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pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

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Thicker Than Water (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (here) Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

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He awoke sore and badly rested, tears dried on his face.

Jaskier made it through the next day. He ate a little of the food Ciri offered him, only because when he tried to decline the first time her eyes got large and her bottom lip showed just the barest hint of a tremble. He couldn’t bear it. The dry horse bread that was usual for traveling rations crumbled in his mouth. He was so hungry, it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted.

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to even unsling his lute from his shoulder during their trek. His fingers itched to play, of course. He continued his story for Ciri and in his mind he played music for the background, he just couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t sell his lute in this next town, but before they reached Kaer Morhen he would have to. It would give them money, and he wouldn’t be a burden. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and continued telling Ciri the story.

He noticed a bit before mid day that Geralt was watching him. That wasn’t out of sorts, of course. Yennefer and Ciri were watching him too, he was an excellent storyteller and the tale was enthralling. Geralt didn’t seem to be paying attention to the story though. He was staring-- glowering--brow low and furrowed, at Jaskier.

Jaskier felt hurt lance through him and he almost staggered, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He knew Geralt didn’t want him along, didn’t want him at all, but he couldn’t even pretend? He couldn’t go back to their relationship before? Not the warm, almost companionable silences that had been nurtured between them, but the grunts and stone faced silence of the beginning of their acquaintance.

Jaskier breathed through the pain in his chest. Twenty years of silences, all kinds of them, stony and friendly and sleepy and painful and quietly nice. But they were back to the beginning, or worse, Geralt angry and Jaskier’s voice filling in places it didn’t belong.

“Jaskier?”

That was Ciri, and Jaskier realized that he’d actually trailed off mid-sentence.

“Sorry little highness,” he smiled and gave a funny little bow. “I’m but a simple entertainer, a poet and a fool, sometimes my mind runs away from me.”

“Fool is right,” Yennefer snorted. It wasn’t totally unkind, but it still stung. It stung even more when Geralt, so taciturn all day, snorted with laughter at her comment. Jaskier felt his ears burn and his chest ache.

“Now, where was I?”

“The king’s son met the North Wind,” Ciri said, matching Jaskier’s steps. “And he has to beat him in a game of wit to gain knowledge of where the sorcerer’s daughter was taken, that’s what you said, but you didn’t tell us what game yet.”

At least someone treasured his words, Jaskier thought. Although they weren’t worth much, he threw one out after the other.

Like garbage, whispered the back of his mind.

“Ah yes,” he said instead. “the North Wind sat before the king’s son, and laid out a chess set made of ice and wind.”

“How can chess pieces be made of wind?”

Jaskier smiled, Ciri asked questions at all the right places. “The North Wind wanders, he goes everywhere, blowing cold breath across The Continent. When the North Wind is present and we breath our breath can be seen.” Jaskier smiled here and added an aside, “My little sister used to call it dragon smoke. But by the same magic that gives the North Wind a body to walk the world, he can take our frozen breath and turn it cold and solid as glass.”

Jaskier let himself tell the story on autopilot. His feet ached. He’d been darning the socks he was wearing for a year or more, but he wasn’t good at it and the lumps were rubbing his toes raw. Worse than that, the soles of his boots were almost worn through. Just one more thing he’d have to buy.

He felt ashamed of himself. His boots had been going thin for a while, and instead of saving his coin and getting them repaired or just buying new ones, he’d drowned himself in drink, feeling sorry. Oh, he hadn’t known he would be making a trip up a mountain, but he needed boots regardless. No wonder Geralt had always been upset with him, he always put pleasure over sense, couldn’t even spend coin sensibly.

Couldn’t darn socks, couldn’t budget his coin, couldn’t shut up. A fool.

He stumbled on a tree root and nearly swore. Couldn’t even walk right. One of the blisters building on his foot had burst, he was sure. It was easy to tell, the pain had gone from a rubbing ache to stinging and warm. Only years of practice and performance kept him from interrupting the story.

Something must have shown on his face though, or his scent changed or whatever because Geralt was staring at him intently. That face, always so unreadable.

Jaskier wasn’t going to give him anything else to scowl about. He kept walking, keeping the story rolling and his voice light. His bones ached. He had to stop for just a moment when a button, long past hanging loosely on his doublet, finally pulled free. He picked it up and the head rush nearly took him to the ground. He’d eaten little, slept poorly, and the only food he’d had in a long time before this was ale. He blinked the grey from his vision, trying not to let the panic show when it didn’t go away as quickly as he’d have liked.

It was okay. It was all going to be okay. They’d make it to the village by nightfall. They wouldn’t sleep there of course but he could get proper food. Maybe even slip away and catch a quick nap in a stable or hayloft or something. His whole body was buzzing with a sort of exhausted energy and his heart was pounding.

Jaskier reflected that he hadn’t been well before meeting up with Geralt and his little family. He’d been sick with drink and heartache and had not enough food then too.

Smile through the pain.

This wasn’t even bad as performances could go. Once he’d actually broken a finger just before a set at Oxenfurt. Simple clumsiness, he’d closed his index finger in a door, but he’d played his whole set, with a perfect score from his professor.

It grew darker, the sun just setting when they reached a field at the edge of the town. It was a large open field and, in warmer months, it was likely home to fairs and large market days. Probably in these rural areas people traveled for a week to bring their goods and livestock to this town. It didn’t matter now, mid autumn settling into late autumn. To Jaskier the town was nameless.

They set up camp in the field. It left them exposed to being seen, but they hid themselves behind a small rise on the edge of the field, blocking them mostly from sight. Still, Geralt seemed on edge. Jaskier wasn’t sure it was about the camp. Geralt kept looking over at him with his eyebrows pressed together. Whenever he did that it formed this little crease right between his brows that Jaskier wanted to kiss away.

Jaskier bit his lip, hard, to focus on anything other than that.

The three of them sat, too tired to talk much more. Jaskier had finished most of the story and decided to leave the rest for the next day they were traveling a lot, to give Ciri something else to think about. She was definitely Calanthe’s blood. They traveled all day and she never complained, but also told them when she needed to stop, advocating for herself in no uncertain terms. It was the princess herself who interrupted his thoughts.

“You said you had a sister, do you have lots of siblings?”

“Not really,” Jaskier said, settling down on the ground and feeling his bones pop. His blisters were definitely bleeding inside his boots too. “Two older brothers, Henrik and Teodor, and I had a younger sister, Lotte.”

“Had?”

“She was sickly, always too small for her age,” Jaskier said quietly. “I learned the lute for her, at first. She liked music and was often bedridden. A fever took her when she was about your age.” Jaskier looked down at his battered boots.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispered.

“It’s allright little highness, it’s been almost thirty years now. Time flies.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Geralt said. It was growly, but Geralt always used that tone.

“You never really asked.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. Jaskier ate the last of the rations in his pack, waving away Ciri’s offerings and showing her his food as proof that he had some. It didn’t really settle the hunger that had been eating him from the inside out all day, but at this point he figured he could eat a mountain and still have room for dessert.

“Tomorrow,” Geralt said gruffly once dinner was cleared away. “We don’t all enter the town as a group. Yen and Ciri go together. I go alone. Jaskier goes alone.”

Jaskier nodded, so did Ciri and Yennefer.

“If we see eachother, act as though we don’t know eachother,” Geralt said, then he turned his gaze on Jaskier. “Don’t attract too much attention.”

Jaskier bristled at getting his own private reprimand. “I’m a bard, Geralt,” he said. “How am I supposed to earn coin if I don’t play.”

Geralt grunted. “I didn’t say don’t play just no... don’t do the whole...” he gestured a vauge hand.

“The whole...me?” Jaskier said sarcastically. He was pulling at the lion’s tail he knew, but he was in pain and tired and hungry and Geralt had no right to be so cruel.

“The whole bright colors, loud and annoying thing. Country bard, not court bard, got it?”

Loud and annoying.

“Got it,” Jaskier said, looking back down at his boots. He didn’t say that none of his clothes could have passed for courtly anymore anyway.

They set about getting ready for bed. Ciri gave him a quick hug before she and Yennefer disappeared into their magical tent. Jaskier sat and pulled off his boots, not letting a single flicker of pain show on his face. He knew Geralt would be able to smell blood, but Geralt had gone to get water from the nearby river. He had to peel his socks off and yes, there was blood there, by now stuck into the threadbare fabric. He let himself wince then. He rinsed off the wounds but he was without bandages, so he just dried off the area and put his other pair of socks on. He only had the two pairs anyway, but at least the blisters would stay dry.

He rolled himself into his bedroll and thought of tomorrow. At least there were no tree roots here.

The next day dawned slowly, instead of bright pinks and oranges it was a kind of runny yellow that just leeched into the sky before fading into early morning blue. Jaskier watched in admiration as Yennefer changed Geralt’s hair to short and dark, and then gave herself brown eyes and a slightly different bone structure. To look at both of them was odd, because Jaskier could see the similarities. Yennefer’s nose was changed and her cheekbones were a little different, but it was still her, and Geralt just looked like a different, although quite handsome, version of himself. Ciri was simply given mousy brown hair and some extra freckles.

Just like that, the perfect and all powerful family looked like two normal people and one witcher who was still clearly a witcher but not the white wolf. Jaskier shouldered his lute. He’d cleaned up the scruff he’d been growing into a more respectable look and with his longer hair and tatty cloak he looked like any poor traveling musician. If he’d traded the lute for a shortbow he could have looked like a woodsman, totally nondescript.

He was entering from a different direction, so as not to arouse suspicion, and so was Geralt. Jaskier began walking around, so that he could enter from the east. Yen and Ciri would walk into town the closest direction, and Geralt was entering from the west. This early, it was unlikely they would have been seen all together.

Jaskier made his way to the eastern edge of the town and walked in, scanning the streets. If this were a farm people would be up and awake long before now, farmers wake well before dawn, but this was a town, and so few people wandered the streets. Shop keepers were just beginning to open up. Jaskier bought a couple pears, slightly overripe but cheaper because of it, off of a fruit seller and had breakfast. He tried to lock into his mind all the shops around so he could find his supplies easiest later.

His mind was resisting him though. In spite of the softer ground, Jaskier had still slept badly last night. His body ached and he wished he could find somewhere warm to lay for an hour or two. Instead he found the well.

As wells should be, this one was right in the center of town. He set down his lute case beside it, tuned his lovely lady, and began to play.

In his very first few months after leaving Oxenfurt he had learned this trick, and used it often. If you get into a town early, play at the well. People get their water first thing in the morning and there you are.

A few young women with yokes and buckets smiled at him and he nodded in return. The day brightened a little further as the sun crept above the buildings and more people came to gather in the town square. They weren’t there to hear Jaskier, not at first, most of them came for water, or to chat with neighbors, or discuss business. Many of them gathered around him though.

Coins clattered into the case. Mostly coppers, but in a little town like this that was quite normal.

“As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed, A sudden strange fancy came into her head. "Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove, I'll 'list as a soldier, and follow my love,” he sang.

“So early next morning she softly arose, And dressed herself up in her dead brother's clothes. She cut her hair close, and she stained her face brown, And went for a soldier to fair Rinde Town.”

Sweet Polly Oliver was one of his favorites, a simple country song about a girl and her lover in wartime. This town was far enough north that with luck Nilfgaard wouldn’t attack, but the anxiety threatened.

Jaskier gave a good performance, perhaps not his best, but he was tired and cold and the flagstones beneath his feet were very hard. He danced about, playing sweet folk songs and jigs and reels, delighting in the people who swept up and danced along. Still, though, he felt his feet bleeding inside his boots. He played from just after dawn until perhaps an hour after noon before bowing away and taking his coin.

He’d done better than he’d expected, but there wasn’t nearly enough coin for all the things he’d need for Kaer Morhen, and extra food to help Geralt and Ciri. He’d buy what he needed now, and they’d stop again in Ard Carraigh before the keep. He’d sell his lute there, it was a large city, and he’d get a good price. The thought still made him ache, though.

It wasn’t just his emotions causing him pain, he realised. The aches he’d been experiencing were in his chest lately, and both physical and emotional. He just needed more rest.

Jaskier slipped through back alleys and bent streets. He’d seen a stable on his way into town. He stepped in quietly, startling a stable hand, no more than a boy, who’d been quietly talking to a horse.

“You’re the bard,” he said. “Saw you in the square jus’ this morning.”

“That’s right,” Jaskier said, bowing a little. “I’m afraid I’ll be moving on this evening and--”

“And you want to have a kip in the stables,” said the boy. “Yeah lots o’ musicians and peddlers do that. Rule is though, I got to get a coin off ‘em first as payment. I’m sorry, but I get a beating if’n I don’t.”

“No worries,” Jaskier said, he’d expected as much. He handed the boy two copper coins. “There’s pay, won’t have you getting beaten for my sake, the second coin is to wake me in two hours.”

The boy gave him a lopsided grin. “You got it sir, thanks.”

Jaskier snuggled up in the hay loft. He’d often done it, it was pretty common, if you couldn’t buy a stay at an inn or especially if you just needed a ‘kip’ as the boy had said, during the day. He’d slept in haystacks once in a while on the road too. They were sort of comfortable and surprisingly warm and, best of all, robbers didn’t get you if you kept yourself mostly under the hay.

The scent of hay and oats and horses lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed about haystacks. For some reason Roach was in the haystack with him. Geralt and Ciri too, even Yennefer. It was a crowded haystack indeed, and it grew smaller and smaller until Jaskier had to leave it and sleep on the ground so that the others weren’t squished.

He awoke to the stable boy nudging him.

“Pardon me mister,” he said. “But it’s been two hours.”

Jaskier thanked him and brushed off his clothes.

The shops were doing a good trade this afternoon and he’d be sure to be a face in the crowd. He bought a small cooking pot and plenty of ground oats and barley for porridge at one shop. They were light to carry and owner packaged them nicely, first in one cheap, cloth drawstring bag, and then in another such bag, but with the drawstring on a different side, so he was unlikely to lose food.

In another stall he bought plenty of nuts, walnuts were cheap here and would keep well. Good for traveling and they had protein. Some dried jerky, dried peas, and dried lentils finished his food shopping, and also most of his coin.

It was three days to Ard Carraigh, another week to trek up to the keep. The food would sustain him for that long, and they’d probably just pool their food to make sure everyone was fed. Still, he wasn’t being a burden, not too much.

He couldn’t afford new boots, gloves, or a cloak right now, but with the last of his coin he bought a new pair of thick, warm socks, a small roll of bandages, and a couple pieces of candied ginger in a little paper twist. He tucked them all away and left the town, disappearing back to the field and their little camp well before the sun set.

Jaskier’s heart sunk to see that he was the last to arrive. Everything was packed up, they couldn’t risk staying in the same place two nights in a row. Geralt grunted at him, but didn’t unleash any thoughts on Jaskier being a burden, so he counted himself lucky.

He hung his head a little at having delayed their parting and trekked after the perfect little family, his pack much heavier than it had been. Ciri slid her hand into his and they walked on in silence. The hand was nice though.

In an odd way, it hurt, too. He wasn’t part of the family, so he didn’t really deserve this, but it was painfully good to have just a taste of being wanted.

What would happen, he wondered, when the winter was over. He was a danger to Geralt and Ciri if Nilfgaard found him. He wasn’t wanted by Geralt at all. Jaskier was reminded once again that it would be so much easier for Geralt to kill him, or for Yennefer to wipe his memory. Maybe he could fake his death to get Nilfgaard of his trail.

“Jaskier?” Ciri asked. “How did you become a bard?”

Jaskier looked down at her, maudlin thoughts interuppted. “Oh, well, it’s not as though you have to register, you just become one. Walking into an inn and saying ‘let me play for you pretty please I need food’ is a good start.”

“No,” Ciri giggled. “I meant, you said you learned the lute for your sister, but you write your own music and stuff too.”

“Oh, well, anyone can write music if they have an instrument and a good enough memory,” Jaskier said. “Indeed, many of the greatest bards had little education at all, I, however, studied at Oxenfurt.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes. It was school, and some parts were dull but I learned much.”

“I heard some of the maids giggling once about a young scholar who’d come to stay with us,” Ciri said, matter of factly. “He was always in the library and was kind of snooty with me when I asked questions, but the maids were saying he certainly had a lot of ‘carnal knowledge’. Did you study that too?”

Jaskier was choking on thin air.

“I, um, no it was more of a hobby,” Jaskier said before his head could catch up with his mouth. “Little Highness, I suspect you weren’t supposed to hear that conversation, and no, I studied the seven liberal arts.”

“So it was about sex, I was never sure,” Ciri said.

Jaskier coughed awkwardly. “Yes, princess.”

“It’s okay, I know about that stuff, Grandmother explained it.”

Jaskier let out a breath, at least he wouldn’t have to be the one to explain anything to her.

“When you went to school were you scared to leave your family?” Ciri asked.

“No, pet, I was excited to go,” he wasn’t about to get into all his trauma with her, she had enough of her own, poor thing. “I couldn’t wait to learn about music and poetry.”

“Grandmother said all poets were silly romantics and dreamers, but I think that sounds nice. Do you have a moose?”

“A what?”

“I read it in a book, a moose, somebody you love and you write about it.”

“Oh, that’s one of the trickier words Ciri, it’s said ‘muse’, and yes, I had one or two.”

“Only one or two? In the book the poet had hundreds,” Ciri sounded almost disappointed.

“I only ever needed one,” Jaskier said quietly. “One that mattered anyway.”

“And your Countess still left you,” Geralt said, rather coldly. He was doing his annoyed face and Jaskier could have kicked himself. He’d been talking too much. The reminder that the Countess de Stael had left him too hurt, but Jaskier wasn’t going to risk Geralt’s ire to say that she wasn’t the muse he was talking about. That was maybe something he should keep to himself.

“Do muses often leave?” Ciri asked, wide eyed. “If somebody was writing me poetry I wouldn’t want to.”

“No, usually the poet does the leaving,” Jaskier said. “After his muse asks him to go. There’s a shelf life on a bard, you know. We only have so many stories and songs before we’re used up and no one wants us around anymore. That’s when we move along.”

“I’ll hear your stories again and again,” Ciri said. “I won’t ask you to go.”

Jaskier’s heart curled up and whimpered inside his chest. He’d have to go sooner or later, he’d have to leave her. Geralt would get sick of him, too sick to bear even for Ciri’s sake. Or Jaskier would just have to leave of his own volition, lest he shovel shit into her life too.

If he could give her life one blessing...

“This’ll do for a campsite,” Geralt said. It was a tiny, clear area. Jaskier almost groaned. It was surrounded by oak trees, with dropped acorns that would dig into his bedroll and mottle his back with bruises come morning. He’d had a good rest in town, though, so another bad night of sleep wouldn’t be too bad, he told himself.

The others had eaten in town. Jaskier said he had too, so he wouldn’t waste rations. He had plenty, but strangely, he wasn’t so hungry lately. Anyway, always best to save.

He pulled off his boots and his freshly bloodied socks. Ew. Ciri retired to the magic tent early, exhausted from their long days of walking. Jaskier listened to Yennefer and Geralt talk.

“We’ll need lots of supplies in Ard Carraigh,” Geralt was saying.

“We don’t have any money,” Yennefer replied.

Jaskier had his back to them as he cleaned the wounds on his feet, but he could picture grave expressions.

“We’ll get some, I’ll do a quick contract there, something. We’ll need a cart and pony to get Ciri up The Killer, it’s too much for her, it’s too hard for some witchers even.”

“That’ll cost,” Yennefer said. “But you’re right. I wish I could portal us but--”

“Tracking, exactly. There’s always plenty of contracts in cities, it’ll be fine.”

Jaskier looked at the blisters on his foot, they’d opened more with his long performance that day. It was no matter, he wound the bandages around them and put on his new, thick socks. At least his feet would be warm.

Not too warm, though. He spotted a hole in the bottom of his boot that he hadn’t noticed before.

And they needed lots of money for Ard Carraigh. No matter. He knew how to get some.

He pretended his eyes filled with tears from the pain of blisters, not from heartache, as he pushed his feet back into his boots and opened the lute case. He pulled out his beautiful girl. He wouldn’t play her, it would annoy Geralt. He’d always hated Jaskier’s music, although he hated to hear Jaskier sing even more.

Pie with no filling.

Jaskier wished he could play her, though. It was going to break his heart to part with her, and he didn’t think he’d ever played another instrument as fine. If he could, he’d play her every second until he had to sell her.

Probably for the best, though, if he was going to fake his death. She was distinctive.

He brushed a hand over the beautiful wood work on her front. There was a little bit of linseed oil left, and he poured it on the rag he kept in the case and began to work over his girl lovingly. His eyes teared up again, but he fought it back. He would have smashed his lute if it meant helping Ciri. And Geralt.

Jaskier longed for Geralt to forgive him, to take him back and let him stay by his side, but he’d meant what he’d said, bards have a shelf life, and Jaskier’s time was up.

He wished Geralt would at least speak with him, though. His heart was aching. In a completely different sense, so was his chest.

“Play us a tune, bard,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier turned around. Yen and Geralt were sitting beside eachother, close together. She looked so beautiful in her fine cloak that Jaskier wondered how he ever thought he could catch Geralt’s eye when beings like her existed.

“You know,” he said. “It’s late and I wouldn’t want to bother Ciri.”

“Tent’s soundproof,” Yennefer said, waving her hand.

“I mean, really,” Jaskier protested weakly. Disobeying Yennefer’s request/command was like bathing your brain in lava, but Geralt was looking angry again. Some would say there wasn’t much change from Geralt’s normal expression, but Jaskier knew his face better than he knew his own. Something had made Geralt angry or upset. The only possible answer was Jaskier. It was always Jaskier.

“Play us a song, bard,” Yennefer said. “You’ve been so quiet other than stories, I’d almost think you were a doppler, Melitele knows no one could have taught you to shut up.”

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat.

He began, slowly, to pick out a gently tune on his lute. It was a song about winter and home, and he knew the lyrics well. Yennefer had only asked him to play, so he would. His music was at least less offensive than his voice.

He reveled in the feel of his lute beneath his fingers, letting the feeling wash over him, committing it to memory.

When he was finished Yennefer said, “I suppose your voice was tired from your performance, I heard in the town how the bard had played such a long set.”

Jaskier smiled grimly back at her. “Just earning my keep.”

He went to bed, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

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Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @gryffinqueen

@samukai @charlies-dragon I can’t seem to tag, but they’re on the list

#geraksier #adhd Jaskier #the witcher #angst #jaskier #geralt #yennefer #ciri #platonic yennalt #yennefer is a good mom #and deserves nice things #kaer morhen #soon but not yet #emotional hurt/comfort #just hurt now #the comfort is yet to come

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lesdemonium · 4 years ago

Text

romtober day 19: yelling first kiss

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 1977 Summary: Jaskier gets very jealous when Geralt shows interest in someone else.

read on ao3

Jaskier played on, fingering the strings of his lute like he was born to do. The crowd was eating it up--Jaskier had been impeccable at winning their favor. A well-timed wink, a smirk in the right direction, blowing a kiss or two. They were eating right out of his hand, and nearly everyone was dancing, singing, or at the very least stomping their feet. To his crowd, Jaskier was irresistible.

His witcher, however, was another story entirely.

Geralt was not paying attention. This wasn’t entirely surprising--when Jaskier performed, Geralt really only seemed to have a perfunctory interest in what Jaskier was presenting. Though Jaskier ate up any attention he could get, he couldn’t fault Geralt for this. After all, Geralt was his first critic every time, of every song. By the time Jaskier’s songs made it to the public, Geralt had heard every iteration of the lines possible. Even a robust love would temper and fizzle under circumstances such as these, and Geralt had professed no great love for Jaskier’s “pretty lies,” as he often called them.

However, it was not simply that Geralt was not paying attention that was eating at Jaskier--it was that he was paying attention to someone else . Jaskier prided himself on his ability to read a room while also performing, and he had tracked the changes as they were happening.

There, Geralt’s eye was caught by something-- someone --just to the left of Jaskier. At first, Jaskier had giddily mistaken it for a glance in his direction, only to quickly grow hot with shame as he realized that the look was not meant for him at all. As Jaskier turned about the room, he saw the object of Geralt’s interest, and the young man was just as interested back, if his furtive glances were to be believed. Jaskier thought, with no small amount of hope, that this was where things would end. Geralt didn’t often express interest in men, and he even more rarely did anything about his interest.

This time, however, boldness came down to the newcomer. Jaskier missed the moment he stood up--Jaskier had been far too distracted by flirting with a young woman who, in return, gave him a very generous tip. When Jaskier had his wits about him enough to check, the man was gone entirely, only for Jaskier to find him at Geralt’s table.

The worst part, the part that made Jaskier’s heart sink into his chest, was that Geralt was smirking at the man. How many times had Jaskier gone to Geralt with that very same stance, to get nothing but icy stoicism in return? Now this man walked up with half the swagger Jaskier had, like a dimmer, duller version of the bard himself, and he would have the honor of Geralt’s bed?

Jaskier had a performance to attend to. Adoring fans. Pretty women with prettier smiles, handsome men with eyes that sparkled in his direction. Jaskier would just have to hone this energy, this itching beneath his skin, this hurt in his chest, and aim it toward a more worthy nighttime companion. But every time he tried, he caught a snippet of the conversation Geralt and this stranger had, or his eye landed on the way the man was now touching Geralt’s arm, and Jaskier’s blood coursed through him, icy hot and devastating.

He couldn’t decide what he wanted to do, how he could process this better. Should he continue playing, to try to distract himself, or should he end his performance now, leave his audience wanting more, and leave to lick his wounds? The decision was made for him, however, when Geralt and the man left the tavern. There was no continuing after that, after the silent, delicate rush of pain as his heart chipped off just a bit more. Jaskier finished his set, thanked his audience, then retired to their room.

When Geralt found him, Jaskier was nothing more than a lump on the bed, curled up inside himself and pretending to the world he did not exist. Dramatic, certainly. But to fight against one's own heart was futile at best.

Geralt snorted. “Don’t tell me. You drank too much too early, and now you’re already hungover?”

Jaskier didn’t answer. No barb, no sarcastic retort, nothing. He realized, in an absent sort of way, that he probably should have, as that reaction was far more likely to convince Geralt to leave him alone. Still, he said nothing.

“Some lady broke your heart, then?” Geralt teased further. When Jaskier only huffed, Geralt shoved at his shoulder. Jaskier waved him off. “You’re melancholy tonight. Come on. Up.”

His order was paired with a, quite frankly, rude display of strength by pulling Jaskier up and off the bed. Jaskier stumbled as he was forced to his feet, and fell face-first into his witcher, much to his own personal embarrassment. Jaskier shoved Geralt off with a scowl.

“Leave me alone, you great brute!” Jaskier snapped, his hands landing on his hips. “I don’t appreciate you man-handling me in whatever direction you prefer!”

Geralt’s smile was small, but still managed to be shit-eating all the same. “You were on my side.” He shrugged, then pushed past Jaskier and onto the bed.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Jaskier said, stepping in front of Geralt again. “I am not sharing a bed with you. You are--are sweaty and--and.” He paused, and his eyebrows furrowed as he looked at Geralt. Geralt hardly looked as if he had just had a romp in the hay, as it were. He looked entirely too put together, his hair barely even mussed. Not even the slightly swollen lips that would evidence a particularly heated makeout session. “Why do you look so…. Sheveled?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and looked down at himself. “Sheveled?” he repeated.

“You--I saw you! I saw you leave with that man. Why do you look so damn put together?” Jaskier’s hands went back to his hips. Geralt was trying to make Jaskier look like a fool, Jaskier knew it. He would not stand for it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Now, though, he grunted, and avoided Jaskier’s gaze. Instead, he turned his back on Jaskier.

“The hell you don’t! Gods, you must think me the stupidest man alive. I pay attention, Geralt. You can’t just act like I have no clue what I’m talking about whenever I hit on a subject you don’t care for.” Jaskier didn’t want to know, not truly. He couldn’t imagine a subject he wanted less details about than whatever Geralt and this man got up to. But now that he had started in on it, he couldn't stop. He was powerless against himself.

“Jaskier, drop it.”

“No, Geralt, I don’t think I will! You’re the one that condescended to talk to me when I so clearly wanted you to leave me alone , I think it’s only fair that you now have to deal with the consequences of that decision! I saw you . I saw that you were interested in him. So why are you here ? Why are you decidedly unfucked ?”

“Why do you care? What do you need to know of what we did or did not get up to?” Geralt crossed his arms and turned to give Jaskier a hard look, but Jaskier could not stop this forward momentum. Apparently, his mood had turned him self-destructive.

“You go in for that now? You’re so rare about showing affection for men, I had convinced myself you weren’t interested at all! So, what was it about him? Was it his look? I suppose he was handsome, in a common sort of way.” That was a lie. Geralt’s taste truly was beyond reproach, but Jaskier had to dig anyway. “No surprise you like them bold. After all, your last fixation was Yennefer. So, tell me, Geralt. What exactly is your type?”

“What are you--” Geralt started, but Jaskier interrupted him. Jaskier could see the confused look on Geralt’s face, he didn’t want Geralt to voice his questions. Jaskier was half afraid he’d answer them in his tirade.

“And then you don’t even fuck him! Even he wasn’t good enough for the great Geralt of Rivia? Is anyone? No, you just need to exert your own might over everyone. Get their hopes up and then leave and go back to your own room as if nothing happened!”

“You’re mad that I didn’t have sex with him?” Geralt sounded amused. Jaskier did not find the humor in this.

“‘I’m the White Wolf, I’m ridiculously handsome with a body sculpted right from the Gods themselves, I like to force bards out of beds when it suits my needs and force them to talk and when I leave with someone I don’t fuck them because all I really want to do is make people fall in love with me and remain cooly detached from everyone because I apparently get off on it .’”

He wasn’t aware of when he started yelling, but he was definitely yelling at Geralt now. And all Geralt did in return was smile at Jaskier. It infuriated him further. Jaskier would have much preferred if Geralt took the bait and yelled back, turned this into a ridiculous fight. Instead, he smiled. He looked as if he was trying not to laugh. And, oh, if that didn’t make Jaskier feel as if he was on fire.

“Jaskier, are you jealous?” Geralt asked, and his smile turned crooked.

“Of course I’m not jealous!” Jaskier retorted. His face felt hot as the embarrassed flush spread over his whole body. “You are a brute! You just--just do whatever you want with no regard for how those around you might feel. It’s-It’s selfish, it is! And I will not put up with it, and-and--” He stopped, abruptly, and suddenly he felt short on air. Jaskier was so worked up, he could hardly focus on anything beyond the way Geralt was stepping closer to him.

“Why do you care what I did or didn’t do with him?” Geralt asked, and his voice was soft. So soft, so gentle, something in Jaskier’s brain broke.

“Because it wasn’t me !” he exploded back, and closed his eyes in his shame. There would be no coming back from this. Not from the yelling, from the odd ranting, nor from the confession. Jaskier wished more than he had ever wished for anything to just be burned on the spot.

Instead, though, he heard Geralt come closer. He felt the warmth of Geralt’s hand just before it delicately cupped Jaskier’s jaw, turning his head just the slightest bit up. Jaskier melted into the kiss, his bones turning loose, liquid, as he stumbled forward into Geralt’s chest again and grabbed at something, anything, to hold onto. Jaskier’s fingers twisted into the soft, worn fabric of Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt caught him with a hand around his waist.

If they had stayed there even a moment longer, Jaskier would have forgotten his own name. He didn’t think he needed it anymore.

“It wasn’t you,” Geralt agreed. They pulled away, only to breathe, which hardly seemed worth it to Jaskier now. Geralt’s words were hot on Jaskier’s lips and it took a moment before Jaskier’s brain caught up.

“Of all the times to kiss me, you choose when I’m hysterical and yelling at you?” Jaskier groused, but his words held no bite. Especially not when paired with the desperate way he was pecking at Geralt’s lips.

“I wasn’t sure. You’ve never been so jealous before.”

“He… reminded me. Of me. But you liked him , I didn’t think you liked me .”

Geralt hummed, and captured Jaskier in another long, thorough kiss. “I do,” Geralt said, after, and Jaskier almost forgot what they were talking about. That was okay, too. Jaskier had done quite enough talking tonight.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfic #the witcher #my writing #romtober

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Text

A Lover’s Kiss

Summary: After an unfortunate encounter with a mage, Jaskier finds himself cursed to never be kissed again unless he can find someone who loves him. Enter Geralt. (Also on my AO3)

Based on the prompt: A little bit of the bards chaotic behaviour getting him into some curse and Geralt saving the day? by @innocentcinnamonpun

Geralt swore as he approached the tavern where he’d left Jaskier. He could hear the brawling from the street and the sound drew out a long heavy sigh from the witcher. He hadn’t been away on the hunt long, it was why Jaskier had opted to stay behind to play his lute for coin instead. It was supposed to be the less dangerous place to be, and yet Jaskier had a penchant for trouble that Geralt just couldn’t fathom.

He consider drawing his sword before entering the tavern but that would most likely get them both in trouble. If he was lucky he’d be able to grab Jaskier by the scruff of his neck and pull them both out of there before any real damage was done. He huffed and double checked the fastenings on his armour before pushing open the door to the tavern.

As expected, Jaskier was in the middle of the fray. His doublet was torn open and he was pressed up against the wall by a cloaked individual who had a hand gripped around Jaskier’s neck. Geralt snarled and crossed the room, his presence creating a familiar silence in the tavern.

“Leave him be.” He growled.

The cloaked figure, a blonde woman with a freckled face and soft brown eyes, laughed a cold humourless laugh. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because whatever it is that you think he’s done. I can assure you he’s not worth it.” Geralt shot a weary glare at his friend.

Jaskier’s cheeks were flushed, presumably from too much wine, and his bright blue eyes were twinkling in the candle light.

“Geralt!” He grinned which was quite frankly a foolish reaction for someone who was about thirty seconds from being choked to death. “How was the hunt? Successful I take it.”

Geralt shrugged. “Drowners are dead. More worried about my bard that is currently in a death grip.”

“Shut up!” The woman hissed and Jaskier gasped as her grip tightened. Any protests he may have had were cut off by the lack of air. “Both of you!”

Geralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “What did he do?”

Jaskier croaked and mumbled something intelligible.

“This bastard tried to seduce my wife!” The woman hissed.

Geralt was almost tempted to leave the bard to his fate. How many times did he have to save Jaskier’s life because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself? The rumours of Jaskier being a eunuch hadn’t lasted long as his friend’s insatiable appetite for sexual pleasure had put those rumours to rest rather quickly. Geralt had two options that he could think of, use Axii on the woman and convince her that Jaskier hadn’t even looked at her wife, which was risky in front of a whole tavern, or find a way to put Jaskier’s lecherous ways to a stop, for good.

“I’m afraid there’s been a miscommunication.” Geralt grunted. “The man’s a bard.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” The woman cackled. “I know he’s a bard!”

“And part of his job is to charm people out of their gold.” Geralt continued with a tilt of his head. Jaskier was still gasping which meant he was just about able to breathe but he would probably pass out soon if Geralt couldn’t get the woman to release her grip.

“But not into their beds, witcher!” She snapped, and pressed her fingers harder against Jaskier’s neck.

The bard finally had the decency to look afraid, his startling blue eyes met Geralt’s wide and now full of worry. Geralt scowled and licked his lips.

“An act, I assure you.” He said through gritted teeth, as calmly as he could manage. “Please just let him go.”

“No!”

Geralt panicked as Jaskier’s eyes started to roll back. “We’re married!” He blurted out.

The blonde dropped Jaskier and Geralt caught the bard in his arms. Jaskier gripped onto Geralt’s armour and gasped loudly as he tried to catch his breath. “Geralt!” He mumbled. “Oh gods, I thought I was gone that time.”

The woman folded her arms in front of her chest and watched them both with narrowed eyes. “Married?” She asked.

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist, partly to steady him, and nodded. It was too late to back out now. “Married.” He agreed firmly.

“What?” Jaskier spluttered and Geralt jabbed him in the ribs. “Oh yes, married! I umm… I’m just surprised to hear Geralt say that out loud. We were keeping it a secret.” He muttered before standing up straight and rubbing his neck, wincing as his fingers brushed over tender skin.

Geralt frowned. “Are you alright, Jaskier?”

The bard nodded. “I’ve had worse from jilted lovers…” He paused and grinned mischievously up at Geralt. “Husband.” He sang happily and kissed Geralt firmly on the lips.

Geralt grunted in surprise but allowed Jaskier to kiss him. It wasn’t unpleasant, in fact Jaskier was a good kisser. Geralt suddenly knew why his bard had never struggled to find a partner to warm his bed. Before he knew what was happening, Geralt was kissing back. He found he wanted to kiss Jaskier, which was a shocking revelation to him. Up until that point he’d only really thought of the bard as a friend, and even then he’d never admitted it before now. The vibration of Geralt’s medallion was the only warning he had before he was torn from Jaskier’s lips and pulled violently away from the bard by some unseen force.

“Oi!” Jaskier snapped as he too was flung back against the wall. “I was enjoying that!”

“If you really are married then I assure you there won’t be a problem.” The woman who was apparently some kind of mage hissed. “You, bard, will not be able to kiss or bed anyone who is not in love with you.”

Jaskier spluttered. “Oh yeah, sure, Not a problem. None what so ever!” He smiled too sweetly, trying to regain his composure.

Geralt couldn’t help the faint smile that graced his lips. Now that was one problem solved for the foreseeable future, although he also did not doubt the bard’s ability to make anyone fall in love with him. At least it would put an end to the more casual trysts.

Geralt glowered at the blonde one last time for good measure before grabbing Jaskier’s hand and pulling him away from her. “Whilst I appreciate your concern, witch, if I see your hands on my husband again, there’ll be trouble.” He growled and then tugged Jaskier from the tavern.

They’d barely moved two feet away from the door when Jaskier let out a long groan. “Geralt.” He whined. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Geralt smirked and patted his bard on the shoulder. “You should have thought about that before you tried to sleep with a married woman, again.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you! I’ll have you know that she didn’t tell me!”

“They never do.” Geralt sighed. “Come on, let’s get Roach and move on.”

Jaskier grumbled and pulled on the lute strap across his chest. “Easy for you to say, you’ve not been cursed.”

____________

Jaskier was going mad. It had been three months since his run in with the mage and he hadn’t even been able to go to a brothel to satisfy his more lustful urges. It was like a constant itch just under his skin that he couldn’t scratch. It was irritable and quick to anger, even Geralt was pissing him off more than usual and normally Jaskier had a remarkable tolerance for the witcher’s grumpy moods.

He had hoped that the mage’s curse had been faked but a few failed attempts at even just kissing some truly stunning people had proved his hopes to be false. He hadn’t even had the time to woo anyone. He’d been too busy travelling with Geralt and gathering new stories for his ballads and poems.

It didn’t escape his notice that his last kiss had been the witcher, and oh what a kiss it had been! He hadn’t expected Geralt to kiss him back. He’d simply been taking advantage of the witcher’s lie to satisfy his own curiosity. Honestly, he’d been in love with Geralt since the moment he’d laid eyes on him in Posada but he’d never really expected to have a chance to kiss his crush, so he really couldn’t be blamed for seizing the opportunity when it arose.

He sighed and plucked too harshly at the strings on his lute. The tightest, highest string snapped under his fingers and he yelped. “Bollocks!” He groaned and sucked the now bleeding fingertip.

Geralt looked up from where he was prodding the fire with a stick and sniffed the air. “You’re bleeding?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, I can see that, Geralt.” He hissed and stuck his fingers back in his mouth.

Geralt sighed and crossed the camp in two long strides, taking Jaskier’s wrist gently in his hands and pulling the bleeding fingers from Jaskier’s mouth. He examined the wound carefully and hummed.

“I have some salve if you want but that should heal quickly on its own.” Geralt murmured and gave him a soft smile.

He’d been doing that a lot recently, smiling, especially at Jaskier. It was wreaking havoc with Jaskier’s feelings. His love for Geralt was burning brighter than it had in years. It almost felt like the brand new fire he’d felt in those first few years of travelling. After a while it had dulled to embers, never dying but more manageable and less painful, but now that love resembled a pyre or a brazier, a wildfire that spread through his entire body and there was nothing he could do to put it out.

It probably didn’t help that he couldn’t temper the flames with another warm body in his bed.

He was truly going mad.

He pulled his bleeding fingers from Geralt’s hand and glared at the witcher. “I’m fine, witcher.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re not fine, Jaskier.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and snorted. “Yeah well, whose fault is that?” He snapped. “Married.” He muttered. “You couldn’t have thought of a better excuse?”

Geralt scoffed. “I saved your life, Jaskier.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the witcher and then flailed his arms. “To the contrary! I am dying, Geralt!”

“Stop being so dramatic.” Geralt grumbled.

“I am a bard!” Jaskier pouted. “Bards need to be kissed! To be loved!”

Geralt’s brow furrow and he huffed, spinning around so Jaskier couldn’t see his face.

“Oh yeah sure, just runaway from your mistakes. Again.” He snapped. He winced at his own words. It was a low blow after Cintra but Jaskier wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind. He made a note to apologise later when he’d managed to calm down a bit.

“Fuck.” Geralt growled and then spun around again, freakishly fast. He cupped Jaskier’s face in his hands and pulled Jaskier into a blistering kiss.

Jaskier squeaked, surprised by the sudden movement. Of all the things he’d expected Geralt to do, kissing him had been the last thing on the list. He’d been hoping to get away with not getting punched in the gut again after his cruel words.

But Geralt’s lips were on his and all other thoughts left his head. Geralt was kissing him…

Geralt was kissing him.

He pushed back on Geralt’s chest firmly with an indignant yelp. “Geralt!” He pointed at the witcher accusingly and stumbled back. “You. You kissed me!?”

Geralt blushed. Jaskier hadn’t even realised that was possible for witchers but here was Geralt blushing brighter than a ruby in the sunlight and all because he’d kissed Jaskier. The witcher grunted and stalked over to Roach.

“Oh no. No, no, no. No!” Jaskier trotted after him. “No riding away from me now, Geralt.”

“Shut up Jaskier.” Geralt growled.

“You love me!” Jaskier blurted out and then covered his mouth with his hands to stop a peal of laughter from escaping his lips. “You love me.” He mumbled again.

“Apparently so.” Geralt muttered.

Jaskier beamed at the witcher and bopped him on the nose. “Since when?” He laughed.

Geralt snarled and scrunched up his nose. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “Of course it matters, Geralt. It matters to me.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Jaskier tilted his head and gave the witcher his most charming smile. “Because I would like to know how long we could have been snogging each other senseless for.” He stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?”

“Oh my dear witcher. Surely you know that I love you? I’ve not exactly been subtle with the songs and the whole…” He waved his hands “following you around the Continent thing.”

“What?!” Geralt repeated with wide eyes.

Jaskier sighed and shook his head, taking Geralt’s hand in his. “I love you, Geralt. I have loved you since the moment I saw you. So forgive me for wondering when you began to feel the same way.”

“Not sure. Some time after the mage and the curse.” He grumbled. “Maybe before that. I never did like it when you fucked around.”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh ho ho! Geralt were you jealous?”

“No!” The witcher snarled. “Maybe.”

Jaskier couldn’t take it anymore he squeezed Geralt’s hand and leaned in for another kiss. Neither of them were surprised this time. It wasn’t as heated as the last kiss, they knew they could finally take their time to relish in the feeling. The kiss was slow and filled with all the yearning that had followed Jaskier around for years. He poured his heart and soul into the kiss hoping Geralt would see that it was alright to love him, that he didn’t need to hide it.

Geralt hummed as they pulled away. Jaskier opened his eyes to find his friend gazing at him with gorgeous amber eyes, smiling that half smile that drove Jaskier mad. “You love me.” Geralt murmured as his fingers stroked Jaskier cheek.

Jaskier nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “I do. I always have.”

Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s and closed his eyes. Jaskier smiled and chuckled, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist. “She was right then.”

“Who was right, darling?”

“The curse. It won’t be a problem after all.” Geralt laughed quietly at the revelation and Jaskier soon joined in before pulling the witcher into another kiss.

The first of many, he hoped.

Tag List: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @awitchersbard @genkitaco

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #wolfie's witcher writing #a lover's kiss #I wrote this during Skyrim loading screens today #i hate skyrim loading screens #Sorry it took a while!

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pressedinthepages · 4 years ago

Text

Breeze

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: reader request: [Hello! I read that you would like to write something other than x reader from time to time, so I have a (hopefully cute 😳) Geraskier-request for you: Geralt saving money and surprising Jaskier with buying him his own horse. And Jaskier is deeply moved by that action (maybe he's crying) and Geralt just laughs and gives him cuddles/kisses him. 😌] awe dumb softe bois

also thanks to @sometimesiwrite for being a wonderful beta :)

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: mild language, ~yearning~, geralt has to use his voice to communicate

Two idiots and a horse get another horse.

“Geraaaalt. Why aren’t we staying at the inn? I can literally see it from here, the soft bed and the warm bath beckoning to me through the dark. ‘Come to me, Jaskier,’ it’s saying, Geralt. It’s not like we’re strapped for coin, either. The alderman actually paid you pretty well for that bear ghost-”

“Barghest.”

“Yes, yes, exactly. But back to my earlier line of inquiry. I ask again, why in the shit are we staying out in the middle of the woods for what feels like the thousandth night in a row?”

Geralt sighs, staring up at the stars on the clear night. “I’m trying to save my coin.”

Jaskier scoffs, drawing a raise of the brow from the Witcher. “For what, pray tell?”

“New armor.”

“Oh, so the Witcher can get new armor every other week and it’s fine, but when I go and buy a new outfit for a performance, it’s a ‘waste of coin, Jaskier?’”

` Geralt hums with finality, listening as Jaskier just continues prattling on. There’s no real heat behind it though, and Geralt does feel bad making Jaskier rough it out here with him. But he knows that if he lets the bard wander into town on his own, Geralt will end up having a much larger and more annoying mess to clean up.

“Jaskier,” Geralt hums, listening as he stops his ranting. “Come get some sleep, I’d like to get down to Blackbough by the new moon.”

Jaskier huffs in response before he undoes the little buttons down the front of his doublet. He shucks it off of his shoulders and drapes it over a log on the ground, rolling up the sleeves on his chemise up to his elbow. Geralt tries quite desperately not to watch, but his eyes are drawn to every new inch of skin revealed under the low light of the embers.

Jaskier’s bedroll flaps loudly as he sets it between Geralt and the fire. He plops down onto it, stretching out and turning to face Geralt. The Witcher peers over at him, admiring quietly the way that the last few sparks of light dance over the high planes of his cheeks.

“Ah, Geralt. Another day, put to rest. Sleep well, dear Witcher.” Jaskier turns over with his back to Geralt, scooching back a bit, close enough that Geralt can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Geralt hums, his fingers flexing at his sides, itching to touch, to hold, to gather Jaskier into his arms and never let him go.

Instead, Geralt only gives a whispered, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

***

The sky is black when they do finally arrive in Blackbough, bespeckled with stars far and wide. Jaskier leans against a post while Geralt checks over the notice board in the center of town, the bard kicking off one boot and digging his thumb into the tender skin of his sole.

“Fuck, Geralt. My feet are exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I would happily trot along at your side until the end of my days, but I may need to invest in some new boots sooner rather than later if that’s to be the case,” Jaskier groans, sliding his foot back into the soft leather of his boot. Geralt hums as he tears a slip of parchment from the board, watching it flutter between his fingers.

“Wind’s howling,” Geralt rumbles, tucking the parchment into his pack atop Roach.

“Yes, dear Witcher,” Jaskier’s hair flaps about his face, “thank you for the weather update.”

“Why don’t-” Geralt starts, peering over at the bard. “Why don’t you head to the tavern, see if they’ll let you play for a night in a room. I’ll be out scouting this contract, so you should absolutely stay here.”

Jaskier looks back at the little building, noting the light shining from the windows and the voices still floating in the din of the evening. He nods, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at the lack of argument. “Oh shut it, Geralt,” Jaskier grins, “you know that I would typically be more than happy to traipse through spooky fog and poky underbrush. Alas, I am fucking tired. So, on this one occasion, I will admit that you are right.”

Geralt gives one of his rare smiles, a cheeky turn of the corner of his lip, and turns to lead Roach out of town. “I’ll come collect you in the morning. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Jaskier scoffs half-heartedly, swinging his lute case around as he turns towards the tavern. Geralt listens to be sure that Jaskier is secure in the building before he changes course, heading instead to a large structure situated just on the edge of town.

***

Geralt stands in Jaskier’s room, surrounded by the dulcet tones of his deafening snoring. He has called out to the bard several times, but nothing has been able to wake him. That is, nothing until Geralt decides to grab a sweet bun from the innkeeper and a cup of steamy tea.

Jaskier hums when he smells the herbs next to his face, smiling a bit when he sees Geralt brooding in the corner. Jaskier takes a great bite out of the pastry, moaning quite obscenely at the taste. “Have a nice night, Geralt?”

Geralt hums, gathering Jaskier’s stuff from around the room. By the Gods, he was only here for a few hours. There is a doublet over a chair, trousers on the dresser, one boot by the door and one by the fireplace, and blankets and furs all over the place.

“Alright, Bard. Let’s go, I have something to pick up before we leave town.” Geralt chucks the pants to Jaskier. They hit him square in the face before falling into his lap, revealing quite the impressive side-eye.

Jaskier sighs, sipping his tea as he goes about getting dressed. Geralt watches once more, chuckling to himself as Jaskier tries to ruffle his hair into something that doesn’t quite resemble a harpy’s nest.

The two of them head out of the tavern soon after, the morning sun greeting them through the dew. “Geralt, where’s Roach?”

“Stable.”

Jaskier responds by strumming a chord on the lute with a look over to Geralt, confirming his permission to play for the time being. Geralt gives a short nod of the head and Jaskier begins, something quiet and slow as the world warms in the dawn.

The stableboy sees them approaching and ducks inside, leaving Geralt and Jaskier standing alone. Geralt closes his eyes and just listens to the tune that Jaskier hums, relaxing into the sweet tone that drips like rainwater off of a fresh flower.

The stableboy comes back out, followed closely by Roach and a second horse. She is palomino blonde and slender with a spring in her step. Jaskier quirks his brow at the latter, stepping confidently towards the stablehand, who most certainly does not get paid enough for this.

“Thank you sir, but it’s just Roach for us. Geralt, would you mind-”

Geralt tosses the kid an extra coin as he takes both sets of reins, passing the palomino to Jaskier. But Jaskier only looks at him, even when he gives the soft leather a good shake in the bard’s direction. Roach butts Geralt on the shoulder, wisely prompting him to use his words. “She’s uh...she’s your horse, Jask.”

“What? Geralt, I don’t have a horse. Did you get hit on the head or something, you silly Wi-”

“I bought her, Jaskier. I bought her for you.”

Jaskier finally shuts up, taking the reins from Geralt’s hand with a tentative grip. The palomino steps closer to Jaskier, snuffling his hair. He giggles, setting something quite tender alight in Geralt’s heart.

“Geralt, I-I don’t quite know what to say...I thought you needed new armor?” Jaskier’s voice is quiet as he scritches along the horse’s nose.

Geralt shakes his head, fiddling with the straps on Roach’s saddle. “No. Wanted this to be a surprise.”

Jaskier goes silent, and Geralt can’t quite bring himself to look over at him. But then Jaskier sniffles and Geralt looks up, finding tears on his cheeks and a soft look in his eyes.

“You-you got her for me?”

Geralt nods, struck by a sudden boldness. He moves forward, grabbing the soft fabric of Jaskier’s doublet at his wrist. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. You-” Geralt huffs, grappling for words. “You’re far too important to me.”

“I-do I need to actively hold onto the reins all of the time, Geralt?”

“No, why?”

“Because I would very much like to kiss you right now, and I would love to have both hands free for that.” Geralt’s eyes widen a bit and he nods, his breath catching as Jaskier drops the reins and surges into him. Jaskier’s lips are so much softer than Geralt had ever let himself imagine, and his fingers in Geralt’s hair feel like the closest thing that he will ever get to true paradise.

They part, but only far enough to look each other in the eyes. Geralt looks into those eyes, the clearest blue rivers rushing to raging seas. Geralt’s hands rest on Jaskier’s hips, his thumb rubbing little circles into his sides. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead onto Jaskier’s, reveling in the way that Jaskier’s heart speeds up and his breathing tightens a bit in his embrace.

“Thank you, Geralt. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” Jaskier whispers, light as a feather between their lips.

Geralt hums once more, still holding fast to the bard. “We should be leaving soon.”

“Can I have another kiss?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can hear the smirk in his words.

“I suppose,” Geralt smiles as he leans back into him.

#geraskier #fluff #THESE TWO #i love them

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atomicblasphemy · 3 years ago

Text

Eda becomes some kind of flying taxi service

Amity: So I told Malphas he needed to have a talk with Gary about our coffee break space.

Emira: Mhmm.

Amity: I mean, for one, Gary never cleans after himself. Like, I once saw him leaving his mug dirty for over a week. A WEEK. It was disgusting. It was just sitting dare on the table for days. I didn’t want to clean it, I’m not a doormate. But it was dire and I had no choice. And don’t get me started on the fridge situation. My lunch has been getting smaller by the day and I can’t seem to figure out the culprit.

Emira: That’s nice, Mittens. Isn’t it nice, Edric?

Edric: What?

Amity: Will you guys pay attention? I need some advice on...

*Windows cracking”

Edric: What the...

Hooty: AMITY FELICITY BLIGHT! IT IS I, HOOTCIFER, HARBINGER OF THY DESTINY. COME WITH ME AND I SHALL REVEAL WHAT JOYS THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR THEE.

Amity: I... What?

Hooty: DOTH THOU DARE DEFY FATE? *Swallows Amity*

Emira: ... What just happened? Wasn’t that Eda’s house demon? You know, the one we met before Grom?

Edric: I think it was. I’m not sure though, he sounded more... ominous...

SEVERAL EMOTIONAL MOMENTS LATER

Luz: It’s early... Do you really have to go already?

Amity: Yeah... I still have to finish homework, and I have work tomorrow. But I’ll come back here tomorrow... If you’re okay with it, that is...

Luz: YES! I mean... yeah, I’d love that...

Amity: Anyway... I guess I should get going, we’re not exactly neighbors after all. See you tomorrow then.

Luz: Wait, I have an idea. *Turns around* EDA!

Eda: *Not stopping her flight practice* What?

Luz: Do you think you could give Amity a lift back to her place?

Eda: Oh? Not walking your girlfriend home? Thought you’d be more chivalrous.

Luz: *Showing that Amity’s tomato like properties are infectious* EDAAA!

Eda: Sorry, sorry. But yeah, sure. *Picks up Amity and flies away at neckbreaking speeds. She soon slows down to a more reasonable pace* So... Amity, before I give you that whole “What are your intentions?” scare there’s something I’ve been itching to ask you. What made you chose to dye your hair of all colors, and how did Odd-alia react?

Amity: Luz... Me... Girlfriend...

Eda: Ugh... Don’t make me regret making harmless fun of young love, kiddo.

ONE AWKWARD TAXI EDA FLYING SESSION LATER.

Eda: *Placing Amity on the Blight Manor’s front porch and looking at the two bewildered faces watching her* Sup. *Turns to fly away* Oh right, I guess purple here is in not in the mental state to give any explanations.

Amity: Small ceremony... Human realm... Only friends and family... Boscha is not invited...

Emira: Are you... Edalyn Clawthorne?

Eda: Last I checked I was.

Emira: You look different.

Eda: Oh right... Look, it was a very eventful night so let me start with the simpler one. King, you remember him, right? Tiny, angry, looks like a cat, was the MC at the last Grom along with Goops.

Emira and Edirc: Yeah...?

Eda: He’s harnessing all the powers of yelling. I guess all children his age kinda do that but he went above and beyond and actually learned how to make things go boom with his voice alone, and that’s why both Luz and your sister are still alive. And now I’m realizing I should probably go hide all those Death Metal records I got in human realm. Can’t risk turning my son into a weapon of mass destruction. Not yet.

Edric: That’s... nice... I guess?

Emira: How about Mittens?

Eda: Right. She and Luz are an item now. It was adorable, I called her Luz’s girlfriend then I think it finally really hit her and that made her go all catatonic on me. Sorry about that.

Edric: WHAT?

Emira: Okay, okay... So came out with it? Ed and I have some scores to settle.

Eda: I... Both, I guess? I don’t know, it was sort of at the same time. But I don’t want to spoil it for when she recovers. So I guess us three are kinda family now, huh? Tangentially at least, like you’re my nephew and niece-in-law or something like that, I don’t know.

Eda: The important thing is: there’s a huge waterway under my house and I think it is actually part of my property. Now I need to figure out a way to find out how big that place actually is without letting town hall know so my taxes won’t go up. Can’t push my tax evasion skills. I mean, can you imagine it? The Owl Lady, the most successful outlaw in Boiling Isles history: arrested for fiscal crimes.

Emira: Okay... That’s... cool.

Edric: Yeah... Not to pry though, but what happened to you?

Eda: Oh... Me? I got very high. Not on purpose. Then I became a Harpy. Also not on purpose.

Emira: ... I’m sorry but I’m not following the cause and effect relation between those thing.

Eda: Neither am I. All I remember is: Hooty spiked some cookies; I revisited that time I gauged out my dad’s eye, also not on purpose; then when I push my ex away (You know, Raine Whispers, current head of the Bard Coven, lead a small revolutionary guerrilla, now under mind control. Oh, yeah, guess they’d make to sure to keep it under wraps, anyway...)

Eda: Then it got pretty weird. I got trapped by this tall hooded sun and moon figure and I’m not sure whether that was an actual memory (I did get arrested a few time after all) or if it was just a hallucinogenics induced manifestation of the subconscious trauma of being persecuted for years by the state. Anyone’s guess to which was it.

Eda: And then I became Icarus, fell into the sea, and became a piece of paper. Then I was at the beach, the piece of paper was also there, but that’s not important... I hope... Anyway, so, my curse was there too an for a moment there I thought we were gonna play some chess, but nah.

Eda: I did have an epiphany though. The sky changed colors and now I’m a Harpy. Gotta a lot of stuff to process right.

Edric: *Wide eyed and mouth agape* Mother of Titan...

Emira: *Same as her brother* Do you... need a hug or something?

Eda: Ehh... Don’t worry, I’ll get through. I mean, I’m a badass Harpy woman now, what else could I want? I appreciate the thought though. Anyway, I’ll get going, Luz has probably been stuck in the same place ever since I left. Was nice seeing you guys. *Turns around*

Edric: WAIT, EDA.

Eda: Yeah? What is it?

Edric: Can you take me flying a little bit like you did Mittens? Pretty please?

Emira: *Elbowing her brother* EDRIC!

Edric: What? There’s a tall and friendly winged lady standing in our front porch and calling us family...

Eda: Kinda family.

Edric: Kinda family. And we only went flying, on dad’s staff mind you, like twice. And I mean, look at her. That’s clearly a person with next to no regard for speed limits or any form of flying safety. *Turns to Eda* I mean that as the highest of compliments, by the way.

Eda: *Nodding and smiling* Well, I’m not one to brag... But you’re on point there.

Edric: *Turning back to Emira* See? It will be fun. *Turns back to Eda while making puppy eyes* So, pretty pretty please?

Eda: Eh... What the heck, why not? I do need to get a better hold of this flying thing after all. Fair warning though, I only had these for about an hour, I’m not taking responsibility for any loss of limb or life. *Picks Edric up and place him on one of her shoulders and turns to Emira.* You sure you don’t wanna come with? There’s plenty of room.

Emira: ... I never said I didn’t want to...

Eda: *Placing Emira on her other shoulder* Alritty then, make sure to hold on tight to my hair, just don’t fall into it. Can’t promise I’ll find you if you do. And up we go. *Takes off at neckbreaking speed*

Eda: So... I tried that to Mittens herself, but she was too lost in elation to form coherent sentences. What’s the deal with her hair color change? Why did she pick that specific shade of... pink? Lavender? Purple? Whatever, I was a tad curious about that choice coming from one of Odd-alia’s offspring. So either of you can shed some light on it for me?

Emira: Eh, what can I say? Our little Mittens is growing up, coming out of her shell. I mean, if you told me a month that she’d have a girlfriend by now I’d call it bullshit. Though I would have guessed Luz as being the most likely candidate. In any case, I’m pretty proud of the steps our baby sister is taking, not gonna lie.

Edric: Yeah... Same. But I can’t shake the feeling that it is at least in part an act of rebellion against mom. She did always have that weird fixation with Amity’s hair after all...

Eda: Hum, I see. This actually takes me to my follow up question. How did your mom react when she saw it?

Edric: *chuckling* Oh, I thought she’d have a stroke right then and there.

Emira: Yup. Never saw mom that mad. You’d think the two of us would be the ones to cause it but nope, Mittens beat us to it. Again, I’m a proud big sister.

Eda: Hehehe Sounds about right. You two are the troublemaking type then huh?

Edric: That’s a way of putting.

Emira: We like thinking of ourselves as practical entertainers however. We are in the Illusions track so it comes with the territory. Buuut...

Edric: We indulge in some prankery every now and then, and there’s no one better at it than us.

Eda: Is that so? Ever get in trouble for it?

Edric: Sometimes... When we (kind of accidentally) cause more property damage than intended because SOMEONE botched their end of the spell and caused Bump’s office to almost go up in flames.

Emira: Awww. Ed, I told you already. Don’t beat yourself over it. Accidents happen. You’ll do better next time.

Edric: HEY!

Emira: Anyway, Eda. Why were you asking about Mittens’ hair?

Eda: Oh... You guys are going to love this. I think. Anyway, did you know that me and your parents attended Hexside at the same time?

Edric: Yeah, I remember mom seeing one of your wanted posters a while back and calling you “Ewdalyn Clownthorne” or something like that.

Eda: Ah, haven’t heard that in a minute, Titan those were the day. Anyway, as you might have guessed by now me and your mother we... had a bit of a rivalry. Unfortunately, I couldn’t top the nickname she gave me, best I could do was Odd-alia. No offense, but Blight doesn’t give much to work with in terms of puns, can’t get funnier than that. Especially when thrown at her.

Emira: None taken. And yeah. I mean, it is fun when people call us stuff like “The Blights of Hexside”. But it is kinda sad to know we’ll never get a nickname as cool as Owl Lady or Lord Calamity.

Eda: Oh, my fame still precedes me huh? You know, I think the three of us will get along just fine.

Edric and Emira: Yup, we sure will.

Eda: Anyway, flattery aside... Part of the reason why I love poking your mom with a short stick was, other than how aggravated she’d get and how surprisingly good at paying in kind she was, the fact that she was in the Oracle track. You see, that made her a challenge. And given how she would actually prank me back (successfully, mind you, I have no shame in admitting that) I feel like like we actually a weird sort of friends, or at least we reached some kind of agreement that we were fair game for each other. And trust me, she was ruthless, and very good at escalating things.

Emira: Wow...

Edric: That sounds nothing like the mom we know. Other than the ruthless or the escalation part, that is still true.

Eda: Yeah, anyway. Part of our little game was keeping it hidden. Neither your dad or my sister actually ever realized what was going on until... well, I’ll get to that.

Eda: Anyway, so some lovely day I notice how weirdly obsessed with her hair Odd-alia was. This gives me some ideas, but I know I have make this the mother of pranks, so I decided to just keep a watch, to figure out what the best way to go about it would be. And I was also making those smaller pranks, something to throw her Oracle powers off-balance, you know?

Eda: Well... Back in the day your mother wasn’t monochromatic as she is nowadays. She’d circle through all colors you can think off on her accessories (which she used an ungodly amount, and no judgement it just never seems physically possible). But I noticed that there was one very specific color that she never got anywhere near her.

Edric and Emira: No way...

Eda: And as I said, she was weirdly obsessed with her hair... And as top student of the Potions track making hair dye was child’s play for me... So... do the math... And guess what very specific color was? I may be bad at color names, but I won’t ever, EVER, forget that particular shade.

Edric and Emira: No... freaking... way...

Eda: Yes... freaking... way... I mean, seriously, the first time I saw Amity’s new hair I had to do a double take. The resemblance was just too uncanny.

Emira: And what did she do?

Eda: Well... For a couple weeks there I thought I’d have to place a restriction order on her or something like that. Ultimately the two of us, along with Lilith and Alador (they were our attorneys, no they were not qualified for the role.) sitting across from each other in a very formal looking table, signing a contract. An actual freaking contract setting clear limits to our mutual pranks, like what was off limits like her hair or my then partner, how long was the maximum period a prank could last, so on. Surprisingly enough that was Al’s idea.

Eda: And let me tell you, that was probably the toughest negotiation I ever been a part of. Shame it was not long before I dropped out so never could really put it to use. You know, sometime I think this actually made Odd-alia realize she wanted to be a business woman. I mean, before that she’d go off about how she’d join the Emperor’s Coven all the damn time.

Edric: Wow...

Emira: I second that. Really, wish I had brought something I could take notes on. You completely blown anything we ever did out of the water.

Edric: No wonder she never told us that. You know what? I think I’m dying my hair that color first thing tomorrow.

Emira: Can we tell Amity this story?

Eda: Are you two actually thinking of antagonizing her? Are you crazy? First off, she’s your mother, she holds power over you. All you’d accomplish is getting grounded. Not to mention that she has decades of experience on you, even if she wasn’t your mom, she’d demolish the two of you. No offense, you’re still young, naive, you lack guidance in the ways of the pranksters.

Edric and Emira: *Dejectedly* Ohh... You’re right...

Eda: Hey... Don’t look so gloomy. I see a lot of potential in you, in both of you. *Sighs* I can’t believe I’m gonna take more kids under my wing... But.... Have you guys ever heard of the Bad Girl Coven Initiative? We annoy our foes into submission.

Edric and Emira: WE’RE LISTENING.

Eda: Heh... We’ll get along just fine indeed.

#THE OWL HOUSE #the owl house hooty #Edric Blight #Emira Blight #amity blight #luz noceda #king clawthorne #the owl house boscha #raine whispers #I lost track of what was trying to accomplish halfway though writing this. read at your own discretion.

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wolf-and-bard · 4 years ago

Text

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

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Good Vibrations

Thank you to @permanently-exhausted-witcher for that Geralt edit yesterday! You really did me a solid and, as promised, I have written you the fic! I love stoner aus (because I myself am a bit of a stoner) and this was so much fun to write. Thank you for the prompt, boo!

Good Vibrations - The Beach Boys

tw: drug use, marijuana only, horny

---

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Jaskier asks. “They’re all...red.”

“Yeah, that can happen,” Geralt replies. The room Geralt had rented before Jaskier even reached the mid-sized Redanian town was unusually cushy. His Witcher’s tastes were usually more spartan in nature and the bard was curious as to why he’d chosen such a place to stay for the two of them. And why it smelled so weirdly sweet and skunky at the same time.

“Did you burn incense or something? It smells weird in here.”

“Not quite,” the Witcher giggles. Fucking giggles. “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

Jaskier crosses the room and sets his pack and Sexy down next to the bedside table. He perches on the edge of the mattress next to his favorite Witcher and waits patiently for the strange red-eyed ailment to be explained. Geralt giggles again and puts a finger to his lips, signalling for secrecy. Another small, happy sound finds its way between his lips and Jaskier can’t help but smile encouragingly in response.

“I’m high.”

“What?”

“Lambert found a huge field full of the dankest kush behind Kae-”

“Hold on.”

“Huh?” Geralt looks over to Jaskier again and finds the bard looking positively flabbergasted.

“Did you just say the words dankest kush?”

“Yes, I did. It’s really good shit. Do you want some wax? It’s all I brought because it’s easier to travel with.”

Jaskier considers for a moment, running his hand along his smooth chin as if pretending to stroke a beard. Geralt is gazing at him with eager eyes and his hands are clenching and unclenching in the sheets beneath him. The bard has never tried this particular substance before but if Geralt is offering it then it’s probably not something that will kill him or make him sick. He nods, brown bangs flopping in and out of his eyes as he does, “Sure, I’ll try a bit.”

The Witcher’s face lights up in a new and unfamiliar way, like he’s truly relaxed for the first time since Jaskier has met him, and he breathes out a soft: “Excellent.”

Geralt pulls a strange, jointed glass contraption, half-full with water, from beneath the bed and removes a tiny tin (almost small enough to be a lip-rouge tin, it looks like) from his bag. Using a small metal pick, the Witcher takes a glob of some odd yellow, sticky substance and transfers it from the tin to a protruding stem on the glass thingy. “What is all this?”

“It’s called a dab, Jaskier. It gets you high in a different way than just smoking the herb.”

“Can’t say I’ve really tried this before,” the bard shrugs. “So for now it’s all the same.”

“Really?” The Witcher seems extremely surprised. His grey eyebrows disappear nearly all the way into his hairline; he’s rarely this expressive and Jaskier is reveling in it. “But you’re always so...horny.”

“Thank you for that assessment,” the bard deadpans. He shrugs off his doublet and undoes his chemise where it laces at his throat, letting some of his chest hair peak out. Geralt swallows the growing lump in his throat as his friend mutters, “It’s fucking hot in here.”

“Well yeah, it is now,” Geralt snorts. He can’t seem to stop himself from adding, “It’ll only get hotter if you keep taking your fucking clothes off.”

“Alright, whatever this shit is,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the dab rig, “I want some in me like yesterday. If it can make you, the great and grumpy Geralt of Rivia, joke around so easily then I want to be on the same spiritually transcendent plane.”

Geralt’s brow furrows as he squirrels the tin back into his bag. Without another word he signs for Ignii and watches the amber wax bubble and melt a little in the stem. Geralt breathes in through a tube at the other end of the rig and Jaskier watches a swirl of thin white smoke bubble through the water in the wide glass chamber and into his friend’s lungs. After a moment the Witcher releases the cloud back into the room and that sickly sweet stink returns.

“Your turn,” the Witcher half-coughs, gesturing at the multi-jointed pipe. Jaskier leans forward and mimics his friend, taking a long, hard pull of white smoke. Geralt yanks the dab rig away with a bright laugh. “Fuck, Jask! You’re going to die!”

The bard releases the smoke more quickly than Geralt had, taking the Witcher’s words to heart as he’s compelled into a coughing fit by the strange itching burn of the drug. “G-Geralt! Wh-What the fuck!?”

“Are you okay?”

There’s already a pleasant, tingling buzz settling at the back of Jaskier’s skull and behind his eyes. He breathes through the cramps in his chest and settles more firmly against the mattress. He feels soft. Pliant. “I feel like a…”

Geralt waits a moment to hear what Jaskier feels like but the sentence never ends. The Witcher glances over to find his friend, glassy-eyed and silent, staring down at his palms where they rest atop his thighs. Oh. Jaskier is high. Like really fucking high. And he’s only taken one little hit.

Geralt has had four.

The bemused Witcher sets the now-empty dab rig on the table and tugs Jaskier closer so that their thighs are nearly touching but not quite. The bard looks up from his hands, startled, and allows himself to be moved. “Oh, hello again. Geralt?”

“Yes, Jaskier?”

“You’ve been smiling this whole time,” the bard muses. His voice sounds dreamy and far away, half a register higher than usual. “Are you going to die? Is that why we’re doing this? Why have you gotten a nicer room than usual, one that I would like, and why are you giving me this...stuff? Is it all so you can break the news to me that you’re dying of some strange Witchery ailment?”

“No, it’s the drugs,” Geralt replies. “They make me feel very relaxed. They make my mind a little quieter. I got the nice room because I had a little extra coin and I thought...I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Thank you.

“You’re welcome.”

“I can feel so much,” Jaskier sighs. Geralt glances over at him again, watching his long fingers swirling against the soft material of his high-waisted trousers.

“I’d like to feel you.”

“Huh?” Jaskier looks dazed. Geralt slowly lowers his large hand, settling it against the top of the bard’s unoccupied thigh.

“You always look and smell so soft,” Geralt murmurs. “Are you? Are you really always that soft?”

Jaskier glances up. His face breaks out into a wide, dopey grin. “Yeah. I’m really that soft.”

Geralt’s hand is rucking up his shirt a second later, sliding his hand along the smooth skin of Jaskier’s rib-cage and over onto the man’s slightly coarser, hirsute chest. The Witcher is fucking purring. A loud, deep rumble comes fluttering out of his chest as he caresses the man beside him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs. “Yes, like that.”

“It’s been so long; I’ve missed you.”

The Witcher’s lips seek out and sink against his bard’s. The two men slide down against the pillows and adjust until both are shirtless and tangled together. Jaskier is resting with his head against Geralt’s chest, his fingers swirling through the silvery hair, and Geralt’s hand is buried in the thick brown hair atop Jaskier’s head.

To the bard’s extreme surprise, his Witcher begins to sing very softly above him.

“I - I love the colorful clothes he wears;

And the way the sunlight plays upon his hair.

I feel the sound of a gentle word

On the wind that lifts his perfume through the air.”

“Are you singing about me?”

“Hmm.”

“Did you write a song about me?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Geralt chuckles, “I overheard it at a tavern on my way north and it happened to remind me of you.”

“So you memorized it?”

There’s another lazy hum from the Witcher and Jaskier feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“That’s so incredibly sweet of you, my love.”

“Well, you’re incredibly sweet. Only makes sense.”

“Kiss me again, Geralt. I swear that I’ll die if you don’t.”

“No dying on me, bard,” the Witcher orders, dragging his lover up his chest and pressing their mouths urgently together. “Never.”

“Let’s have some more of this stuff,” Jaskier suggests breathlessly. “And then see what happens. I’m feeling very...touchy.”

Geralt grins and reaches for his bag.

#geraskier stoner au #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fic #geraskier fluff #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #geraskier prompts #thank you for the good edits #that was everything i needed #ily #geraskier stoner #weed mention #drug tw #drug mention #stoner geralt #dabs

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wolfish-trickster · 4 years ago

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Lost traveler

5/?

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 1 573

Tag list: @gaitwae @lucywrites02 @hard-to-be-the-bard @birdgirl90 @laramoonworld

Summary: A mysterious traveler visits Asgard and thanks to an accident has to stay for longer than she expected. Bonds are created but also shattered along the way.

A/N: reader has elemental powers, something like avatar the last airbender.

Sun was finally setting. Chirping of birds was replaced by owls howling. A cold breeze ruffled your hair. The entire forest became calmer. You loved it.

You wanted to be alone for a few while and enjoy the tranquility of the night time. So you volunteered to gather wood for bonfire.

Unfortunately Thor and Fandral went with you, more to show off their muscles than help you. Both of them were....odd. They wanted to be around you all the time, telling you of their strength and abilities (Thor wanted to show you some of his lightnings but got quickly turned down by Loki) and generaly tried to impress you.

You soon found out that Thor is a god of thunder, not a lightning thrower like you previously thought. Loki was god of mischief and chaos.

Sif told you she was to be the goddess of fertility but thretened you to keep it a secret

The rest were also gods, but they didn't have a certain domains like princes. They were just warrior gods.

When you returned with arms full of twigs and branches Loki, Volstagg, Hogun and Sif were already sitting around a circle made from stones. Loki jumped to help you and all of you started to place one branch after another inside the stone circle.

"I will lit it," Thor annoumced after you finished.

"Thor, I already told you, your powers are unstable. You can't use them otherwise you will hurt everybody around you!" Loki scolded him.

"Relax, it will be alright. Everybody, stay back," Thor pushed you behind him as his fingers started to sparkle. Suddenly a loud noise teared through the air as a giant lightning striked from the sky. But to a nearby tree, not the fire place.

"Perfect Thor, just perfect," Loki took out the fire from the burning tree with his magic. He played around with flames a little while longer. You watched him transform them into a bird and make it fly around you. You giggled at his tricks.

"Show off," Thor spat

"Look who's talking. I'm not the one who took off his shirt whenever she was watching," Loki grinned.

You ignored them and their argument. Your fingers were itching. You desperately wanted to firebend, but you couldn't. Not yet.

Sif nudged you. "They are like giant kids, aren't they?"

"Siblings argue. It's like their specialty," you shrugged.

"You seem like a sibling professional. Do you have one?"

You watched as Loki made the bonfire inbetween arguments. "No, but I met a lot of them on my travels," you both sat down as did the others.

"Speaking of travels, can I ask you something?" Hogun sat to your other side.

"Sure."

Loki plopped down directly opposite of you. "If you want to know where she is from, she won't tell. I tried," he smirked at you.

"I can't reveal everything the first day! Gotta keep some of my secrets," you laughed.

"That was not what I wanted to know. I meant to ask you if you've been to Midgard?" Hogun brought your attention back to him.

"Depends on what it looks like."

"Well," he began, "it's full of forests, animals, small stone villages,-"

"Don't forget mortals," Thor interrupted.

"Mortals?"

Thor nodded. "Aye. They are small, weak, quite dumb."

"From what I've read," Loki slipped in, "they aren't dumb. They are just slow learners."

Thor rolled his eyes. "Where's the difference?"

"The difference is, dear brother mine, that you only have to tell them once to not use their powers."

Thor showed him what you suspect to be a lewd gesture. In response Loki blew him a kiss.

You giggled. "No, I don't think I've been there. Why are you asking? Have you visited it?"

All of them shooktheir heads. "The Allfather forbade us to travel across the nine realms. He says we aren't old enough."

"Oh," you sighed.

"May I ask Astrid?" Volstagg broke the silence. "What is the most interesting place you've visited," Volstagg took his chance

You thought for a while. All of the planets are interesting in their own way. "Hmmm, I don't know. One of the more exciting planets has to be Pandora I guess. I have stayed there with a Na'vi clan and they showed me how to hunt and survive in woods. There are giant mountains hovering in the air with beautiful waterfals and the whole planet glows at night and there are dragons and giant wolves and spiritual trees," you counted down from memmory.

"Sounds exciting indeed. I must visit it someday," Loki mused.

"You must! It's really easy to find it. It's a blue planet rotating around a gas giant."

"So it is techicaly a moon, correct?"

"Yeah, it is," you said excitedly. You finaly had someone to talk to. Frigga was right, you will find a friwnd among them.

"Booo, nerds," Sif made fun of you two. "Now tell me, are at least these Na'vi guys handsome and strong? You can hardly find any good material among this," she gestured to boys sitting around fire.

"I will preted I haven't heard that," Fandral brushed his fingers through his hair.

"If you are into blue giants," you shrugged.

The atmosphere changed suddenly. It was no longer lighthearted and playful. All of them had a stone hard cold stare. You shifted in your seat. Did you say something wrong?

Thor coughed. "We don't really get along with blue giant folk," he fisted chunks of grass by his sides.

"What you just described wasn't Jotunheim, was it?" Hogun asked.

"It can't be. Jotunheim is a frozen piece of a rock. She said Pandora has floating mountains and rivers," Loki burried his dagger into earth at his feet.

"Are there also blue giants on Jotunheim?" you chose your words carefully.

"Yes, it's the land of Frost Giants. Monsters we talk about at night."

Hogun cleared his throat. "I have seen the injury they cause. On one soldier a long time ago. His whole arm was frozen and black as coal. I heard aome healers in halls talking abouthis whoel arm falling off when they touched it."

"They say," Thor said in a dark tone, "they know a secret passage through realms. And one day, they will invade Asgard and freeze everyone in their path. When they comw here, I swear to all my ancestors I will-"

His telling interrupted a distant screech from mountain which startled everyone. It sounded familiar, you just didn't know where from.

"I think that's a cue to shift to another story," Sif said.

"Agreed," everyone said simultaniously.

~~~

Cracking wood lulled everybody to sleep. After hours and hours of war stories and forgotten legends one by one young warriors and a traveler laid to get rest.

Loki had a light sleep. His mind was still wrapped around Frost Giants. How theymight enter Asgard any second and slaughter them all in their sleep. If what Thor told was true.

A sound of someone standing up and walking away woke him completely. He knew how each person's step sounded, this was unfamiliar one. 'Where are you going little traveler?'

He stood up and followed you, hidden in shadows.

You stopped near a river deep in the forest. Asgardian moon shone bright in its water.

He watched you sit down next to it and stare at the night sky through oak leaves.

Just as he wanted to walk towards you, you started to play with little droplets of water in the air.

"What a turn of events," you dropped them upon hearing his voice.

"Loki, you- why are you up? Did I wake you?"

"No," he sat down next to you, "you didn't."

You started to fidget with your fingers. "How much did you see?"

"Enough. Why didn't you tell me you were a sorcorer as well?"

"A what?"

Loki chuckled. "You called me a warlock, remember? We call those who deal with magic sorcorers. One of their ability is aquakinesis."

"Huh?" you looked so cute when you were confused. Loki made note to confuse youmore often.

"Water control."

"Oh, sorry. I call it waterbending."

Loki hummed. "Makes sense."

"Sooo," you looked at him, "are you going to tell them?" you pointed towards where the group was sleeping.

"Why would I? It's your power. Your secret. You tell them when you are ready. But," he pulled a ball of water from the river and held it above his palm, "I can teach you more of that waterbending than just control few droplets. If you'd like me to, that is."

You smiled. "I'd like that. Oh and by the way," you looked to side and scratched your head, "Astrid isn't my real name."

"I know."

"What?" you looked at him startled.

"I can tell when people are lying, and you," he placed his palm on your shoulder, "are a terrible liar," he chuckled.

Your giggle joined his. "Sounds fair. Anyways, I'm Y/N," you axtended your hand.

Loki took it in his own and bowed his head. "Pleasure to meet you Y/N. I am Loki of Asgard, God of Mischief," and hopefully he can add 'your friend' to the list of titles.

#loki x reader #loki odinson #loki #thor odinson #loki fluff #young loki #young thor

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scarlettwitcher · 5 years ago

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Úlfur minn Part One

Request: by @laneygthememequeen: Hello lovely! I just saw that youre open to requests and are itching to write something for soft boi geralt! If you’re open to it, can I request a geralt x reader where reader seems like super innocent but is like an actual warrior/badass and he’s just like in awe. Or maybe where the reader is in like a dress for some reason and she usually doesn’t wear dresses because they’re inconvenient for fighting and ends up having to fight in the dress. take care and I hope you have a wonderful day💖

Summary: After Jaskier is finally able to convince Geralt to be his bodyguard for Pavetta’s betrothal dinner, shit goes down and Geralt has to make the decision of whether or not he should tell Y/n how he really feels.

Characters: Geralt, Reader, Jaskier, Calanthe, Eist, Mousesack, Pavetta, Duny, mentions of secondary characters in the show.

Word Count: 2336

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of guts, lots of angst, canon typical warnings, also the title is in Icelandic, it was just something cute for plot.

Author’s Notes: So, I’m not gonna lie, this one got away from me. I found that Episode 4, Of Banquets, Bastards, and Burials fit this request perfectly. This will be a four part mini series. I’m actually really excited to release this to y’all. Million of thanks out to my girl @queenxxxsupreme. She’s been such an amazing help with writing The Witcher. Everyone send her lots of love! I am accepting requests so please, send them in! If you’d like to be a tag as well, just let me know! Thanks for reading and feedback is always welcome!

“I tell you no lie. It swallowed the whole village, it did. Not a bone to be found!” The man took a second to breathe before scowling at another. “Of, don’t give me that look, shitling. That’s why we had to call him…” The man stood up for emphasis as he recalled the events he had witnessed earlier. “The White Wolf! And he stood in the middle of that frozen lake like he knew it was coming for him. The ice cracked open and a Selkiemore shot out! Oh, you’ve never seen one, but it’d take down a ship with its cavernous mouth full of devil’s teeth!” You tried to stifle your snort as everyone gasped. You took a drink of your ale, quickly scowling at the cup for the foul taste. “And it… swallowed… that Witcher… whole!”

“Oh, this is brilliant!” You giggled quietly to yourself as you heard Jaskier and slowly reached over, poking his head gently making him look up at everyone staring at him in confusion. “Oh, sorry. It’s just Geralt’s usually so stingy with the details. Uh… and then what happened?”

“He died.”

“Eh… He’s fine.”

“Look, I was there. I saw it with my own-” The door swung open, cutting the man off as Geralt slowly walked into the room, a thick awful smell filling the room. Everyone parted immediately, giving Geralt room to walk straight towards the man. Your eyes widened as you saw him, covered head to toe in guts and it took everything in you not to rush to his side to see if he was okay.

“See?” Jaskier let out a loud laugh and you elbowed him as you stood, making your way over to Geralt, touching his elbow gently before moving to the other side of the tavern, knowing Geralt would make his way over there.

“Oh… What’s that stench?”

“Selkiemore guts. Had to get it from the inside. I’ll take what I’m owed.”

“Toss a coin to your witcher. O, Valley of Plenty o-oh-oh” As you heard the song leave the bard’s lip, you smiled softly to yourself knowing how much Geralt hated it. Soon everyone joined Jaskier and cheered as they were now monster free.

Once Geralt received payment, he made his way over to you, laying his sword on the table as you smiled up at him and pulled out your handkerchief that you always carried with you and started to wipe his face. Geralt watched you with a reserved softness that he only had for you. Before either of you could get a word out, Jaskier approached behind the both of you.“You're welcome. And now, Witcher, it’s time to repay your debt.” The bartender handed Geralt a mug of ale but before you could advise him not to, he took a sip, and immediately spit it out to the side, getting some on your pants as he stared the bartender down with what could be called rage. “What debt, you’re probably asking yourself in your head right now. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve made you famous, Witcher. By rights, I should be claiming ten percent of all your coin, but instead, what I’m asking for is a teeny, teeny-weeny little favor.”

“Jaskier, let the man breathe would you. He’s covered in guts.” The Witcher shot you a soft glance. He’d never admit it to anyone but he loved the way you cared about him. He never knew how you could be so kind, caring, and...innocent.

“Y/n, please. Geralt’s already ready for the nex-”

“Fuck off, bard.” You giggled as Geralt gave you a side smile and Jaskier rolled his eyes at your antics. He knew you both had some kind of feelings for each other but would never admit it, because frankly, you both were stubborn idiots.

“Listen Geralt, for one measly night of service you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights. The greatest masters of the culinary arts crafting morsels worthy of the gods. Maidens that would make the sun itself blush with a single comely smile. And rivers of the sweetest of drinks from the rarest of-” You watched in amusement as Geralt turned around to leave, showing he didn’t care for what the bard was offering. “Fuck! Food, women and wine, Geralt.”

This made Geralt stop in his tracks before slowly turning to look at the bard. Jaskier’s eyes drifted to you for a second, a bit of guilt creeping in as he saw the way you had momentarily slumped into yourself at the mention of women. Geralt sighed before nodding once, making his way out of the tavern, you and Jaskier following him in haste as you made way to an inn. Before long, you had rented a large suite for the three of you. You walked into the bathroom and prepared a bath for Geralt as he silently followed you into the room, carefully stripping himself of his clothes, not wanting to drop guts on anything else in the room. You knew what he was doing and instantly turned your back to him, feeling your cheeks heat up. You already saw him shirtless and felt the need blossoming in your chest like it always did when you saw him or any part of him.

“You didn't have to.”

“I w-wanted to. It gives me a chance to see how you are. Besides, Jask has been on you since we left the tavern and we have a few minutes now, Úlfur minn.”

“You worry too much.” With that, Geralt slowly sat inside the tub. You finally turned around to look at him and it took every ounce of strength of your being to not look down. He knew he was affecting you as your cheeks turned a darker red and smirked as he watched you.

“A s-simple thank you would've been nice.”

“Thank you Y/n.” Geralt mumbled softly. You felt yourself melt at the way he said your name and cleared your throat, moving around the room, getting the necessary items to help him wash off the monster guts now dried on his skin and hair. You grabbed a chair and sat behind him, laying the objects on the floor. You rolled the sleeves of your shirt (or in this case, Geralt’s shirt that you suspected he never noticed you took) and scooted closer to him. If he didn't stink so much, you could have sworn on your life you would've laid a kiss on his head. Before you could even do anything, Jaskier barged into the room and grabbed the bucket of water you had on the side, dumping it on Geralt's head. He grunted angrily at Jaskier as he looked up at him with disdain.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night body guarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Oh. Oh, really? So, Y/n is your friend but I’m not? Do you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom or even Y/n?” You looked at Jaskier with confusion as you looked down at Geralt and you could’ve sworn he sunk a bit in the tub as he remained quiet and watched Jaskier, his eyes watching his every move threateningly. You took this opportunity to grab some soap and rub it into his hair, washing away all the grime he had. Geralt immediately relaxed under your touch and even leaned into your hands, relishing in the way you dragged your fingers in his hair, grunting quietly when a finger got caught in a knot. He would never say it but this was one of his favorite things: when you played with his hair.

“Yeah, well, yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought. Every lord, knight and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!” Geralt watched unfazed as Jaskier threw salt into his bath and you smiled proudly at Jaskier’s confidence and even did a tiny fist bump in the air for him to which he responded back with a tiny, dramatic bow.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?”

“Hard to say. One stops keeping count after a while. Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.” Geralt scowled at him, already regretting the decision he knew he was going to have to unwittingly take. You scrunch your face at Jaskier, wondering how he could sleep with so many women, how the both of them could. You would never admit it to the Witcher but it always pained you to watch him walk off, knowing he was in search of a warm body for the night. Jaskier always consoled you in those dark nights but after a while, you became used to the pain.

“Ooh, yeah, that face! Ohh! Scary face! No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.” Geralt grabbed the mug of ale you had brought him earlier, bringing it to his lips, but before he could take a sip, Jaskier had plucked the cup and moved it away from him. “Ohh, on second thoughts… might wanna lay off the Cintran ale.” Geralt groaned and you moved your hand quickly to his back, gently massaging him. It worked and he relaxed once more under your touch. Jaskier could only watch in amusement. You both acted like a couple but were just friends. ”A clear head would be best.”

“I will not suffer tonight sober just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes. You never get involved. Except you actually do, all of the time." Geralt glared at Jaskier before leaning into your touch once more. “Ugh, is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous? Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah. When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this… monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

You knew Jaskier was poking the bear. This wasn't the first time the bard asked Geralt this and probably wouldn't be the last but you hated how Geralt responded every time. You always scolded Jaskier when he asked the Witcher this. Jaskier was the only one who knew of your feelings for the big, white haired man and had bestowed the honor upon himself of getting you two together. But it never worked. It just confirmed your fears over and over. Geralt didn't feel anything for you other than strictly platonic emotions. Jaskier looked at you with sympathetic eyes before they dropped down to Geralt. He saw the conflict behind his eyes. His answer was always you. He wanted to tell you but since the first time you met, you made yourself perfectly clear that you only wanted to be friends. Ever since, he's got amazingly well at hiding his feelings for you. “I want nothing.”

Jaskier could only internally groan as he wanted to scream at the both of you. “Well, who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you.” Jaskier stared at you as he spoke and your eyes widened as you shook your head violently. Jaskier sighed as he looked at Geralt. You looked down at your hands, thinking of an excuse to get away from the two men. You didn’t notice the way he turned to look at you, his eyes softening. He turned back around to Jaskier, his face hardening quickly.

“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet…” You stood up so quickly, the chair you were sitting on fell back onto the floor. You almost ran out of the room, feeling your eyes hot with unshed tears. Jaskier sighed and shook his head, pointing towards the door where you had run out of. “Here we are.”

“Hm... Jaskier, don't start with this again.”

“If only you could see the way she looks at you.”

“I said don’t.” Geralt needed a distraction as his head was now invaded with thoughts of you. The way you ran out because of his words gave him just a little sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, everything Jaskier bugged him about, day and night, was true. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

“Ah. Well, uh, they were sort of covered in Selkiemore guts, so I sent them away to be washed. Anyway you’re not going tonight as a witcher and neither is Y/n going as the healer she is. I’ve got clothes for both of you, don’t worry about it.”

With that, Jaskier took his leave into the next room where he found you sitting on the bed with your head in your knees. He slowly approached you and rested a hand on your shoulder. You looked up at the bard, red rimmed eyes, staring down his sad ones.” I didn’t think he'd answer so….I’m sorry Y/n.”

“I-it’s okay Jask. You’ve just been wrong. He really doesn't even look at me as more than a friend. That's all I am, a friend. Besides, he doesn't want a prude like me.”

“You're not a prude Y/n.” You stood and took a deep breath as you walked around the room with pensive thoughts clouding your head. “Look, I was able to get you a rather beautiful dress and I might've bedded a hairdresser...She agreed to help.” You frowned at Jaskier as you quickly shook your dress.

“Dress? Oh no, no, no. I don't like dresses. You know this Jask.”

“You're gonna have to deal with it Y/n. If Calanthe can wear a dress, then so can you.” You groaned loudly at him as he laughed softly. You nodded at him to show you the dress and thus, you all prepared to attend the dreaded event.

*~*

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @authoressskr @sorenmarie87 @reigningqueenofwords @goldenolaf25 @giftofdreams @winchesterprincessbride @chelsea072498 @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @itakeawfultoawholenewlevel @fictionalabyss @gabby913 @angelkurenai @sea040561 @sleepylunarwolf @smoothdogsgirl @carryonmyswansong @feelmyroarrrr @evyiione @supersassyprobablysad @sofreddie @sis-tafics @nitelotus @trexrambling @dancingalone21 @manawhaat @mermaidxatxheart @winchest09 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @mrswhozeewhatsis @just-another-busy-fangirl @lovebodymindstuff @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @chook007 @akshi8278 @evansrogerskitten @bringmesomepie56

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abluescarfonwaston · 4 years ago

Text

Shapeshifter Au 6

Heads up at the top this one is our “Last Wish Special”. It’s extra long and what should be no surprise to anyone- Jaskier does not have a good time! Please take care of yourselves as we move into plot territory.

Part 1 Part 5 Inspired by @spielzeugkaiser art here And Also now on Ao3 cause that’s probably easier for everyone.

Sometimes, when Geralt got hurt, he’d use his shapes against him.

Help was the word he’d use. To help him. But if Geralt preferred to think of him using his shapes against him then so be it.

“Get off me Jaskier.”

He looked down his snout at Geralt and grumbled his reply before returning to his composing. They would at very least wait until the bleeding stopped to ride back. Since Geralt insisted the injuries were not so grievous as to require proper attention.

He might very well have been right about that. Which meant they could afford to wait for it to stop before returning for the reward.

If Geralt wanted to treat his wounds then he’d let him. But he wasn’t going to let him ride off and make everything worse because he was a stubborn ass. That was Jaskier’s job. Being a stubborn ass. Not that he made a habit of being farm animals. The risk it would sour him to the taste of their meat was far too great. He refused to be vegetarian. Grass just did not taste very good. No matter what Roach claimed.

“Jaskier get off me or I will throw you off.”

He shifted more of his near 400 pound weight onto Geralt’s torso to demonstrate exactly what he thought about that.

“I can.” He growled.

He puffed up his fur telling him exactly what would happen if he tried.

He had bigger forms yet. If that’s how he wanted to play- well. He wouldn’t bet on Geralt winning. Witcher enhancements be damned.

Geralt, seemingly having realized this, ceased his struggling and ventured a new tactic.

Insulting him.

Which got him grumbling and growling at Geralt. But didn’t get him off him. Geralt knew well enough what he was saying. He didn’t need to transform to express his displeasure.

Geralt, a versatile and clever man, switch tactics yet again.

Reciting history facts but slightly wrong- the year was 1123 and he was a duke not a prince Geralt- asking questions about agriculture – cereal crops deplete the soil of nitrogen. Legumes fix this. A fallow field is left for weeds and grazing. The three fields are rotated. Together this system allows farmers to plant more crops and increase production. – and finally just asking him to play for him.

He, personally, admitted that his bear vocals left something to be desired but he didn’t let that stop him from belting out a few heavily modified versions of his favorite tunes.

Geralt covered his ears and glared at him.

It was only after three verses of Fishmonger’s daughter that he finally popped down into his human shape to do the finale justice.

Geralt shoved him off breaking his sustained note.

“Rude.” He squawked from the dirt as Geralt stood.

“I stopped bleeding three songs ago!” He growled at him.

“I’m well aware.” He grinned. “But I do so enjoy a captive audience.”

Geralt threw the bedroll at his head. Which did hit him. But he managed to catch it on the rebound, which counted as a win in his books.

“I don’t need you mothering me bard.”

“Is that what you think this is? I’m trying to keep Nenneke from murdering me next time you need her services. The woman terrifies me Geralt.”

She did. A little. Not in the way he suspected she expected to be feared though.

It was because her eyes always held too many questions about why he’d arrived before Geralt, knowing exactly the condition of the man’s wounds, even though he lacked a horse while Geralt road in on Roach.

He’d fly ahead, unhampered by the twisting of the roads, and set them to prepare for Geralt’s arrival. Or, when the situation was far graver, have them send a cart to meet him. Transforming on the road just outside of the temples view.

His skin itched when she stared at him too long. Like she almost knew what he was and if she watched him closely enough she might figure it out.

Luckily, “I mean the woman already hates me Geralt.” She was easy to annoy into not looking closely. “No need to worsen her to me by damaging the one reason she even tolerates my presence at the temple.”

If all she wanted to see was an airheaded flop of a bard that was all he would show her. Staying within the confines of expectations worked well enough to keep people from digging.

“She does hate you.” Geralt agreed with a smirk. Pleased he’d befriended someone Jaskier had not.

“Naaaah deep down she likes me.”

Geralt bobbed his head, half conceding the point.

People were complicated like that. She hated Most of him. But she liked that he cared about Geralt. Even if she didn’t always agree with how he cared about Geralt.

With how they cared for each other.

So maybe he shouldn’t have poked the insomniatic bear that was Geralt as he dredged up the lake at Rinde. But he was a bear often enough and he didn’t mind being poked. Sometimes Geralt needed to buck up and face his problems head on!

Then his throat started closing.

Which was scary. Sure. But there were plenty of forms that didn’t need his throat to breath. He’d play catfish or pike or bream or – he was just listing fish again- something while Geralt sorted out the curse the djinn smacked him with.

Except.

Except none of them would come.

He tried to shift bigger and his skin pulled too tight like it was yanking away from the muscle and he tried to shift down and his organs compressed in his chest. And he was left folded over in pain from his throat and his lungs and from being trapped.

Trapped in one form. Perhaps forever.

“Can you shift?” Geralt asked him, looking between him and Roach. Debating.

He managed a ragged sob that Geralt translated as the ‘no’ it was.

There was the bumpy ride on Roach- poor girl they weighed far too much together- and the elf with the painkillers – which helped a little. But the world continued its painful descent into darkness.

Geralt was scruffing him by the doublet. Dragging his limp form. Somewhere. He liked being scruffed. It reminded him of the old mouser in the kitchen who’d claimed him as kin when he was barely a boy. Whenever he got in trouble, or was lonely, or scared he’d just run to the old tom and pop down into a kitten. Instantly be scruffed and pulled under the cabinet for a bath and cuddle.

Scruffing meant that soon everything would be okay. He was in pain and terrified but soon. Soon everything would be alright.

Everything was not alright.

There was a very scary woman with an amphora on her belly and-

And she was a mage.

A powerful mage.

Something in him was singing. Singing at her notice. Her attention.

He didn’t much like that part of him.

His knees near buckled under him as she gripped his nethers and pressed a knife to his throat.

“If you want to keep all you have familiar,” She squeezed him tighter. The singing and terror crescendo-ing in his ears. What do you want me to be? It sung, heart racing in his chest. “Make a damn wish.”

He reached. Reached for. Something. Some shape that would get her away. Small or big or cute or monsterous or something.

Her magic threw him to the floor and it crackled over his skin- she wants you to be human so that is what you shall be – lighting up every nerve with delicious power – do as she says. So that the powerful one might keep you – and burning the tapestry of thread he didn’t know was woven underneath his skin.

“Make your damn wish! Do it now!”

This one is better. Powerful. Be what she wants. “I don’t- I don’t know!” Lightning ran through his veins and fire blazed through his chest and- and- Be her’s. Wish to be hers. Exalted one.

He didn’t want that.

“I wish very much to leave this place forever!”

She turned from him, the burning fading. The singing loud in his ears. Scolding, screaming, begging him to go back to her as he scrambled from the building.

And Geralt was there.

Geralt was alive.

Geralt left him to that witch.

“Jaskier. You’re okay.”

“I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.” He fumed.

The singing was quieter now. The smoldering in his chest easing next to Geralt-

Geralt was going back inside.

The building collapsing.

“She could not have survived it.” The elf from earlier- Chireadan- said.

There was coldness in the shape of the lightning flowing through his veins. Ashes in the stitching of his soul where Geralt once resided.

“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. What, to save a mad fucking witch?”

“Because she was magnificent.”

She was. The song wept.

His knees hit the ground, the pain of the gravel collision distant, over the shapeless void that pulled him to nothing.

“What am I supposed to do now, hm?” What would be left when this form collapsed into the emptiness in his chest? “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

You should have died with him.

No.

“I’m gonna write you. The best song. So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw.” There was a lifetime there. In the spaces they shared. Not a human lifespan perhaps. But it wasn’t like he was human anyway. “And I will sing it. For the rest of my days.”

“He always said I had the most wonderful singing voice.”

A joke. Between him and a dead man.

If he wanted to correct him he should have stayed alive.

Chireadan knelt before him, laying a hand on his shoulder. A tiny beat of comfort in a symphony of pain.

“They’re alive.”

They were very alive.

He ran his fingers down Roach’s neck, unsure how he was supposed to feel.

Relief that Geralt was alive? Jealously that he’d gone to Yennefer? Jealously she choose him over you?

Anger?

Joy?

Hollow. He felt hollow.

Roach nudged him.

He was nearly draped over her.

He wanted that old tom cat to scruff him and pull him under the cabinet. To lick and squish and purr him back to whole.

What would he be if he shifted now?

Nothing. It called to him that nothing.

Nothing wasn’t a shape. Nothing wasn’t Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t nothing.

Still it called to him.

Roach lipped at a saddlebag. The one he’d nested in as his wing healed.

He shoved his bloody shirt in as a makeshift nest and fluttered in.

If Geralt wanted his peace he could dump him on the side of the road.

Until then. He breathed in the way the leather bag blended Roach and Geralt into itself and fell asleep.

He drifted back to the shores of sleep welcomed by the gentlest smoothing of his feathers.

He readjusted, further nesting into the callouses of Geralt’s hand.

“I thought.” The pain in Geralt’s hesitating voice forced his eyes open. “That the djinn took your voice and your shifting from you.”

Geralt was laying down on their bedroll watching him with those big sad eyes. Which hurt.

But not as much as the fact Geralt had stopped petting him. He shifted into Geralt’s petting hand demanding he get back to work with a sharp chirp.

Geralt resumed his gentle stroking, lips twitching slightly upward. “So bossy.” He complained.

They laid there as the sun went down; quiet and exhausted.

“We used to do this a lot. When your wing was broken. It was nice.”

He softly trilled an agreement.

“I could smell you on Roach when I got back you know? I thought you had left. I understand if you’d left. After what I did.”

He blinked tiredly at Geralt before standing to shift up. He didn’t want to have this conversation now but if Geralt did then. Well then they’d have it now.

“Don’t.” Geralt’s hands shifted slightly, like they were caging him in. They weren’t. He knew he could get out. Knew that if he wanted to leave Geralt would let him.

He settled back into Geralt’s fingers, more than happy not to.

“Tonight. Can we be that again? Just for tonight.”

Be simple. Be easy.

Nenneke always scolded Geralt for thinking he could deny destiny. Because she cared about him and knew destiny would have her way, willingly or not. It would he agreed. Geralt couldn’t run away from her forever.

But he did help him run away from it. Sometimes. Like tonight?

Tonight destiny could go fuck itself.

Tonight they were just a bird and a man sharing each other’s company.

Tonight they were easy.

#Geraskier #geralt x jaskier #shapeshifter au #shapeshifter!Jaskier #geralt #jaskier #post in the tags darn you #writing

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dhwty-writes · 4 years ago

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Of Witchers, Bards and Broken Hearts

So, uhh, I saw @spielzeugkaiser‘s art. Wanted to write a one-shot. It got out of hand. Decided to split it into separate parts. It got even more out of hand. I am now, apparently, writing a full-length fic. Anyways. Have the prologue?

Summary: Six months have passed since Geralt and Ciri found each other. Since then, they have been on the run from... well, everyone, basically. Geralt is tired, Ciri is hungry, Roach is dead. And then they stumble across a very particular viscounty named Lettenhove. The problem? Geralt broke the Viscount’s heart on a mountain and Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz, a bard, a friend, a lover, is slow to forgive.

part 2

Read on AO3

The Viscount de Lettenhove had a... a reputation to say the least. He had left his home when he had been fourteen, off to Oxenfurt to study the Seven Liberal Arts, vowing never to return. That alone had been seen as less than ideal by a great many of people – though their choice of words hadn’t been nearly as nice. He had redeemed himself, in a way, by graduating summa cum laude four years later. He had gambled it away again by disappearing not a month later without so much as a word. And by leaving his family and subjects to figure out that the famous Jaskier was, in fact, their Julek by themselves

It still surprised him a great deal that he had gotten away with it for seven years until he had played at a Cintran banquet that had become very famous – though regrettably not by his doing. The only reason he hadn’t been declared dead in the meantime was that he had occasionally used his real name when times were especially hard, he supposed. Once he had been discovered, however, his family had managed to bully him into writing a few letters a year, at least. His vows of staying away, on the other hand? He had been even more adamant on keeping them.

No, there was only one person in this world who he would ever break them for. And that was also, coincidentally, the only person who would never ask it of him to do so.

Or so he’d thought.

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz had returned to Lettenhove not quite one and a half years ago on a beautiful spring's eve, the cherry trees in full bloom and the crops swaying in the breeze. For his family, it had been a jubilance. For Jaskier, it had felt like bitter defeat.

For the people of Lettenhove, it had been a shock. The loving, loud and ludicrous boy they had known had never returned from the Path. Instead he was a suddenly a man grown, sullen and sombre and silent who sought solace in his siters' embraces.

There had been many rumours in those first few months after he had ridden up to the gates demanding entrance about what had happened out there. They spoke of friendship and fervour, of affection and agony, of hundreds of heartbreaks and lifetimes of loyalty. Of course, none of them were true, strictly speaking. But many of the whispered guesses came so close to veracity it hurt all the same.

It had gotten better, though. There had been no other choice. He was the Honourable Master of Lettenhove and member of the Oxenfurt Academy's Faculty of Most Contemporary History whether he liked it or not and there was a war threatening them all.

This time there was no university to escape to, no witcher to follow, no destiny calling. For the first time in his life, Jaskier had run into a dead end. For the first time in his life, he could no longer run from his duty.

And now he was standing in his father's study, wearing his father's sword and looking across his father's lands as the sunset tinted them in the embers of a dying day, the most beautiful mixture of blood red light and bruise purple clouds above golden fields and emerald forests. ‘There’s a story in this,' the thought startled him. ‘Has the queen put on her ruby glasses to see the world as it had been before her lover scorned her? Has the dragon come to bathe the world in fire? Has-‘ He quickly pushed those thoughts away before they could make a home in his mind. ‘I must not.’

Before it might have been enough to inspire him for a new ballad. ‘It would have been enough for a thousand.’ Before returning. Before the war. Before... everything.

Now he could control the itch in his fingers fairly well. It was not just that his life in Lettenhove did not compare to a muse as magnificent as his travels. As magnificent as- 'No, don't think about it, it just hurts.'

It was also that for the first time in his life, Jaskier considered if his father had the right of it. What use had the arts for him now that he was- well, not old, most certainly not old, he had barely seen thirty-four years go by - 'Gods above, already?' What use had the arts for him now that he was settled? He had responsibility now. A responsibility to the land, the name, the people. To his legacy.

'I viscount's legacy shan't be telling a witcher's tales,' he could still hear his father's voice.

'Fuck you, father,' he thought. 'And stay in your grave where you belong.' He would love to continue telling a witcher's tales. The thing was, however, he couldn't anymore. Geralt had made that very clear.

'If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.' The words still stung as much as they had on the day the witcher had first spoken them into existence.

The other thing was, Jaskier couldn't really leave Lettenhove anymore. The disappearance of an heir apparent was one thing. The disappearance of a Viscount quite another. His father, the bastard, had died, and bound him to these lands.

'My lands,' he had to remind himself again. It was still weird to think that, his lands. For so long Lettenhove hadn't been anything his. Not his residence, that had been whatever dry spot they could find. Not his own, that had been his father's. And certainly not his home, for that had been at Geralt's side. But Geralt had sent him away and he had returned so now everything was different. Oh, what would he give for the ability to reverse time.

‘That’s useless,’ he had to tell himself. ‘He’d send you away again. And again, and again, and again. Quit thinking about that which you cannot change.’

There was a timid knock on the door to his study that forced him to abandon his melancholy thoughts. He did that a lot, these days. Brood, that was. It wasn't something he had ever liked to do before, but now there was scarcely anything else to occupy his mind with and- he was doing it again. "Come in," he called without turning around. He had long learned to tell the members of his household apart by the sound of their steps.

"Milord," said shy Marta with the shuffling feet, "I am sorry to disturb you..."

The viscount spared the idyllic landscape one last glance before he sighed and turned around. "You did not. What is it?"

"There, uh-" Marta looked away. "There's a witcher at the gates. He's asking to see you."

Jaskier frowned. 'A witcher?' He forced the feeling of euphoria from his mind before it could make itself comfortable. "Tell him to go away." For a moment he paused, allowing himself to wonder which one it might be. 'Do I know him?' Then again, he was not really in the mood for visits and a visit it had to be for there were no monsters in Lettenhove. "And that we are in no need of witchering."

The young servant shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "He's very persistent, milord."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Of course, he is.' "Then be persistent, too."

"I mean, I wasn't there, I wouldn't know how persistent he is but that is what Marin told me when he came to fetch me, so-" He ground his teeth. The darting of her eyes and her incessant babbling set his nerves on edge and made him lose his own train of thought. 'Is that what I'm like?' he wondered for a moment. He was half of a mind to yell at her when she finally spoke again: "Marin also told me to tell you that, uh, the witcher claims to know your, um- your son."

Jaskier froze as an icy hand wrapped around his heart, gripping tightly. "My son?" he asked a bit confused. "What did you say was his name again?"

"He didn't give us one."

'Smart man,' he thought appreciatively. "Well, then, what does he look like?"

"Like a witcher?" she tried.

He groaned: "Marta-"

"I wasn't there, milord!" she said defensively again. "I only got a glimpse at him, I swear it. But a witcher he was, large and scary, with two swords and his hood all up in his face. He wasn't alone, though."

"A horse?" he concluded but she shook her head.

"A boy, I think. Maybe he stole the child."

Jaskier sighed loudly and massaged his temples. "Witchers do not steal children," he said slowly. No matter how often he told them, there was nothing he could do about superstitions that had been in place for generations. "If you didn't see him, was there at least anything else you heard?"

"Sure!" she answered. 'Melitele's tits, finally!' "It doesn't make a lot of sense, though. He told us to thank you for the invitation."

He waved his hand expectantly. Marta didn't answer. "Was that all?" he asked impatiently.

"And that he's run out of apple juice."

He frowned. "Apple juice?" he repeated incredulously. Why on earth would a witcher come to his gates to tell him he was lacking apple juice of all things- 'Oh.' Of course. Jaskier ground his teeth forcefully.

"He hasn't heard then," he gritted out. Well, that was just his luck, wasn't it? Of course, it had to be the only witcher in the whole wide world he definitely did not want to see to come knocking on his door. And the child? It couldn't be, could it? There had been rumours but he hadn't given them any credit until now. But if they were true- "Fine," he said after a long while and straightened his back, steeling himself as if for battle. "Send him in."

Oh, and what a battle it would be.

#My writing #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #it's angsty #angst with a happy ending #though that will take a while #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Note

Hello, dearest Wolfie 💜 I come before you with this prompt: hair stylist Jaskier (netflix) with Dandelion (book). Maybe they’re strangers at the salon, maybe they’re friends or roommates in the house bathroom or home salon? Dandy’s particularly sensitive to touch/hair pulling and might accidentally moan while Jask is massaging his scalp 👀 Can get as horny you as you want it to

This fic comes to you courtesy of vodka... so apologies for errors? I did try and proof read.

1.5k of smutty bards.

CW: 18+, masturbation, hair pulling kink, talks of blow jobs and anal,

Dandelion squirmed in his chair feeling strangely nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his roommate, because honestly if anyone could cut hair well it would be Jaskier, but he’d never let anyone except his hairdresser cut his hair before. Unfortunately with lockdown rules, that was no longer an option and Dandelion’s hair was getting ratty at the ends, despite his meticulous hair care routine. It was making him irritable and he’d kept snapping at Jaskier over the smallest of things. He knew he was being a bastard but it wasn’t his fault. He missed people and going outside. He missed their gigs and even their shifts at the coffee shop. Fortunately, Jaskier seemed to know him better than he knew himself at times and the brunet had marched him into the kitchen and pushed him down into one of the chairs, demanding that he sit still whilst Jaskier got the scissors.

Dandelion pouted whilst he waited. He didn’t appreciate being told what to do but Jaskier was right. He desperately needed a hair cut. His hair was now halfway down his back instead of sitting just below his shoulders. He whined and covered his face with his hands.

“Right, got everything!” Jaskier announced as he bundled back into the room, arms full of bottles from their bath room. “I’ve always wanted to play at being a hair dresser.”

Dandelion sighed and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “If you want to wash my hair then we’re going to the bathroom. You can put those back,” he gestured to the shampoo bottles with a flick of his wrist. “I’ll go for a shower first.”

Jaskier snorted and put his hands on his hips, tossing his fringe from his eyes. “We are doing this properly! I get to wash your hair too.”

They stared at each other for a moment, almost identical blue eyes glaring at each other across the room, until Dandelion sighed dramatically. “Fine, but afterwards I am cutting your fringe. It’s driving me mad! You keep messing with it!”

Jaskier pouted back at him. “You. You don’t mean that.”

“I do, now come on my dear, before I change my mind.”

The move to the bathroom did nothing to calm Dandelion’s nerves. If anything it made it worse. Jaskier kept fiddling with the edge of his shirt and moving the shampoo bottles about as Dandelion sat at the edge of their bathtub.

“Let me know if the water is too hot or too cold or. or… whatever,” Jaskier muttered as he pulled the hose off the wall.

Dandelion nodded, leaning awkwardly back so his head was mostly over the tub. He heard the spray of water running and Jaskier ended up squatting awkwardly in the bath behind him, trying to avoid the water beneath his feet.

“Maybe I didn’t think this through?” Jaskier stammered with an awkward laugh.

“Jask,” Dandelion sighed. “Get on with it.”

The water was hot, prickling against his scalp; just how he liked it. He hummed happily at the sensation and he felt the weight of his damp hair shift as Jaskier made sure his whole head was wet through. God he’d missed this. Yes it was more awkward with the weird set up they had in the cramped bathroom instead of the specially made sinks at the hair dressers but he’d always felt pampered. He enjoyed the luxury of someone else washing his hair. It felt intimate, almost sensual.

It didn’t help that his scalp was unbelievably sensitive, always had been, great in the bedroom, less great when getting his hair done, but he’d always managed to keep his reactions under control.

Until now.

Jaskier’s fingers dragged along his scalp, working the shampoo into the roots of his hair. His entire body immediately felt like it was on fire and he let out a low moan.

Jaskier froze.

Dandelion’s eyes flew open.

Nobody said a word for what felt like forever, until Jaskier started to massage his scalp, slowly, tugging gently at his hair to run the shampoo through to the ends. It felt heavenly, Dandelion closed his eyes once more and let himself enjoy the sensation. Jaskier had long musician’s fingers, just like him, and they were magical. It was less of a hair wash and more of a head massage now and Dandelion couldn’t help the breathy moans that escaped his lips.

He was hard by the time Jaskier turned the shower back on to rinse out the shampoo. Neither of them mentioned it but Dandelion knew that Jaskier had noticed. It was too obvious how much he’d been enjoying it for Jaskier not to have noticed.

Jaskier repeated the process with the conditioner, spending more time running his hands through the tips of Dandelion’s hair this time, making sure the conditioner had properly covered them, but the gentle tugs at Dandelion’s hair were like sweet torture. Until he felt Jaskier’s fingers back on his scalp, firm pressure on the most sensitive parts of his scalp.

Dandelion moaned again, unable to help himself. “Jask,” he gasped, voice hoarse “please.”

Jaskier hummed. “Please what, darling?”

“I… I want.”

Jaskier chuckled and his fingers brushed the tips of Dandelion’s ear. He shivered and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Jaskier just pressed a kiss to his forehead, the bastard was really taking advantage of the situation but… Dandelion had been lusting after his roommate for months so he wasn’t complaining.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Jaskier cooed, pulling a fistful of Dandelion’s hair just hard enough that he could feel a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

Dandelion just whined, his tongue heavy in his mouth, words but a distant memory. He just needed, wanted, desired…

“Do you want my hand on your cock?” Jaskier asked, his voice a husky whisper in Dandelion’s ear as he fingers continued to press against his scalp. “or perhaps you’d prefer my mouth?”

Dandelion moaned, a low guttural moan that should have been embarrassing in its desperation but he was too far gone. “Yes.”

“Touch yourself for me,” Jaskier’s breath tickled his ear “imagine how good it would feel to have my mouth, warm and wet around your cock?”

Dandelion scrambled to unzip his trousers. He gasped as he finally managed to get his cock free, spitting on his hand before slowly starting to stroke his length. It wasn’t nearly as good as having Jaskier’s pretty pink lips around him but with Jaskier’s voice in his ear and his fingers rubbing into his scalp, Dandelion was a wreck. Every time Jaskier’s fingers moved in his hair he felt like the room was on fire, his heart was thundering in his chest and his skin was itching with the heat of his arousal.

He thrust up into his hand with a gasp, biting his lip.

“How long would it take before you’re begging me to fuck you?” Jaskier nipped at his ear, a sharp pain that only heightened his pleasure as he ran his thumb over his slit. “Or would you prefer to cum in my mouth?”

Dandelion could picture it so clearly, Jaskier kneeling at his feet, Dandelion’s cock in his mouth, the contented hums as he sucked and licked at the dick, every sound vibrating around Dandelion until he came down Jaskier’s throat, the brunet would swallow up every last drop, and the smirk on his face, so bloody smug like he’d won the fucking lottery.

God he would be so beautiful.

Dandelion keened, fucking into his own hand, wishing it were Jaskier’s but not wanting to lose the sensation of Jaskier’s fingers running through his hair. He pumped himself harder, feeling the familiar pull as his orgasm draw near, warmth flooding his body, moans and wordless cries falling from his lips.

“That’s it, darling, cum for me…” Jaskier purred in his ear, another tug at Dandelion’s hair.

Dandelion whined as he came all over his hand, collapsing forwards, his clean hand pressing against the cool tiled floor. Jaskier’s voice coaxed him through his orgasm, cooing praises in his ear, hands still loosely in Dandelion’s damp hair.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered as he came back to his senses.

“Fuck, Dandy, if we could record the noises you make, we could make a million pounds over night,” Jaskier whispered, sounding almost as fucked out as Dandelion felt. “You’re so beautiful.”

Dandelion hummed, feeling rather too blissful to answer.

“Let’s finish rinsing your hair then I’ll cut it for you,” Jaskier pressed a kiss to his temple “and then, well, I’d like to take you to bed?”

The last part came out as a question, a slight crack in Jaskier’s voice. Dandelion shook free of Jaskier’s grasp and turned to face his friend. Jaskier’s cheeks were flushed, the pink trailing down his neck and beneath his t-shirt where there was just a tease of dark chest hair peaking out at the neckline. Dandelion grinned and pulled his friend into a kiss, licking into Jaskier’s mouth and biting at his bottom lip as he pulled away. “I would like nothing more.”

______

Tag list: @frances-the-red @thecomfortofoldstorries @elliestormfound @honeysuckletook @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher @hailhailsatan @dani-dandelino @artistsfuneral @kittynannygaming @selectivegeekwithstandards @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @kueble @justjess94 @skai6 @damatris @wherethewordsare @dapandapod @mayastormborn @jaskierslastbraincell

#the witcher #jaskilion #jaskier x dandelion #jaskier/dandelion #nsft #wolfie's witcher writing #suddenly-a-twilight-blog

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pressedinthepages · 4 years ago

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Sidetrack: Jaskier

Summary: In which there is an answer (sort of) to the age old question: What The Fuck is Jaskier?

Series Masterlist

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

A/N: THE FINAL PIECE TO THE PUZZLE. Thank you so much to everyone that has stuck around, and I am so thrilled with this final bit of the series :)

Jaskier had always been an odd child. He was never quiet by any means, always humming and babbling even before he could really talk. His eyes always shone a bit too bright, and his feet would take him to wander as far as he could before being swept up by his nanny.

As Jaskier grew, so did his hunger for something more. His fingers itched towards the lute, and for any and every instrument after that one was mastered. There was an ache deep in his stomach, one that could not be quenched by food or drink. He yearned to follow the sun as it set, trying to find the line behind which it sank every night.

Something pulled at him, leading his feet to take him past where his eyes could see. And Jaskier didn’t look back as he finally gave in to that urge. He played his way through cities and courts, for knights and peasants. And yet he still felt incomplete, still felt that hook buried deep in his chest, yanking him towards more.

But as Jaskier watched the Witcher with the bright silver hair make his way out of the tavern in Posada, he felt his soul being pulled along behind. So he packed up his lute and followed along, despite Geralt’s best attempts to keep him at bay. Soon enough, the Witcher even started to tolerate Jaskier, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

And who could blame Jaskier for falling for Geralt, anyway? Sure, it started with lust, as most of Jaskier’s encounters do. Big, strong Witcher with a voice like honey-coated gravel and thighs that one would wish to be crushed between, what more could a bard want?

Soon enough though, it turned into something much deeper than Jaskier could have ever imagined. Every fiber of him was alight while at Geralt’s side, and the words of worship poured out of him. Everywhere that they traveled together, the people sang his songs praising the White Wolf.

When they would part, Jaskier would sequester himself away at the University, teaching to get by and to ignore the void which clawed at his insides. The moment that the snow would start to fall, his bag would be packed and waiting by the door, every single year.

Twenty years, the two of them traveled together. Closer than Geralt had ever allowed anyone to get to him. They shared food, wine, beds, warmth, even a woman on one quite memorable occasion. But all of that had been thrown to the wayside atop a mountain, chucked over the cliff to tumble to the bottom.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” Geralt had said. A part of Jaskier died that day as he trudged alone down the mountain. The wind bit at his nose and he rubbed his hands together for warmth, but nothing could soothe the ache in his bones from his soul being ripped out of his chest.

Jaskier was back to wandering, but now it just felt empty. He knew what would quell the anguish, but it had sent him away. So he tried in vain to fill the gaping hole in his chest. As the next spring rolled around, filled with sprawling fields bursting with life, Jaskier curled up cold and truly alone.

He wasn’t quite sure what exactly happened, but from one day to the next, something quite drastic changed. Jaskier began to see the world in all of its futures, and the people themselves in the destinies they chose to create.

It was poetic really, that the man who spent half of his life telling the stories of another’s destiny found himself so woefully intertwined within everyone else’s. And he found himself going back, rewatching the pain wrought upon his life atop that mountain, forced to witness the endless pining from behind his own eyes.

He wandered further, seeing countless futures laid out before him, and he knew that he could reach out and change them in the blink of an eye. But he felt no urge to change, no. those decisions should be made by the people themselves. But if they only knew what could be, maybe they would have more of a chance.

Jaskier soon found himself atop another summit, but now he only observed as a Witcher lay dying. The hulking figure was curled on his side, the blood pooling beneath him in a cruel wash of bright red. His swords lay just out of his reach, and his dark hair was strewn over bright golden eyes, so similar to those that Jaskier gazed into for so long.

And suddenly, a new figure burst through the trees to fall at the man’s side. She was striking, visibly strong and had two swords strewn across her back, and she grasped at the dying man on the ground as if he were her only hope left in the world. As the blood stained her hands Jaskier knew that he had to fix this story.

And so he did. He went back to a tavern in the middle of nowhere, finding the two Witchers leading their horses into town, along with a little goat that stole Jaskier’s heart. And then, when he finally sat down before the woman, he saw the story behind her eyes of how their story was meant to end.

At heart, Jaskier was a bit of a meddler. Sure, it had gotten him into trouble a few times, but it had paid off many more. As he spent his days trailing behind these two hopelessly in love idiots, he felt the pull behind his stomach less and less. Instead, as he watched the warmth bloom in sweet golden eyes, his heart swelled and he felt whole in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat when they all walked into Kaer Morhen and saw Geralt by the fire, younger than Jaskier had ever known him. He could feel the cracks in his heart that entire winter, but felt them fill with mortar watching his two charges fall further and further in love.

And there may have been a hiccup or two, but with a little nudge in the right direction, his two Witchers walked back down together, closer than ever. He watched from afar as Geralt headed straight for tragedy, but that was a destiny that was far larger and more complex than he would dare to meddle with.

And finally, finally, in a great field of poppies and buttercups, of which Jaskier was quite enamored with, thank you very much, his two great ding-dongs professed their love. Maybe their destinies would take them further, or maybe this was the final spot for them, and anything that happened after was out of his hands.

It didn’t matter. Jaskier was whole, and he knew that his Witchers were as well. And no one knew quite better than him:

Hollow things seek to fill their emptiness.

#hollow things #eskel x reader #eskel #jaskier #is not quite right

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crownarg-the-watchers · 4 years ago

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Old Favorites

The royal Scribe leans against a tall bundle of straw, the wooden planks of the boat rocking beneath him with the waves. It itches against the back of his neck, through the collar of his silk robes, and he sits forward to pick up the small cup of rice wine, the tilt of the floor beneath them sending his drink splashing precariously up against the cup’s sides. With the thick fog, he can hardly make out the matching bundles of straw on the opposite side of the boat, but he can see the man in front of him’s smug and accomplished smirk. Around them – the thundering beating of drums, forcing the Scribe to speak loudly in order to be heard.

“Respectfully, you are absolutely certain that this will work? If it does not, your execution is an unavoidable outcome.”

“The outcome is certain,” the statesman replies, taking a sip of his own wine. “Just as war is certain, and this fog was certain, so much so that I knew of it three days in advance. Just as you asking to accompany me was certain, Scribe.”

“It is true what you say,” the Scribe says, and shoos a glowing red eye back into his long sleeves. “And what you predicted – it is also about to become true.”

A sound like cracking whips and rushing wind and leaves under boot is drowned out completely by the sudden thump of thousands of arrows into straw bundles and wooden shields all around them. The drummers go on, shouting and pounding their instruments like a war cry, and in beat with the rhythm, arrows thud into wood and grass all around them.

“His imperial majesty will be greatly pleased,” the statesman tells him. “And also greatly displeased.”

“Displeased?” the Scribe asks. “You have achieved exactly what you were ordered to do.”

“Friend, you know very well that his imperial majesty ordered upon me this impossible task, and rejoiced when he was certain I would fail,” the statesman says with a smile. “It is a foolish man who cannot see that his majesty only wanted a reason to kill me.”

“I am not so foolish. I simply wanted to hear it from you.”

-=-=-=-

They watch from within the growing crowd as the bearded poet sings a long story of his own creation – he had been standing on the stone steps reciting it since early that morning, with his Muse always nearby to listen. Their dark hair is hidden beneath a curled wig, their face behind a sheer veil. Dressed in long chiton and peplos, the Muse can still see their poet with their eyes hidden, his gaze landing on them briefly as he continues –

“...for all the pain his lays may cause me I will salute him nonetheless; bards are honoured and respected throughout the world, for the muse teaches them their songs and loves them.”

The Muse tilts their head, smiling secretly to themselves. They are a keeper of stories, not one who tells them, but the prose of the writer and aoidos was something they would lend their memories to willingly. To play the role of Calliope, a minor goddess though she was, would surely have their poet scolding them for their hubris, though it was no such thing. It isn’t overconfidence if it is true, after all – but Calliope was a name they would have to abandon soon.

It was a performance, a story of length that was recited from dawn to dusk, in the beating sun on stone steps, no food and little water. The Muse helped their poet to his inn, and over his evening meal told the last words of that decade-long war, of snakes that strangled a prophet to death, and a princess who perfectly mimicked the voices of those women who she had never met. Their poet drank wine and remembered, and his Muse disappeared in the night.

-=-=-=-

The Archivist waits by the city gates late into the night, a red glow and faint crackle emanating from her as she looks out into the night. Distantly, a part of her can hear the numerous thundering of footsteps marching towards the city, the steady clang of swords against armor against bronze shields. From the city itself, there is a skid of sandals against a stone yet unnamed, a girl with hair done up and eyes powdered sliding down towards the gate. She sees the one waiting and tenses, and the Archivist knows exactly how she looks.

Dark hair loose from braids or even curls, with her palla worn as a dark hooded cloak over a men’s tunic, and a red glow lighting her inhuman and foriegn-shaped face. She must look like the goddess Trivia or Invidia, here to strike the girl with justice from the heavens for her attempted treachery. The Archivist plans to do nothing of the sort.

“Come down from the rock, daughter,” she calls, and the girl slides down to the gate. She is trembling.

“I’m sorry, goddess, for my treachery,” the girl cries, falling to her knees. “Punish me, Vesta, goddess of fire with your burning eyes. I hear the crackle of flames around you. I am by nature a fool, and a traitor, so greedy as to seek to be above my honorable station, of which I am not worthy – and I am undeserving of you to appear before me.”

Being not Vesta, nor anything of the sort, the Archivist puts a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, and helps her to her feet.

“You wish to be punished, daughter?” She asks, and the girl nods frantically, torn with guilt. “This is not the great empire I once knew it to be. This invasion will either strengthen it and make the Empire stronger, or the Capitol will fall. Daughter of Vesta: when the soldiers come, open the gate in exchange for that which they wear on their arms – then you shall be punished for your treason, and the Empire will be tested. Now – I hear the march of their armies. Fare well.”

Deftly, the Archivist opens the gate and slips out into the dark night, closing it on the still-kneeling vestal behind her.

-=-=-=-

There is a demon in her closet – there is a Watcher in those shadows. He is dark haired and black-eyed, and he is not human. The other girls under her aunt's care often bring men into their rooms to share their beds, but the Watcher knows his presence meant that the girl that he watched would not dare to do the same.

After all, she is only thirteen, and so lonely that she would tell him whatever he asked of her – and so he is careful to ask after only her music lessons, and gossip among the other girls. Not of her family, who gave her to her aunt because of poverty, nor her thirty-six year old music teacher, whom he knows follows the girl around at parties.

She comes crying to him, and she is a sweet girl still – kind despite her family and absent aunt, her music teacher and the other girls. As much as she cries, she laughs easily as well, and after a flash of red in his bedroom disturbs the much older man away from her, she looks forward to dances again. The Watcher is glad for her, for the girl that treats them like a journal to talk to every day. He knows he is the only man who doesn’t make her skin crawl when he looks at her, and he is not even a man, not truely. Still, she speaks to him in shift only, sometimes, and though he does not cover his eyes, they do not stray from her face.

Still, she brings up to him a dog from the courtyard, and coos over it while still holding it up high enough that it doesn’t track mud across her carpets. She is not broken yet, and the Watcher encourages her to take a break from her studies with a soft smile, a puppy sat contented in her lap.

“Pet ‘t, dearest demon! Is it's fur not so soft and inviting? Thou knoweth thee wanteth to, and the mistress wilt soon returne home, and maketh me bringe ‘t back to the courtyard,” she calls, pushing the dog towards him. He does so, and her face lights up.

“‘t likes thee as much as thee doth love ‘t, mine dear. Just recall to returneth ‘t ere thy mistress make thee, or thou wilt bet troubled greatly.”

The girl smiles, and her eyes are bright. The Watcher is not eager to watch them cloud over, not just with tears but with despair – but he knows some of what is to come. “Thou art correct, but at which hour art thee not? I wilt speaketh with thee again, and doth wish for me that none of the servants or other girls see me passe.”

“I wilt wish for thee. Wend, and hie back.”

-=-=-=-

The pine needles are soft under the Observer’s boots, snow lying in drifts at the sides of the path. Whistling through the trees, a winter wind blows him reassuringly in the right direction, towards the rumors and the exceptions and the outcasts. That was, he knew, where the stories were made – with the solvers of impossible puzzles, set upon them by unreachable figures. With the writers, and the storytellers, and the investigators, who get their hands dirty to make history accessible. Stories laid with the traitors and the rebels and the guilty consciences, with those who had been wronged by whom they should have been able to trust.

The Observer had sought out his entertainment for eras, and – as he rubbed his hands together and blew out white steam – this mineshaft in the woods had the makings of something truly interesting.

#writing #jack the observer #server carg

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