#when in doubt go ciri | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cas-kingdom · 1 year

Note

PLS. GERALT TEACHING AKELA TO ICE SKATE 😩

Find the OC version of this fic here.

The air had been cold all morning, but somehow it was more so as you looked out across the frozen lake. Giggles carried towards you by the wind, soft laughter and teasing remarks from Ciri as she taught Yennefer to ice skate. One part of you longed to go and join them, but the other—

"Y/N."

You glanced over your shoulder. Geralt leant against the axe he'd been cutting wood with. His head tilted, one hand at his hip, he offered a knowing smile. "You can join them, you know."

He had already told you as such, so he knew you knew. Nonetheless, stubbornness ran through your veins like blood, and when your mind was set on something, it was set in stone. Though, Geralt had always considered himself adept at breaking that stone. He had an axe now, after all.

You sniffed and brushed your hair behind your ears, a useless act considering the winter breeze. You turned back to the lake and watched as Yennefer yelled out and slipped, grabbing onto Ciri with a flurry of giggles.

You were long over your aversion to the princess's relationship with Geralt, but this...feeling you had towards Ciri and Yennefer was unfamiliar and unanticipated. The two were obviously close. Ciri seemed to have that effect on people.

"No," you said eventually, "it's alright. Ciri has my skates, anyway."

Geralt shrugged. He dropped the axe and walked towards the lake. "We don't need skates. Come." He stopped by the bank and reached a hand behind him expectantly. When you didn't grasp it, he turned to see you stood in the same spot, unblinking. Geralt dropped his arm and sighed. "Y/N, you love to skate. Come here."

You didn't vocally decide not to listen, but Geralt was well versed in the behaviour of the girl he'd raised. When you crossed your arms over your chest, not defiantly, more unwillingly, he dropped his arm and let a small smile slip onto his face.

"You remember when I first taught you to skate?" he asked, stepping one foot on the lake. He tested it, his boot slipping easily across the smooth surface. "You were four."

You couldn't help but breathe a short laugh. "You mean I taught you."

The Witcher stepped onto the lake, using his arms for balance. He skidded a bit, then turned to face you. "I slipped over once," he reminded you.

"And used four-year-old me to keep you up."

Geralt hummed morosely. Admittedly, that had not been his finest moment. Still. He reached his arm out again and opened his hand. "If you are so good, come and prove it."

There was no hint of competitiveness in his voice, just a discreet encouragement, and you took it with a long sigh and a reluctant smile, trudging over to him and taking his hand. He helped you onto the lake, allowing you to grip his sleeve as you found your footing, and noted fondly that said grip did not slacken even as you both slid slowly along the outskirts of the lake.

Ciri and Yennefer were still far out in the middle, slipping and tripping and laughing until their hearts' content. Somehow, Geralt doubted you wanted to be close to them right now, and not because of your refusal to leave the safety of the lake's edge. He wouldn't discuss it with you until he felt you needed it. He had an idea of what was bothering you, but as long as it wasn't dispiriting you as much as it had when your disapproval had surrounded him, he was sure it would fix itself.

You let go of his sleeve eventually, eyes fixed on the ice as you slid along it. Geralt turned so he was gliding backwards, hands at the ready in case his apparently oh-so-professional child needed some support. You were determined, though, your lack of skates doing nothing to thwart you, and Geralt felt himself relaxing and enjoying the—

"Oh, fuck." The moment he took a single wrong step, everything went to shit. Balance long forgotten, Geralt went into panic mode, arms pinwheeling, feet fighting for traction. You panicked too at first, instinctively attempting to launch forward to catch him lest he fall straight forward, but when you figured out he was in no imminent danger, you straightened with a snort.

"Geralt, you—Geralt—Geralt, you're making it worse!" Your words arrived between barrels of laughter as Geralt continued in the reclamation of his balance. He looked like a newborn deer, its long legs unused to the ground beneath it. You had tears in your eyes and when a burst of hysterics echoed across the lake, you realised Ciri and Yennefer had noticed the spectacle too.

Your laughter died when Geralt did indeed fall forward, though from the look on his face you were sure it was purposeful. Before you could utter a single squeal of anticipation, he lunged towards you, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you down beneath him as he fell. His hands went behind your head to shield the impact but the wind was knocked from you all the same, even more so when the Witcher's tickling hands found your sides.

"Hey!" You could feel the laughter-induced tears on your cheeks freezing, the harsh wind almost as cold as the ice beneath you. Geralt made quick work of boxing you between his arms, poking and prodding and scribbling his fingers across every spot he knew you possessed.

"You may be better than me at ice skating," he ground out breathlessly, "but here is something I will always best you at."

"Stop ihit, you bihig lump!" You pushed at his face and Geralt grunted with his newly blocked vision. Seconds later, a heavy force ploughed into his back and he was knocked off course.

"Attack!" Ciri yelled. She grabbed piles of snow from the bank and shoved as much as her hands would allow down his jacket.

Geralt howled. "Fucking fuck, Cirilla!"

Yennefer leaned down and extended an arm towards you, still on your back and struggling for breath. You hesitated but took it. You stood up slowly, slipping once or twice, but made it safely into Yennefer’s arms. Yennefer held you close, a grin on her face as she watched the princess and the Witcher wrestle, and you found yourself leaning into her. Yennefer leant her chin on your head, and you relaxed. As always, there was never a need to worry.

Your family was too tight-knit to ever leave anyone out.

Witcher Masterpost

416 notes · View notes

cherryjuicegf · 1 year

Text

He sees her last. After the blood and the gloom and the despair that plagued his sight, after the death and the wails and the pleas that teared at his chest, he sees her last.

Chaos, he thinks, has never looked more serene.

In another place, at another time, it would be beautiful.

Now Yennefer meets his eyes from across the hall and a sudden jolt shakes her whole and she runs, gods, she runs to him with such helplessness and relief that he knows he will welcome the most bruising hug, if it means it will keep her afloat. There is a weeping beauty in sadness, but not for her eyes. Never for her eyes.

As she buries her head in his shoulder, he feels her heart digging a hole in his chest. He holds her tight.

"Thank the gods," she whispers, as though to herself, "thank the gods you're alive."

In another place, at another time, he would make a joke, perhaps about the feeling not being mutual, just to steal a smile and a banter from her lips.

But he has no heart for that now. Not even for that.

He only has a chain clenched tight around his heart and gutting his voice in shame every time he opens his mouth to speak. "Yennefer, I–"

At once, she looks at him. "No words." As though she knows what he would say, as though she knows all he hasn't done, and mourns him anyway. She shakes her head, eyes huge and dark and pleading. "You can't stay here, it's dangerous. You have to go. You have to find Geralt."

"Yennefer, Yen– I know." His fingers dig into her arms and he can't bear to loosen his hold, he can't bear to let her go. Not yet. He smiles, soft. Leans to search for her eyes, for just a moment of peace in their turbulent current. "I just wanted to see my darling witch."

Yennefer stares at him for a moment, shoulders tense. Then, she huffs a laugh. Her expression softens, almost crumbles.

He feels her hands shaking where she holds him and the corners of her lips tremble as though with all the unspoken screams of the sea trapped into a single shell, wailing and weeping and waiting to be heard. He only wishes he had time to put her heart to his ear.

Her voice is quivering as she speaks. "I don't know where Ciri is," she says and it sounds like the complaint of a mother and a child crushed into one, like the world's cruelest crime, the earth's deepest regret, choked in swallowed tears. "I don't know where she is, I don't–"

She doesn't let her face break, as if she knows that when the bottle cracks, there will be no end or beginning, as if she knows he will only have to stay there, and hold her through it. And he cannot stay here between death's teeth.

She can't afford this too.

But he knows terror when he sees it in her eyes, for it is not frequent, and floods them with a different kind of darkness. It breaks his heart.

She looks at him for a moment deeply, in thought. Then she lets out a sharp breath. Quiet, exhausted. "Gods, Jaskier. I'm losing everything all over again. And then," she nods at him from tip to toe and laughs again, as though she finds it absurd, "here you are. Here you always are."

Maybe it sounds painful, because she winces.

Maybe she cannot bear looking at him, maybe in hope it will hurt less if she loses him. But Jaskier doesn't abandon her eyes, only stays there, because their violet melts just like then, just like that other time she was all bereft and scared and he got to see it, and knew. Yet again, a familiar kind of despair.

But, gods. What else could one make out of shared pain, except for love?

A tear flows down her cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before it shatters. He holds her face. "Hey. You are not in this fight alone." He swallows, voice thick, hand firm as though to caress the love on her skin and right into her. "Not anymore."

Oh, she has been alone for so long. So long that her first instinct is to disbelieve him, doubt him, squint. But it is only for a moment.

Because his thumb is still stroking her cheek clean of stray tears and her brows can only twitch in desperate acceptance as she slowly covers his hand with hers and leans into his touch, closes her eyes. Presses on, as though to memorize the shape of his palm when it's missing, as though asking of him to remember her shape.

Jaskier can't hear her, but feels her own voice in his head as he prays they don't become no more than a memory.

"We'll meet again." She looks at him again and now her voice is steadier.

It makes him smile. He will miss this. Offering a hand for her to lean into every now and then. Watching as she rises again, indelible.

A chuckle, as the curtain threatens to rise. "Eh, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Besides," he speaks softer now, like a lullaby, like a confession, "I could never be done with the likes of you, Yennefer of Vengerberg."

A promise.

And Yennefer smiles, through the tears, and shakes her head. How strange, how comforting. To fight so hard for a purpose, and to know the purpose is willing, at last, to fight back for you.

With a deep sigh, she raises her head. And there she is again. Solid, seething, like a burning hill. "Don't leave Geralt alone."

"You know I won't." Then, pleading. "Be strong."

He knows she will be. It's mostly to remind himself.

Slowly, their hands drop away, and he hopes the warmth of her touch lingers on his hand for a while.

"Be brave," she replies, but she knows too. "I won't be there to save you this time." Jaskier huffs, mostly to hold back tears. "Well, then," she continues, and her voice is suddenly strained in a half-laugh, half-sob, an attempt perhaps, to seal the promise back. "Goodbye. Good luck–"

Only, she can't.

Her voice dies in her throat, and she presses her lips together, in refusal, in grief. Her eyes are wet again.

Jaskier lets out a silent gasp and shakes his head, pulling her close one last time, tighter than before. This is too much. He can't ask for too much. So he only lets her steal some breaths from his chest before he lets her go, and places a kiss on her head.

He feels her holding her breath, or his, as she pulls back and silently looks at him one last time.

And then, like a cord snapping in two, she turns around and walks outside the room. She doesn't look back.

And Jaskier watches numb. Her form disappears behind the walls and he stands wrecked, a sob threatening to rip his throat apart.

Broken, trembling, he smiles at her remaining memory, and decides to seal her promise himself. "Good riddance."

His voice echoes back to him in the empty hall.

#hiii insane hour again!! who's asleep #anyway i want the equivalent of goodbye good luck good riddance in part 2 and if i can't have it i will do it myself #also not to get meta on my own fic but you know. the promise of meeting again returning back to jaskier. you know #the witcher #yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #s3 spoilers #the witcher s3 #fic recs #chrysa writes #or tries to idk i'm tired

230 notes · View notes

geraskierfanficprompts · 6 days

Note

HEAVY HARD hurt GERASKIER prompt -Geralt believes Rience when he says that Jaskier betrayed him and gave Kaer Morhen and Ciri's location.

Prompt: after Rience and Jaskier's torture take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is still injured, but Rience puts a spell on him, which prevents others from seeing his real state, with injuries. Geralt hears from Yennefer about the bard's meeting with Rience, but she doesn't go into detail about everything. But then, Rience finds the fortress and searches for Ciri, attacking everyone. He finds Jaskier and Geralt, and says something (he's cunning and manipulative) that he assumes that the bard who told him about the location… and that he just offered some coins for it, and that Jaskier wanted to get revenge on Geralt for the mountain . (Rience gets the information from someone or reads it from Jaskier's mind, the writer can decide, including the information about the location of the fortress, I haven't decided on that yet). Yennefer manages to attack Rience who runs away, but says she will return now that she knows where Cirilla is. With that, Geralt confronts Jaskier about what Rience said… Jaskier begins to defend himself, but his mental and physical state begin to hinder him in his explanation. Geralt ends up pressing the bard against a pillar (remember here that he is already injured from both torture and Violet Meir and has had no time to heal or any chance to get treatment), and Geralt starts yelling at Jaskier about betrayal, about him not thinking about a child (Ciri), about him having betrayed him for a petty and vile reason, etc. Use your imagination here. I think of something that reaches the point where Jaskier starts to believe in all of this due to his state of mental weakness. Geralt decides they need to leave the fortress, leaving Jaskier behind. Being left behind again makes Jaskier even worse… and he goes into an even worse state of denial and self-hatred. Jaskier feels that he himself actually told about Ciri's location and the fortress and that he betrayed Geralt… alone in Kaer Morhen, Rience appears again and confronts the bard again about where they are… But among the conversation, Rience begins mocking Jaskier and removes the spell to show the marks he left on his body… he begins to torture the bard again, even psychologically. Yennefer, already in doubt, as she didn't believe that the bard had told Rience anything before saving him, opens a portal from where she is with Geralt to the fortress… where she finds Rience hurting Jaskier… She rescues the bard who is already dying and without Rience's spell that hid his injuries. Yen takes the bard to where she was with Geralt… that's when the witcher sees Jaskier's real state… and when Yennefer tells him what she heard from Rience while he was torturing Jaskier… that it was easy to manipulate Geralt about the bard, because after all, he never trusted Jaskier and never considered him a friend or someone he should protect. Jaskier is in an even more critical state due to his injuries and Geralt begs Yennefer to heal him. Yennefer: I'm trying, trying! But look at him! My magic needs his body to respond to heal! But he has old wounds, his body has not healed from them, he is very weak! It's not reacting. Jaskier then goes into cardiac arrest, right before Geralt's eyes. Detail: Jaskier in front lying on the ground, motionless… Yennefer trying to revive him… he's not breathing… but Geralt can still see the marks of his own fingers on Jaskier's neck, the moment he pushed him in the pilaster and said he didn't consider him anything. That he was wrong to trust a bard, accustomed to frivolities… especially a bard like him, who would trade anyone for a new lute. That he should have gotten rid of him sooner, before he came to destroy the only important thing in his life… Ciri. Yes, I want drama! Sadness, I want excitement! aahahahahaha

Oh em geeeee, that's so tragic!!! And fucked up! I love it~ Would love to read it at some point, if anyone is in the mood to write aaaangst!!! We got another lovely idea from @oonoturna, always spoiling us!

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt x dandelion #witcher fanfiction #fanfiction prompts #writing prompts #geralt angst #heavy angst #heavy whump #geralt whump #jaskier angst #jaskier whump #theyre both so angsted and so whumped bro #Yennefer has the braincell #rience

32 notes · View notes

popawritter12 · 7 months

Text

Yandere! Geralt of Rivia headcanons.

≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦

Probabilities that your loved ones will be killed.

Let's start by talking about the fact that he already has experience killing both humans and monsters or creatures that escape our imagination, or even people of other races.

But he usually doesn't want to apply it, if he can avoid spilling blood, he will. Although some of them probably end up dying, more out of self-defense than out of his jealousy.

My guess is a 30% chance, the only exception is that those people ARE dangerous to you but you refuse to accept it.

First impressions

You met him because he saved your life. Whether by humans or monsters, or other creatures.

You were infinitely grateful to him, to the point that you insisted that he can always come to you if he needs help or a place to stay.

Even with sex or not involved, we can assume that he ends up accepting your offer, even if he didn't initially want it.

Unlike other people, you always treated him like another human being; It wasn't difficult for him to trust you seeing how kind you were, although at first he doubted your true intentions more than once.

Fall in love

You both got along well, even with all the negative comments from people you knew, you just thought they were people's exaggerations.

After the first time you welcomed him into your home, he felt that one day he would have to come back to visit, even if it was for something as minimal as buying supplies or upgrading his armor and/or tools. That idea of returning crossed his mind several times, until he visited you again.

You recognized him instantly, and greeted him as if you were seeing a great friend. Both of you shared a moment together where they told how things had gone since the last time they had been together. If you pay attention, you will notice that he seems more open or even more relaxed than usual.

Geralt didn't know why he felt so much trust with you, but he liked that feeling; he couldn't deny the fact that he preferred being with you over other people. It took him quite some time to realize the reality of his feelings.

Although you assumed that he constantly visited you or that he enjoyed your presence it was because he fully trusted you as a trusted friend, the reality was different.

And you didn't notice it until you saw that every time he visited you (we assume once a month or even more), he seemed more attentive to you or flirted with you more regularly.

Beginning of "Yanderism"

After a couple of months, that overwhelming feeling slowly escalates. He couldn't confess what he felt; Whether it was because of how dangerous his job was or the knowledge that many humans or other creatures would try to kill you, it was a thought that sometimes ate his mind and kept him thinking all day, going around and around the same issue.

Both Ciri and other people are worried about him, he denies what he feels or what he thinks, even getting angry because of how difficult it was for him not to be able to get you out of his head.

And it's not until he finally lets his feelings take over that there is no turning back.

(From this point forward, there is no way back)

First murder or Yandere act.

He would kill someone very close to you, not out of self-defense, nor because that person was a danger to you, but at one point, his jealousy took over him completely.

Geralt had a hard time believing it when he did it, since he almost never let himself be carried away by his emotions. But this time, he had screwed up, and he knew that sooner or later you would find out.

Even if he tried to hide it, you end up finding out what he did. You deceived yourself, trying to believe that it was just a lie, or that the situation at that moment led him to defend himself on his behalf or to kill him for something that person had not told you.

But in the end, lies have short legs.

He saw you cry and argue with him, yell at him about why he had done such a thing, and that your dead family member or friend had never done anything to hurt him.

And he was forced to act on impulse.

Relationship or kidnapping

After he confessed, you had already grown afraid or disgusted with him, not because he was a witcher, but because he had harmed someone you loved through a simple act of jealousy.

You reject him, feeling disgusted with his decision; You hoped he would leave you alone, but he couldn't go back, and you knew that the hole in his heart that your abandonment would leave was never going to be filled.

And he does it, he forces you to go with him, even tied up or kicking, he was always going to be able to with you. And no matter who gets in the way, no one could stop him.

Coexistence

In this case, it is not very good. You feel afraid that he will hurt you, or hate for all the damage he did in your life, but he still seems so calm around you.

He would hate hurt you, hate the idea of hurting you and causing any kind of pain that makes you cry. Of course, that is if we talk about the physical sense.

We can say that their punishments are more mental.

He would talk to you about how much he loves you, he would show you with affection and make you feel the body heat of another living being for weeks on end. And then he would become distant, he wouldn't touch you and he would rarely respond to you like you normally do.

The more violent you get with him, the less effect it will have on his way of punishing.

Of course, if you show obedience and affection, the affectionate and loving side of him would always be there, and he would never leave you alone.

In case of kidnapping, where would he take you?

Next to him, everywhere. Unless you have managed to escape from him more than once, which would cause him to make the drastic decision of leaving you locked in a place away from civilization and any kind of help or contact with humans or any damn species.

It would be difficult for someone to manage to snatch you from him, considering everything he is capable of doing in a non-yandere state.

Marriage and family.

In this case, I don't see the possibility of marriage.

I mean, he already sees you as his destined partner and he wants you to be together in this life, and in others to come. However, he is not the least bit interested in marriage.

Regarding Geralt's friends, they know almost nothing about you... It's hard for them to believe that he is capable of something so extreme, but when they see it, they only understand that they must keep a certain distance from him if they don't want to cause problems. .

And, in case it wasn't obvious, your family has no say in anything at this point in history.

↘If possible, children?

It is NOT POSSIBLE.

Now, if we assume that by some fucking magic trick from I don't know where the possibility of having a child with you comes from, I'm sure he would be more than happy to take it.

Reasons to be a Yandere:

-During his entire life he suffered a lot of discrimination from many people, he is used to an almost 100% hostile environment, and having the possibility of being with someone who from minute 0 was kind to him and treated him with respect and affection... is something he wouldn't let go so easily.

-Let's say that it is very difficult for him to develop a feeling of trust with someone, especially when that someone is surrounded by people who constantly remind you that you should not interact with them.

-He is used to killing, (more than anything due to the context of the world in which he lives and how his life was) let's say that someone who already has enough experience taking lives from other living beings can implement those actions in others (not specifically harm you, if not those he may consider dangerous)

Extra data:

-Geralt is sweet to you, and he usually likes to have you in his arms to know that he can protect you from anything.

-He is the type of Yandere who would never force you to have sex, under no circumstances would he allow himself to subject you in such a way.

-I would venture to say that Geralt was irritated by how Jaskier constantly seeks to talk to you, not out of jealousy, but because his presence bothers him.

≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦≧◉◡◉≦

I had this character in my head for DAYS to make him headcanons hajdajahdjqi

#yandere #obsessive love #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #poppa thoughs #yandere male #geralt of rivia #yandere geralt #the witcher #yandere the witcher #yandere geralt of rivia

65 notes · View notes

podcastenthusiast · 2 years

Text

"Where'd you learn to do this?" Ciri asks, and Geralt's hands go still in her ashen hair.

He doesn't answer.

"Mousesack... he used to braid it for me," she goes on, sadness creeping into her voice. "When I asked where he learned, he said he would braid his little sister's hair when he was a boy, because his mum was too busy. Did your mother teach you?"

"No," he says after a while, resuming the task at hand. "Witchers don't have mothers."

"Oh. Do you mean like how I don't have a mum anymore, or--"

"I just don't. All right?"

There must be too much anger or bitterness in his voice; Ciri's response is a subdued, "All right."

She doesn't smell afraid, but he has hurt her all the same. She should feel safe with him. Kid's been through hell, and she's only curious. He distantly recalls being a curious child once, too.

Geralt forces himself to breathe deeply, to relax his tense muscles and carry on braiding her hair. His hands weren't made for gentle things. He has to focus.

"Who taught you then?"

Persistent girl, isn't she.

This strange reaction of his isn't about Ciri. Or even Visenna. It's about--

"A friend." There. Why had it been so hard to say the word? He doesn't know if he still has the right to call Jaskier that, now. "He used to braid mine, sometimes. Showed me how."

He thinks about Jaskier's delicate hands touching his hair as if it were finely-spun silk. The bard's fingers must have ached after playing for the inn's patrons all evening, but still he would wash the blood and grime from Geralt's hair without (much) complaint, combing all the tangles out with some kind of sweet-smelling oil before gently braiding it. Geralt, relaxed in a way he rarely ever got to be, was usually half-asleep by the time Jaskier finished his ministrations and coaxed the witcher to bed.

Had Geralt ever thanked him? Did Jaskier know how much those small gestures of care meant to him? How few people ever dared to touch a witcher with kindness, even fewer without the expectation of coin or something else in return? He doubts it.

"Is he dead?" Ciri asks, breaking his reverie. The bluntness of her question surprises him; it befits someone far older than her years. A child should not have had to witness so much death.

"No. He's... somewhere safe."

Although with the war... He hopes Jaskier truly is safe. Damn bard always has a knack for finding trouble. Geralt offers a silent prayer to all the gods he doesn't believe in. Please let him be safe.

"Must be nice," Ciri says, soft and tired.

Geralt finishes the last braid. He pats her shoulder, an awkward but sincere comfort.

"We should reach Kaer Morhen in a few days if the weather holds," he tells her. "Rest now."

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #cirilla fiona elen riannon #witcher fic #jaskier #the witcher netflix #just a little story taking place between season 1 and 2 of the show #inspired by me discovering new hairstyles in witcher 3 and having Thoughts #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic

843 notes · View notes

oonoturna · 6 days

Text

HEAVY HARD hurt GERASKIER prompt -Geralt believes Rience when he says that Jaskier betrayed him and gave Kaer Morhen and Ciri's location. (FREE TO USE)

#angst #angstjaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #jaskier #jaskierlovegeralt #prompt

21 notes · View notes

starfirewildheart · 6 months

Text

Chapter 11

Geralt looked out the window at the still falling snow in the presunrise hours. The colors seemed more beautiful today than he ever remembered. He heard Naurel start to move and went to her. Sitting beside her on the bed he leaned in for a soft kiss. “How do you feel?” The new lovers had spent the rest of the day and the entire night in his room exploring each other.

She stretched and smiled up at him, eyes still sleepy. “Wonderful.”

“Not sore? I didn’t hurt you did I?” His strength always concerned him when touching humans but especially with her because he’d lost himself in the pleasure a few times.

“Sore in some places but nothing bad.” Running her hand over his arm, “Stop worrying love. You didn’t hurt me, I promise.” He relaxed a bit and she sat up pressing another kiss to his mouth. “Are you ok? You’re up early.”

“Aye, perfect,” he smiled. “As much as I would love to stay up here for a month you need food and water to replenish and we should give your body some time to rest.”

She pouted at him but the grumbling in her stomach made her realize he was right, as usual. “Fine, if we have to.” She got up and started getting dressed still blushing softly as he watched her.

Down in the dining hall, a few of the witchers were already having their breakfast when they arrived. Geralt got their food and led her to a table where Ciri, Coen, Jaskier, and Lambert set. Once they were seated she suddenly became nervous. They, well she, hadn’t been very quiet last night. What If they heard her? Geralt placed his hand on her thigh having picked up on her increased heart rate and she wrapped her own arm around his bigger one almost hugging it to her. She picked at her porridge, thankful when a conversation started.

“What’s the training agenda for today?” Geralt asked Ciri.

“Lambert said something about a training platform for witchers,” she answered proudly.

Lambert had the good sense to sort of cringe knowing that Geralt would likely not approve. “I just thought it would be a good way to learn some defense. If you think it’s a bad idea we can do something else.”

Ciri’s huff didn’t go unnoticed but Geralt acted like he didn’t hear her. “She’s chosen you and Coen to do her training. I won’t get in the way of that. Naurel and I will be practicing today.” He looked down the table at Ciri, “Please be careful. The course is made for a witcher who’s more advanced in their training. When they fall and break a limb or split their skull we can put them in the laboratory and give them elixirs to heal them. You do not have that ability.”

“Gonna practice with the straw people again?” Lambert teased Naurel.

“Probably,” she nodded. “I’m sure it’s sort of like practicing with you though, the straw just doesn't talk back and crack stupid jokes.”

Coen spits his water across the table laughing. “Good one!”

Naurel reached over and shook his hand with a huge grin on her face. “Thank you.” Having started to relax a bit more she loosened the death grip she had no Geralt’s arm some and started eating. “What are you doing up so early Jaskier? You usually sleep till midday.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he eyed her.

“Oh no, are you still hurting?” she asked, concerned for her friend.

“A bit but that’s not why I couldn’t sleep.”

“The cold?” Geralt asked as he took a bite of bread.

“My room is next to yours and you,” he looked at Naurel, “Are not quiet my dear. And you,” he pointed at Geralt, “How do you go so long?!” Ciri started giggling and the other witchers joined in teasing them and moaning mockingly.

Naurel’s face flamed red as she buried her face against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt however just laughed good-naturedly at their friends. He’d intended for them to all know that she belonged to him. Last night left no doubt. After a few minutes of teasing Vesemir and Eskel came in. He’d heard them teasing the pair and was laughing too. “Enough,” he rumbled. “You’re just jealous because your brother is making those noises with his girl and not by himself.”

Geralt gave a grateful look to the old witcher before lifting Naurel’s head off his shoulder and kissing her softly. It wasn’t lost on him the Eskel went to an empty table and didn’t join them. She finally spoke again to ask Vesemir a question. “What is the cooking schedule here?”

“Each person takes a day cooking all three meals,” he told her.

“I would like a turn if that’s agreeable. I feel like I need to be contributing in some way.”

“Yes! Of course! Please! It has to be better than Lambert’s” Came several replies from all the witchers. She laughed.

“You don’t have to but If you want to, it would be most welcome,” Vesemir told her.

“I’d love to,” she beamed. “Someone let me know when it’s my turn.”

“Tomorrow,” they all said in unison. She laughed and continued talking before heading out to work on her sword training.

It was getting late in the afternoon when Geralt saw Lambert and Coen approaching with a bloody, frustrated Ciri in tow. They all sat near him watching Naurel hit the straw dummy. He looked over at Ciri, “Going to survive?”

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” she frowned as she rolled her shoulder. Stupid human body and its human limitations.

“You beat the strawman yet?” Lambert teased Naurel.

“Why don’t you spar with her and find out?” Geralt suggested.

Naurel and Lambert said “Huh?” at the same time.

“Spar with her, not you?” Lambert verified.

“Yes, I will coach her, nothing more,” Geralt nodded.

“Come on little girl,” Lambert said excitedly, grabbing his sword.

Naurel was looking at Geralt like he had grown another head as he approached her. “He’s going to kill me!” she whispered.

“Do you trust me?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Start out with the blocking moves I showed you. When I want you to switch to offensive strikes I will call them out.” He kissed her head, “You can do this.”

“Yea,” she shook her head no at the same time causing him to chuckle. “Just remember if he kills me we can not do a repeat of last night witcher.” All of them laughed, damn witcher hearing.

Naurel did everything exactly how Geralt had shown her and made her practice on the dummy a thousand times and to her surprise, she managed to block all of his attacks. He’d been easy at first but by the end, there was some force behind his blows. “Strikes,” Geralt called out. “Keep your form, your arms are dropping.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel roared and launched an attack.

Geralt shoved Naurel to the ground away from them so that she wasn’t hit. Both men landed punches and kicks hard enough to draw blood instantly. Witchers fighting was scary to watch especially when you were in love with one of them. She felt the tears spilling down her face as Ciri ran to her and helped her to her feet.

The other witchers finally got the two separated after several attempts. Coen noticed that Eskel’s eyes were black indicating he’d taken an elixer before coming outside. He’d planned this attack. Distracted by his thoughts Eskel was able to shake free and storm Geralt again whose arms were still being restrained. No one had time to react as Eskel kicked Geralt as hard as he could between the legs with his elixir enhanced strength. Everyone let Geralt go and tackled Eskel to the ground. Geralt fell forward, curled over unable to catch his breath, and finally threw up in the snow.

Naurel and Ciri ran to him trying to help him however they could. Naurel grabbed a handful of clean snow and wiped his face and neck until he was able to catch his breath. She had to balance herself when he leaned all his weight on her pressing her face against her neck. “Shhh, love try to breathe,” she encouraged rubbing his back.

At this point, Vesemir had come out and ordered them to take Eskel to the dining hall before kneeling beside Geralt. “Wolf,” he placed his hand on his back feeling how hard he was still trembling. “We need to get you inside so I can tend to you. It’s going to hurt when we stand you up but it has to be done.

Geralt nodded because he couldn’t speak and felt strong arms around him lifting him up. He was sure his balls had ruptured, it felt like they had been hit was an anvil. Unable to hide the grimace as he was moved he griped Vesemir and Coen’s shoulders in a bruising grip. He was grateful that they went no farther than the dining hall because he didn’t think he could have stood much more even letting out a whimper when he was lowered down on some furs that had been placed near the fire.

Jaskier moved Ciri out of the line of sight to give Geralt some privacy as they laid his head in Naurel’s lap and stripped him. He had to be restrained while he was examined for damage but thankful after a few potions and elixirs he was no longer fighting them. Naurel dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and wiped his sweaty brow and face unable to do anything else to help while Vesemir and Coen worked. Once Geralt was treated and covered with a blanket Vesemir said something to him that was too soft for Naurel to hear before standing. Geralt turned with a pained grunt and wrapped his arms around Naurel’s waist hugging her as he rested his head on her.

Vesemir was livid when he stormed across the room to Eskel. The yelling echoed through the room like screams off a mountainside but Naurel didn’t think Eskel looked repentant at all. She smiled as Ciri came and curled against her side close to Geralt and ran her fingers through his hair offering comfort the only way she knew how as well. The yelling went on for over an hour before Eskel was sent to his room for the night because Vesemir was too angry not to hurt him during punishment at the moment. Eventually, everyone scattered about talking softly or going to their rooms. Thankfully Geralt had calmed enough to meditate and help his healing.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

@mollymal

@secretdreamlandmentality

@salvawhxres

@dizzybee03

#geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #witcher fanfiction #the witcher netflix #the witcher #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

tielmamon · 1 year

Text

Part 2

"Oh- wh- hold on now, thought we were playing for fun?" Jaskier watches Ciri deplete his monitary resources with the sweetest smile, and truly he finds that he doesn't mind.

"I assure you, it truly is a delight taking your coin." He puts on an annoyed face and snatches her cards back just to squeeze another laugh out of her. Gods know this girl needs a bit of levity in her life right now. He wasn't good at a lot of things, realistcally. He's not skilled with a sword, not a pinch of chaos in him, but making people laugh? That he can do.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do." He glances at her, honestly more proud than anything else. Princess Cirilla of Cintra, a fiesty spark of a girl turned warrior. He wasn't there for her initial adjustment with Geralt for...obvious reasons but in the years when he was there, he's seen how brave and noble and irrefutably powerful she is. All that hurt and pain turned into pure determination. She's a flame, just like her mother. And most of all, Jaskier sees so much of his best friend in her. Not just the stubbornness to do good or fierce protectiveness over those she loves, but also the little things that make his heart ache. How she holds her sword, how she likes her meat, hell even how she walks. Undoutably a reflection of her parent's love and guidance.

Her parents...

The sharpness in his chest returns. Its strange. Years and years of loving Geralt had eventually reformed his once raging, constantly ready-to-burst love into a calm, surrendered sort of feeling. It's not that his love for the man lessened. On the contrary, every year he feels them grow and evolve into something more. Knowing that heartbreak was inevitable had given him a bittersweet sort of peace. So the pain in his chest that flares whenever he sees Geralt so openly love Yen faded with time, leaving a dull ache in its place.

Until now.

"I'm sorry you're here with me, instead of at the party." Ciri brings him out of his thoughts. He simply shakes his head.

"Oh, I'm not." In all honestly, he was a bit annoyed that everyone and their mother seemed to be invited to this conclave except him but then he remembers Geralt and Yennefer going together. He could only imagine what fancy, no doubt monochromatic outfit Yen would force Geral to wear. Then again, if Yennefer was the one asking he doubts Geralt would protest. Not as much as he would with him, anyway-

He cuts that train of thought before it sends him spiraling. He had worked so hard to keep himself incheck, keep his feelings to a minimum. To not feel, or at the very least look like the lovesick fool he was before.

"Valdo's off key warblng would make my ears bleed." He settles on a believable and admittedly true excuse. Valdo's overdramatic (even for him) vocals are definitely a factor, but he'd rather listen to that noise for days than watch Geralt dance Yennefer across the ballroom with that soft, painfully besotted look on his face. He might actually die of heartbreak if he does.

"Besides, I'm better off here." He smiles at her, reassuredly. He sees the princess sit up straighter, patting the spot beside her. He raises an eyebrow but sits down nontheless.

"Jask?"

"Yes, coin thief?"

"Does he know?" He feels his heartbeat pick up. He's sure than his body is noticibly tenses, judging by how Ciri looks at him like a kicked fucking puppy.

"Does who know what?" He knows what she's asking, because what else could she mean? But like a coward, he deflects. He turns to humor because really, thats his weapon of choice. She looks at him with such a sad look and he knows he's caught.

"Does Geralt know you love him?" Deflect. Run. Don't answer-

"Of course he knows I love him. He's my best friend." He prays that his answer is enough. It seems like it isn't .

"Jaskier." He is still and silent, almost like how the man in question often is. In the end, he finds that he's tired of lying about what he feels. So, he talks.

"I think so, yes. Pretty hard thing to miss after the years of songs and poetry and...well, you get the picture." He sees her face drop, and a certain panic sets in.

"Ciri- listen, I would never ever try and break up your parents, okay? I-I would never do that to your family." He says in a rush, desperate for her to realizes. Because yes, as much as he loves Geralt, he would never jeopardise this. They were quite literally destined to be together, and if Jaskier feels like his chest is being ripped out by a wyvern everytime he sees them then thats his problem, not theirs.

"You're part of this family too, you know." Jaskier has only ever been truly speechless a handful of times in his life. But when he feels her bring him into a hug far nicer than he technically deserves right now, he finds that he can't bring himself to say anything because gods, he wishes it were true. That he was part of this group. This family and not just a stray thread, waiting to be cut off and thrown away once again.

"You're family too." He nods weakly, a few tears spilling from his eyes. Smaller hands, not yet calloused by swords or spells brush a few tears from his cheeks using the blanket. He laughs wetly, complaining how dusty the blanket is, making him cry more which was definitely the real reason and not anything else.

"And I'm not upset at you Jaskier. I'm upset for you. I don't like seeing you hurt like this..." He sees her brows furrow, hands pulling away to clutch the covers. He chuckles, wiping away the rest of his tears.

"Oh, how lucky a man am I. To have such a fierce warrior-witcher-mage princess protecting me." He smiles but her frown doesn't waver. She adjusts herself on the bed to face him properly, laying on her side and slipping a hand to hold his.

"I'm serious Jaskier! You're happiness is important too." He squeezes the hand on top of his, mustering up enough courage to smile.

"My dear, I am happy with what I have now."

"Liar." He gasps, bringing a hand to his heart. She smiles, just a bit and he counts that as a win

"I would never!" He allows himself to breath when he sees her chuckle. He's exhausted, truly. His body feels heavy with the weight of his emotions and physical exhaustion of the day. Still, there is a determined princess cuddled up infront of him with furrowed brows and a sad look on her face that simply cannot wait until morning.

"We do not choose who we love in this lifetime. I didn't choose to fall inlove with my best friend the same way Geralt didn't choose to not reciprocate those feelings. Which is okay, because-...because my love for your father isn't one that seeks a reply. It simple is." Ciri recalls her memories.

Memories from Geralt and her in the woods, running and overwhelmed and terrified. She remembers Geralt telling her stories of his best friend- an obnoxious bard that told the best stories even though they weren't entirely true. The look of guilt and sadness and longing her father suprise had when he told her about him. The few tears she saw him shed behind a crack in the door the night he finally gathered up the courage to apologize to Jaskier for everything. She had never seen him so devastated.

The grin he didn't even bother to hide when Jaskier had offhandedly called him darling when he asked for the salt.

"But what if there is a reply? What if he does love you?" Jaskier shakes his head, looking down to his lap.

We could head to the coast...

Get away for a while...

Composing your next song?

No...No, just trying to work out what pleases me...

Jaskier bears his heart to Geralt on that mountain top. He doesn't breathe, doesn't dare look away. He waits and hopes and gods above, he loves so hard it hurts. Maybe just this once, he'll be enough. Maybe they could run away from this, from everything just for a year. Maybe-

Geralt stands and leaves. Jaskier turns and sees him disappear in Yennefer's tent.

"Darling, that's impossible." He smiles sadly, playing with her fingers. The memory of then mountain and all other instances of him and Geralt replay like an old song. He knew the melody and each lyric by heart by now.

"But Jaskier I've-" Ciri startles when Jaskier’s hand claps with hers loudly and suddenly. Her palm barely stings but she gets the hint to stop talking.

"I have his friendship. I have a-a family apparently, in you and Yen. That is...more than I ever dreamed of having. You all are more than enough for me." Ciri regards him for a moment, staring at him like she's reading his soul. Whatever she sees seems to satisfy- atleast for now, because she sighs and lays a head on his shoulder.

"You too." He leans back, cheek brushing her temple as they stare at the flames of the fireplace.

"Thank you." He pretends to believe her.

Part 1 (x)

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #unrequited???#one sided love???#maybe not #Geralt sending mixed signals #poor baby jaskier #fanfic

85 notes · View notes

wren-of-the-woods · 1 year

Text

your gaze lights the fire

When a close encounter with Rience leaves Jaskier in desperate need of somewhere safe, he goes to the only person he knows will take him in: the prince he swore he’d never see again. Jaskier/Radovid, 5k, rated T. No spoilers for volume 2. Also on AO3!

Jaskier thinks he made his expectations very clear on that wonderful night in the shed with Radovid.

“If we do this,” he’d said between gasps as Radovid nibbled on his ear, “It can only be for tonight.”

Radovid made a displeased noise against his throat.

“I know,” said Jaskier. “I know, but we can’t. We’re on opposite sides. I can’t give you Ciri, and you can’t see me without endangering her or yourself.”

“I’m already in danger,” said Radovid. He had risen back to be level with Jaskier’s face, and Jaskier could feel the warmth of his breath on his own lips. “We both are.”

“I know,” said Jaskier, “But you know this would make it worse. We can’t do that. I can’t. This can only be tonight.”

“Fine,” Radovid said, “Only tonight.”

That had been that. The night was lovely, even more so than expected, and before dawn Radovid was gone. It was what Jaskier had told him to do. It was what Jaskier said he wanted.

What a fucking liar he is.

It isn’t his fault, he likes to think, that he’s turning up on Radovid’s metaphorical doorstep in the middle of the night, drenched by the pouring rain and probably looking rather like a bedraggled rat. He truly had intended to stay away from Radovid, just like he said he would, but when his peaceful evening turns into a nightmare of fire and flame while his magical family is off saving the world, he has little choice but to bolt into the rain and head straight for the only safe haven he can think of.

“What is your business here?” asks the guard outside the palace.

“I’m here to see the prince,” says Jaskier. “Radovid. Tell him it’s Jaskier. He’ll know me.”

The guard looks rather doubtful, but shouts the message to someone inside the palace who Jaskier cannot see. He does not let Jaskier step out of the rain as they wait.

A long, cold few minutes pass as they wait for the messenger’s return. Jaskier is just beginning to consider calling it a loss and fleeing to find some basement or barrel to hide in when the door is flung open, not by a messenger, but by Prince Radovid himself.

The prince is rather disheveled. He had probably been preparing for bed, if not asleep already. His eyes go wide when he sees Jaskier standing in the mud.

“Jaskier!” he cries. He goes to step forward, realizes it’s pouring rain, and wisely decides to simply give Jaskier a look that is equal parts bewilderment and concern.

“Can I come in?” asks Jaskier. He tries to make it sound wry, but he thinks it just comes out exhausted.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Come in.” Radovid steps away from the doorway to let Jaskier in, calling to some servant to bring fresh clothes to Radovid’s room. Jaskier cannot even bring himself to be amused by what the servant must think of this order; he is too busy shivering and trying to keep his feet under him.

“Follow me,” says Radovid, and Jaskier trails after him without question as they walk through corridors and up stairs. He tries not to drip on the fancy wooden flooring too much. He fails.

After what feels like ages to Jaskier’s addled mind, but is probably only a few moments, Radovid pushes open a door. Jaskier stumbles into the room without hesitation. He knows it’s stupid not to consider the potential danger, but he’s too entranced by the warm light he can see coming through the doorway to care.

The room is large and covered in furs. Rich red curtains cover the large windows. In one corner is a four-poster bed, complete with a canopy and curtains. Jaskier realizes belatedly that this is probably Radovid’s bedroom.

Radovid drags an armchair over to the fire, which has burned down to embers, and gestures for Jaskier to sit. Jaskier feels a little bad for ruining the upholstery with the mud covering his clothing, but not bad enough not to obey. He extends his hands towards the warmth of the coals.

“I’m having a bath sent up,” says Radovid. “It should be here soon.”

“Thank you,” says Jaskier quietly. He should probably be more effusive, but he can’t quite manage it.

For a moment, awkward silence descends upon the room.

“Why— what are you doing here?” asks Radovid. He’s obviously been fighting the urge to ask ever since he first saw Jaskier, and Jaskier appreciates that he waited until now.

Jaskier swallows. He takes a deep breath. He lets it out.

“I’m asking for asylum, I suppose,” he says. “I’d like to stay here for a few days. I need somewhere safe.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Radovid take a step towards him. “What happened?”

“Rience found me,” he murmurs. “He— well, let’s just say I needed to make a speedy exit.”

Jaskier finally tears his gaze away from the coals, looking up to meet Radovid’s eyes.

“I can’t give you anything. I can’t give you Ciri. I probably can’t even stay here, because if your spymaster gets wind of my presence I’m fucked, but… Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri are off doing important things who-knows-where, and Rience is after me.”

Jaskier suddenly cannot bear to see the unreadable expression on Radovid’s face, full of feeling. He looks away as he finishes.

“I’m sorry. I know I said we shouldn’t see each other again. I don’t have any incentive to make you let me stay. But I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He glances up at Radovid again. The prince swallows.

“You don’t need an incentive,” he says quietly. His voice is full of unnamable feeling. Jaskier shudders.

Radovid takes another step forward. “You’re shivering. I’ll build up the fire—”

“No!” cries Jaskier, rising halfway up out of his chair.

Radovid stops and looks at Jaskier. His brows are furrowed in what is obviously concern.

“You’re drenched. You must be freezing. You need to get warm, Jaskier.”

“Not the fire. I—” Jaskier swallows. “The bath will warm me up enough.”

Radovid studies him for a long moment, then nods. “If you’re sure.”

Jaskier lets out a shuddering sigh of relief and sinks back down into the chair. “Thank you.”

For several long moments, there is silence. It is just beginning to become deeply awkward when servants blessedly arrive with water for the bath.

Radovid quickly moves to direct them through a door that apparently leads to a large bathroom, leaving Jaskier free to sit until they were gone. When everything is ready, he leads Jaskier to the tub, points out the locations of the various soaps and towels, and then politely leaves the room.

Jaskier makes quick work of removing his clothes and clambering into the tub. The water is so hot that it stings against his chilled skin at first, but as he warms, it becomes heavenly. He is sorely tempted to lounge there until the water goes cold, but he is also acutely aware of the facts that he is filthy and that he is a guest in a place that he is not entirely sure is safe. Reluctantly, he takes the nicest-smelling soap and washes himself.

By the time he clambers out of the tub, the water is halfway to being mud and he feels worlds better. He dries himself with the fluffiest towel he has ever had the pleasure of encountering and wraps it around his waist when he is done. As much as he would like to have something between himself and the rather chilly air — and the eyes of any servant or friend who might think to visit the prince’s bedchamber, or even the knowing gaze of the prince himself — he is loathe to touch his muddy clothes again if he doesn’t have to.

He pokes his head back into the bedroom and sees Radovid sitting in the chair Jaskier had occupied earlier, staring at the coals. He looks up the moment Jaskier steps, barefoot, into the room.

“You’re finished?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Did you find everything you needed?”

Jaskier hesitates for a moment, then decides there’s no harm in asking. “Um, actually, do you have a robe or something that I could borrow? My clothes are filthy.”

“Oh! Of course.”

Radovid quickly stands and goes to rifle through what might be the largest closet Jaskier has ever seen. If he weren’t so tired, he might be jealous. Any negative feelings he might have had vanish when Radovid turns and offers him the warmest-looking fur robe Jaskier has ever seen. He shrugs into it without hesitation, keeping the towel around his waist, and sighs happily at the softness of the fabric

He looks up to see Radovid looking at him with a small smile. The prince turns away hurriedly when he sees Jaskier looking. Jaskier is suddenly very aware of the fact that he is wearing Radovid’s clothes.

“I can have your clothes washed,” Radovid offers. “They could be done by tomorrow.”

Jaskier hesitates again. It’s a risk, he knows, to agree to this offer; it puts him more deeply in Radovid’s debt, and it would mean running the risk of having what might now be his only clothes lost or recognized as his by a certain spymaster’s agents. But he is already at risk. He wants his clothes to be clean. The earnestness in Radovid’s gaze, the apparently honest desire to help, is very difficult to refuse.

“All right,” he says.

Radovid nods, goes to get the clothes, and vanishes into the hall for a moment, presumably in search of a servant. He returns a few minutes later without the clothes and with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours one for himself and hands the other to Jaskier.

Jaskier takes a small sip of his wine. Radovid does the same. For a moment, there is silence.

“So,” says Jaskier, “What happens now?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” says Radovid. “This is not a situation I’ve encountered before.”

Jaskier smiles halfheartedly. “I thought your time at court wasn’t staid.”

“It isn’t, but this is more adventure than even I am used to.”

“I suppose that’s fair. I don’t imagine there are many other bedraggled bards popping up in your chambers.”

Radovid chuckles a little, then sobers. “I can get you a room. I’m sure we have one empty.”

Jaskier thinks about that for a moment, then grimaces. “That would draw even more attention than I already have. I’d rather keep my presence as a guest unofficial, for now.” He sighs. “Is there a stable or something I can sleep in?”

Radovid balks at that. “You can’t sleep in the cold. You’ve already been wet enough for one evening.”

Jaskier frowns a little, rather taken aback by Radovid’s earnestness. “It would be fine. I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have had to put up with worse,” says Radovid. Jaskier opens his mouth to argue further, but Radovid holds up a hand to silence him. “I’d never forgive myself if you became ill when I could have prevented it. Please, stay.”

Jaskier considers this for a moment. He wouldn’t particularly mind sleeping in Radovid’s room. It would be awkward, certainly, but it’s a very nice room.

“I can sleep on your floor,” he suggests.

Radovid does not look particularly happy with this, either. “I don’t want to make you do that.”

“It’s a very nice floor.” It is: it’s got a thick rug and everything. It is very soft against Jaskier’s bare feet.

“You need the bed more than I do.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to balk. “I’m not making you give up your bed. You’re my host. And also the prince of Redenia. I’d probably be beheaded for treason, or something.”

“No one would know. I can find another room for the night, if you want.”

“I can’t make you do that.” Jaskier is already deep in Radovid’s debt, and besides, there is a deep part of him that does not want to be the reason for the prince’s discomfort.

They stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse. Even in the palace, the barely-glowing coals mean that the night air is chill against Jaskier’s face. The robe is lovely, but slightly too small to close completely at the front. Goosebumps begin to prickle on his arms.

“You’re cold,” says Radovid softly. “Please. If you won’t take the bed, would you at least let me build up the fire?”

Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to steady his shaky breathing.

“I— no. Not tonight. I can’t.”

Despite his best efforts, his voice cracks a little on the last word. He decides to blame his exhaustion, not the intensity of the emotions roiling in his chest, for the mistake.

Jaskier opens his eyes. Radovid looks like he’s going to argue further. Jaskier knows he should stand firm, but he is tired. He is starting to shake a little in the aftermath of the terror and adrenaline of the evening, not to mention his current feelings of uncertainty and hope and other emotions he would rather not name. He is wanting, and he is weak. He takes a leap of faith.

“We could share the bed,” he says. “I wouldn’t be cold. No one would have to sleep on the floor. It’s a win-win situation.”

Radovid pauses. He studies Jaskier consideringly for a very long moment.

“In the shed,” he says, “You said we could only be together for that night.”

Jaskier swallows. “I did.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“I don’t know.”

Radovid is still studying him intently. Jaskier rubs his thumb along the pads of his fingers.

“I didn’t intend to come back. I meant to keep my word,” Jaskier murmurs. “Tonight is about necessity.”

“And tomorrow?”

Jaskier meets his eyes. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

Radovid considers him for another long moment, then nods. “I suppose we will.”

Wordlessly, he gestures at the bed. Jaskier walks over to it and, after only a moment’s hesitation, slides under the covers without removing the robe. He settles on his back, looking up at the red canopy above the bed. The sheets are cool and soft and the furs are softer still.

He looks up in time to see Radovid taking off his vest and shirt, putting them back in the closet. He keeps his trousers, for which Jaskier is startlingly grateful. After the day he’s had, he is neither physically nor emotionally prepared for anything more than sleep.

Radovid climbs into the bed beside him, taking the space Jaskier carefully left unoccupied. His caution was hardly necessary, it turns out; this bed is absurdly large. Jaskier supposes it is one of the many benefits of princehood.

“At the risk of sounding stubborn,” says Radovid quietly, “I really do think we should build up the fire. It’s cold out.”

“And at the risk of sounding repetitive,” Jaskier says, “I would really rather not.”

Radovid is silent. With a sigh, Jaskier rolls over to face him.

“You want to know why,” he says.

It isn’t really a question, but Radovid answers it anyway. “I admit to being curious.”

Jaskier sighs deeply, sits up, and starts to climb out of the bed, thinking that he would rather have this conversation standing on the cool floor than here in the strange vulnerability that is found in Radovid’s bed.

“Wait, where are you going?” says Radovid. He sits up a little, reaches out, and—

Seizes Jaskier’s hand.

His hand is held firm. The grip on his fingers is tight. He cannot pull away.

His heart pounds. His fingers are warm— burning. He can feel the flames. His breathing speeds up until he’s panting, struggling for air, helpless little whines leaving his throat with each breath without permission.

He cannot escape. There’s no point in even trying, no point in attempting to avoid the flames he can see coming for him, flickering before his eyes. They are the flames from that very evening that roared as the inn was invaded, burning as he fled helplessly into the twilight, and also those from that horrible night that was over a year ago now, the night that he still wonders if he truly escaped. His ribs hurt— his lungs hurt— he cannot breathe and he cannot escape and he is burning and—

“Jaskier!” shouts a voice that does not belong to Rience.

The grip on his fingers is gone. Instead, there are hands on his shoulder and his cheek. The touch is firm and a little desperate, nothing like the horrid false gentleness of Rience’s caress. Jaskier manages to open eyes he hadn’t realized had been squeezed shut and there in front of him, eyes almost wild with concern, is Radovid.

Jaskier is sitting on the bed. Radovid is kneeling in front of him. The prince’s hands are still on him. The furs are soft against Jaskier’s knees, but the wood of the headboard is cold and hard and all too familiar against his back. Jaskier jolts forward to get away from it and nearly shoves Radovid in the process.

Radovid’s other hand goes to Jaskier’s arm, steadying him. Jaskier lets himself slump against Radovid, his forehead landing on the prince’s shoulder. He realizes he is shaking.

“Shit,” Jaskier says into his the space above his collarbone. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Jaskier?” says Radovid, hesitant. Jaskier can feel him open his mouth, close it, then swallow. “How can I help?”

And Jaskier should not ask it — he swore it was only one night, showing such vulnerability to someone so close to Dijkstra is deeply unwise — but he is too far gone to care.

“Hold me?” he whispers, and he can feel it when Radovid sucks in a shuddering breath in response.

Radovid shifts closer, moves one of his hands to the space just below Jaskier’s shoulderblades, and uses it to pull him close. Jaskier goes unhesitatingly, letting Radovid guide him until one of the prince’s arms is around his shoulders and the other is rubbing gently up and down his back. Jaskier’s head still rests on Radovid’s shoulder; he inhales deeply, breathing in what must be the scent of the prince’s soap. He can feel Radovid’s chest rising and falling with every breath he takes. Gradually, his own breathing slows to match it.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, after a while. “I— I’m sorry about that.”

Jaskier should be past this, he sometimes thinks. It’s been a year since that terrible night, and he isn’t alone anymore. He has enough powerful friends that, even if Rience did catch him again, he has a decent chance of being rescued before anything bad can happen. Even if he doesn’t, even if he is still in danger, this irrational panic and these fucking flashbacks are not helpful.

But his heart and mind don’t seem to have got the message, and all he can do is cling tighter to the prince he swore he’d never see again and breathe.

“Don’t apologize,” says Radovid.

For a long moment, they stay there in silence. Jaskier breathes. Slowly, his heartbeat begins to return to something resembling normality.

Radovid is the first one to speak. He is hesitant and soft, as though afraid breaking the silence might somehow break Jaskier. Jaskier isn’t quite sure if he feels miffed or grateful.

“Can I ask what happened?” says Radovid.

Jaskier huffs a barely-there laugh into Radovid’s collarbone, still not able to make himself pull away. “I suppose I can answer two of your questions at once, now.”

“What?”

“That happened for the same reason that I don’t want a fire.”

Jaskier can feel Radovid go very, very still. “Oh.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath.

“About a year ago,” he begins, “I met Rience. He was looking for Ciri. Apparently, it’s easier to find a bard singing about heartbreak than it is to find a witcher or a princess on the run. He asked me to tell him where they were. He… was not particularly polite when I refused.”

“Oh,” says Radovid again, a little shaky. He had made an interested sound when Jaskier mentioned Rience’s name, but his curiosity seems to have given way to sympathetic horror.

“He tortured me,” Jaskier says in a rush, before he can lose his nerve. “Tied me to a chair and beat me and threatened me for hours. Broke my lute, too. At the end, when I still wouldn’t talk, he— uh— he started to burn my hands. My fingers, really. I got rescued before he could do any permanent damage, but he got close.” Jaskier swallows/shudders. “Very close.”

Radovid’s arms tighten around Jaskier until Jaskier isn’t quite sure which of them is clinging to the other. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling tether him to the world around him.

“I don’t do so well with fire, after that,” he murmurs. “Or having my hands grabbed. Or chairs, sometimes.”

“Jaskier,” says Radovid, helpless and pained. Jaskier holds him tighter.

“I’d rather word of this didn’t get out, by the way,” he says after a long moment. “I don’t particularly want that soot on my reputation.”

“Jaskier, you withstood torture for the sake of the very friend who’d given you reason to write Burn Butcher Burn. That bravery would be the farthest thing from a blemish on your reputation.”

Jaskier could not help a small smile at the earnestness in Radovid’s voice.

“Perhaps,” he says, “But I find that life is easier if bravery is not a word associated with my name. A foolish bard can get away with much more than a cunning one, sometimes. I think you, of all people, understand that.”

“I do,” says Radovid. Jaskier fancies he can hear the small smile in Radovid’s voice when he adds, “You wear your mask well.”

“So do you.” Jaskier pauses for a moment, then smirks. “Although, I think you’d look damn good no matter what you wore.”

Radovid laughs a little at that. For a while, they are silent.

“He came back for you tonight,” Radovid says after a long moment, as though he’s only just remembered. “Rience. That’s who you were running from. He found you.”

“He did,” Jaskier says. He thinks he does a good job of keeping his voice steady despite the leftover panic that tries to clamber up his throat.

“Fuck,” says Radovid, and despite the situation, Jaskier manages to be a little amused at having driven the prince to utter the first profanity Jaskier has heard from his lips. “Are you all right?”

“I’m uninjured, I promise,” says Jaskier. He fiddles with the edge of his robe with one hand. “I’m very good at running.”

“He won’t get to you again,” says Radovid. Jaskier is not entirely sure if he’s trying to reassure Jaskier or himself. “One of us will find him — Redenia, or your witcher, or someone else — and we’ll get rid of him. You’ll be safe.”

Jaskier does not know if he believes him. He is grateful anyway. “Thank you.”

He can feel Radovid’s chest fall as he lets out a long sigh. It’s only a little shaky.

“We should sleep,” Radovid says after another long moment of silence. “You’re exhausted.”

“Probably,” says Jaskier reluctantly. He is loathe to leave his comfortable position in Radovid’s arms, but he knows that Radovid is right.

Slowly, they untangle themselves from each other. Jaskier climbs back under the covers, taking the same place he occupied before, lying on his back and staring at the canopy. Radovid waits until he is settled before getting into the bed beside him.

For a long while, there is silence. Jaskier cannot bring himself to close his eyes. His chest still feels too tight, his heart too fast. He knows that Radovid is still awake beside him; his breathing has not slowed.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asks eventually, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“I’m thinking that I wish you could stay,” murmurs Radovid, earnest and soft.

Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment. If he doesn’t, he suspects he will feel the prickling of tears before long.

“So do I,” he says, and he is past the point of caring that there is far too much honesty in his voice. “But I can’t. Not for long.”

“I know. It’s not safe.”

Jaskier frowns. He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side, so that he can see Radovid’s face. The prince is already on his side, looking directly at Jaskier. His expression is troubled.

“You once made a whole speech about how safe Redenia would be for Ciri,” says Jaskier. It isn’t really a question, but he thinks it will do.

“Times change. I was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“Dijkstra murdered my brother’s wife and told me I could be next.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “That’d do it.”

Radovid smiles. It is obviously halfhearted. Jaskier reaches across the space between them and rests a hand on Radovid’s where it lies on a pillow.

“Are you safe?” he asks.

“I think so. As safe as I can be.” Radovid pauses. He turns his hand so he can, slowly and with great gentleness, lace his fingers with Jaskier’s. “Safer than you are most of the time, probably.”

Jaskier huffs a small laugh. “Probably. I’m very good at getting into trouble.”

“It makes for good songs.”

Jaskier squeezes Radovid’s hand. Usually, he would say something cocky or make a joke at that, but tonight he has no desire for little lies. “I’m glad you think so.”

Radovid smiles. It is small, but this time it is real. The sight warms Jaskier’s heart. He realizes, suddenly, that he cannot bear the thought of this man being hurt.

He shouldn’t say it. It’s a risk. He should keep his secret, on the off chance that he’s ever able to resume his work as the Sandpiper, and leave the future to its own devices, but he doesn’t know if it will matter. Philippa and Dijkstra probably know all the Sandpiper’s secrets, anyway. And, most importantly, Radovid might need him.

“If you ever need to get out of here,” he says slowly, “Go to the tavern by the docks at Oxenfurt and tell the owner you need the Sandpiper. She can contact me, and she should know of several safehouses where you can hide. We can make you disappear.”

Radovid looks at him for a long, long moment.

“You’re incredible,” he says. “Have I mentioned that?”

Jaskier gets a lot of praise. He has a lot of fans. None of it has prepared him for how it feels to be complimented, so genuinely and so unexpectedly, by someone like Radovid.

He swallows. It would probably be wise to stop talking — to keep up the pretense of this interaction being solely the product of necessity — but Jaskier has never been wise.

“Why the fuck aren’t we cuddling right now?” he asks. It startles a laugh out of Radovid.

“I truly have no idea,” he says, and suddenly they are moving.

There is a long moment of confused rearranging involving a few near misses when elbows get perilously close to stomachs. At one point, Jaskier tries to get Radovid to rest his head on his chest while Radovid is simultaneously trying to tuck Jaskier up against his side. Eventually Radovid puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to still him.

“You’re the one who almost died tonight,” he says. “Let me hold you.”

Jaskier likes the sound of that, and he cannot argue with the earnestness in Radovid’s voice. He lets himself be rolled over so that his back is to the prince, and the tenderness of Radovid’s hands helps to chase away the ghost of Rience’s touch on his skin.

Radovid presses up against Jaskier’s back. He tangles his legs with Jaskier’s and, gently, puts his arm over him so his palm rests over Jaskier’s heart. Jaskier can feel his chest rising and falling against his back and the warmth of his breath on the nape of his neck. He has to work to keep from shuddering.

“Is this all right?” Radovid asks, and Jaskier is startled for a moment that Radovid does not realize just how perfect it is.

“Yes,” says Jaskier. He presses back against Radovid to make his point, despite the impossibility of getting any closer to the prince, and puts his hand on Radovid’s arm. Radovid holds him tighter, and when he smiles, Jaskier can feel the movement of his face against the back of his neck.

They lapse into silence, but unlike before, it is not unbearable. Jaskier can hear and feel every breath that Radovid takes, and his touch, somehow both comfortingly familiar and beautifully new, keeps Jaskier grounded in the present. He is not with Rience. He is not in immediate danger. He is not alone.

Jaskier does not fall asleep yet, but neither does he panic. He is, for once, content to simply be here, to enjoy this moment safe in the arms of the man for whom his feelings run deeper than he would ever have expected. He feels the beginnings of a song stirring in the back of his mind and follows the threads, weaving together a melody. Softly, he begins to hum.

“What song is that?” asks Radovid. His voice is soft, as though he is afraid the moment will break if he speaks too loudly.

“I’m not sure yet,” murmurs Jaskier, matching his volume. “I’m composing.”

“Oh,” says Radovid. The sound is almost reverent. It makes something achingly warm and tender curl around Jaskier’s heart.

“I think,” he says slowly, “That the song is about how fire is not always necessary.”

Radovid makes a curious sound against Jaskier’s neck. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not cold anymore,” says Jaskier. “Not with you here.”

“Oh,” says Radovid again, rather wetly. It sounds as though he might be close to tears, and Jaskier can hardly believe that such a lovely man lets Jaskier’s words have this power over him. Radovid presses his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder and clings to him.

After a moment, Radovid takes a deep breath. Jaskier rather thinks it sounds like he is bracing himself. He listens curiously.

“I thought,” says Radovid slowly, “That you’d had enough of singing unspoken words of love.”

Radovid’s voice is very deliberate when he says the word love. Jaskier knows what Radovid is asking; he knows what word he is being given the opportunity to deny.

“You inspire me, I suppose,” he says. He does not deny it.

“I’m glad,” says Radovid, and the sincerity in his voice almost takes Jaskier’s breath away.

“I don’t think this is about necessity anymore,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that. I’m glad I came here tonight.”

“So am I,” says Radovid.

Jaskier laughs a little. “Even though I interrupted your peaceful night’s sleep?”

“You could never be an interruption, Jaskier.”

Even Jaskier cannot find the words to respond to that, at first, so he puts his hand on Radovid’s forearm and holds tight, hoping that Radovid can guess at the multitude of tender feelings curled around his heart.

“Neither could you,” he manages to say after a moment.

Softly, so tenderly that Jaskier’s spine tingles, Radovid presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier sighs, shuddering a little, and presses into the touch.

“Sleep,” Radovid whispers. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

And, when Jaskier drifts into dreamless slumber in Radovid’s arms, he is warm.

#the witcher #radovid #jaskier #radskier #radovid x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #wren writes #man i cut this really close #because the fic just kept getting LONGER #but it's out before volume 2!!!#behold :D #here be hurt/comfort and feels and excessive amounts of cuddling #it's quite sappy really

78 notes · View notes