#sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

[asweetprologue]

favorite

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Favorite Food Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out. ao3

The small cheesecloth package that was dropped in front of him wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the way that Jaskier hovered as Geralt picked it up was.

“What’s this?” he grunted, sniffing the air subtly. The little package smelled like honey and flour and cream, and the thick, sweet smell of-- “Are those dates?” He pulled the cheesecloth off to reveal a neat little tart, gently browned on the edges, about the size of his palm.

“It is!” Jaskier leaned over him slightly, his arms holding several more packages. He continued, sounding a little nervous. “I know you don’t usually enjoy sweets, but I know the dates are your favorite. Must feed that witcher metabolism, no?”

“No,” Geralt eyed the tart. “Our metabolism is more efficient, not faster.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, deflating slightly. “Well, if you don’t want it I guess I can--”

“How did you know that date was my favorite?” Geralt interrupted, looking back up at Jaskier. Oddly, he could see the bard color slightly at the question, an appealing pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“You bought a jar of jam from that merchant from Toussaint, remember? You never buy jam, unless it’s for me, so I assumed you must have a preference for it. I mean, unless you don’t, which is fine, I can… Well, not eat it, I hate dates, but I’m sure I can find some mangy child to give it to, or a dog, or something. Do you hate it? You hate it.”

Geralt picked up the tart and bit into it, giving Jaskier a raised eyebrow. It was honestly more of a miniature pie than a tart, the flaky crust filled with dates and prunes covered in a custardy filling, sweetened through with honey. The flavors burst across his tongue, the tart still warm. Jaskier must have picked it up at the market and come directly here to give it to him. Geralt swallowed the first bite, looking into Jaskier’s apprehensive face, and said, “Thanks.”

Jaskier visibly relaxed, shuffling onto the bench across from Geralt and beginning to relay the events of the morning market. Geralt hummed where he was meant to and sipped his watered down ale and ate his tart. If Jaskier noticed his absent mindedness, he said nothing.

Jaskier… knew what his favorite fruit was. The knowledge should not have come as a shock, Geralt knew. Jaskier was often getting him gifts - oil for Roach’s tack, new clothes when Geralt’s last threadbare shirt gave out, potion ingredients when he ran low. Sometimes he bought Geralt useless things, little bobbles or trinkets he saw that he thought Geralt might like or find amusing, and Geralt kept them safely at the bottom of his bag, or in his room at Kaer Morhen. He cherished those things, things that told him Jaskier thought about him when he wasn’t near. It was nice, to be thought of.

But for some reason this little gift felt different. Jaskier had known his favorite food, and Geralt had never told him. Dates weren’t particularly common in the North, and it was rare that they were far south enough to meet merchants who carried them up from Nilfgaard. Geralt could remember when he’d bought the jam, hoping it would last him a while, but he couldn’t recall a single other time in recent memory that he’d eaten dates, or even mentioned them. He didn’t tend to wallow on things that were unavailable to him.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier as he spun a tale about haggling in the square. No, Geralt didn’t make a habit of wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Still, there was a problem at hand, one he had to solve. Jaskier knew Geralt’s favorite food. He might know Geralt’s favorite everything. Did he know that Geralt’s favorite color was blue, the wide, free color of the sky on the first day of spring? Did he know that Geralt’s favorite thing to drink wasn’t wine or vodka, but warm honeyed milk like his mother made when he couldn’t sleep as a tiny child? He certainly knew that Geralt liked the scent of chamomile and sage best in his bathwater, and that he preferred cotton shirts over linen, and that he would pick a song with a sad ending over a happy one. If he’d been paying this much attention, there was probably quite a lot that Jaskier knew about him, without Geralt having said a word.

And he didn’t know a thing about Jaskier.

What was Jaskier’s favorite color? Was it blue, like the doublets he so often wore, or was that just to match his eyes? Did he really like wine the best, or did he just like it better than ale? What was his favorite season? His favorite weather? Did he go to Oxenfurt every winter because it was where he could find work, or did he prefer Novigrad, or Vizima? Geralt could tell how Jaskier was going to react every time someone recognized him on the street, anytime a young lad or lass winked at him, even what he might say if Geralt gave the right sort of hum. But he didn’t know much about him, at the end of the day.

He needed to find out. As they packed up their belongings and set out on the road once again, leaving the small town behind them, Geralt ruminated on what could be done to rectify this situation. He couldn’t very well just ask Jaskier about all these things. After all, Jaskier had figured it all out with nary a word from Geralt. He didn’t need to ask; he was paying attention. Which made Geralt’s chest feel oddly warm and heavy, knowing that Jaskier was watching him, paying heed to his reactions and filing them away. Maybe it should have felt invasive, to know that he was being read so easily without his knowing, but instead it just felt… nice. To be known.

He wanted Jaskier to feel known too. He wanted to know Jaskier.

He would start small. Jaskier had given him food, something he knew Geralt would like. It couldn’t be that difficult to figure out what Jaskier liked. Geralt could start bringing him small things, pass it off as returning the favor, and guage Jaskier’s reaction. It would be simple, he mused, eying Jaskier from atop Roach as they walked side by side. His hair was mussed slightly from sleep, still, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it before heading out for the day. No one to impress, Geralt guessed, just the two of them and the road. He liked Jaskier this way, less pinned up and proper, more open. Letting Geralt see him without all of his armor, because that’s what it was, as surely as the leather on Geralt’s back was his. Right now, Jaskier was an open book. All Geralt had to do was pay enough attention to read him.

*

It was not easy to figure out what Jaskier liked.

The problem, Geralt quickly found, was that Jaskier was enthusiastic about almost everything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he disliked something, he made his distaste abundantly clear. He was dramatic, which should have made it even easier to determine what delighted him the most. Geralt expected that, when he found it, poetic stanzas would be flowing like wine from Jaskier’s tongue, praising whatever it was. He had no reason to expect Jaskier to be subtle about his preferences.

And he wasn’t. The issue was that he seemed to react with the exact same level of excitement about everything Geralt brought him. On the first day they arrived in a new town, Geralt went to the market and brought Jaskier a small basket of strawberries, which Jaskier enthused over for half the morning. Geralt was pleased. Maybe it had been that easy, and he’d intuitively known what Jaskier liked. Maybe he had unconsciously been paying attention all along. He congratulated himself on figuring out at least one piece of the puzzle, and began thinking about how he might approach the next step.

But then he unthinkingly bought Jaskier a few sweetbreads when he was out the next day getting lunch. He’d been getting himself some, he thought of Jaskier sitting in their shared room, composing a ballad about the hunt Geralt had been on the night previously. He’d brought him the extra meats, and Jaskier had nearly the same reaction. Gushing over the gift, thanking Geralt for thinking of him. Lamenting his own forgetfulness, for getting so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat, as Geralt expected he might have. And Geralt was confused, because he didn’t think a few offal from a market stall in a half pint city in Velen was what Jaskier would like. Certainly not something he could call a favorite.

But he’d reacted the same to the sweetbreads as the berries. So Geralt was back to square one.

He reevaluated his metrics. So Jaskier reacted that way to anything he liked, apparently. It was odd; Geralt had seen Jaskier enthusiastically dig into a wide variety of foods over the years, but he didn’t praise them and rave about them the way he had done the berries and the meats. So he must have legitimately enjoyed both of them more than he would any old dish. But neither of them had seemed to outweigh the other. He still didn’t know what Jaskier liked best.

Over the next several weeks of their travel, Geralt bought Jaskier enough tortas and crepes and stews that he knew it was boarding on suspicious behavior. If it was any other situation, any other two people, he knew it might come off like courtship. Every time he offered Jaskier some new morsel, he could feel the back of his neck grow hot at the implications. But Jaskier only ever grinned in delight at whatever Geralt offered him, flushed and pleased no more or less than he had been at all the others. If he suspected any sort of foul play, he never said anything.

It was infuriating. After three weeks of spending more coin that he cared to count at markets and roadside stalls and taverns, he was no closer to figuring out Jaskier’s favorite food than he had been at the outset. It all seemed to go over well, which was gratifying, but he couldn’t tell what Jaskier liked the most of it all. Maybe he just wasn’t as good at reading Jaskier as he thought. He’d thought he was a master of it, at this point - he could tell when Jaskier was tired during a performance, even though his smile never flagged; he could tell when Jaskier was being dramatic about an injury and when he was actually in pain; he could tell the difference between righteous anger versus petty versus hurt. In most respects he felt like Jaskier was an open book, but there was nothing in his reactions to Geralt’s gifts that said he was anything less than entirely pleased to receive them.

He was running out of ideas. Giving Jaskier gifts one at a time was clearly not working; either none of them were right, or Geralt was misremembering Jaskier’s enthusiasm for the ones in the past. He needed to give Jaskier a selection and see for himself what was best, side by side.

It took another week to plan, mostly due to location. They needed to stay in one place for a few days, so that Geralt could collect the things he would need, and it was rare that the two of them were in one town for more than a day. Large contracts were few and far between, and it never took Geralt more than a single night to clear out some ghouls or drowners from an area.

As luck would have it, however, they were only a few days out from Carreras. Geralt pointed them in that direction, claiming that they would likely be able to find multiple contracts in one place there, and that Jaskier could take a few days to play for their small selection of inns and taverns. It wasn’t entirely a lie; there probably would be more contracts posted in a larger settlement, which would mean a solid few jobs to refill Geralt’s pockets. He would need the extra coin to execute his plan.

The first two days of their stay were filled mostly with real work. The city had been having issues with contaminated water, which sent Geralt out to investigate all the wells, and by the time he found the drowner that had fallen into the water supply a full day had passed. He was able to fill another two contracts on their second day, but the triple confrontations over less than 48 hours left him feeling bruised and exhausted.

It was Jaskier who suggested it, in the end. Pulling a comb through Geralt’s hair as the witcher let himself soak in the bath, Jaskier said, “What if we stayed for an extra day or two? The crowds have been good, and Barclay - the innkeeper, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him - he offered us a discount if I play tonight and tomorrow.” His hand fell to Geralt’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “You could… take a few days.”

It had been his plan to stay, but Geralt felt an ache behind his breastbone at Jaskier’s careful suggestion. Always trying to take care of him, as if Geralt were someone who needed protecting, someone who deserved something like a vacation. He didn’t think he did, but it was nice, as always, to think that Jaskier cared. “Hmm,” was all he said, a soft sound of agreement. His eyes slipped shut as he basked in the quiet content of Jaskier’s company, and they said nothing else on the matter.

The next day he felt rejuvenated, the burn of overexertion in his muscles faded after a hard night’s sleep. Jaskier had played after getting him out of the bath and settled into bed, but he’d returned later, smelling of sweat and rosemary and catgut. Geralt had slept well with his solid weight by his side, pressed into the too-slim bed.

He spent most of the day preparing. The market was busy and bursting when he found it in the afternoon, though not as packed as he was used to seeing in larger settlements like Novigrad. There was a bakery on the corner from which the rich scent of fresh bread spilled out into the square, and the people at the stalls were standing around amiably, chatting about local affairs and peddling their individual wares to one and other. It was a homey little trade network, and despite his strangeness, Geralt didn’t feel unwelcome.

He made several minor purchases before he found his way to the bakery. It wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared, and he waited until the one or two customers before him had made their way out. The woman working the counter was twig thin despite her occupation, thin blonde hair tied up away from her face and covered by a light cloth, probably to keep flour out of it. Her eyes were blue, pale as diamonds. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier’s were nicer.

He made her nervous, it was easy to see, but she quickly warmed to him when he told her what he was looking for. Whether it was his gold that excited her or his plan, he couldn’t say, but regardless she helped him pick out his desired items with enthusiasm.

“If you’re planning to use them later tonight, I can make up a basket and have it ready for you. So nothing goes cold,” she explained, her forearms resting on the counter. “The pies are really best that way.”

Geralt nodded, and handed over her coin.

Jaskier would be back soon from where he was playing the lunch crowd at one of the taverns. Geralt rushed back to their room and put the purchases he had with him at the bottom of his pack, a blanket spread over them. Jaskier returned not fifteen minutes later, flushed and grinning. A successful performance, then. Good. When Jaskier was in a good mood he was more amenable to doing what Geralt said. “When do you play this evening?” Geralt asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his sword at the small table they’d been provided.

Jaskier set his lute case down gently against the wall and then flung off his doublet with much less care, flopping down on to the bed. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, though the image that awaited him - Jaskier, spread out, his shirt falling open to reveal the smooth line of his throat and his sharp collar bones - burned against the back of his eyes anyways. “Not until nightfall,” Jaskier answered with a content sigh. “After the dinner crowd. Why? Do you have plans?”

“Do you remember where we stopped on the first day, the hill just before town? By the brook.” He set his steel sword aside and reached for the silver, which was the one that truly needed attention. So many contracts in a row had left her chipped in a few places, and dull all around. Geralt set his whetstone down, but didn’t draw it across the blade yet. Waiting for Jaskier’s answer. He felt his stomach twist with something like nerves, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t anything risky, anything that Jaskier would read into - probably. Probably.

“Sure,” Jaskier answered easily.

“Can you meet me there?” Geralt asked. “An hour or so before you have to play?”

He heard Jaskier sit up, could feel the bard looking at him curiously. His gaze warmed the side of Geralt’s face, and he refused to look up and meet those bright blue eyes. “Did something happen? Do we need to get out of town?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, amusement bubbling up within him. “No. Nothing bad. Just… meet me?”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, long enough that Geralt gave up and turned to look at him. He was regarding Geralt with a curious expression, almost guarded. But all he said was, “Alright. I can do that.”

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and returned to his task.

*

He left before Jaskier, stating the need to drop by the herbalist's shop and that if he wasn’t back - as he didn’t intend to be - that Jaskier should go to the meeting place on his own. Geralt made his own way back to the bakery, where his basket of goods was waiting as promised. He tipped the girl well, and set out with his pack containing the blanket and other purchases on his shoulder, and the basket on his arm.

It was a nice evening, warm and thick with the last hints of summer. It would be fall soon; he could taste it in the faint hint of decay that lingered on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath of the air beyond the city. But for now it was still hot enough during the day that the evenings were comfortable. Geralt found his way back along the road to where they’d stopped to water Roach at the nearby stream, just before the landscape dropped down into the shallow valley that held the large town. He made his way off the path, far enough away that they wouldn’t be obvious from the road, to a raised patch of earth that looked down over the fields as they spread out below. It was a lovely sight, the landscape rich in the evening light, the dying sun casting the rooftops of the city in rich gold. Jaskier would appreciate the scenery, at least.

Geralt quickly set up, laying out the blanket and pulling out the supplies from the basket. He’d maybe gone slightly overboard. There was a meat pie, several stuffed rolls, a hearty cabbage stew in two small bowls kept covered by plates tied to them; a loaf of fresh rye bread, with cheese and jam and honey to go with it; berries and apples with cream; a plethora of desserts, including an entire apple pie, along with little marzipan candies and several little cakes. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As he laid out item after item, Geralt felt unease stir within him. It was too much, he realized, seeing it all together. That had been his goal, after all, to see Jaskier eat as many things as possible, to get a sense, at least, of where his preferences lay. But this was overwhelming. Jaskier would realize something was amiss. A picnic, laid out in perfect detail, in the warm light of the evening, fields spread out beyond them and the forest to their back. It was obviously, sickeningly romantic, he realized. So very obviously beyond what one might do to spend an hour eating dinner with a friend. Panic rose in his throat, choking him, and he grabbed one of the wine bottles, thinking to put it away. If he could put some of it back, maybe it wouldn’t look so much like--

“Geralt?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting the desire to curse, and turned around. He hoped none of his apprehension showed on his face.

Jaskier was a few feet away, carrying nothing but his lute on his back. He was looking down at the spread with a shocked expression, eyebrows pulled up nearly into his hairline and eyes open wide. “What’s… all this?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Dinner,” Geralt grunted, putting the wine bottle down. In for a penny, he thought grimly.

He watched several different expressions flicker across Jaskier’s face, too quick to parse. For a moment Geralt thought he looked almost… sad, or maybe anxious, but then he broke into a wide grin. The honest delight pouring off of him made Geralt let out a slight sigh, relief blooming in his chest. “Oh, well isn’t this just wondrous,” Jaskier laughed. He pulled his lute from his shoulder and set it in the grass beside the blanket, and folded himself down amongst Geralt’s offerings. A hand reached up towards him. “Are you going to join me?” Jaskier asked, raising a playful eyebrow. Geralt grumbled, but carefully sat down next to the bard and began dishing out the food.

It was good, all of it, but Geralt hardly paid it any mind, focused entirely on Jaskier’s reactions. The constant flow of conversation was interrupted every time Jaskier took a bite of something new - “This is delicious, have you tried this yet?” and “We must find out what spices they used for this stew, it’s absolutely the best I’ve had in months” and “Geralt, where did you find marzipan? Look at these little things, the details are impressive.” Throughout it all, Geralt watched his face, listened to his words, paid attention to what he returned to and what he didn’t.

And by the end, he was ready to tear his hair out.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy everything. He finished every helping he took, praised every dish, thanked Geralt for each and every selection he’d made. Even with so many choices, it didn’t seem to matter. Jaskier liked them all, but Geralt couldn’t tell what he liked the best. Not the way Jaskier apparently could do for him.

Finally Jaskier flopped back into the grass, one hand on his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve been so full in years,” he groaned, staring up at the sky with heavy eyelids. “Probably since the last banquet I played at. You really outdid yourself, my dear.”

Fuck it. He had to ask. “Anything you liked in particular?”

Jaskier hummed, closing his eyes. “Mm, how could I choose? Everything was so lovely.”

Frustration clawed at him. Before he could stop himself, Geralt heard himself ask, “Do you even have a favorite food?”

Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to--

“Oh, I don’t know if I have a favorite favorite,” Jaskier droned, blinking his eyes open to peer up at the sky again, this time with a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s just such a range, you know. I suppose when it comes to desserts, there’s these custards that they make in Toussaint, have you had them? Tiny things, very sweet, with saffron and cinnamon. Delicious. We’ll have to get some next we go so far south.”

Geralt was hardly listening, even though he knew that had been the entire point. He’d failed. Jaskier had told him the answer to his question, which meant he was never going to have the chance to prove that he could learn Jaskier as Jaskier had learned him. He couldn’t prove his friendship, his affection, through his actions. Jaskier would never be interested in Geralt the way that Geralt was in him, but he’d hoped he could at least let some of his true feelings bleed into his actions, into the careful way he paid attention. Jaskier had already done so as nothing more than Geralt’s friend. Now he would never be able to pay him back in kind, not truly.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him, brow furrowed curiously. He must have been silent for too long. Geralt quickly schooled his features into neutrality, but some of his distress must have peaked through, because Jaskier frowned at him. Geralt could feel the incoming conversation before Jaskier even opened his mouth. He tried to get ahead of it, talking over the beginning of Jaskier’s soft inquiry. “We should head back,” he grunted, rising abruptly to his feet. “You have to play.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, in a tone that made Geralt’s stomach fill with dread. That was Jaskier’s no nonsense, absolutely-you-will-not-be-getting-out-of-this tone. He turned back towards Jaskier, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The bard had clamoured to his feet when Geralt stood up, and was now stepping around the blanket towards him. Geralt wanted to retreat further, to shove the remains of the picnic back in his bag and hide the evidence, but he knew it wouldn’t save him. He was being too obvious, and Jaskier knew him too well.

The bard eyed him suspiciously, but there was a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, this time a bit softer. “I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“We… It was. It was nice. I just think it’s time to go.” Jaskier gave him a shrewd look. Not buying it then. Geralt sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s not you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jaskier chuckled. The sound was thin, like that was exactly what he had been worried about. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I wondered if-- Well. But if it’s not about me, it’s something else? Are you trying to butter me up for something? Is there a big scary adventure you’re about to tell me I’m not allowed to come on?” His gaze turned sharp again, but this time there was something like fear underneath it. “Are you leaving me behind?”

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his hands rising in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving you, Jaskier, I swear it. It’s just…” He petered off, unsure how to continue. How to explain.

“It’s just what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why have you been so damnably nice to me lately? Are you dying?” His eyes widened. “Am I dying?”

“No, Jaskier, of course not, just--”

“Then why the gifts?” Jaskier spread his hands around their little picnic, an easy example of exactly what he was talking about.

Geralt’s resistance shattered. “I was trying to figure you out,” he snapped. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You know everything about me. You pay attention, even when I don’t say anything. You knew I liked dates because I bought jam months ago. You know me better than anyone, but I don’t know you. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or your favorite color, or what you like to wear, or what your favorite kinds of songs are, or your favorite season. I’ve been looking. I tried to figure it out, I tried to bring things I thought you would like and see what you liked best, but it seems like you like everything. You don’t always… say what you mean. I can’t tell when you’re faking and when you’re not.” Geralt was tense, fists clenched at his sides, jaw hard. He knew he looked angry. Jaskier probably thought he was mad at him, for some reason, but all Geralt felt was fear. He wasn’t good enough. Jaskier had to see that now. Geralt had known him for years, and he couldn’t even say whether Jaskier preferred blueberry jam to strawberry. What kind of friend was he?

A hand took his, gently pulling his fingers apart. He jerked his head over to stare as Jaskier stepped forward to slip their fingers together, squeezing softly. When he looked up, Jaskier was regarding him fondly.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he said. “I wear the silk doublets a lot, because they’re in fashion, but I prefer a linen shirt because it’s not as sweaty. I like songs about adventure, but books about romance.” His other hand lifted to brush a bit of hair away from where it was stuck to Geralt’s warm cheek. His expression was difficult to look at, earnest and painfully affectionate. Geralt was trapped by those blue eyes, like falling into a clear sky. “And my favorite season is spring. You could have just asked.”

Geralt swallowed. “You never had to. I just didn’t want you to… I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay attention.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, laughing a little, “I know you’re not always paying attention. I’m talking constantly. There’s a lot to keep up with. I know you tune me out most of the time, it’s fine.”

“I’m still paying attention to you,” Geralt insisted, because it was important, critical that Jaskier know that even when he wasn’t listening, he was still attuned to Jaskier. His presence, his voice, the sound of his heartbeat always in the back of Geralt’s mind. Whenever the bard was around he could scarcely focus on anything else.

“Knowing my favorite color or food or what have you isn’t what proves that you’re my friend,” Jaskier said, still smiling. “You know me. It’s alright.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you didn’t like the things I brought you?” Geralt asked, feeling unmoored. “You acted like you loved everything.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his chuckle was nervous. The hand he held in Geralt’s was sweaty, and his heartbeat, always in Geralt’s ears, was a bit fast. “Well, they were from you,” he said with a half shrug. “Of course I loved them.”

“But they weren’t--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier interrupted, soft but firm. There was a slight, bitter twist in his lips that Geralt wanted to wipe away. “I just… like to know that you’re thinking of me.”

They were standing so close together. Jaskier’s hand was in his, palm to sweaty palm. They were nearly of a height, but Jaskier was just the tiniest bit shorter, so he had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. Now it was Jaskier who was tense, his shoulders squared as if to absorb a blow. He nervously dragged his teeth over his lower lip, leaving the hint of an impression in the soft flesh. Geralt watched raptly, swallowing against the urge to soothe the spot with his tongue. “I’m always thinking of you,” he finally said.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and Geralt watched as his eyes dropped down to flicker over Geralt’s mouth before they dragged back up to meet his gaze again. “When I saw all of it spread out like that, I thought maybe it meant something,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, helplessly. He lifted the hand not clutched in Jaskier’s toward his neck, tracing his fingers along the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s other hand came up to fist in Geralt’s shirt, inhaling sharply at his touch. It was an intoxicating sound, making his head spin more than the bottle of wine they’d consumed between them.

“Did it mean something more?” Jaskier pleaded, his eyes bright. His hand clutched at the fabric over Geralt’s heart, the fingers between his own tightening in a deathgrip. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of their lips, opening for Geralt easily and without hesitation. He tasted like sweet white wine and meat pie and marzipan, and Geralt greedily mined the flavors from Jaskier’s tongue. He tried to pour all of the things he found himself unable to say into the press of his teeth against Jaskier’s lip, into the flick of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the way his fingers tangled delicately in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier gave as good as he got, humming encouragingly into Geralt’s mouth and hauling him closer by the hand in his shirt. He didn’t release Geralt’s hand from where he held it in his own, and Geralt made no move to extract himself.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting against Geralt’s lips as he set their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and Geralt watched them flicker open, savoring the dazed expression on his face. “I think I’m going to be late to play that show,” Jaskier rasped, and a thrill went through Geralt at the sound. And indeed, the sun had begun to set, dipping over the edge of the mountains in the far, far distance, coloring the air around them in rich purples and reds. Jaskier’s face was soft and ethereal in the glow, and Geralt never wanted to let him go, never wanted to leave this moment.

“Why spring?” Geralt found himself asking.

Jaskier smiled, and his face softened even further. “Because it’s when I get to see you again, of course. You should have known all along; you’re my favorite.”

It was a corny sentiment, and by Jaskier’s grin he knew it, but Geralt couldn’t help the way it warmed him up from the inside out, radiating out from within him and making his lips pull into an answering grin. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier again, and again, and a third time, in quick succession, each more soft and lingering than the last. When he was finished Jaskier had that dazed looking expression back on his face, and Geralt decided it was a good look on him. “Want to know something?” he asked, teasing. Jaskier nodded, the hand on Geralt’s chest snaking up to wrap around his neck, holding the both of them close. Geralt leaned in to press his lips just behind Jaskier’s ear, to press his secret against the soft skin there.

“You’re my favorite too,” he rumbled, and Jaskier laughed, bright and joyful, and both of them knew that it was true.

~

This is my last s&s fic!! So excited to be done with the challenge, and happy that I was able to finish! Thank you to all those who encouraged me over the last two months, your kind words and support mean more than I could say <3

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

[kell-be-belle]

Ribbon of Sunlight

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo​

Prompt: Duvet Day/Spending the Day In Bed

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: General

Content Warnings: None

Summary:  While wintering in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier manages to convince Geralt to spend the day in bed. Much tenderness ensues.

Ao3

Geralt’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, a contented hum worming its way up from his throat and out between his parted lips. He was beginning to rouse, but sleep still held him in its tenuous grasp, leaving him drifting aimlessly in the ether between. He gradually becomes aware of the warmth nestled beside him; of the weight spread across the expanse of his chest. The sensation of it all teeters precariously between just enough and too much. He cannot yet be bothered enough to decide on which direction it leans.     

Geralt had drawn the curtains last night, but apparently not with enough care. They remained parted just enough that a slim ribbon of sunlight stretches across his bed and splits him in twain. It glows red and molten behind his eyelids. Sleep finally relinquishes its hold, content to release Geralt to the day until the night returned once again. He rises to the surface of his consciousness like emerging from depths of a pond. The world swims before him as he opens his eyes, pupils contracting against the glimmer of the sun. For a moment, he feels disoriented by the juxtaposition of the dawning day and the lingering night. Panic flares like a spark in his chest in danger of catching alight.   

And then he is brought back, grounded by the weight over his chest.  

Jaskier’s deep, heated breaths snuffle into the hollow of Geralt’s collarbone. His auburn lashes quiver against Geralt’s skin with all the substance of butterfly wings. He has slotted himself into Geralt’s side, undoubtedly huddling into his peternatual heat in the cold of the tower room Geralt calls his own. Jaskier has an arm flung carelessly across his chest; has one leg bent up and hooked over the witcher’s thigh. Jaskier sleeps with all the banality of a child and it makes Geralt’s heart swell. 

Sleep still seemed to hold Jaskier firm and Geralt takes the opportunity to bask in the moment of stillness. He presses his nose into the crown of Jaskier’s mousy head. Jaskier smells of the almond oil he had rubbed into his hands the night before. Just as Geralt oiled his sword, Jaskier treated his hands with oils and scrubs and massage. They were the tools of his trade, afterall. Geralt even helped from time to time, carefully stretching his lithe fingers and kneading his palms. He had done so that night while the two of them lay basking in the tender afterglow of their love making. Geralt reached up and took Jaskier’s hand within his own. He pressed his nose into the curve of his palm and a kiss to the place where Jaskier’s pulse fluttered under the thin skin of his wrist. 

Jaskier began to stir then, mewling softly as he nuzzled deeper into the pit of Geralt’s clavicle. Geralt continued to rouse him with kisses. He kissed Jaskier’s fingertips and knuckles, each fold of his palm and the tendons of his wrist. Jaskier was waking in earnest now. The shape of his smile pressed against Geralt’s skin. “Oh…” He hummed in bliss. “I must say, this is probably amongst my most pleasant awakenings.” His voice was husky with sleep and it made Geralt chuckle. “You do spoil me so, dear heart. I am afraid I shall not wake again if it is not to this kind of tenderness.” 

“Then I shall tell the bandits that next invade our camp to hold off on robbing us so that I can kiss you awake.” Geralt quipped, his smile wry.  

Jaskier retaliated with a little nip to Geralt’s collar and it made a spike of pleasure jolt down his spine. “Now, now, don’t be a brat.” Jaskier breathed deeply, his chest expanding with the volume of his robust lungs. He released it in a hum of random melody. “What time is it? I feel as though I’ve been asleep for at least a decade.” 

Geralt’s eyes flickered to light spilling between the curtains. “Judging from the angle, it is well past dawn. Vesemir will have my head for missing morning training.” 

“I don’t think he should mind too much.” Jaskier replied. His fingers had started drumming in an aimless rhythm against Geralt’s chest. Ever a man in motion. Even in sleep Jaskier never truly settled, but as he awakened further Geralt could feel his energy beginning to thrum just under the surface of his skin. 

Geralt cocked a brow, “Have you met Vesemir? I once forgot to bring my empty dinner plate into the kitchen and he made me run laps around the keep.”    

Jaskier snorted a laugh, “Yeah, alright, I suppose the old wolf may have punishment in store for you, but this is worth it, right?” Geralt traced his fingers over Jaskier’s back, circled around the knob of each vertebrae and the sharp cut of his shoulder blade. He shivered pleasantly in Geralt’s arms. Vesemir could punish Geralt to repair the entire Eastern curtain wall with nothing, but an ice pick and still he would choose to lay here in this morning bliss. 

“Yes.” He hummed, breathing in the bittersweet scent of his love. Savoring the press of his supple skin against the jagged edges of his many scars. “Worth it.”  

Jaskier turned his head and rested his chin upon Geralt’s chest, looking up at him beneath the curve of his lashes. They shone translucent and honeyed in the sunlight. Geralt is struck by the sight of him. How many mornings had they awoken side by side and still Geralt feels like every time he looks upon his love anew. The dimples in Jaskier’s cheek deepen, preceding the smile that soon spreads over his lips. 

Geralt’s life had been long. Geralt’s life had been hard. For decades life had been a yoke about his neck and he was only sloughing through it. The next town. The next contract. The next wound. The next glare. With Jaskier in his arms all of that melted away like frost beneath the first ray of spring sun. With that glow in his eyes and that smile on his lips all of it darkened into a dream, faded to an impression, but not a memory. With Jaskier, every day dawned as a gift and it was one Geralt felt blessed to receive.

There were not enough words in Geralt’s underused tongue that could ever articulate the way he felt about Jaskier, but fortunately there was no need for them. Where his words lacked there was still feeling. It swelled in the space between them, filled the breadth of their bed, the space of the room, the expanse of the keep. It reached as far as the shores of places they had never been and would likely never see. It could stretch across the latitude of the world itself and reach them once more here in this bed tucked into the shape of each other. 

They kissed languidly in the ribbon of sunlight that peeked between the curtains. 

Jaskier settled onto Geralt’s chest once more, breathing deeply, “You know, if you’re going to piss off Vesemir, you may as well go all out. I am feeling rather comfortable and very disinclined to move as I am sure you are, too. What say you? Shall we spend our day here?” 

Geralt chuckled, “We’ll have to leave eventually, Jaskier. You get cranky when you haven’t eaten.” Jaskier nipped his collar once more in retaliation. “Do that again and I’ll have to show you how to behave.” He growls against the shell of Jaskier’s ear, fingers tightening around the meat of his thigh. 

“Oh, you tempt me so, dear heart.” He laughs breathily, wrapping his leg tighter around Geralt’s hips. “I will heartily endure your punishment, but after we have broken our fast.” Jaskier suddenly peels back the quilt and Geralt nearly whines at the loss of his weight and warmth. The swift footed shuffle the fully nude Jaskier makes to the door is quite comical and Geralt snorts at the sight of him. Jaskier waves him off as he retrieves a basket that is sitting on the floor just inside the threshold. He continues his shuffle back to the bed and dives back under the covers. Geralt folds them quickly around him before the chill of the air can sink in. 

Triumphantly, Jaskier cradles the basket in his lap, pulling up the thatched lid and presenting the contents to Geralt. It is stuffed full of food. Hard cheese and cured links of sausage. A thick loaf of black bread and small pots of honey, jam, and butter. Dried apricots and dates and two bottles of mead. Geralt turns to Jaskier with his brow arched and the bard smiles blithely; batting his honeyed lashes innocently. Geralt rolls his eyes, but fishes out a date and pops it whole into his mouth. Jaskier beams and does the same. 

The two of them settle once more into the shape of each other. They break fast with hushed laughter and shared bites and tender kisses. It is as splendid and incandescent as the ribbon of sunlight that peeks between the curtains and wraps them together.         

[kueble]

Sugar & Spice Bingo Prompts

This is the masterpost for my @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo prompts. All connected and in order.

But You Would Still Miss Me in Your Bones - “Confessions” Jaskier is unexpectedly dropped at Kaer Morhen.

My house of Stone, Your Ivy Grows - “Meet the Family” Jaskier finds his place at Kaer Morhen

Blackberries - “Anniversary” Jaskier helps Geralt bake for Ciri.

Sun Shower - Geralt and Jaskier get caught in the rain.

Sweet Dreams -  18+ At first, Jaskier isn’t sure what wakes him up

I Shiver in Gold - 18+  Jaskier gets prettied up and they have some fun.

Another - 18+  Geralt indulges Jaskier’s newfound blood kink.

Glowing - 18+  Jaskier accidentally finds out Geralt has a thing for being spanked.

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Scent

Title: Pieces of You

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: M

Content Warnings: None

Summary: The morning after their first night together, Geralt wakes up alone.

Geralt isn't the type to spend hours lazing in bed. Even in Kaer Morhen he's up long before the sun, whether it's to begin the day's training, make a start on the various tasks required for the keep to remain in something close to working order, or simply to enjoy the peace as he watches the sun rise over the mountains. On the Path the only thing that keeps him from setting off for the next town, the next contract, with the dawn is Jaskier, still dozing away happily until Geralt is forced to jostle him awake with a rough hand to his shoulder and a 'move your lazy arse, bard.' It's become routine at this point.

So when Geralt opens his eyes to find bright sunshine pouring in through the window and an empty space in the bed beside him where Jaskier should be, it's disconcerting to say the least. The room is silent, but still Geralt lifts his head to look around the small space. Empty, as he suspected.

He blinks a few times, but it's not enough to shift the sleepy fog in his head, and the pillow calls to him again in a way he doesn't often experience – and even more rarely surrenders to. Geralt settles back into place beneath the covers. His body aches pleasantly, and Geralt smiles to himself as he stretches and rolls onto his stomach to nestle his face into the sheets. Jaskier's scent is still fresh, the mattress still warm when Geralt reaches a hand out into his vacated spot. He can't have been gone long.

Geralt should probably be concerned by his absence. In all the years he's known Jaskier, not once has he woken to find Jaskier already awake. And after last night…

Jaskier had been enthusiastic enough at the time, meeting each kiss and touch with a fervour to match Geralt's own, and he made all the right noises to suggest he enjoyed what they were doing to one another – but who knows what doubts might have crept in overnight.

Yet Geralt knows Jaskier inside and out. He knows the way his scent turns sour with fear; how it becomes stronger, wilder almost, when he's anxious. There's no trace of either clinging to the sheets, only sweat and satisfaction. Geralt hums as he breathes it in.

He can smell Jaskier's climax, as rich as if he was still there moaning with pleasure beneath Geralt.

He pulls Jaskier's pillow closer and buries his face in it.

It's then that he hears the door scrape open, and Jaskier's voice fills the room.

"Oh good, you're a–" he's saying, and at the sound of his voice Geralt snaps his head up, shoving Jaskier's pillow back to the other side of the bed. Jaskier stops short as he takes in the scene. "What were you doing?"

"Nothing," Geralt says, too quickly.

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow in amusement. "Do you do 'nothing' often?"

There's no good answer to that question – not that Geralt particularly wants to linger on the subject – so instead he pushes himself up to sit back against the headboard and looks over at Jaskier again. He's already dressed save for his doublet, and he has a tray balanced on one arm as he kicks the door shut behind himself.

"Where did you go?" Geralt says.

"I fetched us some breakfast," replies Jaskier while he sets the tray down and climbs onto the bed beside Geralt. "I don't know about you, but I've worked up quite the appetite." He shoots Geralt a grin that proves infectious.

His cheeks warming in a way he isn't used to, Geralt looks down to focus his attention on the tray of food Jaskier has procured. "So," he says, and it's a moment before he can think of what to say next, "you're okay?"

Jaskier hums happily as he plucks a fat grape off the plate between them and pops it into his mouth. "Well I don't know about that," he says around his mouthful, and his eyes flick back to meet Geralt's, mischief glittering within them. "I fear I may never walk properly again."

They share a laugh and Jaskier shifts closer, tucking himself against Geralt's side as they eat breakfast. Geralt had thought it would be awkward now that they've revealed so much of their hearts to one another, their relationship irrevocably changed from this moment on, yet it feels surprisingly normal to be settled in bed together, sharing casual touches like they've always been allowed to do so. Geralt lets his hand rest on Jaskier's hip the way he's so often entertained the fantasy of doing, and with a soft noise of satisfaction Jaskier curls into him.

This close, Jaskier's scent is all-consuming. Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier's soft hair and breathes deep.

"I can't imagine I smell particularly good after last night," Jaskier says, and Geralt can hear the smile in his voice.

He shifts to press a kiss behind Jaskier's ear. "You smell like me."

"Oho," Jaskier chuckles, "and you like that, do you, witcher?"

Geralt hums against his skin.

"Does it remind you of what we did to get your scent all over me?" As he speaks, Jaskier's hand slips under the bedcovers to seek out more of Geralt's bare skin. Geralt's own hand strays lower in return, cupping Jaskier through the cool fabric of his trousers. The gasp that escapes Jaskier in response is more than enough to heat Geralt's blood.

"Yes," Geralt says. He leaves a trail of kisses down Jaskier's long neck.

When Jaskier next speaks his voice is lower, thick with growing pleasure. "Does it make you want to do it again?" He closes a hand around Geralt, and Geralt's breath catches.

"Yes."

[julek]

Title: starlight; star-crossed

Prompt: Adopting a pet

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: T

Wordcount: 10.3K

Content warnings: None

Summary: “What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt stares, dumbfounded, at the giant dog currently sitting by Jaskier’s feet— no, on his foot, wagging its tail while innocently tilting its head. “Why— How— What are you doing with a fucking wild dog in here?”

Or, Geralt’s winter adventures with Jaskier — and his new pet.

Notes: written for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo! this is my first fill (of many, hopefully) and i’m so excited to share it - i hope you enjoy it <3

[inexplicifics]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo, a small Laiden flufflet!

Prompt: Adopting a pet

Title: Sweetheart 

Relationships: Lambert/Aiden 

Rating: T (for swearing)

Content Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff

Summary:  Aiden eyes the man fidgeting in front of the desk a little warily. He’s a big man, redheaded and muscular and with a couple of rather remarkable scars and a redoubtable scowl; he looks, in short, like trouble. If he asks for the fiercest dog they have, Aiden’s kicking him right out.

[jaskiersvalley]

The Haunting of Kaer Morhen

Another fill for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo. This time Lambert gets to suffer.

Prompt: Comfort After A Bad Day Title (optional): The Haunting of Kaer Morhen Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc):  Lambert/Eskel Rating:  M Content Warnings: Witcher Trials, child abuse Summary: No ghost could haunt Lambert as badly as his own memories.

Winters were never fun. Lambert hated going back but it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go in the freezing snow. Witcher or not, nobody could survive out in the cold, especially not while hungry and injured like Witchers tended to be. Plus, Kaer Morhen was where Eskel was over winter and Lambert would suffer through anything just to have a few precious months in those arms.

Usually Lambert could get through the repairs, the training, the arguments. Those at least were real issues that drowned out the memories that clamoured to be at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to wallow in the past. It was easier to try and forget why he hated Vesemir so much, to drown his incessant thoughts in moonshine with the others than have words play on repeat in his head each time he saw the old man.

Some days were worse than usual though. And on those days Lambert was unbearable. He picked fights with everyone, even Eskel. During training he fought dirty. At meal times he was an ass to the point he was asked to leave the table. It was better that way, he didn’t have the courage to be alone so needed to be forced into solitude. At least, until Eskel turned up to stare at him in disappointment with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s gotten into you today?”

Lambert shrugged and looked away. He couldn’t admit to being weak, to not being able to shut away those memories and echoes of words. Everywhere Lambert went in Kaer Morhen, he was confronted with some fragment of his past. In the corridor he could feel the phantom pinch and pull to his ear as he was dragged from class for being disruptive. In the kitchen the backs of his hands stung at the memory of being rapped across the knuckles for daring to try and sneak a snack at a forbidden time. Out in the stables Lambert felt the cold from being constantly on punishment chores, mucking out the horses. He was never dressed warm enough and the cold made his bones ache, fingers left numb and clawed from where he’d held the broom too tight.

The worst though were the hot springs. Usually initiated were put through the Trials in the spring and summer so the Witchers who were out on the Path wouldn’t have to hear the screams or deal with the bodies. But Lambert wasn’t so lucky. He had been down in the hot springs, trying to find a dark corner to hide because all the Witchers who’d returned were large, loud and scary. Lambert didn’t like them, the way they laughed and brawled. He didn’t expect Vesemir to burst in, livid and grab him by the wrist.

“This is the last prank you’ve pulled!”

No matter how much Lambert protested, he was dragged down into the basement all while Vesemir spat vile words about how he’d had enough of Lambert. That his father had been right all along but not even a good beating could right him. All through it, Lambert was bewildered, he’d not pulled any kind of prank. His wrist ached from the crushing grip Vesemir had on him and the way he was thrown onto the table winded him.

“Only the best survive the Trials,” Vesemir had growled as he strapped Lambert in. “I’ll be glad to bury your corpse. Not even a pyre because you’re no Witcher. Useless runt.”

Those were the last words someone said to Lambert before his world dissolved into screaming agony. But just before he lost himself completely, he just about heard someone come in and say, “We found the culprits. It was Eskel and Geralt.”

Those memories haunted Lambert. Nobody even wanted him to survive the Trials, not even he himself. Which he’d only been put through early because Vesemir had assumed he had been guilty of some prank or other. Lambert never did find out what the prank was but he knew Eskel and Geralt were the reason he was strapped into the chair and tortured. Not that he ever told them. By the time he was finished with the Trials the others were out on the Path again. Nobody knew whether Lambert was smaller and less bulky because he had always been small for his age or whether because the Trials were administered during the winter.

The impatient huff from Eskel drew Lambert back into the present. He looked up at his partner, the love of his life and the one who condemned him to his Trials. There was nothing he could say to explain it all anyway, that he had ghosts that no exorcism or ritual could banish. So he shrugged again.

“It’s just as well I love you,” Eskel grumbled as he stepped in and pulled Lambert into his arms. “Your sullen antics aren’t your most charming feature you know.”

When Lambert didn’t reply, Eskel wrapped tighter around him and rocked them. “You feel chilly.”

That was despite the fire burning in the room and the fact the keep had been relatively warm of late. It had Eskel sighing. “Why don’t we go South next year? Geralt mentioned something about Touissant and a vineyard there. Might be nice to have a warm winter for a change.”

Lambert nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. A winter away from all the ghosts sounded wonderful. He couldn’t explain it though, couldn’t give his thoughts the right words to explain it all. Instead, he buried his face against Eskel’s chest and breathed hard as a hand stroked down the back of his head and neck.

“We’ll have a warm winter, Baby Wolf,” Eskel promised. “And whatever has its icy claws sunk into you will yield to the sun and the love you’ll bask in.”

It was going to have to be enough for that winter. The promise of something better for the following one, assuming they all survived the Path for another year. Quietly, Lambert tried to force himself to relax. For the time being, he had Eskel keeping him safe, chasing away the memories. That was going to have to do. Lambert hoped it was enough to tide him over one more winter in an old keep full of his memories.

[hirikka]

dealing with dragons

Written for the @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo!

Prompt: Fairy Tale

Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Jaskier & Ciri, Geralt & Ciri, Geralt & Jaskier

Rating: G

Content Warnings: none

It sounds like a fairy tale. It sounds ridiculous. 

His dubious feelings must be clear on his face because the man shakes his head.

“It’s true, I swear. A princess is trapped in the tower, guarded by a vicious dragon.”

“Hm.”

“An entire battalion of Nilfgaardian soldiers went to try to kill the beast. Only one made it back.”

Well that was more interesting. There was very little chance the story was true, dragons were not particularly interested in princesses. But if Nilfgaard was interested, there was a certain lost princess Geralt had been looking for.

“Can I speak to him?” Geralt asked.

“He’s not in great shape, but I suppose so,” the man said, gesturing Geralt to follow him out of the inn.

“There’s a reward in the town for the death of the beast. And,” the man lowers his voice, “Nilfgaard is offering a huge reward for the princess. Apparently they’ve been searching for her for a while.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, glad his decades of training allow him not to react to this information. If Nilfgaard is looking, the child must be his child surprise. He hasn’t been this close since he was locked in the Cintran prison. 

**

The soldier had not been able to provide any useful information. Geralt wasn’t surprised. The odds that the creature was a dragon was unbelievably low. He wasn’t sure what exactly was out there, but it probably wasn’t even guarding the tower. The child had probably wandered into a wyvern’s territory and managed to find a safe place to hide. The soldiers obviously had not been so lucky, but the surviving man hadn’t seen much - a flash of red scales and wings supposedly but he had run as soon as it was clear they were very outmatched. 

Geralt wasn’t worried, he would be careful, but he was more prepared than a group of green soldiers thinking they were going up against a creature that was almost extinct. 

**

Geralt wasn’t quite sure what he had expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t what he found: a wide stone tower in the middle of a clearing. A brook ran almost one edge of the clearing and on the opposite side, stretching from the edge of the woods to the tower was a garden in full bloom. He didn’t see any signs of the dragon, nor anyone else. The tower had a door that was propped open and several of the windows were open as well to let in the spring air. He wondered if the princess was actually trapped, or if none of the rumors had been true.

He leaves Roach slightly before the tree-line ends, no sense in making her an easy target if there is a dragon. Then he steps into the clearing. As soon as he does he feels his medallion tremble for an instant and then stop, probably a ward to alert the tower's occupants. Sure enough, there is movement—a small figure steps out of the open door and Geralt feels a pull towards her.

People linked by destiny, the thought resonates and Geralt starts forward. He is so focused on the child in the doorway that he doesn’t notice the movement until it is too late. Until the dragon has appeared. It should have been too large to move as quietly as it did, graceful despite its size. Its scales are a mixture of greens and teals that camouflage it in the dappled light of the forest. It blinks down at Geralt with intelligent blue eyes. 

“A witcher come to slay the dragon and save the princess?” the dragon sounds amused rather than frightened. “How poetic.”

Geralt doesn’t draw his sword—he doesn’t actually want to fight the dragon if he can help it. 

“I suppose the tale could go another way,” the dragon moves to the side, no longer blocking Geralt’s path. The girl has moved closer to him, is just on the other side of the dragon and as soon as he moves she races forward, throwing her arms around Geralt’s waist. 

“It’s you,” Cirilla says.

“It is,” Geralt agrees. “Those linked by destiny will always find each other.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and looks up at the dragon. “Thank you for protecting her.”

The dragon snorts. “How do you know I was protecting her? Perhaps I kidnapped her.”

“You haven’t harmed her,” Geralt points out.

The dragon blinks at him and then lowers his head until it is almost touching the ground, “I suppose you’ll be taking her then? Somewhere safe?” 

He sounds mournful, but not like he plans to stop Geralt. “I am. Too many people have heard about the princess in the tower—Nilfgaard has already been here once, right?”

“Yes.”

Ciri pulls away from Geralt, moving over to the dragon and pressing a hand to the scales on his snout. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Oh cub, don’t fear. Geralt will keep you safe, and he’ll take you somewhere where you won’t have to worry about armies trying to find you.”

“Will you come with us?” Ciri turns to face Geralt. “Geralt, can he come?”

Geralt doesn’t want to disappoint her already but, “we need to be inconspicuous—”

“I didn’t mean as a dragon,” Ciri says, as if Geralt is being purposefully dense. “He can travel in his human form.”

Geralt looks from Ciri to the dragon who is looking distinctly uncomfortable. He’d thought that only golden dragons could change forms like that.

“Please, Dandelion?” Ciri’s pouting at the dragon.

“Ah, I don’t think that’s a very...good idea,” the dragon says, flattening the fin along his neck in unease.

“Dandelion?” Geralt repeats. He’s fairly sure that is one of the aliases Jaskier used to use… “I suppose, if he can appear human…” he’s not sure how he feels about traveling with a stranger, but a dragon is a powerful ally, and it is clear that Ciri cares for him.

“Wait,” the dragon protests. “Before you agree to anything, just—” Geralt’s medallion trembles as the air fills with the scent of mulled cider, warm and spicy, and then Jaskier is standing where the dragon had been a moment before. “Surprise?” Jaskier offers after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Geralt stares at him—he looks the same as he did the last time he had seen him, on the dragon hunt, although he is dressed more practically now. He has dirt stains on his pants suggesting he had been working in the garden earlier.

“Geralt?” Jaskier prompts. 

Geralt shakes himself out of his shocked daze and closes the distance between them to pull Jaskier into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” Geralt says.

Jaskier leans into the contact, returning the hug. “You’re forgiven you big idiot.” He pulls back slightly, meeting Geralt’s eyes. “But if you do anything like that again, I’ll eat you.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Come with us?”

“Of course.” Jaskier grins, showing teeth that are too sharp to be human. “I am a dragon, after all, I can’t simply let you take the princess.”

[justhereforeskel]

Prompt: Huddling for warmth

Relationships: Romantic Eskralt

Rating: G

Content Warnings: None

Huddling for warmth at Kaer Morhen for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo 

My hc is that Geralt has exactly no cold tolerance and uses Eskel as a personal heat source all winter at Kaer Morhen. If he makes it to the keep before Eskel he’s down right miserable until he shows up. 

[borealwrites]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Stuffed Animals

Title: To Make a Happy Home

Relationship: Aiden/Lambert

Rating: T

Content Warnings: None

Summary: “So you were a stuffed animal kid?” Aiden asked, moving to peer into the box. Lambert growled and shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t yank the box away.

“Mignole always bought them for me, saying things about how little kids needed comfort objects. I… I gave most of ‘em away when I got older, though,” he said, peering into the box.

Lambert unpacks a box full of his childhood stuffed animals fondly.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935555

[asweetprologue]

salt rain

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Rainy day Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: T (for canon typical injury) Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt is injured on a hunt and confesses to Jaskier, thinking that this is the end. Jaskier is pissed. ao3

The raindrops fell into his eyes, stinging as they mixed with the sweat on his brow. Geralt blinked them away, staring up at the gray sky above them.

“Bet this’ll make a good ballad,” he said, the lightness of his tone probably contradicted by the way his teeth were stained with blood. He let his head fall to the side so that he could better see Jaskier, who shot him an infuriated, terrified look.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he said, turning his gaze away as he pressed hard into Geralt’s side, where the archgriffon had torn him open with a well aimed swipe. Geralt had stabbed through its throat while it hovered above him, but the thing had fallen nearly on top of him. Most critically, directly on top of his bag of potions, which were now no more than a few shards of glass on the ground. He had more back at the campsite, with Roach, but she was too far. They’d never make it there in time.

Jaskier pressed against the wound with some kind of fabric. His doublet. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the thin linen fabric clinging to him as the rain drenched it. Brown hair flopped down into his eyes, pushed flat by the downpour, and Jaskier pushed it out of the way impatiently. “You’re not going to die out here,” Jaskier muttered, almost more to himself than Geralt.

It was a nice sentiment, but a naïve one. He had no potions. The rain was soaking him and Jaskier both, ensuring that his wound continued to run bloody. Without Swallow or White Raffords, there was no way he could heal from such a large injury, not without serious medical intervention. “Jaskier,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Jaskier didn’t look up, his jaw clenched hard as he tried to put pressure on the hole in Geralt’s side. “You’re not,” he choked out through gritted teeth. “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, reaching a hand up to grasp the edge of Jaskier’s shirtsleeve. He felt weak already, the short distance to Jaskier’s wrist taking monumental effort to traverse. He opened his mouth, panting, and the rain fell on his tongue in splashes of clear, sweet spring. “Jaskier, please, look at me.”

This time Jaskier turned, his wide eyes clearly brimming with tears. He sucked in a breath when he saw Geralt’s face, his expression crumpling a bit. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, a choked admission of guilt. Geralt’s heart clenched in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to focus on the bard even as his vision swam. His hand fell to rest on top of Jaskier’s, where it was still pressed hard to his side. The skin there was warm and wet, though he didn’t know if it was blood or rainwater he found there. He was so tired. He wanted to close his eyes, but that would mean looking away from Jaskier’s beautiful, worried face, and he didn’t have the strength for that yet. “I’m glad you’re here, Jask.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said, pleaded. Geralt couldn’t tell if he was crying, face too wet with rain to say. “Don’t do this, please.”

“Not much of a choice,” Geralt replied, feeling his eyelids growing heavier. The ground beneath him was warm, and that, he knew, was blood, mixing with the rain and turning the dirt to mud. It was over. “I’m sorry. Don’t wanna… leave you.”

“Then don’t,” Jaskier cried, one of his hands coming up to cradle Geralt’s cheek. He blinked his eyes open, not realizing that he’d closed them. Jaskier’s hand was so warm against his cold skin. His eyes were so blue. “Stay with me.”

He couldn’t, so instead he just said, “I love you. Jaskier. I love you.”

Jaskier made a sound like he was the one who’d been stabbed, a choked cry of pure misery that Geralt felt echoed in his own chest. “No,” he sobbed, “how can you say that? Not now, please-”

“Always,” Geralt sighed, feeling his eyes slipping closed again. “Always have. Sorry.”

“Geralt? Stay with me, please, darling, please stay with me. Geralt? Geralt!”

Geralt slipped into darkness.

*

It was a surprise that he woke.

He knew immediately that he was alive because of the pain. It was dulled from the sharp, twisting agony that he’d felt lying in the field, but it was still there. His side throbbed with the telltale itch of his too-quick healing.

Upon forcing his eyes open, Geralt found himself lying in a thin bed in what looked to be a room at an inn. It was familiar - not the room itself, but the woodworm eaten timbers of the ceiling looked just as they had three nights ago when he and Jaskier had passed through the last town. It was a small thing, truly only fit for one person, but Geralt could see both his own bags and Jaskier’s lute case leaning against the small fireplace. Geralt sat up slowly, feeling the newer skin on his side pull at the movement. Still not fully healed, but it must have been at least a day since he fell unconscious. How was he alive? He had been sure, so sure, that this had been the end, even told Jaskier-

Oh shit. Jaskier.

Geralt threw back the thin blanket covering the small bed and heaved himself out of it, wincing as his side screamed at him. He’d had worse, certainly, and he needed to find Jaskier. The only thing that put his mind even slightly at ease was the presence of the lute; no matter how angry Jaskier was at him, he would never leave his instrument behind. Geralt just had to find him, convince him that it was no big deal, that he didn’t mean it like that. That he knew Jaskier didn’t feel the same, and there was no reason things had to change between them. Panic made Geralt’s throat tighten, and it wasn’t just the strain of his recent injury making his heart pound double time in his chest. He had to find Jaskier.

He pulled open the door to the room, letting it slam into the wall behind him, and practically threw himself into the hallway. Only to run headfirst into Jaskier as he rounded the corner, their foreheads cracking together. Geralt felt something warm and wet coat his front as whatever was in the bowl Jaskier had been holding tumbled out of his hands.

Geralt stumbled backwards, cursing as he looked down at the stew now coating his bare chest and the bandages around his waist. He hadn’t even thought to put on a shirt. Jaskier scrambled up from where he’d fallen flat on his ass, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, “are you doing up?” Geralt looked up, startled by the vehemence in Jaskier’s tone. “Shit, look at you, now I don’t have any lunch! Fuck.” Jaskier stepped forward, bowl abandoned, and his fingertips touched the edge of the bandage around Geralt’s middle. His fingers skimmed over the skin just at the edge, and Geralt suppressed a shiver. “Look at this mess. You shouldn’t even be standing, are you alright? We need to change these, come on.”

Geralt allowed himself to be maneuvered, Jaskier herding him back into the room and pushing at him until he sat back on the rumpled bed sheets. The floor was chilly beneath his bare feet, and Geralt spared a moment to feel a bit foolish for rushing out of the room in not much more than his braies in his eagerness to confront the bard. Now that they were in the same room, he found himself unable to even speak as Jaskier fluttered about, griping to himself. He was clearly angry, though Geralt couldn’t tell if it went beyond irritation at being bumped into. After a few moments Jaskier threw down a handful of bandages and gauze that he’d pulled from a bag resting on the single trunk in the room, the closest thing to a table. Geralt didn’t recognize it; Jaskier must have purchased some supplies while he was out.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Jaskier muttered, brow furrowed as he knelt before Geralt, right in between his knees. Normally having Jaskier in such a position would be enough to make Geralt flustered, but now he just felt anxiety crawling up his neck. Jaskier began to pull off the soup-soaked bandages around his waist, fingers gentle even though his brow was still wrinkled with consternation. He fell silent, using the ruined fabric to wipe the rest of the stew from Geralt’s chest before reaching for the clean supplies next to him.

Geralt reached out and caught his wrist, his own grip tentative. Jaskier could have broken out of it if he’d wanted to, but instead he froze. “I don’t need them,” Geralt grunted softly, waving to his side with his other hand. He didn’t have to look to know that most of the healing was done. The wound might still be partially exposed, but it was no longer bleeding, and witchers couldn’t get infections like normal humans. There was no need for extra bandages that would only slow him down.

Jaskier wrenched his hand out of Geralt’s grasp, his jaw clenching. “I say you do,” he snapped. “How would you know, anyways? You’ve been asleep for the better part of two days, while I took care of… all this.” He gave a sharp nod towards Geralt’s injury, though he avoided looking at it.

“I’m… sorry.” Geralt shifted awkwardly as Jaskier unspooled a roll of gauze and began to gently wrap up his side once again. He didn’t fight it further, afraid to make Jaskier even angrier than he already was. This must be about something more, he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. Jaskier had seen him injured plenty of times, and he’d never been so infuriated. It could only be about what Geralt had said to him, before.

I love you.

His own jaw tightened at the memory, the feeling of the rain on his face as he felt himself slowly bleeding out, just wanting Jaskier to know how he felt. He’d just wanted to say it. Just once.

And look where it landed him.

“How, uh.” He started and stopped, distracted by Jaskier’s hands as they hesitated over his wound, gently pressing the gauze down. “How am I…?”

“Alive?” Jaskier finished, voice still brittle. “Yeah, that is the question, hmm? It was Roach, really. I whistled to her - I’m quite good at that, did you know? Good lungs I guess. Anyways, she heard me and came. Brought all your potions, and I was able to get enough Swallow into you to slow the bleeding, enough to bandage you up and get back to town. It wasn’t easy, mind, you’re a heavy bastard and these arms are not meant for manual labor. Thank the gods Roach is used to taking care of your sorry arse, or I’d never have managed. You were bleeding all over the saddle, and I couldn’t remember which one was White Honey and which was White Raffords, and if I’d given you the Honey you’d have been bleeding out even more, so I just had to get into town and find a healer, which was a damn difficult thing to do in that storm-”

He was rambling, sharp, angry words carrying an undercurrent of anxiety. Geralt set a hand over Jaskier’s where they were tying off the bandage, just before he pulled away. “Jaskier,” he interrupted, as gently as he could. “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinked at him, seemingly startled. “Wh- For what?”

“You saved my life.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, “Roach did all the heavy lifting.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, imploring. Jaskier pulled his hands away, blinking hard as he looked away from Geralt and towards the fire. He didn’t move out from between Geralt’s spread knees, but he was no longer touching either. His arms crossed defensively, his hands tucking under his armpits. “I’m sorry.” Geralt didn’t know what else to say.

“You should be!” Jaskier suddenly exploded, standing up and pacing across the room. Geralt reached for him, but he was already gone. He watched from the bed as Jaskier threw his hands up, turning back to point an accusatory finger at him. “You were bleeding out in my arms and you choose that moment to what, confess your- to confess to me? Then, Geralt? That’s not fair! You can’t just say something like that and then almost- and then-” He put a hand over his mouth, turning away. His shoulders were shaking slightly.

Geralt rose, horrified. He stepped up to Jaskier’s side, hand hovering over his shoulder but unsure if his touch would be welcome. “Jaskier, Jaskier, I’m sorry,” he said, panicked. “Please don’t be upset. I’m not- It doesn’t have to change anything. I know it was out of line, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier wasn’t listening, scrubbing hard at his watery eyes. He looked up at the ceiling, taking a shaky breath. “I mean, I understand you might have had your reservations before,” he said, voice strained, “but how was I supposed to get over that?” He lowered his gaze, meeting Geralt’s eyes. This time there was no rain to mix with his tears. “Knowing that you… that we could have been…”

Geralt was at a loss for words. “I didn’t think,” he stuttered, “I didn’t think you would feel the same. As me. I just wanted you to know.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, a wet, pained sound. “You meant it?” he asked.

Geralt nodded gravely.

Suddenly he had an armful of bard, Jaskier flinging his own arms around Geralt’s neck as he buried his face in his throat. A sob shuddered out of him, and Geralt brought his hands up to spread across Jaskier’s shoulders. His side twinged painfully, but he ignored it. “You almost died,” Jaskier gasped, one of his hands burying itself in Geralt’s hair and clutching almost painfully. “How could you tell me you love me and then leave me?”

“I didn’t want to,” Geralt murmured, pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s temple. “I just wanted you to know. That I… loved you. Love you.”

“I’ve loved you for twenty years,” Jaskier hiccupped, his forehead pressing against Geralt’s shoulder. “You could have said it any time.”

Geralt pulled back a bit, one of his hands coming up to cradle Jaskier’s face as he met his gaze. He felt breathless, something light stirring in his chest even as he mournfully took in the tear streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks. “You too?” he asked, heart in his throat.

Jaskier choked out a laugh, and turned to press a brief kiss to Geralt’s palm. Geralt couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped him. “You’re the stupidest man I know,” Jaskier said into his hand, before looking back up at him. “Of course me too.”

Geralt couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward, from letting Jaskier’s breath gust over his nose before he used the hand on his cheek to guide Jaskier’s mouth to his own. It was only a brief press, sweet like fresh rainwater and salty with Jaskier’s tears. He pulled away slowly, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. When his eyes fluttered open, he found Jaskier staring at him, blue eyes startlingly bright.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you,” Jaskier said. He didn’t sound angry, though. His voice was still shaky, but a small smile was spreading across his mouth. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“I don’t plan to,” Geralt agreed easily. His side still throbbed, but the pain felt far away, and Jaskier was warm and soft in his arms. “Even if you’re still mad, would you do something for me?”

Jaskier hummed. “Depends on the request.” His fingers had gentled in Geralt’s hair, petting across the base of his skull.

“Will you say it?” he asked, tracing a thumb under Jaskier’s eye. Wiping away the last of the dampness there.

Jaskier looked confused for a moment, and then his face brightened like a storm cloud had passed. “Oh,” he said, fondness saturating his voice. “Oh, Geralt. I love you. I always have.”

Relief, affection, joy. Geralt felt lighter than he had in years. “Me too,” he said, leaning in to speak the words against Jaskier’s lips. “I love you too.”

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard 

[kell-be-belle]

A Moment of Your Time

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo​

Prompt: Vanilla/Missionary

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Mature 

Content Warnings: None

Summary:  While traveling on the Path, certain needs tend to fall to the wayside. When Jaskier and Geralt finally work up the courage to ask for some alone time, things don't go exactly as one would expect, but needs are met all the same.

Ao3

The fact that Ciri was looking up at them with those wide, innocuous eyes was what really made Geralt feel as though he were trapped in some kind of waking a nightmare. He had attempted to dissuade Jaskier; assure him that this was wholly necessary and that the two of them could contain themselves until they arrived at Kaer Morhen. Initially, they had agreed upon the matter, but with their destination still off by weeks of hard travel, the resolve wore thinner with each passing day. No, Jaskier had insisted, this was something that had to be done. With the distraction of their situation effectively satiated, they would be better equipped to see themselves safely home for the winter. It was a logic that was difficult to argue with and Geralt was hard pressed to agree, but that did not make the situation any less… mortifying.     

“Ciri,” Jaskier began, clearing his throat into the curved shape of his fist. “Geralt and I have been doing some talking and there is, uh… there is something that the two of us must, uh… m-must do. Well, I suppose we don't well and truly have to, I mean we are capable of self restraint, b-but it would honestly be a great relief to us both.” 

Geralt could not believe this was happening. He could not believe that he was allowing himself to sit complacently by and watch it all unfold. Blushing was not something Geralt was physically capable of doing, but if it were he was sure his face would be as alarmingly red as the wild beet stew they had eaten for dinner last night. Ciri looked up at them with those doe-like eyes, her head quizzically tilted to one side. The very picture of innocence.  

Sweet Melitile, they were really doing it. 

Jaskier continued, his hands fluttering restlessly about him like a pair of escaped birds, “You see, Ciri, when, uh… when adults are in love they need, err- oh, how do I…. Adults who are in love need time. Alone. Yes, time alone. To reaffirm to each other that they love each other. And while Geralt and I love each other most ardently, it has been, um… well, quite some time since we’ve reminded each other in this particular fashion. Three weeks and two days, but who’s counting.” The bark of his laughter bordered on hysterical.  

If the Earth could have opened wide and swallowed him whole, Geralt desperately wished it would at that moment. He was not opposed to spontaneous combustion, either. Honestly, anything so that he didn’t have to witness the way Ciri furrowed her pale brows. Watch the way her gaze flickered between the pair of them. 

“Are… are you guys asking me to give you alone time so you can… have sex?”

Geralt immediately answered with a harsh ‘no’ promptly at the same moment that Jaskier answered with a resigned ‘yes’. Geralt whirled on Jaskier, astounded that he would admit such a thing to a young girl so freely. 

“What?” He snapped upon seeing Geralt’s scandalized expression. “She clearly knows what she’s talking about and I am not going to disrespect her by pretending she doesn’t…. So, in answer to your question Ciri, yes. Geralt and I are asking to have some alone time so that we may have sex.” 

Geralt had wished for his spontaneous demise before, but he now called upon every demon, deity, and flea-bitten magic goat to make it so.  

For several moments, Ciri looked silently between them, the corners of her mouth drawn back in a display of disgust. Just when Geralt thought the shame would eat him alive, she grumbled, “Gross.” and planted her palms into the dirt beneath her, pushing herself to her feet. “You two are almost as bad as Grandmother and Eist.” 

Geralt and Jaskier watched aimlessly as she bustled about their little camp and began to gather provisions. She loaded her satchel with half a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. She then proceeded to rummage through Geralt’s pack and procure his battered copy of the bestiary as well as some parchment and a quill from Jaskier’s bag. Geralt could hear Jaskier swallow thickly as he noticed it was his most favorite quill clutched in her little fist, but he dared not to say a word.    

After she had finished her raid, Ciri whirled back on the two of them with a look of resigned determination, “I am going to be down by the stream. I will be back in exactly one hour. If I come back and find any,” She swallowed as if resisting the urge to gag. “Evidence then I swear I will leave you both here.” She hefted the satchel over her shoulder and turned in the direction of the aforementioned stream. “And no noise! I want to hear nothing more than the rustle of leaves and birdsong!” 

Bewildered by the smoothness at which their request was granted, Geralt and Jaskier stared aimlessly at the empty space Ciri had occupied for several moments. Jaskier at last broke the silence with a breathless affirmation, “That worked.” He huffed a little laugh and pushed a hand through his hair, “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

Geralt is still so dumbfounded by the success of the exchange that he is caught off guard as the front of his tunic is snatched in the remarkably strong grasp of Jaskier’s slender hands. Geralt is entirely pliant, swept helplessly away in the current of Jaskier’s movements. One moment he is being shoved bodily towards the patch of flattened earth where their bedrolls lay in their customary fashion of side by side. The next, he is blinking up in the pale patches of sky that peek between the thinning canopy of the trees surrounding them. His hips are pinned into the straw of the mattress by the bracket of Jaskier’s muscular thighs.    

Jaskier brings their mouths together in a fervent clash, all clacking teeth and pressing tongues. It knocks the breath from Geralt and leaves him gasping into Jaskier’s mouth. There are stars bursting in the darkness behind his eyelids by the time Jaskier releases him. 

“Melitele’s sweet, merciful tits,” Jaskier groans as he withdraws, swiping a tongue along the freshly swollen curve of his bottom lip. “I needed this so badly.” He rolls his hips gingerly against Geralt’s and he can already feel the hard curve of his cock pressing against the inner seam of his trousers. The roguish grin that splits across his mouth is positively devastating. “See how much I’ve been in want of you, darling? You’ve got me half hard already just on the sweet taste of your mouth.” His lithe musician’s fingers are already engaged in a heated battle with the fastenings of Geralt’s tunic. “How long has it been, my love? Weeks, months, centuries?” 

Geralt hisses as his flushed skin is exposed to the chilled forest air, “As I recall, it’s been three weeks and two days.”  

Jaskier leans over him and nips vindictively in the hollow beneath Geralt’s ear knowing full well that it would drive him mad with wanting. “Now, now don’t be a smartass. Three weeks, three months, three years, my point is it has been far too long. I’ve nearly forgotten what it feels like to get railed by your massive dick and I am in desperate need of a thorough reminder.” 

Geralt chuckles, “There is still a lot of walking left to do. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Jaskier growled and nipped again at the sensitive spot. Their lack of contact in recent weeks had left Geralt feeling raw and overly sensitive like an exposed nerve. A keen swelled in the back of his throat and he trapped it behind the clench of his teeth. “I will be bitching the rest of the way to Kaer Morhen no matter what and I think we would both rather it be from a thorough dicking than dissatisfaction.”  

Arousal spiked inside Geralt with a dizzying ferocity; hitting him like a second glass of wine swallowed down too quickly. The edges of him feel blurred, like his thoughts and his movements have fallen out of sync. He can feel himself reacting, feel the tightening in his trousers as his cock swells. His mind is struggling to catch up, delayed by the processing of all the new stimuli. The damp smell of the earth beneath him, the weight of Jaskier atop him, the sting of the fresh bite below his ear and the hot breath panting against the shell. All of it buzzes in his skull like a hive of disturbed bees and he struggles not to be overwhelmed. 

Geralt’s heart thumps hard in his chest, teetering precariously on the line between thrilling and maddening.

Jaskier grinds his hips down in a sinuous roll. The friction created by his weight and the drag of their thick winter clothing sets Geralt alight. Heat simmers under his skin like water just on the edge of boiling. Instinctively, his body arches up into the pressure, seeking more of that delicious friction. “An hour is plenty of time.” Jaskier breathes against his jaw. Geralt can feel the impish curve of his grin. “With your stamina, you could fuck me at least twice. Three times if we’re efficient about it.”  

While the thought of fucking Jaskier senseless still registers somewhere in Geralt’s mind as something he very much wants to do, it is scattered in the throng of other things. Honestly, Geralt hadn’t expected any of this was going to work. He had been fully prepared to spend the evening as he had been, with a frustrating ache in his balls. It was not something he was unused to. Before Jaskier, he went without more often than not. Waking up with Jaskier’s morning wood prodding into his backside admittedly made things slightly more difficult, but Geralt would ultimately survive. The unexpected shift in plans partnered with Jaskier’s enthusiasm, while welcome, made him feel overwhelmed.

There was heat in stomach and coursing through his veins and the drag of his trousers on his cock, the bracket of Jaskier’s hips caging him in. The scent of the earth and the musk of arousal and Jaskier’s sweet almond oil. Heat. Scent. Birds fluttering through the trees. Heat. Jaskier. The sting of the bite in the hollow of his ear. Heat. 

Geralt was so disoriented by the maelstrom of his own thoughts that he hadn’t registered the sound of his name. Jaskier had said it three times before it reached him through the din and he blinked up at the bard with wild, blown out eyes. Jaskier looked down at him worriedly, melding the curve of his palm against Geralt’s jaw. It cupped his face flawlessly as if that were the only purpose it was ever meant to serve. “Is something the matter? You have this look on your face.” 

Maybe it was because he was used to compromising or perhaps it was because Jaskier looked so pretty with his flushed cheeks and mused hair, but Geralt clenched his jaw and shook his head. “N-no, nothing.” Which was about as wholly unconvincing as he could be. It didn’t take Jaskier’s shrewdness to know something was amiss.      

“It’s not nothing. You know better by now, dear heart. Your feelings are important to me.” The tempered scrape of Jaskier’s calloused thumb against his cheek mollified Geralt like a child soothed by a lullaby. It quieted the din of his thoughts to the point that he could hear over them once more.  

With gentle pressure Jaskier tipped Geralt’s face, prompting him to meet his gaze, “Talk to me.” 

Faced with the boundless blue of Jaskier’s eyes Geralt felt his resolve promptly melt away like the last of winter’s frost with the first ray of spring sunshine. Yes, he did know better. In all the time they had known one another, Jaskier had never once made Geralt feel as though he were invalid; that his feelings were anything other than the most precious of treasures. 

Geralt worked his jaw, swiped a tongue across his kiss swollen lips as he took a moment to form words, “Sorry, it… it was just a bit much all at once.”

Jaskier clucked his tongue. Brushed a loose strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Geralt’s forehead and the soft huff of his breath in his hair makes Geralt’s stomach flutter as if filled with butterflies. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not feeling up to it. Despite my lamenting, I won’t actually die without sex for a couple more weeks. Or ever if that was what you wanted.” 

Geralt chuckled, “No, definitely not that.” And Jaskier chuckled, too. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, it’s just…” He trailed off and Jaskier waited with the patience of a saint. Caressing Geralt’s cheek and pressing tender, encouraging kisses into his hair. “I just… I know we don’t have much time, but I want to try and take it slow. Enjoy it. I… I’ve missed you.”  

The fondness in Jaskier’s gaze made a warmth pool in Geralt’s chest; filled him with an effervescence like a goblet brimming with honeyed mead. “And I you.” He leans down to take Geralt’s lips once more. It is just as passionate, just as wanting, but he takes his time to savor it. He sucks Geralt’s tongue, traces the edges of his teeth. The fringe of his ridiculous bangs tickle pleasantly against Geralt’s forehead like the brush of a feather.

When Jaskier pulls away once more, the light from the sun shines around him in a halo and Geralt thinks him something dazzling and otherworldly. “It is as I said, isn’t it? Sex is just another way to show the person you love just how much you love them. And I love you, Geralt. Truly,” He punctuates with a kiss to the Geralt’s forehead, “wholly,” then one to the apple of each cheek, “unconditionally.” and at last his lips. An hour wasn’t much time, but they would be sure to make the most of it.   

[kueble]

Written for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo ​

Prompt: Lingerie

Title: I Shiver in Gold

Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geraskier

Rating: Explicit

Content Warnings: none

Summary: Jaskier gets prettied up and they have some fun. Follows Ballad of the Golden Lion. Title taken from Tove Lo lyrics, because they’re brilliant.

18+ under the cut. Roughly 3100 words.

Jaskier’s lingerie inspired by this.

---

“I have to admit that I’m a bit jealous of you,” Jaskier says from his position on the bed.  He’s sprawled on his back with his head and hands hanging off the edge, upside-down and watching Yennefer as she paints her face at her vanity.

“Do we have to talk about the Djinn again?” she asks with a long sigh, but Jaskier just waives his hands at her and starts rambling.

“No, no, not that.  I am fully secure in my relationship with Geralt.  You are one of my dearest friends, and I would never begrudge you the past,” he explains before flopping over and resting his chin on his hands to look at her.  “I’m talking about your clothing, of course.  I’d beg for the name of your tailor, but I’ve seen you turn rags into the outfits you wear.  I wish I could do that, hence the jealousy.”

“Always nice to be appreciated for my skills,” she says, laughing deeply as she stills her hand, not wanting to ruin the makeup she’s applying.  “I suppose I am feeling a bit generous today.  After dinner, bring me an outfit you won’t mind losing.  We can turn it into anything you can think up.”

“Er, by anything do you mean,” Jaskier trails off, pursing his lips as he flounders for the right words.

“Of course you’re going to turn it into a sex thing,” Yen snorts but she’s smiling as she turns from her mirror and look at him.  “Only if you let me do your face, too.”

“Not to be vain, but I like my face,” Jaskier argues, but he supposes that he’s willing to let her do whatever needs to be done for a night of fun.

“You are an absolute buffoon, and I have no idea why I put up with you,” she rolls her eyes and gestures with her makeup brush, “Some lip stain and rouge, maybe something for your eyes.  Ciri won’t let me mess around with her makeup, so you’ll have to do.”

“Oh, well that is perfectly reasonable.  Alright then,” he stands up and claps his hands together cheerfully.  “I’ll be back after dinner!”

---

After promising Geralt a surprise when he returns, Jaskier makes his way to Yennefer’s quarters.  He’s wearing an older doublet, one that he won’t mind being turned into something a lot more fun.  He’s also carrying his cloak, since he doesn’t plan on anyone besides Geralt seeing him one he’s done up for the night.  He found time to sneak away for a bath before dinner, so he’s a clean palette and surrounded by the soft scent of almonds and vanilla.  His pulse is racing in excitement when he knocks on Yen’s door and is beckoned inside.

“Someone’s eager,” she remarks, but her eyes are kind as she gestures for him to shut the door behind him.

“Well it’s not often I’m given such a gift like this, now is it?”

“It’s not a big deal,” she waves him off, even though they both know this is something special.  “We should start with the outfit and go from there, I think.”

“You’re in charge,” Jaskier reminds her just to see her smirk again.

“I need you to focus on what you’d like your outfit to look like.  I’ll pull it right from your mind, so really think hard about it,” she tells him, and Jaskier closes his eyes before picturing what he’s looking for.

There’s a long moment of silence and then he can feel the fabric reworking itself around his body.  He’s too nervous to move, doesn’t even open his eyes, as he feels his clothing change shape and hopefully settle into what he’s dreamt up.

“Glad you brought your cloak.  Not very modest, is it?” Yennefer teases and Jaskier’s eyes fly open.  She moves him across to her vanity and he gasps as his reflection in the mirror.

“You’re amazing,” he mutters while he takes it in.  He can hear her congratulating herself, but all he can pay attention to is his own image in the mirror.  He trails his fingertips across the butter yellow straps crisscrossing around his throat.  His pulse flutters under his fingers as he stares wide-mouthed at himself.

The outfit - if one can call it that - is mostly straps of golden ribbon.  The weave around his throat before crossing his upper chest, leaving his nipples free before winding around underneath his pecs.  Embroidered buttercups frame his chest, the flowers a delicate contrast against his chest hair.  The straps crisscross again, framing his abdomen before winding around his upper thighs.  There’s another sprinkle of buttercups trailing from his waist to his thighs, but his soft prick sits unadorned between all the decoration.

He spins and looks at the mirror over his shoulder, letting out another gasp at the sight of the yellow straps winding around his back and cupping his ass, making it seem perkier than usual.  He brushes his hands down the straps, shivering at how soft and silky the ribbon feels.

He feels delicately masculine, and it’s everything he’d hoped for and more.

“Thank you,” he whispers, suddenly remembering Yennefer is standing right next to him.

“Yes, yes,” she scoffs, tossing his cloak at him.  “Let’s get you covered up since I’ve already gotten more than an eyeful.  Still alright with me doing up your face a bit?”

“Of course,” Jaskier confirms before hiding in his cloak.  He sits down on the chair in front of her vanity and tries to sit as still as possible as Yennefer looks over her choices before grabbing a small jar of powder and a brush.

“I know it’s hard, but be still for me.  It’ll be worth it,” she promises, and Jaskier nods as he lets his eyes fall shut.

For the next few minutes, all he knows is the soft brush against his eyelids and his cheeks accompanied by Yen’s gentle humming.  She directs him through letting her line his eyes in dark kohl, careful not to take a brush to the eye.  Then she purses her lips and goes back and forth between a couple lip stains before asking him, “pink or peach?”

“Peach,” he decides, and her smile tells him he made the right choice.  He parts his lips and lets her paint the stain on, doing his best to sit as still as possible so nothing gets ruined.

“Perfect,” she says once she’s done.  Jaskier steals a glance at the mirror, eyes going wide at the way his face is done up.  His eyes are golden and bronze, the colors making the blue brighter than normal.  There’s a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks and his lips are bright peach.  He smacks them together, loving the way the color makes them look plump and shiny.  

Yennefer takes his chin between her fingers and tilts his head as she studies him, nodding sharply once she decides he’s finished.  “Geralt is in for a treat.  Now get out of here and spare me the details later on.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jaskier tells her, but she just waves a hand at him again.  

“It gets boring and we’ve all been locked in here for too damn long.  I’m so dreadfully in need of entertainment that I’ve gotten permission for a visitor next week.  You’re doing me a favor by letting me play around with you,” she says with a shrug.

“Still,” Jaskier says softly, waiting for her to meet his eyes, “Thank you, Yen.  I’m glad we can do things like this.  I value your friendship.”

“Oh, fuck off, bard,” she says without malice, laughing as she practically shoves him out of her room.

---

Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s nervous until he’s stepping through the door to their room.  He takes a deep breath and shuts the door behind him.  Geralt is lounging on their bed, looking ridiculously soft and content while he reads.  He smiles in greeting, then quirks an eyebrow at Jaskier’s appearance.

“Bit cold tonight?” Geralt asks slowly.  He marks his page and closes his book, tossing it onto the bedside table before sending Jaskier a worried look.

“Just foolish,” he says, laughing as he plays with the edge of his large hood.  “I promised you a surprise, though, and I’m hoping it’s a good one?  I forgot this might not be for everyone, but...well here goes nothing.”  He flicks back the hood, and Geralt lets out a small gasp, eyes widening as he takes in the makeup adorning Jaskier’s face.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, and Jaskier doesn’t need witcher senses to tell he means it; it’s written across his features.  Another deep breath, and then Jaskier smirks before opening his cloak and dropping it off his shoulders.

There’s a long moment where Geralt doesn’t say anything, just gapes at him, blinking slowly.  But then he’s on his feet, scurrying to stand in front of Jaskier, hands held palm out like he wants to touch but isn’t sure he should yet.

“Sweet Melitele, you’re going to be the death of me,” he growls out, swallowing thickly as he eyes Jaskier up and down.

“I admit, it’s a bit much, but I thought it would be fun.”

“It’s not much at all,” Geralt counters, chuckling as he meets Jaskier’s gaze.  He nods, and Geralt finally touches him, smoothing his broad hands across the straps resting on his hips.  Jaskier hums happily at the attention and leans into him, sighing as Geralt lets his hands wander over his stomach and thighs.

He’s half hard by the time Geralt circles him, stopping to stand at his back.  Geralt cups his chest from behind, brushing his thumbs over his nipples as his fingertips trace the line of flowers beneath them.  With a shiver, Jaskier sighs and arches into the touch, earning a soft press of lips against the nape of his neck.  Geralt continues to tease him, pinching his sensitive nipples and drawing a string of broken moans out of him.

“I love how responsive you are,” Geralt whispers before rubbing his nose on the soft skin beneath his ear.  His hands are everywhere, calloused fingertips tracing the lines of the straps from his thighs to his chest to where they weave together at the hollow of his throat.  Jaskier lets his head fall back, resting on Geralt’s shoulder as his lover follows the path of the lingerie and runs his knuckles down Jaskier’s spine.  He settles his thumbs on the dimples above Jaskier’s ass, kneading him gently in a way that pulls another moan out of him.

Jaskier feels like he should be a better participant, but he’s unformed clay in Geralt’s hands.  All he can do is react to every small touch, ever brush of rough skin against his own.  He manages to reach back and thread his fingers in Geralt’s hair, tightening his hold when he groans and rakes his nails down Jaskier’s thighs.  Geralt slips his thumbs under the straps that circle Jaskier’s thighs, tugging slightly and causing the ribbon to dig into his skin in such a delicious way.

“Need you,” Jaskier rasps out, his voice cracking.  He wets his lips and rocks backwards, grinning when he feels the hard press of Geralt against his ass.

“I’m yours,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier whines before spinning in his arms and crushing their mouths together.

Jaskier plasters himself to Geralt’s solid body, hooking a leg over his hip and wrapping his arms around his neck.  Geralt cups his ass, holding him up as he licks his way into Jaskier’s mouth, deepening the kiss.  He swallows Jaskier’s moans and squeezes his ass before picking him up and carrying him over to their bed.

He lets out a squeak as he’s tossed on the bed, but follows it with a giggle.  Geralt shrugs at him, pouting slightly before tugging his shirt over his head.  He shoves his pants off and climbs onto the bed, crowding into Jaskier and manhandling him up towards the pillows.  Jaskier knows he’s not delicate, knows he can hold his ground, but there’s something freeing in letting himself be moved like this, in knowing the raw strength flowing through Geralt’s body.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks, sitting back on his heels as he looks at Jaskier.  He seems wrecked, pupils blown and expression hungry as he licks his lips and watches Jaskier squirm under his gaze.

“You,” Jaskier replies without thinking.  “Anything, whatever you want.  I just wanted to get prettied up for you.”

“You are pretty for me every single day you’re near me,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier can’t help whining again, chews on his lower lip as he contemplates the amount of power he holds over the gorgeous man in front of him.  It’s heady and he could easily get drunk on this feeling.

“Kiss me again,” he demands, and Geralt rushes to comply.  The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongues than skill.  Geralt bites at Jaskier’s lower lip, tugging as he pulls back and grins at him.  His lips have a peachy sheen to them, and Jaskier realizes it’s his makeup rubbing off.  He reaches up and runs a thumb across Geralt’s lips, wiping it off before darting forward and kissing him again.

“I’d really like to suck you off,” Geralt murmurs against his lips, and it’s all Jaskier can do to frantically nod.  Geralt chuckles and kisses along his jawline, leaving a wet trail as he moves down his neck.  He nips at the straps circling his throat before continuing on.  He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses down Jaskier’s chest, stopping to suck and bite at his nipples for a bit.  He runs his fingers through Jaskier’s chest hair, tugging lightly and making him gasp and bend into the touch.

Jaskier lets himself sink further into the pillows, his body heavy as Geralt spreads him out and makes his way down his chest.  The golden straps of the lingerie weave across his stomach, and Geralt slowly presses a kiss inside each diamond of skin, his thumbs rubbing circles on Jaskier’s hip bones as he does.

“Please,” he begs, but Geralt just moves past his prick, avoiding where it’s leaking onto his outfit.  He licks and nips at Jaskier’s inner thighs, tonguing along the straps circling them.  With a whine, Jaskier tries to buck into him, but Geralt is too strong and throws a forearm across his hips to hold him still.

He feels like he might die before he gets Geralt’s mouth on him.  His whole body is on fire, and he knows he’s flushed with it.  His chest hair is damp, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat already.  Geralt keeps working his way down his body, biting and licking down each calf before pressing lingering kisses against his ankles.

He’s both weightless and heavier than he’s ever been before, body a contrast of heat and cooling sweat under Geralt’s sweet torture.  Keening, he pushes his head back into the pillow and tries to chase Geralt’s mouth, longing for more kisses and small bites.  Geralt moves back up to his hips, moving the embroidered flowers aside to suck a mark into the soft skin beneath it.  He laps at the mark, looking up at Jaskier from beneath his lashes.

“Please,” he whines again, and Geralt finally takes pity on him.

He cries out as Geralt wraps his thick fingers around his length and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth.  He knows he’s leaking, absolutely wet and filthy with it, and Geralt swallows around him and sucks him down.  He’s insanely good at this, and all Jaskier can do is lay there as Geralt tears him apart.

His mouth is hot and wet as he sucks him down, and Jaskier can’t help bucking his hips.  He knows Geralt can take it, and he has to close his eyes to keep from spilling too soon when Geralt sinks deeper, taking all of him.  The head of his cock bumps the back of Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier moans, thighs shaking as Geralt hollows his cheeks and really starts to move.

There’s no way he’s going to last long, not when he’s already keyed up like this, and Geralt knows it.  He doesn’t waste time, loosens his grip on Jaskier’s hips and lets him fuck up into his mouth.  Geralt cups his balls, playing with him while Jaskier slams into him.

It’s Geralt’s face that sends him over the edge; the blissful look he shoots up at Jaskier.  His eyes are watering, his perfect lips stretched thin around Jaskier’s prick, and he looks so fucking amazing that Jaskier can’t stand it.  Shouting his name, Jaskier comes hard, vision blackening as he spills down Geralt’s eager throat.  Geralt moans around him and swallows quickly, milking him through his earth-shattering orgasm.

Jaskier is crying by the time he pulls back, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

“You good?” Geralt asks as he crawls up Jaskier’s body, stopping to sit on his thighs.

“So fucking good,” Jaskier sighs, grinning up at him.  He reaches out to offer a hand, but Geralt waves him off and wraps his fingers around his straining cock.

“Close,” he grunts out as he starts to fuck his own fist.  Jaskier licks his lips and tilts his hips, trying to provide a better visual as Geralt pumps himself.  He looks wild like this, his muscles tense as he works over his prick.  He’s leaking onto Jaskier’s thighs, dampening the yellow straps of his lingerie.

Geralt runs his other hand up Jaskier’s chest, palming the x of straps between his nipples.  He pulls on the ribbon, and Jaskier arches into it, spine bowing beautifully as Geralt watches him with hungry eyes.  And then he’s hissing, sobbing into his own orgasm as he comes in hot spurts across Jaskier’s stomach, painting the lingerie in white streaks.

He all but collapses on top of Jaskier, whining as he comes down from it.  Jaskier runs his hands over his shoulders, down his back, keeping him calm as he works through it.  They’re both panting, bodies shaking as they lay together.  Jaskier turns his head and presses a soft kiss against the column of Geralt’s throat and is rewarded with a pleased hum.

“Next time, I want you to fuck me in this.  Want you to hold onto the straps as you absolutely wreck me,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt lets out a pathetic whimper against his neck.

“You’re evil.”

“You liked me just fine a moment ago,” Jaskier teases softly.

“Give me a few and we can go again,” Geralt mumbles, and thank goodness for that famed witcher stamina.  His own cock is very interested in that offer, and he starts to roll his hips, rutting up against Geralt to let him know he’s ready and willing.  

Jaskier just hopes his outfit lasts the night.

Adding art I commissioned from @journeythroughunknownlands. I love it so much 🥺 non-censored here.

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Fairytales

Title: The Well at the Edge of the World

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: M

Content Warnings: Temporary character death, attempted suicide if you squint

Summary: According to the stories, there is a well nestled in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters capable of healing even the gravest of ailments. Many have gone in search for it over the years and been lost, fallen to the cold or slain by the witchers that lurk in the hostile north. So when, after one transgression too many, Jaskier's father sends him on that same impossible quest, it is surely an effort to be rid of him once and for all. Yet Jaskier is ever the optimist and, as it turns out, help can be found in the most unlikely places.

Jaskier had been only a boy when sickness had spread through Lettenhove. High up in the castle that looked down on the town sprawling below, he would have remained blissfully unaware of it all; the men with their sinister, pointed masks like ravens stalking the streets; the wagons carting their gruesome payload beyond the walls; the red crosses painted like blood on so many doors. Until it had claimed his mother.

He had gone to her, ready to tug on her skirts until she was following him outside to marvel at the leaves turning vibrant red as the summer died away, only to find her bed surrounded by physicians, and himself quickly ushered from the room. She was gone before the first autumn leaf fell, leaving Jaskier with nothing but her beautifully carved lute and the memory of a serene voice accompanying it.

Anella was in the castle by the year's end. And Jaskier's mother's lute was kindling when next the weather turned cold.

Jaskier watched them now, she and his father sat by the fire in the great hall smiling at Jaskier's half-brother Piotr as he read aloud, despite the hacking coughs that interrupted every sentence, already making plans for his birthday celebrations in the spring.

It was Jaskier's own birthday today.

The Earl met his eyes from across the room, his gaze turning sharp at the sight of Jaskier lingering in the shadows. "Why are you not in the kitchens?" he said.

Without a word, Jaskier turned to head back out of the hall. He had long ago learnt that there was no point attempting to argue with his father – though the urge did still sometimes get the better of him, often to his own detriment. It was probably for the best, then, that he spent so much of his time in the hidden parts of the castle rather than around the refined company the Earl kept.

"Oi," said a voice from farther up the dingy corridor that led to the kitchens, "little lord."

"Fuck off."

Ethel stepped out of the shadows to offer Jaskier a deep, mocking curtsey. Her dress clung slightly to her belly as she straightened – too many of Lenka's fig tarts, he reckoned. He had a hard time keeping from stuffing his face with them as well, especially now he spent most of his days in the kitchens, whether to help with the preparations for the endless banquets his father hosted, or to drink and play cards with the staff. Ethel was one of the scullery maids, a year or two older than Jaskier, and had been the one to show Jaskier the ropes when he had been ordered to scrub what had felt like half the castle, after he had let his tongue get the better of him.

She had shown him a few other things over the years, as well.

"Granddad wants to see you," she said.

Jaskier was quite certain the old man had no children, nor indeed grandchildren, of his own, yet he had worked at the castle for so long none of them had ever known another name for him. He was simply Granddad, the name spoken with varying levels of endearment, depending on who was addressing him. He was sat outside his cabin in the castle grounds when Jaskier found him, eyes closed to soak up the last rays of summer.

"People usually only want to see me when I'm in trouble," said Jaskier, as he came to join Granddad on his bench.

"The way I hear it, that'll be because you're usually getting yourself into trouble." He cracked an eye open to shoot Jaskier a knowing look, and Jaskier grinned back at him. "Got a gift for you, boy," he said. "Honour of your special day, and all that."

"You didn't have to."

Granddad waved a dismissive hand and sat forward to pull a wooden box out from beneath the bench. He nodded for Jaskier to open it.

Jaskier lifted the box into his lap and flicked open the clasps. Inside was a lute, not as ornate as Jaskier remembered his mother's being, but clearly well made, and still beautiful in its simplicity. He held his breath, as if he was afraid breathing near the instrument would somehow ruin it, and gently plucked at the strings.

"You made this?" he said, his voice thick with emotion, while he ran his fingers over the polished wood.

"Aye. Storm toppled your mother's tree last winter," he said, nodding to the spot where the yew tree Jaskier's mother had had Granddad plant long before Jaskier was born had once stood. "Couldn't think of a finer use for it."

"It's wonderful."

"You'd best learn to play it again now."

Jaskier nodded, gazing back down at the lute as Granddad gave him a too-hard pat on the shoulder and went back to his work. He pulled his lute out of the box, plucking experimentally as he wandered through the gardens and took a seat at his mother's spot. He didn't know where she had been buried – carted off with all the others to the plague pits, he suspected – but Jaskier always liked to imagine this was her grave. She used to sit for hours in this spot, a book or an instrument in hand while Jaskier played nearby.

In his mind, Jaskier had pictured himself placing his fingers on the lute and inspiration flowing through him, his muse awakened by the simple act of clutching an instrument in his hands, telling him exactly what he needed to do. Instead, he fumbled, notes twanging discordantly as he tried to determine what exactly he was supposed to be doing with his fingers and when.

His mother had always made this look so easy.

But he didn't give up. Jaskier sat there amongst the roses and the leaves turning yellow with the dying season, his tongue poked between his lips and brow furrowed in concentration as he practised, until it was too dark to see his fingers on the strings. The only lights guiding his way back towards the castle were the few left burning in the windows.

Ethel was there waiting for him again when he stepped back into the kitchens, his lute tucked under his arm. "Like your present?"

"I couldn't ask for a better one."

"That's a shame, then," she said. There was a mischievous glint in her eye when Jaskier cocked his head in confusion. She teased at the laces of her dress. "I suppose you won't want to unwrap mine now."

With a grin, Jaskier followed her into the shadows.

 .

He didn't see Ethel after that. When weeks had passed without catching even a glimpse of her saffron-coloured curls, Jaskier had grown curious enough that he was about to start asking around. He didn't have chance, however, before he was hauled before his father, sat stern and grey-faced in his council seat, Anella wearing a similarly sour expression at his side.

Jaskier sat down with a frown. It was hardly an unusual occurrence, of course, invoking the wrath of the Earl, yet Jaskier had been trying his best to keep his nose clean – or at least, keeping the knowledge of his exploits down in the Twin Bells tavern from his father. Since the Earl would sooner cut off his legs than set foot in that part of town, it was easy enough. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, between them as his father's eyes, the same colour as Jaskier's own yet somehow so unlike his, stayed fixed on him.

"I'm sure by now you're aware of the girl Ethel's condition," he said finally.

"Condition?" Jaskier's eyes widened. "Is she sick?"

Anella snorted beside his father, as if she found something highly amusing. "It's a sickness, all right," she muttered. Then, to Jaskier: "the girl has found herself with child. She has of course been removed from service within the castle."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Come now, Julian; let's not play games," said the Earl. "Do you realise the harm it would do if word spreads that a Pankratz has fathered illegitimate children all over town?"

Jaskier gaped back at him.

"It is an embarrassment," agreed Anella. She turned to the Earl. "He cannot be allowed to remain in the castle." She spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing something as commonplace as the arrangements for their next ball. As if Jaskier wasn't sat right in fucking front of them.

His father hummed in agreement.

"Hang on," said Jaskier. "You can't just turf me out. The child isn't even mine."

"And we're to believe that?" said his father.

"There was a boy in town Ethel was going about with as well. The blacksmith's ward. She said she thought they might marry next year."

Besides, Jaskier was well aware of the art of conception, and quite certain that the two of them had not engaged in that particular act for many months. Though somehow he doubted that detailing the various things they had been up to instead would improve the situation for him.

As it was, his father continued to stare back at him, unimpressed. And increasingly Jaskier was beginning to suspect that the outcome of this conversation had been decided long before he had even sat down.

Anella was the first to break the silent stalemate. "Perhaps," she began, cocking her head to one side as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we could give the boy a second chance." Her eyes shifted to Jaskier's father. There was something coldly calculating within them. "On a condition, of course."

The Earl looked back at her. "Go on."

"Well, the boy has shown scant regard for the Pankratz name," she said. "If he were to somehow demonstrate his loyalty, to prove how much he cares about the family line, it may behove you to show clemency."

Jaskier looked between them. His father seemed to be considering the idea, at least. "What do you want me to do?" he said.

"Your brother's health continues to deteriorate, despite his physicians' care. Having exhausted all scientific avenues of treatment, it would seem our only option remaining is to explore those of a more mystical nature."

"Mystical?"

Jaskier frowned. He'd read books on all sorts of creatures and curiosities, but he was about as far from a mage as it was possible for a man to get.

"I'm sure you have heard the stories. There is a well far in the north of Kaedwen, at the edge of the world; its water is said to contain healing properties. They used to give it to young witchers to help them survive their trials. If you were to return with a pail, it would see your brother restored and secure the future of the Pankratz line. In return, I'm sure your father would be happy to forget this little indiscretion ever happened."

She met the Earl's eyes once again and they studied one another in silence, their expressions unreadable. Eventually, he gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to Jaskier.

"Make your choice, boy."

As far as Jaskier could see, it was no choice at all. He didn't say that, of course.

"I'll do it," he said.

And so early the next morning Jaskier had his bag packed and was stood in the courtyard making his farewells. His family was not among those gathered to see him off. Lenka pulled him into a tight hug, before thrusting a wrapped bundle into his hands. Jaskier lifted one corner of the cloth and grinned. Inside was a fresh batch of fig tarts.

"For the road," she said with a wrinkled smile.

Jaskier slung his lute over his shoulder and stepped through the castle gates. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help feeling a ripple of excitement as he descended the hill into town. He had spent his life reading tales of other people's adventures, and here he was finally setting off on one of his own. There may not be dragons to slay and fair maidens to romance, but it was something, at least.

His feet paused at the entrance to the narrow lane which accounted for Lettenhove's least savoury neighbourhood. This point was the farthest he had ever strayed from home. Each step beyond it would be uncharted territory. Jaskier glanced down the lane towards the Twin Bells, still quiet and calm in the early morning, drunkards slumped over its tables yet to awaken to greet their hangovers. He smiled, and went on past.

As the houses grew farther apart and sprawling farmland replaced the maze of streets, Jaskier helped himself to a tart, and pondered how long his journey would take him.

The wide, cobbled road melted into one of dirt, and the dirt road became a narrow path of tamped down grass, and then even that too was swallowed up by the wilds of the countryside as Lettenhove shrank out of view behind him. Jaskier knew Kaedwen lay to the north-east, so that was the direction he headed. Where he had to go to find this mystical well once he had reached Kaedwen, he would have to discover for himself on the way.

He walked a meandering trail that kept him close enough to civilisation to bid each fellow traveller he encountered a cheery salutation, amusing himself in the quiet stretches between by imagining the adventures each was off to pursue.

He wondered if his own would prove the most exciting of them all.

 .

It didn't take long for Jaskier to learn that the stories of gallant knights and roguish adventurers he had devoured as a boy may have glossed over the rather less romantic aspects of the tales.

The food Jaskier had packed had lasted barely more than a fortnight, and once that was gone his coin quickly followed it. In its wake, Jaskier had taken to frequenting each tavern he passed. Usually he could charm his way into somebody's bed for a night, or at the very least get a good meal and an ale or two out of it.

During the long, lonely hours he walked each day Jaskier had been practising with his lute, until his fingers moved easily over the strings and he could piece together a half-decent melody, if he did say so himself. And so in the firelight and the chatter of each tavern he would get to his feet, clear his throat, and take it upon himself to entertain the patrons. It passed the time, and it earned him – well, not coin, sadly, but of the food that was hurled at him much of it was still just about edible.

He was finding his way to get by.

Now, Jaskier was sat hunched in the corner of a tavern even rowdier than the Twin Bells, surveying his bounty scattered on the table in front of him. Four ducats – his payment for shutting up, so the man had said as he'd pelted them at Jaskier – not nearly enough to pay for a room for the night, and a few stale bread rolls. He shoved them into his bag for the morning, and gazed back out of the window.

It was not yet winter, but Jaskier could feel its icy tendrils creeping ever nearer; the growing chill in the night air that kept him awake and shivering beside his pitiful campfire; the rain that pounded hard and cold against his skin as he walked on, soaking through his clothes until he was too despondent and uncomfortable to drown out the voice in the back of his mind telling him this had been a mistake. Through the window he could see the trees at the edge of the town swaying violently in the wind. He really didn't want to spend another night out there.

Jaskier glanced back around the room. Considering how appreciative they had been of his playing, he doubted any of his fellow patrons would take kindly to Jaskier attempting to seduce them. He wasn't sure he had the energy for it, anyway.

So with a weary sigh, Jaskier gathered his things and stepped back out into the cold, making his way through quiet streets towards the trees. Fortunately he had not yet encountered any monsters lurking in the woods when he made camp each night – though given the rather rotten state of his luck, he could probably expect that to change before too long. He found a sheltered spot within the woods and unfurled his bedroll, pulling his cloak tighter about himself as he settled down for the night.

It would be worth it, he told himself, once again. A little discomfort was a small price to pay for a good story.

 .

Jaskier had encountered his first snowfall within a few days of crossing the border into Kaedwen. A light dusting at first, just enough to lift Jaskier's spirits and have him gazing up at the skies with a smile to watch the flakes drift lazily to the earth, though the farther north Jaskier travelled, the heavier it fell.

He probably should have anticipated that before he left home. He might have had the good sense to pack some warmer clothes.

A shiver wracked his body as he watched the sputtering fire he had lit, waiting for the wood to catch. He was learning to tolerate the cold and the wet, and the hunger and the lack of sleep, though that didn't mean he'd not prefer to find himself with a thicker cloak and a roaring fire to warm him. And a hearty beer, and a hot meal in his belly. Perhaps a comely companion pressed to his side as well. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself at the thought.

It had been two days at least since he had laid eyes on another person. As he'd ventured farther into the heart of Kaedwen the distance between settlements had grown, and the travellers he passed were becoming rarer – and far less welcoming.

Staring out across the barren, snowy moor, he could understand why the people were as rugged as the landscape. Absently, he wondered if it was the harshness of the northern winters that hardened people, or whether people of a certain temperament simply found themselves drawn to Kaedwen. As he contemplated that idea, Jaskier pressed his feet closer to the fire and shivered once more.

At the next gust of bitter wind, his fire flickered and burnt out.

"Fuck," sighed Jaskier.

He hauled himself to his feet and trekked over to the solitary tree clinging feebly to the banks of the Gwenllech. One good storm and it was sure to go crashing into the river. Jaskier snapped off every last branch he could sever and turned back to his camp, though before he could set to rebuilding his fire, he spotted movement in the distance.

A wagon on the path, drawing closer.

Leading it was a hunched, grizzled-looking man, of the type who had proved to have little patience for Jaskier long before he had set foot beyond Lettenhove's borders. But Jaskier had never let that deter him in the past, and was certainly not about to do so now.

"Good sir," called Jaskier as he raced towards the wagon. The man came to a reluctant stop and stared back at Jaskier balefully. "Might you be able to aid a weary traveller on a quest of utmost significance?"

The man's face didn't change, and nor did he say anything. Jaskier pressed on before he could.

"I have been entreated to seek out a fabled well in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters pure enough to cure any ailment."

"I heard of it," the old man said. He sounded about as impressed as he looked, which was to say, not at all. "Not known anyone to go lookin' for it for a long time."

"Do you know where I might find it?"

"It's in witcher country, boy. You're best staying well away."

"I thank you for the warning, sir, though I fear I must continue on," said Jaskier. Besides, he had nothing to fear from a witcher. He was no foul beast, nor in possession of anything of value that a witcher might be compelled to steal in absence of a contract.

Of course, they might see fit to kill Jaskier before they made the attempt to rob him, in which case Jaskier would most certainly be doomed. Best not to think about that possibility.

The man sighed, but he jutted his bristled chin northwards. "Follow the river 'til you can't no more. You'll come to it in time. Best hurry though," he added, "before they turn in for the winter. Their sort don't take too kindly to folks sniffing about in their neck o' the woods."

With that, he spurred his haggard draught horse on, trundling along the path without a parting word or glance.

Jaskier was too used to it by now to take offense. Besides, he had got what he'd been after. With renewed purpose he made his way back to his little camp by the river, but rather than rebuilding his fire and settling in to await the coming sunset as he had planned, Jaskier quickly gathered his belongings. There were perhaps a few hours left before the evening grew too dark to see; Jaskier could make good progress in that time.

He set off to follow the river.

For the next week, Jaskier kept the icy path it cut through the landscape in sight as he walked for as long as he was able each day, too exhausted to be kept awake by the cold each night, until the terrain grew steeper and the rocky ground on either side of the Gwenllech too difficult to traverse. He found himself straying farther and farther from the river just to find a way through the increasingly hostile environment.

But he didn't stop. He could feel the end of his quest within reach.

 .

Legs heavy and feet throbbing with cold and pain, Jaskier stumbled through the trees, his breath misting in front of him with every rattled gasp that left him. He was well into the mountains by now, the snowy ground so steep it was taking more effort than Jaskier could muster just to keep himself upright.

When he got back to Lettenhove, Jaskier was going to sleep for a month.

He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. If he imagined the hot bath he planned to sink into upon his return hard enough, perhaps it might bring some feeling back to his frozen extremities. He would need to stop soon – the sun had already sunk below the mountains, and Jaskier could not risk a misplaced step in the darkness – but he pushed himself on just a little farther. He could see vague shapes beyond the trees. Another few minutes and he would reach them.

The woods came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a village. Or rather, what had once been a village. There wasn't much left but the blackened, crumbling remains of a handful of stone huts now. Jaskier's steps slowed as he walked through the ruins, an eerie silence in the air that had Jaskier holding his breath, like he was afraid to disturb the place by making a sound.

He considered what could have happened here; who had lived in the village; whether they had escaped before it had been turned to ash. It looked almost as if the place had been scorched by dragon fire, though Jaskier had only ever heard of such an event in legends. Certainly the creatures were rare enough that word of one burning villages to a crisp would surely spread across the Continent like, well, dragon fire.

Before he could ponder the nature of dragons any further, Jaskier's gaze drifted to what must have once been the village square, and caught. In its centre was a well.

This had to be the place. It was the only thing close to civilisation Jaskier had found since he had reached the mountains. Jaskier scrambled towards it, dropping his things to his sides as he pressed his palms to the snow-topped wall surrounding it, and peered down into its shadowy depths.

He had expected there to be a little more fanfare accompanying this moment, but given the state of his surroundings, perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised to find it absent. There would be celebrations enough when he returned home, he supposed.

Jaskier had to throw his body weight behind him as he pushed at the winch just to get it moving, stiff after untold years of disuse, but once he had freed it he was able to lower the bucket without too much difficulty. With each push he listened, and waited, wondering just how deep the well was.

He soon had his answer. Instead of the splash Jaskier was listening for, there was the dull thud of the bucket hitting something solid. And another, when Jaskier tried again.

"No, no, no," said Jaskier to himself. He hadn't come all this way just to find the well fucking frozen.

In the debris of the ruined village Jaskier picked up the largest fragment of stone he could find, staggering back to the well to drop it into the depths. A moment's pause, and then that same awful sound. The ice remained intact.

"Fuck!"

He dropped to the ground, his back slamming too hard against the side of the well, the snow soaking through his clothes, but he couldn't bring himself to care about either. Hot tears stung his eyes, and Jaskier did nothing to try and keep them from falling. He was too shattered to hold back his frustration any longer.

Like a dam had burst somewhere deep within his chest, it hit him: all the misery and anger and hopelessness he had been trying so desperately to ignore, and all Jaskier could do was sit there and sob.

His father would not let him home without a pail of the well's healing water. And Jaskier could not wait months for it to thaw. With no food, no coin, and no friendly faces to offer him aid, he would be dead long before that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned whether that had been his parents' plan all along.

In the morning, Jaskier was sure he would have the energy to devise a way around this new, unfortunate quandary, but for tonight, he was content to sit and wallow in misery. He had damn well earned it. And so he cried, and he cursed at his father and the gods and himself, and when he had calmed down again he scrubbed at his eyes with the ragged sleeve of his doublet and looked up.

His heart seized in his chest.

Stark against the darkness, its steps silent, a pale grey wolf was prowling through the snow towards him.

Jaskier pressed himself back against the well – though what good he thought it might do him, he didn't know; the wolf was already looking right at him – and he held his breath as the wolf stalked nearer. The creature was beautiful, Jaskier had to admit. Even if it was the reason he was about to pass out from sheer terror.

The wolf came to a stop barely a stone's throw away from Jaskier's feet. Its eyes didn’t leave Jaskier's, almost seeming to glow in the darkness, but instead of lunging for Jaskier's throat it simply sat and watched him. Somehow, that almost seemed worse.

"Well," breathed Jaskier, as he and the wolf continued to stare at one another, "as far as deaths go, I suppose it's better to go out quick than waste away in the cold." He swallowed. "It can't be all bad, if it'll help keep you fed for the winter."

Jaskier closed his eyes and took his final, shaking breath, waiting for the rush of air as the wolf pounced, and the pain of sharp teeth sinking in to his throat.

"What are you doing?"

He cracked an eye open, then the other. The wolf was still sat watching him – perhaps it had been tamed as a cub and had simply been waiting for its master to join them? – and, satisfied for the moment that he wasn't at immediate risk of being eaten, Jaskier glanced around for the owner of the voice he had heard. He saw no-one.

If it had been a trick of his own mind, Jaskier would have thought the voice to be familiar, not the low, rumbling growl he had heard, which was surely not the kind of voice his mind would readily decide to supply. Unless…

Slowly, Jaskier's gaze turned back to the wolf in front of him. It blinked its yellow eyes as if in response.

"Well now I have most certainly gone insane," said Jaskier. Perhaps all of this was a particularly bizarre dream he had slipped into, and he would wake up come morning curled at the base of the well mercifully intact. Or better yet, back in his own bed in Lettenhove, having never set foot through its gates.

"If you're trying to extract water from a frozen well, you are," said the voice.

Jaskier couldn't see the wolf's mouth move; rather, the words seemed to take form in Jaskier's mind, yet there was no other creature around who could have put voice to them. He wondered if this was a skill that all wolves possessed, gone unnoticed because any who strayed close enough to hear did not live to tell the tale.

He also wondered if he was being utterly ridiculous.

"All right, no need to get nasty," Jaskier found himself saying, though, again, he couldn't find a logical reason why. Talking to a wolf, which may or may not have been talking back, was without question the strangest thing Jaskier had ever done.

"I can help you."

Jaskier blinked. "What?"

"You want to get to the water," said the wolf. "I can show you another way to reach it, if you'll grant me a favour in return."

It seemed an offer too good to be true. And Jaskier was surely capable of working this out on his own, rather than finding himself indebted to a creature that would probably be quite glad to take a bite out of him. But what if Jaskier couldn't find a way to complete his quest? He was already cold and hungry and exhausted; what harm could there be in accepting an offer to end this now?

"Anything," Jaskier replied.

A brief nod of its snowy head, and the wolf was standing, walking away without waiting for Jaskier to join it. Jaskier scrambled to collect his things and hurried after the wolf. It led him through a narrow valley, scraggy trees clinging to the steep rock on either side making it so that Jaskier had to hunch down to keep himself from being scratched to pieces, though the wolf strolled through unhindered.

"What's your name?" Jaskier said as they made their way… somewhere.

The wolf said nothing – which, really, shouldn’t have been something worthy of note. How quickly Jaskier's view of the world had been turned on its head. But then, he supposed, was a wolf that could talk really that strange in a world filled with monsters and magic?

"My name is Jaskier. Julian, really, but only my parents call me that. They are the ones who sent me here. I don't suppose they're expecting me to actually come back, but I'll certainly find it satisfying to prove them wrong. Can all wolves talk, by the way, or are you just special?"

The wolf paused and glanced back at him. And if wolves could give withering stares, Jaskier was quite sure he was staring back at one. He had to remind himself that this was a creature capable of killing him without a modicum of effort, but even then, Jaskier had trouble remembering he was supposed to be scared.

"Oh come on," he said. "This is the first time I've had a proper conversation with someone in weeks."

"This is a proper conversation?"

"Well, your communication skills could use a little polishing, but I'll take what I can get."

The wolf turned back to the path – such as it was. Clearly this was a passage used by creatures of the four-legged variety rather than anything resembling a human. "Wolves can't talk," it said after a quiet moment.

"So what are you, then?"

"Something else."

They came to a stop at a narrow opening in the mountainside, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, which was fortunate. Jaskier followed the wolf inside. The moonlight did not follow him in turn.

"Watch your step," said the wolf.

"That would be a good deal easier if I could actually see anything." He pressed his hand to the cave wall, the rock cold and jagged beneath his palm, and fumbled forwards in the darkness.

The ground sloped downwards beneath his feet, but it was a relatively smooth surface, only the occasional rock jutting up out of the earth to try and trip him. He did catch something long and thin with his boot which rolled away with a suspiciously hollow sound, and then another a few minutes later. Jaskier didn't let himself imagine what they might be.

"Is this where you live?" he said.

He should have known better than to expect a response.

Perhaps it was Jaskier's eyes finally adjusting to the dark, but he could swear the cave was growing lighter around them while they descended. He could actually make out the vague shape of his hand against the wall now, and ahead the wolf's pale fur was just visible in the gloom. As the light grew brighter, Jaskier looked up and saw it: dotted all over the ceiling were clusters of innumerable softly glowing insects, casting the cave in an ethereal bluish glow. It was magical.

"I've never read about these," said Jaskier. The cave seemed to glitter as the insects moved, and he stared up at them in wonderment. "What are they?"

"A nuisance, for the most part."

Whether that assessment was true or not, the creatures lit the way – and yes, those were definitely bones Jaskier was stepping over. Gods. He turned his attention back up to the ceiling.  And it wasn't long before Jaskier could hear the faint trickling sounds of moving water.

Finally they came to the end of the cave. They stepped into a chamber just big enough to be comfortable, a narrow stream cutting through it, and Jaskier dropped to his knees. He sunk his hands into the water, just to make sure it was real. It was delightfully frigid as it swirled around his fingers.

"Oh, I could kiss you," said Jaskier. "Though I imagine you wouldn't take kindly to that, would you?"

"I honoured my end of the bargain," said the wolf, and when Jaskier gazed over his shoulder towards it the creature was sat looking at him, waiting.

"You did," said Jaskier. He pulled his hands out of the stream and turned to face the wolf. "What do you want from me in return?"

"I want you to kill me."

The words took a moment to sink in. The silence hung heavy and awful after they had.

"What?" Jaskier managed in the end. Surely he hadn't heard right, or had misunderstood, perhaps. There had to be some explanation forthcoming that would make sense of the request.

"You said you would do anything."

"I'm not going to kill you," said Jaskier. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"We made a deal. You are honour bound to uphold it."

Jaskier shook his head. "Ask me to do something else."

"This is all I need."

"Why?"

He could feel tears gathering in his eyes again, and the wolf ducked his head beneath Jaskier's arm. For a moment Jaskier thought it was to comfort him, until he felt the gentle nudging at his hip, right where his dagger was tucked into his belt. The wolf nosed it free and it clattered to the ground by Jaskier's hand. It sat back and met Jaskier's eyes again.

"Please," said Jaskier. The tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please don't make me do this."

The wolf just stared back at him.

"I could run."

"You wouldn't get far," said the wolf. It nudged Jaskier's hand until he felt cold metal touch his skin. "Think of it as a kindness."

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as his hand lingered over the blade. "Tell me you're certain," he whispered.

"I'm certain."

With a slow nod, Jaskier unsheathed his dagger. He dragged the back of his hand over his wet cheeks, trying desperately to keep his breathing steady as he shifted closer to the wolf. Its fur was soft and warm beneath his fingers when he reached out for it.

The wolf stayed stock-still, not even breathing, much like Jaskier had when he had thought himself for this fate. Bile rising at the back of his throat at the thought of what was to come, Jaskier plunged his knife in.

"I'm sorry," he breathed as he lowered the wolf to the ground, and Jaskier lay down beside it, heavy sobs wracking his body.

He fell asleep like that, his face buried in the wolf's fur, its body gradually going cold in his arms.

 .

The ground was cool and hard beneath him when Jaskier awoke, the cave lit by that dim blue glow of the creatures undulating overhead, and awareness came back to him slowly. Jaskier didn't bother to move once it had. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to gaze down at the lifeless wolf at his side just yet.

It hardly felt like what he'd done had been worth it.

He could still hear the stream trickling, taunting, nearby – yet there was something else alongside the sound, he realised. A soft, slow breathing.

Jaskier sat up.

Beside him was a man, his hair the same snowy grey as the wolf's fur had been, lying naked as the day he was born and – well. Jaskier averted his eyes when he realised they had begun to wander. He tugged off his cloak and draped it over the man's rather considerable bulk to stop his shivering.

The moment the fabric touched his skin the man's eyes were snapping open, and he shot upright with a growl, teeth bared. Jaskier scuttled backwards until his back hit the cave wall. Somehow, the wolf had seemed less threatening.

He needn't have been too concerned, however. The man didn't seem to even notice Jaskier was there. Instead he blinked a few times, trying to orient himself, before looking down at his body as if he had never seen it before. He touched a cautious hand to his skin. Skin that was covered in scars, Jaskier noticed. And one ugly red wound in his side, fresher than all the others.

"It's you, isn't it?" said Jaskier.

The man looked up at him then. His eyes were yellow.

"Geralt," he said. The word came out rough, but even coarse from disuse the voice was unmistakeable. He pulled Jaskier's cloak around himself and, reminded of Geralt's nakedness – though quite how he could be expected to forget that sight, Jaskier didn't know – Jaskier fumbled for his bag.

"Here," he said.

He tossed Geralt a shirt and spare pair of trousers. They may not be the best fit, but it was certainly better than nothing in the cold. As Geralt pulled Jaskier's shirt over his head, Jaskier eyed the medallion around his neck, the one thing that seemed to have survived his transformation. There was a wolf's head on it – which seemed especially cruel given the state Jaskier had found him in.

"Are you a witcher?"

He gave a curt nod.

"I've never met a witcher before."

"I've never met anyone who talks this much."

"'Thank you, Jaskier, for helping me out of my terrible predicament,'" said Jaskier, since apparently Geralt wasn't about to do so himself. "'What a noble, selfless act you have committed, despite the intolerable pain it caused you to sink that blade into my flesh.'"

Geralt's lips twitched; not quite a smile, but from the grizzled look of him it might be the closest he came to it. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

Jaskier sat back, definitely not watching from the corner of his eye as Geralt stood to climb into Jaskier's trousers. They were a little short in the leg, and tight all over, which sent a ripple of heat through Jaskier's veins, though they would do until they could find Geralt some clothes of his own. Jaskier hoped Geralt might have some ideas how to go about that, since Jaskier didn't have the means to source much of anything these days.

"So what happened to you?"

Geralt sat back down, his back against the wall opposite Jaskier, and closed his eyes for a moment. Even under the softening effects of the cavern's glow he looked exhausted, and Jaskier contemplated just how much the transformation had taken out of him. He draped his cloak back over Geralt, and Geralt didn't shrug off Jaskier's fussing.

"Took a contract to get rid of a golem that had been causing trouble," he said. "The mage didn't take too kindly to me destroying his creation."

"So he cursed you?"

Another nod.

"I read a book about curses once," said Jaskier. "I didn't sleep for a week afterwards, I was so afraid I'd wake up to find various bits falling off, or turned into lizards or some such."

Geralt's eyes were still closed, but that little smirk was back on his face. "You've read about a lot of things, I'm guessing."

"If you'd ever spent time in Lettenhove, you'd know that there really isn't all that much else to do. How did you know me killing the wolf would turn you back?"

"I didn't."

Jaskier blinked. "Oh," he said, then: "Is that the only reason you helped me?"

"There's nothing special about the water," answered Geralt, and he tossed a stone into it with a satisfying plop that echoed about the cavern. "I don't know where that stupid story came from."

And with that, the last lingering glimmer of hope in Jaskier's chest was extinguished. He couldn't find it in himself to feel hurt by Geralt's actions, though. If he had been placed in the same position, he'd have few scruples about using a stranger to get what he wanted, either.

When he looked up again those curious yellow eyes were on him. There was something soft in them that made Jaskier want to move in closer.

"What is it?" said Geralt.

"I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do now. My father will never let me back home without it."

He could defy his father's expectations and return with the pail, though it would of course do nothing to improve his brother's health. And it would be all too easy for his parents to then make the claim that Jaskier had simply spent all this time cadding about, before returning with a pail of the first water he came across. He would be out on his ear once again within weeks.

Or he could tell them the truth, and pray that they might just believe him.

"Why do you even want to go back?" said Geralt.

What kind of question was that? Jaskier didn't say that out loud, of course. Geralt was a witcher; Jaskier was fairly certain they didn't have homes or families at all, so he could forgive Geralt's lack of understanding.

"Well, where else would I go?"

"Anywhere."

"Is that what you do? Just wander the Continent, looking for adventures wherever you might find them?"

"Something like that," said Geralt.

Jaskier pondered that for a long, quiet moment.

Anywhere. He rather liked the sound of it.

Looking back at Geralt, it was easy to imagine him a solitary figure on the road, nothing but an endless landscape of possibility stretching out before him. Jaskier felt a small pang of sadness at the realisation that Geralt was sure to go straight back to that life now, and Jaskier would be left in his wake to… well, Jaskier didn't know what he was going to do.

Silence settled over them while Jaskier lost himself in thought, though it wasn't an uncomfortable one – which was odd. Usually Jaskier found any stretch of calm, no matter how brief, to be utterly excruciating. But he was content for the moment to allow the quiet to stretch on, despite the endless questions brimming up inside him, desperate to get out. He could hold on to them for the moment.

"When did you last eat?" said Geralt, suddenly, and Jaskier stared back at him in confusion. "I can hear your stomach growling."

"Oh. Well yes, it has been rather longer than I'd prefer. My hunting skills have proved somewhat lacking, unfortunately."

Geralt was up then, tossing Jaskier's cloak aside as he swept to his feet with far more grace than one would expect of a man who, until very recently, was incapable of walking on his hind legs. "Come with me," he said.

Jaskier grabbed his things without a moment's hesitation. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

They made their way back up through the cave, out of the darkness into too-bright midday sunlight, and Jaskier gazed over at Geralt to take a proper look at him. He was beautiful, in a rugged way which Jaskier had always happened to find particularly appealing, his face tilted up towards the sun to feel its distant warmth on his skin.

After a moment, Geralt's eyes met his. "What?" he said, though from his tone Jaskier suspected he already knew.

"Nothing. Are you sure you're fit to travel?"

"Fit enough."

Jaskier followed Geralt as they climbed even higher into the mountains. Geralt didn't speak much, though he did offer various grunts in response to Jaskier's ever-growing list of questions, which Jaskier supposed was probably about as much as he could hope for. And as the day wore on and the climb grew more strenuous, Jaskier found himself too busy for much conversation anyway, his attention focused on clinging on lest a poorly placed foot send him down the sheer rock face at their side.

The trek alongside the Gwenllech was but a leisurely stroll compared to this.

How Geralt, barefoot and hardly in peak condition after what he had been through, could manage the climb without complaint, Jaskier couldn't understand. He'd have asked if he had had breath to spare.

Eventually the path widened enough that Jaskier no longer felt at risk of imminent death, and after a long pause to catch his breath, Jaskier looked up. An immense fortress loomed in the shadow of the mountain's highest peak; battle-worn, vast sections of its stone walls collapsed and neglected, yet still magnificent in its own way.

Jaskier had read about the sacking of Kaer Morhen, of course, though he had never imagined the keep still remained.

He looked over at Geralt, who was gazing up at the ruined keep as if he'd never seen anything so beautiful. "How long has it been?" said Jaskier.

"Years."

Jaskier reached a hand out to give a reassuring squeeze to Geralt's wrist. He didn't know what possessed him to do it – surely anyone who dared to reach for a witcher without express permission had a questionable sense of self-preservation, or at the very least wasn't particularly attached to all of their extremities – but Geralt only smiled at him in response.

They carried on, up into the courtyard of the keep and through the heavy wooden doors of the building itself. "This way," said Geralt, and he led Jaskier through the fortress into the kitchens.

The hearth was lit, though the flames were dying down as if they had not been tended to for some time. Still, it was more than enough for Jaskier's purposes, and he hurried across the room to warm his frozen hands while Geralt loaded more food than Jaskier had laid eyes on in months onto a plate for each of them.

Geralt took a seat and pushed the other plate towards Jaskier without a word.

"Thank you," said Jaskier as he dragged a stool over to sit beside Geralt, and Geralt shrugged in response.

Jaskier ate with a gracelessness that would have given his father apoplexy to witness, though Geralt was hardly about to judge him for his lack of manners when he was tearing into his food with equal vigour beside him. And as they ate, Jaskier allowed his gaze to wander around the room; the supplies both familiar and otherworldly piled atop the tables lining the walls; the staircase disappearing into the shadows that he could see through an open door; a silver of more snowy courtyards visible through the narrow slit of a window.

Maybe Geralt would show him around before Jaskier made his way back out into the world. It would be improper, perhaps; Jaskier didn't know the rules on whether or not non-witchers were really allowed inside the fortress, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right here in front of him. It would be remiss of him not to even ask. He might wait until Geralt had filled his belly before broaching the subject, however.

Beside him, Geralt straightened without a sound, his eyes fixed on the door as he climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" said Jaskier, but Geralt didn't seem to be listening. Not to Jaskier, at least.

A moment later the door pushed open, and a man stepped into the kitchens, quiet as the dead. There was a sword clutched in his hand, though the moment his eyes went to Geralt he slipped it back into the sheath at his belt.

"Thought you were dead, lad," he said, rather more causally than Jaskier felt the situation should really warrant, and he turned to collect the large bundle of firewood he had obviously set down outside at the sound of an apparent intruder. The man looked far too old for such heavy lifting, yet he handled the bundle with ease.

"Cursed," replied Geralt. As if the word could possibly encompass the entirety of his ordeal.

The old man simply nodded in response. His eyes flicked to Jaskier then. "You're the one who found him, I take it?"

Jaskier hastily wiped his hands on his trousers and rounded the table to outstretch one towards the man. "Jul–" he began, before quickly swallowing the sound. His father's name meant nothing up here. "Jaskier," he said instead.

"Jaskier," the man repeated, like he was committing the name to memory. He gave another short, sharp nod before turning to set down his logs by the fire. Jaskier dropped his hand back to his side.

"This is Vesemir," Geralt said to Jaskier, with an amused twitch of his lips. He looked back at the old man. "Eskel and Lambert?"

"Still alive, last I heard. Should be along before the pass closes."

He stoked the fire until it swelled and crackled merrily, and straightened to take in the sight of Geralt and Jaskier once more.

"You boys look like you've been through it," he said. He was not one for overstatement, apparently. "Go get some rest. We can swap stories in the morning."

"I can find my own way," said Jaskier as Geralt moved to show him back out into the great hall. "You must be desperate to reconnect with your…" He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Vesemir, who was now effortlessly lifting an enormous pot into place above the fire.

Jaskier wondered how strong Geralt must be if this was what an elder witcher was still capable of, and then promptly tried to stop himself imagining it.

"There's time enough for that," said Geralt. He led Jaskier up through the keep, Jaskier's gaze trying to travel over everything at once as they walked, until Geralt pushed open a door and stood back for Jaskier to step inside.

The fire roared to life as Jaskier stepped into the room, chasing away the cold and the dark. It wasn't a space of creature comforts; none of the rugs or tapestries or various accoutrements that decorated the many bedrooms Jaskier had visited in his life, but still there was the sense of it being home. There were books in neat piles on the tables; collections of glass vials with different coloured contents dotted about the room; a blanket draped over the chair by the fire, as if waiting to be wrapped around someone – and all of it covered in a thick layer of dust.

"This is your room?"

Geralt nodded. "You can sleep here. I'll sleep in Eskel's room."

"Stay a while," said Jaskier, before Geralt could disappear back out of the room. He was still hovering in the doorway like he was afraid to step inside. "I wouldn't dream of kicking you out of your own bedroom when you've gone so long without being able to even set foot in it."

That little half-smile which Jaskier was becoming quite fond of pulled at Geralt's cheek again, and he stepped forward. Perhaps wisely, they both decided to steer clear of the moth-eaten old chair, instead making themselves comfortable on the floor in front of the hearth, the flagstones warmed by the fire.

Geralt's gaze drifted over the room, and Jaskier watched him take it all in with a smile of his own.

"How does it feel to be home?"

"Surreal," said Geralt. He looked back at Jaskier after a moment. Jaskier hadn't been able to look anywhere else since they had sat down. "I owe you."

"For what?"

He shrugged, minutely. "Saving me."

"Well in that case, I should say we're even," said Jaskier, "because I think you might have saved me as well."

Geralt's hand brushed over Jaskier's wrist, fingers callused but gentle, and Jaskier felt a shiver run through him at the touch. "Can I kiss you?" said Geralt.

"I'd take great offense if you did not."

He pressed his lips to Jaskier's. The kiss was hesitant, but soft, and Jaskier closed his eyes ready to sink into it, to commit every moment to memory before the world pulled them in different directions once more. He didn't have chance to, however. Geralt was moving to pull back already.

Well, that just wouldn't do at all. Jaskier wasn't nearly done with Geralt yet.

He caught Geralt by the front of his shirt to close the distance between them again, his hands sliding to cup Geralt's cheeks as he deepened the kiss. Geralt hummed against his lips. His own hands came to rest on Jaskier's sides, impossibly warm and slowly drifting lower.

Gods, Jaskier wanted to feel them everywhere. For someone who was years out of practice, Geralt certainly had a knack for making a man weak in the knees.

With Geralt's hands still roaming delightfully, Jaskier shifted forward into his lap, pressing his hips against Geralt's to try and bring some relief to the growing ache there. A moan rose up from his lungs, and Jaskier didn't bother to try and suppress it. He could feel Geralt's own desire pressing firm against his.

In the end, Geralt was the one to break their kiss. He gazed up at Jaskier with dark eyes while Jaskier panted above him. "It's been a long time," he warned.

"Do you want to slow down?"

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, low enough to leave Jaskier feeling more than a little like prey about to be devoured. Jaskier wondered if that was some part of the wolf yet to be fully shaken, or if Geralt was always like this. One thing was for sure: Jaskier was looking forward to finding out.

"No," said Geralt, and in one swift, dizzying movement he was up.

Jaskier scrabbled at his shoulders to hang on, his legs wrapping tight around Geralt's hips as Geralt's hands moved to Jaskier's arse to hold him up. Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Bed?" said Jaskier. "Not that I'm opposed to being slammed up against a wall and ravished, but it has been rather a long day."

Geralt silenced him with another hungry kiss as he carried Jaskier towards the bed. They fumbled to rid one another of their clothes, hands and mouths eager to explore, and when Geralt had finally finished teasing Jaskier with his fingers and lined himself up to push inside, there wasn't much Jaskier could do but cling on for dear life.

 .

Afterwards, Jaskier lay wrapped in the warm embrace of Geralt's arms, luxuriating in the deep, satisfying ache that radiated out from his core. "Now that was something," he said. He still couldn't feel his toes.

With his nose tucked behind Jaskier's ear, Geralt rumbled happily at his side. His hand stroked a lazy trail up and down Jaskier's chest, heedless of the sticky mess they had both made of him, and while they lay there in comfortable silence Jaskier gazed up at the ceiling, watching the shadows elongate as early morning sunlight gradually crept through the window.

They really should get some sleep.

With considerable difficulty, Jaskier tore himself from Geralt's side and climbed out of bed. He hissed as he shuffled across the room.

"Sore?" said Geralt. There was a playful grin on his face when Jaskier looked back at him.

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself."

He snatched up Geralt's discarded shirt – or rather, his own discarded shirt, though Jaskier was quite happy for Geralt to hold on to it at this point – to clean himself up, and moved to toss it over to Geralt to do the same. Before he could, however, Jaskier's eyes landed on the window and the view beyond it.

"Oh," he breathed, taking a step closer without being fully aware of it. "Would you look at that."

Outside, what looked like the whole world stretched out before him, the pale pink sunrise casting everything in gossamer light. The valleys and crags of the Blue Mountains were blanketed in glittering white on the higher ground near the keep; the forests a thick, dark green sprawling as far as the eye could see beyond it.

Behind him he could hear Geralt shifting on the bed to face the window. "Never gets old," he said, his voice fond.

"I can believe that."

Jaskier could stare out at that view for a lifetime, could compose a thousand poems about its beauty and still have more to say, more to discover. He pressed his fingertips to the cold glass, hopelessly transfixed.

"The pass will be blocked for the winter before long," said Geralt, and when Jaskier forced his eyes from the window he found Geralt's own already fixed on him. "If there's somewhere else you want to go, we'll have to prepare to leave soon."

"We?"

Geralt nodded.

"But you'll not be able to come back if you leave with me now."

He shrugged. "I'd rather see you home safely," he said, though his gaze was on the view, as if he was as loathe to be parted from it as Jaskier was. After a long moment, he looked back up at Jaskier. There was something almost hesitant in his eyes before he spoke again. "Do you want to go back to Lettenhove?"

Jaskier looked to the view again. It was impossible to make out landmarks far in the distance, yet still he wondered if he was looking back at Lettenhove; at his family high up in their castle, mourning for Jaskier, perhaps, or affecting an appropriate display of grief at least. He gazed out at everything that laid between him and that place, that life, at all the other paths he could take instead, and finally he stepped away from the window.

Jaskier climbed back onto the bed, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt's lips before settling in at his side once again.

"I think I'd rather stay here with you."

[gavilansblog]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Eskel (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, Polyamory, Established Relationship, Breathplay, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Oral Fixation, Fat Character, Chubby Eskel, Scent Kink Series: Part 3 of Gavilan's Witcher Fics Summary: Geralt loves the way Jaskier enjoys Eskel's soft, thick tummy.

This fills my BDSM square on my @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo card!

Inspired by this post by @officerjennie

[inexplicifics]

My penultimate fic for the @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo!

Prompt: Snuggling

Title: We Three

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel

Rating: T

Content Warnings: unmitigated fluff

Summary: Due to a turnip festival (and who ever heard of a turnip festival?) there is only one bed at the inn. Geralt, Jaskier, and Eskel make it work...and maybe learn something while they're at it.