#geraskier ficlet

[inanoldhousewrites]

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.

[all-or-nothing-baby]

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.

[saw3amanda]

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.

[stangalina]

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.

[fangirleaconmigo]

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.”

[ladyannemarie5]

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.

[thedemonofcat]

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.

[flowercrown-bard]

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. 

[spielzeugkaiser]

"I have no idea what I am doing," his knight commander admits with a frown. "Oh I'm sure you're doing just fine," Jaskier waves him off with a laugh as goosebumps spread across his back from where Geralt's gloved hands meet the delicate lacing of his dress. "Truth be told, milord, I don't even know why I am doing this and not one of the maids." Jaskier wouldn't be able to hide his smile even if he tried. "Well, how else would you know how to take it off?"

Very much a fan of AUs were everyone is just living their best life. 🤭❤️

It's honestly what they deserve!! 🥺💖 but I'm way too mean...

[valdomarx]

There’s this scent that Geralt can’t stop noticing. It’s something like cardamon and cloves, and it hangs in the air around Jaskier no matter the season.

Sometimes, when they’re bedded down by the fire and there’s a crisp chill in the air, Geralt will get a whiff of it and he’ll feel this almost overwhelming urge to pull Jaskier close to him and breathe it in.

He doesn’t, obviously.

But he does shuffle himself a little closer, quiet and subtle, and waits to see if Jaskier will roll back a fraction until they’re almost touching. When that happens, Geralt allows himself to put an arm around Jaskier and inch closer and bury his face in the nape of Jaskier’s neck where the clove scent is strongest, and he’ll inhale deeply and feel a distinct kind of calm descend.

–

Jaskier gestures wildly as he talks, throwing his arms around expressively, and Geralt doesn’t follow his words but he does follow his movements, the way Jaskier flicks his wrist dismissively when he describes someone’s stupidity and brings a hand to his chest when describing something heartfelt.

When he moves, the scent shimmers like heat in the air around him, vibrant and almost tangible.

–

Emotions have their own scents, like the hot sparking scent of fear or the cosy sweetgrass smell of comfort. When Jaskier is in a bad mood his scent is overlaid with an acrid odor like burnt bread and when he’s preening in front of an audience it gets spicy and spiked with high notes of pepper.

But always, in the background, that cardamon and cloves, the backdrop of their life together.

It’s hard then for Geralt to know whether the emotions are coming from him or from Jaskier. Smelling an emotion is the same as feeling it, isn’t it? It’s often not clear to him who a feeling belongs to and where it originates. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Perhaps it’s enough to be among that scent and to experience it. Perhaps that’s what it is to be with someone else – to make their experiences a part of your own.

[artistsfuneral]

Sure, I'm game!

How about something cozy? Give me Geralt falling asleep on Jaskier. Maybe the same rules about not moving when cats fall asleep on you count towards Witchers- they trust you enough to sleep on you, so clearly you can't move. You are trapped, alas.

Ooh yesss ✨❤️

softe Geralt/Jaskier, napping

It is something that happens so rarely that Geralt still calls it unbelievable in his head, but every now and then Jaskier will tire himself out.

Usually it's in the summer, when the days are much longer, much warmer and Jaskier has spent hours being a bundle of energy, jumping around, singing and babbling on and on about anything and everything. When all his feelings of joy and excitement and his lust for adventures have been loudly exclaimed at the sky, Jaskier will feel content. Save warm and happy. The world around him buzzing just loud enough to provide the sort of stimulation the back of his brain needs.

And then he will get sleepy. And he will always and without fail, find a way to fall asleep on Geralt. It never lasts longer than a nap, but with Jaskier's head bedded on his thighs or his cheek squished against the witcher's shoulder, a tingling feeling will start inside Geralt's stomach and slowly spread across his entire body, filling it with warmth and happiness.

He too will be content.

[all-or-nothing-baby]

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.

.

[islenthatur]

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."

[stangalina]

"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.

[plaudiusplants]

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.)

[ladyannemarie5]

Jaskier is more than happy to care for his witchers when they return to Kaer Morhen in winter, not that it's a sacrifice to be surrounded 24/7 by manly, strong, beautiful men, but he knows that his wolves can't be pampered by him the rest of the year because he spends every season with Geralt. 

So he comes up with an idea to make everyone see his witchers exactly as he sees them: heroic and delicious. 

A few years ago, Oxenfurt put out a series of portraits of the most handsome professors to motivate more people to go to college. Of course, the number of students inside the classrooms grew a lot. 

Jaskier wants to go further, so he tells Yennefer about making portraits of the wolves according to a different year theme. You know, a kind of calendar. 

Eskel, sweet and strong, will be Spring. Lambert, young and virile, will be Summer. Vesemir, wise and serene, will be Autumn. And Geralt, mysterious and silent, Winter. 

Jaskier can only be carried away by his fantasies. 

Thanks to Yen and his magic, by the end of Winter, in every place of the continent there is a series of magical paintings of the witchers of the wolf school exquisitely depicting a whole season that motivates all people to be kinder and more helpful to them. 

Some time later, wives and husbands convince their partners to call a witcher to solve their monster problems and give them generous tips, taverns fill them with beers for attracting so many people, inns give them the best rooms and as many bathrooms as they ask for, brothels fight to have one of them in their places and show off their charms. 

Jaskier has just invented themed calendars and is happy to know that his wolves are fully appreciated. 

The next calendar will undoubtedly feature Coën and Aiden.