#possessive jaskeir

[eomereadig]

Snippet: Untitled #1

Teeny tiny lil fic :)

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: G

Tags: fluff, cuddling and snuggling, winters at Kaer Morhen, Geralt loves Jaskier

Full fic avaliable here

Even a handful of times later, when Geralt was able to predict Jaskier’s post-climb behaviour with near-complete accuracy, that thought always gave him a moment of pause, of panic. 

This time, though, Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. Despite the back of his mind telling him one thing, Geralt was relatively sure that Jaskier was not dying and instead the same mixture of exhausted, chilly and feverish that most humans were after a trying climb. Gods, Geralt remembered feeling that way the first time he’d climbed The Killer. He was only a boy then, even before his first set of trials, but he remembered how unpleasant it had been as clear as day. 

Geralt was sure that Jaskier had the strength to move, to go up to the bedroom they shared each winter and to help Geralt unpack. But the witcher thought he could afford Jaskier this - if only for a few hours. 

With a quiet sigh, Geralt hoisted Jaskier’s bags onto his shoulder from where he’d dropped them unceremoniously by the door, and lugged them over to the bottom of the winding, spiral staircase that led up to the second floor. He’d unpack Jaskier’s possessions himself, Geralt decided. He’d known his love long enough by now to know where Jaskier liked them, anyway. 

Content to leave the bard to his own devices for the time being - namely, getting warm - Geralt padded over to the fire and tossed on another log lest it burn itself out before Jaskeir was ready to come up. He’d make another fire in their bedroom regardless, something to keep Jaskier warm up there, too. 

Full fic avaliable here

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Buttercups - Inked Up Idiots

Warnings: kissy-kissy-smoochy-smoochy, spicy, not quite horny, new tattoo talk, jask is big possessive

________________

Jaskier had given Geralt a key to his place months ago, but it was still a surprise every time his boyfriend was there when he got home. He was lounging across the couch, pressing a cold washcloth to his hip and one to his collar bone.

“Ooo! New tattoos?” Jaskier chimed as a greeting, dropping his laptop bag and jacket by the door. 

“Jask, I put hooks there for a reason,” Geralt chuckled. 

The artist just shrugged and lifted up one of Geralt’s legs to situate himself on the couch between his thighs, “But you’re just so enticing… I can’t focus on anything else,” he hummed. 

Geralt lifted an eyebrow as if to say ‘bullshit’ but cracked a smile all the same, “So you had a good day?”

“It was fine,” he dismissively waved his hand around before laying it on Geralt’s thigh, “But what did you get?” He was practically bouncing in his seat. I didn’t matter how long he’d been around tattoos, or even doing them himself, he always got excited to see new ones. It was a rush of excitement and he had an addictive personality. Really, no one should have been surprised that this was what he chose to do with his life. 

Geralt shimmied to sit up a little straighter, one of his legs still draped over Jaskier’s lap and the other behind his back, “Okay I have two things to say first.”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt! Just let me see!”

Geralt squeezed his knees together playfully, “Patience.”

Jaskier gave him an indignant look but pointedly kept quiet. 

“One,” Geralt took a deep breath and swallowed hard before he continued, looking to Jask like he might faint on the spot, “I saw a really nice apartment for a good deal a couple blocks over and thought it might be nice. For us. If… if you want to? Like, move in together?”

Jaskier blinked once, then twice, his mind running a mile a minute trying to remember if he was still month to month on his shitty one bedroom or if he’d signed for the six month again. Then he jumped to what he’d need to purge from his closet, which he’d been meaning to do anyway, and wondering if he could convince Geralt to throw away his fire hazard of a crock pot if they were sharing a kitchen. He almost forgot Geralt was waiting for a response as his mind launched full force into the fantasy he’d been keeping himself from indulging in. 

He leaned up and over, placing a soft kiss on Geralt’s lips, taking in the cute little confused pout on his boyfriend’s face for just a bit longer before he answered, “I’d love to.”

Geralt grinned, “Really? You took a little while there. You sure?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Jaskier giggled, “I love you and I think I could live with you without wanting to kill you. I don’t know how you’ll live with me, though.” 

Geralt gave him a quick peck on the lips, “Use the hooks.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, plopping back between Geralt’s thighs, “Maybe. What was number two?”

“Nothing,” Geralt shrugged, “just a disclaimer in case you didn’t want to move in together before I show you these.”

He gingerly plucked the wash cloths off his tattoos and Jaskier felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Under his collar bone was a string of mint and buttercups and baby’s breath to match Jaskier’s sleeves, and on his hip opposite the swallow was one giant magnolia surrounded by buttercups and mint to match. Jaskier’s jaw was in his lap as he looked from the fresh tattoos to Geralt’s face and back. 

“You- those- Did Yen- Here I thought you were terrified of commitment?!” Jaskier sputtered, shifting onto his knees to get a better look at the patterns, gripping Geralt’s hips. 

“I like seeing my flowers on you..” Geralth breathed, laying his hands over Jaskier’s.

Jaskeir couldn’t take his eyes off the red and raised lines over Geralt’s hips. He only half registered his words, nodding along as he rocked forward to get a closer look at the flowers on his collarbone. Geralt rested his hand over Jaskier’s jaw, fingers splaying over the hellebore flowers on his neck. Jaskier breathed a little laugh of disbelief and placed soft kisses over the saniderm covered tattoos, the warmth of the still irritated skin almost making his lips tingle. 

“Hmm… do these make you mine?” Jaskier whispered, feeling something dark and primitive swirling in his gut. 

Geralt hooked a finger under his chin, leveling him with a solemn look, “I’ve always been yours.”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered down to Geralt’s lips, a growl bubbling up in his throat as he surged forward and sealed their lips together, only breaking away for a moment to mutter, “mine” before both of them were far too busy to say anything else. 

[jaskiersvalley]

Hello! I enjoy your little snippets so much-- have push notifications on for you so I'm sure to always them. I wondered, you didn't mention it specifically in a list of NSFW stuff you Don't write, but I know it's very out there/fringe for most folk, but do you ever write omorashi? One of my favs, on the NSFW scene. No worries if no! Not everyone's cup of tea, and I still like your stuff really well still. Keep up the good work! Thanks for sharing with us! 🪕🐺

In the interest of complete honesty, I will admit that this is the first time I’ve ever written anything even close to this. Tentacles? Eggs? Knots? No problem, all stuff I’ve written before. Omorashi? That’s a new one. So I’ve done the only thing I could, went and read a lot (my eyes have been opened) and chatted to some people who know about omorashi. Fingers crossed this is the kind of thing you were hoping for!

Under a cut for, well, omorashi.

Some villages were more welcoming than others. The one Geralt and Jaskier had found themselves in was a rather jovial one, celebrating the fact their crops would no longer be ruined by a wyvern. They had paid Geralt, offered him a room and ale flowed freely while Jaskier played. Such rare merriment had been going on for a few hours and, as much as Jaskier loved an audience and drinking, even he needed a break. And he wanted to nip out to take a leak behind the tavern like any civil gentleman. Because the ale had been plentiful, the partons generous with their coin both directly and indirectly. To say that Jaskier was a little buzzed was an understatement. He was merrily drunk and in high spirits.

His plans were a little waylaid when he sauntered to Geralt’s corner where there was quite a collection of tankards, empty. A small “whoop” left Jaskier when Geralt snagged him around the waist and pulled him into his lap, back to chest. Straddling his thighs was easy enough and Jaskier laughed.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said and patted Geralt on the arm. However, he was pinned.

“Have one more drink.” The words were purred in his ear and Jaskier was hard pressed to resist.

“I will, but I need to piss first. Make room and all that.”

Warm, soft lips pressed behind his ear. “One more drink? For me?”

Memories of a conversation from before floated to Jaskier’s mind. How Geralt had in a roundabouts way expressed an interest in such things and been so mortified to admitting them that straight after, he went and destroyed a harpy nest in record time. Without potions. Executive decision made, Jaskier grabbed the tankard from the table and took a few mouthfuls.

“Anything for you,” he purred and turned to sloppily kiss Geralt. It was actually quite fun, making out and stopping from time to time to drink a little more. Half the tankard in, Jaskier was squirming, uncomfortable at how heavy his bladder felt. But each time he drank a little more, he could feel Geralt’s breath hitch and there was a definite erection pressing against his back.

“Finish the tankard for me in one go.”

It was both a request and a challenge which was something Jaskier never could back down from. Tipping his head back, he chugged the rest of the ale and burped a little at the end. There was no way he could drink any more and he was going to have to get up soon.

His breeches felt too tight and he reached to undo the laces at least, proprietary be damned. Everyone was drunk anyway, some loose breeches wouldn’t even be noticed. Hands swatted Jaskier’s away as he tried to relieve some of the pressure.

“Don’t.” It was a growl of a warning, Geralt’s hands warm and possessive over him. Usually, it would have been wonderful but Jaskier was starting to feel sensitive all over as his bladder pressed outward.

“It hurts,” he whined and was surprised when Geralt reached to undo the laces himself.

Leaning back against Geralt helped a little, Jaskier pressed his back against a firm, warm chest and squirmed. He tried to press his legs together but Geralt’s thighs were in the way. Before he could move, one hand was pressed to his chest, the other rested over his distended belly. Even worse, Geralt spread his thighs, forcing Jaskier’s thighs to spread wider.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined, shivering as he tried to think of anything but how much he needed to take a leak. All of his focus was eaten up by it though, the pressure building up which was made worse when the hand on his stomach pressed down a little. It made Jaskeir jerk, the movement causing a small patch of wetness in his clothes.

Humiliation flushed through Jaskier and he squirmed, Geralt’s cock against his back all but forgotten. He couldn’t let go, not in a tavern, not in Geralt’s lap. It was embarrassing but by the same token, Jaskier couldn’t get enough of the low, rumbling growls of pleasure that were buried in the crook of his neck as Geralt rocked up against him. Another push and a command of “let go” and Jaskier couldn’t hold on anymore. The wet patch grew as his bladder emptied, the trickle turning into a gush. It drenched his thighs and pooled under him, soaking Geralt too.

It felt too good, the relief of pressure, the way his whole body relaxed from where it had been so tense. Under him, Geralt’s hips jerked up as he came with a grunt and Jaskier let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. They were in the corner of an inn, drenched in piss and come, the stairs just behind them. It was almost like Geralt had planned it, plotting their route back upstairs once their little scene had concluded.

There was no hiding his darkened breeches and Jaskier bit his lip, trying to figure out the least conspicuous way to beat a retreat. He didn’t expect Geralt to heft him up, uncaring of holding up Jaskier under his thighs like a blushing bride, cooling piss soaking through from breeches to Geralt’s arm. Being carried up the stairs to their shared room, Jaskier allowed himself to be stripped and washed down with a warm cloth while praise was piled on top of him.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we’re trying it the other way round.”

Given how dark Geralt’s eyes went, Jaskier suspected they’d be trying it soon.

[readyourimgaines]

Fight With Yourself and Your Thoughts in the Night

Request: “My thought was he’d turn into an actual white wolf and is knocked out by the spell. When he wakes up, he’s been locked into a small cage along with Jaskier. The bad guys think that Geralt will end up killing Jaskier, but instead Wolf!Geralt treats him like a pack member, or basically like he always does. Eventually, they escape and either wears off or they go to Yennefer to have her remove it.” 

When Jaskier came to, the first thing he noticed was that something soft and warm was pressed against his side. The second thing he noticed was that wherever he was was much too small for him and the soft creature beside him. 

The creature whimpered and Jaskier jumped, hitting his head off of what could only be a cage. He pressed slowly raised his hand to see how high this cage was. He wouldn’t be able to sit up from his crouched position on his knees and elbows. Accepting he was trapped in his cage with the creature, he finally looked over and his eyes landed on a snow-white wolf. 

The bard’s heart went cold for a few moments. The wolf began to sniff him and started nudging at Jaskier’s arms like it was trying to get a look at his sides.

Scrutinizing the wolf, Jaskier was hit with a wave of realization. “Geralt?” Jaskier asked, holding his hand out to the wolf. The wolf placed his paw in Jaskier’s hand. “Any idea where we are?” The wolf whimpered. A large iron door opened and a man with a greatsword strapped to his back walked in with a vial in his hand. “Good to see you’re awake, bard,” the man said. He held the vial up. “Do you know what this is?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t test me, boy.” The bandit’s voice was low and gruff. 

“I’ve seen Geralt take them but I have no idea what they are or what they do. Honest.” Jaskier shrugged.

“One of my men took a sip and died on the spot. I take you’re going to want this.” The man walked closer to the cage and put the vial close enough to the cage that Jaskier could reach through the cage for it. 

“Why would I want this if it killed someone?” Jaskier raised a brow. 

“The wolf’s going to get hungry before long. You can’t expect the slimy cur not to turn to you for food when that happens. Witchers are more beastly than the fucking wolves that hunt in the highlands. You can either let the heartless fuck-”

“You nicked us from the highlands, didn’t you?” Jaskier cocked his head. “Shouldn’t you be in a cage too, then?” 

“Watch your mouth you little shit!” The bandit bellowed. 

“What’re you going to do about it? Honestly? You don’t have the guts to kill me yourself so you’re going to make someone you bewitched do it for you? You’re more cowardly than me,” Jaskier laughed. 

The man withdrew the keys from his belt and walked to the cage with a scowl. He unlocked it and the second the door was opened, Jaskier lunged and caught the man around the waist, holding him to the ground. The wolf wasted no time in slashing the man’s throat with his claws. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier tried for the wolf’s attention. “Geralt.” He patted the wolf’s head. “Would drinking your potion undo the spell? I don’t know what-” The bard stopped talking when the wolf whimpered and barked. “Alright. Let’s give it a go, hm?” 

Jaskier picked up the bottle and though it took them a couple of tries, Geralt did swallow the potion. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light and Geralt was kneeling before Jaskier with black eyes and blackened veins around his eyes. 

“It worked,” Jaskeir grinned. 

Geralt hummed and stood. Jaskier, whose legs had been bent for so long, had a harder time standing. The Witcher figured it was just as well. He’d have to slaughter their way out, his potion was ramping him up. He heaved a deep breath and turned to Jaskier. 

“I don’t want you seeing what I’m about to do.” 

“What are you-”

In one fluid motion, Geralt steadied Jaskier against his chest and cast Somne. The bard’s head lulled back on his shoulder as the man promptly fell asleep. He eased Jaskier down so he was laying on the floor. 

The Witcher turned to the door and blasted it down with Aard. The first man to raise alarm was easily killed by his own sword once Geralt got it out of his hands. Some of the men ran while others were foolish enough to attack him. 

Geralt never went more than a couple of feet away from the iron door. He needed to keep Jaskier safe. The men that chose to attack were killed in front of the door while a few took a bit of coercion.

Once Jaskier’s heartbeat was the only one Geralt could hear, he went back to the room with the cage and scooped Jaskier into his arms to carry him out of the ramshackle cave.

*****

Jaskier’s head was pillowed by Geralt’s travelling cloak. He could tell that by the scent: dead leaves, pine needles, woodsmoke, and a slight tint of something he probably didn’t want to know. His head felt weirdly full yet light. Like someone packed his head full of clouds. 

Geralt was drying his hair, the river water flowing a little redder as it passed him. Roach, on the other hand, was grazing on grass. 

Jaskier sat up and he was now at an angle to see the water flowing past Geralt. The last words Geralt said to him floated through his mind. I don’t want you seeing what I’m about to do. 

What exactly had he done? They were outside so Geralt had clearly gotten them out. But how? Was the Witcher himself-

Jaskier yelped when Roach nudged his head. 

“Head hurt?” Geralt didn’t look up from drying his hair. The usually silver strands were closer to steel when wet, but clean of blood. 

“...No.” Jaskier rubbed his eyes. His head didn’t hurt but that didn’t mean it felt normal, either. “What, uh...what happened, Geralt?” 

“We got out.”

“I see that . But how did we get out?” Jaskier stood, bracing himself against Roach’s side when he stumbled. The bard rubbed Roach’s side for a few seconds in thanks. 

“I knocked the door out, gathered our things, and carried you out. Whatever they knocked you out with had a worse effect than we thought.”   

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt’s back. The Witcher was always skimpy with the details, but the bard could always tell when Geralt was tiptoeing around a specific detail. 

Accepting he wouldn’t know the whole truth until Geralt was ready to tell him, Jaskier joined Geralt by the banks of the river, sitting beside the Witcher, humming absentmindedly. 

“I’m not scared of you. You can’t scare me. I thought you would have learned that by now.” Jaskier ran his hands through his hair. “You saved my life...again. Which is why you can’t scare me.” 

“You saw my eyes, Jaskier.”

“I did. But I also see them no. The guilty fear. You’re a good person, Geralt. You don’t fight unless there’s no other option. There was a literal cage they locked us in. I might not know how to help you fight, but I know- I think- how to lessen your guilt. To lessen your guilt, my friend, you need reassurances to drown out whatever nastiness your silly brain is spoon-feeding you.” 

Geralt grunted and finally sat up fully, dropping the towel in his lap. “Why are you doing this?”

“Everyone’s always putting you down and you need someone in your corner. Maybe I should write another ballad about you, hm? What do you say to that, Geralt? About the...the sobbing mother who thought her son was dead.” Jaskier snapped his fingers. “Yes! And how we watched their joyous reunion!” 

Geralt was only sort of listening at this point. Now that this idea was in Jaskier’s head, the bard was going to write it whether the Witcher wanted it or not. Which meant he’d be hearing all about it for the next couple of weeks. 

“Thank you.” Geralt cut Jaskier off mid-sentence. 

“Hm? For what?” Jaskier blinked. 

“Not...fuck.”

Jaskier got the message. “Nothing’s changed; there’s nothing to react to. You’ll always be you. The scary-looking man who smiled when a young girl gave him a flower to thank him for saving her brother.

“Yes, you being a Witcher does have some dark and sadder days- such as today. But even my being a bard has its darker and sadder days- like the day I met Valdo Marx. Now if you’ve ever seen a monster in human skin, it’s that flaming compost heap.” 

Geralt grunted out a laugh and Jaskier beamed. 

“Could you… Do you remember anything from while you were under the spell?” The bard’s hand was fidgeting. 

“No. We were swarmed by bandits, one of them was a mage, a bright light, then I’m kneeling next to you with blood on my hand.” 

Jaskier nodded slowly. “Sometime after I woke up, a man came in and gave me one of your potions saying I was going to want it before long because one of his men died after taking a single sip. I got the keys from the man and got us out of the cage, you drank the potion, and then I woke up here.” 

“I put you to sleep.” Geralt wouldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes. 

“You got us out alive,” Jaskier pointed out. “Besides, I should be thanking you. That was the most soundly I’ve slept in days.” 

Geralt shook his head but said nothing else. 

“Come on.” Jaskier took Geralt by the hand and tugged him up to his feet. “If you don’t comb your hair you’re not going to be able to.”

*****

Before midnight, Jaskier had curled up in his bedroll a safe distance from the fire but close enough that the flames kept him warm. 

Geralt lay on Jaskier’s other side so if anything were to try to get at Jaskier it would have to go through him first. As he lay there, the bard’s words drifted in and out of his mind. The words of his peacefully sleeping bard. 

Jaskier never lied to him. He’d dance around an answer if he was embarrassed, but he never lied. Eventually, the bard would go on and tell Geralt the whole answer because he felt bad about not really answering. 

When it came to his love life, Jaskier possessed questionable morals- just like any other bard he’d ever crossed paths with. Unlike most freelancers, Jaskier willingly helped anyone and everyone he could without a thought of payment with a smile. 

If someone so kind, selfless, and trusting as Jaskier would place his life in Geralt’s hands, maybe he wasn’t as evil as he thought. He could try trusting himself as Jaskier did. Or at least a little more. 

The Witcher rolled over, facing Jaskier, and focussed on that bard’s heartbeat. The sound lulled him to sleep by ensuring Jaskier was alive and well.

[morte-mistrata]

The sun sets over the trees, casting golden light on Geralt’s white hair, and the dark black gleam of his leather armor. This time of day is Jaskier’s favorite, (except for when it’s not, like after the rainy season finally breaks into sunshine, or he wakes the morning of a winter’s first snow) but he hardly notices the way that the color drenches the picturesque woodland around them. How could he, when the White Wolf is glaring at the sunset like a dog without his dinner, determinedly ignoring Jaskier’s humming, and looking so impossibly picturesque while he does it?

The image makes Jaskier think of the elves once, and as if his hand were a lodestone, and the lute a magnet, his finger find their way to his new instrument. He’d heard of the Butcher of Blavikan. Everyone had, and more than a few of his fellow bards had made songs of their own from it. No one had been propelled into fame because of it. Tragic songs hardly ever did. But everyone who was anyone had heard of the tale, and it had made Geralt seem like a boogieman, though he was nothing of the sort.

“Stop that.”

Jaskier realizes that he’s been brushing his fingers against the strings, playing half-chords of his newest song mindlessly. He drops his hand to his side, and picks up his pace to walk beside Geralt, instead of near Roach’s flank.

“What, you don’t like it?”

Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier is not satisfied. 

He brings his fingers to the neck of his lute, and strings out the opening of “Toss a coin”. Geralt’s face is as picturesque and still as a statue’s, impossibly to read. He feels a need to defend his song.  “It’ll be sung in every bar you glower yourself into, and you’ll thank me for the women throwing themselves at your feet. My song is-” The music stops abruptly as Geralt grunts again, but this time Jaskier can read the slight twitching of his mouth, and the softening of his glare. 

He thinks Jaskier flustering is funny. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,,” Jaskier sniffs. “If your clothes are anything to go by, you’ve got no taste to begin with.”

The sun is finally below the treeline, and the golden hour has passed. The light is dimming, and though Jaskier can still see the road ahead, he knows that darkness will fall soon enough. He’s not sure how far they are from the town; it’d felt like it took the whole afternoon to get to Filandravel, but they’d also spent a good portion of the day knocked out and tied up. His inner clock is all sort of messed up, but his stomach isn’t. He’s hungry, and by the time they get back, prime playing hour will likely have passed, and along with it, his chances for dinner. The bread from earlier had fallen from his pants during the altercation earlier, either during, or when they’d been dragged up to his lair, and he’s more than a little rueful about it’s loss. 

Jaskier doesn’t want to say anything. He’s pretty sure that Geralt isn’t overly attached to his presence. He’d saved Jaskier’s life earlier (nevermind that Jaskeir got himself into trouble in the first place), but he’s not been what anyone would consider friendly since they’d met. Despite it, Geralt is kind and Jaskier is a fool. Even when he’d thought that he really was the butcher of legend, he’d wanted to speak with him, to be near him. He’s not going to throw that away over a little hunger, or aching feet. 

The night birds are coming out now. Jaskier can make out the distant song of a mockingbird, and from somewhere behind them, a nightingale.

“You’re on the road a lot,” Jaskier says, his pace slowing again as he strains to hear the music over the sounds of their traveling. Roach’s hooves crunching against the dirt underfoot, and Geralt’s calm steady breathing add to the noise like instruments to a symphony. “Do you travel much at night?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier decides to take that as a yes. He turns his gaze away from his companion, and focuses on the road ahead. His head is starting to hurt, and along with his stomach hurting, it’s beginning to make him irritable. “What do you like most about it? The birds sound different. The stars inspire poets and plebeians,” Jaskier stresses teasingly. “Alike. I like the moon. It’s the kind of thing that shines over battlefields, glinting over armor and puddles of blood and...” The words trail out. Jaskier has more, but he can’t get them to connect. He thinks of the Ballad of Blaviken again. 

Her beauty was squandered under sharpened sword

And as he left, he uttered naught a word

The streets were stained red, bloody like a rose.

And now not to trust a Butcher, everyone knows.

Does he know about those songs, Jaskier wonders. Does he get tired of how people talk about him, and fear and despise him, despite how they cry for his help? He’d promised him earlier today that he would write a song to change that, but it certainly seems hard when confronted with the weight of their fears. 

“The stars are making my head hurt.” Jaskier says, as bile rises in his throat. He lurches over, vomit spilling on the side of the road. The sound of Roach’s hooves slows to a stop, though Jaskier hardly notices it against the background of his own sickness. 

A hand rests on his shoulder, not holding him up, but with the rigidity to do so if necessary. Jaskier’s legs shake as another wave of nausea rushes over him, spilling his meager lunch thankfully, on the ground away from his shoes. 

“He hit your head?”

This is the first time since they were captured that Geralt has strung more than three words together. 

Unfortunately, it’s also the first time that jaskier’s unable to respond to it beyond a sickly groan. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, waiting for the last of Jaskier’s retching to abate before dragging him to his feet, not unkindly. “Concussion.”

Jaskier straightens up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What?”

“Your brain bounces around, and makes you sick.” He leads Jaskier over to Roach, somehow giving Jaskier the illusion that he’s mostly walking on his own, despite the knowledge that he’s so dizzy he can barely see straight, and shoves him in the general direction of the saddle until Jaskier takes the hint and climbs on. “We can either make camp, and see if you sleep it off, or see after a healer.”

Jaskier doesn’t have healer money. He might have, if they’d gotten back to town and he’d played his song, and it wasn’t a failure, but as it is, all he has to his name is the clothes he’s wearing, and his lute. Not enough for a healer. Not even one with a kind streak. 

“No healer.” Jaskier manages, sounding very much like a frog more than a bard. 

Geralt snorts, but doesn’t comment on it. He boards Roach with the kind of ease that comes with spending a fuck ton of time on a horse, sliding snugly behind Jaskier. He pulls at Roach’s reins, and he picks up speed. The speed makes his head hurt worse, but at least, Jaskier thinks as he leans back against Geralt, as sturdy as a stone wall, he’ll have a story to tell, and a song to sing. 

Sometime after that Jaskier falls asleep, only waking when Roach finally comes to a stop, and Geralt pauses above him, hesitation and awkwardness so thick he can taste it in the air. 

“I can get down,” Jaskier mumbles, bleary from sleep. His head still hurts, but it’s the dull sort of ache that accompanies a hangover, rather than the sharp overbearing one from earlier. His arms feel oddly heavy and slow, but he’s managed to do more with less. Jaskier lands on his feet, and makes his way over to the nearest tree trunk while Geralt sets to making camp. 

Maybe it’s the almost dying thing. Maybe it’s because Geralt is actually a warm-hearted, if somewhat socially stunted person (it explains much more of his actions than the ‘big, bad monster’ stereotype does). Whatever it is, sitting there, and watching Geralt start a fire using a pile of twigs and a flip of his fingers, makes it feel like he’s done this a million times before. Like he’s known Geralt in some lifetime before this. 

It’s probably the concussion. Or maybe it’s the dreaminess that all good bards possess. Whatever it is, Jaskier decides, his head hurts too much to question it. 

He closes his eyes as the fire begins to crackle, and lets himself fall back asleep. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850800