#soft winter jaskier

[mvnces]

Jaskier has arrived to give ilya little smooches all over his face and tummy thank u

It was nearing the end of the winter season. The time where Ilya would have to go back on the road to look for work and slay monsters nearing with each day. He had not asked Jaskier if he would be joining him when he first set out — Too caught up in the pleasant comfortability of spending the season with him. And knowing the bard well enough to know that they would stumble across each other at some point during the year if Jaskier chose to not initially join him.

At the moment, he had made himself comfortable sprawled out in Jaskier's bed. It was almost like he was genuinely hibernating (or as close to it as he could) like an actual bear would be.

The sensation of the mattress dipping under new weight was enough to rouse him. Comfortable and at peace enough to not even fully wake up. "G'morning," Ilya murmured as he turned his face to meet the initial kiss of greeting. But then the kisses continued—with Ilya scrunching his face against the sudden onslaught of affection—and traveled. Cat eyes blinking open to peer down at Jaskier, lazily watching him. "What are you doing?"

[thedemonofcat]

The wolves all receive a short missive from Vesemir one year. It reads: “Picked up a stray. He’s staying the winter at least”

The wolves are surprised, but they supposed it made sense. Vesemir liked to care for things, and he was likely lonely. If he brought home some mutt he rescued, well, good for him.

Except, when they arrive in Kaer Morhen before the first snow, there is no dog. There IS a whole-ass person: an ex slave named Jaskier.

The Witchers of the Wolf School stared in disbelief at the unassuming figure before them—a stray Vesemir had inexplicably brought back to Kaer Morhen.

"Hello," came Jaskier’s voice, soft and lilting like a melody. It was unexpected when Geralt, typically terse, responded first.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Geralt replied, extending a hand. Jaskier, however, tilted his head, perplexed.

“You’re supposed to shake it,” Vesemir clarified, his tone patient. With an awkward smile, Jaskier took Geralt’s hand and gave it a clumsy shake that left everyone watching in bemusement.

“Why don’t you get started on dinner?” Vesemir suggested, his voice carrying a note of encouragement. He knew an explanation was due for this peculiar guest.

Jaskier’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Alright,” he replied, sauntering off with an easy air.

Once Jaskier was out of earshot, Lambert, ever blunt, broke the silence. “Alright, I’ll bite. Who is he?”

Vesemir let out a heavy sigh. “Jaskier is a Selkie,” he began. “A knight-errant from Toussaint had been keeping him as some sort of... Selkie bride.”

“Doesn’t sound like it was a happy arrangement,” Eskel remarked, his voice low with concern.

“Not in the least,” Vesemir confirmed, his tone sharp with disdain. “That knight treated Jaskier like a prized possession—barking orders, beating him when it suited him. He even kept Jaskier’s cloak hidden to stop him from returning to the sea and had the gall to brag about it.”

“What happened to the knight?” Geralt asked, his voice neutral but his eyes dark with unspoken thoughts.

“He’s dead,” Vesemir said simply, without an ounce of pity. “Got cocky trying to fight a wyvern. Serves him right.”

There was a pause before Vesemir continued, his voice tinged with something close to pity. “Look, you saw how Jaskier didn’t even know what a handshake was. He hasn’t said much, but I gather he was taken from the sea as a child. That knight kept him isolated, ignorant of so many things. There’s a lot Jaskier doesn’t know... yet.”

The witchers exchanged glances, the weight of Vesemir’s words settling over them. Jaskier was more than a stray; he was a mystery—and a wounded one at that.

[inexplicifics]

#7 - geralt/eskel

#11 - Broken Lock verse milena/lambert/aiden

#14 - Jaskier/Geralt

If any of those tickle your fancy, cheers!

Geralt feels the tension drain from his shoulders as he rounds the last bend and Kaer Morhen finally looms into view. It may be cold and bleak and full of terrible memories, but it’s still home as long as old Vesemir keeps the fire burning, as long as his brothers return each winter to drink and share stories and keep company together through the coldest months.

As long as Eskel makes it back, it’s home.

And thank fuck, when he leads Roach into the stable it’s to find Scorpion already in a stall, looking sleek and well-groomed, which is a damn good sign. Geralt untacks Roach and brushes her down and puts a blanket on her and makes sure her stall has water and oats and hay, and leaves her to get reacquainted with Scorpion and the handful of other horses - Lambert’s nameless gelding, Frank’s sturdy mare Easy, Gardis’s high-strung Jitters and Vesemir’s nondescript Stomper, and the ancient donkey which everyone just calls Bitey for good and valid reasons.

Geralt pats each of them on the nose as he leaves the stable, of course, even Bitey. Dodging the donkey’s teeth is good practice, after all.

Snow is starting to blow across the courtyard as he crosses it, and he hunches his shoulders and tucks his nose into his scarf as the bitter wind bites through his clothes and armor like they aren’t even there. Sometimes he thinks it gets colder here every winter.

The door is heavy, but it’s set into an alcove so the wind doesn’t blow it out of Geralt’s hands. He trudges up the stairs to the room he and Eskel share, setting his bags down near the door and hanging his coat on a hook and taking a moment to bury his face in Eskel’s cloak and breathe in deeply. No perfumer in the world would make a scent that’s mostly leather and blood and bitter potions ingredients and a strange sharp topnote that is probably pure Chaos, but Geralt thinks it’s the second finest scent in the world.

And then he makes his way back down the stairs, down past the main level to the kitchen-basement, and slips in through the half-open door to what may actually be the witcher version of heaven, or at least Geralt’s heaven:

A warm, well-lit room with a steaming pot of stew on the back of the fire and the scent of fresh-baked bread filling the air, and Eskel, his shirtsleeves rolled up to bare brawny forearms and his collar open almost to his navel, wielding an oven peel as skilfully as he does his sword. He pulls the last loaf out of the oven and sets it on the counter to cool, then hangs the peel on its hook and turns to Geralt, smiling the crooked perfect smile that Geralt dreams of when the Path is hard.

“Wolf,” he says softly, and opens his arms.

Geralt stumbles forward into the offered embrace, tucking his nose against Eskel’s neck and smelling fresh bread and clean sweat and sharp Chaos - Eskel home, Eskel safe, Eskel uninjured and relaxed, which is the actual finest scent in all the world.

“‘Skel,” he mumbles, and Eskel chuckles, closing his arms even tighter until Geralt can feel his back creak. He squeezes just as hard.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, clinging to each other, but at last Geralt sighs and lifts his head and Eskel’s scarred lips meet his in a kiss that starts soft and ends deep and hungry, and then because neither of them wants the lecture from Vesemir about appropriate places to fuck (which do not include the kitchen), they settle at the long battered table and Eskel breaks open a loaf of fresh bread and they eat warm bread dripping with butter and honey, shoulders pressed against each other, and Geralt thinks the whole long slogging year upon the Path was worth it for this moment right here.

(Or HERE on AO3!)

[kuwdora]

@perseruna I LISTENED!! I MANIFESTED!!

the lion, the witch, and the audacity of this bitch geralt/jaskier/yennefer ~6k, explicit. d/s, sexual roleplay, banter, erotic massage. more tags on ao3.

Trouble is afoot and it will be a long evening for the White Knight.

The White Knight has been in the Queen’s service for more than half his life. He currently stands beside her royal majesty in the throne room, bearing witness to the thorn in the Queen’s side. A thorn he will be called upon to remove.

Whether he was pushing miscreants from the kingdom with his blade, doling out punishments on behalf of the Queen, or sating her majesty’s sexual desires, the White Knight fulfilled his responsibilities every day of his life. However such consistency was not common in all of the Queen's loyal subjects.

This spy in particular, a faun with broad shoulders and a nervous smile, a tufted little goatee and soft, folded ears. He has a penchant for distracting the castle guards with jovial questions about their favorite snacks. He has often derailed the White Knight's retinue from their duties with gossip from the latest winter festival.

Mr. Tammus had come into the Queen’s service only a few short years ago. The White Knight had been on assignment looking for allies to enlist to the Queen’s service. He’d ventured into the western mountains, seeking the brawn of a clan of minotaurs. It was there that he discovered Mr. Tammus beguiling the clan leader and her grandfather with a musical jig. Mr. Tammus had accidentally broken a curse that had fouled their young with human-features. Mr. Tammus could have asked for anything from the grateful clan but instead requested only shelter and their undivided attention while he performed his latest song.

Upon witnessing Mr. Tammus’ charm on the minotaurs firsthand, the White Knight knew the faun would prove useful for the Queen’s service.

Tammus indeed proved to be a valuable asset with eyes and ears in the community and borderlands, able to strike up friendships all due to his cherub-like face and penchant for outlandish tales that could enchant anyone with ears. He found secrets and gossip in the unlikeliest of places that was useful to the Queen and her royal guard.

Yet there are times where the faun’s flightiness has tested the Queen's patience.

Which is why Mr. Tammus is currently on his knees and bowing, snowmelt slipping from his hair onto the floor. read on ao3

[aramblingjay]

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—���

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

-

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

-

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

-

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

-

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

-

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

-

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Lambert hair braiding!!

Lambert huffed as he once again pushed dark hair back off his face. He'd had every intention of cutting it during the winter but with everything else happening at Kaer Morhen it was a task which had kept falling to the back of his mind, resulting in him having every intention of asking Aiden to give him a hand with it when they met up again just shy of the mountains.

Aiden however, had expressed a fondness for the longer style (many times, very enthusiastically) and truth be told Lambert would be lying if he said he didn't find something soothing about the other playing with the longer strands in the calmer moments, alongside the unexpected pleasure of having it properly pulled and tugged during their more energetic fucking sessions now Aiden could get a decent grip. After a lifetime of keeping it short to give various dickheads one less thing to grab it was almost....freeing, in a strange way. Right now though; trying to deal with it in the wilderness, in the aftermath of the first of the spring storms, it was a fucking annoyance. Pure and simple.

"C'mere Pup. Before you start ripping it out by the fistful." Aiden said, from where he was watching Lambert's struggle with the hair tie he'd borrowed. Apparently it was a skill he needed more practice in if the obvious amusement in the others voice was any indication.

He grudgingly shuffled over on his knees, dropping the tie into the others waiting hand, "Why the fuck is this so hard? All you did was-" he mimed pulling his hair back whilst gesturing to the bun Aiden had effortlessly and flawlessly tied his back in without even breaking stride as soon as the rain had started.

"Years of practice, sweetheart. Turn around for me?" Aiden requested, patting the ground infront of him.

There was a time when Lambert would have made various cruel remarks about sitting around and styling one anothers hair (usually at Jaskier's expense). That Lambert had never experienced Aiden's skilled fingers gently combing through his own, mindful of any knots as they tried to get it into some sort of order outside of the rats nest Lambert and the weather had no doubt turned it into. He was fully expecting the Cat to just sweep his hair up as efficiently as he had his own and be done with it. What he got was the sensation of Aiden sectioning parts of it off, followed by a gentle persistent, rhythmic tugging.

"What are you doing?" Lambert asked, tensing slightly.

"Relax Lam, I'm just braiding it...you want me to stop?"

Lambert shrugged nonchalantly, attempting to smooth over the momentary wobble, "Do what you want."

"Ooooh, I was hoping you'd say that. I'm actually pretty curious what you'd look like bald."

"You fucking dare, Cat!"

"Joking, Wolf. Your hair's way too pretty. Nice and thick."

A joke about his hair not being the only thing of his that was thick was on the tip of Lambert's tongue. Instead just gave a hum of acknowledgement as he let his eyes slip closed, relaxing into the sensation.

The next few minutes passed by in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by Aiden's soft purr of satisfaction at the others contentment as he gently manoeuvered Lambert's head every so often. Indicating with a gentle tap to the others shoulder when he was finished.

Lambert ran a hand over his head. He could feel two thick braids, starting at his temples and finishing just behind his ears, keeping the troublesome bits securely out of his eyes whilst the rest hung loose.

Aiden gave a nod of approval at his handiwork, "Suits you."

"Of course it does. I look good in anything." Lambert gave the other a quick kiss in thanks, "Maybe you should let me practice on you so I can return the favour sometimes."

"Not a cat in hells chance. I value my scalp too much."

[lucigoo]

I love it when Jaskier is able to save Geralt, whether that be by sheer dumb luck and some guts or by immense skill like with people. Just anytime they both save the other is such a good time in my opinion.

How do you feel about it? Are you a Jaskier is the only damsel in distress or do you like them to switch off being the damsel in distress?

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

I often feel like Jaskier ramps up the damsel in distress act. One he is a phenominal actor, and two, why wouldnt he? Geralt likes to help and be useful. Jaskier knows this and if Geralt can save him, then yeah, go Geralt! Jaskier is often alone (most winters) and he was the Sandpiper. Like his entire character is BAMF, but he is also not afraid of being seen as soft or weak which I adore about him. He is the human surrounded by non humans and he knows this and I feel like he plays it up for his super strong, emotionally repressed friends lol.

[bambirex]

Tell It With Your Heart

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 2,504

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️

It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe

Read on Ao3

**

Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.

It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.

It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.

That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.

It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.

When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.

But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.

Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.

"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.

"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.

*

The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.

They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.

Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.

"What about you?"

"Lie down, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.

"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.

"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."

"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"

Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.

It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.

*

"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."

"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.

"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.

They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.

"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.

He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

"What is it? Something for Roach?"

Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.

"It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.

"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."

Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.

He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.

"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."

"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."

*

Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.

He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.

Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.

He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.

"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."

"Did it help you create better?"

"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."

"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.

Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.

He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.

Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.

He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.

"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."

"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."

"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.

"Do you not want it?"

"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."

"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.

Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.

*

The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.

"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"

Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.

"And I'm only thirty-five!"

"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."

"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"

"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."

"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."

His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.

"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.

"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."

Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.

Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.

"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."

"You take care of me as well."

"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."

Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."

Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."

Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.

"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."

He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."

He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.

"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.

"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."

Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt an eternal summer

His summer

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Tags: feelings realisation

He doesn't want this summer to end.

Not that it had been any different from previous summers. It's still the two of them camping under the stars, the same as ever.

But something in Geralt has shifted. Something he can't explain.

He'd stopped grumbling whenever the bard sang, strumming his lute into the late hours of night.

He didn't complain when Jaskier grabbed a comb and teased out the knots in his hair, carefully braiding it down his back.

He even let the troubadour steal his food, wear his clothes and use his bags to bring along whatever unnecessary items he wanted to.

When Geralt glances up from poking the fire to look at Jaskier, he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.

The bard was screwing his face up, hand scratching his head while he pondered the lyrics for his next song.

The years had been kind to the bard. His features are still soft and full of youth despite the wilderness they frequent.

His eyes shine bright, day or night, but Geralt prefers seeing them right now, across a campfire when they flash at him, piercing and demanding.

"What are you thinking, my dear witcher," Jaskier purrs, setting his quill and notebook down on the log.

Geralt's eyes dart down, flickering back to the fire. That smile on his face threatens to spill out across his lips.

He can feel Jaskier walk around, coming up behind him. His knees drop, perching onto the edge of the stone that Geralt is sitting on. 

Jaskier's arms wrap around his neck.

"What's on your mind, love?" he whispers in his ear.

"Nothing," Geralt lies, like he always does.

Jaskier hums in a low voice, a mockery of all the times Geralt made that noise, clearly making a point.

In response, Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's. He wants to turn his head, to kiss him, but he doesn't move.

He can't lose this. These moments they have. He wants more, Melitele, how badly he wants more, but he's never had more. He won't push it.

"I was thinking, it's such a nice night, maybe we can put out bedrolls together and watch the stars after dinner."

Geralt nods his head, then feels his breath hitch as Jaskier brings his lips up to his cheek and places the softest peck against him.

Then he's gone, leaving him to go back to compose while Geralt cooks the rabbit.

He never wants this to end, and yet, as the summer leaves start to turn, he knows it will have to.

His heart aches in his chest at the thought of a winter without him, his bard, his companion, his shadow.

His love.

The thought crashes through him. That's the word. That's what Jaskier means to him: love.

He stands up, dropping his stick, and walks over to Jaskier.

The dirt beneath his feet crunches, but he doesn't hear it for the thumping of his blood pumping around his body.

He feels warm in a way he's never experienced, not even in the throes of passion with Yennefer, or at a brothel.

His fingers twitch, his body feeling heavy with each step.

Jaskier isn't even looking at him, furiously writing down words onto a page. Geralt's never looks at what he writes, but he likes the way he sprawls black ink across the pages.

He steps forward, his leg hitting Jaskier's knee.

There's a huff of protest from Jaskier for a second, then he's looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

The argument is over before it begins, because Geralt reaches out with his hands, cupping his face with one and holding onto his bicep with another, and then Jaskier is rising to meet him.

Those blue eyes sparkle in confusion. They dart back and forth, up and down, as if Geralt's expression will reveal the secret.

Geralt feels breathless, like the air is thin. He moves his other hand up Jaskier's arm, sliding up and behind his neck.

The bard's lips are parted, tempting Geralt to taste them. Jaskier peers up at him, blinking.

There's a brief pause, a moment while Geralt tries to commit this to memory.

Then he leans forward, bringing their lips together.

Jaskier whimpers at the touch, barely responding, then suddenly his hands clutch onto Geralt's shirt, pulling hard.

Their lips slide together, soft and tender. The taste of plum wine that Jaskier drank earlier while they were in town fills Geralt's senses.

This is the perfect moment, something that should never end.

Yet Jaskier pulls back, gasping for air for a second.

Those eyes shine, like they always do, and Jaskier bites his lips playfully, leaning his forehead against Geralt's.

"I have to ask something, Geralt, or I'm going to explode. And, please, I need you to answer me. How long have you wanted to do that?"

"Just…a while," he admits, giving a small shrug.

Jaskier splutters, slapping his arm. It doesn't hurt one bit.

"You…okay, fine. Tell me later. I just need you to kiss me again."

Their lips meet again, sending tingles of pleasure through Geralt. He feels himself melt into it, knowing deep in his bones that this is where he wants to be forever.

This right here is all he needs. Jaskier, his bard, his love, is his eternal summer.

[magdelanesingerin]

Little Socks

Read on AO3

Jaskier could not get warm.

He was pretty sure he was fighting off a bug; there was always something circulating amongst the students he taught, and it was a miracle if he ever got through a winter without catching something wretched that would lay him out for a week. It was frustrating timing, though, since they both finally had a stretch of days off together for the holidays, and Jaskier had been looking forward to spending the two weeks’ break between semesters with his boyfriend, not laying in bed sniffling. 

At any rate, he was currently wearing long flannel PJ pants and one of Geralt’s old t-shirts, curled up in their bed in a cozy, two-layer blanket burrito which he had pulled up around his ears, and he was still cold. He could hear Geralt puttering around, coming quietly in and out of the bedroom where Jaskier was napping their snowy Saturday afternoon away. 

He wished that Geralt would come lay down and nap with him (he’d love having that big warm body to cuddle up to and steal all his warmth), but he knew getting the man to laze around was a lost cause, even on vacation. It was nearly impossible to bring his boyfriend to rest; Geralt was like a damn shark that had to be in motion at all times, cleaning, and doing chores, and working on projects around the house. Jaskier, who was an expert in relaxing, found the whole thing baffling. 

Of course, if Geralt ever did sit down to do anything less active than playing a video game, he tended to fall asleep in minutes like the cranky old man he was at heart, head konked back against whatever chair he’d sat down in and snoring like a lumberjack. It was endearing.

Jaskier slitted his eyes open against the pale, wintry afternoon light just enough to see Geralt emerging from the closet with a laundry basket, and called out to him.

“Geraaaalt,” he whined sleepily into the blankets tucked around his face, and Geralt turned back from the doorway to peer down at him. “I’m cold.”

“D’you want another blanket?” Geralt asked like the wonderful, thoughtful boyfriend he was. 

“No, that’ll make me too hot,” Jaskier groaned, sounding pitiful even to his own ears. He shoved his bare foot out the bottom of the blankets and waggled it in the chilly air. “Can you put some little socks on me?”

He could hear Geralt breathe a laugh at him, but he put the laundry basket down on the other side of the bed and headed to the dresser. Jaskier snuggled down further in his blankets as he listened to the dresser door slide open and closed, and sighed happily as Geralt caught his waving foot in his big warm hands and carefully pulled on one of the cheap, brightly-printed, thin cotton socks that Jaskier loved to wear around the house–- just thick enough to be a little warm, but not so fluffy they’d make him overheat. As soon as one foot was covered he pulled it back into the warmth of his blanket cocoon and stuck the other foot out in its place.

“You’re pretty cute, did you know that?” Geralt said fondly and squeezed newly sock-clad arch of Jaskier’s foot gently before he tucked it back under the blankets. 

“Yep, I know,” said Jaskier with a happy wiggle and a smirk, already starting to warm up and rubbing his sock-covered feet together contentedly. “Thanks babe, that’s already better.” Geralt laid his hand over Jaskier’s blanket-wrapped ankles. The gentle weight was more comforting than it had any right to be for such a small thing.

“Yell if you need anything,” Geralt rumbled quietly. “I think I’m going to go scrub the oven, so just text me if I don’t hear you.”

“Of course you are, what else would you be doing to relax on a Saturday afternoon? Freak.” Jaskier murmured lovingly, starting to drift off with a soft little smile. 

The low sound of Geralt’s chuckling faded down the hallway as Jaskier hummed and fell asleep.

[samstree]

Jiiiin, 28. forehead touches or nose nudging or any soft variation on the theme or 9. Shoulder kisses if you'd like?

Hi Jessica dear ;)

Soft prompts: 28. forehead touches or nose nudging🪄

“It was my favorite.” Jaskier sniffs, holding the sweater and caressing the holes on it. “Damn those moths!”

The tears won’t stop. His eyes are red and full of sadness.

“Come on. It’s alright.” Geralt nudges Jaskier’s cheek with his nose gently, kissing the tears away. “I’ll make another one.”

His heart twists at the memories of knitting it by the fire, and the sight of Jaskier wearing it, winter after winter.

“Promise?” Jaskier’s eyes are big and hopeful. He’s still touching the ruined sweater for comfort. “And fix this one too?”

Geralt hugs Jaskier closer, humming with contentment. “Promise.”

[eggcompany]

A Soft Kind Of Home Part 2

askier learns knew things every winter he boards with his witchers. Each year the wolves let him a little further in.

He learned that Lambert quite enjoys spices but can’t handle heat. Jaskier introduced them all to cinnamon sugar on buttered bread and Lambert loves it. Geralt smells it and acts like he’s suffocating and Eskel takes one bite and cries.

Jaskier soon teaches Lambert how to bake with the different spices he brings and how to harvest them from the plants when they grow. Lambert is so happy because he has a big horde of food by the end of winter. And he gets to take the good food with him on the Path.

Jaskier learns that Eskel does in fact have a very nicely sewn stuffed bear that he keeps hidden in one of the keeps towers. He sewed it from scraps of old clothes and a few pieces of silk he acquired on the Path. He stuffed it with strips of old shirts. He shows Jaskier one day because “I know the others wouldn’t say anything for my sake but you... you will tell me what you think.”

And Jaskier just kisses his precious forehead and says “it is so amazing! You did such a good job. I bet it’s so nice to cuddle up to a snuggly. I love it and I think it’s wonderful, darling.” Eskel just bathed in the praise. He smiled and nuzzles into his bear and says “thanks”

All three of them let Jaskier bathe them at this point because it’s not worth the argument.

Jaskier usually sits on the side of the hot spring with his legs spread wide and his feet in the water so the boys can lay back against his thighs and stomach while he washes their hair and face and massages their shoulders. But one day Geralt decides to instead of sitting on his butt facing away from Jaskier, he decides that he wants to sit on his knees and shove his face in Jaskier’s stomach and wrap his arms around the bards waist.

“Aw I can’t get to your pretty face. That’s alright I suppose. Do you need anything, my sweet honey pie?” Geralt just grunts back and squeezes Jaskier a bit and relaxes like jello.

(Vesmir bonus)

Jaskier brings the eldest Witcher things like rare plant seeds to recipes from his home to the thickest woolen blankets he can find. Vesmir always acts so humble and almost refuses to accept but really he’s so happy to hear that the bars will be arriving. Jaskier might spoil the elderly man a bit.

<- Last Chapter

[astaldis]

Issue no 27 - Lullaby for Yennefer

From Chapter 7: Bard Comfort of "Where the Tulips Grow."

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Yennefer of Vengerberg

Caretaker: Jaskier

"Grit your teeth, Yen, this is going to sting." Yennefer gives a curt nod. She has lived through worse in her long life, much worse. Moreover, to her own surprise and against all reason, she trusts 'doctor' Jaskier. As a lutenist he has dextrous, sensitive fingers, hasn't he? Surely a lot more so than Geralt. Jaskier is an artist. He will be good and gentle with a needle, too. Like he is with everything he does.

It does sting when Jaskier carefully cleanses the injury with a cloth soaked in hot water, of course it does, and even more so when he pours copious amounts of a cold liquid onto it that smells like some very strong spirit. Judging from the deep sigh he gives while doing so, a spirit he is loath to part with, but still he does, for her. Yennefer clenches her teeth as hard as she can and only gives a low groan at the burning sensation that radiates from her side into her whole body. It does not get any better, either, when Jaskier starts to insert the first stitch, then the next. She tries to concentrate on his gentle voice that accompanies every stab of the needle with soft, soothing words. To her amazement, it helps a lot more than expected. It is almost a bit like magic. Perhaps it is magic after all? Jaskier's very own, very personal magic? A magic she could easily get lost in. Yennefer sighs. Maybe this is exactly what she should do, get lost in his voice and his touch and forget about the pain and the world and just fall asleep to the gentle lullaby he has begun to sing to her. Or is it a love song?

"He watches the morning light catch on her raven hair. Curves of her lips promisin' a life that they will share. Two lovers intertwined in the light of a winter's dawn. As the rubble of war sweeps down through the valley. So, stay with me, oh, lover, my heart's filled with worry. Stay with me, oh, lover, the borders are burning. And war is yearning to take you away from me. And to bury you deep in the clay down below. So, come to me, oh, lover, my heart is still burning. Come to me, oh, lover ..."

Jaskier keeps on singing the song of the Lark, the elven warrior who killed both an Empress and her lover to save to world. A hauntingly sad song, but still full of hope and love and yearning. The song the mysterious shape-shifting elven storyteller taught him along with the tale of the Seven. He keeps on singing until the last stitch is done and the wound dressed in fresh, clean bandages, until Yennefer relaxes in his arms and falls deeply asleep to his tune with a little smile on her lips, a smile as sweet as the promise of spring. Tenderly, Jaskier tucks the blankets around his sleeping beauty and kisses her good-night on the cheek. Then it is time to finally see to his own leg. No, wait. A disturbing image springs to his mind all of a sudden. Fuck! Almost worried out of his mind for Yennefer, he totally forgot about her, imagine this! His lute, she is still out there. Possibly lying broken beyond repair in the dark and rain. A jolt of panic grips the bard. Looks like he is not quite done rescuing loved ones yet, no. He has to get to her immediately. And yes, don't laugh, his lute is a she and she has a name, too. However, her name is his secret, and it will remain a secret as long as he can sing. So, hopefully until the last breath he breathes on this continent. Preferably in the far, far away future.

[flowercrown-bard]

How about 30 for Jaskel? 💚

thank you, dear <3

30. ‘this is my husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner etc.’

“Remind me again,” Jaskier said, as he scooted up in bed and leaned his head against Eskel’s shoulder. It was broad as ever, maybe a little bit softer than it used to be, when they had first met. Retirement had done him good. Both of them had gotten softer and Eskel had grown to love each and every line appearing on Jaskier’s face. They had gotten deeper more quickly than Eskel would have thought they would, but Jaskier smoothed his worries away by claiming it was because he smiled so often. So Eskel made it his life’s mission to make sure Jaskier had reason to smile as much as humanly possible. At the moment, said reason came in the form of looking at the old sketches Lambert had drawn of them so many winters ago. He always kept them in the drawer next to their bed. The sketch he was holding right now showed Jaskier and him at Kaer Morhen, with Eskel’s head pillowed on Jaskier’s lap, while the bard combed his fingers through Eskel’s hair and was clearly so contend that he hadn’t even noticed Lambert taking out his pencils. 

A nudge against Eskel’s side brought him back to the here and now. 

“Sorry, what?” he asked a little sheepishly. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly. Somehow age had made them even more blue, something Eskel would have never thought possible. But then again, Jaskier had proven that he was able to do the impossible, when he had fallen in love with him.

“Remind me,” Jaskier said, “where I put my glasses.”

“Oh.” Eskel looked around the cosy little cottage. The evening light falling through the window caught on the metal frame of the glasses, lying at the far end of the room. Jaskier had taken them off, when they had laid down for a nap that had turned into an extended cuddle-session. 

“They’re over there.” Eskel nodded towards the glasses. “Should I…?” 

He already made to get up, but Jaskier guffawed in protest and practically flung himself over Eskel’s chest. 

“Don’t you dare!” He clung to Eskel even tighter. “I don’t want to miss my pillow for even a second.”

Eskel huffed in amusement. He felt the scars pull on his smile, making it even wider. Even so, it was never wide enough to do justice to all the happiness Jaskier made him feel. 

“Is that all you’d miss if I were to leave?”

“Obviously not.” Jaskier stretched until he could kiss Eskel’s cheek. “But if I were to list all the things I love about you, we’d still be here in ten years.”

“I wouldn’t mind another ten years with you,” Eskel said softly. His hand not holding the sketch went to Jaskier’s head, cradling it gently. 

“Yeah.” Jaskier sighed. “Me neither.” There was a brief pause, in which Jaskier’s hand wandered to Eskel’s heart, feeling it’s thumping. Even after all this time, Jaskier’s proximity was enough to speed it up to an almost human rhythm. He certainly never felt more human than when he was with Jaskier. 

“I guess,” Jaskier said eventually. “If I can’t see what’s on the sketch, you’ll just have to describe it to me.”

Eskel’s brows rose. “You just want to hear me get all sappy again.” “I can’t help it.” Jaskier shrugged, not denying a single thing. “I love the way your voice goes all soft and happy when you talk about us.”

A warm that by now was as familiar to Eskel as an old friend, filled his chest.

“Alright then.” He tilted the paper, to see it better. He took a moment to figure out where to begin. He tapped on one of the figures. “This is me,” he said. “And this -” His finger wandered to Jaskier and he trailed off again. How should he describe it? Back when the drawing had been made, Jaskier hadn’t been his husband yet. Not even his partner, but calling him his friend didn’t seem like enough. His eyes wandered from the picture to Jaskier, who was looking right at him, with so much tenderness that it made his heart skip a beat. “And this,” he started again. He let go of the sketch and gently took hold of Jaskier’s chin, tilting it up so he could press a kiss against his lips. “This is my happiness.”

[saywhatjessie]

The Many Things a Grunt Can Mean

Advent Calendar Day 19! (prompts by @raven-cincaide-words) Today’s prompts: Christmas Traditions | Arranged Marriage | Awkward Fandom: The Witcher - Pairing: Geralskier 1k[Ao3]

It was winter and Geralt was not at Kaer Morhan.

This wasn’t his first winter out of the mountain: he’d missed the pass some years when he’d been sidelined by jobs before the snow came, or he’d been feuding with his brothers and had stayed away out of stubbornness and pride.

For the first time, he’d stayed because he was asked. Jaskier had been hired to teach a course at Oxenfurt and had wanted Geralt at his side.. So he’d asked. And Geralt had stayed.

He missed Vesemir and his brothers, to be sure, but he could always catch up with Eskel and Lambert somewhere on the road, and he knew his father trusted him to be safe. No, he didn’t regret this winter away – not when he had Jaskier’s laugh to brighten his days and his warmth in his bed and his songs in his ears. He was happy for all of the time he got to spend with Jasier: the human only had so much of it left.

That gratitude, however, was quickly overshadowed by confusion when a human woman crashed into the tavern while his bard was playing and Jaskier abruptly cut his song short to tackle her in a hug.

“Imelda, darling, you’ve made it!”

“Of course I’ve made it, you great lump! I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

“Oi!” Called the bar keep. “I paid you for the hour, bard, get back to playing!”

“Oh, fuck off, Bazyli, my wife is here.”

That sent everyone in the room back a step. They turned, almost as one, to look at Geralt.

Geralt who had been plodding around Oxenfurt with Jaskier for months now. Who several had seen with Jaskier fully in his lap after a late set at the pub. Who almost everyone had seen physically carrying Jaskier over his shoulder to their shared room and then pretended not to hear the protest of their bedsprings.

Geralt scowled at all them of them, growling in a way that told them to mind their fucking business.

They all looked away, everyone’s nerve faltering in the face of a displeased witcher.

Everyone except the woman Jaskier was still holding. She’d followed everyone’s eyes to Geralt but was now the only person who wasn’t looking away.

“Oh, fuckery! Is this him then?” She asked Jasker, slapping him gently on the arm. “Oh, he’s shorter than I thought he’d be.”

Geralt grunted, his head jerking back in surprise. Because, what the fuck?

“Oh, I know!” Jasker agreed, gently pulling her toward the table where Geralt was sitting with his ale. “All those tales of the big bad witchers make you think they’ll be massive monsters but he’s really just a puppy, isn’t he?

Geralt growled at him, low enough that no one besides him would hear it.

And the woman, too, apparently. She laughed, sitting across from Geralt. “Oh and he even sounds like one!”

She turned his unnerving yellow eyes to stare at her directly and, to her credit, she did stare directly back.

Jaskier chuckled, stood at the head of the table, marking the moment between the two of them to make introductions.

“Imelda, as you have guessed, this is Geralt: the white wolf and my witcher.”

Geralt grunted, nodding in acknowledgement. Yes, he was Jaskier’s witcher. That was his title and rank.”

Jaskier cast him a soft smile before gesturing at the woman. “Geralt, this is Imelda Cecylia Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove Bajor Pankratz, Viscountess de Lettenhove. Formally a Lady of Rakverelin before our bastard fathers arranged our marriage.”

“Yup! Now my husband traipses around with you and I’m free to do whatever I wish around the continent, using my fancy title and viscountess coffers without having to bed his skinny arse.”

Geralt grunted again, in objection that bedding Jaskier’s arse would be a burden at any fatness. But he was relieved this seemed to be a human bureaucratic affair that he had neither the patience or interest to understand. He’d trust Jaskier to just handle it.

Jaskier laughed again, leaning over Geralt, and draping an arm around his shoulder.

“Imelda is here for our annual holiday meet up. We never wanted to be married, but we figured we could still be friends. So we have this Christmas tradition of getting raucously drunk and telling leachour stories of our year of extra marital affairs.”

Geralt hummed, gravely. So that meant–

“Oh, yes,” Imelda said, correctly reading his hum with a wink. “I know all about your little shared history. I never would have known a witcher to like things that way but–” she held up her hands. “I totally get it. I’d take it from him, too.”

Geralt growled a bit, in reflexive possessiveness, and Jaskier just shushed him, smacking his arm, 

“Calm down, you brute, she wasn’t making a pass. Honestly, Geralt.” But Geralt knew he was pleased. “Geralt, would be you be a dear and ser Imelda up with some ale and stew while I finish up the hour? My honor as a bard demands I see the performance through.”

Geralt grunted in agreement and Jaskier kissed him on the head before returning to his makeshift show and picking up a new song.

He watched Jaskier get started, feeling pride for his bard, before turning back to Imelda/

Imelda smiled at him, her eyes soft but amused. “Gods, but you’re gone for him, aren’t you?”

Geralt just grunted. He didn’t need to confirm something she knew. It’s not like he was embarrassed.

She laughed, gesturing at his ale. “I can get myself sorted. Did you want a top up?”

He grunted to mean no. She’d been able to read him pretty well so far but she still seemed to be waiting for a real answer.

He raised his eyebrow at her. She wouldn’t be getting one.

She shook her head, huffing a laugh as she stood. “Man, you and Julian make quite the pair. You don’t speak and he never shuts up.”

“I speak.” Geralt said, seeming to truly surprise her for the first time. He grinned. “You just have to earn it.”

And those were the last words he spoke all evening.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

When your brain asks 'What if Jaskier made up a certain rhyme for a certain Cat'

Aiden couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this happy and comfortable for longer than the odd day.

Sure, the winters back with Dyn Marv were fine, his family were there afterall. Even so, for all that most of them cared about each other in their own unique ways, they were still Cats with a reputation that hadn't been built on nothing. Catch some of his siblings on a bad day and they were just as likely to stab you as hug you (Aiden had the scars to prove it).

Right now though, he was at Kaer Morhen and today was shaping up to be an exceptionally good one. After somewhat of a shaky start, Vesemir had assigned him unsupervised chores for the first time since his arrival. It had only been preparing lunch, but the fact that the old Wolf now trusted him not to attempt to poison them or anything spoke volumes and Aiden had felt no small amount of pride when Vesemir had even helped himself to a second bowl. A sudden blizzard had meant they were all excused from afternoon training and so had spent the last couple of hours piled up by the fire, talking and napping in turn.

Not being used to the Keeps frigid temperatures (and not being fond of the cold to start with), Aiden had found himself shuffled closest to the fire alongside Jaskier, where he was currently wrapped in one of the furs off his and Lambert's bed, falling into a light doze with his lover at his back and the Bard's fingers - always moving - weaving through his hair as started singing something Aiden didn't recognise.

Soft kitty, warm kitty

Little ball of fur

Happy kitty

Sleepy kitty

Purr, purr, purr

Aiden's eyes snapped open as the others started sniggering, "...What?" He asked deadpan, trying to keep his face and voice neutral as Jaskier's fingers stilled in their petting.

"Fuck, sorry! I do that. You just looked so sweet lying there all curled up and then you started purring, I couldn't resist."

Aiden furrowed his brow slightly. Had he been purring? The others started laughing harder at his confused expression.

"Congratulations, the Bard's officially adopted you. Don't fight it, you won't win." Lambert laughed from behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck while Geralt and Eskel nodded.

"It's true," the scarred Witcher said, pulling the human towards him and arranging him so he was sprawled across both his and Geralt's laps, "He's made up a little ditty for each of us at some point or another. Yours is far cuter than mine." And now Aiden really wanted to know what it was if it was the cause of the faint whiff of embarrassment from the other Witcher and the slightly suggestive eyebrow arch from Jaskier.

Aiden hummed in acknowledgement, taking in Jaskier's expectant (and slightly apprehensive) expression when he turned his attention back to him.

"That is simultaneously the sweetest and most patronising thing anyone's ever done for me." He said freeing an arm from the fur and grasping Jaskier's ankle. "I love it. Although I take slight offence at the 'little ball of fur' thing." He said with a smile and a wink.

"Agree to disagree there." Lambert rumbled from behind him, "I've seen your bed head first thing in the morning."

"I will put dead things on your pillow, Wolf." Aiden said with no bite at all as he settled back down purring even louder than before. Jaskier's little rhyme burrowing its way into his brain and his heart.