#the witcher ficlet

[stangalina]

Jaskier has found a very effective method of diffusing tense situations involving Geralt and the various dimwitted and judgemental humans they're forced to interact with.

Unfortunately, enacting this method has about a fifteen percent chance of earning him a knee to the sternum afterwards.

Though it is usually worth the risk, since this method works one hundred percent of the time.

The method is thus:

Sit on him.

It works like a charm.

Allow me to elaborate.

It's very difficult to be scared of someone, no matter how intimidating their features or bone-chilling their stare, when they just sit still and do not question a fully grown man flopping down onto their lap. It does wonders for a tense prejudiced atmosphere inside a tavern. Given, the mood only changes from tense to confused. But confused isn't planning to stone them both out of town so he'd consider it a win.

Getting to sit on Geralt's leather clad and very impressive thighs is also a win in of itself, obviously. The knee to the gut only comes if he pushes his luck or gets too handsy.

Different variants of this method also work. Such as wrapping himself around Geralt's abdomen like a stray piece of seaweed so the merchant will stop looking like he's about to piss himself and actually catch his breath long enough to sell them something.

Murmurs of Witchers being infested with infectious diseases can be silenced by Jaskier grasping Geralt's chin while talking to him in a show of feigned annoyance. Perhaps a gentle touch to the cheek if he's feeling tender, or a light tap on the nose to be playful.

Depending on how Geralt is feeling, he will either ignore Jaskier, or play along. It doesn't matter which one he chooses, as the method still works either way.

It's the people equivalent of putting a collar on a wolfhound and having its lead be held in the mouth of a perfectly groomed poodle wearing boots and a waistcoat. No less dangerous. But a hell of a lot less intimidating.

And if Jaskier is secretly using this method as an excuse to get Geralt more comfortable with physical contact for totally innocent reasons, then that's nobody's business but his own.

[fangirleaconmigo]

Geralt pointed at Dandelion and back to himself. “This snuck up on me you know.”

Dandelion tossed back a gulp of wine and set the glass down so he could stretch and look out over the countryside. “Did it now? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It’s true! Sometimes I’ll still look over at you buck naked or something and think, holy fuck. Me and Dandelion huh?” He chuckled and caressed Dandelion’s hand on the bench between them.

Dandelion snorted derisively. “Twenty years is a slow sneak, my love.”

“Oh, like you knew,” Geralt said.

Dandelion sniffed. “I did. I was just waiting for you to remove your head from your asshole.”

“Please,” Geralt gestured dismissively. “It’s like you always say. Love is an incomprehensible fucker.”

“I most certainly do not say that. If I did, I wouldn’t be very good at my job would I? Love is like a pear.”

“Yeah yeah. Come closer then and let me take a bite.” He grinned with a soft predatory glint.

Dandelion scooted over. “Well alright you sweet talker.” He planted a kiss on Geralt’s forehead.

“Not there,” groused Geralt, hand comfortably stroking Dandelion’s back.

“Oh,” said Dandelion. “Fine.” And he kissed Geralt on the nose.

Geralt made a noise of complaint.

“Alright,” said Dandelion. “You win.” He rewarded Geralt with a tender, scorching kiss on the lips.

Geralt withdrew from the kiss with a lopsided smile. “That’s it.”

Dandelion laughed. “Happy anniversary my love.”

“Happy anniversary sweetness.”

[ladyannemarie5]

Jaskier graduated summa cumme laude from the most prestigious university on the continent. He acts like a superficial and disinterested bard all the time, but from time to time he acts like what he is, a master of the 7 liberal arts: Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Geometry, Arithmetic, Music and Astronomy.

Geralt doesn't notice this until Radovid shows up.

Every now and then Jaskier would blurt out a nonsensical comment that usually isn't meant for anyone, other than Geralt with his great ear, to hear.

The prince, hears everything that comes out of the bard's mouth and it is surprising when he laughs at whatever Jaskier said to the bard's amazement. Most amazingly, Radovid responds with another nonsensical comment that makes Jaskier laugh.

Geralt looks at them with a frown. Jaskier stops his laughter and eagerly asks the prince if he has read the philosopher he was apparently quoting. Radovid launches into a story of how his private tutor forced him to read the philosopher and he subsequently became enchanted with the man's writings and read his work for his own pleasure.

The more they travel, the more that happens. It turns out that the apparent nonsense Jaskier occasionally spouted is actually quotes, references and facts from philosophers, poets, astronomers, mathematicians, etc., that he was taught in college or read himself. Radovid responds to each of them with charm and delight, because apparently, Radovid has read them all as part of his royal education.

Geralt is not jealous. He isn't. No matter what Ciri and Yennefer say. He just doesn't like being out of the joke, doesn't like both of them acting like others aren't there and having to listen to their academic conversations when no one but them seems to care.

He just doesn't like that Jaskier smiles like never every time Radovid quotes an old poet of yesteryear that no one but them has read, as if it's an inside joke, because there should be no secrets in their group. He also doesn't like it when Jaskier laughs so loud because that can attract monsters. He hates that Jaskier sits next to Radovid every night talking about boring books because they are mere humans and if something attacks them, then both will be in danger and Geralt will only be able to save one (cof cof Jaskier), it's simple strategy. And absolutely not jealous because the bard now asks the prince for his advice when he writes songs, it's just that was something that used to de-stress Geralt and now he can't sleep well anymore. It's simple comfort.

But it all finally goes to shit when Jaskier turns down Geralt's invitation to spend the winter in Kaer Morhen because stupid Radovid invited him to his castle on the coast where he apparently has the best collection of maritime astronomy on the continent.

Geralt spends all that winter stuck in the library of Kaer Morhen reading anything that might interest Jaskier other than bestiaries. He tries very hard not to think about his bard and the prince huddled in front of the fire looking up at the stars until late at night drinking wine, getting closer and closer and closer until…

No. He won't allow it. When he sees Jaskier in the spring, he'll be sure to casually mention everything he read in winter, he'll make a fool of the prince when Geralt shows his bard the ancient books he brought him from the Wolf school library (not that Vesemir needs to know what came out of his precious library).

He'll graduate summa cumme laude from freaking Oxenfurt if it means getting his bard's attention again.

[slumberingcorpse]

Imagine if instead of cats being terrified of witchers, they instead loved witchers? I can just picture Lambert just walking into a town with an army of cats that he’s gathered just to cause utter chaos. (Yes, he has tried to train all of his cats to attack people he doesn’t like. He gave up after a week). Every time, Eskel sleeps in a barn or stables he wakes up with a whole colony of stray cats sleeping on him causing him to often get up late since he doesn’t want to disturb their sleep. He also makes sure to feed them any chance he gets. Geralt would constantly lose his mind during hunts since kittens will start to pop out of nowhere wanting attention and he will have to kill monsters while protecting each cat. As for Vesemir, he busies himself with building cat trees for all the cats that wander into Kear Morhan and treat them as more of his children. He gave them all names and makes clothes, toys (Made with the purest of cat nip), and beds for all of them. Some of them even have small versions of the wolf medallions as collars.

[inanoldhousewrites]

Geralt limps.

Of all the changes between this journey and all their others, this is the thing that stands out to Jaskier. Not the new Roach, not Milva striding beside them, not the fact that instead of wandering wherever the next contract calls them they have an urgent mission, not the fact that everything is different about their relationships to Yennefer. No, it is only this fact.

Geralt limps.

When they first started traveling together, Jaskier was the one who was prone to limping: his boots were truly not made for traversing long distances. Blistered abounded, accompanied by the occasional misstep leading to a tender ankle. But Geralt, would tred on, surefooted as anything.

This time, Geralt limps.

Geralt has been one of the constants in Jaskier's life, one of the unchangeable facets. Find Geralt, follow him, sing about him, never doubt him for a second. Jaskier used to be able to keep time by Geralt's sure and consistent footfalls.

But now, Geralt limps.

As a witcher, Geralt's healing is both accelerated and magnified, bolstered by his potions, which would kill a normal man. Jaskier once saw Geralt stuff his own entrails back into his body and sew the wound shut. His ability to heal from almost anything was as unquestionable in Jaskier's mind as the sun rising.

And yet, Geralt limps.

Jaskier was a young man when he first met Geralt, and in the ensuing decades has not been untouched by time. He wakes with aches now, stiffness that would have been unthinkable in those early days. The road of aging stretched before him, the inescapable path of slowing, weakening, and eventually having to stay behind, while Geralt, seemingly unaging, walked on.

But instead, Jaskier walks easily and Geralt limps.

Geralt has always had one unswerving objective: walk the Path. Kill monsters, collect coin. Nothing could move him from the Path, not adoring bards, not alluring sorceresses. And then a young princess compelled him to walk a different path. She became the sole objective. It is to her that Geralt is going, and nothing will keep him from her, not time, not injury, not as long as he has breath. And where Geralt goes, Jaskier is determined to be by his side.

So Geralt limps on and Jaskier keeps pace behind him.

[thedemonofcat]

When Jaskier was just a week old, he encountered Death. From his crib, Death gazed upon him and softly uttered, "Not yet, little one."

At the age of seven, when the family dog fell ill, Death visited Jaskier once more. His parents couldn't provide solace for the pet's passing, but Death did.

In a bar, where Jaskier crossed paths with Geralt, Death observed from afar, wondering what would transpire next.

True to his name, Jaskier brimmed with vitality, like a beautiful yet toxic buttercup. This was why Death found itself fond of Jaskier, preventing his premature fading away.

A sword to the stomach, a sacrifice to protect Ciri, should have been Jaskier's end. When Death finally came to claim him, Jaskier had led a fulfilling life filled with joy and music, albeit tinged with loneliness.

Just as Death had done when Jaskier was a babe, it gently whispered, "Come now, little one, it's time to go." Death hoped to bring peace to the Dandelion they had grown to love.

But the growl of the white wolf, Geralt, begged Jaskier to stay, as Geralt asked Jaskier to remain.

Death and life had cherished each other but could never be together. Yet, life sent Death gifts, and Death treasured them all. Now, it was Death's turn to offer a gift to life. So, Death entrusted Jaskier to the safety of his vibrant existence.

From a distance, Death watched as Jaskier recovered, surrounded by his family: Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer—all very much alive.

[cybernecromancer365]

Yennaia Ficlet

A.N. Quick bare bones scene I wrote to get used to the characters. I’d love some feedback about how they sound because I’m not sure if I’m getting it right. Also this is supposed to be post season 3, in a world where Tissaia lived. I'll probably use this for my story later.

---

There were two knocks at her door.

“Come in.” Tissaia said, knowing only one person dared to visit her this late. Outside her window a black, starry sky hung over Aretuza.

The door opened and Yennefer stepped in. Tissaia softly smiled, glancing up then back to her book. “You’re back late.”

Yennefer crossed the room with a quiet sigh and stopped at her bedside. “We…may have to do some damage control.”

Tissaia quickly looked up, a jolt rushed through her and a shiver down her spine at the sight of blood running from the right side of Yennefer’s neck down the front of her black shirt.

Tissaia shut the book, threw back the bedcovers, and got up, her hands reaching for Yennefer’s waist—

She pulled them away with a start at the cold wetness soaked to the right side of Yennefer’s shirt.

“That too.” Yennefer said coolly and Tissaia’s eyes widened at the red on her palm.

“What on earth happened?”

“A…misunderstanding…of sorts.” Yennefer smirked a little. “Jaskier called it a bar-gument. Get it?”

Tissaia didn’t share her chuckle, only eyed her with a furrowing brow.

“You don’t find that funny…” Yennefer averted her gaze and cleared her throat. “It really wasn’t that bad—”

“You’re covered in blood.”

Yennefer stepped away with a grin. “But I’m fine. You know I can’t die.” Yennefer uncapped the decanter on Tissaia’s desk and poured the wine left from their early dinner into an empty glass nearby.

“And now do they?”

“…” Yennefer took a swig and shrugged. “I don’t think they’ll care. They’ll probably forget what they saw by morning.”

“And what exactly did they see?”

Yennefer took another swig, deeper, and Tissaia hurried over, grabbing her wrist, taking the cup from Yennefer's hand. “What’s wrong with you?” She set the empty cup to the desk quick and grabbed Yennefer’s chin. “Let me see your eyes.” Yennefer’s dilated pupils answered her concerns. “What did you take?”

Yennefer searched for a refute.

“Don’t lie to me. You know I can pull the truth out of you if I want.”

“I do.” Yennefer smirked and went to grab Tissaia’s waist but the Rectoress pushed her hands away.

“What did you take?”

“Have you ever heard of Fisstech?”

Tissaia’s eyes widened.

“Harmless, really. It was Jasi’s idea.”

“Jasi?”

“He told me I should loosen up.” Yennefer softly smiled at the end and poured another glass. “It doesn’t have much effect on me.” She downed her second cup of wine.

Tissaia pulled apart the fastenings on Yennefer’s shirt, opening the collar more. A few were already undone, and a part of the shirt flap hung open. She tip-toed to inspect the cut to Yennefer’s jugular, noting the younger woman’s twitch at her touch.

“So, the story…we wanted a bit of fun, danger—”

“Danger?”

“So we end up at this Nilfgaardian bar—”

“What?” Tissaia had Yennefer’s shirt in her fists. “Are you insane?”

Yennefer quieted.

“They kill Aretuzans.”

“They didn’t know I was one…until the fight—”

“In which you what?” Tissaia raised her voice slightly above normal.

“Jaskier got into it with an off duty member of Emhyr’s guard. One petty argument led to the next, and that led to a brawl. I stepped in to help, blew the guy across the room. And then half the bar came for me. One guy surprised me, tried to cut my throat. Of course blood went everywhere, but when I didn’t die…”

With a small huff, Tissaia finished undoing the last fastening on Yennefer’s shirt. She took the mage’s glass and pulled the shirt off, arm by arm. “Go sit by the fire.” She nudged her in the direction of the fireplace and Yennefer obeyed the order, sitting then stretching out to lay—

“Not when you’re covered in blood.”

Begrudgingly, Yennefer sat up. She longed to stretch out on the warm bear pelt rug in front of the fireplace. In the background, Tissaia whispered a spell over a bowl in her hand.

“I’ll regenerate. You know I’ll be fine.”

Tissaia brought over two bowls and a couple of towels. She knelt at Yennefer’s side, dipping the corner of the cloth into water that rippled iridescent colors. Carefully she pressed along Yennefer’s skin, wiping the dried blood from the wound on Yennefer’s neck. The gaping gash had already healed some. By morning it would likely be gone.

Yennefer leaned back with a small blissful smile touching her lips at Tissaia’s soft strokes across her skin. The solution stung when it seeped into the open wound but she barely flinched. Yennefer tested her luck and laid on her good side, resting her head in the Rectoress’s lap.

“Why do you take care of me?”

“Keep coming back like this and you’ll be cleaning these yourself.”

Tissaia didn’t mean that, Yennefer knew.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to know…”

“Hm.”

 Yennefer closed her eyes. “Why did you stop calling me piglet?”

Tissaia was quiet for a moment. “We both know you’re much more than that.”

Yennefer took Tissaia’s hand from her neck, kissed it, and let go.

Tissaia moved down, pulling out a sizeable glass shard from Yennefer’s side and Yennefer stiffened with a grimace.

“Ow!”

“There’s more…” Tissaia said and dropped the glass into the empty bowl. Yennefer's brow furrowed and her jaw clenched as Tissaia pulled out the broken bottle shards. She buried half her face into Tissaia’s lap. She could feel the glass between her skin more now than she could before. Her high was fading and she hadn’t drank enough wine to numb the pain.

The glass shards clinked against one another as Tissaia dropped the remaining pieces into the bowl.

The sharp throb in Yennefer’s side subsided and the cool cloth pressed to the wound with a soft touch. Tissaia was a better nurturer than she probably thought. Yennefer smiled knowing she was likely one of few to ever see Aretuza’s great Rectoress sitting on the floor.

“You’ve changed since we met.” Yennefer said soft.

“Oh?” Tissaia said with a bit of feigned surprise.

“When I first came here I was sure you’d have my head, or that I’d end up in a dungeon somewhere.”

Tissaia stopped her strokes on Yennefer’s side, her expression falling grim.

“I hated you for a moment, and I didn’t know why.” Yennefer softly chuckled and Tissaia picked up the dry towel.

“I think I gave you a few reasons.”

“In my eyes you were a Queen. Powerful…and beautiful beyond measure.” Yennefer sat up and touched Tissaia’s cheek. “You still are.”

Tissaia allowed a small kiss but didn’t put much into her return before she pulled away. “Let me finish.”

Yennefer laid back down and Tissaia moved Yennefer’s arm up, away from the wound she cleaned. “…All I wanted was to be perfect enough to make you proud.”

Tissaia stopped again, biting back her emotion and blinking away her watering gaze.

“And then you remade me into something I never could’ve fathomed.”

At Tissaia’s silence, Yennefer looked to the woman watching the fire with a tear rolling down her cheek. She sat up but Tissaia wiped her own tears before Yennefer could.

Tissaia pressed a hand to Yennefer’s shoulder and Yennefer laid back down, her hand wrapped around Tissaia’s thigh. The cloth pressed gently to the angry punctures at Yennefer’s side. “I didn’t choose you for no reason.”

“Why did you?”

“Your chaos called to me.” Tissaia let silence linger between her phrases. “Of course I didn’t know it was you at the time. I was simply following a trail.”  She cleaned the last bit of blood and dried the spot. "There."

Yennefer looked at the cuts in her side, which were starting to shrink. “Already getting better.” She rolled onto her knees and wrapped an arm around Tissaia. She kissed her. “Thank you.”

Tissaia touched her cheek. “You have made me proud. More than you know.”

Yennefer looked down. She didn’t know what to say, so she kissed her again, inching forward. Her hand knocked into a bowl and Tissaia pulled away.

“Careful.” She smiled into the kiss and Yennefer stopped.

She didn’t feel like being bothered with cleaning or making space. So she scooped Tissaia into her arms, stood, and walked to the bed, thankful her new form allowed her a level of strength she hadn’t had before her death.

“Yennefer.”

She heard the surprise in Tissaia’s voice and smiled. She lay Tissaia down and climbed over her.

“Since when are you able to do that?”

She ignored Tissaia's question, responding with kisses pressed to the Rectoress's neck. The tip of her tongue brushing against Tissaia’s skin. She wanted to taste her even more. She wanted to feel the rile of Tissaia’s chaos and the Rectoress’s fingers squeezing into her back like talons gripping a kill.

[bookcalanthedaily]

" what's that, mama? " the little princess tilted her head with curiosity. pavetta's lips curled into a soft smile as she opened up the shawl she's been weaving for her mother. " it is a present for your grandmamma. " she explained. ciri gasped loudy. " a present! do i get one too? " she asked, and her mother only put her hand tenderly on her little head. " no, my sweet. it is grandmamma's special occasion. " she said. ciri puffed out her cheeks. " what ocassion? " a soft chuckle like gentle chimes on the wind left the crown princess. " it is mother's day, ciri. "

mother's day.... ciri thought about it for a second or two, and then realized. her mama was mother too. her mother. and if mama was making a gift for grandmamma, then should she not make one for her in turn?

with sudden surge of energy, she ran out of the room without a word.

***

" grandpapa!! " the little princess ran into the stables with a shriek, unable to stop her run she collided with the king's legs with a quiet 'umpf'. small arms wrapping around his thighs as she looked up at the bushy beard. " it's mother's day!! " she exclaimed.

eist laughed, nodding his head. leaning down to pick up the little rascal, so they could be on the same eye level as they spoke. " aye, so it is. " he agreed. ciri's cheeks filled up with air once more, turning pink.

" i have no gift for mama. " she whined with complaint. an exagarrated gasp entering the skelliger's lungs. " oh no! whatever shall we do? " he asked. willing to give the earth, the heaven and the sea to the little girl in his arms.

" take me to the beach! " she demanded. without question, the king mounted his horse, sitting the princess safely in front of him. always happy to go along with whatever the little she-devil made up in her mind.

***

" happy mother's day, mama. " pavetta said, shyly presenting the hand-woven shawl of emerald green to the queen. calanthe smiled, pulling her daughter close, red lips pressed to her forehead as she accepted the silken fabric. brushing her fingers against it. " oh, thank you, my dear. this is most thoughtful. " she said, pavetta fidgeting softly with her hair, but happy, clearly. pleased with herself.

the moment was nearly ruined, as cirilla, sand in her hair, clinging to her dress and hands, ran into the solar. " mama!! " she yelled. the scream startling the crown princess slightly, and she turned to face her daughter. " what happened? did you fall? " she asked with concern, but there was no tears, only a self-satisfied grin on the five year old's face.

" for you! for mother's day! " she said, producing the biggest, most colorful conchshell she could find. pavetta, stunned by the gesture, accepted the gift with gentle hands.

[jackabbot]

Can you imagine radskier meeting for the first time after their fall-out? Maybe Jaskier had to leave Radovid behind to take Ciri and run and Radovid had to go back to his brother and act like his heart wasn't bleeding. And now they're here.

Jaskier is babbling on nervously, trying to fill in the deafening silence with anything else but the shrill sound of betrayal and Radovid, well... he finds it hard to form words, as his throat sticks together with the gathering saliva signalling tears or sickness, he's not sure.

It's when their eyes finally meet that Jaskier's words die on his lips, just when Radovid finds the strenght to speak.

"You know, it is funny how I thought I'll be the one having to make amends."

Jaskier doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet. "I'm not mad, in case you were wondering, I'm just..." His lips tremble and he swallows thickly. "I suppose I just expected it to go differently, is all."

Jaskier can feel his chest tighten at the sight of Radovid's forced smile and shiny eyes. He takes a tentative step towards him, slowly reaching out, giving him the opportunity to stop Jaskier, but he looks defeated, like a stray puppy lying down in the dirt, his fate already accepted.

Jaskier tucks a soft lock of hair behind his ear, as if an echo to their first kiss.

"I'm here now."

"Yeah" Radovid chuckles wetly, his gaze breaking away from Jaskier, as his tears start to trickle down his cheeks silently.

"Hey, hey I mean it." Jaskier runs his fingers down to the prince's chin to tilt his head up softly, drawing soothing circles over his skin with his thumb, smudging the wet tracks away. "Radovid, I—"

"Did it... did it mean anything to you? That night." He clarifies as if Jaskier needs a reminder, as if he wasn't aching with their parting, missing Radovid daily like a severed limb, a part of himself he barely just found, yet felt like he's known since his birth.

"My dear Prince, it meant everything." He whispers, his breath ghosting against Radovid's lips without closing the distance; this time he wants the other to give his permission. And he does.

Radovid kisses him with fervour and with such a small move he pulls months of longing, pain and passion onto the surface as if they were there all along. He fists the back of Jaskier's coat like a drowning man would cling onto the last floating piece of a broken ship.

When they finally pull back, just enough to tip their foreheads together and pant into each other's mouth, Jaskier laughs shakily.

"Fogive me." He whispers, hands roaming up and down Radovid's arms. "I did what I had to do to protect the people I love, without realising I should've counted you among them. Forgive me." He repeats.

"Jaskier" Radovid squeezes the fabric over his shoulders to push him back, just enough to look him in the eyes properly. "What are you saying?"

Jaskier runs his hands along the prince's arms once again just to softly pull them away and lift his hands to his own lips. "I'm saying," he kisses each knuckle as he mumbles into the cold skin there. "Let's not part ways this time."

[astaldis]

@fluffbruary

For the Fluffbruary prompt 26 "book". Enjoy!

Chapters: 3/4                   Words: 1,150 Fandom: The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Gallatin, Jaskier/Radovid V the Stern, Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier   Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Gallatin, Jaskier, Radovid V the Stern, Geralt of Rivia,  Additional Tags: fluffbruary's Fluffbruary Prompt Month 2025, Fluff, Teasing, Established Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, alive Gallatin, Valentine's Day, Boys Kissing, Idiots in Love, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Banter Summary Chapter 3: A quintuple Geralt & Jaskier drabble set shortly after the friends left Bremervoord in Sirens of the Deep on their way to the Dragon Mountains. Can be read as Geraskier or just friendship.

(A few fluffy Witcher M/M ficlets for Fluffbruary 2025. Chapter 1: Cahir/Gallatin; Chapter 2: Jaskier/Radovid; Chapter 3: Geralt & Jaskier (or Geralt/Jaskier); Chapter 4: Geralt/Regis)

[antebunny]

Witchers v administration

NOW

It’s a series of coincidences which finally tips Eskel off to the silent administrative war being waged on Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier bursts into his office one long afternoon when Eskel is slumped over his desk, wishing that every other Witcher didn’t run away gleefully whenever he approached them about taking his job or even sharing his duties. To date they have not recruited a human with the necessary skills or trust to take a shot at stewardship for all of Kaer Morhen. Eskel supposes it would be immoral to ask about kidnapping someone else’s steward, but they’ve done worse for less.

“Hello Eskel! Do you know where Letho is?”

Eskel jerks off the desk and makes eye contact with Jaskier, who brings a bright splotch of baby blue to his drab brown and gray office. The bard beams with that typical vaguely affable air of his, expecting a response.

“Egremont,” Eskel recalls, after a moment of hard thinking. “I think. Or maybe Flotsam. With…Aubrey. Maybe.” He drops his head into his hands. “Fuck. I don’t remember. Ask Dragonfly.”

“Already tried, she’s out,” Jaskier chirps. He waves a hand around the stacks of scrolls and documents piled around Eskel’s office. “Don’t you have it written down somewhere?”

The whole idea of having joint patrols was to protect Witchers. No one can simply ambush a lone Witcher anymore. No Witcher can simply disappear for months with no one the wiser. It turns out this good idea is a bit more difficult in practice. Witchers don’t coordinate very well, you see. There’s no written record of who is on a patrol to where with whom. 

“No,” Eskel summarizes.

“Oh. Rats.” Jaskier frowns and lingers in the doorway, puzzling through other potential people to ask for whatever it is he wants to bother Letho about.

Eskel makes a mental note to see about putting together actual patrol schedules, even as he mentally cries tears of blood over the idea of coordinating hundreds of Witchers and getting all of them to follow the damn schedule. He really needs an assistant. Or a new job.

Then the patrol schedule promptly gets forgotten as Eskel gains several new crises all at once.

“Eskel! They found out about the black dye!” Cenna, their head laundress (seamstress? It’s unclear what her official job title is, everything about Kaer Morhen’s organization is unorthodox) sneaks under Jaskier’s arm and plants her hands on Eskel’s desk.

“Who found out about what?” Jaskier calls from behind them.

Cenna sweeps her honey brown hair behind her neck, picks a path to pace around the office, and explains: “The black cloth dye. There was some sort of monster that had, erm, black innards and we could never get the stains out of the clothing. Then we started dyeing cloth with it deliberately, and Vasilisa sells it in Novigrad. Ever since she quit one of your Witchers has been dropping it off with her. She sells it all in about a week. Makes a killing in the market. No one else has black dye that strong. I suppose no one else ever thought of using monster guts.”

Jaskier processes this infodump, and the implications of Cenna’s original statement, only slightly faster than Eskel. “So someone found out that it comes from Kaer Morhen?”

Instinctively, Eskel’s mind comes up with best and worst case scenarios, and whether they threaten the safety of Kaer Morhen. Best case is that someone caught a glimpse of the Witcher leaving Vasilisa with bolts of black cloth, and spreads the news. Worst case scenario is that someone’s traced the line of production all the way back to Kaer Morhen, in which case they don’t know where the leak occurred. 

“Yes! We don’t know how,” Cenna reports, confirming Eskel’s worst fears. “Vasilisa says that all of a sudden there were whispers that the black cloth came from Kaer Morhen, and it was made with the blood of virgins or other some such nonsense. Vasilisa gave everything she earned from it to us, so she is not losing a source of income, and she says that in Novigrad it is easy to stay anonymous. So she is fine. Only I worry, how did someone find out?”

That’s Eskel’s worry as well. It seems too much of a coincidence to believe that out of all the new, exotic products popping up in a huge costal city like Novigrad, the only one subject to Witcher rumors is the only product that’s actually being made in Kaer Morhen. 

“That’s not good,” Jaskier notes, a damper on his usual cheer. “Can’t you sell it somewhere else? Cidaris or Vengerberg?”

“Yes,” Eskel answers slowly, but their original problem remains unsolved. 

Somehow, somewhere, someone discovered that the black cloth sold in Novigrad’s markets is made in the home of the Witchers. Eskel can’t even begin to fathom how that can be used against them. Jaskier is a perfect example of how the humans’ blind fear and desperation to get one of their own inside Kaer Morhen makes them stupid. 

Quietly, Eskel sets aside the matter of the patrol schedules. He’ll have to focus on this black cloth dye issue until–

“Eskel, a problem!” 

For the third time that afternoon, someone barges into Eskel’s office with a problem. It’s Triss, her curly red locks framing a lovely face and a concerned frown. She knocks twice on the doorframe, even though she can clearly see that Jaskier and Cenna have already come in and left the door wide open.

“Not a very troublesome problem,” Triss elaborates as she steps into the office, catching the worried faces of her friends. “But you know how I had to find a suitable soap scent from Kovir?”

Jaskier had complained long and loud about the lack of soaps in Kaer Morhen’s hot springs. What’s the point, he’d said to anyone who would listen, of having these lovely hot springs, if one isn’t even allowed to clean oneself? Finally, Geralt explained that the enhanced senses of Witchers also led them to dislike most soaps, as they all were meant to smell of something to humans, be it rose, bergamot, or jasmine. 

Only, Witchers weren’t supposed to have preferences when it came to something as silly as soaps, or weaknesses, and certainly not sensitivities. So it was a very long time before Jaskier was told, and a fair bit of time afterwards before Triss discovered a way to capture what she calls “blue smells” in a soap. Eskel doesn’t know the details, other than she found something suitable in Lan Exeter and has been bringing it back to Kaer Morhen ever since. 

“They must’ve taken it elsewhere,” Triss continues, miffed. “I thought we brought plenty of customers, but apparently they can find more elsewhere? I’m sure I’ll find something new, but I thought I should warn you that until then, we’ll be bathing without soaps.”

On a regular afternoon, Eskel would accept this unquestioningly. So some vendor decided to move from Lan Exeter to another location. There’s nothing noteworthy about that, especially considering that the subject matter is soap scents. 

But today, missing soap scents after losing the black cloth dye trade seems a bit too perfectly aligned. Geralt, self-hating pessimist that he is (he’s getting better about it though), would probably still think it’s just the natural bad luck of the Witchers. Eskel, on the other hand, is more inclined to think–

“ESKEL!” 

The last person to muscle into Eskel’s tiny office is a Witcher, Bojmir of the Crane School. The sheer size of him forces everyone else out of the doorway and properly into the office. Eskel observes their little group with an outsider’s eye and privately finds amusement in their arrangement. 

Cenna, an ordinary, almost middle-aged woman from Aedd Gynvael, with an eye for fine fabrics and a talent for bending them to her will. Triss, a sorceress who despite her trade is the only one trusted to heal Witchers. Jaskier, a Redanian nobleman by birth and bard by passion, who somewhat recently gained the unique and unconventional title of White Wolf’s Consort (also by passion). Finally, Bojmir the Serin, looming over the rest at almost seven feet tall, scratches three fingers through his braided beard. He started growing it out after moving to Kaer Morhen, and someone, probably one of the seamstresses, taught him the value of braiding hair. 

Bojmir eyes the rest of the people in the room. It’s an unusually suspicious move, and Eskel makes a mental note to bring it up later. For now, he just gestures for Bojmir to spit it out.

“Elante’s been found out,” Bojmir says.

Elante, the White Ibis, also of the Crane School, is one of the few Witchers to quit the Path entirely after the schools joined together. He always had a penchant for playing around with potions and elixirs and a love of liquor. Moving to Kaer Morhen facilitated his interest like nothing else, but Elante still joined his brothers on the Path. It was duty, and it was the only life he knew.

Then one of the cooks introduced Elante to brewing, and someone in Jaskier’s extended family was looking to get rid of an unwanted vineyard, and before Eskel knew it, Yennefer enchanted a ring for Elante to hide his mutations from humans, and he was out of Kaer Morhen. Elante set up shop in Jamurlak, on the White Wolf’s side of the Buina river, and opened the White Ibis Brewery & Pub, because all Witchers have a terrible sense of humor.

Last Eskel heard, Elante had invented some kind of fermented lemonade which nearly everyone in Kaer Morhen was going crazy for. All of Elante’s first customers were Witchers, before he gained popularity with the people of Jamurlak. They still stop by and visit him from time to time, mostly in disguise. Just because Elante walked away from the Path doesn’t mean he walked away from his brothers.

“How so?” Jaskier prods.

Bojmir shrugs his massive shoulders. “He said there were rumors of a monster near Jamurlak and he went to take care of it in secret, ‘n ever since then people’ve been eyeing him sideways. Then some woman started asking questions and she hasn’t done anything but she smells like she’s hiding something.”

And they all have a good (or bad) idea of how badly people would like to get their hands on a Witcher. 

“Fuck,” Eskel summarizes. 

First the mysterious discoverer of their black cloth dye trade, then their supplier for soap scents disappearing, then this debacle with Elante. Speaking of schedules–though Eskel has totally forgotten about making patrol schedules–they don’t know how long Elante has been on someone’s radar for, only when he decided to tell the next Witcher that stopped by.

So much for a lazy afternoon. 

“Someone’s waging war on us,” Jaskier concludes, concerned in that devil-may-care way of his. “Politely. But still.”

A polite war. Targeting the one glaring weakness of the Witchers: administration. 

THEN

No one has ever managed to spy on the Witchers. Ever since it became known that the White Wolf and his army of mutant monsters had taken up residence in Kaer Morhen, that old stone castle hidden high up in the mountains, in between their conquests, countless kings, sorcerors, spymasters and the like have tried to get a person on the inside. Not one of them has succeeded. Every disguised “washerwoman” seeking refuse, every trained courtesan, every “traitor” hoping to join the Witchers, every single mage-spy has been turned away at the door.

Their survival is perhaps more embarrassing, to the warlords and spymasters to whom these spies tell their stories. The Witchers do not kill these attempted spies any more than they let them in the doors. Somehow, every single one of them is simply turned away at the door, while others are allowed in, never to return. 

Because it is not secret that some people are allowed in. An old stonemason, who harbored Witcher sympathies long before the White Wolf started his bloody campaign, disappears with the pair of Witchers who came through his town. A local laundress, seeking out the trio of Witchers who came trudging through the town’s tavern, leaves with them all too happily. Somehow the impenetrable walls of Kaer Morhen open for these ordinary people, and not for the spies of Redania, Poviss, or Kovir. 

It is Malia’s job to somehow do the impossible and get a spy into Kaer Morhen. 

Which is not to say that she will be venturing up the mountain, or attempting to get a spy of her own into Kaer Morhen. That demonstrably doesn’t work. Instead, Malia will be attempting to get to one of the ordinary people who leave. 

[ladyannemarie5]

Jaskier is more than happy to care for his witchers when they return to Kaer Morhen in winter, not that it's a sacrifice to be surrounded 24/7 by manly, strong, beautiful men, but he knows that his wolves can't be pampered by him the rest of the year because he spends every season with Geralt. 

So he comes up with an idea to make everyone see his witchers exactly as he sees them: heroic and delicious. 

A few years ago, Oxenfurt put out a series of portraits of the most handsome professors to motivate more people to go to college. Of course, the number of students inside the classrooms grew a lot. 

Jaskier wants to go further, so he tells Yennefer about making portraits of the wolves according to a different year theme. You know, a kind of calendar. 

Eskel, sweet and strong, will be Spring. Lambert, young and virile, will be Summer. Vesemir, wise and serene, will be Autumn. And Geralt, mysterious and silent, Winter. 

Jaskier can only be carried away by his fantasies. 

Thanks to Yen and his magic, by the end of Winter, in every place of the continent there is a series of magical paintings of the witchers of the wolf school exquisitely depicting a whole season that motivates all people to be kinder and more helpful to them. 

Some time later, wives and husbands convince their partners to call a witcher to solve their monster problems and give them generous tips, taverns fill them with beers for attracting so many people, inns give them the best rooms and as many bathrooms as they ask for, brothels fight to have one of them in their places and show off their charms. 

Jaskier has just invented themed calendars and is happy to know that his wolves are fully appreciated. 

The next calendar will undoubtedly feature Coën and Aiden.

[chaptersinprogress]

Hellooooooo I humbly request #35 'your problem is my problem' from the ~they're dating~ prompt list

Ciri tossed and turned and tossed and turned. But it was of no use. The ground remained unpleasantly uncomfortable: lumpy and hard in all the wrong places.

Sighing, Ciri flopped onto her back and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d have better luck counting sheep...

1 little sheep, 2 little sheep, 3 little sheep...

She’d reached 741 sheep before rustling and a huff at her side broke her streak. Keeping her breathing in the even meditative cadence it had fallen into, Ciri opened her eyes just a fraction.

The dark form beside her huffed once more before sitting up. A short hiss escaped the figure, before it crawled out of the makeshift tent they lay beneath. 

Ciri opened her eyes fully and curled up on her side so that she could see out of the entrance better. She watched as the figure paced in circles round and round the campfire beside the tents.

The repetitive pattern of the action had nearly lulled her into a doze, when a whispered voice carried through the air.

“Yennefer?” she heard Jaskier ask. “What’s wrong?”

A new figure joined the one that had abruptly stopped moving by the fire. Ciri found herself now wide awake.

There was a long pause that hung in the air, Yennefer seeming to weigh her words, before she finally answered him quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Jaskier shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible to Ciri.

“Same here.”

The two of them stood by each other in silence, staring at the fire or out into the woods, Ciri couldn’t tell which. Minutes passed as such, and Ciri had about made up her mind to stop watching and attempt the sheep thing again when Yennefer spoke once more.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Ciri only caught the tail-end of a hastily stifled chuckle. Then Jaskier’s head tipped to the side a little, as if he was actually considering the idea, before it was shaken off.

“Maybe,” his voice quietly allowed. “But not today I think.”

Yennefer hummed.

The bard nudged her. “You have more than enough problems to solve at the moment anyway, nevermind adding mine to the mix.”

The sorceress inhaled, paused, then abruptly turned to him, her hand shooting out but the fingers coming to rest gently on his wrist. Jaskier froze.

Ciri couldn’t be certain but she’d bet the last three sweets in her pack that their resident magic-expert was staring intently at the place her fingers met the skin of Jaskier’s wrist.

“It’s… It’s not a hardship,” Yennefer said slowly. “If you have… problems… I… You’re my favourite sing-songy twit so…”

The muscles in the mage’s jaw worked hard, the movements highlighted by the flickering light cast by the fire. She glared at a point over the bard’s shoulder.

“Your problems are my problems too, okay?”

From the way Jaskier was gaping at Yennefer, Ciri could tell that he had been completely caught off guard by the sentiment. To be fair, Ciri hadn’t seen it coming either. Yennefer didn’t really come across as the type to express that sort of thing.

“Right… well…” Jaskier tripped over his tongue, which had Ciri biting her own to make sure her laughter couldn’t be heard. “Well you're my favourite sewer-dwelling she-hag, so your problems are my problems too!”

Now it was Yennefer’s turn to be thrown, violet eyes blowing wide open as she stared at Jaskier in disbelief.

Meanwhile Ciri had graduated from biting her tongue to biting the meat of her forearm to stifle the full-body laughter that shook her. Melitele help them all, this was almost as bad as when she had to watch Grandmama and Eist figure themselves out! It was like neither of them knew what to do with each other… and Geralt said that they’ve all known each other for a long time!

The two adults continued to just stare at each other.

“So, um, hugging!” Jaskier yelped out frantically. “Hugs—hugs are a thing we do now right—would you like a hug? A hug seems like a great idea right about now, really adds to the whole vibe we have going; though I really probably should stop taaaalkingggg…”

The bard’s voice trailed off as he abruptly found himself wrapped in a hug.

Ciri couldn’t help the soft coo that escaped her as she watched the two of them just stand awkwardly frozen for a few moments.

“I do believe a hug typically involves more than one person doing the hugging, Jaskier,” said Yennefer, her voice partially muffled by said man’s chest.

“Ah—right, right,” replied Jaskier frantically, startled into action, hands flailing a little before he gingerly rested them on the mage’s back.

The awkwardness lasted a little while longer, before the tension began to seep out of their muscles. Ever so slowly, they began to relax against each other—the distance between them vanishing into nothing—curling over and into each other until an onlooker wouldn’t be able to tell where one ended and the other began.

Ciri watched them for a long while: two bodies melded into a singular, more solid form, swaying gently side to side as the night breeze swirled around them. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier, the time between blinks stretching further and further, till she slipped easily into sleep’s embrace, the afterimage of the entwined figures lingering for just a few moments longer.

~they're dating~ | ask box

[magdelanesingerin]

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, “you don’t have to lie.” His voice is smoother now, a bit higher. It’s easier to hear the desperation hidden under the gruffness.

“Of course I love you, you absolute horse’s ass," Jaskier shrills. "You’re my best friend! I’ve known you for decades. You’ve saved my life several times over, and I’ve saved you from a life of loneliness and silent misery.”

Geralt’s face softens in relief as he smirks, the familiar expression made new.

“Honestly. Just because you’ve traded in for a new face for some godsforsaken reason, I’m suddenly supposed to despise you?” Jaskier scoffs loudly and pushes past Geralt along the path. The Witcher is quite a bit taller than Jaskier now, which seems utterly unnecessary and may take some getting used to. Jaskier walks away, and after a moment he can hear Geralt’s near-silent tread over the packed dirt and rocks as the Witcher follows after him.

“Ridiculous,” he splutters to himself, then turns around to walk backward and continues talking animatedly. “It’s not even that unusual, really, you're not special. As a matter of fact, I know a woman in Novigrad—fabulously wealthy, a widow to three different rich husbands who all died mysteriously, wonderful taste in music—at any rate, she pays a mage to glamour her a new face every five years! You have to be very careful any time you attend one of her parties. You have to know what the hostess looks like this season lest you inadvertently insult her!"

A root catches his heel and Jaskier nearly tumbles over backward, but saves it after some flailing. Geralt snorts a laugh. His face is younger-looking, fewer sharp angles and hard edges. The overall effect is that he looks much less grim and aloof, though he still retains the same brilliant golden intensity to his gaze. Jaskier is nearly too distracted by the surprising openness of his amusement and the fond smile that seems to seep through his usual hard glower to yell at him.

Nearly.

“Ohhhh you! You saw that coming, and you didn’t do a thing to warn me. Bastard,” he accuses with a pointed finger and a hiss.

He’s still walking backward though, and this time when he trips he can’t stop his backward fall—Geralt can, of course. His sudden descent to the ground is arrested by a broad, strong hand wrapping around his bicep and hauling him back to his feet.

That unnerving speed and strength are the same too, as it turns out, though contained in a rangier frame.

Geralt steadies him with an arched eyebrow and laughs. Laughs out loud, like it’s a perfectly normal thing and not a sound so beautifully shocking that Jaskier flaps his mouth pointlessly until Geralt has moved past him on the path, and the bard has to scramble to catch up.

“Well, I can’t change it back, so you’re stuck with me looking like this from now on. Glad to hear it won’t be too upsetting for your delicate sensibilities,” Geralt says over his shoulder, still chuckling. “Come on, we have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall, bard.”

[kuwdora]

I've been listening to some of Tower of Swallows again and I'm currently sitting with and obsessing over these six paragraphs right now. Forever having Ciri feelings I can't articulate in an actual Post....and yet my Ciri wip gets bigger and heavier every other week.

The interior of the tower immediately reminded her of Kaer Morhen – an equally long black corridor behind the doorway, an equally endless abyss in alignment with the columns and statues. She could not understand how this chasm fit in the slender obelisk of the tower. But she knew that trying to analyze it made no sense – not in the case of a tower that sprung up out of nowhere, that suddenly appeared where nothing had been before. In such a tower, anything was possible, and you couldn't be surprised by anything. She looked back. She did not believe that Bonhart had dared – or had been able – to follow her here. But she preferred to make sure of that. The archway through which she was riding shone with a bright, unnatural light. Kelpie's hooves clattered on the floor, which started to crack under the horseshoes. Bone. Skull, tibia, ribs, femur, pelvis. She rode through the middle of a giant ossuary. She was reminded again of Kaer Morhen. The dead should be buried in the ground… How long ago was that… At that time, I actually believed such a thing… the majesty of death, respect for the dead… But death is just death. And a dead man is just a cold corpse. It does not matter where it lies, where his bones disintegrate. She rode into the darkness, under arches, between columns and statues. The darkness began to weigh on her like smoke. Intrusive whispers and soft sighs urged incantations in her ears. Huge doors suddenly flared up in front of her and opened. They opened one by one. Doors. An infinite number of heavy doors opened silently in front of her. Kelpie's hooves rattled on the ground.

[flowercrown-bard]

Jaskier was a funny person. 

Well, perhaps he wasn’t so much funny as he was amusing. Whether he was stumbling over his own words while attempting to flirt, nearly knocking his head on a beam because he was looking at a handsome passerby or simply singing an outrageously sexual song - watching his antics made people laugh. The laughter wasn’t always kind, but it didn’t matter. Because the sneers and sardonic snickers were drowned out by the loudest laughter of all. And that laughter was Jaskier’s own. 

And why wouldn't he laugh? He was a funny person after all. It was only right that he laughed the loudest, that he was so confident in his own charm and humour.

Well, perhaps he was so much confident as he was a talented actor. He understood how comedy worked. He knew timing and rhythm and the rule of threes. He knew puns and clever sarcasm and even slapstick humour. But most of all, he knew what the average person in their average life found humorous. No rules of comedy could  ever be as effective at making people laugh, as pure Schadenfreude could be. Jaskier had still been a child when he had discovered this truth. He had wanted to make his parents laugh - they were always so serious. He had told them jokes he had learned from a travelling jester. He sang silly ditties and performed funny skits. At least he had thought them to be funny. His parents didn’t crack a smile. Not at his jokes, that is. His mother sure did try to hide her laughter behind a fan, whenever he forgot the punchline to a joke and his father snorted in amusement, whenever he messed up a song.

It was then, that Jaskier understood what made people laugh. And as he ran to his room to hide away under a blanket, until all his tears had dried up, he swore to himself to never laugh at anyone else the way his parents had laughed at him. If this cruelty was funny, then he could never find anything funny. Other people would never be the reason why he laughed.

The only person he could ever laugh at, was himself. Because he was the only one who truly understood his own jokes, who knew the irony of how much skill it took to present himself as a bumbling fool. So people laughed and laughed and laughed at Jaskier and he laughed with them. 

But not because Jaskier was a funny person. 

But because it was easier to pretend the glistening in his eyes came from tears of laughter and not those of hurt.