows freely.

And Jaskier is there. He’s in Geralt’s space, holding his hand, kissing his cheek, fixing his tie, smiling at him like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Jaskier is the perfect, gentle, kind, attentive boyfriend.

Geralt just wishes Jaskier were his boyfriend.

Everyone thinks he is, of course. That was the plan. Jaskier came to Geralt a week before the wedding with big puppy eyes telling him about the very serious relationship he’d been lying to his parents about for the past few months. If Jaskier came to his sister’s wedding alone, even if he feigned some excuse for his non-existent significant other, his parents would surely be onto him. It had, apparently, happened before.

Geralt would be the perfect stand-in, Jaskier reasoned. His parents already knew Geralt a little, so there would be no chance that they wouldn’t like him, and the two of them were already so comfortable around each other that a little extra PDA would be no big deal. It was only one day of Geralt’s life with gourmet food and free top-shelf booze. It would be easy.

Now, standing in the dimly lit reception hall while a sickly sweet love song plays over the speakers with Jaskier tucked into his side in a perfectly fitted tux, Geralt feels like the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

Being in love with his best friend had never been easy. Most days, it felt like drowning. But Geralt would give anything for that feeling right now, because this, watching Jaskier pretend to be his, pretend to be in love with him—

This feels like being buried alive.

Jaskier is talking, his voice low and intimate like no one exists outside their little bubble, and Geralt doesn’t hear a word because they’re so close. 

So close that their noses could touch if Geralt tilted his head the slightest bit, and it’s impossible to focus on the words coming out of Jaskier’s mouth when Geralt can feel the oxygen running out around him.

So close that Geralt can’t really see Jaskier’s face, just the blue of his eyes, and Geralt can feel his lungs burning as he forgets to breathe, but if he had to pick a way to go, he’d want a view like this.

So close that it’s awkward for Geralt to keep his hands to himself, so he places his hand on the small of Jaskier’s back and it feels so fucking good to hold him like this that Geralt almost doesn’t care how much it’s going to hurt when he has to let go.

Maybe, Geralt thinks, if he doesn’t close his eyes, if he holds perfectly still, then they can stay like this forever. Maybe he can trap them in this moment, surrounded by tipsy Pankratzes while cheesy love songs play in the background.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a terrible idea.

~

Geralt, predictably, is an amazing boyfriend. 

He’s shy around Jaskier’s family as expected, but he converses politely whenever required and everyone is charmed to death by his dry humor. On the few occasions that Jaskier has stepped away from Geralt’s side, all anyone can say to him is how wonderful his boyfriend is, how happy they are for him. He’s heard more than a few cheeky comments about the next Pankratz to walk down the aisle with winks in his direction.

Nan was the worst out of all of them.

Jaskier felt his gut drop when he saw her make a B-line for Geralt. He loved his grandmother more than anything, but fuck knows what that woman would say. The moment his sister was satisfied with the photos they’d taken, he moved as quickly as his trousers would allow him to Geralt’s rescue.

“Perfect for my Buttercup,” she said before Jaskier could stop her. Geralt’s pale skin turned bright pink.

“I told you to leave him be, you sneaky old bat,” Jaskier scolded once they were out of earshot. Nan just cackled. 

He passed her over to an unoccupied cousin quicker than he would have if he hadn’t had Geralt to get back to, but not before she could cup his cheek and smile gently at him.

“He’s the one, Buttercup,” she told him. “Don’t let him get away.”

It’s lucky, Jaskier thinks, that he’d always been a good actor. He had to keep up the pretense of having fun for the rest of the night and every time he thought about Nan’s words, he felt like he was a thousand feet below water and sinking deeper every second.

Jaskier knew Geralt was the one. He’d known it almost since the day they met. Ten years they’d known each other and Jaskier couldn’t look at anyone else no matter how hard he tried. Geralt is it for Jaskier.

He just wishes that he could be it for Geralt.

Everyone is fooled, just like Jaskier knew they would be. Being in love with Geralt was the easy part. He did it every day of his life. A few cheek kisses and prolonged hand holding are no great tasks in comparison. The hard part is knowing that the moment they leave the wedding, these soft touches will disappear like they’d never happened at all. 

Things have died down at the reception a bit, leaving them to stand peacefully at the edge of the room. Jaskier is talking about something unimportant, some family gossip he picked up from Nan at dinner. Not even particularly good gossip. He’s talking to talk because it feels like his chest will collapse in on itself if he stills for even a second.

They’re so close, he and Geralt. Close enough that Jaskier can barely see the soft grin on Geralt’s face, just the slightest upturn of lips. He’s looking at Jaskier like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather listen to than boring Pankratz family gossip. Like Jaskier hung the moon.

Jaskier never should have suggested this. He should have come to the wedding by himself and swallowed the lectures from his parents with one too many glasses of wine the way he usually does. It would have been more bearable than this, than watching Geralt pretend to be his boyfriend, pretend to love Jaskier the way he’s always loved Geralt—

This hurts more than his mother’s sharp words or his father’s disappointed sighs ever could.

Geralt rests his hand at the small of Jaskier’s back and Jaskier wants to scream but it’s all he can do to keep breathing in and out. What would happen, he wonders, if he told Geralt he loved him right now? Would Geralt leave? Would it ruin everything? Would it be worth it?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

This was a terrible fucking idea.

~~

more fic from me

[flowercrown-bard]

35 for Geraskier? :3

thank you so much for the prompt! And also, I would like to apologise. I had the most cursed thought about how to end this and I wasn't going to actually write that, but you know sometimes you have an idea so bad that you just know you would forever regret it if you didn't do it

prompt: Bets/teasing with increasing physical stakes makes character confront their feelings

word count: 5k

kind of inspired by the song "anything you can do I can do better"

content warning: brief mention of injury (no detailed description)

Anything you can do, I can do better

“You know you could help me, right?” Jaskier’s tongue peeked through his lips in concentration. “All you need is a little magic-“ he wiggled his fingers through the air uselessly, letting the sticks he had been holding before fall to the forest floor. “-and we would have a fire. Easy as that. So why, oh, why do you insist on torturing me thus?”

Geralt had to bite back his grin when Jaskier turned his big pleading eyes on him. “I thought you said you were ‘perfectly fit to travel through the wilderness’.”

Jaskier abandoned his fruitless attempt at making a fire for good and his puppy eyes turned into a glare. “I am! Just because you decided to be a prick about it, doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“You almost stepped into the snare I had set up to hunt our dinner.”

Jaskier crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin in defiance. “Your point?”

“My point is that you wouldn’t survive a day without me out here.”

“Well, good thing I don’t want –“ Jaskier broke off and his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you…” he came closer to Geralt, who barely could keep his shoulders from shaking. “Are you laughing at me? Geralt, how dare you!”

A snorting laugh slipped past Geralt’s lips and he no longer fought back the grin. “I would never dare do such a thing.”

“Oh, no. That’s it.” Jaskier jabbed a finger at Geralt’s chest in outrage. “I am going to prove to you that I am just as good as you are at surviving out here. No, I am better.”

For a long moment Geralt only stared at him. “I am a witcher. I am enhanced and trained specifically to survive out in the wild. You are a bard.”

“And I am stubborn and pissed off. And I know that I can do anything better than you.”

Geralt threw a pointed look at the sad attempt at making a camp fire. Jaskier cringed and shrugged his shoulders. “Magic doesn’t count.”

“Alright then,” Geralt sighed, but his lips twitched up when Jaskier’s eyes lit up with determination. “How about you prove how good you are by setting up the tent?”

“Psh, that’s easy.” When Geralt sceptically lifted a brow, Jaskier added, “I am a travelling bard. Do have some trust in me.”

Geralt watched in amusement as Jaskier strode off to go about his task. At least for the time being the bard would be distracted. Geralt knew there wasn’t a chance that Jaskier would actually succeed in setting up the tent, but it was strangely endearing to watch him bite back frustrated curses as he got tangled up in the fabric. And maybe, just maybe Geralt was preparing his ‘I told you so’ for when Jaskier finally admitted defeat and asked Geralt for help.

Except, that didn’t happen. Against all expectations, Jaskier managed to build the tent and it didn’t even take him too long.

Geralt stared at him, taken aback. Clearly Jaskier noticed Geralt’s surprise, for the smug grin he wore only got wider and he put one hand on his hips, gesturing towards the tent with the other.

“There you have it. I dare you to tell me again that I’m not as good as you are.”

“You are not,” Geralt said, more to watch Jaskier splutter in indignation than anything else.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“I am able to prepare us dinner,” Geralt said, taking out his knife.

“Oh please, now you’re just being ridiculous.” Jaskier rolled his eyes with a huff. “We both know that before I came along, you only used salt and pepper to spice your food. If even that much.”

Geralt shrugged. “I never said it tasted good. I just said I was able to prepare it.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkled as his grin became triumphant. “Aha! So you admit it. I am better at cooking than you.”

“If you think so, then I’m sure you’ll have no problem preparing these.” Geralt did his best to keep his expression carefully neutral as he held the rabbit he had caught out to Jaskier.

Jaskier blanched at the sight. A hint of guilt battled with the satisfaction of seeing Jaskier give up on his stubbornness and he was just about to take the rabbit back and skin it himself, when Jaskier took it away from him, though he held it in the same way a lordling might hold a wet frog.

--

Over the next days, Geralt started having more and more fun with this. No matter what he told Jaskier to do, he jumped at the opportunity to prove himself. At this point, Geralt wasn’t really sure anymore what exactly Jaskier was trying to prove.

It was obvious that Geralt’s increasingly ridiculous bets were nothing that would prove anything to Geralt other than that Jaskier was a stubborn idiot who would rather attempt to chop down a small tree than give up, though he had done that particular task while throwing glares at Geralt every other second. It had been fun to watch Jaskier grit his teeth and try to succeed in this utterly useless task.

It had become slightly less fun when Jaskier had become so exhausted that he had to shrug off his chemise, revealing his skin that glistened with sweat.

Seeing Jaskier like this – seeing the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex as he swung the axe – was strange. It felt wrong. At least that was the only explanation Geralt had for the strange twist in his guts as he watched his friend. And the only reason why his mouth went dry when he later massaged Jaskier’s sore back to get the tension he was responsible for, was because he felt guilty.

He should have stopped then.

He didn’t. Not when they were making camp and not now that Jaskier was walking beside Roach, humming the same melody for the umpteenth time.

Just to see Jaskier’s reaction, Geralt now said, “I bet you can’t stay silent for longer than I can.”

He threw a glance at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier had stopped walking and was opening his mouth to protest. Geralt lifted his brows and cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, but no sound left him. Instead, he mouthed something at Geralt that he was sure must be some sort of insult, before hurrying after Geralt.

It became clear quickly that this might just be the hardest task for Jaskier. Chopping wood and skinning rabbits was one thing. Evidently, Jaskier’s stubbornness gave him extra strength and the ability to swallow his disgust. But staying quiet? He looked as if he was ready to through the towel right then and there, and not even a full minute had passed.

Geralt was almost fully convinced that the only reason Jaskier remained silent was that every time his fidgeting got worse and he looked like he was about to open his mouth to say something, he caught Geralt’s eyes. Within a heartbeat that determination was back in his eyes and he snapped his mouth shut.

Geralt was almost impressed. He should have known that Jaskier would play dirty.

He started to poke Geralt’s legs, pull at his boots and open their straps.

Any glare of Geralt’s was only answered with a shit eating grin and a shrug that screamed ‘You said nothing about me getting you to talk first.’

Too bad that Jaskier wasn’t the only stubborn one between the two of them.

Geralt remained stoic, no matter what Jaskier tried to grate on his nerves. He was content to ignore him. After all, Geralt had plenty of practice tuning out Jaskier’s singing, he would have no problem ignoring the way Jaskier –

Eyes wide and mouth opened into a silent cry, Jaskier stumbled. He fell forward, his arms flailing to protect his lute.

Without needing to think about what he was doing, Geralt reached down and grabbed Jaskier by the scruff of the neck, steadying him.

“Careful,” he growled.

And Jaskier…Jaskier turned to him with the most self-satisfied expression Geralt had ever seen on him.

“Told you,” Jaskier said cheerily. “I anything you can do-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, but he failed to keep the amusement out of his voice. There was too much joy in Jaskier’s eyes to dampen his mood with Geralt’s broodiness.

“Which makes me think,” Jaskier tilted his head in contemplation. “Not that we’ve determined that I can keep quiet for longer –“

“Because you cheated.”

“Because I can keep quiet for longer,” Jaskier repeated, emphatically ignoring Geralt’s protest, “We should see if you can talk for longer than me.”

“No we shouldn’t.”

Jaskier skipped a couple of steps ahead, until he was walking right before Roach, turning around so he was walking still facing Geralt as he walked. “Whyever not?”

“Because this thing we’re doing isn’t about me,” Geralt replied with a huff. “And talking is no valuable life skill.”

The gasp Jaskier let out could put any actor delivering their final monologue to shame in how theatrical it was. Jaskier clutched a hand over his chest and pointed an accusatory finger at Geralt.

“The audacity!” Jaskier gave Roach a long-suffering look, as if she would understand his woe and agree with him. “Geralt. My dearest friend. You can be such a smart man, but what you said just now? That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Ever heard yourself talking?”

“Don’t try to distract me with insults. I have lived at court, trading insults is a battle you won’t win. Speaking of which, talking might not be important in the woods, but it sure is invaluable when you want rich people to pay you, which – oh! Wait. That is exactly what you want.”

Geralt grunted. “Your point?”

Jaskier’s lips stretched into a grin. He lowered his voice into a very bad imitation of Geralt’s growl, when he said, “My point is that you wouldn’t survive at court without me out here.” His voice jumped back to its normal pitch. “In other words, you need me.”

Geralt scoffed, though for some reason he liked the certainty with which Jaskier said those words.

“I really don’t.”

“Prove it then.”

“What?”

Jaskier stopped, forcing Roach to come to a halt as well.

“I said prove it. I don’t see why I’m the only one that needs to prove that I’m a worthy travel companion – “

“It was your idea,” Geralt grumbled.

“-so, how about this: I continue to do everything you think I need to be able to do out here and you prove to me that you could survive at court.”

“I don’t want to survive at court. And I don’t have to prove anything.”

Jaskier’s brows rose and he lifted his chin in a challenge. “Sounds to me like you’re scared.”

Geralt glowered at Jaskier. He could just guide Roach to walk around Jaskier. He could just ignore that stupid challenge.

But Jaskier had that look on his face. It was infuriating. Geralt never stood a chance against that look.

He jumped off Roach and walked over to Jaskier, trying to make himself look as menacing as possible, until they stood almost chest to chest.

He could see Jaskier’s throat bob as he swallowed. Geralt leaned in until their noses were almost touching.

“You’re on,” he growled, before he turned away from Jaskier and made to get onto Roach.

He was stopped by Jaskier clearing his throat.

“Actually,” Jaskier drawled. “At court it’s considered very impolite to ride on a horse while your companion is walking.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “I’m not letting you ride Roach.”

Jaskier let out a short laugh. “Oh, don’t you worry, I am out of practice anyway.” He stepped to the side to make space for Geralt to walk next to him while leading Roach. “But I bet you can’t walk for hours as you make me do.”

--

It became clear quite quickly that Geralt had underestimated Jaskier’s ability to be petty. Obviously most of what Jaskier made him do now was revenge for the ridiculous tasks Geralt had given Jaskier.

Well, two could play this game. And oh, how they did. For weeks they went back and forth, Geralt giving Jaskier a task that he performed with gritted teeth and Jaskier enacting his revenge by making Geralt do all sorts of ridiculous things. One would think that sooner or later one of them would run out of ideas, but Geralt had been walking the Path long enough to know that there were never enough skills to have and whatever could be said about Jaskier, no one could deny that he was creative.

And of course neither one of them was willing to back down from a challenge.

Which was the reason why Geralt disguised his obligatory protest at Jaskier’s newest demand as a clever explanation for why he can’t possibly do what Jaskier dared him to.

“How on earth am I supposed to ‘dress appropriately for court’ when I don’t have any fancy clothes with me.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “You would have, if you had listened to me when I had asked you to come to the tailor with me.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was back in Touissant. Months ago.” He gestured to the trees surrounding them. “I don’t think there’s a tailor anywhere close.”

Jaskier opened his mouth before letting it snap shut again.

“What?” Geralt demanded.

A blush crept across Jaskier’s cheeks and he averted his eyes. “Nothing it’s just…There are courtly clothes here. Myclothes.”

Geralt’s mouth went dry. “You want…” His eyes drifted to the doublet Jaskier was wearing. Without wanting to, he imagined Jaskier opening the buttons one by one and giving Geralt his own doublet.

When Geralt didn’t resume talking, Jaskier’s eyes darted back to him. For a moment he looked confused before his expression morphed into one of panic. “Oh, gods, no, that’s not what I – no. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you…” Jaskier cut himself off and went over to his bags, rummaging through them for long enough that Geralt began to wonder if maybe he was just trying to avoid looking at Geralt. Finally, Jaskier came back with a triumphant sound that didn’t bode well for Geralt and a deep purple doublet.

“No,” Geralt said firmly, as he eyed the garment in distaste. “I am not wearing that.”

“So are you saying that you give up?”

Geralt held Jaskier’s gaze for a tense moment, before snatching the doublet out of his hands.

“Fine,” he growled. “Don’t complain if it tears. This was your idea.”

Geralt felt awkward as he shrugged off his own shirt and donned the doublet. The fabric felt nice enough against his skin, but for some reason, the knowledge that Geralt was wearing Jaskier’s clothes set his chest ablaze. The sensation was so distracting that he fumbled with the buttons, unable to close them on his own.

“Here, let me,” Jaskier offered and suddenly he was right in Geralt’s space. His head was lowered so that he could see what he was doing as he buttoned up the doublet with practiced movements.

Without meaning to, Geralt leaned forward, just a bit. Just enough to catch more of the lavender-scent that clung to Jaskier’s hair.

“There, all done,” Jaskier said and looked back up. His eyes widened when he saw just how close he was to Geralt who sucked in a sharp breath. Their faces were only inches apart and Jaskier’s hands that had come to rest on Geralt’s chest were burning his skin through the fabric.

“Jaskier…” He didn’t know why he said it, why suddenly this name was all he could think about.

His skin was burning and the doublet felt too tight, too hot.

Geralt squirmed and as if he had been shook out of a stupor, Jaskier took a step back. Geralt pretended not to notice the way the loss of the touch left him strangely cold.

“Yeah, no, you were right,” Jaskier blurted, his face burning in a furious red. “That’s not your colour. At all. Just-“ he gestured to all of Geralt, his eyes lingering on the buttons threatening to pop over Geralt’s chest and the way the fabric stretched over his arms, “that looks just utterly unacceptable. You need to get that off right now.”

Geralt barely had the chance to nod, before Jaskier was on him again, practically tearing the doublet off of him.

He turned back as soon as Geralt was free of the garment again. Geralt should have been relieved to be rid of the atrocious thing, but as he watched Jaskier stuff it into the bottom of his pack as if he wanted to never see it again - as if the sight of Geralt wearing it had been so terrible that he wanted to ban it from memory forever - he felt a strange pang in his chest.

--

After that, Geralt wasn’t sure how to proceed. Usually, he wouldn’t have waited a day to give Jaskier the next challenge, but ever since the incidence, as Geralt had come to think of it, Jaskier had been strangely tense.

Geralt wracked his brain, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Maybe the doublet had ripped after all without Geralt noticing. And who could blame him? It had been distracting having Jaskier so close, touching him.

Then again, nothing had happened. It didn’t even deserve to be called an incident. Still, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed that day, that they had come dangerously close to having something happen.

Whatever it had been, it couldn’t happen again.

And so Geralt refrained from challenging Jaskier.

At least he did, until Jaskier looked at him a couple of days later with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I am sorry,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt’s brows furrowed as he searched Jaskier’s face. “What are you sorry for?”

Jaskier shrugged and turned his face away. “You are cross with me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Geralt’s throat grew tight at the way Jaskier’s voice wavered. “You didn’t. And I’m not.”

“No?” Jaskier looked so hopeful, so relieved. “I just thought…you didn’t give me a new challenge and I was worried I had ruined it.”

Geralt’s chest clenched uncomfortably. “So eager to get your ass kicked?” He said as carefree as he could and nudged Jaskier in the ribs with his elbow. “I just needed time to come up with a good challenge.”

“Did you find one?”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked around camp as subtly as possible, frantically trying to find something he could make into a new challenge. As always, his eyes landed back on Jaskier. More specifically on his exposed forearms, where he had rolled up his sleeves.

“Arms,” he blurted out. When Jaskier gave him a confused look, he cleared his throat and gestured between himself and Jaskier. “We should do arm wrestling. As a test of strength.”

Jaskier get out an incredulous laugh. “You want me to test my strength against a witcher?”

Geralt shrugged, a pointless attempt to hide his sheepishness. “You are the one who said you could do anything better than me.”

Jaskier’s arms drifted down to Geralt’s arms, assessing. Eventually he nodded.

“Alright.” Jaskier’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

And oh, how he did. He stood no chance, of course, even as Geralt held back. Jaskier put all of his strength into it. He used both hands. He stood up and tried to use his body weight.

He let out a noise of frustration and his face scrunched up in an expression that could only be described as adorable.

Geralt didn’t even realise how lost he had gotten looking at Jaskier until he heard a low thud and Jaskier’s face twisted in disappointment.

Geralt forced himself to look away from Jaskier’s face and saw the obvious. He had Jaskier’s hand pinned down.

“I guess you won,” Jaskier said and made a face. “You have found something I can’t do.”

Geralt hesitated. This would have been the perfect moment to gloat, to declare this silly game over. What left his mouth instead was, “We’re even now. I couldn’t wear the clothes and you can’t beat me. I’d say that means we still don’t know which one of us is better.”

Though Geralt knew. When Jaskier’s eyes lit up at Geralt’s words, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jaskier was better – he might even be the best man Geralt knew.

--

After that, the fight was fully on again. Jaskier didn’t hold back. Not an hour later, when the moon had just begun to creep across the sky, Jaskier stood up and offered Geralt his hand.

“I bet you can’t dance.”

He was right, of course, but not once did he mention how Geralt kept stepping on his feet or how his posture was all wrong.

Geralt wouldn’t have cared if he had. He didn’t think his defeat would have even registered. He was too occupied fighting and failing to keep his heartbeat slow as Jaskier pulled him ever closer and let him through the motions of the dance while humming a soft melody.

In this moment, he couldn’t have cared less if he lost a bet or not.

And it appeared that Jaskier cared just as little about winning the bet, just this once.

Neither of them said a word about it and when they finally let go of each other, Jaskier just looked at him with that same unreadable expression he had shown more and more often lately.

“Your turn to make a move,” was the only thing he said, before disappearing inside the tent.

--

Geralt was hurt. It wasn’t a deep or particularly painful wound. Not that one would be able to tell from the way Jaskier fussed over him with worry etched into his face.

“I bet,” Geralt pressed through his teeth, “that you don’t know how to clean a wound.”

Jaskier stared at him in disbelieve. “You’re absolutely right I don’t.”

“Don’t you want to try?”

Jaskier’s brows drew together like storm clouds and his voice was thunder. “Really, Geralt? You’re bleeding. Do you really think this is the right time for this? If I mess this up-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted him and put his hand soothingly on Jaskier’s wrist. He could feel his pulse pump beneath his fingers and he rubbed a small circle into his soft skin. “You won’t hurt me. This is just a scratch. The drowner barely got me.”

“It wouldn’t have gotten you at all if I hadn’t been in the way,” Jaskier said bitterly.

Geralt’s chest clenched and he squeezes Jaskier’s arm gently, making him look at him. “That doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you didn’t get hurt. And that you know what to do if you ever do get hurt.”

There were implications in Geralt’s words that he didn’t want to think too hard about. He didn’t get the chance to anyway. Jaskier looked at him with wide eyes, before he nodded and set to work.

His hands were gentle and he hummed soothing melodies as he cleaned and stitched Geralt’s wound under his instructions. Geralt wouldn’t have been able to think of anything but Jaskier’s closeness if he had wanted to.

--

“Why on earth would I need to know how to do that?” Geralt said scowling, to the utter annoyance of Jaskier how groaned in exasperation.

“No, no no, don’t do that! That’s the exact opposite of what I told you to do. You should be smiling.”

“But why? Who cares if I smile?”

“I do. I-I mean, people at court do. You need to look pleasant and approachable if you want to charm anyone.”

“I don’t want to charm anyone.”

“Too late for that,” Jaskier muttered, quietly enough that Geralt was certain the words hadn’t been meant for him.

Still, Geralt scowled even harder, just to spite Jaskier and maybe, just maybe to make his own frown turn into a laugh.

“Geralt! Stop that this instant! Truly, sometimes I think you enjoy riling me up.” He threw his hands up in defeat. “This is it. You are a hopeless student. I’d have better luck teaching Roach how to behave at court. She definitely is more charming.”

Geralt couldn’t help it. His lips twitched up. “You’d have to bribe her.”

Jaskier snorted. “I’m already working on it. One day I’ll get her to eat that dreadful old cloak you insist on keeping.”

Jaskier looked dead serious and a by now familiar warmth spread through Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s unconvincing scowl.

A snort of laughter left his mouth and in the blink of an eye Jaskier’s face softened.

“There it is,” he said in a tone Geralt couldn’t place. If he dared to let himself imagine, he would have called it fond. “You may never again say that you aren’t charming.”

--

“What on earth does this prove?” Jaskier panted as he tried to dodge yet another swing of Geralt’s fist aimed at his face.

“It should prove that you’d be able to defend yourself against bandits or at least hold your own in a bar fight.”

“Why would I -“ Jaskier ducked under a ridiculously slow punch that would have been truly embarrassing to get hit by, “need to do that?” He jumped backwards. “I can always talk myself out of trouble or – careful Geralt! – or you’d be there to save me. I don’t know why –“ his rant ended in a sharp cry as he stumbled over his own feet.

He let out an exaggerated grown when he hit the ground. Geralt was on him within a second, pinning his hands to the ground.

Jaskier huffed, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s face. He went still.

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “At least try to get out of my hold,” Geralt growled. “You need to be able to protect yourself. What if I’m not around?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Jaskier’s voice was strangely breathless. “Why would I go anywhere without you?”

Geralt froze.

For the first time it hit him just how close they were, with Geralt’s body practically pressing Jaskier’s into the ground. At some point, Geralt’s hair band had loosened and some strands of his hair had come free, framing his face and tickling Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes followed the movement of Jaskier’s lips. The was so close. It would be so easy to just lean down and brush his lips against Jaskier’s. The feel of Jaskier’s body pressing up against him wasn’t enough anymore. Geralt’s heart was pounding in his chest and he wanted, he needed–

He had no time to think. No time to voice what he couldn’t even comprehend.

Because before he had the chance to do any of that, Jaskier leaned forward and breached the gap between them. He let out a soft noise that sounded almost like a sigh when they lips finally met.

Jaskier’s lips were soft and eager and they moved against Geralt’s as if he had been waiting to do this for a long time.

It took Geralt a moment to respond, but once the shock left him, he returned the kiss with just as much fervour. A low growl rose in his chest as he pressed impossibly closer against Jaskier.

His hands let go of Jaskier’s wrists, instead finding his hands and intertwining them.

Gently, Geralt bit into the softness of Jaskier’s lips, eliciting the sweetest sound from him. He felt Jaskier tug his hands free and Geralt let him, eager to feel Jaskier bury his fingers in his hair.

Instead, they pushed against him. Geralt let out a strangled groan when Jaskier broke the kiss and used Geralt’s surprise to throw his leg over Geralt and switch their positions.

Now he was leaning above Geralt, caging him in with his arms and giving him the biggest and smuggest look Geralt could imagine.

“Why…Jaskier, what…” He was unable to finish the sentence, wasn’t even sure what exactly it was that he wanted to ask. All he knew is that he needed to know. He needed this to not have been only a distraction.

“This, my dearest witcher,” Jaskier announced, leaning in close to Geralt; close enough that their breaths mingled and Jaskier’s fringe brushed Geralt’s skin. “Is a technique I am sure wasn’t taught in Kaer Morhen. The one type of battle you won’t be able to win against me.”

Geralt swallowed thickly. “What kind of battle?”

“Why, it’s called battling for dominance. With our tongues.”

“What?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Kissing, Geralt. I’m obviously talking about kissing.”

“For a bard you have a terrible way of describing that.”

Jaskier huffed and Geralt could almost feel his smile against his lips. “Are you saying you’d be a better poet than me? Want to prove it to me?”

Geralt shook his head, his throat tight. One of his hands wandered up to Jaskier’s face, caressing his cheek. “I am much more interested which one of our tongues has won the battle.”

“Mine, obviously.” Jaskier grinned. “I have you pinned down, don’t I?”

“Hmm.” A smile stretched across Geralt’s face and he tilted his head just enough that his lips brushed against Jaskier’s with his next words. “Any yet I feel like I have won.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. “I guess we’ll have to do it some more then. To determine which one is the winner.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, his voice but a breath. “We should.”

As Geralt captured Jaskier’s lips with his own once more, he knew with a fierce certainty that neither of them would be proven a loser in this.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Silent Treatment

I was really vibing with both of these prompts today so I combined them 🤷‍♀️? I hope y’all Nonies are okay with it? It’s not exact but I think it captures the vibe? I hope?

Warnings: we got mommy issues up in this bitch, on both sides, abandonment, controlling/narcissistic parents, definition of ‘hurt’ isnt explicitly mentioned but is used mainly in the emotional sense, first fight, established geraskier relationship, it ends soft i promise

_______________

Jaskier was surprised by this new side of Geralt every day. He was gentler, attentive, sweet, and even verbally appreciative of Jaskier and the little things he would do. A lot of things were making more sense to Jaskier now that he was seeing Geralt express himself. 

The grunts, for example, were less of a disinterested placation and more of a way to respond without showing his hand. And now that he had no cards to hide, Geralt's grunts and sideways looks were few and far between. They’d been replaced with soft smiles and little murmurs of ‘you’re cute’ and ‘your eyes are very pretty in the morning’. 

Jaskier was constantly on his toes, not in a bad way, just - adjusting. Geralt seemed to drop his walls rather quickly, though that might have been because Jaskier started their relationship off with a big ole’ “I love you and would rather die than take another lover if it upset you.” Surprisingly, Jaskier was having a hard time keeping up. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it, he just wasn’t prepared to be the one knocked on their ass from a nonchalant compliment. 

He started to loosen up a month or so in. Making jokes again, doting on Geralt in turn, and becoming just as comfortable with their newfound openness. 

Though it wasn’t long before he put his foot in his mouth. They were taking a bath together when he did, Geralt leaning back against his chest as they shared stories of sneaking out in their youth.

“...and then my mother, had the gal to tell me she just ‘wanted the best’ for me. As if putting a seven year old under house arrest for wanting sweets is in any way good for a child? Sometimes I envy you, dear. My mother was a terrible woman. I think I’d have been better off without her. I know my father would have.” 

Geralt had stopped scrubbing at the gunk on his arm and frowned at the wall. 

Jaskier felt his stomach drop as soon as Geralt’s muscles tensed. 

“No you don’t,” he murmured.

“I-” He almost started defending his position, which he had grounds to. His mother was a tyrant and a narcissist who bent everyone to her will and slandered those who wouldn’t bow until they fled. But he knew what he’d said. Geralt had never outright said he missed the good parts of his mother, but Jaskier heard it in all the little bits of stories he had dropped over the years. How he’d wonder what his mother would have thought of what he’d become, who he loved, the causes he’d fought for. Jaskier was all too aware he’d fucked up as he lightly rested his hands over Geralt’s hips, “Darling I didn’t mean it…”

Geralt rocked forward and stood abruptly, water making a sickening slapping sound when it hit the floor as he quickly stepped out, “You had someone to protect you. Even if she was wrong, she still fed you and kept you safe.”

“Protect me?” Jaskier knew he should shut up, a voice in his head was begging him to, but alas, he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to, “She did what she had to to keep up appearances. Don’t think for a second she protected me.”

Geralt glared at him as he toweled off, “She kept you.”

“Until I no longer worshiped her! I was out on my ass at sixteen for questioning her at the family dinner table!”

Geralt pursed his lips and set his face in a stony mask of indifference, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jaskier felt a chill, even in the hot bath, at the look on Geralt’s face.

He simply shrugged and dressed for bed, leaving Jaskier to marinade in his stupidity. 

Of course Geralt would see having any type of mother as idyllic compared to his childhood. But there was still a righteous anger burning in Jaskier’s gut as he crossed his arms and sunk into the water up to his nose. Just because it hadn’t been as bad as Geralt’s childhood didn’t mean the things Jaskier had to grapple with were fading any faster. The fact didn’t suddenly absolve Jaskier of the baggage he carried, nor mend his broken relationship. And logically, it wasn’t meant to, but Jaskier was having a hard time seeing anything but red. 

When he got out and went to bed, Geralt was already asleep, or pretending to sleep. Either way Jaskier was too angry to call his bluff and settled down to sleep without nuzzling into his chest. 

In the morning, Geralt was already up and packing, only humming in response when Jaskier said good morning. Jaskier tried to make light conversation, to loosen Geralt up even a little, but it was met with grunts and silence. 

If he’d thought the newfound praise and range of facial expressions were a surprise, this was whiplash. It was like being thrown back a decade, when he’d first decided to stick to Geralt like tar, before he would even call Jaskier by name. He did his best to give Geralt space, but he missed their banter and how Geralt had started holding Jaskier’s hand as they walked. Part of him wanted to lay into him, tear him a new one for telling him how to feel about his mother, but another part of him wanted to wrap around him and apologize profusely, both in words and gentle kisses. Even more than either of those, though, was the sinkhole of guilt in his chest over flippantly hitting Geralt right where it hurt most. 

Finally, Jaskier couldn’t take it anymore. 

They were sitting across the fire from each other, Geralt pointedly not looking at him as the sun sank below the trees. 

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier took a slow breath before he continued, having told himself all day to keep his head on straight when he said his piece, “It’s not okay.”

Geralt just frowned at him. 

“It’s not okay for me to treat something that hurt you so lightly,” he clarified, catching the slight upward twitch of his lover’s brow, “I don’t need to be thankful for someone who hurt me, either. But, I reacted poorly. I’m sorry for snapping. And upsetting you.”

Geralt set another branch into the fire, his eyes narrowed as he thought, “I didn’t… hm…” he frowned and chewed at his chapped lips as he pieced his words together, “I didn’t think she hurt you. I thought you were… griping about a strict rule.”

Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief at getting full sentence responses, “To be fair, I was. And putting my foot in my mouth.” 

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitched up as he shook his head, “I’m sorry I shut down.”

“All’s forgiven,” Jaskier smiled, “I’m sorry I-”

“I know. Come here.” Geralt interrupted, holding a hand out to Jaskier as if to hold it over the fire. Jaskier took up residence across his lap instead, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s neck and laying his cheek on his shoulder, pressing his other palm to Geralt’s chest. Geralt held him securely in place and pressed a kiss to his forehead as he gently swayed, setting a soothing rhythm. 

“I missed you today,” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to break the spell of calm over their little campsite. 

“Don’t worry, I still thought you were cute.” Geralt chuckled, the low rumble under Jaskier’s palm soothing what was left of his worry. 

“Oh good!” Jaskier chirped, loading his words with an extra helping of sarcasm, “Now I’ve had a taste of your honey-sweet words, I might never be able to live without them!”

Geralt cracked a grin as he ran a hand through Jaskier’s silky, fine hair, “We can’t have that.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier giggled, more from the giddy feeling of a lifted weight from his chest than their banter as he lifted his head to look down at Geralt.

The witcher pulled him in for a soft kiss, after all, Geralt was still Geralt. Actions would always come easier than words for him. 

“I love you.” he sighed as their lips parted, only pulling away far enough to get a breath.

“I love you, too.” Jaskier grinned into the next kiss, holding Geralt close for the rest of the night. 

[jaskierswolf]

Alpaca Love

Chapter Two/?? Rating: E (In later chapters) Pairing: Geraskier, background Yentriss Summary: After one viral video and a bit of a mental breakdown, Jaskier finds himself living at a farmhouse in the countryside on a forced getaway from social media for two long months. He never expects to find love there, but these things have a habit of surprising even the best of us. - or a fanfic loosely based off the Dear Hearts Drive video starring one Joey Batey. CWs: panic attacks, anxiety, smut, alcohol, (more may be added and check AO3 for details)

Also on AO3 - Previous

_

Jaskier’s alarm woke him up, blaring loudly in his bedroom. He groaned, blinking and rubbing his eyes as he struggled to sit up. It took him a few minutes to work out that he wasn’t in his flat or some clinically clean hotel room, but in an old farmhouse in the countryside. He peered at his phone and whined.

“Bollocks,” he grumbled. It was barely half five in the morning. Who the fuck woke up at this time?

Triss Merigold apparently. She cackled at him when she’d told him what time she’d be getting up to feed the alpacas and start her chores around the farm. Apparently his face had been comical in his horror. He was used to getting up around ten at the earliest, preferably noon. Luckily she’d allowed him an extra half an hour in bed but it didn’t feel like much now. He hadn’t gotten to sleep until well past midnight…

“Fuck it,” he groaned and pulled the covers over his head, but his peace didn’t last long.

“Jaskier if you go back to sleep I’m calling Yennefer,” Triss yelled up the stairs. “And you’ll miss breakfast.”

“And you’ll miss breakfast,” Jaskier muttered back mockingly under his breath.

He wasn’t a very nice person before ten in the morning.

“Fuck, fine. I’m coming, you tyrant!” He called back. The smell of coffee lured him from his bed just as much as the threat of his manager.

Pulling on his glasses, he got dressed in a pair of old faded jeans and threw on a flannel shirt over his t-shirt. At this time of year, he would probably need a coat too, especially this early in the day, but coffee first, coat later. He sulked all the way downstairs and into the kitchen where Triss had a bowl of porridge and a mug of steaming coffee in front of her. He grumbled a quiet ‘good morning’ and slunk over to the coffee machine. Mug, he needed a mug, so he searched the cupboards for the one he’d used last night and set about making his own drink.

“There’s cereal or porridge in the cupboard under the kettle,” Triss hummed.

She was dressed in dark black trousers, a forest green jumper and an old brown body warmer, clearly much better suited to the countryside lifestyle than Jaskier. She raised an eyebrow at him as he settled for just a cup of coffee. Breakfast was always something he had struggled with in the mornings. It took a while for his stomach to settle enough to be able to keep anything down.

“You need to eat something, Jaskier.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Later.”

“There won’t be time later. At least grab a roll to take with you. I have some left over from yesterday.”

He sighed but slunk over to the bread bin. There were a couple of handmade rolls wrapped up in beeswax. Jaskier rolled his eyes. The whole cottagecore vibe that Triss had going on made him feel like he’d stepped onto the set of a tv show, the kind where they pretended to go back in time. Everything was freshly made from scratch by the looks of it. He was pretty certain even Triss’s porridge was made from ingredients in the surrounding farms. There was no doubt in his mind that Triss’s fluffy jumper was made from yarn she’d spun herself. That would make sense right? She’d mentioned making yarn from alpaca wool.

All he wanted was to cuddle them.

After stuffing a couple of rolls down his pants, he shrugged as Triss looked at him in disgust. “Pockets aren’t big enough,” he explained.

“You’re gross.”

He winked. “Why yes, yes I am. Now, where are the little darlings?”

_

The alpacas were just as adorable as he’d imagined. He’d only seen them in photographs before. Their fur was just the softest and they were ever so gentle when they took the food from his hand… eventually. Triss had to show him how to hold his hand so they wouldn’t bite his fingers off. The little Shetland pony was less gentle. It kept nudging him whilst he was trying to feed treats to the alpacas, sniffing at the bread-filled bulge in his trousers. He was feisty and tiny, much like the tiny chihuahuas that he’d seen around London.

And Jaskier was rather smitten.

The cutest animal and Jaskier’s favourite was the light brown alpaca. She looked like a fluffy teddy bear. When Triss had admitted the animals weren’t named, Jaskier had affectionately named her Priscilla. He’d been horrified to learn that they were nameless. In his mind, the only reason not to name an animal was if you were planning on killing it.

He scratched Priscilla behind her ear as Triss filled up the trough with the rest of their food.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” he cooed before being butted by the little Shetland pony, that he’d less affectionately named Valdo as he ran towards the hay trough. “Oi!”

Triss laughed, a loose curl falling from her bun, which was absentmindedly tucked behind her ear. Jaskier smiled at her as she let out a snort in her laughter, deciding that he rather liked Triss, and if she wasn’t dating Yennefer… he might have asked her out. Sadly, there was no chance in hell that he was going to get on his manager’s bad side… again.

“So…” he started to say slowly “You and Yennefer?”

Triss blushed, a coy smile on her lips. “Me and Yennefer.”

Putting his hands on his hips, Jaskier tilted his head as he fixed her with a pointed look. “How did that happen? She’s… well… you know her!” He said with a wild wave of his hand. “And you’re so nice!”

Triss thankfully laughed. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Oh no… no no no,” he stammered, stumbling back and promptly tripping over the bucket of treats behind him. “Cock!”

Before he could find his bearings, Valdo, Priscilla, the white alpaca he’d dubbed Essi, and an older black alpaca with white stripes that was now called Douglas, all charged at him. The treats were clearly far more enticing than the trough. He scrambled to scoop up as many treats as he could from the floor, gathering up large chunks of grass along with the pellets. His jeans were covered in grass stains and mud, much to his despair but he supposed that was probably to be expected. Triss was no help, she just stood by the trough cackling at his misfortune, and after he’d drafted out the beginnings of a song for her and Yennefer; so rude. He managed to get most of the treats in the bucket but Valdo was persistent, not letting him stand up as he forced his head into the bucket before Jaskier could get it out of reach.

“Triss!” Jaskier whined “Help… please?”

Triss laughed but finally deigned to help him, pulling the shitty little horse away from him and steering the rest of the mismatched herd back to their food. Jaskier pouted at her as he got to his feet.

“I miss London,” he grumbled. “My fans are less vicious than this lot!”

Triss tilted her head, considering this, and then nodded. “You haven’t even met the goose yet.”

“The goose?”

“She’s better than a guard dog.”

Jaskier whined again; he really really missed London.

_

They were trudging back up the track towards the house when Jaskier heard the telltale clatter of hooves on the ground. He glanced up, half expecting another attack by Valdo, but this horse was a very different breed. She was a gorgeous light brown and her rider….

“Fuck me,” Jaskier sighed.

The man astride the horse was wearing a black loosely fitting shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a gorgeous moonlit silver, flying out behind him as he rode. Jaskier whimpered pathetically as he watched the man canter towards them. He was completely entranced. As the horse approached Jaskier could see the muscles in the man’s forearms, flexing as he gripped the reins. There was a slight stubble on his cheeks that made Jaskier weak.

“Geralt,” Triss waved the rider, Geralt, down.

“Woah, Roach,” Geralt pulled on the reins and the horse slowed to a walk.

“Good morning Geralt,” Triss said brightly “No helmet again?”

Geralt rolled his ever so gorgeous golden eyes and hummed nonchalantly, swinging off the horse and landing gracefully on the ground with a thump that echoed in Jaskier’s heart. “I don’t need a lecture, Triss,” Geralt muttered and then scowled as he turned to Jaskier, eyes taking in the grass stained trousers and all-round mess of his appearance. Jaskier felt about two feet tall under Geralt’s gaze, gorgeous though he was. “Who’s this?”

Triss swung her arm around Jaskier as he gave an awkward salute. “This is Jaskier, Yen’s protege.”

“Hello,” he said, trying and failing to sound less flustered than he felt.

“Hmm, Ciri’s Jaskier?” Geralt asked with a cock of his head, which made him look little bit like a lost puppy and Jaskier felt his whole being melt at the sight, oh god this man was hot and adorable. He was a goner, a dead man. He’d have to write his will when he got back to the room.

“That’s the one!” Triss answered with a laugh. “Ciri is Geralt’s daughter,” she explained when she saw Jaskier’s face, misreading his internal meltdown for confusion.

He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “So you’ve heard of me?” he asked with a cocky smile.

“I never said that,” Geralt grumbled, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes, either very shy or grumpy… perhaps both. Jaskier hadn’t quite gotten a read on him yet.

“Come on,” Jaskier drawled with a flick of his wrist. “What do you think of my music, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting…” Jaskier flinched as he gestured to his crotch.

Why the fuck had he done that? It was honestly the worst pick up line he had ever used, on what might be the love of his life. Oh fucking hell. Why was he such a mess?

“You must have some review for me, three words or less?” He carried on, hoping to change the subject as quickly as possible and he really didn’t want Geralt to be thinking about the bread in his pants… would he think he was some bad euphemism? Jaskier blushed and pulled one of the bread rolls from his trousers, now severely squished but still edible. He nibbled at the edge of it, and his stomach gurgled. Triss was right, farm work really did work up an appetite, now he’d woken up a bit he was fucking starving!

“Ciri likes you,” was Geralt’s only reply.

Still it was better than nothing, and after the breakdown he’d had, any positive feedback made him feel all warm and fuzzy, and reminded him that what he was doing was good, that he was having a positive impact on at least one person’s life. He gave Geralt his most charming grin and tossed the fringe from his eyes, a move he had perfected over the years and one that drove his fans crazy. “And what about her father?”

Geralt just hummed and rolled his eyes, then turned to Triss. “Be over later with Ciri.”

And then he jumped back up onto his horse and kicked her into a trot. Jaskier pouted as he watched Geralt ride away. God, he was absolutely perfect. Well, he could be slightly less grumbly and maybe a little more eloquent but it wasn’t enough to put Jaskier off, if anything it intrigued him more. Geralt was like a brand new book and Jaskier couldn’t wait to discover what lay between the very very pretty cover.

Triss snorted. “You do realise Geralt is Yen’s ex?”

The words were like ice on his skin and Jaskier felt his heart sink as he turned to his new friend with a pitiful whine falling from his lips. “Oh no. No, no, no. Please, Triss, tell me it’s not true? How am I ever supposed to compete with Yennefer? Fuck! Oh god am I even allowed to compete with Yennefer? Is there something in my contract that stops me from dating her ex? Does he even like men? Triss? Triss!”

But she had walked off without him realising, too caught up in his despair until he’d spun round to gauge her reaction to Geralt’s potential straightness. The witch was laughing at him as she headed back to the house.

“Oi! Triss, don’t leave me. This is very important. My entire life depends upon it!” he whined as he tripped trying to run after her.

Laughing at his antics, she sighed, “Stop being so dramatic, Jaskier.”

Obviously, the only mature reaction was to stick his tongue out her, and so he did. “How very dare you? Dramatic? Me? Hah! I am an artist, darling.”

“A pain in my arse is what you are,” Triss muttered with a shake of her head.

“You take that back!” With an indignant squawk, he threw one of the bread rolls in her direction, not really aiming to hit her, and he bounced on the dirt track in front of her.

Triss stopped and picked it up, twirling around with enviable grace, an all too familiar smirk on her lips. In an instant, he knew that he’d made a mistake, barely having time to duck before the roll came flying back towards his head. He laughed and ran back towards the house with Triss sprinting after him.

_

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