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bluegarners · 2 years ago

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i’m torn between “time time time” and “24 pound paper,” so whichever you’re more inclined to share about i’m all ears!

hellooooo kate!!! <3 and how about both??

so 24 pound paper is more or less what it said on the tin- dick asks bruce to adopt him. with one exception!! i personally have my own gripes about this specific trope about these two- i tend to stay away from this kind of fic bc it always strays towards the angsty "bruce never adopted dick and dick thought that was because bruce never wanted him and so he's insecure and sad and and and". don't get me wrong- i love angst! just not on this particular topic... so!! this fic is entirely meant to be wholesome and all about how bruce has always loved dick and dick has always loved bruce, and how bruce respected dick's choice not to have bruce's name be attached to his legally in a way that bound them as a father-son pair because dick already had a father that he loved dearly but now dick feels like he's ready to open up the topic for discussion again bc he realizes that john grayson will always be his father but maybe bruce can also be his dad too

it's still entirely a wip and i really only have a paragraph or two for them, but these were the sentences that really got me started on it <3

��I know we talked about this a long time ago-” Bruce feels like his heart is about to rocket out of his chest, and Dick must be feeling the same because the papers in his hands are shaking, trembling like lost leaves in the wind, but he’s offering them, giving them over, and Bruce feels- he feels- “But I thought we could talk about it again.”

okay so "time time time" is also a wip that really doesn't... go anywhere? i wrote it sometime last year, in the height of my witcher fascination, and i had fallen down a rabbit hole of jaskier headcanons and delightful fics that added a bit of angst into his world. eventually, i came to my own headcanon that i thought jaskier might have obsessions but little to no compulsions. his thoughts are his obsession- like, i've always thought about how jaskier is always running around, occupying his time with people, with writing, with so many different things that i started to form some kind of idea that jaskier liked to keep busy in order to prevent the tendency for him to really and truly get lost in his thoughts. in this headcanon of mine, i liked to think of jaskier getting so wrapped up in his thoughts (mainly ones of the past) that he would dissociate and lose time here and there if he's not occupied with his hands or otherwise. so! that resulted in this wip (which i'm putting below the cut bc it's kind of long and i dont really have any intentions of finishing it)

See, it goes like this: suddenly, he has time. So much of it. Abundances. The most time he’s ever had, probably, in all of his many years of living. The castle walls are long and cold, and Jaskier has time like he’s never had it before. When a life is filled with composing and singing, wooing and bedding, traveling and yearning, bargaining and pleading, avoiding and skittering, and then suddenly it is not, emptied and spilled out over the edge, life becomes rather overflowing with time. His hands are ruined as they are, and his lute is far away in the likes of someone’s campfire or second-hand shop, so he has nothing to busy his fingers with. He has no notebook or quill to occupy his anxious thrumming, nothing to properly rid his ever circling thoughts and discard them somewhere that isn’t in his head. That means he’s left with not only ample time, far too much of it, but also too many thoughts. Jaskier now has thoughts and time and fuck-all to do with them except to let them invade through his eyes and stay trapped behind clenched teeth.

See, it went like this: Jaskier has done his best his entire life to keep himself busy, away from his thoughts. He studied and worked hard, buried himself to his elbows in texts and scrolls and sheet music. He learned and received criticism, in turn teaching others and doling his own critiques when the time came. He observed others, observed himself, dove head first into what carnal pleasures of the flesh appeased him, what delicate sweet fruits of life satisfied his appetite. He chased after muses, throwing himself into the masses in the hopes that someone might catch his eye, or even lay claim to himself. He sowed and fretted over wounds and blood, journaled the color of a griffin's wings and the exact viscous consistency of Swallow. Much of his life has been devoted to the precise realities of others, far from his own, so that he might indulge in lives that are more pleasant or fearsomely less so than his own, for Jaskier has never much liked thinking about his life. He has never much liked thinking in general, no matter what his ramblings and countless musing might say, because when he thinks, he thinks in false circles and misshapen lines, broken off segments that he pieces together with other loose lines and fragments that don’t quite fit.

But now, Jaskier does nothing but think. He has not the strength nor fortitude to build up the walls of Kaer Morhen, and the Witchers have expressed ill gratitude to his unhelpful chatter and presence. Ciri is never not busy, countless lessons and more lessons dogging her every breathing moment, and were it not for the girl herself to declare she does not mind the schedule and actually enjoys it, Jaskier would have already stolen her away so that he might regale her with court stories and songs. But he dare not, knows her destiny is none forged in more than blood and the will of others, and every second that he might take from her, from her destiny, is one where he condemns her. And he has never wished to harm anyone in such a way.

Blessings. Godsdamn the blessings. His mother said that once, cursing her bastard son, and Geralt had also said something of the sort. He is not a blessing. He is not a curse. However, and this is where things get tricky, all have muttered that his ceasing might just lead to a blessing. Does that make him an omen, a propehcy? But, oh, those things are so fickle, so oft to lead to tragedy and misunderstandings, and nothing like a blessing. So it might very well be that he is actually nothing, not a curse or omen or prophecy, and that his being gone might also just be nothing. His mother damned him and the man that fathered him. Geralt damned him on the mountain, called forth the gods to give him at least one thing he might be granted in all of his miserable years. Godsdamn the blessings and all who ask for it.

But, really, he has no legs to stand on in the matter, for what has he ever asked for that has not led to the sufferings of someone else? Oh, how his mother loathed him and his father side-eyed the blueness in his son’s gaze. Oh, how his fellow students scorned and spurned his aptitude. Oh, how the barmaids and stable boys and all the beauties of the world spat at his feet when he could only love them for a night. Oh, how Geralt scowled and snarled and wished for a single blessing.

on and on and completely circular in jaskier’s self loathing and memory cycle

He finds himself losing time. Odd, since he has so much of it. It slips through his hands though, even as he bathes in it, and one day, as he lays in his bed and stares at the ceiling, he thinks about his mother and what he might’ve done to ensure he would not have been a bastard had he just known what to do to not be one, and suddenly, daylight is at his window and his eyes are dry and his head achy. Daylight is at his window, and it is strong daylight, yellow and peppered with the shadows of winter clouds rolling over the mountain. The fire in his room has long since died, embers and ash completely still in the grate, and Jaskier’s lips itch.

It happens again, when he goes to the sparse library and chooses a random book, sitting himself down in a chair and thinking about how the tale he’s chosen reminds him of the stable boy that spat at him come the morning after of their evening together, and he blinks and finds that his eyes are dry again and his head achy and his lips itchy and his right index finger scabbing over from a paper cut he doesn’t remember getting.

The days go by and Jaskier does not register them as days any longer. He lapses, often and without notice, and he suddenly realizes he does not know the date or time. There is no way to tell, and he finds himself unable to ask, unwilling to bother or burden any one of the six other people within Kaer Morhen’s walls. Not when the mere thought sends him spiraling down yet another warped memory, too faded to really recall but within his mind and trapped all the same.

He misses meals, sometimes. Most often breakfast. No one makes a move to confront him about this development. Jaskier does not know what to think of this, but he supposes it doesn’t matter too much seeing as he’s already so preoccupied in thinking of so many other things. The blisters on his hands heal slightly, hot red scars numbing the tips of his fingers and cramping his palm, and were he not already trying to not think about the pain and the fire and the heat, Jaskier would have surely thought about his imprisonment and his torture. As it is, however, he is simply much too busy thinking to really give much thought to it.

Enough time spills from his hands that he begins to smell. He takes note of it absently one evening, occupied as he is with his forehead against the rough stone wall and his ever evolving plan on how to prove to the Countess that he’s not a worthless harlot after all, and the smell of his own odor reaches his nose. It’s not quite rank, not enough to really give anyone reason to cover their face with their hands, but it is odd. At some point, Jaskier is sure he would have had the time to wash and take care of the odor, exchange his clothes for new ones and soap out the oil and grime from his hair, but, as it is, his plans are far too complicated and growing to stop thinking now. He’s too busy to take the time to wash.

#wip tag game #thychesters #dick grayson #bruce wayne #the witcher #jaskier

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dapandapod · 1 year ago

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Uh.... So I accidently wrote another 3800 words of this? On Ao3 here, with all the tags I could thing of.... CW: loss and grief and mentions of spirits unable to let go, angst, Character death (Renfri) and possession, and Temporary Character Death. This is not a fluffy tale, even if it ends happily, so treat yourelf nicely please <3 For the full experience, I was listening to this whilst writing. It is very nice and very hurtful!

Awakening as a spirit guide seals Jaskier’s fate.

The first spirit he helps to rest is his mother, her carved wooden mask in the elegant shape of a swan.

She had known her time was coming to an end, and she prepared her own spirit mask. With only an old book of tales for company and help, Jaskier learned what he needed to do.

The mask can help the soul to find their way to the next life, and if needed, help him guide them there.

Jaskier leaves Lettenhove behind, her mask crumbling to dust in his hand in front of his father’s grave. There is nothing left for him here now.

The shard of his ancestral Spirit Staff is around his neck, the last thing that connects him to his home. The forest is filled with spirits, of those who have passed, of those who guard, and of those who live there.

They become his friends, his guide, as he travels the path forward, ever forward. There is a shrine, somewhere in the mountains, where he hopes he can recharge the shard.

All he knows, Jaskier learned along the way. Every spirit he helps to rest, he carries with him. It is a heavy burden, but watching the land around him ease, breathe, grow, he finds it is worth it.

Along his travels, Jaskier receives a lute. It was from an elven king, who’s spirit clung to the ruins of his home. Haunted by loss, by crushed wishes, edged by madness, Jaskier carved him an owl mask.

Upon one of the stones of his kingdom, Jaskier etched runes of peace, of reverence, of grace, and placed the mask upon it. It will take centuries for the king’s mask to turn to dust, he knows, but that journey is his. All Jaskier can do for this spirit is to carve out the way, and watch over him.

The lute remains with him, however, and it reminds him of a piece of home. His mother used to love music, used to put tone to his father’s words.

The first notes that Jaskier plays are not his own. Eyes closed, shard trembling against his chest, Jaskier sings about the Lover Swans.

Time teaches him how to deal with the loss of others. Jaskier learns how to smile, how to cry with them, how to fight, and how to let go. It is heard, and it breaks his heart every time, but such is his task. Sometimes the scars they leave him are just not on his heart, but on his skin, when their darkness takes physical form.

The spirits thank him, sometimes they curse the world, sometimes they tell him of their memories. Jaskier finds a way to honor them, and he sings of them, sings for them. He finds his travels are smoother when you can pay, and when you have ears to listen.

This is how Jaskier learns of Blaviken, and the princess who fell.

Her spirit is angry, and her rage is not easily quelled. She was done so wrong, and he knows to summon her to help her move on. He has her dagger, but her mother’s brooch is lost. With her dagger, he carves her mask. The princess without a kingdom, without a home, is hard to give a final resting place.

Jaskier learns of the man who took her life. Her memories show him pale white hair, and eyes filled with hopelessness. He begged of her to stop, but her rage cannot be contained. As soon as the mask has its shape, a shrike, Jaskier takes to the path again. He knows he must find the brooch, and the man who killed her.

The butcher of Blaviken.

Jaskier finds him in a small tavern in Posada, and Renfri’s spirit mask shudders.

It is a witcher, Geralt of Rivia. But he is not alone.

There is a darkness wandering with him, every step the witcher takes, so does death. The shard hums against Jaskier’s chest, and he realizes that the witcher is lost.

The brooch is fastened to Geralt’s sword, the same kind of burden as Jaskier’s lute, and all at once, Jaskier knows why Renfri can’t settle.

It’s because Geralt can’t let go.

So begins Jaskier’s journey along Geralt’s side.

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier is, and Jaskier is not telling him. Sometimes being a guide means showing the way. Sometimes, it is by holding the lantern as they fumble their way forward.

The witcher doesn’t speak much, all sharp edges and raised hackles. All Jaskier can do is hold on, and hold back. Renfri’s spirit spills forth sometimes, her mask shaking with rage, and with it, Geralt’s sword.

Jaskier tries to soothe them, tries to make their road easier, but it hurts. Not only because of the insults, no, those he learned to handle long ago. It hurts, because he can see Geralt trying so hard not to let go, to not forgive. The first time Geralt calls Jaskier his friend, the witcher freezes, and scowls. The next day he is gone.

When they meet again, Geralt begs for forgiveness, and Jaskier gives it easily. In the fading light, they share a meal and a laugh, and the darkness around Geralt doesn’t seem as thick anymore. When next they meet trouble, a ghoul surprising them by an abandoned cottage, Geralt steps between Jaskier and danger.

No matter how much the witcher complains of the bard, he always, always steps in to protect him, and something in Jaskier is changing.

Their roads do part, as often as it brings them together. Jaskier knows it is just not duty that brings Jaskier’s feet towards the witcher. There is something there, something in the way they talk by the fire, that makes Jaskier think Geralt understands.

If Jaskier just dared to tell him how lonely he is, how broken, maybe the witcher would stay, even after the Shrike mask has found its resting place.

But Jaskier is not brave.

It is cruel, he knows, to let Renfri be trapped in the in between.

But if Geralt lets go, what reason does he have to stay?

And once more, Jaskier would walk the path alone.

A year in, Geralt almost finds out.

He finds Jaskier in a summer field, silver sword in hand, ready to take on the noon wraith that has been living there.

In her stead is Jaskier, shards of blue shimmering in the air, and a circlet of flowers covered in a thin layer of dust.

Jaskier is on his knees, uncaring of his expensive clothes getting stained with dirt and grass, and he smiles gently at the sky as she is moving on. Geralt stares down at him, and for a long moment there is nothing.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks eventually, when Jaskier doesn’t find the words. “It’s not safe.”

Indeed not, Jaskier thinks, as he is being helped up and ushered back to the inn.

The wraith never shows up, and Jaskier only feels a little guilt over Geralt not getting paid.

It takes a while, but Jaskier makes a decision. It is time to tell Geralt the truth.

But it doesn’t go as planned.

In a world where wraiths and ghouls and spirits are real, somehow a dragon seems like one thing too many. A fairy tale, a remnant of a distant past.

Geralt goes anyway, a promise of relief luring him deeper into his own misery.

A wish, a hope, a promise of love makes Geralt take step after step upwards, and Jaskier follows. He too carries a wish, a hope and a promise, but really, it is love that makes him continue.

Jaskier forgets that he is a spirit guide, he almost forgets that he is supposed to be a friend, blinded by the hope that maybe he will get to keep Geralt after all.

But the darkness that walks with Geralt grows, from the moment Borch falls, and grows again when he looks over his shoulder at Jaskier, and steps into someone else’s tent.

It all splinters and fractures when Geralt is cruel one time too many. Jaskier should have seen it, should have listened, should have held the lantern to guide him out of the darkness.

But Geralt doesn’t want it, doesn’t want Jaskier, doesn’t want rest or forgiveness or hope or love anymore.

He explodes outwards, the darkness a physical thing, and pierces Jaskier as deeply as his words.

Geralt leaves, and Jaskier stays.

Stays, because the only way that Geralt can be free now is if Jaskier can hold on, and if he can break the darkness that now is connected to him too.

The darkness grows tendrils and poison the ground, the shadows step out from under the trees and turn into memories. The pines and the firs grow gnarly and dark, the rocks crack and become sharp, and Jaskier stays.

The shard is deeply embedded in his shoulder, and he holds on. With his fingers, he can touch it, dark and red and cool like ice. It should be warm, he thinks, isn’t anger warm?

A memory steps in front of him, cold and cruel. It speaks with Geralt’s voice, it turns its back, and it leaves.

Another takes its place, an unknown mage attempting to take his life.

And another, and another, and another.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he is there, the darkness grows stronger, ever stronger.

Only when Jaskier realizes Renfri’s mask is missing does he figure out what the darkness is. Only when he finds her dagger in his hand does he see.

Only when Geralt stares at him with open grief, sword to his neck, does Jaskier understand what his end will be.

Jaskier should have asked for the brooch earlier.

Should not have carried her anger and resentment with him.

Should have found a way to set her spirit to rest.

Renfri moves his arm, makes him speak under the mask he wears, her mask, history repeating itself. The dagger clangs against Geralt’s sword, and at its hilt, he sees it.

Only by hurting Geralt again can this be set right.

In a moment of clarity, Jaskier snatches the brooch, and summons her.

It is not fair, the shadows are whispering with fear and hate and pain and resentment and misery. Her spirit is living on his, but it has to be done.

If Geralt can win, she will be subdued. If Renfri wins, she might find peace.

This is what a Guide must do.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, when his knees hit the hard ground, when his vision grows dark.

When Jaskier wakes up, the world is blurry. In the clearing where their camp used to be, lies a body.

Fear grips him, tight and all consuming. Jaskier scrabbles to his knees, crawls across the distance to see the witcher lie there. Geralt, blood smeared across his cheek and hands.

By his side, the dagger and the brooch.

“I tried to make him choose,” Renfri says from behind him. When Jaskier turns to look, she stands empty handed and still, looking at Geralt. “I tried, but once again, he refused.”

The mask is on top of her head, blood along her throat.

“He didn’t want you to die, but he didn’t want to kill me. Not losing isn’t winning.”

Geralt lies so still, his skin pale.

“This is my fault,” Jaskier says quietly. “I didn’t do right by you.”

“You didn’t,” Renfri agrees, and Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his, closing his eyes. “But you tried. Will you sing of me?”

“If you want me to. If I can make myself leave.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Renfri asks.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“Because you two were the only two I could ever call friends. Because I let you both down because of my selfishness. Because I will make sure both of you get your rest.”

Jaskier stands, his legs are a bit shaky and his balance is off, but he manages. For Geralt, for his witcher, for his friend, he carves a wolf mask.

Renfri watches him work, watches his hands shake, his fingers bleed as he fumbles.

“You were never enough for him,” Renfri says when Jaskier cries bitter tears of loss. “You could never carry his burden for him.”

The shard in Jaskier’s shoulder pulse and stings.

“I know what you are doing, and I will not carry you any longer, Renfri. It is scary to let go, I know. There is more to you than anger and loss.”

“I could have been so much more,” Renfri says bitterly, voice wavering. “I should have been. It’s not fair. They took it all from me.”

“They did. I’m sorry.” Jaskier says, thumbing at the mask he is holding. The wood is rough under his thumb, the shape cruder than he wants it to be.

There is an emptiness where his heart should be.

He wonders if it is with Renfri, or with Geralt.

The sun is slowly setting, the skies are painted with vivid orange and pink.

“Will he find rest, you think?” Renfri asks, not looking at the witcher.

“I will stay here until he does.” Jaskier says. “Until you both do.”

“Then I killed you both.” Renfri says, and stands up. Jaskier watches her go to the cliff’s edge, putting her mask on. When she turns, the sun is at her back, she smiles.

“I always wanted to see the ocean.” She says.

Then she falls.

Her dagger and the brooch lies by the witcher, and it is all that is left of the princess than never was.

Jaskier kneels at Geralt’s side.

The years they spent together, the laughs they shared, the fights, the pain.

“I should have told you,” Jaskier cries, finally. “I didn’t want you to be alone. I didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”

Sobs tear out of his throat, anger and grief and pain leaks out of his eyes, of his heart, and he leans over the witcher, fingers curling in the dirt.

“I loved you,” Jaskier whispers, “I loved you, and I never told you.”

Jaskier waits for what he knows will happen. He waits for his shard to start trembling, for Geralt’s spirit to make itself known.

Something does happen, but it is nothing like he ever saw before.

The night sky flickers with light, but it isn’t stars. Geralt’s body shimmers, first blue, then gold, the wooden mask covering his face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice says, and Jaskier aches.

“I’m here.”

“Why are you sad?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles through his tears.

“Because I will miss you. Because I am sorry.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nothing can hurt me when you are here,” Jaskier says gently, watching the shimmer, feeling the vibrations against his chest when the shard reacts.

“Then I will stay with you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier frowns, but when he opens his mouth to ask, he is blinded by the light, the gold and the blue glowing so strong he has to close his eyes.

When Jaskier opens his eyes, Geralt’s mask is gone, and his eyes are open. Jaskier throws himself forward, touching his cheek with fear and confusion. This is not supposed to happen, this is not how it is supposed to go!

But Geralt’s cheek is warm, and when Jaskier touches him, their eyes meet.

“Geralt?”

The witcher doesn’t respond, but looks around in confusion, until his eyes reach Jaskier’s shoulder.

The shard of darkness still sits there, and Geralt lifts a hand to it without touching.

“Is this why you didn’t leave?” The witcher asks, and Jaskier grabs his hand and presses it to his chest. “You were gone for months.”

“I hoped to free you from her, the guilt and the pain you carried. Thought I could fight it. I didn’t realize she possessed us both.”

“Renfri.”

“Yes.”

“She gave me a choice,” Geralt says, looking away. “And I-...”

Jaskier squeezes his hand, and their eyes meet again.

“You don’t have to say. But what happened? How are you alive?”

“I couldn’t leave you. You stayed because of me, you hurt because of me. No more. I’ll protect you.”

When he says that, the shard from the spirit staff starts glowing, reaching towards Geralt.

“Protect me?” Jaskier asks, releasing Geralt’s hand so he can touch the shard.

When he does, they both shudder, something clicking into place.

“Yes,” Geralt says, once again meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “I’ll protect you.”

Getting down from the mountain is surprisingly easy.

The air is easier now, after Renfri left. Her brooch and her dagger are wrapped in cloth at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He’ll take them to the ocean, he thinks, and throw them into the water.

All the way, Geralt is looking around them, staring at the tiny forest spirits along the rocks and trees, the shadows looking back.

“Is this what you always see?” Geralt asks, keeping his swords within easy reach.

Jaskier smiles, adjusting the grip on his bag.

“You get used to it. Most of them are friendly, if you treat them well.”

The darkness Geralt was carrying is smaller now, much smaller. Jaskier knows it is still there, because it is with him also. But most of all, there is something new.

It would seem Geralt made a choice after all, a choice to stay, a choice to protect. Since he became a Guardian, he shares The Sight.

Above there is a cry of a bird, and Jaskier pretends it is a shrike. It could be.

“I found you to put her to rest, you know.” Jaskier says suddenly, needing to have it said at long last. “I needed her brooch to summon her, to end it.”

Geralt says nothing, just trails behind him in tense silence.

“I thought you would leave me after you let her go, if you knew.”

Geralt clenches his jaw and stops walking, and Jaskier stops with him.

“I left you anyway. Over and over again. Why did you keep finding me?”

Jaskier gives a sad smile.

“You never made loving you easy, but that is what it was. Is. It’s selfish of me, and even if it hurt, you were the one who actually cared. It was… nice.”

There is silence for a long moment, and Geralt stares at the shard in Jaskier’s shoulder, now visible to him.

“It was nice.” Geralt agrees after a while.

“Maybe we can have that again…?”

“Better. This time we will make it better.”

It takes time. Time to figure out how being a Guardian fits in with being a friend, and a witcher. Very little changes to begin with, except for the honesty.

This time, when a spirit lashes out, Geralt is there to help. Jaskier guides his hand, and then the spirit’s heart.

When Jaskier hangs the mask on the fence behind the barn, Geralt stands guard behind him. He etches in a name in the wood, and a rune for forgiveness.

Even before the rune is done, the mask dissolves into dust, and a blue shimmer follows it up, up, up into the wind and away to the somewhere that comes after.

This time, when winter falls, Geralt asks if Jaskier wishes to join him in the Blue Mountains, to where the witchers rest for the winter.

He declines, and their roads part for the season.

Winter has never felt so long, and so cold, but Jaskier has a job to do. He sings of the Lover Swans, he sings of the Shrike, and he sings of the Woman of the Ravens.

When Guide and Guardian find each other once more, it is like coming home.

“There is one more thing I never told you,” Jaskier says one night at an inn, a room and the night between them. “I would have stayed, if it meant your freedom. I never want to be a burden to you.”

The silence between them is familiar, comfortable, despite Jaskier’s confession.

“I still would have found you.” Geralt responds, and Jaskier’s heart aches anew. “The path is brighter by your side. I’m sorry I made you think that way.”

Jaskier falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

Geralt was one step too far away, and the spirit’s claws cut into Jaskier’s back.

With a roar, Geralt stood between them, his sword glowing with blue and gold as he parries the next hit, and the next.

When the wooden layers of the spirit’s armor is flayed open, Jaskier strikes true.

The spirit falls to her knees, a young teen with dirt streaks across her cheek and bruises on her arms.

With Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, Jaskier reaches for her, thumbs away her tears.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier says quietly and smiles at her, even as he feels blood dripping along his ribs. “You just wanted to protect them.”

“They were so many,” she cries, hands shivering as she grips Jaskier’s wrist, hard. “I couldn’t do anything, I-”

“You protected your sister. She survived, thanks to you.”

When Geralt has tied off the bandages and is helping Jaskier put his shirt back on, there is something new in the air between them. When the witcher guides Jaskier’s hand through the sleeve, he doesn’t let go, stroking his thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles.

“You never give up on them,” he says with a frown. “Even when they hurt you, you don’t give up.”

Jaskier tilts his head in question and squeezes Geralt’s hand back.

“Of course not. They lash out because they are Lost, scared and in pain. What kind of Guide would I be, if I left them?”

“But you care. You care about each and every one of them.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, even less so when Geralt’s hand finds his cheek.

“You found me. I hurt you, but you never gave up. You always cared.” Geralt whispers, and the shard of darkness in Jaskier’s shoulder throb.

“For you, I cared a little more than I should,” Jaskier whispers, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, and oh.

The kiss is gentle, dry, and their lips part with a small sound.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier leans in again, needing, craving another kiss.

Sometimes being a guide means showing the way. Sometimes, it is by holding the lantern as they fumble their way forward.

That night, Geralt guides Jaskier into his arms, mindful of the wound on his back. They hold each other so close that Jaskier loses himself in it, shuddering breaths and heart full to the verge of breaking. Geralt kisses Jaskier once more, and Jaskier aches.

“I never told you,” Jaskier whispers against his witcher’s lips. “I never told you how much I love you.”

im playing a game, Kena bridge of spirits, literally just started, but this thought gripped me and I am making it your probem.

so (now on Ao3)

Jaskier is a spirit guide, his focus is his instrument. His job is to let spirits heal and move on, and Geralt is a spirit, but Geralt doesn’t know. The grief he carries from Blaviken festers in him, and he is unable to let go of the past, and Jaskier senses it. (also this is not meant to be mcd lol but Geralt is a spirit now). So Jaskier follows him, in Geralt's words, pesters him, forces him to work through his past, and Jaskier deals with what the festering manifests around them.

On the mountain, geralt lashes out, and jaskier is stuck up there to clean up the mess of the mountain, who is now grown dangerous, because of Geralt's outburst. When Geralt finally gets his head out of his ass, he realizes Jaskier never came down, and he has to go back up there and confront his past.

And maybe, like in Frozen, a shard of Geralt's pain hit Jaskier, and he is weakened. Until that shard is gone, he is unable to entirely cleanse the mountain and safely leave. And so, he becomes one with the rot, one with the pain. For Geralt to free Jaskier, he has to get up the mountain, that is now filled with shadows of both of their pasts; the abuse and the loss and the hurt and the loneliness they both carry.

When Geralt finally gets to Jaskier, he sees the bard is deeply entangled with it, the pulse of his pain is leaking into the ground, and Geralt sees the shadow of himself lash out, to fracture his hurt. His medallion is vibrating, he has never seen anything like this, but he has to fight through it, and make Jaskier wake up from whatever this is.

And Jaskier does wake, just enough to see Geralt succumb to his own shadows.

Geralt doesn't know really what jaskier is, just know that weird things happen around him,

so when Jaskier lifts his necklace, a crystal shaped like a tuning fork, and the air shimmers blue, and Geralt’s medallion vibrates, all goes black.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, and Jaskier is standing a safe distance away, with little spirits swarmed around his feet, clinging to his shoulders, and he is smiling at them.

Geralt has to acknowledge what Jaskier's task was, and what Jaskier risked, for him.

Eventually, Geralt awakens, not as a guide, but as a guardian, because now, because of the shard that jaskier carries, his shard, he can see what jaskier sees.

He sees the spirits, he sees the pain, and he finally sees himself.

They set out to find a little girl in Cintra, who is hurt and grief and pain, and so strong she can shake the foundation of the world.

#geraskier #the witcher #angst with a happy ending #getting together #it is a long road yall #grief #loss #spirit guide!Jaskier #Guardian!Geralt #temporary character death #dapanda writes #y'all i spent a little too much time with this #sorry not sorry #it is not what i meant it to be but it also very much is #i needed geralt to choose #and so did renfri

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certifiedskywalker · 3 years ago

Text

Artistic Reimagining - Geralt of Rivia

You and Jaskier have been traveling about the Continent together for...well, forever it feels like. Just when it seems you’ve written a song about everything, you make the acquaintance of a Witcher and inspiration strikes! Though, Geralt seems to regard your artistic voice with indifference, borderline disdain. You’re starting to take his comments personally.

“I like that, it’s just jaunty enough, I think.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

You glanced up at Geralt who, perched on Roach’s back, seemed as tall as the cliff faces around you. His amber eyes were squinted in your and Jaskier’s direction, watching as he often did. Always so alert. Though you surmised it was a habit that came with the Witcher title. But the aversion in his furrowed brow and frown? That was all Geralt.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” He asked, forcing your focus back to his words.

“Respect doesn’t make history,” Jaskier countered before he began to sing again. Geralt stayed still, fists tightening around Roach’s reins as your fellow bard sang away.

“It’s poetic,” you added when you saw the Witcher’s jaw clench. “An artistic reimagining.”

“It’s a lie,” he huffed, “life isn’t poetic.”

“That’s why we make music. We make things...more palatable. Your life of violence isn’t suited for everyone.” You pointed to your cut lip and added, “I know people that would run for the hills with a wound like this. But our songs will mark you in history for your chivalry...”

Geralt grunted, clearly unmoved by your speech. Despite all you and Jaskier tried to do for the Witcher, he was determined to discourage your efforts. You had long since grown tired of his unamused ‘hmming’ and blank, quiet watching. Through gritted teeth you spat out a stinging end to your miniature diatribe.

“...your chivalry, which is yet another artistic reimagining.”

Before he could make another hum of displeasure, you left Geralt in the sandy dust and followed after Jaskier. He reached the chorus in your new ballad as you neared him and, as you fell into step beside him, you glanced over your shoulder. Geralt was still….still, his head moving to take in the sight of the canyon you were walking through. For a moment, you felt that maybe your speech had reached through the iced-over love in his heart.

Then you saw his shoulders sink with a sigh and the deep line of a frown on his lips form as he pressed on Roach’s flanks to push the horse forwards. You wore your own frown as you pulled your eyes to the path ahead. As you walked, you listened to Jaskier as he sang about a more poetic Geralt that slew Elves and caught coins. Never would you admit it, but it was that fictionalized Witcher in the ballad that you found yourself dreaming of in the dark of night.

What made those wonderings all the worse was the fact that the true Witcher, Geralt, your inspiration, was always a mere few paces away. Whether you were staying the night in a grimey inn or were laid across from him with a campfire between you, as you were later that night, Geralt was always nearby. Always a reminder of what, of who, you couldn't have. Being held hostage by the steep rock faces of the canyon did not help to ease that turmoil. Even over the crackling embers, you could hear Geralt shift in his sleep.

The sound echoed too much of reality and made falling to the fantasy of your dreamy Witcher far too difficult. From where you laid, you glanced to your right, away from the dwindling campfire, over to Jaskier. His lips were parted and soft snores filed out of his mouth only forcing rest farther from you. With a sigh, you looked up to the starry sky.

In it, you found the same quiet, and seemingly indifferent, company Geralt provided. You longed for more warmth; though you would never admit that out loud. The songs you wrote were devoid of romance for that purpose. You did not dare give away any hint of your feelings. Doing so would feel worse than death, you imagined.

And imagine you did. Your mind wandered and you stayed, terribly awake, staring up at the sky for a few minutes more before you got up. With your companions asleep, you were careful with your steps as you made off towards a nearby strip of woods. You hoped that a midnight stroll along the treeline would tire you out or, at least, dull the whirlwind whistling of your thoughts as they raced by.

Yet, you found yourself venturing further into the bush to better escape them. Ferns of all sorts nipped at your legs while a small symphony of nocturnal birds led you deeper. Their singing distracted you enough, but not quite enough to dull your every thought of Geralt, as he consumed so many.

And definitely not enough to ignore how a sudden mass of fog seemed to surround you. Hazy and light, the low clouds sent a shiver down your spine. How eery, you thought before you asked yourself: how could this be worked into a ballad? Perhaps there was a poor fair maiden, lost and alone, who wandered the woods in search of home.

But you were no fair maiden, and that would be considered dishonest if Geralt had any say. You scoffed at the thought. How you hated his influence over you. Every comment he made, every disapproving stare, Gods! However, it wasn’t anger for the Witcher himself that swelled in your chest. No, it was anger for yourself, for falling for a man so, seemingly, cold.

Your body, unable to hold all that disdain within itself, made your foot stomp against the obscured earth as you trekked through the fog. Heaviness nestled in your heart like a root of some toxic plant and you forced yourself to stop, take a breath. The walk through the woods wasn’t helping to clear your head, not anymore. You needed to lay down, push the thoughts aside with the promise of sleep.

Though, when you took the next few seconds to glance around, you saw only fog. “But I am lost,” you murmured bitterly, “and I am alone.”

It was then you heard the crackling of twigs. A white-hot flash of panic flooded your entire being. Where had it come from? Somewhere in the fog! Above? To the side?

Fear sent you into a frenzy of wide-eyed glances between trees and through the mist. You saw nothing but heard something. Something large, you imagined, something viler than the elves of the morning. Something with sharper teeth and a thirst for blood.

Just as you felt the darkness of doom creep over your shoulders, a glimmer in the fog caught your eyes. Almost as if a firefly found itself lost in the haze, a dull flicker of light spread through the mass of mist. The romantic in you hoped that it was a mystical muse lighting your way back to camp. A more primal part of you begged you to step towards your only possible source of illumination.

The Geralt in you, his voice nearly ever-present, scolded you. Turn around and run, that’s what it told you. For the first time, you were compelled to listen.

Quickly, you spun around on your heel and tried to ignore the continuous rustling of fauna behind you. You started forwards, back the way you came, just as the sounds of whatever hidden something grew louder. With each step you took, your apprehension grew, as did the volume of the growling, glowing creature that stalked after you. Your gut twisted with wild nerves, stirring you into the closest thing to a sprint as you could muster.

Lungs heaving, you darted through the trees in a desperate attempt to escape. Astray in the searing panic that was running for your life, you sent frantic, wild-eyed glances over your shoulder. What chased after you was a spindly figure that almost seemed to glow from its chest, shedding a dim light on the forest floor before it. Soulless eyes were sunken in a wrinkled face that was framed by a pair of pointed ears.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, only that its grimace made it less friend and more a dangerous foe.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, until a gruff voice shouted out, “Fogler!”

The yell made you jump, set your footfalls off-center, and primed you to fall flat on your face. Roots entangled your foot, anchoring you firmly and suddenly to the dirt. Stones and sharper twigs bit at every inch of skin you had exposed. You winced at the pain until the scurrying and nasty gurgling of the creature, the Fogler, pulled you back to the threat of death. Then numbed by fear, you turned and saw it.

Claws, long and dark, reached for you. In a feeble attempt of defense, you raised your hands and cried out.

Rather than a strike, thick wetness hit your open palms. Slowly, you lowered your arms and looked at where the Fogler had been moments before. The creature was still there, though it was laid back and a dagger was buried in its chest.

“Are you alright?” Asked the same gravelly, and terribly familiar, voice from before. With wide eyes, you glanced up and were met with Geralt’s amber eyes. He looked down at you, as he always did, with his hand extended towards you, fingers waiting for your own.

“You...You?”

“Were you expecting a valiant knight?” He asked, gently shaking his hand for you to take it. “C’mon.”

You shook your head and stood on your own, despite the aching in your legs. Geralt’s sudden appearance shook you from the panic that claimed you a mere moment ago. “Did you follow me? Were you following me?!”

“You went for a walk in the woods, in the dark, like an idiot. So, yes, I followed you.” Geralt replied, his hand falling to his side and gesturing towards the slain creature behind you. "It's a good thing I did."

"A good thing?!” “Yes,” Geralt replied coolly. Even in the limited light, you could make out his stone-cold features. There was no give in him. No deeper twinge that whispered of concern he held for you. But the way his eyes were fixed on you made you feel so watched, so wonderfully, frighteningly seen. How infuriating he was!

"Gods! All you ever do is watch and grumble and groan! You're,” you threw your hands up in the air and looked up as if the right words hung there. You found nothing. “You're-"

"What? What am I, Y/N?"

At the softer tone of his question, you felt compelled to meet Geralt’s gaze. His expression was still blank, waiting, and his posture was, as always, heavy. Shoulders were drawn back slightly, as if ready to hurl another dagger into the heart of a new threat. The way he carried himself made the quiet, honest curiosity in his voice all the more strained.

"Immovable,” you admitted in a breath, “a tower whose shadow I can’t escape."

Geralt’s lips quirked upwards then, one of those fleeting smiles that you saw him wear all too rarely. Despite his expression, there was a sadness in his voice as he said, “sounds poetic."

It was then, caught in a ray of moonlight, that you saw a Witcher more akin to the one that had your heart. Geralt’s gentle side shone through in the darkest hour. What sweet torture it was to see him at last, to have him so close, but unable to touch.

As if he read that thought, Geralt’s gaze dropped from yours and you felt a chill run down your spine. He was always out of reach. You had Folger blood on your hands anyway.

"We should get back to the camp,” you mumbled bitterly.

Geralt hummed in response, a sound you assumed was an agreement. Yet, as you began to walk past him, a hand shot out and gripped your arm. You stopped dead in your tracks and found Geralt’s eyes once more. Something shifted, something gave way.

Wordlessly, Geralt’s hand brushed down your arm until his fingers found your wrist. He pulled one of your ichor-covered hands close to his chest. You wanted to ask what he was doing, what he was planning, but you didn’t dare ruin the moment or interrupt the sensation of his skin against your own. When he pulled out an already grimey handkerchief from a pocket on his dark trousers, any question you held died on your tongue.

“Thank you,” you murmured as Geralt wiped the blood off your hands. His movements slowed as crimson soaked in the fabric, but he did not loosen his grip. You saw the amber of his eyes flick down to your lips before he looked into your eyes again.

"Poetic enough for you?"

There was an edge to his question. Not quite like the refined, cutting edge of Geralt’s favorite sword or the usual harsh honesty his words were laced with. No, it was teasing. It was an edge of humor that you had barely seen Geralt express since you met him.

“So much so that I must be imagining it,” you replied, playing into his tone.

Geralt’s eyes wandered back down to your lips at your response. When he met your gaze again, there was a question heavy in his features, his furrowed brow, and parted mouth. You leaned in closer, hoping he would take the hint, take your silent answer to his silent question. When his grip on your wrist tightened and he pulled you to his chest, you became grateful for the Witcher’s watchfulness, his intuitiveness.

Through you were far more grateful for the surprising softness of his lips, how easily they melded against your own. How you fit together like a dream, like two lines of poetry that flowed lyrically into each other. Your next song felt like that midnight kiss.

#geralt #geralt imagine #geralt imagines #geralt x reader #geralt fanfic #geralt fanfiction #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia imagines #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher imagines #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher x reader #the witcher netflix #henry cavil

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tielmamon · 2 years ago

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Legacy

714 words • angsty bittersweet ending • major character death (not depicted, just implied) • established relationship

Somewhere, within the stone walls of Kaer Morhen there is a room filled with history of past witchers. Those who established themselves as legends, their stories serving as tales of caution and inspiration to all witchers old or ancient. But within the room of armour and blades, is a peculiar thing.

A lute, elven design, hung proud amongst swords and daggers and gauntlets. Some who wander in might ask if a legendary witcher used music as their weapon. Maybe some would spin tales of a particularly twisted witcher, unsuspectingly ensnaring their monsters with melodies before dealing the final blow.

But no, the owner of the lute is no witcher. That is the most curious fact of all. A bard's spirit nestles amongst witchers in that room. Some may think its a joke, truly. What could a simple bard do to make it into this sanctuary?

Vesemir, the eldest of the witchers would tell you that that bard is a legend, a brother amongst witchers and that his legacy is that which shaped the continent witchers live today. Why people see them as hope, as heroes rather than mutants.

Under the lute, a nameplate hung. Etched carefully and artfully in a slab of stone, wrote Jaskier, the Voice of Witchers. A lark and wolf etched at each end of the title.

Every winter, when the keep is alive and full of family and warmth and safety, a grizzled man with white hair and tired yellow eyes will enter. He will greet his family with a warm smile and a clap on the back. He will especially greet his daughter, the blonde, fiesty woman beating Lambert's ass in Gwent with a bone crushing hug and a kiss on the forehead.

Then, when the moon was up and the others are laughing, merrily sharing stories and spilling drinks, he will make his way to the room of legends, with 2 drinks and a dandelion pressed between the pages of his journal. He would make a beeline to the lute, sit down and talk.

"Hey, Jask."

He would say, as he begins to recall everything that has happened for him this year. Every monster he's slayed, every place he's traveled, every child he's hugged back. He would tell the lute of Ciri, how she's the best witcher out of them all, how the keep is so full of warmth and life despite the cold. He would tell how villages that were once filled with hate and prejudice welcome him and his brothers now with open arms and open purses. He would tell the lute of one particular village in Oxenfurt, close to the university had just announced that they will be having a festival, in honor of witchers and their service towards the continent. He'd mention that even though he hates festivals, he still went because the university send him a letter asking him- because not only is the festival dedicated to them but also to a certain bard that now has a lovely garden named in his honor on campus. A bustling corner of nature with birds and a bright blue pond and dandelions everywhere.

He would tell the lute how much his family missed him, how Lambert still loses himself in a daze for a split second whenever he hears music from a tavern. About how Eskel keeps his favorite poetry book with all his little notes and marks near his bedside. About how Vesemir would tell the young ones he encounters at the village near the keep about this brilliant but insufferable bard that used to roam the halls, how Yennefer would mention him the most still, criticizing his taste in clothes and gaudy fineries when she passes by a storefront display. He'd tell the lute how Ciri would quietly mumble "I miss his voice." under her breath whenever they find themselves in quiet moments.

He would have the most content look in his golden eyes, and he would say the words that never left his heart even after all these years.

"I love you. I miss you. Wait for me."

Then he would place a kiss on the wooden body, place the flower between the strings and leave, all while clutching the bronze tuning fork charm that hung just beside his medallion.

#geraskier #geraskier headcanon #sad but happy #still sad tho #thewitcher #headcanon

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rebrandedbard · 3 years ago

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Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. ��Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

#asks #my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #you know i wish that i had jessi's tag #actually let's tag this as a ficlet too it's a bit longer than usual #ficlet

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years ago

Text

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to.

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows.

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets.

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later.

Then came The Witchers.

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see.

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live.

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly.

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus.

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person.

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings.

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again.

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived.

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off.

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands.

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming.

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train.

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable.

It was surreal.

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time.

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent.

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck.

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either.

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications.

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.”

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mollymawkwrites · 4 years ago

Note

Eskel/Jaskier: AU where Jaskier met Eskel instead of Geralt and wrote Toss a Coin for him instead - scar kissing/appreciation - "guess love is a response/of the body it haunts"

This took me longer to write than I would have wanted, so thank you for waiting! This is... pure fluff. Hope it’s worth the wait, thank you for the lovely prompt!

CW: mildly horny towards the end, but otherwise it’s only fluff!

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood."

Eskel raises his head from where he’s been staring at his spit flavoured ale to meet a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

The bardling can't be more than eighteen, fresh-faced and smelling of arousal as he looks at the Witcher appraisingly. Eskel expects him to recoil at the sight of his scars in the low tavern light, but the bard's eyes only widen with interest, and he slides into the opposite empty seat, leaning his lute against the table.

"Oooh, you're a Witcher, aren't you?" He asks with barely restrained excitement. "I could tell from the other side of the room you were filled with stories. How about I buy you an ale, and you tell me some of them?"

Eskel snorts. "And how are you planning to pay for that ale? Stale bread?" He nods towards the bulges where the bard stuffed the food thrown at him after his less than appreciated performance.

"Well, no," the man deflates, but not for long, his carefree smile returning along a flirty wink, "but I'm sure we can find an arrangement."

The Witcher rises from his seat, leaving his untouched ale and a couple of coins on the table. "I do not bed teenagers."

That earns him an offended splutter from the bard, who doesn't take the hint and follows him through the tavern. "I'm not… I can assure you that I am a man. An adult man." His voice breaks a little on the last syllable and Eskel smirks.

"Want to try that again?" He asks, but before the bard has a chance to reply, a man interrupts them. There is fear in his voice when he asks for Eskel's help with a so-called devil haunting his fields, and the way his eyes keep going back to the Witcher's scars shouldn't make Eskel so uncomfortable, but it does. He still accepts the job.

After the whole debacle with the elves, Jaskier follows Eskel back to the inn, strumming his lute with a spring in his step despite the bruise on his forehead and the tears in his doublet. Eskel informs the man who hired him of his deal with the elves, collects his meagre pay, and immediately spends half of it for a warm meal. He sits in the same corner as this morning, and forgets all about the whole ordeal for the time it takes to fill his stomach.

His peace is temporary, as Jaskier takes back his place in the middle of the room, undeterred by his earlier flop, and starts strumming the same melody he’s been composing on their way back to Posada. And then he starts singing.

The song is… embarrassing. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to the first hollers and insults from the patrons who recognize him, his eyes rarely leaving Eskel, who sits still, mortified, as he discovers the lyrics at the same time as everyone else.

By the end, the complaints have turned to cheers and stomping, and Jaskier’s cheeks are ruddy with exertion. He accepts to play the song a second time, then follows with popular jigs and bawdy tales that have the drunks singing and the others getting drunker. His attention strays from Eskel, though he still spares him smiles and winks when he happens to pass by his table.

Eskel should leave, he knows. The sun will go down soon, and he still has to find a place to set up camp. But he’s stuck to the bench, people throwing coins at him, clapping him in the back. The bartender even slides a free ale in front of him, with a grateful though reluctant nod. It doesn’t even smell of spit.

A warmth spreads in his chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and it only flares brighter every time Jaskier sends a smile his way. It takes him a while to identify this emotion, practised as he is at ignoring them. It’s gratefulness. Not for the people thanking him for ridding them of the elves, though that is a nice change. No, he is the one being grateful for the bard who met an old, grumpy Witcher and decided to see a hero worthy of ballads instead.

Eskel knows the bard benefits from it too, his pockets clinking with coin, knows the friendliness of the villagers will only last as long as alcohol fogs their stereotypes and superstitions, but he can’t help but revel in it, hoarding warmth and comfort as much as he can before he goes back to the cold loneliness of the Path.

Just after the sun sets, but long before the impromptu party is over, Eskel slinks outside, stomach full, a little tipsy on ale and joy. He doesn’t want to wait until alcohol makes the mean ones meaner and pushes them to try starting a fight with him. The bard has earned his success, Eskel won’t be the one to ruin it. He meets Scorpion on the outskirts of the city, caresses his velvety nose as the horse sniffs at his pockets for some treats.

“That was a good day, boy,” the Witcher tells his horse. “We shouldn’t get used to it, though. That’s how you get disappointed.”

Traveling with a human is a change Eskel struggles to adapt to, though it is admittedly nice. The boy is a smart one, cultured and quick-witted, but he doesn't know anything about life. His noble upbringing quickly becomes obvious to Eskel, the lack of basic knowledge like making a fire or cooking food revealing themselves on the first evening of their acquaintance. Eskel doesn't mind teaching the boy. It seems like the thing to do to thank the bard for the song, and for the company.

Before he finds himself maudlin longer, Eskel swings a leg over the saddle, and directs Scorpion to the South. Rapid footsteps echo behind him, and he turns to find the bard running in his direction, lute banging on his back and pockets heavy with the night’s earnings. The warmth that had bloomed in Eskel’s chest in the tavern buries itself deeper.

He doesn't expect the boy to stay long, maybe a week or two, until he's tired of sore feets and sleeping on hard ground, or he finds another "muse*, like he insists on calling Eskel.

But he stays, following Eskel everywhere, unless the Witcher insists he stays back at camp while he goes on a dangerous hunt, or he finds something of interest in a town they go through and decides to stay a couple more days. He always catches up, though, finding Eskel in whatever clearing he's set up camp and sitting at his side like they've never parted. It's nice, Eskel admits to himself. To have someone to talk to, about everything from music and art to monsters and magic. He finds himself brooding less and less, his mind focused on the colourful bard chatting next to him rather than on his own dark thoughts.

It comes slowly, he thinks, it buries itself under his skin, filling his every crevice without him noticing, but it's like falling from the edge of a cliff when he finally realises: he's happy.

He's been happy for a while. Since the ridiculous, optimistic, flirty bard entered his life.

He thinks about running, leaving Jaskier behind, before the inevitable happens and Eskel is left with a heart emptier than it was before. He could survive the loneliness when he had nothing else to compare it to; he's not sure he can go back to it now.

But he's not like his brothers, running from his feelings or translating all of them into anger. He takes the time to think about it, and decides that he'll take the risk. Jaskier doesn't look or smell like he has any intention of leaving Eskel's side for the moment, and Eskel has no intention of letting anything happen to the bard.

So he stays, and gets used to the company. It's surprisingly easy.

Winter is close, and Eskel finds himself feeling maudlin. Soon, Jaskier will head towards Oxenfurt to spend the season in warm lodgings, between some pretty girl's thighs, and wait for the sun to come back. Eskel will depart for Kaer Morhen, if he wants to get to the pass before it gets snowed in.

They've talked about it, and agreed to meet in the spring, but it doesn't keep Eskel from wishing they could stay together. He won't keep Jaskier from his plans, though, the bard sounding happy every time he mentions the friends he has at the Academy and his favourite inns to play at, where everyone, even the lowest drunkard, knows how to appreciate good music and poetry.

He shouldn't ask for more, he knows. The bard already gives him so much; his friendship and his songs and his smiles.

The day before they part, they pay for a room in an inn close to the crossroad where they’ll have to say goodbye to each other, and Eskel spends the afternoon knees deep in murky water to rid the local pond of a particularly aggressive bloedzuiger. It’s not dangerous, just long and damp, and his already foul mood sours even more. Back at the inn, Eskel leaves muddy puddles on the way to their room.

Jaskier hasn’t moved from the bed, where he is writing down his latest composition in the leather bound notebook that never leaves his side, along with his lute. He raises his eyes as Eskel enters the room, nose scrunching up at the Witcher’s state.

“I asked for a bath,” Eskel grumbles, unbuckling his armour and putting it close to the crackling fireplace to dry.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier chuckles. “Everything suits you, my dear, but I can’t say I like the smell of dead fish on you.”

Eskel snorts, but doesn’t reply, as the innkeeper’s daughter knocks on the door and sets to filling a modest tub with tepid water. He thanks her, and waits for her to close the door behind herself before undressing completely and stepping into the bath. It’s not Kaer Morhen’s hot springs, but it does soothe the ache in his bones that always settles when it gets cold. He sighs, relaxing after the frustrating contract, and doesn’t notice Jaskier has moved until he’s right behind him.

It should unsettle him that the bard can sneak up on his Witcher senses, but it has become a recurring occurrence, and Eskel doesn’t mind it so much. He likes being able to lower his guard with someone who’s not his brothers or Vesemir.

Nimble fingers thread in his hair, and he suppresses a shudder at the pleasant sensation. “What are you doing?” he asks without opening his eyes.

“Helping you clean that mess,” Jaskier replies in a low voice, almost a murmur.

Eskel hums, not seeing a reason to refuse the offer. The bard’s fingers on his scalp feel divine, and a purr builds in his chest as he slowly melts into a puddle. “That feels nice.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t stop either, even when he’s done with Eskel’s hair. His hands trail down to the Witcher’s neck and shoulders, digging into the muscles there with both strength and care. Eskel’s hard prick bobs in the water, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He knows the bard would accept enthusiastically if Eskel were to proposition him; he hasn’t stopped smelling of lust and ogling Eskel even after all these months, but that’s not what the Witcher wants at the moment.

The hands on his shoulders have traded their massage for featherlight caresses, trailing down old scar tissue and up again, teasing and tickling the sensitive skin. Touch purely for touch’s sake. Eskel hums again and Jaskier chuckles, a puff of air brushing the damp skin of Eskel’s neck. “What are you thinking about?”

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher says before he has time to talk himself out of it.

The silence that follows is short but Eskel has the time to regret everything that has led him to that moment, until a pair of soft lips caresses the curve of his shoulder, where a werewolf bit out a chunk of flesh thirty years ago and left only a jagged silver scar. Jaskier follows it from one end of the half-moon to the other, then breathes against Eskel’s skin, “I’d be honoured.”

And the warmth in Eskel’s chest makes itself a home there.

#prompt fill #jaskel #jaskier #eskel #fic #the witcher

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lilith-of-rivia · 4 years ago

Text

The Bards Sister Geralt XFemale!Reader Part 1

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Masterlist

Summary: Geralt of Rivia and his long time travel companion Jaskier find themselves in Jaskiers home land. A place geralt had not only never seen nor heard of. Jaskier is ready to reunite its his family after traveling and exploring the world for 20 years. The one person he missed the most was his baby sister (Y/N). Who he hadnt seen since she was 5. The journal is long, but the pay off is grander then they would ever be able to predict. I know i am trash at summaries.

Trigger warnings: NONE a lot of Geralt and Jaskier in this first part. Your charicter doesn’t come in till closer to the end.

Pairings: GeraltxReader JaskierxSister!reader

Word count: 6,095 longest fanfic I’ve ever written!!

A/N: hello my loves!!! I got my Insperation back!! I’m hopping i will be regularly posting agin!!! I ove you all so much you consistent love and supoort has not gone unnoticed. The constant likes and reblogs truly means the world to me. I love every single one of you so much. Thank you for believing in my writing the way you do. All my love -Lilith ps. I have reviewed and edited but I will be doing a more in-depth review soon!

“Where are we going, Jaskier.” The Witcher’s brooding voice echoed threw the flowered valley. His horse trotted not far behind his companion. Jaskier looked back at him and just rolled his eyes.

“How many times have you led me on endless roads, towards the middle of nowhere speaking little to no words to me no matter how much I ask?” Geralt said nothing. Jaskier snorted looking back towards the road.

“Exactly. No shut up, your brooding is giving me a headache.” The bard was giving the witcher a taste of his own medicine. The idea that Jaskier was leading him to somewhere he had no idea of the location, made him uneasy. Did he trust his bard? Absolutely without a doubt. Would he ever admit it to him? No never.

Their travels continued till the sun was barely hanging in the sky. The air had grown crisp replacing the harsh burning of the full summer sun. Jaskier pulled his mare to the side of the road, climbing off her, tying her to a tree. Geralt followed, realizing they were stopping for the day.

“We still have a couple hours of daylight left.” Geralt said as he took Roach’s saddle and tack off.

“We don't need a couple hours, we are nearly there. Maybe an hour and half.” Geralt cocked an eyebrow at Jaskier.

“Then why did we stop?” Jaskier pulled his saddle bags off his horse, putting them beside a log as he gathered some sticks for the fire.

“Because I have to debrief you as to who we are going to see and you must bathe before we do so. The stream here will do the trick.”

“Gods Jaskier, will you just tell me where we are going? The secrecy is bullshit.” The broot of a man was losing his patience with his friend.

The duo had been on the trip for nearly two weeks. They left Tramieria and headed east. Much further east than Geralt could ever remember traveling. Yet the bard seemed to know exactly what turns to take and when. The closer they drew to their destination the more the witcher could hear his heart beat faster.

“Jaskier if this is some stupid plot for me to protect you from some man who’s wife you slept with again-“

“It's not Geralt-“ Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, his stress causing a minor headache. “Just go bathe then I’ll tell you everything.” Geralt studied his friend, his eyes searching his face, his ears tuning into his heart beat trying his best to figure out what he was getting himself into.

With a low grunt the witcher grabbed his last set of clean clothes and the bar of soap from the bard's hand before stomping off to the river.

“Clean EVERYTHING!” Jaskier yelled over his shoulder. Only getting an unfriendly finger in return.

Nearly an hour later, the sun was completely hidden behind the canyon, the glow of the fire Jaskier started illuminating their small camp. Jaskier’s fingers strummed mindlessly at his lute, his eyes fixed on the stars that were making their presence known more, humming to himself softly. He heard his friends footsteps as he approached, his hair was wet at his shoulders. A fresh white Cotton tunic hugged his muscular build, black trousers hugging his legs. He smiled nice for once. All thanks to the lavender and honey soap Jaskier had received as a gift.

“Now don't you look better.” Jaskier said with a chuckle. The witcher sat down across the fire from him, his golden eyes staring heavily at the bard.

“Spill your guts Jaskier.” Jaskier rubbed his hands over his face and nodded. His eyes looking anywhere but at his friend.

“I haven't been completely forward about my family life.” Jaskier’s eyes landed on the moon above them. It was nearly full, he was doing well with time. He knew they would reach their destination well before the next full moon.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s harsh voice broke the silence. With a loud sigh Jaskier finally looked his friend in the face.

“I’m royalty Geralt.” The Witcher’s expression did not change. He just looked at his friend. He could hear Jaskier's heart beat become uneven and unsteady. At first he thought it was a joke but the nervous energy radiating from his long time friend made him think better.

“My family, they are wonderful people. My mother, bless her, taught me everything I needed to know about writing and music. Convinced my father to let me train at Oxenfurt Academy. My father is a noble and loyal king. He served our people well. Still does to my knowledge. I haven't been back in nearly 20 years…” the bard trailed off, his eyes fixated on his hands, his fingers twildilling with a ring he had on. The ring was that of his family. Their crest engraved into the gold.

“I was never meant to be a noble. I lived for adventure, for more than just sitting on a throne and watching people come and go. I was never fit to be king. My parents knew that. They understood. Understanding people they are.” His voice trailed off again, hopping his friend would say something. Ask a question. Anything. He didn’t know where to go next.

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” Geralt finally asked.

“Because it never came up. My family never needed me. I never needed them. I love them all dearly of course. But we were never the closest people in the world. Well, my sister and I were.” That caught the Witcher’s attention. His eyes narrow slightly, he made sure to not let his expression scare the bard into not telling him more. He was genuinely curious about his family. But he couldn't lie and say he wasn't disappointed that in the 7 years they traveled together he never heard of them.

“You have a sister?” The bard's eyes lit up. His memory raced with images of his tun little sister chasing him around the courtyard screaming, yelling his name. Her giggles and laughs pulling at his heart strings.

“Yes. Her name is (Y/N). She is about to be 25. Big age for a princess. I havnt seen her since she was very little.” His heart started to break softly. His neglect to his baby sitter weighting heavily on him.

“I write her often, as much as I can. She was...well, a surprise to my parents to say the least. I was 15 when she was born. I left home at 20. I was only around for her toddler years. I never got to see her grow, blossom into a young woman. I missed so much.” Jaskier had to fight back the tears, his throat becoming tight and dry. His body filling with regret.

“I just kept pushing it back Geralt. I alwasy said I’d make it home. I alwasy had it in the back of my mind to go back and see her. But I never did.”

“Why now?” Geralt asked.

“She wrote me a few months back. It was nearly a book. It was filled with tales of her new travels around our country. She had been training heavily with an unmanned matester of combat. She traveled the countryside with the man. She referred to him as an uncle. In the letter she asked me if it was true that I’d been traveling with you. She said the songs and tales of Jaskier the Bard traveling with the White Wolf made it to her ears.” Jaskier stopped talking for a brief moment, rummaged around his rut sack and pulled out a notebook. He untied its string and a large pile of papers fell out into his hand. He unfolded the parchment and scanned the writing.

“I wrote her back that week. Only to receive this in return.” He began to read;

“Oh dear Jaskier!! I cannot believe its true. I thought he was only a legend. The white wolf. Please tell him he is a hero here. We love his stories. Many have written books of him. Children run round calling themselves the butcher of Blaviken here to save the damsel and distress. I love his stories, mainly because they involve you. Please come visit me this year. I miss you terribly. I want to hear of your travels with the wolf. Mother said he is more than welcome to stay if he wishes to travel with you. I do miss you Jaskier. More than I think you know. I do not mean to guilt you or make you feel bad as i know you are traveling the world to your heart's content and would never want you to feel as though I do not support you-“ Jaskier stopped reading for a brief moment. A small tear dripped onto the page he was reading. Geralt listened to every word he read. He couldn't help the small tug of his lips when he read about the children pretending to be him. It was a breath of fresh air for the witcher. He had constantly been told he was a monster. To hid your children from him. Yet here was an entire country that loved him, yet he had no idea. Jaskier cleared his throat and continued. “But i miss my brother. And maybe, just maybe. I could come with you. If you deem me fit. I have been working tirelessly with a friend of fathers. He trains me in not only swordsmanship, but Herbology, and monsters as well. I can name nearly every monster that has inhabited the Continent and how to slay it. He thinks I’m ready to leave the nest and I think mother and father are getting a bit tired of me as well. I cannot stand another somber, dull, dinner party with nobles who look at me like a piece of meat. So please. Visit me soon. Come and stay a few days. Catch up with your dear sister and maybe, if he isn't too busy and if it doesn’t inconvenience him, bring the Wolf with you. He’d be a welcomed hero. All my love dear brother. Xoxo Love always, (Y/N) Irene Pankratz

Jaskier folded the letter, placing it inside his notebook before safely storing it inside his sack again. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes slowly moving from his hands to his best friend. They sat in the silence for a while. Geralt’s brain replaying the words he had heard from his friend.

“You could have told me about her Jaskier. Why didn't you? You’ve been in contact with her all this time, planning to see her and your family again. Bringing me along for the ride, yet not a single word in 7 years. Do you not trust me with such a secret Jaskier?” Jaskier was taken aback by his friend's words.

He never knew his secrecy would have such an impact on his friend. When it came to Geralt he learned long ago, the little words, the better. The witcher can only handle so much before he loses interest and stops listening or walks away. He never in a million years would have thought he cared about his life that much. It warmed the bards heart to know his dear friend, the only brother he ever had, cared that deeply for him.

“It has nothing to do with not trusting you Geralt. Is has everything to do with the shame I hold for not seeing her sooner. For treating her like a dirty secret form the world. There is no logical reason for me to keep my family such a big secret. Yet I have. For 20 years.” Geralt’s hands rubbed together softly as he listened to his friend. He understood the secrecy. He was a box full of secrets that nobody could get into.

“Its okay Jaskier. I understand the secrecy. Is that where we are going tomorrow?” Jaskier nodded, a smile appearing on his face.

“Her birthday is the next full moon. I’m hoping my gift will be a good start in time lost.” Geralt looked at him curiously. He hadn't noticed any major item in Jaskier’s possession that could make a good gift for a young princess.

“You’re her gift Geralt. I wrote her back after that letter and told her I’d be back for her next birthday. But that you simply were to busy with your work. I told her that you greatly appreciated her support and that youd consider writing to her in the future. She has no idea your coming with me.” Geralt didnt know how he felt about being a gift. He never ever saw himself as a gift to anyone. More of a burden the a gift. He shook his head at Jaskier and tutted at him.

“Jaskier if your that broke you could’ve asked me for a few extra coins for a real gift.” The witcher attempted to joke with the bard. It made Jaskier smile more. Geralt could be funny, but his humor was incredibly dry, much like Jaskier’s father.

“Geralt! Did you just try and joke around with me??” Geralt rolled his eyes, laying down stretching his muscles as he looked up at the starts.

“Best get some sleep Jaskier, you’ve got a rather big family reunion tomorrow.”

The next morning Jaskier was up and awake before Geralt, a rare sight. He truly hadn't slept more than a couple hours that night. His nerves kept him awake. He feared his sister wouldn’t be as loving as he pictured, she had every right to be mad at him, hate him even. By the time Geralt was up, Jaskier had bathed, changed and had his horse completely ready to go.

Geralt had to do everything in his power to not laugh at his friend. He looked rather ridiculous. His normal bright attire was replaced with a royals outfit. A green and blue velvet tunic and some extremely uncomfortable looking black trousers. His hair was combed back and his face was freshly washed. He even cleaned under his fingernails. He looked rather ridiculous in Geralt’s opinion. He couldn't help the low chuckle that left his lips as he put his bed roll away.

“I don't understand why you're laughing. I have some clothes for you to put on as well.” Geralt’s expression changed instantly, from humorous to angry.

“No. Absolutely not. What I’m wearing is perfectly fine. I’d wear it to meet any king or queen.” A bag was chucked at him, he barely caught it before it smacked into his face.

“This isn't any normal king and queen Geralt. This is my family. And besides, you are no ordinary witcher in my kingdom, you’ll be treated as royalty there. You may as well look the part.” Geralt huffed and threw the bag of clothes back at his friends feet, glaring daggers at him. He hated dressing up with a burning passion. Everything was too tight, not easy to fight in. If anything happened he’d have to rip the seams on every piece of clothing to be able to maneuver his weapons properly. And fancy clothes dont have space for weapons. He didn't like that one bit. Jaskier looked at his friend. His eyes pleading with him.

“Please Geralt. Just for today and her birthday. I couldn't care less what you wear at any other point on this trip.” He had walked closer to Geralt now. About a meter away from him. He extended his hand, the bag in his hand. Geralt looked from the bag to his friend. His teeth and jaw clenched.

He let out a loud huff and grabbed the bag from the bard.

“Fine.” He said through gritted teeth and began taking off his clothing. Jaskier smiled before turning his attention to Roach, getting her stalled and tacked so when Geralt was dressed they could leave.

“If we move with a bit of a haste we could make it there before breakfast.” Jaskier said as he mounted his horse, looking at his friend. His hand slapped over his face. The witcher looked utterly ridiculous in his new attire. The bright red and orange vest a-top a cream tunic, his legs tight in some disgustingly ugly corduroy pants. The pants were obviously smaller than the seamstress he bought them off claimed them to be. The ends of the pants came nearly mid calf on Geralt’s legs. His pasty white ankles and feet shining in the early morning sun.

“Jesus Geralt. Those are worse than the ones I got for Pavetta’s party.” The bard could no longer hold in his laughter. Did Gerarlt look like a nobleman? Sure, but his size, white hair, and bright yellow eyes really didn't help the situation.

“Jaskier, I will kill you for this.” Geralt grumbled angered as he pulled his socks up his feet and over his calves. Luckily for him (and Jaskier) his boots went higher than his pants, making it harder to notice that the pants he was wearing were way too small.

“At least I’m not making you wear a big hat with a feather, those are truly hideous.” Geralt mounted Roach, more carefully then he normally does in fear his pants could bust at the seams.

“I had to wrap you up nice and pretty to present you to my sister.” Jaskier commented as he led his horse; Napoleon to the main road, Geralt and Roach in tow.

The two men rode in a comfortable silence for some time, but as they got closer and closer to Jaskier’s home, all Geralt could hear was his frantic heartbeat. Jaskier’s palms get sweaty and his throat dry, no matter how much water he drinks from his water skin.

“Jaskier. You need to calm down. Your fucking heart beat is driving me insane.” Geralt hissed. They could see the end of the valley they had been traveling in. Geralt looked out in the distance, his eyes saw the castle first. It was very far, but he could tell how beautiful it was from where they were.

“Maybe you just shouldn’t listen to it then.” Jaskier barked back.

“You know I have no control over it, idiot. Take a deep breath. I know you're scared, I understand. But from the sounds of it your sister desperately misses you, I don't think she would ask you to come see her if she was going to hate you.” Geralt didn't talk much at all, that everyone knew. He was a man of few words. But when he did speak it was wiser than most people ever expected. People tended to forget the age of the white haired man, as he stopped ageing physically in his late twenties.

Jaskier smiled softly at his friend's words, he listened to him and took a few deep breaths, calling himself down. Geralt was right. His sister seemed eager as ever to see him again.

The two men approached the entrance to the city. Geralt was more than shocked. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen a city so beautiful in his entire life. The streets were lined in beautiful stone, flowers, vines, greenery all around every corner. The banners that were hanging on the outside of the main gates caught Geralt’s eyes. The crests on them were brightly colored in greens and blues, a very large diamond in the center. Their horses rode into the entrance of the town. Jaskier’s heart was calm, steady, his face was bright and had a smile Geralt had never seen on him before. He was finally home.

“Welcome to Inritha (In-Rithe-A) the capital of Unthya (Un-The-A) Geralt. Welcome to my home.”

Their horses traveled down the stone brick road slowly, the city was buzzing already even with it being the early hours of the morning. Geralt was surprised to see everyone look so...happy, care free. Enjoying their lives. They looked as though nothing was a fret, no monster looming. Geralt was mesmerized by the city. The buildings were built out of what looked to him like limestone, a building material he so rarely saw in other parts of the Continent. The buildings were being taken over by vines and moss, flowers all over. He’d never seen so many butterflies in his life.

“Jaskier-'' his voice was barely a whisper, the bard turning to look at him as they rode side by side. Jaskier couldn't help but smile as his friend admired the beauty he himself had so easily forgotten over the years.

“I know, it's beautiful. I've forgotten myself.”

The two men continued riding their horses up the road closer and closer to the castle. The longer they road tho more attention they got from passer buys. Geralt could hear their whispers.

It couldn't be. Could it?

THE Geralt of Rivia? Here in Inritha?

Mummy look! It's the butcher!!

Has Prince Jaskier finally returned home?

For the first time in what seemed like his entire life, the hushed whispers Geralt heard as he rode through a city were not of hate and disgust. But of admiration and curiosity. The entire time Geralt and Jaskier rode through the city, he never once had the urge to grab either of his swords that were at his side.

The two men approached the gates of the castle, four armored guards stood outside. The put their hand up in motion for the men to stop. One who looked as tho to be the commander of sorts stepped forward poking between both men. Eyes lingering for a long while on the two.

“State your name and what business you have in Inritha at this early hour.” Jaskier dismounted his horse, waking a few feet forward.

“My name is Jaskier Alfred Pankratz son of Dastrill and Alvere Pankratz. This is my companion Geralt Of Rivia, we are here on behalf of my sister, (Y/N) Irene Pankratz’s 25th birthday.” Jaskier bowed his head lowly, keeping eye contact with the commander in front of him.

“Prince Jaskier?!?” The man clearly looked flustered and embarrassed for not recognizing the prince of his own kingdom. All four men quickly bowed their heads.

“Please accept my apology your highness, we welcome you home. As do we welcome your honored guest.” Jaskier smiled and told the men to not trouble themselves with an apology. Geralt continued to watch from atop Roach, still not use to being idolized instead of feared. Honored guest. Geralt thought to himself. He could get use to the new treatment. Jaskier remounted Napoleon the gates to the castle walls opening. The both road threw, all four men bowed their heads as the two walked threw. Not once did they threaten Geralt’s life. They were led by a guard to the stables where they left their horses.

Geralt could hear Jaskier heart beating again in his chest as they were led inside the castle. Geralt tried to concentrate on his friend, to be there for him but he couldn't help but let his eyes wander all over the castle's walls, it was a bright exterior. The walls polished, candles everywhere. Large windows allowing for natural lighting. Nothing dark or gloomy about the castle at all. He felt uplifted..cheary almost. As they neared the entrance to the grand hall where the King, Queen, Princess along with some others were. Geralt could hear the light conversation, and the clicking of silver on plates, they were eating breakfast. But he could still hear Jaskier’s heart beating in his chest. Geralt placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder as they walked, giving it a soft squeeze. The action made Jaskier more worried if the witcher was feeling alright, as it was abnormally out of character for the man. But he said nothing, appreciating the gesture.

They got to the door and just as the guard was about to push the doors open Jaskier grabbed his arm.

“Could we maybe skip the loud over dramatic announcements of my arrival? I have not seen my family in years.” The guard only nodded, bowed his head and walked back outside to his post. Jaskier looked over at his friend, as he put his hand on the door ready to push it open.

“Now or never.” Jaskier said as he opened the door. Both men walked into the large room, the talking stopped almost instantly. Geralt stood at the door, not wanting to impose on the important reunion of his friend and his family. He followed Jaskiers gaze to the table ahead of them in the front of the room. The room was lined with huge floor to ceiling windows, the light of the early morning sun shone brightly making the marble floors glisten.

“JASKIER!!!” The loud scream of a girl nearly made Geralt jump out of his skin, his hand reaching back for a sword that wasn't there in instinct.

It made Jaskier jump but the smile that covered his face was even bigger than the one he had seen as he walked through the city. Geralt followed Jaskier’s gaze to a young woman. The sight of her alone made Geralt want to pass out. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen someone so beautiful in his entire life. Her hair was the same chestnut brown that Jaskier had, but it was long, hip length. She had it pulled back slightly out of her face, a few baby hairs framed her face. Oh her face. Geralt thought as though he was looking at a living breathing angel. He heard her chair scrape roughly on the ground before it loudly crashed on the floor. She raced around the long table from her mothers side and sprinted to her brother. She practically threw herself on him. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He quickly wrapped his arms around her, stumbling back a few steps. Everything was quite as the two embraced. Geralt's eyes went to the king and queen who were now standing. The queen looked just like (Y/N) but her hair was black, long stripes of grey peeking through her hair. The crown atop her head glistened in the light. Her right hand was tightly around her husband's arm, her other hand placed softly over her mouth as she looked at her children. Her husband looked much like Jaskier. His hair was the same color as both of their children, but much like his wife’s, much of it had turned grey. His eyes were the same cornflower blue that Jaskier had.

Minutes passed in silence before Jaskier put his hands on his sisters shoulders, pulling her away from him. He put one hand on her cheek as he examined her features. Her pale cheeks were damp with tears. But not sad tears. Tears of joy.

“My sister, how you’ve grown.” Geralt could hear the tears in the bard's voice. He couldn't see him but he could hear everything.

(Y/N) fingers gently brushed over her brother’s face as she smiled at him.

“My brother, how you haven't aged a day. You look just as I remember you. Maybe a few more wrinkles.” She teased. He laughed softly. Wiping his eyes with his hand before pulling her into another bone crushing embrace. She was much shorter than Jaskier, barely shoulder level with him. Geralt was shocked to remember she would be turning 25 in two days. She was still young in the face, beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to see her more up close.

While the siblings spoke their parents moved from the spots at the table, standing behind (Y/N). Alvere was the first to pull him into a tight embrace after her daughter let go. Her fingers gently combed through his hair as she inhaled his scent deeply.

“My dear son how I've missed you.” She whispers slowly into his ear. Geralt was starting to feel bad for eavesdropping. Not that he could help it. He was still standing at the entrance to the grand hall yet he could hear everything.

Jaskiers father hugged him next, it was not nearly as long as the outer two but both men were okay with it. Understanding that their relationship had never been one for long father son hugs.

“It is good to see you again my boy.” His hand clasped down on his son's shoulder.

The four of them stood close together, smiling more than Geralt ever thought possible. It almost made his heart turn. Deep, deep, deep, down the witcher longed for a family that would look at him the way they looked at Jaskier. He often cured the universe for not giving him an option when it came to what he had become. He clung to the few memories he had of his mother. But as years passed they became harder and harder to remember, more painful. But he had. Made a new sort of family over the years. From Jaskier, to his brothers at Kaer Morhen.

“(Y/N), mum, dad, there is someone I’d like you to meet.” Jaskier turned his head towards the door to the hall. Geralt stood tall, shoulders pressed back, his hair framed his face gracefully. Even in the entirely ugly attire he was in, he made himself as presentable and as proper as possible. (Y/N)’s eyes grew bigger when her eyes met his. He once again was taken aback by her beauty. Her eyes were a powerful emerald green matching similarly to the color of her brother's tunic, but brighter. Her mouth fell slightly agape when she realized who it was. The eyes were a dead give away that he was in fact a witcher, but once she saw the silver medallion that rested on his chest, she knew.

Jaskier nodded his head for Geralt to walk forward and he did, his footsteps were light, his pace slow and steady as he walked closer to the royal family. (Y/N)’s hand gently covered her mouth in excitement. Her eyes flickering to her brother who grinned at her.

“A bit of an early birthday gift.” He winked. Once Geralt was closer to the group Jaskier turned so he could introduce them, at his sister's side. All eyes were on him. Even the few people who were still seated at the table were looking at him. He started to feel a bit more uneasy. He started to remember how far away his swords were if he needed them. This alone was beginning to make him panic. He was not used to being welcomed into royal courts unless it was specifically for a hunt.

“This is Geralt of Rivia, one of the most feared, renowned, and skilled Witcher’s the content has to offer. And also my best friend.”

Geralt's eyes were back on (Y/N)’s, his worries dropped more when she smiled brightly at him. Her eyes gleamed.

Geralt bowed his head to the three of them, “ it is an absolute pleasure to meet you, your highnesses.” (Y/N) was nearly blown over by the sultry sound of his voice. She had only heard stories of the witcher. Never see him for herself and definitely had never heard him speak. She never expected a monster hunter to be as handsome as he was. She admired every feature he had. Her eyes fixating on his chiseled jawline, the light gray stubble across his chin and cheeks.

“My, what a pleasure it is to meet such a famed warrior as yourself Geralt!” The king spoke before (Y/N) could, which she was happy about as she did not trust her voice to not waver at his beauty in that moment.

“You my dear are very popular around here. Your stories are legendary. The school children even host yearly plays, Reenacting your most beloved stories.” (Y/N)’s mother added her finger pointing light hardly at Geralt. Her hand came out gracefully from her side to shake the Witcher’s hand. He gently took it, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His attention returned to (Y/N).

“I’m terribly sorry I’m the birthday gift from your brother this year.” She shook her head almost as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Do not be sorry Geralt-'' the way she said his name made him feel as though he could keel over. “I would like to thank you, for protecting my brother for the years you have. He never skips on his gratitude for you in his letter to me. For that we are all eternally grateful for you.” She reached her hand out. Geralt wasted no time in grabbing her hand, shaking it gently. He was dying inside, but he couldn't let her or anyone else see. He took a gentle step towards her, his head lowering softly, his soft lips were placed on the back of her small hand. The small action made the young girls' faces burn red. Her eyes flicked to her brother who smugly smiled, knowing danm well his gift was going to take the cake.

“Well, you both should come join us, we just started eating.” The king said with a smile, with a quick wave of his hand two more places we set.

(Y/N) gently removed her hand from Geralt’s. Walking towards the table, both men in tow. As she reached her spot she moved her plate and glass to the middle seat that had been prepared, leaving Jaskier a seat next to their mother and Geralt a seat next to her. They all sat and waited as food was served to them. (Y/N) could feel Geralt watching her as she ate, her brother deep in conversation with her parents about his most recent travels. But she wasnt listening. Her attention was only on the man seated to her left. She looked over at the man, eyed him up and down then turned to her brother. For the first time she noticed how ugly their attire was.

“Gods Jaskier who dressed you two?” She asked as she sipped her orange juice. Both men looked at her. Jaskier looked a bit hurt and Geralt only snorted.

“I told him the clothes were horrendous.” Geralt said beside the young woman making her giggle. The sound made his heart beat faster. This was also when he realized how sensibly everyone else in the room was dressed, and how much they stood out. (Y/N) was in a thin white cotton dress, it was around knee length and a light sweater was on her shoulders. Her mother and father dressed similarly. Their clothes looking normal, comfortable.

“Oh my dear brother. What have you done to the poor witcher.” She laughed, turning her attention to him. She could see how uncomfortable the clothes made him. The vest was way too tight and he was practically bursting out of his pants, not that she minded, she gladly enjoyed the view.

“He is torturing me. That's what.” Geralt scoffed and she couldn't help but giggle again.

“You're so dramatic Geralt it's truly not that bad.” Her head flicked to her brother.

“Jaskier don't be rude.” She tutted him like a mother, it made Geralt snort under his breath as he took a bite of his eggs. She stood and walked behind him. He was stiff at her movements.

“Do you mind?” Her fingers were on the strings of the vest. He shook his head no and she quickly untied the tight strings, and it fell from his shoulders. She took it off and handed it to one of the maids

“You can burn that horridly ugly thing.” She said as she sat back down.

“I do not remember you being so rude, little sister.” Jaskier quipped.

“What I think is rude is how you made sure you got the more presentable clothing and dressed your poor friend in those horrendous colors. Have you seen his pants, Jaskier?? It's a miracle he can still breath.” Her eyes looked towards the witcher who was already looking at her with a cocky smirk on his face, glad she was putting Jaskier in his place for the ugly outfit choice.

“I can take you to the seamstress later today, if you’d like Geralt.” Her smile was like a drug.

“I’d appreciate that m'lady.” He said softly.

“And I can show you around the city, both of you. But in return I would like to hear some of your stories, first hand if that’s doable.”

“That sounds like a reasonable trade.” Geralt quipped back.

“Then it's a date, Witcher.”

“A date it is.”

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