#geraskier ficlet
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Geralt limps.
Of all the changes between this journey and all their others, this is the thing that stands out to Jaskier. Not the new Roach, not Milva striding beside them, not the fact that instead of wandering wherever the next contract calls them they have an urgent mission, not the fact that everything is different about their relationships to Yennefer. No, it is only this fact.
Geralt limps.
When they first started traveling together, Jaskier was the one who was prone to limping: his boots were truly not made for traversing long distances. Blistered abounded, accompanied by the occasional misstep leading to a tender ankle. But Geralt, would tred on, surefooted as anything.
This time, Geralt limps.
Geralt has been one of the constants in Jaskier's life, one of the unchangeable facets. Find Geralt, follow him, sing about him, never doubt him for a second. Jaskier used to be able to keep time by Geralt's sure and consistent footfalls.
But now, Geralt limps.
As a witcher, Geralt's healing is both accelerated and magnified, bolstered by his potions, which would kill a normal man. Jaskier once saw Geralt stuff his own entrails back into his body and sew the wound shut. His ability to heal from almost anything was as unquestionable in Jaskier's mind as the sun rising.
And yet, Geralt limps.
Jaskier was a young man when he first met Geralt, and in the ensuing decades has not been untouched by time. He wakes with aches now, stiffness that would have been unthinkable in those early days. The road of aging stretched before him, the inescapable path of slowing, weakening, and eventually having to stay behind, while Geralt, seemingly unaging, walked on.
But instead, Jaskier walks easily and Geralt limps.
Geralt has always had one unswerving objective: walk the Path. Kill monsters, collect coin. Nothing could move him from the Path, not adoring bards, not alluring sorceresses. And then a young princess compelled him to walk a different path. She became the sole objective. It is to her that Geralt is going, and nothing will keep him from her, not time, not injury, not as long as he has breath. And where Geralt goes, Jaskier is determined to be by his side.
So Geralt limps on and Jaskier keeps pace behind him.
#the witcher#twn s3#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geraskier#geraskier ficlet#i haven't been writing much but I'm still not over these two
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LAVENDER MILK AND BLACKBERRY WINE
.
The first time they share a room together at an inn, Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely at ease with—well. With everything.
The bard is so comfortable in these surroundings, obviously much more at home with soft bed linens and oil lamps than a patch of damp grass and only the light of a yellow-y moon. Jask is seemingly still so at ease with Geralt, too, even in such close quarters. He's apparently also completely unbothered by his own stark nakedness as he now shamelessly strips down entirely, readying himself for a warm and replenishing lavender milk bath and a cup or ten of blackberry wine.
The witcher watches the bard, whilst trying not to.
Geralt's cat-eyes very much struggle to stop following pale and slender limbs as they swirl around like dragonflies in the fragrant steam that now sits heavy and hot in the midst of their small room. Jaskier prances and preens and eventually melts like jam in porridge into the bath's soothing waters. The eternal bard then, of course, proceeds to prattle on and away about something and nothing and everything, occasionally breaking out into broken verses of half‐baked songs.
Geralt—sat sharpening his blades, sometimes grunting in occasional outward acknowledgement, sometimes not—keeps trying his damned best not to look.
He fails.
Jaskier sips long and often from his cup, the wine leaving his full mouth lacquered. Plum‐stained. Inviting.
Geralt watches still, swallowing whole cupfuls at a time of the sweetened fruit wine, thickly and far too fast.
The bard is then nonchalantly asking Geralt if Geralt, “Would you like to maybe join me in the tub?”
Geralt pulls a face with an air of faux-disdain, huffing and puffing his cowedly dismissal.
Very obviously trying not to smile, Jaskier purses those berry‐smacked lips of his and merely blinks at Geralt for a few moments, just. Looking. Or looking back, seeing as Geralt—even red-faced and fuming as he is—simply cannot look away.
Then Jask concedes a small, secretive smile, like he knows something Geralt wants to, before he shrugs it off and says, not unkindly, "Suit yourself."
Geralt immediately hurls himself out of the room with the force of an enraged Archgriffin, the plucked excuse of purchasing more wine a most welcome gods-send.
"Hurry back, dear witcher!" Jaskier's giggling torment floats after him.
On his way down the staircase to the main part of the inn, Geralt bites into his bottom lip so fucking hard he's tasting iron for the rest of the hellish evening.
#s l o w l y moving stuff over from my old blog#here's another ficlet#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#witcher fic#geraskier fic#geraskier ficlet#white wolves and blushing bards#the witcher#aonb writes#all-or-nothing-baby
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Jaskier makes it fifteen minutes down the mountain when he realizes he has something to say. This wouldn't end on Geralt's terms.
read an excerpt below
The gravel crunched as Jaskier began his descent down the mountain. The sound was nowhere near loud enough to drown out every cursed word Geralt had screamed, and Jaskier could feel them rolling in his head on repeat.
Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it!
Jaskier felt a pull in his muscles, lactic acid gathered from days' trek across rough terrain. He looked around quickly, and seeing no one, promptly fell to the ground. He propped his lute in his lap.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
His hands shook as he reached into his pack for his water skin.
"Stupid fucking witchers," he mumbled then he took a swig. "Cowardly, emotionally useless fucking witchers.”
Jaskier shoved his water skin in his bag, and stood abruptly. He was in a small wooded area intersecting the path, surrounded by almost barren bushes and colorless trees. Whatever pale sunlight that made it past the clouds had to jump the next hurdle of filtering through the foliage, a weak imitation of a chiaroscuro patterned across the ground. The whole dim scene added a dramatic element that, for once, Jaskier did not want.
“How many times has he done this?” he said incredulously, hands running through his hair. “How many times has that perfidious bastard sent me away? And yet I came back! Every godsdamned time!”
A thought crossed through his mind. He’s come back too, I can’t forget that.
And it was true, Geralt had returned more than once. Not nearly as much as Jaskier, but it can be said that soft apologies were whispered as he wrapped his arms around Jaskier in his bedroll. There were forehead kisses in the shape of I’m sorry , and small gifts left quietly in his pack, like a crow. Their first kiss had even been after an awkward apology dinner Geralt had made in their camp, until an impromptu rain shower interrupted it.
“But it’s not enough,” he spoke quietly, remembering each harsh departure, each time Geralt had left in the middle of the night to not return for weeks, every angry word said between the two. Small gestures do not salve the end of a two-decade relationship, lovers or not.
He looked down. His hands still shook, and he could feel the heat in his face, but he knew why now. This was anger .
Jaskier walked slowly back to his pack and pulled out a sheet of paper, his quill, and a small pot of ink. Broken prose and lyrics dotted one side of the paper, but the back was blank.
Jaskier smiled slightly as he set the quill to paper. Geralt wouldn’t get to dictate their end.
#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt of rivia#dandelion#jaskier#the witcher#geraskier fic#geraskier ficlet#short fic#ny writing
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Jaskier has found a very effective method of diffusing tense situations involving Geralt and the various dimwitted and judgemental humans they're forced to interact with.
Unfortunately, enacting this method has about a fifteen percent chance of earning him a knee to the sternum afterwards.
Though it is usually worth the risk, since this method works one hundred percent of the time.
The method is thus:
Sit on him.
It works like a charm.
Allow me to elaborate.
It's very difficult to be scared of someone, no matter how intimidating their features or bone-chilling their stare, when they just sit still and do not question a fully grown man flopping down onto their lap. It does wonders for a tense prejudiced atmosphere inside a tavern. Given, the mood only changes from tense to confused. But confused isn't planning to stone them both out of town so he'd consider it a win.
Getting to sit on Geralt's leather clad and very impressive thighs is also a win in of itself, obviously. The knee to the gut only comes if he pushes his luck or gets too handsy.
Different variants of this method also work. Such as wrapping himself around Geralt's abdomen like a stray piece of seaweed so the merchant will stop looking like he's about to piss himself and actually catch his breath long enough to sell them something.
Murmurs of Witchers being infested with infectious diseases can be silenced by Jaskier grasping Geralt's chin while talking to him in a show of feigned annoyance. Perhaps a gentle touch to the cheek if he's feeling tender, or a light tap on the nose to be playful.
Depending on how Geralt is feeling, he will either ignore Jaskier, or play along. It doesn't matter which one he chooses, as the method still works either way.
It's the people equivalent of putting a collar on a wolfhound and having its lead be held in the mouth of a perfectly groomed poodle wearing boots and a waistcoat. No less dangerous. But a hell of a lot less intimidating.
And if Jaskier is secretly using this method as an excuse to get Geralt more comfortable with physical contact for totally innocent reasons, then that's nobody's business but his own.
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Geralt pointed at Dandelion and back to himself. “This snuck up on me you know.”
Dandelion tossed back a gulp of wine and set the glass down so he could stretch and look out over the countryside. “Did it now? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“It’s true! Sometimes I’ll still look over at you buck naked or something and think, holy fuck. Me and Dandelion huh?” He chuckled and caressed Dandelion’s hand on the bench between them.
Dandelion snorted derisively. “Twenty years is a slow sneak, my love.”
“Oh, like you knew,” Geralt said.
Dandelion sniffed. “I did. I was just waiting for you to remove your head from your asshole.”
“Please,” Geralt gestured dismissively. “It’s like you always say. Love is an incomprehensible fucker.”
“I most certainly do not say that. If I did, I wouldn’t be very good at my job would I? Love is like a pear.”
“Yeah yeah. Come closer then and let me take a bite.” He grinned with a soft predatory glint.
Dandelion scooted over. “Well alright you sweet talker.” He planted a kiss on Geralt’s forehead.
“Not there,” groused Geralt, hand comfortably stroking Dandelion’s back.
“Oh,” said Dandelion. “Fine.” And he kissed Geralt on the nose.
Geralt made a noise of complaint.
“Alright,” said Dandelion. “You win.” He rewarded Geralt with a tender, scorching kiss on the lips.
Geralt withdrew from the kiss with a lopsided smile. “That’s it.”
Dandelion laughed. “Happy anniversary my love.”
“Happy anniversary sweetness.”
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Jaskier graduated summa cumme laude from the most prestigious university on the continent. He acts like a superficial and disinterested bard all the time, but from time to time he acts like what he is, a master of the 7 liberal arts: Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Geometry, Arithmetic, Music and Astronomy.
Geralt doesn't notice this until Radovid shows up.
Every now and then Jaskier would blurt out a nonsensical comment that usually isn't meant for anyone, other than Geralt with his great ear, to hear.
The prince, hears everything that comes out of the bard's mouth and it is surprising when he laughs at whatever Jaskier said to the bard's amazement. Most amazingly, Radovid responds with another nonsensical comment that makes Jaskier laugh.
Geralt looks at them with a frown. Jaskier stops his laughter and eagerly asks the prince if he has read the philosopher he was apparently quoting. Radovid launches into a story of how his private tutor forced him to read the philosopher and he subsequently became enchanted with the man's writings and read his work for his own pleasure.
The more they travel, the more that happens. It turns out that the apparent nonsense Jaskier occasionally spouted is actually quotes, references and facts from philosophers, poets, astronomers, mathematicians, etc., that he was taught in college or read himself. Radovid responds to each of them with charm and delight, because apparently, Radovid has read them all as part of his royal education.
Geralt is not jealous. He isn't. No matter what Ciri and Yennefer say. He just doesn't like being out of the joke, doesn't like both of them acting like others aren't there and having to listen to their academic conversations when no one but them seems to care.
He just doesn't like that Jaskier smiles like never every time Radovid quotes an old poet of yesteryear that no one but them has read, as if it's an inside joke, because there should be no secrets in their group. He also doesn't like it when Jaskier laughs so loud because that can attract monsters. He hates that Jaskier sits next to Radovid every night talking about boring books because they are mere humans and if something attacks them, then both will be in danger and Geralt will only be able to save one (cof cof Jaskier), it's simple strategy. And absolutely not jealous because the bard now asks the prince for his advice when he writes songs, it's just that was something that used to de-stress Geralt and now he can't sleep well anymore. It's simple comfort.
But it all finally goes to shit when Jaskier turns down Geralt's invitation to spend the winter in Kaer Morhen because stupid Radovid invited him to his castle on the coast where he apparently has the best collection of maritime astronomy on the continent.
Geralt spends all that winter stuck in the library of Kaer Morhen reading anything that might interest Jaskier other than bestiaries. He tries very hard not to think about his bard and the prince huddled in front of the fire looking up at the stars until late at night drinking wine, getting closer and closer and closer until…
No. He won't allow it. When he sees Jaskier in the spring, he'll be sure to casually mention everything he read in winter, he'll make a fool of the prince when Geralt shows his bard the ancient books he brought him from the Wolf school library (not that Vesemir needs to know what came out of his precious library).
He'll graduate summa cumme laude from freaking Oxenfurt if it means getting his bard's attention again.
#i love them sooo much#Jasker is a genius#i really believe Radovid is also a nerd#Geralt is jealous#Vesemir does not need to know that Geralt stole important books from the library for his bard.#the witcher#the witcher netflix#jaskier#radovid#geralt of rivia#radskier#geraskier#ficlet#bunny plot#ao3 fanfic
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When Jaskier was just a week old, he encountered Death. From his crib, Death gazed upon him and softly uttered, "Not yet, little one."
At the age of seven, when the family dog fell ill, Death visited Jaskier once more. His parents couldn't provide solace for the pet's passing, but Death did.
In a bar, where Jaskier crossed paths with Geralt, Death observed from afar, wondering what would transpire next.
True to his name, Jaskier brimmed with vitality, like a beautiful yet toxic buttercup. This was why Death found itself fond of Jaskier, preventing his premature fading away.
A sword to the stomach, a sacrifice to protect Ciri, should have been Jaskier's end. When Death finally came to claim him, Jaskier had led a fulfilling life filled with joy and music, albeit tinged with loneliness.
Just as Death had done when Jaskier was a babe, it gently whispered, "Come now, little one, it's time to go." Death hoped to bring peace to the Dandelion they had grown to love.
But the growl of the white wolf, Geralt, begged Jaskier to stay, as Geralt asked Jaskier to remain.
Death and life had cherished each other but could never be together. Yet, life sent Death gifts, and Death treasured them all. Now, it was Death's turn to offer a gift to life. So, Death entrusted Jaskier to the safety of his vibrant existence.
From a distance, Death watched as Jaskier recovered, surrounded by his family: Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer—all very much alive.
#the witcher netflix#geralt of rivia#joey batey#the witcher#jaskier the witcher#henry cavill#the witcher jaskier#geralt x jaskier#geraskier#fic ideas#short ficlet#jaskier#gerskier#cirilla fiona elen riannon#freya allan#headcanon#yennefer of vengerberg#anya cholatra#the witcher season 3#anya chalotra#the witcher season three#witcher yennefer
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Geralt stared at the nervously chattering guy, unblinking.
He was an idiot.
A brightly dressed idiot who had driven to the wild life rescue centre in the middle of the night, close to tears because he had found an injured animal on his way to a party.
"Can you save him?"
"Her," Geralt said automatically and took the small fluttering thing from the man. Oh, hadn't he mentioned? The guy was an idiot, who had stopped his car to help an endangered and dangerous species.
The guy was an idiot.
Geralt already felt his heart fluttering like the griffin's wings.
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The trials were a bitter, devastating thing for Geralt that he wishes to forget. He could always feel the burn under his skin of the toxins, the snapping and breaking of his bones as he thrashed in the restraints... on the best days he can ignore it, on the worst days... well...
It goes beyond words and it's not like he can say many of them to begin with.
He missed talking, he missed discussing things to his brothers beyond grunts and garbled words. He cannot remember a time where speaking more than ten words weren't agony.
The second round of trials broke something within his throat, scraping it raw and giving him a permanent snarl to how he spoke, just another thing to make the humans terrified of him.
"A bad day?" Jaskier asked soft as Geralt rubbed at his throat.
A soft rumble escaped his lips as he nodded, turning his face away to hide the smile. In the beginning Jaskier did all he could to get him to speak beyond the grunting and monosyllabic replies till he broke down and snarled out the words till his throat bled.
Since then Jaskier became determined to understand Geralt and had succeeded where others have not. The Bard could read his grunts, his looks and hums like they were full sentences. It gave a shock of warmth every time Jaskier did things like this.
It just made Geralt love him more.
"Jask?" He choked out, desperately, swallowing the agony that ripped through his throat. "I love you, Lark."
Storm blue eyes melted into the colour of the clear lakes of the mountains near Kaer Morhen. "I love you too Geralt, now rest your throat, don't hurt on my account."
#geraskier#geralt of rivera#jaskier dandelion#jaskier/geralt#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher#ficlet
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Wrote a ficlet by accident, might expand on it later
With Geralt being a wolf witcher and wolves being so closely related to dogs, Jaskier thinks he can be forgiven for assuming he would show affection in the same way as a dog. It makes sense, after all, especially with how he walks around taking insults like he deserves them. Jaskier has never seen a *cat* look apologetic, especially for something that isn't even true! And yet. And yet.
Geralt clearly adores Roach, but not in the way a dog adores something. Dogs need to spend every moment expressing their love. A dog would love a horse in leaps and bounds, in playing chase, in teasing and laughing and playing. Geralt loves her quietly, with soft words and sweet treats and a refusal to let anyone else ride her. At first, Jaskier wonders if this is simply out of respect for the fact that horses are endlessly anxious beings, but no; Roach is less afraid of noises from the trees than Jaskier.
Even with all these clues, it doesn't become clear to Jaskier until almost four months into travelling together that his witcher is more a cat than a dog. The realization happens one almost cold night at the end of summer when Geralt shifts, bit by bit closer and closer, until Jaskier can feel his body heat. He's sure Geralt notices his heartbeat jump in surprise by how he tenses, ready to bolt away again at a hint of discomfort. Jaskier relaxes, very purposely, and nudges Geralt's knee with his own. Geralt looks like he could purr with contentment.
(Also, a week later, Jaskier catches his witcher chittering at a bird.)
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u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u
77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo
(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)
tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)
♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥
“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar.
Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.
Bard.
He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.
“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”
Geralt rose.
The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.
“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”
The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”
Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.
Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?
Why would there be a celebration in his honor?
His mind landed on the only possible answer.
Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.
The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.
“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.
Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.
“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.
He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”
“When?”
The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”
Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.
Geralt bowed his head a little.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”
She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”
“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”
And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.
What a lovely gift, for a lover.
What a dismal apology.
He continued on his way.
Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”
Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.
He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.
“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”
“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path.
“No monster-slaying?”
“No.”
“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”
Geralt winced.
“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”
For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…
But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard.
“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”
The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”
Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill.
The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –
Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.
Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.
Jaskier…
Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.
Headstones.
Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.
He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.
Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.
Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father
Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me
Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon
Jaskier
Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.
JASKIER.
Bold letters.
Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.
Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–
He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.
Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.
His chest shook.
It felt like–
It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.
The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–
It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.
“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”
His speech.
He’d had a speech.
“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–
“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.
He owed him that.
He owed Jaskier dignity.
“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”
He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.
“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone.
JASKIER.
He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”
He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”
Geralt swallowed.
“You deserve… me. If you want me.”
“Geralt?”
His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.
Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.
“Melitele, I–”
Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–
There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–
Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.
There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again.
“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”
Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…
He was alive.
The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.
One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.
“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”
Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”
“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”
Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.
Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”
Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”
“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”
Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.
-♥icarusty
#geraskier#implied/referenced character death#implied/referenced major character death#tw implied death#tw death faking#tw faked death#geraskier angst#angst#angsty#ficlet#prompt fill#prompts#geraskier fanfiction#fanfiction#geraskier fanfic#geralt of rivia#jaskier of rivia#short fic#2000 words#hoid reference#guys look i've read other books
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https://bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher.tumblr.com/post/633985280198754304/winters-at-kaer-morhen-are-long-and-empty
I don't remember if it's cross posted, and if I remember correctly, Jaskier does end up going to kaer morhen.
https://bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher.tumblr.com/post/633985280198754304/winters-at-kaer-morhen-are-long-and-empty
I don't remember if it's cross posted, and if I remember correctly, Jaskier does end up going to kaer morhen.
I think I found it! I'll reblog it too, in case the link doesn't work, but is this it?
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THE PEACOCK
.
Incessant babbling, day and night. Constant fucking humming and grating outbursts of half-baked songs with bastardized lyrics. The bard is—superfluous would be an understatement. More like pretentiously poncey and purposely pig-headed just to piss me off. And a liability, to say the least. He's a goading, impudent Puck, yet shite with a sword and can't even fight with his fists to save his own featherweight arse. I mean, the moron can't weigh more than a sack of grain, for fucks sake. In fact, I'm surprised a strong gust of easterly wind hasn't blown the idiot all the way back to Oxenfurt. Oh, and to rub salt into that wound, despite his puny stature the gannet puts food away like a damn ogre, therefore munching through coin as if there's no tomorrow, no warm bath to pay for after having to wash in murky lakes for weeks, no dry room at an inn needed for a well-earned ale and a plate of pie and at least a night's decent rest.
He's incorrigible. Flashy. Unnecessary.
The bard is a Nobleman's trophy bird—a fucking Peacock of a man.
Yet.
And yet.
When we part ways and he is gone, the absence of his noise is a troublesome thorn in my side. It's like a river run dry when all you needs is a skinful of water. All the wild sounds slightly out of tune; the night owls lamenting the sound of that surely enchanted lute, the mourning Mocking Jays mimicking his voice having stolen and butchered his song. I feel unchallenged. Unmoored, even. Having only myself once again to worry over and to protect, seems somehow more of an effort—a chore, almost. All food tastes bland. My appetite in general, it wanes. Everything is wrong. Even drinking away the day at its end is so much less appealing. Bathing without soft hands smoothing warmed lavender oil through the strands of my dirty hair? A pointless waste of funds. And a soft bed for the night, all alone? These days, I strangely find it a sort of soft torture.
Yes, a Peacock preens and parades and is as vociferous as it is vexing.
But.
And but.
It's intelligent. Cunning. Majestic. It is exquisitely beautiful. And in the dead of night, when I hear its call carried on the breeze, it is somehow a tonic. The dazzling bird of such brilliant colour laments its mate: another Peafowl, this one with a plumage of pure white. And, once together again, they are the most perfect of contrasts. They are whole.
Roach brays and nods her head, shakes out her mane a little.
Ah.
It seems this witcher may have been thinking out loud again.
"Hmm," Geralt agrees sheepishly, and rides on.
.
#originally posted to my deleted witcher blog#behonesthowsmysinging#geraskier#geraskier ficlet#the witcher#witcher fic#POV geralt#geralt of rivia#jaskier#the peacock#ficlet#fanfic#aonb writes#all-or-nothing-baby
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You Are the Son of Every Dressing Up Box
(I believe in Geralt’s right to be an absolute simp for Jaskier. Rated T, 2,800K)
Read on Ao3
Geralt loved watching Jaskier dress. This was somewhat unusual since people more commonly took greater pleasure in watching their lover undress, then again, Geralt had never been considered the conventional type. That wasn’t to say Geralt took no pleasure in seeing his lover laid bare, but there was something particularly captivating about watching Jaskier get ready. It was a form of sorcery so utterly beguiling Geralt was helpless to avoid falling under the spell of it.
And tonight was a rare treat.
They were in Oxenfurt, the two of them. Jaskier had been awarded some accolade or another from the university and had invited Geralt to attend the reception alongside him. Ordinarily, Geralt hated these sorts of functions. He was mindful to make a show of expressing his reluctance and while he still was not looking forward to exchanging pleasantries with the academic elite of Oxenfurt University, Geralt was looking forward to Jaskier’s preparations. Being on the Path limited Jaskier’s choice of dress. Only so many things could be carried when one traveled as much as they did, but here, in his personal apartments, Jaskier had access to an entire arsenal.
The process was a meticulous one. Great care went into Jaskier’s decisions of what he wore for an evening. Many things had to be taken into consideration. The season and its current fashion trends, where the event was being held, and the statuses of those in attendance. Colors, textiles, accessories. Not much made it past Jaskier’s deliberation. Geralt lacked the knowledge of such things, but Jaskier never failed to seek his opinion on something or other. Did Geralt prefer he adorn his ears with the sapphire studs or the aquamarine teardrops? Clothe himself in the damask jerkin or the brocade doublet? Trim himself with the boots or the slippers? And a little thrill would unfurl at the base of Geralt’s spine each time as he was asked; it crept up his every vertebrae like a sudden chill as he watched Jaskier don his choice. All night he would catch the glint of the stones in Jaskier’s ears or hear the scuffle of his shoes as he danced and take pleasure in knowing that Jaskier wore them for him.
“Which do you prefer?” inquired Jaskier now, holding up before Geralt two ensembles. The first was a doublet of burnished gold silk, smooth and supple enough to look as though it had been cast from the precious metal itself. Scalloped pickadils trimmed the seams of the shoulders and hem of the waist, their curves adorned in freshwater pearls. There was a matching set of trousers with their seams adorned in the same ornamental trim. The second ensemble was a study in scarlet. The bodice was a rich velvet, cut close in corseted style to accentuate the figure. In contrast, the sleeves were sheer and billowed out in elegant arcs before cinching once more at the wrist with gold filigreed cuffs. Geralt was expecting a pair of sinfully tight trousers, but instead Jaskier held up a skirt.
The gender of clothing was of no constraint to Jaskier. The bard would just as easily wear a skirt as he would trousers. It earned him praise and disdain in equal measure; he beamed under the praise like a flower turning towards the sun while he attributed the disdain to jealousy since not all could cut a figure in a corset quite like he could. Geralt was inclined to agree. Geralt thought Jaskier beautiful in all things, but he liked when Jaskier wore skirts. He especially loved the feeling of the material pooling around his wrist while he slid his hand up the length of Jaskier’s perfectly toned leg.
“The red one.” Geralt coughed, suddenly feeling the skin beneath his collar prickle with heat.
With a fiendish smirk, Jaskier purred, “I was thinking just the same, darling.” Trousers would have surely been better received by the conservative scholars of Oxenfurt’s governing board, but Jaskier was never one to adhere to what was pertinent. He liked for his name to be the one on everyone’s lips and cared nothing for the methods that got it there.
The glimpse of Jaskier’s bare flesh as he divested himself of his chemise still made something stir low in Geralt’s belly, but it was when Jaskier began to swath himself in that lush velvet that Geralt’s pulse truly began to race. Red was a good color on him. Jaskier looked good in all colors, of course, but there was something particularly striking about the contrast of the vibrant shade against the glow of his skin.
Glancing at Geralt over the curve of his shoulder, Jaskier cooed, “Give me a hand, won’t you, my love, and lace me up?” Confronted with the flutter of those dark lashes, Geralt would have been helpless to refuse even if he wanted to. It took him no time at all, so practiced were Geralt’s fingers, and all the while he took as great a pleasure in threading up the ribbons as he would in pulling them back out later.
As he fixed the loose ends into a bow, Geralt took a moment to press his nose to the nape of Jaskier’s neck and drink in the scent of him. He had yet to put on any perfume so his skin carried no smell other than his natural musk; bright and soft like orange blossoms. Geralt could not resist taking a playful bite at the soft flesh of Jaskier’s neck, sweet like ripe fruit, and the breath of laughter it earned him had Geralt practically drunk with devotion. Oh, the things he would do just to hear the sound again; the fire he would walk through, the mountains he would climb, the beasts he would fell.
Jaskier’s hand reached up and carded briefly through Geralt’s hair, the rounded edges of his nails scraping against Geralt’s scalp in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. For a moment, Geralt believed Jaskier was going to indulge him, allow him a taste of what was to come, but within the next breath he pushed Geralt back with an impish grin.
“We’re behind schedule enough as it is,” he chided, “and I’ve not even done my makeup yet.” With a flourish of his skirt, Jaskier swept himself into the chair before the vanity and began arranging his various oils and pigments.
Make-up was a regular affair with Jaskier. Some days it was just a bit of rouge. Others it was a full production. Jaskier was a handsome individual – perhaps the most handsome Geralt had known, which may or may not have been a biased opinion – and had no true need for any of it. But he liked it and Geralt was not one to stop him. Through the reflection of the mirror, Geralt watched as Jaskier took up his thinnest brush, pressing it between his lips to ensure a clean, precise point. With a deft flick of his wrist, Jaskier drew winged lines of kohl at the corners of his eyes sharp as the edge of any blade. The blackness of it illuminated the blue of his irises, electrifying it like a strike of lighting. All night those eyes would find Geralt through the mass of the crowd piercing him with the same lethal precision as an arrow.
Fingers flitting over the handles of his brushes, Jaskier took up a new brush with broader, squared-off bristles. He hummed jauntily to himself as he dipped the brush in a familiar pot of color. Geralt found himself leaning forward on the balls of his feet. Jaskier played coquette and pretended not to notice Geralt’s anticipation in the mirror as he brought the brush once more to his lips. In the wake of the brush, color stained Jaskier’s mouth. He followed the dips and curves with broad, deliberate strokes. When finished, Jaskier turned and lifted his chin, inspecting the quality of his handiwork in the reflection of the mirror. Satisfied, he finally glanced back at Geralt through said reflection. Jaskier smacked his lips together in imitation of a kiss and it made Geralt’s heart flip behind his ribs.
Jaskier was customarily generous with his affections, but he was especially so when he painted his lips and Geralt wore the shapes of Jaskier’s mouth like badges of honor. Like favors tied to the end of a jouster’s lance. It was a custom made color, Jaskier once explained, mixed especially for him by a cosmetologist in Novigrad. One could travel the whole world over and never find the exact same shade. A deep currant red with the barest hint of apricot complimentary to the warm undertones of Jaskier’s complexion. Its presence on Geralt’s person presented the irrefutable truth that Jaskier had been the one to lay claim to him and the thought of that alone was enough to make Geralt shudder with exhilaration.
Between one breath and the next, Jaskier had risen from his seat at the vanity; the hem of his skirts whispering against the floorboards as he sauntered across the room to stand before Geralt. Jaskier smoothed his hands over the swell of Geralt’s chest. Smirked with his teeth sunken into the tempting curve of his lower lip. He looked tremendously delighted with himself as he slipped his fingers between the buttons of Geralt’s collar and one by one released them.
The breath hitched in the back of Geralt’s throat and his heart thundered with anticipation as Jaskier’s hands spread apart the fabric, exposing the hard ridge of his throat. Geralt groaned at the sensation of Jaskier’s warm, damp breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier fluttered his lashes blithely as if he had not the faintest what it was he was doing. Oh, but he did. None could undo Geralt in the way Jaskier could. Geralt was reminded of this as Jaskier leaned forward and pressed his painted lips into the hollow of his throat. A flush blossomed over Geralt’s face spreading all the way to the shells of his ears and the line of his hair.
Drawing back, Jaskier blew a cooling breath over Geralt’s feverish skin, encouraging the paint to dry. The contrast between the warmth and the chill made Geralt shiver and break out in a rash of gooseflesh. That seemed to satisfy Jaskier for his smirk spread further over his colored lips. Geralt could not contain the whine that wriggled up the back of his throat as Jaskier began closing his collar once more and refastened the buttons.
“Hush now, darling,” He soothed, caressing the backs of his knuckles over Geralt’s cheek, “The night is still young and there will be plenty of time for me to show everyone who you belong to. For now, allow for this one to be our little secret.” In place of words, Geralt could only nod dumbly. He stood fixed and obedient as Jaskier finished buttoning him up and smoothed out the wrinkles in the fabric. Jaskier playfully tapped a finger against the tip of Geralt’s nose before gliding back to the vanity to finish his make up.
With Jaskier now properly dressed and made up, the spectacle of his preparations was nearing the end. Padding over to the cupboard, Jaskier flung open the doors to reveal shelf upon shelf lined with all manner of shoes. Boots, slippers, turnshoes, and pikes. All materials and colors, both decorated and plain. Jaskier stood there deliberating for a moment, tapping the end of his finger against the bow of his lips, before reaching a decision and pulling out a pair of black boots. He made a stop at the dresser and snatched a pair of coordinating stockings before returning to Geralt and pushing it all into his hands.
“You’ve already been such a big help, but I require your assistance one last time.” Jaskier perched himself on the end of the bed and lifted the hem of his skirt exposing his bare feet. Geralt knew Jaskier was experienced enough to put on his stockings and shoes prior to getting dressed which left no doubt in Geralt’s mind that this move had been intentional. Intentionality aside, Geralt was still more than happy to oblige.
Geralt kneeled on the floor before Jaskier. The position was a familiar one and though the context was different, Geralt still felt the heat of something more simmering in his belly. Judging from the way Jaskier’s breath quickened, it seemed he was feeling similarly. Geralt took his time putting on Jaskier’s stockings. He grazed his fingertips against Jaskier’s skin as he worked the silk up the length of each leg and then stroked his thumb over the embroidery, pretending to admire the intricate stitch work. Jaskier sighed and instinctively spread his legs apart as Geralt took a length of ribbon and secured each stocking in place. With an invitation like that, Geralt indulged himself with a kiss pressed to the inside of Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier gasped softly through his parted, painted lips. Emboldened more, Geralt ventured further and pressed his mouth to Jaskier’s inner thigh. The hem of the bard’s skirt tickled where it brushed against his face.
With his head tipping back, Jaskier quietly moaned, “Tempt me not, oh fairest witcher. Please, I know every clandestine corner and secluded alcove in Oxenfurt University. I promise that you will have your fill of me later if you spare me this moment.” And while Geralt could have tipped the scales in his favor as easily as if weighed against a grain of sand, he withdrew. The abstention now would make the indulgence later all the sweeter, anyhow.
Slipping Jaskier’s boots on one after the other, Geralt then threaded and tied the laces with the same deft grace as he had the corset earlier. He stood when finished, offering his hand gallantly to Jaskier who preened. Contrary to the manner in which his clothes were tailored, Jaskier was no small man. Clever cuts and patterns could deceive the eye, but not change the reality. He and Geralt were already of a height, but in those boots with their stacked wooden heels Jaskier claimed the advantage. It put the sumptuous swell of his chest at a slightly more auspicious angle and Geralt ogled him shamelessly.
Looking over the lower rim of his mascara stiffened lashes, Jaskier quirked a brow and smirked, “Liking the view, dearest?” He brought a hand to Geralt’s chin and tipped his face forcing their gazes to meet. Jaskier clicked his tongue and said, “Naughty boy. Need I remind you that my eyes are up here?” While Jaskier’s buxom bosom was indeed a lovely sight, Geralt was just as satisfied getting lost in that smolder blue stare. He must have looked rather besotted for Jaskier chuckled, “What am I to do with you, witcher mine? Never before have I been looked upon with an expression of such pure adoration. That’s quite the compliment seeing as how I’m adored by a great many people. How lucky I am, so spoiled am I by your love.”
Thought crossed Jaskier’s features. His lips puckered into a pout, a common habit when he was deliberating whether or not to do something mischievous. At last, he proclaimed, “Oh, alright, you’ve convinced me. Such a look deserves a bit of reciprocation.” Taking Geralt’s face within the bracket of his palms, Jaskier leaned forward and pressed his mouth firmly to Geralt’s right cheek. Geralt did not need to look in the mirror to know his cheek now what was left behind. He could feel the tacky residue of Jaskier’s lip paint on his skin.
Geralt surged forward, determined to take Jaskier in the cage of his arms. His desire for the bard had grown wild like a fire left unchecked and he needed desperately to satiate the craving. Years of traveling together, however, had attuned Jaskier to Geralt’s behaviors and movements. He danced gracefully out of the range of Geralt’s reach, his heeled boots thumping against the floorboards and his laughter ringing out in peals. “Soon, I promise, soon! Let me have my moment of victory and then I’m yours, all yours, my dearest heart.”
After a quick retouching of his lip paint, Jaskier returned to Geralt and held out his arm. Geralt looped his arm through Jaskier’s and sighed at the smooth caress of the material that made Jaskier’s sleeves. Together they made their way out of Jaskier’s apartments and onto the streets of Oxenfurt. The evening was pleasant, but held just enough of the winter’s lingering bite that they walked pressed into each other’s sides.
“You know,” Jaskier hummed, “I received an invitation for a gala honoring the great artist Hugo Rolek at the end of next week. I’d love for you to accompany me if you’re amenable.” And as if he knew exactly Geralt’s thought process, Jaskier tacked on, “I’ve a new ensemble being finished at the tailors just for the occasion. It’s a spectacular piece; green jacquard with accents of gold and mulberry.” The amusement in Jaskier’s eyes glinted twice as bright when contrasted against the streaks of kohl.
Geralt played his part and grumbled as if there were literally nothing on the continent he would rather do less, but both he and Jaskier well knew the reality- Geralt could not wait to watch Jaskier dress again.
#the witcher#fanfiction#ficlet#gnc!jaskier#simp!Geralt#Geraskier#geralt x jaskier#dressing rituals#romance#no sex but definitely a bit steamy#Geralt's so in love it makes him look stupid
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"I am so, so sorry." Jaskier said the moment the door closed behind him.
Geralt didn't respond, taking a moment to subtly look around the room he'd just been brought into. It was a combination of an office and a bedroom, a room with bookshelves on every wall and a desk near the window, and a room with a reasonably large bed and several shelves and cupboards, separated by an open archway. The archway had a curtain that could be drawn across, but judging by the sun damage on the fabric tie holding it aside, it hadn't been drawn in years. Possibly ever.
The shelves were full of trinkets and and curiosities, some of which Geralt recognised as things Jaskier had collected while travelling by his side. There were so many that they displaced the books meant to be on the shelves, the books instead being left in neat piles on the floor. The cold wooden floorboards were covered up with a rug that would have been rather expensive when it was first bought, and the window in each section of the room had thick curtains that could be drawn to keep in warmth. Next to the bed, there was a reasonably sized fireplace that clearly hadn't been lit in a while, but it was clean and looked perfectly functional.
He was dimly aware that Jaskier was still apologising, but Jaskiers voice was classified as "pleasant background noise" by his brain, so listening to every word the bard said was not automatic. That, and his rambling apologies were completely unnecessary.
"-I understand if you are angry with me but I-"
"I'm not angry." He interrupted, looking away from the room and back to Jaskier.
"You... Aren't?"
Geralt shook his head.
"You successfully found us lodging for the winter. Like you said you would."
"By sacrificing your pride! Honestly, I spend my whole entire life trying to show the world that Witchers are people worthy of love, kindness and respect only to throw it all away in front of my peers without even thinking! And now you're going to have to be around their arrogant asses all god-forsaken winter, I'm so sorry Geralt." Jaskier rambled, sounding honestly distraught.
"No, I- hmm." Geralt tried to talk, but couldn't come up with the words to explain how he felt about what just happened. "I have been called significantly worse things in my lifetime."
"That doesn't make it better!"
Really, he had been called far worse. In comparison to butcher, beast, feral creature, mutant and monster; "dog" was exceedingly tame.
"I'm going to strangle that alcoholic fossil the next time I see him." Jaskier hissed.
"Don't. I'm not in the mood to help you hide a body."
"You won't need to. I know this place like the back of my hand. They won't find his body until it goes putrid and bursts."
The amount of distain Jaskier could pack into his words was a marvel to behold. Geralt had to calm him down, or Jaskier may actually follow through with that threat. It wouldn't be the first time he'd killed a man, but it would likely get him into some sort of trouble.
"You are not not murdering your colleagues, Jaskier." Geralt asserted, looking around the room for the best place to set down his bag.
Jaskier whimpered pathetically.
"You're right. If anyone deserves to die it's me right now. I'm a master of the seven liberal arts for Melitele's sake, why couldn't I come up with a better idea!?"
A better idea. Geralt pondered that for a minute. He tried to think of an alternate way they could have gotten out of that situation.
Off the top of his head, all plausible alternatives ended in some form of subterfuge, separation, roughing it out in the snow, or getting arrested.
So, on the scale of bad ideas, this was one of the better ones. In fact it may be the best bad idea Jaskier has ever had.
Even if it meant getting Geralt into Oxenfurt under the "pet" clause in Jaskiers contract.
Turns out, to stay as a guest at Oxenfurt Academy, you need to give the institute prior warning so they can add you to the list of people on campus for that year. In other words, guests staying for more than a night or two need to book in over a year in advance.
So when Geralt's last job of the year ran dangerously long and an early thick snowfall rolled in from the south, snowing in the pass to Kear Morhen ahead of schedule and leaving Geralt with nowhere to spend the winter, leading to Jaskiers offer to winter with him in the halls of Oxenfurt Academy, he was unfortunately denied entry.
Jaskier did not take kindly to being told "no" and argued with the aging professor that had met them at the gate for over ten minutes about technicalities and semantics. The professor was as unmoved as a stone column throughout the whole ordeal, stubbornly sticking to the academy's rules. It soon became clear that Jaskier was not going to be able to convince him.
Just as Geralt was about to interject so Jaskier didn't get reprimanded for being mouthy, Jaskier stopped arguing and gained a strange glint to his eyes.
He told Geralt to stay put and walked the professor away from the gate and around a corner that would be out of range if Geralt had human hearing.
Geralt then listened intently as Jaskier smarmily explained to the professor that he saw Geralt as more of a well trained guard dog than a friend, and that since professors at Oxenfurt are allowed up to three pets, he should be able to bring him in. When the professor made a shaky objection, Jaskier took on an incredibly arrogant tone and explained that Witchers are not human, and thus should be classed as pets.
Surely. He asked. Surely a professor of his calibre did not think Witchers were human?
The professor had no choice but to agree.
And now, here they were. In Jaskiers room that they would share for the upcoming winter, in an academy full of people that, thanks to gossip, would soon all know that the White Wolf was brought into Oxenfurt as the loyal pet dog of Julian Alfred Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove.
"Jaskier." Geralt said after dropping his bag and stepping closer to his friend. "I already told you, I'm not angry."
"The fact that you're not angry at being called a dog upsets me greatly dear heart." Jaskier admitted in a tender tone, leaning bodily against the closed door at his back.
"Insults don't bother me Jaskier." Geralt said.
Jaskier glared at him, the look in his eyes accusing those words as a lie. Geralt continued to talk regardless.
"But you weren't insulting me. You were tricking a man into giving us bed and board. And I know you wouldn't have said it if you weren't sure it would work. Right?"
Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He couldn't refute Geralt's words.
"And now we both have winter safe and indoors, with food and fire. You have work to do, and they'll probably have some use for me in this place." Geralt took another step closer. "So stop fucking apologising."
Jaskier closed the distance between them, their chests met and Jaskiers forehead fell to rest on Geralt's shoulder. He sighed heavily.
"I suppose you're right. No point dwelling on what's already been done." Jaskier admitted heavily. "But!" He suddenly said, tone much more like his usual self. "I refuse to forgo giving you any kind of compensation for having to deal with that impotent old fuck! And whatever bullshit the nobles in this place are bound to pull before the snow melts in spring. Sooooo," He drew out the word, stepping back from Geralt. "How about I make you a bath? Scalding hot, perfect for your witchery constitution. Hmm?"
It was an obvious attempt to soothe his own guilt. But... Geralt was never one to say no to a bath. Especially not a bath made by Jaskier.
"Bathing your dog? What a good master." Geralt said, smiling a little at his own joke.
"Shut up you arse." Jaskier hissed as he left the room.
#bonus#Noble: walks up to Geralt and starts spewing veiled insults and backhanded compliments#Geralt; holding a glass of wine and wearing the nicest shirt Jaskier could force him to wear: ... woof#Ensue stunned silence as he wanders off#Geralt is having a lot of fun with it basically#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#the witcher#fan fiction#fanfic#ficlet#jaskier#geralt of rivia#yes it does become an inside joke that Geralt teases Jaskier with until the end of time
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thinking about how Geralt and Jaskier always end up crossing paths no matter how much time or distance has been between them (almost like its fate or something idk) and how heart wrenching it would be if one time Geralt's walking Roach through a forest just on the outskirts of a small town and sees what could only be the obnoxious, colourful sleeve of one of the bards many ensembles peeking out from behind a tree. His lute is just in sight as well, perched on his lap and leaning slightly where the hand that would usually be tinkering with chord progressions had fallen down in his sleep. And Geralt thinks its typical of the bard to take a nap against a tree, unguarded in an unfamiliar forest, he never had any real self-preservation skills. Geralt had no idea how he'd lasted so long in his company. Never mind how he'd lasted so long in Jaskier's. Then a thought registered, he didn't have to go and wake the bard. He had always been a heavy sleeper and Geralt was light on his feet. He could easily side step him, carry on like he was completely unaware of their proximity and have a few more days of peace. He'd probably catch up with him at the next town over without even meaning too, Geralt wasn't lucky enough to be this close and dodge the bard completely. Even so, he didn't diverge his path, leaves and twigs snapping under foot as he waded through the shrubbery toward Jaskier. He thought about trying to spook him though that wouldn't exactly be a challenge. The very corners of his mouth curved up at the thought of hearing Jaskier squawk in shock at being rudely awoken then berate him on the way out of the woods which would eventually divulge into his constant chattering about this and that. He knew far too much about all the bards little idiosyncrasies. It made him huff out an audible grunt like he was irritated by the frankly unfair amount of space Jaskier was taking up in his memory. Truthfully, he couldn't find it in himself to be irritated. In it's usual place was a warm, bubbling feeling that made Geralt equally nauseous and content. But then Roach stomped a hoof, nudging Geralt with her head.
He stroked a hand down the horses muzzle, looking around for what could have upset her and then he saw it. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed before, the dark stains on the dirt, the stench in the air. He took off towards where Jaskier sat, rounding the tree and freezing. Jaskier was staring back at him though his eyes were lifeless and blank. The hand that before had seemed to have relaxed in his sleep now looked fallen and folded in the dirt. His lute had clearly been thrown at his slumped body, neck broken, not nestled in his lap like he'd assumed. And his adored doublet was drenched in blood, dark, sticky, pungent blood. His skin was pale, his lips were grey and his throat was slit. Geralt had seen plenty of corpses in his life. It was never a pretty sight but one he had gotten used to. If someone were to stumble upon him now though, it would be a fair assumption to say this was his first time face to face with death. His heart was thundering beneath his armour and he couldn't help his brain supplying that it might of then matched the pace Jaskier's should have been keeping. His knees gave way before he could catch himself, hands helplessly reaching out just to scrape down the bark of the nearest tree as he fell to the ground. Breathing had never stung so much. He was close enough now to stretch out a hand, two fingers against Jaskier's long still pulse point like there was any hope. The very dregs of that hope Geralt could scrape together died when the soft touch had Jaskier's body slumping to the side, hair dyed in his own blood, falling like curtains over his face. Geralt pulled back, staring at the red staining his hand, seeping into the cracks and calluses. He'd never felt dirtier. He'd never felt lonelier. He was alone but peace couldn't have been further away.
#the witcher#witcher#the witcher netflix#geraskier#geralt#jaskier#ficlet#drabble#maybe idk??#major character death#i wrote this at work so if it's bad blame capitalism or something
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