#the little wolf pack of bards and the one (1) witcher

[jaskicr]

so we have the typical reverse au where jaskier is a witcher and geralt is a bard BUT !!

where’s the reverse au where eskel, lambert and vesemir are also bards alongside geralt and they’re all friends? (bard band?? bard group?? medieval boy band???) they decide to follow witcher!jaskier, who now has a little chaotic army of bards singing his praises and following him everywhere

[eskelbigbang]

Eskel Big Bang 2021 Masterpost

Here are all the fics and art made this year for the Eskel Big Bang. Congratulations on the hard work, everyone!

AO3 collection || #ebb works tag || #ebb art tag || #ebb fic tag

Below the cut is a full list of all EBB works:

Uprooted (T, No Pairing, 12k) by @rachofspades, art by @drachedraws

When a nondescript notice begging for a witcher's aid catches Eskel's attention on his way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, he finds himself drawn in by his own curiosity despite his initial reservations. Once he arrives, it quickly becomes apparent that there's something more sinister going on than typical monster attacks, and he's determined to figure out what it is. Fic || Art (1) (2)

These Clay Hands (T, Eskel/Jaskier, 4.7k) by @aalizazareth, art by @hobbart-art

Eskel is a shy pottery instructor who meets Jaskier during one of his lessons. The two hit it off. Fic || Art

The Empty Safe Job (M, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 18k) by @iboughtaplant, art by @gods-no-longer-tread-here

A team of thieves with complicated pasts take down the rich and powerful to help those that get left out from justice. Their latest job should be simple, but an unexpected adversary has Eskel confronting his past. Sometimes bad guys make the best good guys. Fic || Art

the broken vines are an open door (M, Eskel & Geralt & Yennefer, 5.2k) by @trissmarrygoals, art by @flyingyarn

Traveling through Aedirn with his newly acquired child surprise, Eskel stumbles upon a dead body - and with it, a mystery. Fic || Art

With you I'll never be alone (T, Eskel/Geralt, 5.8k) by @dat-carovieh, art by @mondfuchs

From their first meeting, through their whole long life Geralt and Eskel have always been there to comfort each other when one of them got hurt. --- Or five times Geralt and Eskel comfort each other through some kind of hurt and one time they're just comfortable. Fic || Art

Eskel Has A Good Day (G, Eskel & Wolf Witchers, 9.3k) by @gods-no-longer-tread-here, art by @phoenixandjacob

The Wolves (and bard) of Kaer Morhen go on a vacation to the coast, and have a good day. Fic || Art (1) (2)

Tu Me Manques. (T, Eskel/Jaskier, 8k) by @etcorsolus, art by @cvbeebop

In which, Eskel meets a bard who calms him. Body, mind, and soul. Story title is how the French say 'I miss you.' The more literal translation is 'You are missing from me.' Fic || Art

Little Red (M, Eskel/Lambert, 6.1k) by @miahclone, art by @llwynbleidd

Eskel helps Lambert while he's recovering from a serious injury. To distract him from the pain, Eskel tells stories of past hunts. Fic || Art

Constellations (M, Eskel/Geralt, 7.2k) by @dredshirtroberts, art by @dat-carovieh

Eskel loves Geralt but their soulmarks don't match - he'd know. They're witchers, and scars are their business. As he joins Geralt in retirement, Eskel figures whatever he can get with the other witcher will be enough. He might get a little bit more than he thought he was bargaining for, but Eskel's never passed up a good deal. Fic || Art (1) (2)

Trial By Fire (Eskel and Aza's Wild Ride) (E, Eskel/OFC, 11k) by @janzoo, art by @liaonyxrayne

When Eskel rescues his succubus acquaintance from witch hunters, their reunion becomes something more as they're drawn into the hunters' plot. What can they do against a twisted idealist and the danger he presents to witchers and non-humans? Fic || Art

Pardon Me While I Burst Into Flames (E, Eskel/Jaskier, 29k) by @ghostinthelibrarywrites, art by @wolfgeralt

When Eskel is hired to kill an incubus who ruined a noble wedding, he finds that his target is far from a bloodthirsty beast, a too-pretty court bard. Eskel spares Jaskier and they go their separate ways, with Eskel expecting never to see the incubus again. But Jaskier has other ideas. Fic || Art

I Could Eat the World Raw (E, Eskel/Jaskier, 7k) by @buttercupsanddandelions, art by @gods-no-longer-tread-here

“This is Eskel.” He pushes him slightly forward, “And he just had his conduit moment.” After becoming a mage, Eskel finds that he's been soul-bound to a little lordling. Fic || Art

Something we bury (M, Eskel/Geralt, 10k) by @heartoferebor, art by @craftgamerzz

“Where’s Eskel?” Ciri asks Geralt, frowning a little. “He went out to do more hunting and gather some potion ingredients. Should be back any moment,” Geralt reassures her. “Ah. Good.” She hesitates a little before deciding to forge right ahead with her next question. She’s asked everyone else in the keep, of course she’ll have to ask Geralt, too. “About his scars…” * Ciri wants to know where Eskel's scars came from, so she decides to ask everyone at the keep about them. Except, they all seem to have different stories... Fic || Art

Lord What Fools These Witchers Be (T, Aiden/Eskel, 21k) by @jayofolympus and @frenchkey, art by aviixrc

When Lambert brings Aiden to winter with him in Kaer Morhen, Eskel is catapulted straight into his own personal hell. It would be easier if he didn’t like the Cat. Instead, he finds himself falling head over heels for his brother’s boyfriend and trying to hide it from a pack of nosy Witchers. If only Aiden would stop flirting with him... Fic || Art (1) (2)

A Moment of Comfort (M, Eskel/OC) by @merpancake

An attack at a brothel begins with blood and carnage, but Eskel finds an unexpected peace in the arms of Cenna. As their paths continue to cross, Eskel carries that same peace within him on his journey through monsters and men. Art

Toussaint's Finest (M, Eskel/Geralt, 9.1k) by @kate-river, art by @justhereforeskel

Eskel is still roaming the Continent. But in recent years the Path has become harder and harder. Eskel has made it a habit to come by Corvo Bianco around vintage and this year's events might change a few things in his life forever. Fic || Art

Beneath the Shadow and the Soul (E, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 32k) by @vix-spes, art by @buffskierights

Eskel had the strange feeling that everything was going to change when he passed through Dol Blathanna one year on his way back to Kaer Morhen for winter. He had been passing through a town and, instead of running away from him, someone had exclaimed “You’re a Witcher,” and proceeded to sing at him. He just hadn't realised how much of an impact it would have on him. Fic || Art

Daughter of Fire (T, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 4.9k) by @kittynannygaming, art by @zmezagain

Witchers are sterile, that's a fact. No female human can bear their child. Well, the keyword here is 'human' and a succubus is very not human. And Eskel now has a sweet 7 years old daughter. Fic || Art

Break It Recklessly (E, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 22k) by @anonymousblueberry, art by @nol-nol

From teenage tearaways to successful adults, Geralt and Eskel have always been inseparable. To the extent that when Geralt accepts a wedding invite with Eskel as his plus one, there’s the assumption that they have finally sorted their shit out and got together, forcing them to keep up the facade or cause chaos for the happy couple. What follows is a crash course in emotions, dating, and working out that love can burn long and slow for a very long time. Fic || Art

The Question (M, Eskel/Istredd, 40k) by @eskelchopchop, art by @stars-in-my-damn-eyes

Eskel's in Ohio when Yennefer calls. He’s reluctant to pick up; he’s still not over Geralt, and he's got zero desire to chat with Geralt's new lover. Turns out Yen isn’t his lover anymore, and this isn’t about Geralt. It’s about witcher’s work. Yennefer owns Portal, one of New York City's most popular gay clubs. A Post-Conjunction Entity (PCE) is hunting her clientele, leaving a string of withered corpses in its wake. The police are doing jackshit. Will Eskel come back to a city full of bad memories and take a job off the books to stop it? He'll sure as hell try. Along the way, he’ll cross paths with Istredd, a man with sorcerer’s eyes and a painful past of his own. If Eskel doesn't work fast enough, they both might become the PCE's next victims. Fic || Art

Is It Cold In The Water? (E, Eskel/Jaskier, 12k) by @jennyloggins, art by @jerry-of-rivia

His horse is tied to a branch a few trees out, and that’s where Eskel heads to grab his water skein, taking a deep drink and soothe his dry throat. Patting his horse’s backside affectionately on his way past her, Eskel feigns a stern voice to say, “Zuzanna, keep watch for me.” Her tail twitches as if to swat him away. Fic || Art

Everything I Want (I Can Find in You) by @eyesofshinigami, art by @phoenixandjacob

Eskel didn't think he'd ever see Jaskier again, sure the Cat witcher was only looking for a night of fun. But then he keeps showing up, taking Eskel to bed and leaving him little presents. It takes Eskel a bit, but eventually he realizes that maybe, just maybe, Jaskier means it when he says he wants to keep him. Or Eskel doesn't think he deserves nice things and Jaskier is determined to show him otherwise. Fic || Art

One Stop Shop; Tattoo's Piercings, And Love (M, Eskel/Jaskier/Lambert, 7.4k) by @jesheckah, art by @moondrunkart

When Eskel fumbles an invitation at a party to come into his tattoo shop, Jaskier and he move towards an explosive love. How many tattoo sessions does it take for the heart to know what it wants? Fic || Art

Entanglement (and other words for a mess) (E, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 31k) by @violaceum-vitellina-viridis, art by @merpancake

Eskel has a hundred marks on his body, but a soulmark isn't one of them. Fic || Art

Beneath Each Other's Bones (E, Eskel/Geralt, 7.6k) by @pressedinthepages, art by @drachedraws

Winter at Kaer Morhen can be brutal. But Eskel and Geralt find warmth in each other in an effort to stave off the cold. Fic || Art (1) (2)

#9fe2bf on the Shore (T, Eskel/Jaskier, 4.5k) by @buffskierights, art by @phoenixandjacob

The sea roars with a vengeance, something angering the waves even as the stars shine brightly overhead in the clear night sky. If Eskel were a poet he’d say it almost sounded like a wail of mourning, the way the whitewater crashes upon the night black sand and the gathering foam, the sea frothing furiously. But Eskel’s always hated his poetry lessons so being a poet is firmly off the table. Fic || Art

lion in the wolf's den (T, Coen/Eskel, 5k) by @patchwork-doublet, art by @justhereforeskel

eskel is nervous being around ciri, afraid things will go south like they did last time. Fic || Art

Sugar Baby Blues (E, Eskel/Jaskier, 24k) by adevinecomedy, art by @pastelrune

Jaskier’s mind slipped back to a night several months ago when he was all worked up but had nowhere to go and a mountain of school work to get through. How it was just so much easier to log onto a camming website and watch someone perform seemingly just for him. The gorgeous, confident man on the other side of the screen had been so accommodating, even though Jaskier had been shy and hadn’t typed much into the chat. Modern au where Eskel is a Cam boy and runs into a bit of a financial bind. Enter Jaskier who just might be the answer to all his woes. Fic || Art

Winter Comfort (T, Eskel/Jaskier, 10k) by @myidlehand, art by @liaonyxrayne

Jaskier comes to Kaer Morhen to spend some time with Eskel, after briefly meeting him in the fall. And while both of them seem delighted to see each other again, Eskel starts to shy away from Jaskier's comments and flirting. It doesn't take a genius to see Eskel is having body image issue. Jaskier aims to help him through it. Fic || Art

The Subtle Knife (M, Eskel/Jaskier, 26k) by @major-trouble, art by @cylin-aka-ankamo

There's an assassin haunting the Continent. No one knows their name, everyone - that is, everyone in the know - calls them The Specter. If you want a rival out of the way, a political opponent disposed of, or a strategic target taken out, contacting The Specter gets the job done. For a price, of course. There's an art to subtlety, after all, and it wouldn't do to risk the attention of law enforcement. So there's no obvious cause, no knife to the back, and the deaths aren't usually remarked upon. The Kaer Morhen Agency, however, has noticed. One of their agents has been hired to protect potential victims, people scared that they've been targeted. And they have reason to worry. When Eskel's first assignment winds up dead of no discernible cause, it starts him on a search for the elusive Specter, hoping against hope to track down the assassin before they're hired again. Setting a trap for a ghost is something Witchers are used to. Setting one for a trained killer may prove beyond them. Fic || Art

No Funny Business (M, Eskel/Jaskier, 11k) by goldendaydreams, art by @nanero11

Eskel had long given up on finding his soulmate, his soulmark nothing but scar tissue from a house fire he’d survived as a child. Knowing that most people wait for their perfect someone, their destiny, didn’t stop him from falling in love with Jaskier, the nurse he met after a hunt gone wrong. Fic || Art

Stronger Than My Storm (E, Eskel/Geralt) by @rawrkinjd, art by @nol-nol

Eskel and Geralt were friends from the very beginning. They added the benefits later. It was another way to offer comfort and companionship when the rest of the world closed in around them, and Eskel was content with it for years. Until he wakes up one day and realises it’s become something more. He touches Geralt’s silver hair, wreathed in a halo of yellow sunlight, and allows himself to feel the cracks spreading through his heart. Witchers can’t love each other. It would only lead to suffering. Eskel realises he must weather the storm inside or let Geralt go forever. Fic || Art

Full of Life (T, Eskel/Jaskier, 6.3k) by @sternenstaub28, art by @llwynbleidd

When Eskel gets hired to solve the case of people disappearing in town, she didn’t know she’d find a friend and maybe even something more. or Beauty and strength don't necessarily make your life easier, a companion and love however do. Fic || Art

choices are the hinges of destiny (T, Eskel/Geralt, 7.5k) by @lutes-and-dandelions, art by @cassandrasartworld

After rescuing a fae from the clutches of death, they repay Eskel by helping him make a choice. -oOo- A story about what would have happened if Eskel had claimed his child of surprise. Fic || Art

Eskel Vs The Continent (And His Feelings) (M, No Pairing, 47k) by @chibitabathasloves, art by @zmezagain

Eskel decides he needs to leave Kaer Morhen after the fight with the Hunt. Where will it take him? And will he be able to face his feelings he desperately tries to ignore. Fic || Art

lookin' to the sky to save me (T, Eskel/Geralt, 10k) by @torynickles, art by @trissmarrygoals

Geralt slides his hand from Eskel’s shoulder to his back. And then. Then he keeps moving it, outwards, away from Eskel’s torso, where there should be nothing but air, but— “What the fuck?” he chokes, because he can still feel Geralt’s hand, sensation where there should be none. He shakes his head wildly, twisting his arm to reach for his own back. His fingers connect to something, but—it’s not his body, it can’t be his body, even though he can feel himself touching it. Because he’s made up of skin and flesh, bone and muscle, and this thing has all of those, but— It’s covered in sticky, damp feathers. Fic || Art

A Fine Night at the Faire (M, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier, 12k) by Elensule, art by @liaonyxrayne

Eskel has been hurt by the world and hides for refuge in his little goat farm. He's found no reason to look for love, or much of anything else. But encouragement from his brother sends him to an unfamiliar locale; the renfaire! Maybe stepping out of his comfort zone was just what he needed. Fic || Art

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

 ---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

 ---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

 ---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;) 

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[innocentbi-stander]

Jaskier and Geralt do dumb stuff when they’re drunk

But I think that it’s absolutely imperative that we don’t forget the complete idiots they are while sober too

(Stupid boys Geralt and Jaskier: sober edition so they have no excuses)

Part 1 Part 2

The Continent has never seen two people so prone to chaos and idiocy than Geralt and Jaskier and not even Destiny herself foresaw them coming together

Some of Geralt and Jaskier’s Path Shenanigans include:

The time they were run out of town, not by the townspeople, but by a LITERAL ARMY OF SQUIRRELS (the reason from this mostly stems from geralt possessing an entire pack stuffed with nuts he had found in the woods but “no jaskier I’m not about to give up my food just because some furry hellions want it, if we die i’m dying with this full pack of nuts”)

The time jaskier managed to fall into a mud puddle so deep geralt had to reach in and pull him out because the bard’s head had gone under the surface

The time GERALT painted a giant dick on the alderman’s house in the dead of night because he had heard him call jaskier’s singing “whiny”

The time a town tried to arrest geralt and jaskier’s idea of a daring escape was throwing an entire alligator through the jailhouse window and rushing geralt off during the chaos

Jaskier often forgets that geralt has missed out on a lot of human experiences, and so he is appropriately shocked and hysterical when he does a playful “got your nose” and geralt demands it back immediately, dead serious (jaskier waits a few hours and it's COMPLETELY worth it)

The time jaskier almost threw down with a barkeep because he had put dirt on their food before geralt took a bite (geralt doesn’t waste food. Geralt is a witcher-raccoon) and discovered the dirt was actually seasoning

The time jaskier got sick and tired of waiting for geralt while he was hemming and hawing over swords in the market and stole roach to ride to the next town

The time geralt jailbreak an entire barn full of cats who he declared were being “held hostage” by the farmer

The time jaskier was imprisoned after being caught with a lord’s wife and geralt broke into his prison cell, not to bust him out but to hang out with jaskier (“prison cells are cheaper than nights at inns jaskier, and they even give you free food”) the guards didn’t know what the fuck to do- that had never happened before

The time jaskier drank a little too many ales while at court and managed to knick the queen’s crown and her best dress

When a mage tried to attack them after two straight days of travel and geralt asked him to “please wait until after we’ve had some fucking sleep or don’t bother”

When the mage came back in the morning, they were back on the path and jaskier stopped him with a simple “no.” and they kept walking

The time jaskier painted “Valdo Marx is a little bitch” on every stone in the Oxenfurt courtyard

The time geralt and jaskier got lost for three days because they realized neither of them could read a map (they also didn’t own a map in the first place but that’s not important)

The time jaskier paused mid chase by town authorities after being caught with the alderman’s wife to down an ale with his attackers because “cuckolding makes a man thirsty” (this one threw even geralt for a loop)

The time geralt was nearly arrested for “practicing karate” with the town’s beloved local swans (he won’t admit he was just trying to pet one but he was)

On the contrary jaskier was also almost apprehended, but because he was trying to coax one of the swans to drink a pint with him

The time jaskier managed to pass himself off as geralt with a poorly made imitation medallion (the symbol on it was not a wolf, but in fact a penis, but what’s a townsperson to do when a man dressed in witcher gear says he’s from the “witcher school of the dick” with a completely straight face?)

The time geralt stumbled around the campsite nervously looking for his sword for two hours before jaskier took pity on him and told him it was strapped to his back

The time jaskier mixed up a series of potions he found in a mage’s lair hoping to make a banger drink, but instead made himself immortal with powers (he’s still a little disappointed he didn’t end up drunk but you can’t win them all)

The time geralt called a hit on jaskier because he drank the rest of the wine (he called it off after a few days but it was fun to watch jaskier show his well-hidden spy skills to avoid assassination)

The time geralt and jaskier somehow woke up on a ship in the middle of the ocean and had to call yennefer to portal them out (neither of them knows exactly how they ended up there, but they realize chugging seven bottles of Eist Eist probably wasn’t the best plan)

Some more geralt and jaskier shenanigans! If anyone wants a part 4, let me know!

[jaskierswolf]

The White Wolf (pt. 1/3)

Ship: Geraskier - Established. Rating: T Word Count: 6k in total (this chapter is 2k)

Summary: Following an unfortunate encounter with a mage, Geralt gets cursed into a wolf. Jaskier and Geralt must travel the Continent in search of someone that can help them. (AO3)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, nudity (Jaskier’s clothes don’t change with him).

Part 7: Shifter!Jaskier Verse (Tumblr) - Can be read as a stand alone. 

_________

The cloud of sparkling dust settled on the floor and Geralt was nowhere to be seen. The last Jaskier had seen of his boyfriend, he’d been thrown against the wall, barely able to move his fingers to form Quen in time before his head knocked against the stone. There was no witcher in the room now. Just a pile of bloodstained white fur in the corner of the room.

Jaskier snarled and sniffed the air. He could smell Geralt but something was wrong. Geralt reeked of wet dog. Jaskier growled, low and menacing, at the sorcerer in front of them. The man had been luring children away from their homes in the dead of night using all sorts of sweet treats. Then at night he was pulling their dreams from their minds and using them for fuck knows what. The children were returning to their homes as lifeless ghosts of their former selves, and thus a witcher and his trusted companion had been hired.

“I’m no fool, bard.” The sorcerer spat. “I can sense your magic.

Jaskier let his sharp teeth show as he snarled again. He let his magic loose and there was a sickening crunch of bones. Jaskier’s thick russet fur melted away into long red feathers. He spread his wings as a thick black mane grew along he neck. He roared at the sorcerer and struck both talons across his chest, balancing on the large lion paws of his hind legs. The sorcerer was thrown backwards as dark blood seeped through his clothing. The attack had caught him off guard. Jaskier stalked forward, his front talons clacking on the wooden floor. This human had stolen Jaskier’s mate and they had to pay.

The scent of blood was thick in the air and all he knew was the hunt.

The prey was wounded. It was an easy kill.

He screeched as he prepared to land the final blow but a large snowy white wolf with glowing amber eyes suddenly stood between him and the prey.

Amber eyes.

Jaskier knew those eyes.

Geralt.

He let his magic loose and shifted back into a wolf. There was just something about Geralt being in wolf form that ignited all his pack instincts. He didn’t know whether Geralt was stuck as a wolf or could shift between animals, but Jaskier knew he would match Geralt no matter what.

The thought gave him pause. He wondered whether it was an instinct of his people, lost and long forgotten. Were there ever groups of shifters? Were they still alive? Or was he alone… He’d always felt so alone. Jaskier nudged his head under Geralt’s snout and whined. Geralt huffed and butted Jaskier’s head. Jaskier did his best wolfy grin and then mouthed at Geralt’s nose before rolling over onto his back with a wag of his tail.

Geralt gave a quick bark and then looked pointedly between Jaskier and mage. Jaskier tilted his head, wondering how Geralt still managed to look unimpressed even as a wolf. Jaskier snorted and rolled back onto his paws. He glanced around the room, his clothes were still at the inn. Geralt’s clothes appeared to have disappeared when he was changed into a wolf; lucky bastard. He spotted a long cloak hanging up on the wall and wagged his tail. He leapt up on his hind legs and pulled at the cloak with his teeth. When he was covered nicely by the heavy material he shifted back into his human form with a crack of his bones.

The cloak was thick, grey and woollen. It had a large hood, reminiscent of the cloaks the elves used. He wrapped it round his shoulders and then grinned at Geralt.

“Hello, dearest. I know you’re the White Wolf and all, but isn’t this taking it a bit too far?” He reached out with his hand and Geralt bumped it with his snout. He gave Geralt a quick scratch behind the ears. “Can you shift?”

Geralt tilted his head.

Jaskier frowned and stuck his tongue out as he tried to figure out a way to explain it. It was like trying to explain how to blink or breathe or… just exist. “Umm, ah, think of Roach? Try and feel her hooves, her mane?”

Geralt’s snout scrunch up and he let out a snarl.

“No?”

Geralt shook his head, one ear twitched and Jaskier couldn’t help but coo. Geralt growled at that.

“I’m sorry!” He said, not really sorry at all. “But, my love, you look so cute!”

Another growl.

“Oh stop it. You’re trying to be all scary witcher and it’s not working. You are adorable and I can turn into a dragon so shush.” He bopped Geralt on the nose and gave him another scratch behind the ears. Geralt’s tail began to wag. Geralt looked behind him and snarled, clearly not enjoying the way his body was betraying his feelings. He also looked as if he was about to start chasing his tail. He was baring his teeth, snarling as the tail flicked on the stone floor. Jaskier took pity on him and knelt down so he could cup his wolf’s face in his hands. “Geralt, darling?”

Geralt blinked and looked up at him.

“There you go. The instincts might feel a bit strong at first but we’ll work it out alright?” Jaskier buried in face in Geralt’s fur, his own instincts to shift back into a wolf were almost overwhelming him, but Geralt needed him human. It was easier to explain things to his newly wolf companion when he could use words. It was also nice to be able to snuggle in Geralt’s fur for a change.  “Do you know how to fix this?”

Geralt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have killed the mage, should I?” Jaskier asked with a sigh.

Another head shake and a whine.

Jaskier kissed Geralt’s head. “In my defence, witcher. I thought he’d killed you!” Geralt licked his face and he grimaced. “Geralt! Oh gods, that went up my nose!”

Geralt wagged his tail and pounced. Jaskier was knocked back onto the ground and Geralt’s tongue was drooling all over his face, which would have been fine if Geralt’s tongue didn’t feel so coarse against his skin. “Oi, no! Get off you big lump!”

Geralt nipped at his ear and sat back down, his tail thumped noisily against the stone floor.

Jaskier sighed and grabbed Geralt’s swords from where they’d clattered on the floor. Jaskier hummed. Geralt’s clothes and medallion had changed with him but his swords had not. At least his magic was consistent. Geralt head-butted his leg and they finally fled the tower together. It felt strange being the one on two feet instead of four but they’d faced worse things in their two years travelling together.

Two years…

Had it really been so long? He’d been with Geralt for two whole years… not mentioning the little blip of his mother’s horrendous return into his life. He shuddered at the memory. Yeah, they’d definitely been through worse together. ___________

As they approached the town Geralt snorted and laid down on the ground, resting his head on his big white paws. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder at the wolf with a scowl before he realised why Geralt had stopped. He grinned and walked back to pet Geralt’s head. Geralt’s tail thumped heavily against the ground as Jaskier gave him a scratch behind the ear. Geralt still looked put out by his tail’s reaction to affection but now seemed resigned to the fact he could no longer mask his happier feelings.

“Well isn’t this a turn of events. I’m normally the one that has to wait outside!” Jaskier announced with a laugh.

Geralt let out a low growl and mouthed at Jaskier’s fingers.

“Ouch! Sharp teeth, Geralt. You’re not exactly a pup, dear heart,” Jaskier chided.

Geralt’s ears flicked and Jaskier was pretty sure the strange snuffling noise was Geralt trying to laugh at him.

“Stay here. I’ll go and get our stuff,” he sighed and looked down at himself. The cloak wasn’t exactly modest and whilst he had very little shame over his body, most humans wouldn’t appreciate him walking around town with his dick out. “Next time we are keeping my clothes in a pack and not back at the inn.”

Geralt barked and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he wagged his tail.

“Yeah yeah, go on, laugh at your poor suffering boyfriend.”

Geralt barked again and jumped up to lick Jaskier’s face, placing both paws on Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier just ruffled Geralt’s fur and kissed his snout.

“I’ll be back soon, love.”

He wrapped the cloak around him in a feeble attempt to cover himself up and trudged back to the inn. He did get some bizarre looks from the villagers but he did his best to ignore them. Had they never seen a bard wearing just a cloak and witcher’s swords before? He scoffed. They were amateurs. He tried to sneak up to their room at the inn but the bloody innkeeper spotted him.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?”

Jaskier spun around, only just remembering to keep his hands gripped on the cloak to stop it from flying open. He still had Geralt’s swords in their holder in his hand and he held them up for the innkeeper to see. “I’m a friend of the witcher’s. Jaskier? The bard? You might have heard of me?”

“Toss a Coin?” The innkeeper asked and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

“Ah, yes. That’s the one,” He sang a couple of lines just to prove his point. “And umm, well. Geralt… Geralt was looking after my lute for me whilst I was… away?”

“Away?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier winced. It was a terrible story and he was ashamed. “But you see, I really need to get it back.”

“Did the witcher take your clothes too?” The innkeeper asked with a smirk, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and it took all his control not to shift back into a mouse. He laughed nervously and tugged the cloak tighter around his chest. “Well, funny you should say that.”

“Those his swords?”

“Yes! Yes they are. I ran into him on the path just outside of town. He’s dealt with your mage problem, but ah. Umm. Spells! He was hit by a spell and it’s really not very pretty so he asked me to collect our… his.. belongings. So I’m just…” He pointed to the stairs and the innkeeper waved his hand. “Thank you ever so much, kind sir. May all the gods praise you!”

“Just go, bard.”

Jaskier gave a quick bow and then flew up the stairs, two steps at at time. Once inside the room he got dressed and quickly gathered up their belongings before heading back out to fetch Roach. The conversation with the stable girl went just as well as the one with the innkeeper and Jaskier barely remembered the story he’d woven only a few minutes before, but he was gone and heading back towards the forest before anyone else could question him.

He didn’t ride Roach but it was easier with her carrying the bags and his lute. Once he was out of sight from the townsfolk he considered shifting back into a wolf. Whatever the mage had hit Geralt with was driving him crazy, but they still needed to find a solution to Geralt’s wolf problem so regretfully he remained on two feet. He huffed and dragged his feet as they headed back to where he’d left Geralt. How did people cope with being in one form all the time? It was so boring!

___________

Next

[pillage-and-lute]

The Courting Ways of Wolves (Part 2)

It’s back! Dumb boys in love! Also Grandpa Vesemir gets some feels and Geralt does some math. Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Watching Winter at Kaer Morhen melt into early spring was always a beautiful process, but this year brought Geralt trepidation as well. Watching Ciri train had been wonderful, helping her learn the basics kept all the wolves on their toes, for the first time in many years actually thinking about motions that normally came from muscle memory. 

Yennefer had flourished into her role as “Aunty Yen,” not sweetly nurturing, the way one often thought about with children, but a clever tongue and tough love that Ciri, granddaughter of the Lioness, seemed completely at home with. 

Geralt was doing his best too. Ciri had started calling him dad about halfway through the winter, the first time happening at dinner and he’d very nearly choked on his ale. It sent something warm running through his veins every time, like good brandy that burned all the way down. 

He was trying, words still didn’t come naturally, but somehow Ciri always seemed to be able to see exactly what he meant. Maybe it was Destiny, maybe just a hurt, lost child clinging to whoever was consistent in her life, but Geralt hoped it was more. More than anything, he hoped Ciri truly understood how cared for she was, not just by himself, but all the wolves, Jaskier, and Yennefer.

Ciri had whispered to him one day, still panting after training, asking if he thought Yen would mind if she called her mom.

Geralt had replied that he didn’t think Yennefer would mind at all.

Yennefer came to him later, a tender look in her eyes. There was something, not fragile in her eyes, but Jaskier had pointed out in a marketplace once, a beautiful porcelain vase that had been broken and artfully repaired with gold. Yen’s expression reminded him of that. 

They sat for a while, then Yennefer said, “Will you be able to let go of her in the spring?” 

“Yes,” Geralt said, although he was less than sure that parting from Ciri would be so easy. “She needs you, and time away from me. And to be around women.”

Yennefer nodded, gave Geralt a pat on the shoulder, and left. Geralt stayed, cloak wrapped around him as he sat looking out over the walls. 

There was much that would happen in the spring, and his life, which had been pretty stagnant before, was changing more in these past few years than it ever had. He felt like Kaer Morhen itself, built to last and yet crumbling still, the weight of change and time and destiny tearing down walls. 

He watched the sun go down. 

Vesemir joined him, carrying two bowls of stew. Geralt took a bite of his and winced. It had been Eskel’s turn to cook. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vesemir’s mustache twitch with a hint of a smile. They ate the oversalted meal in silence.

“You know,” Vesemir said, and in the starlight the crags on his face looked carved in. “I come up here to think too.” 

Geralt knew, but Vesemir wasn’t interested in talking about the battlements, he could tell. 

“I think, most nights, about the ghosts within these walls. All of the little boys who died so that the School of the Wolf could be.” The wind picked up, howling like, with an excellent sense of the dramatic, a wolf. 

“The Trials haunt me, Geralt. More than anything in my life, and it has been a long life indeed.” 

“You saved me,” Geralt said. “Saved Eskel.” But he too remembered the still bodies carried out and buried in the night. How few boys remained. Remembered the screaming in the night, unsure how much of the sound was torn from his own throat, and what came from his brothers dying around him.

“I let them put you through it twice. That wasn’t salvation, lad.” Vesemir sighed. “I couldn’t have put a stop to the Trials, don’t know if I would have if it were possible, there have to be Trials to be witchers, and the world needs us, whatever it may believe. But maybe there was a better way. A kinder way. You were boys, little lads who went through so much pain.”

Geralt was startled to see a tear fall down the craggy face, burying in the moustache. Witchers could cry, but it happened rarely, tears could blur vision in a fight, and only very strong emotion, the sort they had been taught to suppress,  could override the mutations. 

And then Vesemir put an arm around Geralt’s shoulder and gave him an oddly nice hug. It could have cracked a boulder.

“Someone should have held you boys more,” Vesemir said, a touch abashedly. They looked out over the walls some more and Geralt wondered if the conversation was over, but Vesemir didn’t take the arm away.

“Ciri called me Grandpa today.”

Ah. That would explain a lot. Watching Vesemir interact with Ciri over the winter had been a delight and a surprise to the wolves. He’d even sat her on his knee and told her stories of when Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt were young like a, well, like a doting grandfather. Jaskier had been enthralled as well, naturally, but seeing Vesemir so soft, and sometimes looking a little sad, around Ciri, had been an education for the men who would always think of themselves as ‘Vesemir’s Little Lads’.

“She won’t be a witcher,” Vesemir said. “Couldn’t be even if we would want it, and I never would.”

“No,” Geralt said.

No,” agreed Vesemir. They looked out over the darkened landscape.

“I never wanted a family,” Vesemir said after a while where their breaths hung in the air before them. “‘O course, witchers aren’t supposed to, but you’ve built a nice little family for yourself, laddie. It’s not as may be, not like you’d find in villages or in your pet bard’s fancy songs. But you’ve a brave and rather headstrong daughter, and she has a mum, and a dad, and two already very protective uncles.”

“And a grandpa,” Geralt cut in.

“And a grandpa,” Vesemir agreed. “But a family needs a little more than that. There’s gotta be someone to teach the lass how to love.”

Geralt was about to protest that he’d seen plenty of loveless marriages, but then considered the results in the children. Jaskier was one, he knew. The sort of lost way Jaskier sucked up approval, when they’d first met, the way he’d drank up compliments like a man with water in the desert, whenever Geralt thought on it there was a sort of humming ache. He’d consulted with Eskel on the feeling, concerned it was illness. Apparently, it was just what happened when someone you loved was hurting and it wasn’t something you could kill or fix.

“It doesn’t need to be romantic love,” Vesemir said, obviously seeing Geralt’s face. “And she’ll know how to love family fine, and how to love friends, as you and Yennefer figure that out between the two of you. But your bard loves you, and the way you love him can teach her how to love others and herself. And if Ciri has another dad maybe you can worry less.”

Geralt chuckled. Ciri could have fifty parents, and Geralt would still lose sleep worrying. Vesemir smiled back at him, eyes crinkling and moustache lifting like a bristle brush that had learned to fly. Then he slapped Geralt on the back, and Geralt, the White Wolf of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher who had twice survived the Trials, felt his spine compress like a spring and he was sure he felt a rib creak.

“Love Jaskier, lad. Hold tight to him. We rarely get good things.”

Then Vesemir walked back inside and Geralt stared after him. There weren’t many old witchers, dangers of the job and all that, but Vesemir was proof that witchers, like oak wood, only solidified with age. 

Geralt followed him inside. 

The next days passed in a flurry of activity. Ciri had been let off of training with the wolves to pack for her journey with Yennefer, and to be quickly given the rundown of the basics of magic. The wolves were packing as well, preparing to leave Kaer Morhen. In between final preparations and weapon repair, Geralt checked over The List.

The List was supposed to help him court Jaskier. It was the combined brainchild of everyone (except Jaskier, of course) at Kaer Morhen. More importantly, his intention to court Jaskier met with Ciri’s approval. 

When the day arrived, Geralt felt a curious lump in his throat. He watched Ciri say goodbye to Eskel and Lambert, the latter picking her up and swinging her in an arc, letting her joyful whoop echo about the courtyard. Then she hugged Vesemir, and he crushed her very gently to him. And then she turned to him and Jaskier. 

He was thankful that Ciri bade Jaskier goodbye first, watching the bard wipe a surupticious tear away as he held the blonde girl. It was Geralt’s turn and he didn’t know what to do. He cleared his throat.

“Follow Yennefer’s instructions,” he said. That didn’t seem like enough. “And don’t talk to strangers,” he said. It still seemed insufficient but he was out of advice so he stuck out his hand to shake. Ciri laughed and leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck.

He held her there, reveling in hugging his daughter, his child surprise, who was so full of surprises and he felt, for the first time in many years, the feeling of rather full tear ducts. He blinked them away. 

“Good luck,” Ciri whispered in his ear. Jaskier wouldn’t have heard, but the witchers with their enhanced hearing surely had. Geralt nodded and set her down.

He coughed awkwardly and pulled out a little packet wrapped in burlap and some rough twine. Ciri beamed and pulled at the string so that the packaging fell away. A long piece of metal, bent into a thin U shape lay in his palm, the ends were surprisingly sharp. Ciri picked it up and examined it, then looked up at him questioningly. 

“Hair pin,” Geralt said gruffly. “For your hair. And stabbing.” He mimed a clumsy, underhanded stab. “Eskel helped me silver plate it. For monsters. But also men, if they’re close enough.” He trailed off, knowing he sounded awkward. Who gave a self defense implement as a gift?

Ciri beamed at him again. “I love it,” she said, also miming a few stabs. He supposed that as a parent he shouldn’t be so proud of the light in his daughter’s eyes when she talked about stabbing, but he was almost certain that she got that trait from Jaskier, who tended to get...pointed about disagreements in pubs.

Yennefer stepped forward and carefully took the hair pin from their daughter, swooping her silver blonde hair back into a twist and sliding it in place. She placed a hand on Ciri’s shoulder and smiled at Geralt, and he was reminded again of that vase, stronger and more beautiful for the cracks in the facade. She then gave him a quick side hug and and even one for Jaskier, and opened a portal.

Geralt stared after his friend and his daughter long after the portal closed, until Jaskier, hand wrapped in a heavy mitten, gently took his wrist. They waved to the other wolves, and left, Roach walking obediently alongside. 

And then it was just the two of them. Again. Just like the last twenty years. That thought occupied him as they made it down the Killer. The path down from Kaer Morhen was deadly, but that year Geralt made it down without thinking, keeping half a thought to Jaskier’s ambling form as he went.

How old was Jaskier? 

He’d been eighteen or so when they met. Eighteen plus twenty-two was forty. Forty wasn’t that old for a human but Jaskier didn’t look too much different than he had at...Geralt did the math. Twenty-five? But there were signs. A few lines here and there, although Jaskier was insistent about his skincare. A line of silver, just a few hairs, probably unnoticable except to Geralt’s enhanced eyes. He was aging better than a human should.

Or perhaps not. Time was tricky for witchers, never staying in one place, never knowing people long enough to watch them age, he didn’t really know what to compare Jaskier to. 

He did know how long humans lived though. And at the base of the mountain he came to a resolution, felt it settle in to his bones as deep as his mutations, deeper, even. 

Twenty years, or nearly, where he hadn’t known Jaskier. Twenty more where he hadn’t admitted they were friends, or that he loved him. Eighty years in a human life span. And Geralt would love Jaskier, and make sure he knew he was loved, for the next four decades, give or take. He looked at his companion, paused as they were to give their feet and Roach a rest. The weak, watery sun of the early spring day fell on Jaskier’s face, dappled through the branches, which as of yet held no buds.

He pictured lines appearing, laugh lines, smile lines, crinkles carving themselves into the landscape of the familiar features. He pictured silver through the hair, more, in thicker streaks at the temples. Geralt saw a lifetime, Jaskier’s lifetime, in an instant. Silver covered warm brown, strong legs grew shakey, lines crowned a forehead and swept about clear eyes. 

What would happen, Geralt thought, when Jaskier could no longer keep up? But Geralt knew what would happen. He’d take Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, or go with him to Oxenfurt, and spend his days with him. It had been a few short months since he’d realized he was in love with Jaskier, but that was only because Geralt’s skill with emotions was roughly similar to Jaskier’s apparent self preservation. Why had he let the lad talk to him in a pub? Had he loved him then? He remembered the shock of not being feared, of looking into clear, bright eyes and seeing admiration, the fierce protectiveness that had flared when he woke and saw the fool tied to him in an elven lair. Had it been love? 

Watching Jaskier whisper softly to Roach as snow melted around him, Geralt was sure it had been. Destiny, Fate, the two bit tart who kept fucking him over, had given him his greatest blessing in a form that Geralt, up until that very second had considered a myth. Love at first sight. Love had brought him Jaskier, and Ciri, and a fast friendship with the most powerful mage on the Continent. Love had brought him a family in the form of a wayward bard with bread in his pants. And Geralt had forty more years to cherish him. 

Step One the list had said in Eskel’s clear writing. Kiss his hand. Being mindful of Step Two, to mind his manners, Geralt crossed the clearing to Jaskier and took the thick woolen mitten in his gloved hand. 

“May I?” he said. Jaskier gave him a baffled look, but nodded.

Geralt pressed chapped lips to a palm wrapped in knitted wool, and Jaskier smiled, albeit a little confusedly. It didn’t matter. Geralt wanted to spend the next forty years wrapped in that smile. 

Then Jaskier asked him if he was feeling well.

[sidomira]

Wordlist and phrases of Elder Speech

In Poland we have a wikia, where someone completed all words and phrases od elven language from the books. I wasn't able to find them in English, so I did it by maself, with help of bab.la, context reverso and google translate, together with my own (little) knowledge.

To all my friends and readers from Poland - please, If I missed some meaning, or did something wrong, correct me. And I ask the ones from Poland, because polish was the origin language

(deleted from ao3, cause they don’t accept anything that isn’t fiction)

A

A'báeth – kiss

Abb – a place where something ends to bond with something bigger (example: the place where river is connecting with sea)

Addan/Adan – to dance, dance, dancer

Adhart – ahead

Aedd – crumb

Aefder – later

Aecáemm – to follow

Aen – from, to, on

Aen'drean – to enter

Aenye – fire, firely

Aenyell'hael – baptism of fire

Aenyeweddien – Child od Fire, commonly Spark

Aep – from (in meaning of be from some place or family), son, descentand

Aep – to them

Aesledde – sledding

Aespar – to shot

Aëte – summer

Aevon – river

Aine – light

An – small, smaller, indefinite kind

An'givare – spy, informator

Arainne – sparrowhawk

Ard (lat. aardus) – high, the highest, mountain, peak

Arse – ass

A'taeghane – today

Ayd – no

B

Beag – a few

B'eanshie – phantom, banshee

Beanna (irl. bean) – woman

Belean'graec – important (this), important (a lot of things), expected, expectansy,

Belleteyn – blooming

Birke – vernal equinox

Blathan – garland, flowers (genitive: „blathanna”)

Bleidd – wolf

Bloed – blood

Bloede – bloody, damn, fucking

Broggha, Breoga – frog, froggie

Brokiloéne – from Brokilon

Bynnen – elven bread

C

Caed – forest, grove

Cáelm – calm, calmly, quiet, slowly, silently, calmly, to calm

Cáemm – go, come

Cáen – can (do)

Caer – fortress, stronghold (in Skellige’s dialekt, it was wrongly: „Kaer”; this form became common among humans)

Cáerme – fate, destiny

Carn – barrow, hole, holes

Carraigh – rock (huge one)

Ceadmil – Welcome (to someone)

Cerbin (lat. corvus) – raven

Cinerea – żyrytwa (complicated thing, I can’t translate it, because it is too deep into culture)

Col – pass (in mountains)

Coram – lion

Corrason – heart

Creasa –necessarily, duty, inevitably, obligatory

Crevan – Fox

D

Daerienn – sorceress (she-wizard), she-magician

Daetre – back (like, go back)

Dana – girl/miss (a lady before marriage)

Darganfod – discovery

Darl'len – read

Dearg – red

Dearme – Steep (you, go to Steep), to sleep, good night

Deireadh – end, who end smth

Deith – flame

Deithwen – white flame

Dh'oine – human

Dhu – black, dark

Dice (z łac. dicere) – to speak

Divedde – stand(to fight)

Dol – valley, Valley (between mountains), dimple

D'yaebl – Devie

E

Eatewedd – summer-alike child, summer’s child

Eimyr – hedgehog

Elaine – beautiful

Elle – alder tree

En – idefinite article

Enid – daisy

Ess – be

Esse – to be (future simple)

Essea – I am

Esseath – you are

Evall – horse

Evelienn – etery (about people), everyone

F

Feain – The Sun

Feainnewedd – Sun’s Child (figuratively about Sunflower)

Fen – swamp, wetland/swampland

Foilé – insane

Folie – rage

G

Gaeth – potral, gate

Gar'ean – attention/warning, watch out

Geas – swear-curse, curse, howl

Gláeddyv (irl. cleddyf) – sword

Glean – Lower, low, short

Gleanna (irl. gleann) – valley

Glossae – to look

Glyswen – White river

Gwendeith – white fire

Gwenllech – white cliffs

Gwinoedd – elven whine

Gwyn (z irl. gwyn) – white

Gwynbleidd – White Wolf

Gvaedyn – prud-brave, (difficult to translate)

Gvalch'ca (lat. falco) – Falka, she-falcon

Gynvael – ice

H

Hael –

greeting, health

Haela – medicine

Hanse – hanza, pack of friends

Hav'caaren – "intranslatable word, which is associated with greed/avarice; havekars

Hen – old, older

Hoel – hole, commonly: ass

I

Ichaer – blood

Imbaelk – germination/sprouting

Inis (wel. ynys) – island

Invaerne – Winter

L

Lammas – maturation

Lara – seagull

Lionors – lionesse

Llamas – matured, aging,

Loa'then – hatred

Loc (z łac. lac) – lake

Loc'lah – Lady of The Lake

Luned – girl, daughter

M

Me – I, my, mine, me

Méadbh (propably comes from: ang. meadow, eld-english mædwe) – meadow-alike

Mear'ya – Maria

Meáth – to meet

Mid – middle

Midaëte – summer solstice

Midinváerne – winter solstice

Milva – kania ruda (Bird specie) (from latin „Milvus milvus”)

Minne – love

Mire – to look at

Mistle (z ang. mistletoe) – waxwing, paszkot (bird specie)

Modron – mother (Crach an Craite called Calanthe like this but she wasn't his mother)

Morc – book, book (like book 1 of serię)

Morvudd – enemy

Muire – sea

N

Naev'de – nine

Neén – no

P

Pavienn – monkey

Pest – disease, plague, Bad charm/spell

Pherian – Niziołek

Q

Que (z łac. que) – what

R

Raenn – to run

Rhena (z łac. regina) – queen

Rhenawedd – Child of the queen

Roethainne – redanian

Ruadhri – readers

S

Salah – (you) pray

Saov – spirit, ghost, soul

Savaed – elven month, 1/8 of year

Scoia'tael (it. scoiattolo) – squirrels

Seidhe – hill

Shaent – to sing

Skrekk – rat

Sledd – sled

Sor'ca – Sister ( diminutive of „sister” in fact.)

Spar – to shot

Spar'le – shot (you, shot (this))

Squaess – to be sorry to someone, to forgive

Squaess'me – I'm sorry , forgive me

Straede – way, path

T

Táedh – bard, poet

Tearth – fear, to be feared

Tedd – time, age, time (at day, like morning)

Thaess – keep silent (order), keep silent (also order :D)

Thaesse - shut you up

Tirth – boar

Tor (z fr. tour) – tower

Torc'h – alszaband

Treise – strenght, vigor, energy

Tvedeane – 12, dozen

Tuathe – whisper

Twe – two, two (of them)

U

Uniade – connection(In some meaning: relationship), reunion (with someone)

V

Va – to go

Va'en – trip, journey

Vaer'trouv – zawierzyć (impossible to translate, something like "to give trust to someone" but not at all), to trust (somebody)

Va faill – farewell

Va vort – go (forever), go away

Vara – merchandise

Varh'he – whore, prostitute

Vatt'ghern – witcher

Velen – autumnal equinox

Veloë – fast/quick, quickly

Voe'rle – to stop (doing) , to stop (someone)

Vort – far (away), dalej, still, yet, precz

Vrihedd – freedom

W

Wedd – child

Weddin – child (zdrobnienie od „wedd”)

Wen – white (simplified form of „gwyn” usually occuring as  głównie jako suffix)

Woed, Woéd, Woedd – forest, Wood

X

Xin'trea – Cintra

Y

Yeá – so (so as)

Yghern – skolopendromorf

Yn – on, through, przedimek określony

Ys – down (direction)

Ysgarthiad – shit, cholera

Z

Zireael – swallow

Zvaere – to promise

[rosesupposes]

Navy Eyes Dark Enough

Or, five times Geralt didn't realize Jaskier was a witcher and one time he did.

Inspired by this post. Read on AO3 here.

-

Most witchers move among humans with some difficulty. People want them around for their skills but they’re hardly considered good company. Their swords, their eyes, their medallions all give them away for what they are and inspire fear in the humans around them. Jaskier passes much more easily as a human than any other witcher he’s met. A pretty face and prettier words go a long way for a witcher and he’s been blessed with both. He’d been called a pretty boy since his earliest days at Gorthur Gvaed and the mutations had been kind to his looks, leaving him baby faced into adulthood and granting him navy eyes dark enough to hide the shape of his pupils from anyone who didn’t look too closely. His teachers hadn’t necessarily approved of his interest in poetry and prose but they didn’t mind him tearing apart the library for all the fiction he could find, so long as he was reading the nonfiction as well. He’s unafraid to leverage this advantage while on the Path. He gains a town’s trust faster than his brothers and is rarely underpaid because of it. He’s never found himself short of romantic partners. He’d talked himself into Oxenfurt because it sounded like fun. He spends his time as a traveling bard, taking contracts only when he’s low on funds or his brothers ask it of him. It hurts, sometimes, to keep his twisted Viper medallion hidden under his clothes but it makes it easier to hide in plain sight. For all he leverages the way he blends in with humans, Jaskier had never expected another witcher not to recognize him.

1. 1240 Jaskier has traveled alone for most of his time on the Path. There was the string of contracts almost two decades back when he’d helped Letho and Auckes but that was before he’d left Nilfgard and the South behind almost entirely. After a week of traveling with Geralt, he’s starting to realize that he’s missed it. Traveling the Path with someone else is different than the traveling Jaskier does in caravans as a bard. Despite their unfamiliarity with traveling together, they fall into an unexpectedly easy routine when it comes to setting up camp. Geralt, a Wolf to the core, insists on doing the “hard work” of it all and Jaskier isn’t going to complain about leisurely picking berries and filling their waterskins. By the time Jaskier makes it back to camp with their waterskins full, Geralt is usually finishing setting up their fire after having set a few traps nearby. He lights it with Igni, of course, like any witcher worth his Signs would. It isn’t until their second week of traveling together that Jaskier beats Geralt back to their camp. The area they’re in, despite being filled with berries and freshwater, was suspiciously devoid of game. Jaskier had suspected magic at first but his medallion is too silent for the kind of magic that would require. If it’s a monster though, it’s leaving them suspiciously alone. He debates the likelihood of various possible monsters while he builds their small fire. He’s not nearly as skilled at the technical aspects of fire building as Geralt but a Sign can level a playing field and he has it started in no time. Geralt enters their small clearing only a moment later. “That was fast,” he grunts as he moves past Jaskier. Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve always been better than my brothers at it,” he explains, moving his hand in a general approximation of the Sign. He’d always preferred his magic lessons to swordplay at Gorthur Gvaed and he’s a bit jealous at the way he’s seen Geralt so easily use his Signs while he fights. The double shortsword style of Jaskier’s school did not lend well to Sign usage while fighting. Geralt gives the fire what Jaskier supposes is a thoughtful look and then grunts, moving away to set up a small tent. 2. 1244 It is not often that Jaskier finds himself caught up in the habits ingrained in him during his training. He’s decades removed from his trials and, for the most part, he has kicked the habits that Ivar and the other Viper Masters beat into him. His posture is a wreck. He doesn’t keep a journal in the way a witcher should. He takes his medallion off more often than most witchers would deem advisable. Perhaps most egregious to other members of his school is his chosen weapons. He still dual wields while fighting but these days he favors daggers to the traditional Viper shortswords. They’re much easier to hide. He keeps a stiletto in each boot and two in his lute case. One habit he cannot break is the way he cleans and sharpens his daggers after every use. He has two silver and two steel because he is a witcher, even if he’s a witcher who rarely takes contracts. They rarely need cleaning, especially when he travels with Geralt, but when they do, Jaskier is almost religious about it. His latest kill is a pack of drowners outside Murivel, as he’s lazily making his way through Redania and towards Ard Carraigh after completing his obligations at Oxenfurt. He finds no contract for them in town, which is frustrating after he ruined this season’s traveling clothes in the fight, but he gets some decent prices for some of the alchemy supplies he was able to harvest. When he makes it to an inn, it’s a bit before the midday meal, just enough time for him to clean himself and his daggers before he sings for his supper and his room. The innkeep is gracious enough to give him the room first, because he remembers Jaskier and knows he’ll be good for business. He lays his daggers out in a corner of the room and sits on the floor in front of them with a small bowl of water and a cloth. It isn’t long before he loses himself to the familiar motions. Clean the blade. Sharpen the blade. Polish the blade. Unwrap the leather. Oil the leather. Rewrap the leather. Repeat.  It doesn’t take very long, given how much smaller the blades are than his old shortswords but he takes longer than most men would bother with. A blade ill-treated is unlikely to treat you well in moments of need.

He goes downstairs to sing a bit for the midday meal. He’s debating the merit of playing through Geralt’s song cycle without Geralt himself present when the door swings open and the witcher himself enters. He nods at Jaskier when he sees him and then goes to speak to the innkeep. Jaskier finishes his song and wanders over to Geralt as he plucks at the strings of his lute, playing but not singing. 

“He’ll join me, my good man,” Jaskier declares after he hears the innkeep tell Geralt there’s no available rooms. The inkeep shrugs and shows Geralt to Jaskier’s room while Jaskier continues to play.

It’s another hour before he joins Geralt, who is making notes in his journal. Jaskier brings two bowls of broth and some bread with him and they share a pleasant meal after spending almost half a year apart. 

“You’ve bought more daggers,” Geralt says as they’re finishing, gesturing to where Jaskier had left his blades out after their rather thorough cleaning.

“Not new,” Jaskier clarifies, “just clean. They were a little too useful on the way here.”

Geralt snorts.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier asks him, with no real heat. 

“What use would you have for a dagger, other than the one you carry on your belt sometimes?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and gathers the bowls, immune to Geralt’s teasing for the most part. It is just like the other man, to consider the fighting style of another school inferior to his own. “Not all of us are trying to compensate for something with our gigantic swords.”

3. 1247

Jaskier manages to get his pants tied and his doublet buttoned as he runs back to the inn he and Geralt are staying at. He finds Geralt whetting his silver sword by the fire.

“Hello, Geralt,” he says, as casually as he can manage. “If you wouldn’t mind departing just a bit early, I think now’s a wonderful time to leave.”

Geralt grunts. “The room is paid until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, moving quickly towards the table he’s been using as a desk to pack the papers he’s spread across it. “I’m afraid I’ll have to lose out on that coin. C’mon. Chop, chop. Pack your things.” Jaskier moves onto his small pack of clothes in the corner.

“Don’t forget your weird necklace,” Geralt grunts, shoving Jaskier’s Viper medallion into his hand and Jaskier remembers taking it off before going looking for a lay for tonight, trusting Geralt with it before trusting a random lay wouldn’t steal it.

Jaskier pauses for a second, offended. The Viper medallions aren’t the same heavy stamped discs the rest of the schools use- they were forged individually into various twisting shapes before they’d been enchanted. Jaskier finds them more attractive than the other schools’ medallions and more practical, easier to hide. “Excuse me, as if yours is better.” 

“Let’s go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuts his mouth and returns to packing for a moment before he’s forced to retaliate. “Fine but don’t think we’re not discussing your terrible taste in jewelry later.”

4. 1251

Geralt’s White Honey is absolute shit and Jaskier knows firsthand because he’s borrowed it before. He’d replaced it after, of course, and he could tell when Geralt used the one Jaskier had brewed because it flushed the toxins much faster than Geralt’s usual swill.

Ivar would be very disappointed if he knew how long it takes Jaskier to figure out why Geralt’s White Honey is so poor in comparison to his own. As it turns out, Geralt is preparing both the honeysuckle and the white myrtle petals incorrectly. He’s managed to flip their preparations, crushing the myrtle petals and chopping the honeysuckle, when it should be the other way around. Jaskier thinks maybe it’s a Wolf thing but he’s not sure it matters because watching Geralt butcher his potions every time is getting old. 

Jaskier doesn’t bother to keep his potions stocked beyond a few that are easy to keep in his packs but he helps Geralt when the other allows him to. Mostly he prepares ingredients as Geralt directs but given how sick he is of watching the other witcher butcher his potions, when Geralt asks him to crush some white myrtle petals he takes the knife from Geralt’s hand and chops them instead. “Just give me that,” he says, reaching for the honeysuckle Geralt had been about to chop. “You always do this wrong. You’re supposed to cut the white myrtle and crush the honeysuckle.”

It doesn’t take very long for Jaskier to finish preparing the potion, though he stops short of the final mix lest Geralt actually murder him. He wipes his hands and picks up his lute, idly strumming.

“Where did you learn that?” Geralt asks as he takes the ingredients Jaskier has prepared to finish mixing them. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes because White Honey, for all it’s helpful properties, is a recipe shared almost exclusively among witchers. “Oxenfurt, Geralt,” he answers with a hefty amount of sarcasm in his voice. 

“Hmmmm.”

And doesn’t that pique Jaskier’s interest. That’s Geralt’s genuinely confused hum, not his ‘Jaskier, shut up, you’re not that funny’ hum.

 “Where else would I have learned it?” he prods. “I am a Master of the seven liberal arts, as you know.”

“Didn’t know they taught White Honey at Oxenfurt,” is all Geralt says as Jaskier strums lazily at his lute. Geralt is being serious, Jaskier realizes- he believes he learned how to make White Honey at Oxenfurt.

White Honey is not taught at Oxenfurt. White Honey, per rather extensive experimentation by the Viper School, is mostly useless to anyone without a witcher’s mutations. While Jaskier is sure someone out there has the recipe who is not a witcher, it is certainly not taught at Oxenfurt. Jaskier is sure Geralt knows this but the other witcher is taking Jaskier’s joke seriously.

Oh.

Oh.

Geralt, somehow, just over ten years into their friendship, does not know Jaskier is a witcher. It takes effort to keep himself from crowing with laughter. This is just- Jaskier would be hurt if he didn’t find it so funny. 

Oh, this is incredible. Jaskier is going to milk this for all of its worth.

5. 1251

Jaskier continues to insinuate in every possible way that he can think that he is a witcher without actually saying it. Geralt does not catch on. It is simultaneously amusing and frustrating though it gives Jaskier a lot of perspective on certain aspects of their relationship.

Geralt is always surprised when Jaskier lights a fire quickly because he hasn’t considered that Jaskier is using Igni. Geralt insists that Jaskier’s hidden daggers are for show because he doesn’t quite believe that Jaskier knows how to use them. Geralt dismisses Jaskier’s Viper medallion as an odd piece of jewelry because he doesn’t remember that not all the schools use the same stamped metal the Wolves do for their medallions.

Jaskier’s current favorite game is trying to find the subject of his knowledge that will eventually push Geralt over the edge because he can’t accept that Jaskier learned it at Oxenfurt. He hasn’t found it yet.

He’s trying the Wild Hunt today because there hasn’t been a reliable sighting in nearly thirty years and he knows very few humans who actually study the subject. All witchers know about it, of course, but the Vipers are most familiar. They were founded to study it, after all, and Jaskier’s knowledge on the subject is both broad and deep.

“They’re elves, you know. Not the typical kind, mind you, but they speak an off dialect of Elder. Some of my teachers think they’re from some other world. There’s unicorns there, apparently,” he says as they walk beside Roach. It’s a not-quite-bastardization of the various facts and theories but Jaskier’s not aiming for the truth, he’s aiming to confuse Geralt.

Geralt just grunts. It’s not quite as satisfying a response as Jaskier had hoped but he thinks maybe Geralt is confused.

“I think the unicorns are a little far-fetched, personally,” he continues. “It’s a nice thought, though.”

“The Wild Hunt is not a nice thought,” Geralt says seriously. Which, well, is true. 

“I’m well aware, Geralt. I’ve read an entire library on the subject. The Continent’s biggest, in fact.”

“The biggest library on the Wild Hunt was at Gorthur Gvaed. It’s been destroyed.”

“Yes. Well.”

The painful reminder stops Jaskier short. He normally doesn’t have much trouble separating his memories of Gorthur Gvaed from its destruction. He wasn’t there and if he doesn’t think about the raid he missed, it’s easy to pretend it never happened; that the keep, with its hidden passageways and winding rivers, is still standing in the mountains of Nilfgard; that his teachers are still there tending to the library; that his brothers are still out there and they’re narrowly missing each other as they travel their own winding Paths. The mention of its destruction brings his idealized fantasy crashing down. Gorthur Gvaed is nothing but ruins and he has maybe five brothers left. 

Guilt wells up in the pit of his stomach and he decides the Wild Hunt is not the topic that’s going to make Geralt realize he’s a witcher.

+1. 1251

Geralt feels hazy and slow as he wakes. There’s the dull ache of a pain in his leg and his blood burns. His vision comes slowly and when it does he takes stock.

He’s trapped under a pile of rocks. The tunnel. The kikimores. The cave-in. The pain in his legs and his ribs is dull, due to his potions, but he thinks his leg might be broken and his ribs at least bruised. He has a concussion but he doesn’t think he was out for very long. There are potions burning through his system, one for the dark, at least, but with his head pounding, he’s not sure what else.

He’s in a fairly large section of the tunnel system, with a small stream running through. There are four entrances to the cavern. He was caught as the fifth tunnel gave way and caved in.

He can see where his sword had landed and he might have enough time to clear enough of the rock to reach for it. He doesn’t like his chances of getting out of the cave on his own but there should only be one injured kikimore left and if it comes to him, he might be able to take it out. Jaskier will come looking for him once he’s been gone long enough and as long as the kikimore is dead before Jaskier enters the tunnels, the foolish bard should be safe.

Geralt closes his eyes, trying to listen for the kikimore, trying to gauge where it is and how much time he has. Not much, he realizes, after a moment of listening to the echoes of it’s skittering legs, but he can do it if he works fast.

His legs are still mostly pinned under the cave-in when the kikimore enters the cavern from one of the tunnels opposite Geralt. 

Fuck.

He’s free enough to reach for the sword, stretching his body as far as it will go and exacerbating the pain in his leg, still pinned, as he does. His movement attracts the attention of the kikimore. It’s beady eyes turn toward Geralt. It’s a smaller specimen, a worker probably, but pinned as he is, Geralt knows it has the upperhand. He braces himself, trying to find the position that will give him the most power. If he can time this right, he might be able to behead the kikimore before it pierces his chest.

Suddenly, there’s another body in the cavern, a blur of blue putting itself between Geralt and the kikimore, a dagger in either hand. The kikimore stops, eyes focusing on the new arrival.

“Jaskier, get the fuck out of here.”

“Can’t do that, my dear.” Jaskier lunges at the kikimore, leading with his blades. 

Geralt stops breathing. His only goal after the cave-in- to kill the kikimore before Jaskier came looking for him- is now impossible. He hasn’t been fast enough for the bard’s impatience and now the fool is going to die trying to fight a monster some young witchers struggle with.

Jaskier lands the first blow, a lucky hit against one of the kikimores legs. It’s not deep but it’s enough to put the kikimore off balance. It strikes at Jaskier who dodges and pulls away. He puts some space between himself and the kikimore and pulls a small vial from his pocket. It’s one from Geralt’s own stores, though he can’t tell which. It doesn’t matter. It would kill any human. It will kill Jaskier.

“Don’t!”

Almost faster than Geralt can see, Jaskier throws his dagger into the kikimore’s eye with deadly accuracy, stunning it for a moment. In almost the same moment, he downs the potion and pulls another dagger from his boot in one fluid motion. He dives back in to slash at the kikimore’s throat, digging into it with both of his daggers. The kikimore chokes on its own blood, a sick wet, gurgling sound, and then suddenly it is on top of Jaskier, stabbing down and obscuring the bard’s body from Geralt. Geralt can barely see any of it but the sick sound of flesh being pierced overwhelms his ears. Instead of trying to watch, he returns to freeing himself from the cave-in.

It isn’t long before the sound has stopped and the kikimore is moving toward Geralt again. He can sit up fully now but twisting away from his legs to look at the scene behind him pulls at his ribs. Jaskier’s body is motionless on the ground and Geralt is furious. The idiot bard.

He manages to free the rest of his legs as the kikimore approaches. It takes massive effort to kneel up, ready to strike, but he manages. He still does not expect to make it out of the cave system but the least he can do is bring the kikimore down with him in honor of his friend.

Just as Geralt is preparing to swing at the approaching kikimore, it sinks to the ground. Standing over its lifeless body, is Jaskier, once again holding his daggers. His eyes are completely black and the veins surrounding them are dark beneath his pale skin. The toxicity of the potion hasn’t killed him. It’s swirling through his system. Geralt knows his face looks much the same.

“Fuck.”

-

“Eleven years, Geralt,” Jaskier crows as he helps Geralt back to the clearing where Roach is waiting for them. “How does it feel to have traveled with another witcher for eleven years and never once known? While holding his medallion in your hand and drinking the potions he’s prepared for you? Hmmm, Geralt? How does it feel?”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

[jaskiersvalley]

3 Witchers Who Made It Home And 1 Who Almost Didn’t

The first to return was always Vesemir. He got back as early as his Path would allow, horse pulling a cart of supplies. The others would bring things to weather the winter too but Vesemir tried to take care of the bulk of it. Kaer Morhen was somewhere that hadn’t been home for a long time, perhaps even the first century of his life. But over time, he’d grown fond of it. While everything else in the world changed, turned its back on him, the crumbling old castle always welcomed Vesemir back. The doors groaned their greeting, sheets sighed as he pulled them off beds. In its own way, Kaer Morhen came back to life under Vesemir’s gentle care so by the time his pups stumbled in, they would be comfortable and could fall into the routine of winter without having to worry about much. That was Vesemir’s job, he always worried about his pups though he rarely ever showed it.

Uncharacteristically, Geralt showed up next. Usually he slunk in last, quiet and avoiding any kind of attention. He really was the epitome of lone wolf. Which was why Vesemir needed a moment to gather his wits and greet the bard Geralt had dragged him with him. The path to Kaer Morhen was dangerous and Geralt had wanted to avoid the snow that would have made it more trecherous for a human. So they were there earlier than usual, Roach pulling a cart of ample supplies. If both Lambert and Eskel showed up with very little, they would still have a very well stocked winter.

A few weeks later, the snow was gathering around the old keep and Lambert arrived. He had a pack piled high on his back but no horse. For whatever reason, he’d always been resistant to getting a steed, something that he was mercilessly teased for in his early years. By the time he hit 60, most of that had stopped thankfully. It wasn’t Vesemir’s secret to share that Lambert was utterly terrified of horses. They’d tried to secretly work through it but some fears, irrational as they may be, just never went away. The only thing Vesemir could do was make sure Lambert never had chores in the stables and glared at the other two whenever they started ribbing about horses.

The storms arrived next, blustery and cold. It made the pass impossible to traverse and Vesemir sighed. While winter had come early, he had been hoping Eskel would make it back home. It was rare to have a year without him. But with how visibility was barely a hand’s reach, it was impossible for even a witcher to survive the trail to Kaer Morhen.

“What’s that noise?” Jaskier asked. He wasn’t quite used to the noises of the old castle as it creaked and groaned under the assault of the storm. Dinner had been a quiet affair, all of the witchers quietly glad they’d made it back home, even if one of their core family was missing. Eskel’s regular seat remained unfilled even though it left an awkward gap in their seating arrangement.

Before his question could be dismissed as the howling of the storm, Lambert tilted his head to the side, listening, eyes going distant as he focused. The next moment he was pushing away from the table with a half shout of “Eskel!” which had the others lurching into action.

It was dark already, a cast of igni to torches lit the way to the front of the keep. As the approached, there was no denying that something was very wrong. The whinnying of a spooked horse mixed with the thumping as it ran loops of the area in front of the keep’s door filtered through. Lambert was dashing out into the snowstorm without hesitation, squinting into the thickly falling snow. The job of stopping Scorpion fell to Geralt and he managed to grab the loose reins, pulling the horse tight and soothing it.

“Eskel!” Lambert’s voice was whipped away by the wind. There was no sign of Eskel though, his horse still had the cart attached, most of the supplies were battened down and safe. “I’m going out to find him.”

“You won’t survive the night,” Vesemir shouted over the storm.

“Neither will he!” Lambert looked frantic, trying to see beyond the storm.

“Losing one son is bad enough, I don’t want to lose two.” It wasn’t often Vesemir snapped and it pulled Lambert up short.

“Fine.” He snarled and, after a final attempt to look around and listening in case Eskel called back to him, he stalked back into the castle. “But I’m going out for him at first light.”

Nobody slept well that night. The storm raged outside and all they could think of was Eskel out there, on his own. There was no telling what had happened, what had spooked Scorpion or what they’d find in the light of the morning. Unable to sleep, Jaskier stumbled down to the kitchen for a drink. He walked past Lambert who was sleeping fitfully by the dying embers of the hall’s fires, obviously wanting to make good on his promise to go out at first light. Out of curiosity, Jaskier opened the front door and peered out, just in case he saw something. It was still too dark to venture far out but it was no longer pitch black. Not too far from the door, maybe a handful of meters away was a lump on the ground which most definitely hadn’t been there the night before.

“Lambert! Geralt! Help!” Jaskier was yelling even as he ran out into the snow barefoot. There was no mistaking the snow covered mound for anything but the crumpled form of Eskel.

Skidding to his knees next to him, Jaskier reached for Eskel, shoved hard to turn him onto his side and then to his back. In a way, he wished he hadn’t because the problems were almost immediately visible. There were torn and soaked bandages wrapped sloppily around Eskel’s chest and stomach, soaked through with blood. His gambeson was in tatters.

Someone was pushing Jaskier out of the way and it took him a moment to realise it was Lambert. Leaning over Eskel, taking in blue lips and barely visible puffs of shallow breaths, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that there wasn’t any time to waste. Strong arms hoisted Eskel off the ground and Lambert was barging back into the castle, hollering for Vesemir at the top of his lungs.

A warm hand on Jaskier’s shoulder drew him from his reverie. By his knees, the snow was red with blood and he could see a trail where Eskel had obviously dragged himself. He’d been so close and yet had almost not made it despite his efforts.

“Let’s get you warm,” Geralt murmured and helped Jaskier up.

Settling on the rugs by the fire, Jaskier watched as Geralt stoked the flames and brought mulled wine over. They didn’t say anything, not for a few hours but they leaned into each other. Geralt was hoping he wasn’t going to lose his brother while Jaskier realised he didn’t want to mourn a friend he had not yet met.

It was Vesemir who came out, hours later, drawn and haggard. He was still in his sleep shirt but there hadn’t been time to get changed, not when Eskel had been in such critical condition.

“He’ll live.” That was the best news he could have ever delivered and both Geralt and Jaskier sagged. “Lambert’s keeping him warm for now. But I think Eskel would appreciate waking in a warm pile.”

That was all the encouragement needed and Geralt was off, pulling Jaskier with him. In the infirmary, Lambert was curled against Eskel under some covers, the fire roaring warmly. Without a word, Geralt slipped under the covers too, mindful of the freshly applied bandages. Under the scent of cleansing poultices there was the rotten stench of infection but it was clearing. He dreaded to think what had happened to Eskel and why he had braved the trail to Kaer Morhen when injured and snowing. Though, deep down, Geralt already knew because he would have done the same. Hurting and desperate, he too would have wanted to get home, no matter the risk. Turning, he pulled Jaskier into the pile, content to once again have his family surrounding him. 

[vampire--dad]

Part 1 of my Witcher!Jaskier fic (that originally just started as a Geraskier drabble thing and spiralled wildly out of control) (and also doesn’t have a title yet bear with me here)

——————

“Roach, you take care of him now, won’t you?” Jaskier says softly, petting her nose. She huffs and nudges his chest. He chuckles. “Good. Keep him out of trouble.”

“And you give me shit for talking to her,” says a familiar gruff voice. Geralt approaches the stables with his pack slung over his shoulder, clad in his black armour. Jaskier pulls an apple from his pocket and offers it to the horse, who chomps it down happily.

“Well yes, because you’re always so bossy and grouchy with her. Someone’s got to be nice to her. She’s a wonderful horse.”

Geralt sets his pack over the back of the saddle before turning to Jaskier with his arms folded, ignoring the comment.

“I don’t need the horse to take care of me or keep me out of trouble.”

“Sure you do. She always brings you back in one piece, don’t you, Roach?”

“Jaskier, I don’t need to be taken care of.”

Jaskier sighs and shakes his head, finally turning to face the witcher. His yellow eyes stare into his soul, reigniting a fire he’s spent years trying to put out.

“Fine… but bring yourself back here safely, alright?”

He regrets saying it to his face, but he means it. Over the years, Jaskier has learned to carefully conceal how much he cares for Geralt. He knows it won’t go anywhere. He knows Geralt doesn’t feel the same. He can’t. He’s a witcher. He’s not capable of it. Yet Jaskier still yearns for him.

Geralt scoffs and lifts himself onto Roach’s back. “What, worried you’ll lose your main source of income?” he says with a mocking tone. Jaskier hides how the comment stings. Is that really what Geralt thinks he sticks around for? That’s just an excuse to stay. The witcher digs his heels into Roach’s sides and rides off without another word.

“Yeah, something like that…”

It only takes two days for the townspeople to start asking where the witcher is. They fear he’s dead. Jaskier brushes off their worries and fills the air with fantastical stories instead. It’s not uncommon for Geralt to be gone for days at a time. It’s not until the end of the first week that Jaskier finds himself starting to worry as well. The innkeeper is kind enough to let him stay until the witcher comes back, so long as he fills the hall with music. Performing becomes a distraction from the worry that gnaws at the corners of his mind. Geralt has never been gone for more than a week.

As he lays in bed among the scratchy old sheets, he faces the fact that this worry is borne from more than just concern for a friend. He knows that if something were to happen to Geralt, it’d kill him too. And he knows he’s an idiot for caring so much. Witchers don’t feel. That’s what Geralt has always told him. He never believed it until he realised he was in love with him. Then it became a crushing truth. Geralt could never care for him the same way he does. It’s not the witcher’s fault, it’s his own. He wishes he could stop, wishes he could put out the fire that burns under his heart and burns it to a crisp every time Geralt looks at him.

By the end of the second week, the innkeeper threatens to throw him out if he spends another night in his room moping. The worry consumes every corner of his mind now. He tries to sleep. It doesn’t work. He waits by the window, staring at the town’s gates. Waiting for the White Wolf to ride back into town unscathed. But he doesn’t. Rather, he’s carried by two men, covered in blood. Roach follows behind them. Jaskier races out the door, crying the witcher’s name.

“We found him in the forest,” the men say as they struggle to carry an unconscious witcher to a bed in the inn. “He killed… whatever that thing was, but it just about killed him.”

Jaskier barely hears them. He grabs his pack and spends hours tending to each wound on Geralt’s body, only to find that another one has started to bleed what little blood he has left. He peels the blood-soaked clothes off his back. He can’t tell what of it is Geralt’s and what’s from the monster. It doesn’t particularly matter. He notices as he tends to a wound on the witcher’s temple that he feels cold. Geralt always feels cold, but his skin is practically freezing. Jaskier curses. The bastard can’t die on him yet, he won’t let him. Roach is lucky the stable boys like her and care for her free of charge.

He stays by Geralt’s side for days. He quickly turns from freezing cold to hot to the touch. Jaskier spends what little coin he can spare on herbs to treat the infection. The witcher never wakes, but he groans in pain in his sleep. Each one feels like a punch to the gut for Jaskier. He tries to be gentle, but since he doesn’t know where the infection is coming from, he needs to clean all of the wounds as best as he can. The shallow ones are all but gone within a few days. He’s never quite gotten used to how quickly his wounds heal, but it’s at least slightly comforting to have less to deal with.

Geralt doesn’t wake till the fourth day of Jaskier tending to him. The bard is hunched over his bare torso, redressing a wound that runs along his ribcage. He’s done well to ignore how bloody good Geralt looks without a shirt on. He sits back only to find a pair of yellow eyes staring at him and just about jumps out of his skin.

“Bloody hell, Geralt! You could have said something…”

The witcher grunts and sits up slowly, Jaskier’s hands bracing his broad shoulders as he assesses the damage done to him.

“Careful, careful,” Jaskier cautions him. “How do you feel?”

Geralt winces slightly, but pain is almost familiar to him by now.

“Fine,” he grumbles. Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“You had an infection. I think it’s gone, but you need to rest.”

“We need to go. We’ve been here too long.”

Jaskier inhales sharply. “Geralt, you’re going to pull your stitches if we leave now, and I’m out of thread to redo them, so unless you plan on sacrificing a shirt to me so I can stitch you back together—”

Geralt ignores him. They’ve spent far too long in this town. It’s better if they keep moving. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stumbling slightly as he stands for the first time in about a week. Jaskier throws his hands up in defeat as he searches through his pack for a clean shirt.

“I’ll be fine, Jaskier,” he says with his back turned to the bard. It’s a good thing, too, for the witcher doesn’t see the pained and worried expression on his face.

They set off with Roach and what little food Jaskier can talk out of the innkeeper. The bard isn’t much of a hunter, but he’ll have to try if they plan on reaching the next town without starving, and the gods only know he won’t let Geralt hunt in such a state. Hopefully he can score them a squirrel at the very least.

He can tell the witcher is in pain. He winces at every step Roach takes that jostles him a little too hard. Jaskier can’t help but feel as though all his hard work to keep the bastard alive is going unappreciated. It always does, really, but this time it hurts a little more. He would have died if not for Jaskier’s care and the cold nights he spent sleeping on the floor so Geralt could rest.

They set up camp beside the narrow path that winds through the forest as night falls. Jaskier is quick to set up a fire before Geralt can, yet again finding himself wondering why he bothers. Geralt has never noticed the things he does for him, what would make him start now?

“What’s wrong?” the witcher asks unexpectedly.

“Nothing,” Jaskier lies. A lot is wrong, but Geralt doesn’t need to know. Probably wouldn’t care if he did.

“Something is bothering you. Spit it out.”

Geralt knows something is wrong when the bard is quiet, but he’s never been that short with him. Usually he’s the one giving monotonous one word answers. Jaskier stares into their campfire without a word. He’s stressed. He’s tired of how Geralt brushes him off, how he never thanks him for caring for him. He supposes it’s because he shouldn’t. Geralt has always made it clear he’d rather be left to his own devices, but Jaskier can’t help but scramble after him in futile hopes that one day it will all be worth it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says impatiently. The annoyance in his tone fuels the bard’s anger. “Spit it out. What’s wrong?”

“Damn it, Geralt, you blithering idiot!!” Jaskier shouts. Years of longing and loneliness built up inside him all come out at once. “I waited in that inn for two weeks for you to come back. I thought you were dead! Then you’re carried back into the town, unconscious and covered in blood, and I nurse you back to health as per fucking usual. And you act like nothing happened, like you didn’t almost die out there. Not even a ‘thank you’ for making sure you didn’t die of an infection or for staying in that rotten inn for two weeks. Waiting for you. You never think of anyone but yourself, you prick! I’m fucking over this. I’m done.”

Jaskier grabs his things and storms off into the forest. Geralt watches him in silence until he fades out of view. Roach grumbles and nudges his shoulder with her nose. Of all things, the last thing he expected was to feel guilty… but Jaskier is right. He waited for him. He always has. He’s always the one who tends to his wounds and stitches him back together so as to not leave too much of a mark. Jaskier has followed him across this land for years and for all those years, Geralt has ignored the signs. He knows Jaskier cares for him more than he’s ever let on. He can’t deny that deep down he cares for him, too. He just never wanted to face it. It was easier not to, easier to wait for the fire in both of them to die out, and safer. But it never did. Roach headbutts his arm impatiently. He growls and pats her nose.

“I know,” he grumbles.

He sets off after the bard, following the bitter scent of his anger along an invisible path. Slowly the anger fades to regret, a sour scent that stings Geralt’s nose, but he follows it anyway. He finds himself reaching for his sword at every sound the forest makes. He should never have let Jaskier run off like that, not at night. He’s going to get himself hurt. The sour scent of regret starts to become richer and Geralt finds himself feeling guiltier and guiltier as he follows the smell of sadness. He scrubs his nose as it itches at the smell.

He treks until he finds Jaskier sitting on a log, his head in his hands, a mess of frustration, sadness, and fear. He doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. He just wanted to get away from Geralt, but now that he’s not here he realises what an idiot he is. All he has is the small dagger Geralt gave to him. He’s got no chance of fighting off anything bigger than a dog. Geralt stares at him and finds his chest aching with guilt. It takes him a while to work up the courage to say anything.

“Jaskier.”

The bard’s head shoots up at the sound, but his fearful expression quickly turns to one of disgust as his blue eyes fall on the witcher. He turns his back to him.

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

Jaskier groans and grabs his things, anger bubbling up in his chest yet again. “Just fuck off, you asshole. I don’t need your—”

“I’m sorry.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Jaskier’s back to Geralt. The moonlight shines through the trees on his soft brown hair. His eyes start to sting, his bags slipping from his grasp and back to the ground. He dares not turn around. It’d kill him if Geralt saw him cry. Eventually, the witcher speaks up again. He doesn’t know where the words come from, but they spill out of his mouth.

“I’ve taken you for granted for so many years and I’m sorry. I never appreciated you. You’ve always waited for me and taken care of me, and I was never as grateful as I should have been. I’m sorry, Jask.”

Tears start to fall from Jaskier’s eyes as Geralt speaks. The desperation in his voice gives the bard hope he knows he shouldn’t have. Before he can say something stupid to ease the tension, Geralt says something that shakes him to his very core.

“I know how much you care about me, Jask. I always have. I don’t know why you do, given how I treat you, but I know…”

His voice trails off, but something tells Jaskier that he’s not finished. He’s just trying to figure out how to say it.

“I do care about you. I’ve just never known how to show it. I always thought being a witcher was more important and… it was safer to push you away. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Geralt stares at the back of the bard’s head. He’s never been good with words. What he said doesn’t even capture half of what he meant, but he’s surprised he came up with that alone. Jaskier doesn’t move for a moment, then all of a sudden he turns on his heel and throws himself into Geralt’s arms. He’s longed to hear those words for years. It’s all too much for him. He tries his best to hold back his tears, but a few sobs slip from his throat. Geralt doesn’t say anything, he just holds Jaskier and pets his hair gently.

Eventually, Jaskier pulls away and scrubs the tears from his face with his sleeve, cursing under his breath. He’s a mess. His eyes dart about, looking anywhere but at Geralt until he says his name again.

“Jaskier…”

There’s a tinge of worry in Geralt’s voice he’s never heard. His blue eyes shine as he looks at the witcher. A pair of golden eyes stare back under a brow furrowed with concern. His own voice shakes with the strain of choking back tears.

“You always told me witchers couldn’t feel,” he says.

“I lied. It’s easier if people believe that we don’t feel… even you.”

Jaskier nods and sniffles softly.

“Do you mean it?” he asks. He has to. After all these years, he has to ask. Geralt reaches out and gently caresses his cheek with a gloved hand.

“I mean it,” he says definitively.

Jaskier doesn’t think. He just throws himself at Geralt, kissing him like it’ll kill him if he doesn’t. The witcher holds him close, his lips cold and bitter. It’s relieving. It’s overwhelming. Jaskier feels like his heart has caught on fire. Geralt thinks he’s going to melt in Jaskier’s warm embrace. Eventually their lips part and Jaskier gently brushes the hair from Geralt’s eyes. Geralt doesn’t let him go. If he’s going to allow himself to love Jaskier, he’s never going to let him go again.

“Come back to the camp,” he says softly. Jaskier nods and reluctantly slips from Geralt’s arms to grab his things. As he slings his bag over his back, he begins to apologise.

“I’m sorry I stormed off and called you a—”

“Don’t be. You had every right to,” Geralt cuts him off. The guilt of how he has treated Jaskier still lingers in his chest, so he’ll bury it with affection and that wonderful warm feeling he got when the bard kissed him. He slips off his gloves, and takes Jaskier’s hand as they walk back to the road together.

[queenxxxsupreme]

Unwanted Company

Part 1 

A/N: Okay so this is my first attempt at a Lambert x reader thing and I’m not sure how I feel about it.... I think I might’ve made Lambert too much of a dick.... Let me know what you think :)

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: none really, just Lambert being Lambert

Summary: This year, Geralt brings a guest to Kaer Morhen. Not all of those who call the keep home are okay with the uninvited guest. 

The first time Lambert lays eyes on you, he and Eskel were at a tavern outside of Ard Carraigh, The two witchers were waiting for the White Wolf to join them before making the rest of the journey to Kaer Morhen.

The medallion on his neck hummed. Lambert looked up, briefly catching Eskel’s gaze. The older witcher felt it too.

“At least we can have some fun waiting for the old bastard to get here.” Lambert spoke under his breath, shifting in his seat. He expected to find a doppler or maybe even a higher vampire mingling with the humans in the tavern.

“Uh, I don’t think so, Lambert.” Eskel nodded in the direction of the door to the tavern. Lambert turned his head to see Geralt of Rivia making his way through the rather busy crowd. Just behind him was a hooded figure. From the stature, Lambert assumed it was a woman, and he was right. The black hood to her cloak was pushed back to reveal waves of Y/H/C hair. She wore many layers and all of them seemed to be dark colors.

“Now, Lambert, there’s no reason to get mad-,”

“No reason?” Lambert repeated, gesturing to Geralt. “This fucker brings someone new every year!”

“Nice to see you too, Lambert.” Geralt joined the two witchers at the table. Lambert shook his head, looking to you as Eskel greeted the White Wolf.

“Glad to see you could make it this year, brother.”

“Yeah, glad you could bring another witch bitch from the Lodge.” Lambert didn’t take his hardened gaze off of you. You were looking around the room like a deer caught in a pack of predators. Lambert could smell your fear.

Your eyes found Geralt. He waved you over.

“Fucking hell, Geralt.” Lambert ran his hand over his face, leaning back in his chair. “Just when I thought maybe you wouldn’t think with your dick-,”

“Fuck off, Lambert.” Geralt snapped. He pulled the chair next to him out for you.

“Thank you.” You spoke quietly, smiling at the White Wolf.

“Don’t you have enough mages already there to pick from? I think you have enough for the whole winter.” Lambert said.

“This is Y/N.” Geralt watched you sit down next to him. He ignored Lambert, knowing it was the best thing to do.

“What? She can’t pull out her own chair?”

“Lambert.” Eskel said his name but it fell on deaf ears.

“So where did dumbass here pick you up at, sweetheart?” Lambert asked. His voice dripped with irritation.

“Um, he…. He, er….” You looked to Geralt.

“She’s on the run from an assassin. Needs somewhere to lay low for the winter.” Geralt explained.

“So your first thought is to take her to Kaer Morhen?”

“It’s the only place she’d be safe.”

Lambert said nothing, rubbing his brow and muttering something under his breath that sounded like curse words.

“Don’t mind Lambert.” Eskel shook his head. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

“Doesn’t like anyone, really.” Geralt added.

“I understand.” You smiled kindly at the witcher that had scars on the left side of his face. “And I greatly appreciate you allowing me to stay for the winter.”

“If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be going to Kaer Morhen.” Lambert pushed himself to his feet. “Neither would dumbass over there.” He gestured to Geralt before leaving the tavern.

You followed him with your eyes, the smiling falling from your lips.

“I’ll go after him.” Eskel sighed. He left you and Geralt alone at the table.

“I-I really hate to be such a burden, Geralt.”

“You are going to Kaer Morhen with me, Y/N. You aren’t a burden.”

“I don’t want to come between you and them.”

“Lambert’s a prick. He doesn’t like anyone.” Geralt stood up. “Are you okay to begin the trek? Or do you need a moment? Once we start, there’s no safe place to stop until we get there.”

You brushed your hand over your stomach. Your small baby bump was hidden beneath many warm layers of clothes.

“We’re okay to travel.” You smiled at him. “Thank you, Geralt, for everything.”

He nodded once and gestured for you to walk ahead of him.

***

Lambert had taken the lead on his horse, a light brown mare. Right behind him was Eskel. You and Geralt were side by side at the back of the little formation.

Geralt wanted to keep you close should anything happen on the journey up the path to the keep.

It was dark outside, a thick fog rested at the foot of the mountain. As you made the ascension, the fog disappeared.

You’d been traveling for more than twenty-four hours. Your hips ached and your head was pounding. You were exhausted and all you wished to do was get down from the horse and go to sleep.

Once you were inside the first gate to the castle, the three witchers climbed down from their horses. Geralt moved to you to help you down. He made sure you were steady on your feet before he took ahold of the reins to your horse.

“We’re almost there.” He told you. He could see how worn you were and he could only imagine how you must’ve felt. You weren’t used to traveling on horseback for very long.

***

“Vesemir! Tell this dumbfuck that he can’t keep bringing in women claiming they need protection!”

The second the large and heavy doors to the castle opened, Lambert was calling out for a man named Vesemir.

“Lambert.” A man with graying hair looked up from something on a table. “Gotta say, I didn’t miss your big mouth.”

“Haha, very funny. But I’m serious.”

“He’s serious.” Geralt repeated, moving towards Vesemir. The two shook hands.

“Who is your guest?” Vesemir nodded towards you.

“Y/N of Cintra.” You moved to stand next to Geralt, your hands clasped together in front of you. You smiled at Vesemir. “Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here. I am very grateful.”

“Y/N is being hunted by an assassin from Nazair.” Geralt explained. “Lambert, take Y/N up to Yennefer’s room. I need to speak with Vesemir.”

Eskel was busy putting the horses away so that only left Lambert.

“She can find it herself.” Lambert muttered, turning to walk away.

“Lambert.” Vesemir said. The young witcher stopped in his tracks, sighing heavily.

“Come on.” He spoke over his shoulder.

You pulled your fur cloak together and started to follow him.

He led you through a few doorways and then started up a large spiral staircase that followed the wall of a tower.

You paused at the bottom of the staircase, looking up and gripping the railing. You weren’t too sure that you’d make it all the way up the stairs. Your free hand came up to hold your stomach. You just needed to get to the top, then you would be able to rest.

You were almost to the top of the stairs when a sharp pain in your back made you stop. You gasped, knuckles turning white as you held on to the railing even tighter.

Lambert heard the quiet noise and turned around to look down at you.

“What? Never been up so many stairs?”

“I’m okay.” You assured him, a tight smile coming to your lips.

You finished climbing up the stairs.

“Don’t get too comfy here.” Lambert turned and started down the stairs again. “Yen’s supposed to be coming. Then we can have a freaking party.” He muttered.

***

Though you were exhausted, you couldn’t bring yourself to lay down and close your eyes. You had taken a couple layers off and now sat on the edge of the bed. You were braiding your hair over your shoulder.

“Swear to the gods. I’ll burn this whole damn place down.” Lambert grunted as he made his way up the stairs. “I’ll burn it down with me inside. Watch me. I don't give a shit.”

You didn’t have enough time to cover your stomach up. The shirt you wore was form fitting and showed off your growing bump.

“Fucking….” Lambert trailed off, nearly dropping the two blankets in his arms.

You picked up one of your cloaks and hastily put it on.

“You- You’re….” He couldn’t seem to get the word out.

“Pregnant.” You nodded gently.

He hesitantly moved to place the blankets on the bed. He crossed his arms and then ran a hand over his face.

“It’s-It’s not Geralt’s. Can’t be.”

“It’s not his. Geralt is simply a good friend.” You explained.

“Right. Right.” Lambert nodded his head. He turned and started back towards the stairs. “Just our fucking luck.”

***

“I mean, what the fucking hell, man!”

The witchers sitting at the table in one of the rooms lifted their heads to look at Lambert.

“Were you going to tell us you brought a pregnant woman here?”

“She doesn’t want many to know, Lambert.” Geralt sighed out.

“Your guest is pregnant?” Vesemir turned his attention to Geralt.

“Her husband was a general for the Cintran army and a good friend. He helped keep Nilfgaard from Ciri. He died a month ago. I promised him that I’d keep Y/N safe.”

***

The next morning, you made your way down the staircase, admiring how the light beamed through windows and gave the tower a warm feeling.

You didn’t remember much of the layout of the castle. You were so exhausted the night before that all you cared about was sleep.

Luckily, you could hear voices as you neared the bottom of the stairs, so you followed them.

“I’m never traveling with her again, Geralt.”

“You’re so dramatic.” A female voice spoke.

You found a group sitting at a table in the corner of a large room. You could recognize each of the witchers and Cirilla, but there was a man and a woman you didn’t know.

The talking fell silent as everyone noticed you.

“Lady Y/N!” Ciri bounded to you, carefully hugging you. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, princess.” You smiled down at her, brushing your hand over her hair.

“Ah! You are the one I’ve heard so much abou!” A man with brunet hair and a rather bright smile approached you, holding his hand out. “Julian Alfred Pankratz. You can call me Jaskier.” He brought your hand up to his lips.

“Everyone calls you Jaskier.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Easy there, bard.” Lambert said. “She’s pregnant.”

Your cheeks flushed and you immediately felt self conscious. You couldn't help but feel afraid and scared, but you reminded yourself that Geralt was here. He wouldn't let anything happen to you.

“Well, you look absolutely stunning, darling.”

“Thank you.”

“Y/N, this is Yennefer and Jaskier.” Geralt introduced, gesturing to both as he said their name. “And you met Vesemir last night.”

“Thank you again for letting me stay. All of you.” You looked at the witchers. “I’m so thankful.”

“We didn’t have much of a say.” Lambert spoke under his breath.

Eskel elbowed him in the side.

“Then I’m even more grateful to be here.”

“Don’t mind Lambert. He’s bitter about everything.” Vesemir sighed. “Have a seat. Y/N. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“Oh, thank you, Vesemir.” You smiled as you sat down at the table beside Ciri. “But I’m not that pregnant yet.”

“How far along are you?” Ciri asked.

“Twelve weeks.” Yennefer answered for you. You turned your head to look at her. “Approximately.”

You remembered hearing that she was a mage, so you didn’t question her. You smiled softly, your hand rubbing your stomach.

“If I may ask, who is the lucky father?” Jaskier asked you, glancing around at the wolves at the table. In the moment, he completely forgot that witchers couldn’t have children.

“Why are you looking at us, chucklefuck?” Lambert spoke.

“He died not too long ago.” You answered with a forced smile. You didn’t want them to feel sorry for you. You didn’t want pity.

“Oh. I-I’m sorry to hear that.”

“How long is she staying here?”

“As long as she needs, Lambert.”

“Why?” Geralt asked Lambert. “Are you going to kick a pregnant woman out into the wilderness of Kaedwen in the middle of winter?”

“Right now, I wanna kick your ass out, Geralt.”

“Quit being such a dick, Lambert.” The White Wolf sighed out.

Lambert shot to his feet, his fist hitting against the table. You flinched from the sound.

“I’m not allowed to get pissed? Huh, Geralt?” He raised his voice. “You bring every fucking woman you come across here to Kaer Morhen! This isn’t some fucking sanctuary for all the troubled women you find! This is our home!”

With that, he stormed across the room and disappeared through a door.

“Geralt….” You whispered, blinking the tears away. Was the witcher really trying to make you feel unwelcome? Was he wanting to make you feel like the biggest burden ever? “I don’t…. I can’t come between you and your brother.”

“You aren’t, Y/N.”

“But he….” You trailed off, looking in the direction Lambert had gone in.

“Y/N, Lambert’s a complicated guy.” Eskel started. “Every time someone new comes here, he flips out and has his dramatic tantrums. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

You nodded your head, sniffling and taking a deep breath through your lips.

“He seems even more of an asshole than usual.” Yennefer commented.

“He’s just on guard because there’s been word that Kiera may come this winter.” Vesemir explained. “I don’t know much, but when they last saw each other it was messy.”

You stood to your feet and smoothed out your cloak. As you turned to walk away, Geralt spoke.

“Where are you going?”

“Just need some fresh air.” You answered with a tight smile.

Note: I don’t even know who to tag for this.... I’m gonna tag those who requested to be on my everything taglist which include @wayward-dream @jennylovelyheart and @romancebibliophilia and then I’m gonna tag @hina-chans-stuff cause I don’t know???? Maybe you might like it??? but probably not cause its complete shit tbh :)

If you want to be tagged in any future specific works (Geralt fics, Yennefer fics, Steve Rogers fics, Tony Stark fics, etc) just let me know! I can add you to my taglists :)

[iam93percentstardust]

2020 Fic Recs Part 1

Hello everyone! If you saw @ad1thi‘s recent fic rec post going around, you know she got the idea from me. I had the idea a few months ago of doing a roundup of my favorite fics from 2020 at the end of the year because, let’s be honest with ourselves, I read a lot over the last twelve months, partially because this year, I really started settling into my own in fandom but mostly because this year was an absolute shitshow and I needed a distraction from everything going on outside my tiny apartment. I know it’s been a hard year for everyone and while there’s hope that next year might be a little better, there’s no guarantee so here are some of the fics that helped me get through this year. I hope you all like them as well.

Fics are organized by month and range over a variety of fandoms and ships. Since some of these are multi-chapters, I’ve organized them according to what date the last chapter posted. This got a little long so I’ve broken this up into 4 parts to be reblogged over the next two weeks.

January

Hope for the Holidays by @aurumacadicus (Winteriron)

Tony never expected to share Christmas with the man who killed his parents, but he's here now, so they should make the best of it.

Woodash and iron and leather by LokelaniRose (Geraskier)

Jaskier is the only person Geralt's ever been around who doesn't smell of fear

Happiness: A Song in Three Parts by @newtypeshadow (Stuckony)

Tony's just a kid when he first hears the music. He's human, no one knows werewolves exist yet, and there's no sexy beefcake couple Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes coming out as werewolves and giving interviews to the press to explain the melody Tony heard sporadically during childhood is what werewolves—and the human mates of werewolves—hear when their soulmate is within a few miles of them.

By the time he finds out what the music means, he hasn't heard a note in years.

And when he finally hears it again, he's busy running for his life.

Heart in Hand by janonny (Stevetony)

Steve had been thinking — that was all he was doing, thinking, not moping, as Bucky described it — about the best way to make his feelings clear to Tony. He wanted it to be perfect. He needed it to be the best demonstration of sincere interest that Tony had ever received.

Bucky called it procrastinating, but Steve called it strategizing.

And this Courting Ceremony? It was perfect.

Now he just needed to figure out what to get Tony as a Courting gift. And what to wear. And what to say. And what to do.

-

Or the story where Tony, an Omega, holds a much belated Courting Ceremony. Steve joins up and loses his mind a little.

something i can treasure by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes (Geraskier)

Jaskier would not call himself a thief. But, well- he is elbow-deep in someone’s saddlebags, pulling up handfuls of pretty little bottles. They’re all filled up with jewel-bright potions, corked delicately, and they almost seem to hum in his hands.

Then, suddenly-

There’s the sharp point of a sword at his neck.

Lock & Key by sablier_bloque (Geraskier)

“Geralt, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” he asked. He clenched his jaw before offering a sharp, mirthless smile. “Because it looks like you got caught fucking the mayor’s wife, and now I’m not getting paid!”

“Well,” he laughed nervously, looking anywhere but up. “When you put it that way.”

In which Jaskier suggests a chastity device to prove himself a worthy travel companion, and of course, gives Geralt the key.

February

A hard curl of satisfaction by LokelaniRose (Geraskier & Yenalt in V-shaped polyamory)

Geralt was taught that a witcher is only good for one thing

Half Agony, Half Hope by @no-gorms (Stevetony)

Following the Battle of New York, the Avengers Initiative kicks into high gear under the leadership of Steve Rogers, i.e. Captain America. Tony didn’t mean to become part of this initiative, but it makes sense to sign on due to his experience with SHIELD and Rhodey’s War Machine suits.

The upside: Tony’s tech can be used in a widespread and meaningful way to help protect people. The downside: the last time Tony saw Steve, he’d rejected Steve’s proposal of marriage and broke his heart, leading to almost ten years of the two having no contact whatsoever. Until now.

when the bones are good by SummerFrost (Geraskier)

Julian is six when he realizes that he's got an astounding capacity for being an annoying bastard. He's seventeen when he finally decides to lean in.

Where There’s a Witcher by ghostinthelibrary (Geraskier)

Jaskier is a twentysomething recently unemployed journalist and amateur musician looking for his big break. So when he’s saved from the jaws of a wyvern by the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, he comes up with a brilliant idea: he’ll follow the Witcher around and sing about their exploits. He’ll gain fame and fortune and Geralt will get a much needed image rehab. Everyone wins.

Unless Jaskier goes and falls in love like an idiot.

my body bruises at your touch by brawlite (Geraskier)

To lure a monster out, Geralt ties Jaskier up, making him look like easy prey. Surprisingly, Jaskier finds himself enjoying his time as bait a bit more than expected.

Do it Again by thisgirlsays22 (Geraskier)

By the twentieth time Geralt has gone through the loop, he decides to just throw himself off the cliff’s edge after Borch.

He wakes up to his twenty-first attempt.

“Fuck.”

The Song of the White Wolf by sospes (Geraskier)

“It’s a wolf, not a dog,” Geralt says flatly.

“It’s hurt.”

“It’s a wolf.”

“I’m helping it,” Ciri says, ignoring him, and turns back to the wolf.

But when is a wolf not a wolf? When it's everyone's favourite humble bard, of course!

March

Even Steel Blades Need Fire by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Geraskier)

Jaskier's given a lot to Geralt over the years, but there's one tiny, insignificant, minor molehill of a thing he's kept back from him.

Namely that Jaskier isn't human.

Mission Accomplished by @riotwritesthings (Winteriron)

Tony has had a terrible, rotten, no good day. Fortunately, he knows exactly what he needs to feel better.

With a Conquering Air by inexplicifics (Geraskier)

From the kinkmeme: AU Warlord!Geralt receives Tribute!Jaskier as a sacrifice to appease him in every way possible. Jaskier has no choice on the matter and he’s fully aware of the awful rumours that have spread about Geralt and his ruthless conquests. (But we all know those aren’t legit.) A classic angst with a happy ending please! A dash of smut to heal those scars and a sprinkle of new found love!

Jaskier arrives at Kaer Morhen knowing his family gave him up without a second thought, and absolutely sure that the dreaded Warlord of the North will value him even less than his own blood did. But the White Wolf and his pack are not what Jaskier expected...and if he's unreasonably lucky, Kaer Morhen might become far more of a home than Lettenhove ever was.

play out a spell in your sequence of chords (to inspire and sharpen our rusted swords) by AceSailorKoshkaRayn

Geralt cocked his head to the side curiously to regard the chittering fox caught in the hunter's trap. The beast had deep chestnut fur and eerily bright blue eyes. He knelt, and the creature hissed at him, baring his teeth in fear.

"I mean you no harm," he rumbled, hands palm-up. His swords were at his campsite, regardless. He reached forward slowly, and the fox didn't move, though it's teeth remained bared. It was a simple matter to pry open the trap, and the fox leapt away, chattering its teeth at him. Their eyes met for a long moment, amber to fantastical blue, and the fox dashed off.

Sighing faintly, hands resting on his knees, Geralt bowed his head tiredly. He rolled his neck to crack it, and rose to his feet to shuffle his way back to his camp.

Set out neatly next to his bedroll were three cleanly gutted rabbits, and Geralt paused in surprise. Roach whinnied softly, and stamped a hoof. A crown of golden wheat rested primly between her ears.

Ah. Fae, then. Services paid for services rendered. Hopefully the fae would consider them even, now, but something in him doubted it.

[king-finnigan]

- The Walls of Kaer Morhen - Part 1 -

Also on AO3 Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

_._

Home.

It’s the first word that flits across Jaskier’s mind, as he looks up at the imposing, grey walls of Kaer Morhen, its countless windows looking down on him.

He doesn’t know why his subconscious decided to use that word – after all, he’s never been here before. He’s not even sure if he’s supposed to be here. The keep was built for Witchers, after all, and he’s certainly not one of them.

Still, there’s something that makes him feel at ease- welcomed, even, as if the very walls of Kaer Morhen are opening their arms, inviting him inside. You’re safe now, little one, it seems to say.

Home.

He’s home.

A light touch at his shoulder startles him out of his reverie, and he looks at Geralt, who’s staring at him, brow tight with worry. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nods, feeling his lips fold into a smile, as he looks back at the keep, the unease of the past few days falling off his shoulders. “I am now.”

The journey up hadn’t been easy, the path leading to Kaer Morhen rough and dangerous, the cold creeping into his skin on the second day and settling there, making him feel like he’d never be warm again, wolves howling in the distance only adding to his discomfort.

And along the way, there had been something there. Something cruel and unkind hovering around him with every step he took, keeping him up at night, urging him to go down the mountain again and never return. It had made its home in his bones, draining him of joy and light, until he felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, a scream bubbling at the back of his throat every waking second.

But he’s here now. And that’s all that matters.

He hoists his pack higher up his shoulder, his stiff fingers clasping at the leather. “Let’s head inside, shall we?”

“You go ahead,” Geralt says, “I’ll put Roach in the stables, first.”

He nods, and starts walking again, the numbness in his toes making him slightly off-balance, his steps uneven like a drunk, as he makes his way to the tall, oak doors of the keep. He pushes one open slightly, shoulders and calves burning with the exertion, and he slips past the threshold.

Home.

A light touch at his shoulder startles him out of his reverie, and he looks at Geralt, who’s staring at him, brow tight with worry. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nods, feeling his lips fold into a smile, as he looks back at the keep, the unease of the past few days falling off his shoulders. “I am now.”

The journey up hadn’t been easy, the path leading to Kaer Morhen rough and dangerous, the cold creeping into his skin on the second day and settling there, making him feel like he’d never be warm again, wolves howling in the distance only adding to his discomfort.

And along the way, there had been something there. Something cruel and unkind hovering around him with every step he took, keeping him up at night, urging him to go down the mountain again and never return. It had made its home in his bones, draining him of joy and light, until he felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, a scream bubbling at the back of his throat every waking second.

But he’s here now. And that’s all that matters.

He hoists his pack higher up his shoulder, his stiff fingers clasping at the leather. “Let’s head inside, shall we?”

“You go ahead,” Geralt says, “I’ll put Roach in the stables, first.”

He nods, and starts walking again, the numbness in his toes making him slightly off-balance, his steps uneven like a drunk, as he makes his way to the tall, oak doors of the keep. He pushes one open slightly, shoulders and calves burning with the exertion, and he slips over the threshold.

Home.

He pushes the door closed behind him, taking a look around as he does so. The entrance hall is large, with long, wooden tables pushed against the grey walls, blocking several unlit hearths – Jaskier doesn’t need to take a closer look to see that no one’s lit a fire in those in a long time. There are a few doors in the far wall, one of which is open, warm light shining through, distant voices reaching him.

As he crosses the hall, he spots a few tapestries, though he can’t really see what they depict, the shadows too deep to distinguish the colours. He vows to himself to take some time this winter to look at them.

He’s finally reached the doorway, and the voices fall quiet as he approaches. Damn Witcher senses. Three pairs of amber eyes are trained on him the second he steps inside what turns out to be a kitchen – a lit hearth in the wall opposite him, wooden countertops stretching out to his left, an occupied table in the middle.

He waves awkwardly. “Hello. Looks like Geralt and I are the last to arrive, then.”

Lambert pulls his eyebrows up, giving him a half-grin. “So it would seem. Geralt’s not this late, usually, but I suppose travelling with a human will slow you down.”

“Don’t be rude. He’s our guest,” Vesemir chastises him, before approaching Jaskier, extending his hand. Jaskier takes it, shaking it once before letting go. “Vesemir. Nice to meet you.”

“Jaskier, and the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I assume you’ve met the others already?”

Jaskier nods, shooting Eskel and Lambert a quick glance. “Yes, we’ve met a few times on the Path.”

Vesemir seems satisfied with that, and motions at the table. “Come, sit down, have something to eat. Warm yourself up, too, lad. You’re freezing.”

Jaskier can’t say no to that, and he sits down next to Eskel, taking the bowl of stew Vesemir hands him gratefully, feeling the warmth seep into his numb fingers. “So, when’d you guys get here?”

Eskel shrugs, accepting his own bowl of stew from Vesemir. “Two days ago. You’re not that late, little bard, don’t worry.”

“And you?” he asks Lambert, who’s already wolfing down his own portion, stopping momentarily to answer with his mouth full, something that elicits an annoyed sigh from Vesemir.

“Yesterday.”

“Hmm. Eskel’s right, little bard,” Vesemir says, as he sits down at the head of the table, and Jaskier briefly wonders why everyone here seems to insist on calling him ‘little bard’ – not that he minds terribly much, it’s just curious. “You’re not that late. It’s still about a week until the first snow.”

A door slams in the main hall, Geralt appearing in the kitchen doorway a minute later, tugging his gloves off and discarding them against the wall with the rest of their bags. “Thought I smelled a few Drowners in here,” he says, grinning as his brothers stand up to greet him, each giving him a tight hug.

“Fuck you too, Geralt,” Lambert says eloquently, and Eskel rolls his eyes, as the three of them sit down at the table, Geralt taking the chair next to Lambert, opposite Jaskier, accepting a bowl of stew from Vesemir.

They fall into easy chatter and banter after that, as the light starts to fade outside the tall windows, night falling over the keep. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the door behind him to the main hall is still open, the darkness that lies beyond making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, as if someone’s staring at him. He’s never been very keen on the dark.

If Eskel notices him shifting a little bit closer, he’s chivalrous enough not to mention it.

Eventually, Vesemir clears the bowls from the table, as Geralt reaches into his pocket for his Gwent deck, Lambert disappearing into the pantry for a few bottles of White Gull.

Jaskier can’t help but frown. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks Vesemir, who smiles at him.

“Don’t worry, little bard, I already ate before you arrived.”

Lambert closes the door to the main hall on his way out of the pantry, and something eases up in Jaskier’s chest.

The rest of the evening passes quietly and companionably, with the Witchers swapping stories from the Path, Jaskier occasionally correcting Geralt when he leaves out a particularly embarrassing detail (“You know, he fell flat on his arse in the mud fighting that griffin. Had to walk through the town to collect his payment with a muddy backside.” “Jaskier, shut up.”) and Geralt correcting him in return when he gets a little too dramatic with the details (“Can you please stop talking about how my hair glistened in the sunlight.” “But Geralt, it’s important that they get the full picture!”).

But eventually, the night comes to an end, and before soon, Jaskier’s yawning, limbs growing loose and heavy with fatigue.

Geralt chuckles softly, standing up from the table, the rest following his lead. “I think it’s time to get the little bard to bed.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Stop calling me ‘little bard’. I’m as tall as you lot.”

“He’s got a point there,” Eskel mutters, and Jaskier smiles at him.

Vesemir clears his throat. “I’ve prepared a room for you next to Geralt’s,” he says.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. Now, off to bed, you lot.”

---

The room is small but cosy, a double bed against the wall opposite the door, a lit hearth and a chair in the corner to his right, and a wardrobe and a desk to his left.

He sighs, dropping his bags on the desk, setting his lute down gently against it. He’ll unpack tomorrow, he’s too tired now.

He undresses down to his smallclothes, quickly washing himself with water from the basin in one of the corners, before crawling under the thick blankets. The fire hasn’t died out yet, and he knows the embers will keep going long enough to last until morning, but still, he can already feel the chill creeping into the room, the wind howling against the stone walls outside the windows.

But it’s warm and cosy under the blankets, weighing his already heavy limbs down even more, pushing him into the soft mattress. He’s comfortable and tired, and he closes his eyes, expecting sleep to take him within minutes.

Except it doesn’t.

An hour later, he’s still awake, frowning up at the barely-lit ceiling, his body refusing to succumb to the haze that already occupies his mind. Though that isn’t anything unusual.

No matter how much he tries to refuse it, the years are catching up to him, old age slowly creeping into his skin. He’s already having trouble walking for days on end, his knees already cracking and aching whenever he has to climb a hill, his knuckles already growing a bit painful when there’s a storm coming in. He’s not the same young man he used to be, even if he still desperately tries to be.

He supposes that’s the reason he was so adamant about coming to Kaer Morhen with Geralt this year. The path up is harsh and demanding, and who knows if he’ll be able to take it next year? Who knows when he can no longer keep up with his Witcher?

Geralt can see it, too, he knows – taking breaks more frequently, steering clear of the mountain ranges to the south, quietly giving him a numbing cream when there’s a storm brewing on the horizon. His Witcher can see the years finally setting in. Maybe that’s why he let Jaskier come along to Kaer Morhen, this year, after refusing him for decades.

Hell, Jaskier can feel the effects of age, even now, as he lies in a comfortable, soft bed. His knees hurt from the journey up, his skin feels thin and dry from the winter air, and his lungs have trouble sucking in enough air.

But so be it. He will take this one winter to explore the vast halls of Kaer Morhen, to collect the stories that reside within these walls and pour them into songs, to find out what this keep has to offer and drink it in like a man dying of thirst.

He will take this one winter, before age finally takes him.

---

He wakes up in the morning when someone knocks at the door. “Jaskier?” he hears Geralt’s voice through the wood. “It’s nearly time for breakfast.”

“Yeah, be there in a minute,” he slurs into his pillow, though he knows Geralt can hear him perfectly fine. Footsteps retract from the door and continue down the hall.

He sighs, pushing himself up and out of bed, shivering when his skin meets the cold air of the room. He quickly washes himself with the water from the basin and hastily dresses in his warmest clothing – though it still isn’t really enough to keep the chill at bay, so he puts a few logs on the embers of the fire, pushing it back to life.

He slips out of the door, shivering when the heat of the hearth leaves his skin, quickly making his way to the kitchen.

Or, at least, he tries to.

He doesn’t really remember which turns Geralt took last night when he led him to his bedroom – it was dark and Jaskier was tired – so it’s no surprise that not before long, he realizes that he should’ve reached the main hall a while ago.

He frowns, turning in circles, taking in the unfamiliar hallway. It looks the same as all the other ones, with high windows that let in plenty of sunshine, cobwebs in the corners, and the occasional door or tapestry breaking the monotony of the grey walls.

He walks to one of the windows, looking outside. He can see a pine forest in the distance, a little ways down the mountainside, the walls of Kaer Morhen stretched out to his left and right. There’s a tower to his left, though, and he figures that, if he can make it up there, he can see where he is more clearly.

So, he starts walking again, further into the keep, his soft footsteps echoing through the cold halls around him.

He stops dead in his tracks when he hears… well, something. He cocks his head, holding his breath as he concentrates.

There it is again, and this time he recognizes it as the rhythmic drag of a whetstone against a blade. He frowns, following the sound to one of the many doors, and he pauses with his hand on the cold, metal knob, listening as whoever is inside continues sharpening the weapon.

He lifts his hand, knocking once, twice, before twisting the door open.

Clouds of dust billow up from the floor by the movement, and he waves his hand around to chase it away, before he really looks at the room that lies beyond.

It’s simple and square, windowless and filled to the brim with racks full of swords, crossbows, daggers, and arrows, though all of them seem to have something wrong with them: knicks taken out of the blades, the point bent this way or that, scratches on the once-shiny metal.

A room full of faulty weaponry.

There’s a thick layer of dust on every surface, cobwebs filling the corners and the spaces between different racks and weapons, the metal dull and rusted in some places.

No one’s been here for a long time.

He frowns, closing the door again. He could’ve sworn he heard someone sharpening a weapon in there, but he supposes it must’ve been just his imagination, or he must’ve misheard it – after all, the wind is still howling outside the keep. Maybe he just heard something on the wind, and his mind just assumed.

He shrugs, setting out again towards the tower he saw earlier.

Eventually, he reaches the end of the hallway, a door right in front of him, another hallway stretching out to his left, and he supposes this must be it – this must be where he can find the tower.

The hallway around him is in a worse shape than the rest of the keep. There’s a thin layer of dust coating the floor and windowsills, a few of the glass panes smashed out, letting in the cold mountain air, making him shiver. The door to the tower is covered in scratches, as if someone’s tried to get in using their sword, and pieces of the stones surrounding it are chipped off, scars marring the smooth surface.

The hallway to his left is empty, shadows shrouding the far end of it in darkness, the stones more worn and scratched up there, too.

Jaskier shrugs, and turns back to the door, reaching his hand out to the knob, ready to twist it open and climb the stairs to the top of the tower.

“Ah! There you are, little bard.”

He startles at the voice, and retracts his hand, looking to his left as Vesemir walks towards him briskly.

“We were worried when you didn’t make it to breakfast.” His large hand lands on Jaskier’s shoulder, a warm and reassuring weight.

He blushes and shrugs. “Ah, well, I sort of got lost, you see.” He nods at the door. “Figured finding higher ground might be my best option.”

Vesemir hums thoughtfully, eyeing the door. “I found you just in time, then.” He turns Jaskier toward himself, both his hands ending up on the bard’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Jaskier. Do not go into the west tower. It’s crumbling apart and highly unstable, it will cost you your life if you go in there.”

He nods. “I understand. I’m sorry I almost did.”

Vesemir smiles, steering him away from the door, leading him back the way he came with a hand between his shoulder blades. “It’s alright, lad, you didn’t know. Just be careful next time, alright?”

---

That afternoon, he finds himself wandering the halls of Kaer Morhen once again, though this time he’s in the east wing, the part of the keep that is used more often and better kept.

Geralt and his brothers are outside, unloading the cart full of supplies Lambert brought from the village below. Jaskier had offered to help, but Geralt had adamantly refused, saying he would just freeze his delicate, human fingers off. They both know it’s because Jaskier’s joints can’t stand the cold, not anymore.

So, he wanders, smiling when he eventually hears the sound of swords clashing coming from the courtyard, the Witchers probably training out there now that they still can – it won’t be long until the first snow starts falling.

He finds the library, eventually, and his mouth falls open in a small gasp.

It’s huge. Rows upon rows of tall bookshelves filled to the brim with neatly organized books, some shelves holding little plaques with their contents – bestiaries, maps, third century history, fourth century history, fifth century history, romance novels – some filled with miscellaneous books that have no place anywhere else – moon phases, anatomy, candle making and so on and so forth. At the end of every row there’s a comfortable reading chair and a small table with an oil lamp, extra chairs and tables cramped in random corners.

There’s one table, close to the entrance of the library, that holds a few books, and Jaskier supposes that must be Vesemir’s reading chair.

He picks out his own chair somewhere in the middle of the library, and dedicates himself to the difficult task of choosing which books to read first.

After a few hours perusing the overflowing shelves, he’s picked out about ten books. He puts nine of them on the small table next to the reading chair, the last one on the windowsill closest to the door, so he can take it back to his room in the evening.

For now, he settles into the comfortable chair, a book with Elvish poetry in his lap, and starts reading

---

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He startles, eyes tearing away from the book to find Eskel at the end of the aisle, leaning against a shelf, arms crossed in front of his chest as he smiles at Jaskier.

It’s quite dark, already, and Jaskier frowns. He hadn’t realized hours upon hours had passed, the sun going down behind the mountains.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Eskel says, still smiling, “but dinner is almost ready. Can you find your way back to the kitchen?”

He clears his throat, raw from disuse. “Right, thank you. And yes, I think I can- it’s just down the stairs to the left, right?”

Eskel nods. “It is. If you get lost again, though, just shout a bit and we’ll come find you.”

He chuckles a bit. “Right, will do, thank you.”

Eskel nods at him one last time, and Jaskier puts a bookmark he found under one of the shelves into the book, the last lines of the poem he was reading still echoing through his mind.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro.

He sighs, laying the book on the table next to him, stretching his arms above him and turning his head, feeling his shoulders and neck pop satisfyingly. He shouldn’t really sit so still for so long – he used to be able to do that, back in Oxenfurt, when he was younger: sit still for hours on end, bent over numerous books as the afternoon passed by. But now, he can no longer do that.

He’ll start rusting if he sits still for too long, one of these days.

He gets up, stretching his back as he walks to the library door. He stops at the last windowsill to get the book he put there earlier to take back to his room, only to find the stone ledge empty.

He frowns, shaking his head. He’d been so sure he put the book right there. But he must’ve been mistaken. He probably just forgot.

So, he walks back to his reading chair, flipping through the pile of books on the table, only to find that it isn’t there, either.

Strange. He doesn’t know where it is, now, so he returns to the romance novel shelf to pick out a new book to read instead, his fingers bumping along the old spines as he considers each title carefully, trying to pick the one that entices him most.

And there it is, right where he found it, the first time he perused these shelves: the book he put on the windowsill.

He frowns again. Strange, indeed, he thinks to himself, as he takes it off the shelf again, turning it in his hands as if the answer to this whole ordeal can be found on its fabric-bound cover.

He shrugs, though, making his way out of the library again. Maybe Eskel just saw it on the windowsill and put it back where it belonged, thinking Jaskier left it there on accident, or something. Yes, that must be it – after all, Jaskier can be a bit… scattered sometimes, but he’s still absolutely sure he put that book on the last windowsill before the library door.

It doesn’t matter. He found it, in the end.

---

Jaskier wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to move.

He frowns at the ceiling, at first, trying in vain to wiggle his fingers and toes, panicking slightly when he finds he can’t, his already malfunctioning lungs constricting in his chest even more, breath coming out in short pants.

He closes his eyes again, taking a few deep breaths – to the best of his ability – to calm himself down, telling himself that it’s nothing, and that it’ll be fine. He’s heard of this phenomenon before from Essi. She told him a few times back in Oxenfurt that she would sometimes wake up unable to control her muscles, and that she would regain control after a few minutes. It’s not uncommon. He’ll be fine.

He sighs deeply, relief flooding him as he moves his fingers a bit, though it still takes a lot of trouble, and his left arm doesn’t really seem to cooperate as well as the right.

He’s not sure if he can move his toes, though, so he opens his eyes, looking at the foot of the bed.

There’s someone sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, breath speeding up as panic and fear course through his veins, coiling in his chest. He stares at the looming shadow in the chair, unable to move, still, as the man shifts, standing up and taking a slow step towards the bed, right hand coming up to clutch at the bedpost, left arm… completely gone.

The fire in the hearth has completely died out, so Jaskier can’t see the man’s features, but the moonlight shining through the curtains is enough for him to see the silhouette of the man as he slowly moves from the foot of Jaskier’s bed to the side of it. And all the while, Jaskier still can’t move his arms or legs- can’t even open his fucking mouth to tell the man to go away or to ask him who he is and what he’s doing here.

The man is right next to him, and Jaskier’s chest contracts as he sobs, trying in vain to get away as the man’s right arm- his only arm stretches out towards Jaskier.

He takes a deep breath, and, with his jaw still clamped shut, he screams.

The door to the room slams open, Geralt’s familiar shape visible against the moonlight streaming in from the hall. “Jaskier! Jaskier, what’s going on?”

He sobs in relief, eyes flitting from his Witcher, rushing to his side, to the suddenly empty spot where the man was just seconds before, trying to explain through his teeth, only succeeding in making a bunch of panicked little noises.

Geralt lights the fire again with a quick Igni, before sitting down on the side of his bed, taking Jaskier’s hand in both of his. “Hey, what’s going on? What happened?”

He sobs again, eyes glued to Geralt’s face, his fingers twitching pitifully in Geralt’s grip.

Geralt frowns at him, then at Jaskier’s hand, and he seems to realize. “Can you move?”

No, Jaskier tries to say, I can’t and there was a one-armed man in my room and I’m scared, Geralt. But his tongue won’t cooperate, and all he manages to produce is a few fearful whimpers.

Geralt shushes him, brushing his hair out of his face, the palm of his hand a comforting weight against Jaskier’s cheek. “It’s alright, Jask. You’re just having sleep paralysis, it’s going to be alright.”

He tries to nod, his head moving up and down jerkily once, as Geralt wipes the tears streaming from his eyes away, murmuring softly, telling him everything’s going to be alright, as Jaskier slowly but surely regains control of his limbs.

“There was a man,” is the first thing he slurs the second he can move his tongue again, heavy hand lifting off the sheets slightly to point towards the other side of the bed. “Right there. I swear there was a man, Geralt-“

“I… I didn’t see anyone,” Geralt tells him, and fresh tears flood Jaskier’s eyes.

“I swear! He was right there, I swear I saw someone-“

“I believe you,” Geralt says, voice soothing and calm, as he wipes the tears from Jaskier’s cheeks again. “I believe you. It’s not uncommon with sleep paralysis to see frightening things. Your dreams were just… spilling over. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Jaskier takes a shaky breath, nodding once, as the panic finally starts to subside. He pushes himself up on shaky arms, slumping forward when he’s finally upright.

“Can-“ he starts, licking his dry lips. “Can I sleep with you tonight? I just… I don’t think I’ll be able to close my eyes in this room.”

Geralt nods, standing up from the bed. “Sure.”

“Hold on,” Jaskier mutters, wiggling his still slightly-numb toes. “I need a few minutes to get my legs working, I think.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums thoughtfully, before bending down and scooping Jaskier out of bed, one arm behind his back, the other under his knees. Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to protest, and simply lays his head against Geralt’s shoulder, shivering slightly as he gets carried into the cold hall.

He looks around Geralt’s room as the Witcher kicks the door shut behind him. It’s the same as Jaskier’s room, though it looks a lot more lived in – a few books on the small desk, an extra pile of blankets on top of the wardrobe, a row of small, wooden animal statues on the nightstand.

Geralt notices him staring as he deposits Jaskier on the bed gently, and shrugs. “Lambert likes to whittle wood sometimes.”

“They’re good.”

Geralt chuckles softly, settling into the bed next to Jaskier, and Jaskier uses his remaining strength to turn onto his side, burying his face into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell him that,” Geralt mutters, “it’ll go to his head. He’ll be even more insufferable.”

He giggles, relaxing into the mattress as Geralt gets his arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he whispers.

“Hmm. Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jask.”

He feels fatigue pulling at his limbs, and he prepares himself to stay awake for another half hour, as usual. But, peculiarly, he slips into sleep easily this time. Whether it’s because he feels safer in Geralt’s arms, because it’s the middle of the night, or because he feels like he can breathe freely, he doesn’t know.

Either way, he could get used to this.

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]. 

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

 ~~

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life—for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

 ~~

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can’t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

~~

I'm...sorry. 

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[mordoriscalling]

The Second Waltz (pt. 4/5)

(Part 1&2  Part 3)

The day after the ball, Jaskier went downstairs half past noon. After all, he had gone to bed well past midnight, which was a sufficient justification for his late arrival to breakfast. Nobody needed to know that he couldn’t fall asleep because thoughts about a certain witcher had kept him awake until it was no longer dark outside.

When he entered the dining room, he found no one there, which wasn’t an unwelcome surprise. The young Viscount sat down at the table and started eating, trying not to revisit the certain memories of the previous day. He didn't want to think about how his family would continue to tease him about his behaviour. 

Just as Jaskier thought that, his father walked in. 

“Oh, Julian!” Lord Pankratz greeted his son cheerfully, “We’re alone, good.”

The words made Jaskier freeze. “What do you mean, father?”

Count Alfred Pankratz sat down across his son. His usual gaiety gave way to seriousness as he answered, “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Jaskier’s studied his father’s expression, looking for any clues as to whether he should be worried. “Has something happened?” he asked. Then, it occurred to him what could be the reason for this conversation – it had taken place before. “Please don’t tell me that scandalous rumours about me are circling around again.”

Lord Pankratz’s dark green eyes twinkled. “Why, dear son,” he replied, “I should say that they erupted like a wildfire after your... spirited dance with Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier looked down at his plate, his cheeks hot. Count de Lettenhove only chuckled, for at this point he knew there was nothing to be done about his son’s untamable nature. In fact, he had grown to appreciate and be fond of that particular trait in his middle child. It was very similar to his wife’s character, and he admired her greatly.

“This is not what we want to discuss with you, however,” he told his son. Letting out a heavy sigh, he went on, “As you know, we’ve been struggling with monsters on our lands for a long time.”

Jaskier nodded. There were many kikimora nests all over the Lettenhove county, and wyverns were a strangely common occurrence as well. No matter how many times witchers were hired to deal with the monsters, the issue returned quickly. Some thought their lands to be cursed.

“After the recent kikimora attack, we’ve come to the conclusion that special measures should be taken,” Lord Pankratz said, “Your mother advised me to write to Master Vesemir of the Wolf School to request aid. Master Vesemir judged our monster infestation problem as rather grave and proposed a certain... lasting solution.” Count de Lettenhove’s hands fidgeted and it suddenly struck Jaskier that his father was nervous. “It would a contract between Lettenhove and Kaer Morhen,” he carried on explaining, “effective for years to come. The witchers of the Wolf School would regularly patrol our lands and kill monsters in exchange for funds. As a way of sealing this contract, one of my children, who conveniently are renowned bards, would enter a... binding partnership with one of the witchers.”

“A binding partnership,” Jaskier echoed flatly.

“Marriage, Julian.”

“Oh,” Jaskier could only say. “With who?”

Lord Pankratz watched him warily. “Master Vesemir chose Geralt of Rivia as the one to be married.” He paused, anticipating some kind of reaction from his son, but there came none. Jaskier only stared at him, his face carefully blank, so the Count went on, “And well, we were very glad to see you and him get along–”

Jaskier rose from his seat so abruptly that the chair fell to the floor. He directed an accusing pointing finger at Lord Pankratz, for he now understood everything. “You! You planned this!” he cried, “You and mother both, and you didn’t tell me a thing! Why?!”

“We know your free spirit,” his father replied, painfully honest, “You would’ve done your best to disappear, had we told you earlier.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, then quickly closed it – he couldn’t deny his father’s words.

Lord Pankratz let out a rueful sigh. “I’m sorry that it has to be you, Julian, I truly am. Yet we simply couldn’t do that to Priscilla, and Essi is a bit too young.”

The Viscount pursed his lips but again found himself unable to disagree. “When?” his ground out, his jaw clenched tight.

There was immense sadness in his father’s eyes as he answered, “Next month.”

“All right, then,” Jaskier replied sharply. He then stormed out of the room and out of the Palace, barely aware of his surroundings. Fury almost blinded him.

 His legs carried him through the gardens, then towards the charming little forest that stood at the end of the grounds adjacent to the Palace. The brisk walk did nothing to help with getting the anger out of his system. In fact, the scorching heat of the day, rather unusual for May, had an opposite effect. Jaskier had to strip out of his doublet and unlace his chemise not to go absolutely mad, and when he finally reached the shade of the wood, he nearly teared up in relief. The Viscount wandered only a bit further, until he reached a small stream. He splashed its water all over his face and neck to cool down, almost soaking his chemise completely. After doing so, he sat down by the nearby oak tree, leaning his back against the massive trunk. Closing his eyes, Jaskier simply breathed in and tried to sort his thoughts.

He believed himself to be a true songbird in everything but physical form. He hated to be caged and always longed to fly free, after all. Being a witcher’s bard was practically a perfect way of living for him – he would gladly bear the tie of the partnership (that wasn’t too constricting anyway) in exchange for the constant travel and new wonders to immortalize in song. The commitment of being married to a witcher, however, displeased him greatly. Jaskier was aware that he was too self-absorbed to be married to anyone without hurting both parties.

The sound of a horse’s snort startled him out of his morose contemplation. Jaskier stood up and searched the surrounding with his gaze... only to see Geralt of Rivia himself, leading a chestnut horse by the reins a short distance away. Both the witcher and the Viscount froze in shock at the sight of each other, and Jaskier couldn’t help but notice that the handsome monster hunter looked even more impressive with the black armour on and the two swords on his back. His white hair caught the sunlight seeping through the trees and his golden eyes seemed to glow as they lingered on Jaskier.

Suddenly Jaskier realised what kind of picture he made – his chemise was still wet and unlaced, so it clung to his body and revealed his chest hair, leaving very little to the imagination. With a brazen smirk, Jaskier straightened his posture and put his hands on his hips, cocking them to the side. The witcher’s gaze followed the action in a rather appreciative manner, briefly roaming over Jaskier’s body before focusing on his face.

The bright gold met the cornflower blue and all at once, the yesterday’s memories of their dancing came back to Jaskier – the heat, the thrill, the breathlessness. Now, however, the experience was tainted with the truth of their situation, and Jaskier couldn’t fight the bitterness in his voice as he asked, “Did you find me satisfactory?”

The witcher let out a confused little “hmm?” that Jaskier refused to find endearing. “Yesterday, when we danced,” he clarified, “Did you deem me good enough to marry?”

Geralt of Rivia scowled formidably. “I didn’t know it was you,” he replied, “And I didn’t know about the arrangement either.” These words made Jaskier scoff. “I swear,” the White Wolf insisted with a growl, “If they’d told me, they wouldn’t have found me ever again.”

Jaskier strangely found comfort in this. The anger in him deflated as he let out a slow breath. He eyed his future spouse wearily, taking in his armour, swords and horse again.

Then, an idea struck him.

“We really could run away.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier as if he went insane. Then, he deadpanned, “Don’t tempt me.” Intrigued, Jaskier was about to say something, but the witcher spoke first, “We need this contract. Kaer Morhen is falling apart and we haven’t got the funds to properly restore it. My reputation, too...” he trailed off, then huffed. “I need a bard.”

As if that explained everything, the White Wolf tugged at his horse’s reins and started walking ahead, not even sparing Jaskier a glance. Jaskier, wholly overtaken by the urge to execute his brilliant idea, wouldn’t be ignored. He jogged up to the witcher’s side and stood in his way.

“Let’s run away,” he said.  

Geralt looked at Jaskier like he was the most vexing creature in the world. Jaskier, not cowered by the White Wolf’s furious stare, added, “For just a fortnight.”

This, Jaskier could see, made the witcher’s resolve crack slightly, so he pressed on, “We will leave no note, send no letters, just to make them mad with worry so that they will repent for the secrecy.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll have enough coin to cover all the costs of travel.”

“Fuck.”

“I won’t be but a silent backup –”

“Fine.”

The witcher’s irritated grunt made Jaskier beam. His happy grin seemed to placate Geralt somewhat. “Let’s meet at the stables after dinner, then,” he said.  

“Pack light,” Geralt grumbled.  

This made Jaskier smile even more.

A few hours later, the Viscount finally got introduced to the rest of the special guests. He found that Lady Yennefer was just as terrifying as she looked, and Lady Triss and Mister Eskel were both amicable and overall a wonderful company. Jaskier’s sisters appeared to think so as well, since although they stayed wary of Lady Yennefer’s merciless wit, Priscilla seemed to have made fast friends with Lady Triss, while Essi and Eskel were clearly quite taken with each other. As regarding the latter development, Jaskier decided that he and the Wolf witcher will have words soon, for he wasn’t sure he could allow his dearest, sweetest, seventeen-year-old Poppet to leave for the Path just yet.

That conversation was to come later, however. First, there was the escape. After Jaskier and his family ate dinner with their four special guests, both the Viscount and the White Wolf excused themselves before they joined the rest for the evening. Jaskier said that he had to fetch his lute, while Geralt announced that he would first check on his horse, for the mare had seemed unwell. What Jaskier did go to grab was actually both his lute and his travel pack, and Geralt’s horse (named Roach, for reasons Jaskiers couldn’t begin to fathom) in truth seemed to be in good health as she carried them both away from the Palace.

Jaskier was almost heady from the success of the little scheme but his joy didn’t last long. As they stopped in the fields for the night and lit the bonfire, Lady Yennefer portalled into the middle of the campsite, almost giving Jaskier a heart attack. Geralt had failed to mention that apparently, sorceresses could make use of what was called “tracking spells”.

“What is the meaning of this?!” she thundered.

The White Wolf only smirked and pointed to Jaskier. “It was his idea,” he said.

Jaskier gasped at the betrayal. He was about to call Geralt a bastard but then Yennefer’s lightning-like eyes were on him, taking away his ability to speak.

“Mister Pankratz,” the sorceress addressed him, her voice calm but with a detectable threat undreneath, “your family are worried sick. I’m asking you to go back home on their behalf.”

“I will not,” Jaskier mustered a reply. Yennefer narrowed her eyes at him but he only raised his chin defiantly. “If you’d be so kind, Lady Yennefer, please pass my deepest, sincere apologies on to my sisters. Please also tell my parents that they can expect me back home in two weeks’ time. This –” he gestured at the campsite vaguely “– is what I believe to be the best way to get to know my future spouse and the reality of our approaching, arranged partnership. It’s an opportunity which my parents denied me, for they told me nothing about the marriage until this morning, and I refuse not to seize the chance now that I’m here.”

To his surprise, Yennefer relented.

At the beginning of their travels, Jaskier and Geralt learned all the ways in which they were incompatible. Jaskier was a flurry of music and motion, which assaulted Geralt’s sensitive witcher senses. Moreover, Jaskier kept complaining about the discomforts of the Path and camping in the wild, and his incessant whining, together with all the noise he made, irritated Geralt beyond belief. The witcher was at the end of his tether at all times, which made him quick to snap at Jaskier for any reason. Jaskier bore Geralt’s bad temper up to a point but as days passed, the witcher’s prickliness was beginning to put him off more and more. Geralt also didn’t engage in any kind of conversation with “his” bard, and the witcher’s dismissive silences were perhaps what hurt Jaskier the most.

By the end of their first week together, they could barely stand each other’s company. They were both in a foul mood, as their forcedly-shared future was looking rather bleak, but then something happened that kick-started a change in their dynamic – Geralt took a contract to get rid of a noonwraith. The pay for the job seemed meagre even to Jaskier but the White Wolf accepted only half of it. When Jaskier asked him why he had done that, the witcher replied, “Look around. This village is so poor that I’m surprised they collected as much money as they did.”

It was at this moment that Jaskier realised that the White Wolf was kind. He was kind and willing to sacrifice his well-being to protect others, even if they spat at him and called him a Butcher. When Geralt returned wounded to their camp after the hunt, he only laid down on the ground without a word, and Jaskier’s heart broke a little.

“Geralt,” he asked, “what do you need?”

“Silence,” the witcher grunted. After some time, he added, “And the black potion in the green veil.”

Jaskier hurried to fetch it as quietly as he could. From that point on, Jaskier started learning how not to be so self-centred – he stayed silent when he noticed that the witcher couldn’t stand his chatter anymore and tried to complain less. Geralt noticed this and thanked Jaskier for it in his own way, by making sure that his bard was as comfortable as it was possible and gracing Jaskier with instances of his dry humour. Jaskier actually found Geralt quite hilarious. Soon, the two were trading quips and barbs with ease, and the rest of their journey was marked by jokes and challenging stares.

“You know, Geralt,” Jaskier said when they were approaching the Lettenhove Palace, “I can’t wait for our first-second dance. I’m sure you’ll allow me to lead this time, won’t you?”

Geralt only hmmed as he held Jaskier’s gaze, his golden eyes making Jaskier short of breath.

TBC

Part 5

***

A/N: My god, these two dumbasses. I love them. This fic wasn’t supposed to get that long but well... what can you do? XD Tagging @siriusly-the-best-bi and @sometimesiwrite. Part 5 hopefully coming later today. 

[jaskierswolf]

The Howling of Wolves pt.1/3

Summary: After wintering with the witchers at Kaer Morhen, Geralt and Jaskier are back on the road. Only it appears someone has taken notice of Geralt's strange string of companions. Jaskier finds himself in trouble and it's up to the wolf pack to save him before it's too late.

TW for the whole story: Angst with happy ending, kidnapping, mentioned previous child abuse, mentioned torture (but off page), Major character injury and recovery, canon typical violence

Previous Stories - Shifter!Jask AU

Jaskier was bored. Geralt had gone out to hunt a werewolf and Jaskier hadn’t really felt like joining him. He found hunts for werewolves a little too close to home but he understood why Geralt was asked to hunt them. Werewolves were very rarely in control of themselves when they turned. They became overwhelmed with bloodlust and rage when they got too close to humans.

Still.

Jaskier couldn’t help but feel sorry for those he viewed as a sort of cousin. Geralt tried his best to cure the werewolves of their lycanthropy when they wanted it, and he would avoid killing them at all costs. Jaskier had been thrilled to learn this had been the case even before Geralt had met Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled soppily at the thought of his friend and lover as he adjusted the peg on his lute. One of the strings had snapped the night before whilst he’d been playing and left him with a rather nasty slice to his palm. Luckily he healed faster than your average human so the wound hadn’t bothered him all that much but changing his lute strings was always a fiddly inconvenience.

He sighed as he plucked the string, testing it against the others until he was satisfied that it was all tuned correctly. He strummed the strings one last time to check the intervals between the notes. The chord rang out in the small tavern room that he shared with Geralt. He smiled and then dampened the sound with the palm of his hand and put his lute away.

The good people of this settlement only knew Jaskier as the bard that travelled with Geralt. They hadn’t yet met Mister Fuzzball or Dandelion the dog so Jaskier had played a set before and after his dinner and then retired to his room after the string had snapped. He had hoped that Geralt would have returned at some point during the night but he’d woken up just as alone as he had the night before.

“Stupid witcher.” He grumbled to himself. “Should have left with Lambert or Eskel. Serves him right for taking too long.”

He sighed.

That wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t but it was easier to be grumpy at Geralt than to consider the fact that his partner had been injured whilst he wasn’t there to help.

That and he was lonely.

After a whole three months of being hauled up at Kaer Morhen with a whole pack of witchers and not a moment alone, he was finding the silence disturbing, and he missed the others.

At least he still had Geralt. The silver-haired witcher and love of his life didn’t appear to be getting sick of him yet which was, in itself, nothing short of a miracle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d anyone who’d stuck around for so long. Apart from maybe his nurse as a child, but then his parents had been paying Lila so did she really count?

He frowned.

Of course she counted. She’d been his only friend in that godforsaken castle. He was just being sad and dramatic.

“Right. Breakfast.” He muttered and ran a hand through his hair. “Come on, Jask. Stop moping about.”

And maybe Geralt would be waiting for him downstairs.

That thought put a smile on his face so he pulled on his shimmering turquoise doublet and made a half-hearted attempted to do it up before heading downstairs. He took the steps two at a time, not caring that he was only setting himself up for disappointment. He had hope and he was clinging onto it like a dog with a bone, and he would know about that.

He’d never quite understood the bone cravings he had when he was a dog but like most things about his animal forms, he didn’t really question it.

He stopped, frozen solid, when he reached the bottom step and his eyes spotted a familiar figure in the corner.

Geralt.

With a coppery coloured ferret sat on the table in front of him. 

Jaskier gaped at the sight. That imposter didn’t even look anything like him!! Geralt was seemingly talking to the ferret and was so focussed on the creature that he didn’t notice Jaskier sneaking around the outside of the room until he could hear what his witcher was saying.

“Would you stop biting me?” Geralt rolled his eyes and poked the ferret on his head between the ears.

Jaskier. Was. Offended!

Yes the slithering bastard had blue eyes which was strange in normal ferrets but that didn’t look anything like his ferret form!

He snorted and crossed his arms.

The sound finally drew the attention of Geralt who stared at him with a furrowed brow and then looked back at the ferret on the table.

“You’re not Jaskier.” He said rather bluntly to the ferret. It chattered and bit Geralt’s hand, enough to draw blood.

“Shit.” Geralt cursed and pulled his hand away sharply before picking the creature up by the scruff of its neck and dumping it on the floor.

Jaskier tilted his head at his partner and smirked. “Hello Geralt.”

Geralt swore again and pressed his palm to his forehead. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier licked his lips and flicked his fringe from his eyes. At least Geralt had the decency to look ashamed of his mistake. “Making friends are we?” He let out a peal of laughter as the absurdity of the situation of the situation hit him.

“Shut up.” Geralt grumbled and stared unrelentingly at his drink.

Jaskier grinned and slid down onto the bench next to Geralt. He leant against the witcher and pulled the drink away from him.

“Get your own.” Geralt tried to pull it back and ale slopped over the edge of the tankard.

“Oi!” Jaskier shook his hands, droplets flying onto the table, then he grinned and smeared the ale down Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled.

Jaskier pouted and kissed Geralt’s cheek. “Yes, dearest?”

“Fuck off.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.” He mimicked his partner’s gruff voice and then patted the witcher on the shoulder. “You, sir, are just grumpy because I caught you talking to a ferret, which, I might add, looked nothing like me.”

“He was brown and had blue eyes. It looked exactly like you.” Geralt snapped.

Jaskier smirked and cupped his witcher’s face. “I’m sorry for laughing, love, but you have to admit it is amusing.”

Geralt’s frown softened and his leant into Jaskier’s touch. “Just don’t tell Lambert.” He mumbled.

Jaskier pressed his lips to Geralt’s forehead and grinned. “No promises!” He jumped and ran from the tavern before Geralt could catch him.

“Jaskier!” He heard Geralt’s shout from behind him.

He laughed gaily as he ran from the witcher. He wasn’t in any serious danger from Geralt, that would be ridiculous but Geralt was not above wrestling him to the ground and tickling him.

And he was fucking ticklish.

Of course, if he’d stayed put in then Geralt probably wouldn’t have acted. Around other people he still acted like the stoic witcher that everyone else seemed to think he was. Jaskier scoffed. Perhaps it was because of his animal side but Geralt had always been more than that to Jaskier. He’d been so desperate for the soft affection from the cat he’d met on the fence and allowed Jaskier to travel with him for weeks as a variety of animals. Geralt had been aching for companionship.

How anyone could think he was an unfeeling monster was beyond Jaskier, then again people would think he was a monster too if they knew what he really was.

There was a sharp pain in his neck and Jaskier reached up with his hand. HIs finger tips brushed against a feather. He pulled at the dart and peered at it carefully.

“Fuck.” He grumbled and tried to shift but he couldn’t. His magic was trapped. “Oh no, no no no.” He closed his eyes and tried harder but it was useless. He was useless and his muscles were getting heavier. “Geralt!” He called but his voice was weak already.

He stumbled and fell against a tree. It would be ok. Geralt would chase him, he always did. Even if Jaskier fell unconscious then he wouldn’t be taken. Geralt would make sure of it.

“Geralt…” He mumbled as his vision started to darken around the edges. He hugged the tree as he knees buckled. Whatever was in the dart was acting quickly, the effect it had on his magic was troubling. Whoever was attacking him knew.

“Bollocks.” He slurred as he fell to the ground.

_________

Geralt snarled at the human in front of him. No sooner had Jaskier taken off than Geralt had been cornered by a snivelling scholar who was begging him to take a contract. Geralt had tried to decline politely, or at very least postpone until he could get Jaskier back. He knew the shifter would be wondering where he was, he always followed Jaskier when he ran off like this. It was a sort of game, Jaskier liked to lure Geralt into the light especially when he was being moody and Geralt had a habit of forgetting how to enjoy himself.

He was getting better at that with Jaskier’s help.

“Please, witcher.” The man grabbed onto his hand.

Geralt pulled away with more force than necessary. “I said no. Now excuse me, I have to find my bard.”

To Geralt’s surprise the man laughed. “Oh you won’t find him.”

Geralt spun round and glared at the man who was no longer a snivelling mess. He’d straighten up and was now smiling a sinister grin that made Geralt’s blood run cold.

“What the fuck?” He looked back at the door. “Fuck! Jaskier!” He ignored the man in favour for charging after his partner, but sure enough Jaskier was nowhere to be seen.

Geralt focused his senses to search for Jaskier’s footsteps running away from the tavern. Geralt pulled his sword from its scabbard and followed the light-footed prints in the dirt until something else drew his attention. There was a bright blue and green feather on the floor by the edge of the trees and he caught a whiff of Jaskier’s chamomile scent pressed against the bark. He sniffed again to be sure. He could almost see Jaskier’s form pressed up against the tree, on the floor were scuff marks around the feather. Something, or someone, had been dragged. The feather had almost been buried in the dirt.

Geralt reached down to pick it up, the tip was glistening and had been coated in some kind of poison.

“Fuck.” Geralt said again. “Why didn’t you fight back?” Geralt asked Jaskier as if he were still here. “Unless the poison stopped you from shifting…” He considered, “but no one else knows.”

“That’s where you’re wrong witcher.” The man from before laughed and Geralt saw red.

He had the man pressed against the tree and his sword to his throat before the man could even blink. “What have you done with him?” Geralt growled. “I swear to all the gods, if you’ve hurt him.”

“Not I.”

Geralt pushed the blade harder against the man’s neck until a bead of blood oozed under the edge of his sword. “I would be very careful about your next words.”

“Your bard got careless, witcher.” The man mumbled. He didn’t even smell of fear which was not a good sign.

Geralt stayed silent and narrowed his eyes at the man.

“We’ve been trying to find him for years but there wasn’t a trace. Changing his name was clever, but recently there’s been reports of a witcher that sometimes travels with a cat, sometimes with a dog that can turn into a wolf, mutant witcher dogs?” The man scoffed. “Does anyone actually buy that shit?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Geralt growled.

“And sometimes you travel with a bard.” The man finished with a serene smile. “Young Julian always did love poetry and music.”

Geralt scowled. “Julian?”

The man laughed. “He never told you his true name? Oh and I thought he cared.”

Geralt snapped. His blade slashed and blood splattered and the man crumpled to the ground.

“Fuck!” 

_____

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