whitecrowapothecary

[whitecrowapothecary]

Something In The Night Is Dangerous

Jaskier has been begging and begging and BEGGING to go on a hunt- when the witcher finally agrees, Jaskier ends up getting more than he asked for. 

Read it on AO3 here!

Geralt wasn’t inclined to let Jaskier go on hunts with him. Even now, when it was few and far between to even have a job, Geralt didn’t want to drag him halfway across the world for a lackluster hunt. He wasn’t so much worried about Jaskier getting hurt, though the thought still haunted him when Jaskier handled his swords or moved his holsters from one table to the next. Jaskier was always deliberately careful, moving in slow, even steps and watching himself the entire time. It betrayed a fear that Jaskier had never let on about in the hundreds of years that Geralt knew him, or maybe it was something this newest Jaskier was afraid of. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt watches as Jaskier perks up from his place at his desk, glancing over at Geralt who’s laying back on the bed, allowing himself to relax. “There’s a hunt- did you want to come?”

Jaskier’s answering grin is radiant. “What kind of question is that? Of course I want to come!”

“It’s not going to be very exciting.”

“What’s not exciting about getting to see a modern day hunt?”

“It’s a lot of sitting around. Something you aren’t good at.” Geralt points out, smirking when Jaskier pouts, unable to deny it. The only time he can truly sit still is when he’s occupied with something, and even that doesn’t tend to last long. 

“I’ll bring my journal, it’ll be fine! You already offered, no take backsies.” Jaskier wags his finger in Geralt’s direction, but Geralt wasn’t planning on it. “Where are we going?”

“It’s in town, actually.”

“Awww, no traveling?” Geralt can feel Jaskier’s disappointment, but Geralt knows Jaskier is going to Europe later in the year and he’s just being impatient. 

“Not this time.” Jaskier blows a raspberry, laughing when Geralt throws a pillow at him. 

Geralt’s biggest worry in bringing Jaskier on a hunt is the lack of Jaskier’s memories. He remembers essentially everything, but Geralt has lost count of the times he’s had to catch Jaskier before he could fall when a memory overtook him, or the far off, spaced out look that came over him with a smaller memory. Letting Jaskier tag along was like playing russian roulette- what would set off one of Jaskier’s memories, and how bad would it be? If Jaskier can’t run away because he’s stuck in a memory and Geralt is too preoccupied to save him, what happens then?

But this hunt is as safe as Jaskier will ever be- There’s no actual contact with the monster this time, just a simple shot through a scope that Jaskier won’t even be able to see. Geralt can already imagine his disappointment in the hunt, but it’s a baby step, and if Jaskier can manage to sit through this one without getting overtaken by a memory then Geralt might let him come along to others. 

“When is the hunt?”

“We’ll leave out in a few hours, once dusk hits.”

                                                        -*-

Jaskier is practically vibrating while they ride the subway through town, heading straight for the heart of the city. He’d taken a nap before they left, brought water and snacks and anything he could think of to keep himself occupied. Geralt had said it was going to be a long night, and he didn’t make such statements lightly. His eyes keep drifting toward Geralt’s hands, silver rings adorning his fingers as they curled around the handle of a very large, very sturdy briefcase. 

Geralt wouldn’t tell him what was inside. 

The secret ate away at him while they rode the train, Jaskier slumped back into the hard plastic of the bench while Geralt sat, briefcase between his feet. He could have let go, could have held Jaskier’s hand, but his hand never strayed from the case, as if what was inside was precious. Or dangerous. Definitely both. 

“Where are we going again?” Jaskier asks again, hoping that the fifth time will be the charm. Geralt huffs next to him, a smile playing at his lips. 

“Be patient.” 

That’s all he’s gotten for the past forty five minutes while riding the train from their apartment into the downtown area. They’re at the second to last stop of the loop when Geralt stands, lifting his briefcase with him and reaching to take hold of Jaskier’s other hand. Jaskier clings to his hand, letting Geralt lead him from the train. The afternoon crowd heading home is thick, but the briefcase and swords on Geralt’s back creates a wave of an opening, allowing them to pass through without being jostled too terribly. It’s Jaskier’s favorite part of walking around town with Geralt. No elbows in the ribs or dirty looks, just looks of apprehension and sometimes fear. 

The air outside is warm, muggy around them when they make it up onto the street, the smell of smoke and car exhaust drifting past him. He can only imagine what Geralt is smelling right now, and judging by the faint wrinkling of his nose it isn’t very good. Once they’re off the train they head for a tall, glass covered building, an apartment building that Jaskier had thought about renting from before he realized how much he did not want to be this close to downtown. He did like having some semblance of quiet at night. 

“Do you have an apartment here?”

“Just access.” Well, that’s not cryptic as fuck. Jaskier lets Geralt lead him into the lobby of the building and to the elevators, where they ride it to the top floor, listening to random pop songs all along the way. One of Jaskier’s songs comes on as they step out and Jaskier mutters under his breath. He does not need to hear his own music over tinny sounding elevator speakers. Geralt is quiet as he makes for an unmarked door, brandishing a small plastic badge that when pressed up to a box on the wall, disengages the lock in the door, allowing Geralt to pull it open. 

Jaskier can hear the faint sound of wind and car horns, and he pads up the stairs behind Geralt, breaking out onto the roof of the building. Jaskier gasps, wind whipping through his hair, and he jogs to the edge of the building, going up on tiptoes to lean over and see. The wall comes up to just below his rib cage, high enough to make it a challenge for anyone to get over, or in Jaskier’s case, to look. The sight makes his head spin immediately, but not in a way that means anything to him. 

“We’re up high, Geralt.”

“We need to be.” 

does it fly?” Geralt makes a noise that Jaskier takes as a no, but he’s busy watching the cars zip by down below, squinting to try and see if he can see any people. All he sees are smears of color, a blue jacket or a bright yellow hat bobbing among a sea of dark color. Jaskier hears the clasps of the briefcase open with sharp snaps and he turns, interested. 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of Geralt’s hands, those clever, clever fingers of his assembling an absolutely massive rifle in his hands. Each piece is inspected carefully before it goes into the making of the rifle, and Jaskier feels a bolt of heat shoot down his spine, splashing into his belly and settling there. The longer he watches Geralt, watches the way his fingers twist a piece into place with a click or adjust some setting he doesn’t know, the hotter he grows, the more embarrassed he feels about staring. 

But Geralt knows what he’s doing, he has to, because every so often Geralt will pause, eyes flicking up toward where Jaskier watches him. Once the gun is assembled and Jaskier is properly hot under the collar Geralt rises to his feet in one smooth movement, gun in hand as he prowls toward Jaskier. Jaskier feels entirely like a deer in the headlights, heart racing, and his eyes are stuck firmly on the way Geralt's fingers wrap around the grip and hold it steady in his hands. The gun isn’t anything fancy- dull black metal gleaming under the moonlight, but it’s so Geralt that Jaskier feels dizzy with want just at the sight of him. 

“You’re in my spot, Jask.” Geralt’s voice is velvet, just barely caught above the wind and rushing of blood in his ears, but he jerks to the side, allowing Geralt to take his place. This spot allows him the best view of the city below, and Geralt rests the bipod of his rifle on the wall. The height proves perfect for Geralt, who’s tall enough to use it to position his rifle appropriately, cheek pressed to the stock as he peers through the scope atop it. Jaskier can feel himself throb at the sight of him, body straight and eyes intent on whatever he sees through the scope.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice rasps from him, broken already, and Geralt hums, standing straight and hands going to his pockets. He holds something out and Jaskier takes it without questioning, staring down at the two pieces or bright orange foam in his hands. 

“Put them in.” Jaskier squishes them down, shoving them into his ears and waiting as they expand in his ears, the sound of the cars and wind dropping away from him. It’s an entirely new thing, to be relatively deaf, and Jaskier feels disoriented for a moment before Geralt motions him over. Geralt tugs him close with the arm not holding the rifle, and his breath is warm as he leans down, speaking close enough and loud enough that Jaskier can faintly hear him through the ear plugs. “Keep them in, no matter what.”

“That loud?” Jaskier can feel that he’s yelling, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, and for the first time Jaskier notices ear muffs around his neck. He can already see the orange in Geralt’s ears, and his eyes widen at the implication of Geralt needing two barriers. Geralt lets him go, nudging him back a couple steps, and he dips his head to look down the scope again. The sun has finally set all the way, leaving them operating under only the moon’s light, but Geralt reaches forward and turns a dial on his scope. Jaskier’s own interest comes roaring back to the surface, and he lets out a shuddering breath, eying Geralt’s stance and deciding for himself that there’s enough room. 

Jaskier moves in close again, watching as Geralt's eyes, glowing in the dark of the night, shift to track his movements as he drops to his knees and shuffles in front of Geralt. Geralt jolts, eyes widening, and he sees Geralt talk more than he hears him. “What are you doing?”

“Occupying myself.” Jaskier says cheekily, bringing a hand up to cup Geralt through his jeans. He delights in the sharp rise of Geralt’s shoulders and the way he twitches with interest. The fact that Geralt is half hard already sends a thrill through Jaskier, and he doesn’t know if it’s him or the gun or what that interests him so, but he knows what is going to interest him pretty soon. 

“I’m hunting.” 

“So am I.” Jaskier laughs at the way Geralt rolls his eyes, but he palms him again, watching Geralt’s eyes go half lidded. “Will this distract you too much?”

“No.”

“Really? You’ll be able to take your shot while I suck your dick?” Jaskier sees the subtle shift of Geralt’s chest as he breathes in deep, and Jaskier grins when he sees the desperate, exasperated look on Geralt’s face. “I can go get my journal, tuck back for the night…”

The air vibrates with Geralt’s growl and Jaskier laughs, leaning forward to pop the button of Geralt’s pants with his teeth just to see his reaction. He’s rewarded nicely by the shuffling of Geralt’s feet into a wider, more open stance, and Jaskier gets the zipper between his teeth, tugging it down and a hand coming up when Geralt’s hips twitch. He grabs onto Geralt’s hip, squeezing lightly, and feels Geralt go still, careful not to move too much. Jaskier hums happily, glancing up to see Geralt having slid the earmuffs on. He has no clue how much Geralt can hear or when he’s going to shoot, but Jaskier can be patient, just this once. 

He tugs Geralt’s pants open a bit more, giving himself more room to work as he brushes light fingers over the length of Geralt’s cock. Even half hard he’s a sight to behold, to feel as he slips Geralt’s cock free from his underwear. He might want to be patient, but it won’t be with Geralt covered up, and Jaskier admires the sight of him, holding him in one hand and tightening his fist, allowing Geralt’s hips to shove forward once, twice into the tight friction of Jaskier’s fist before Jaskier’s other hand clamps back down on his hip. It’s odd to do this without really being able to hear, Geralt’s sounds lost to the wind, but he contents himself with glancing up, watching the hard line of Geralt’s body, arm muscles flexing when Jaskier drags his tongue across the head in a slow, broad swipe. 

Heat builds under his skin at the first taste, and Jaskier can feel his head going fuzzy in an entirely predictable way. Of course a memory wants to drift in now, but it’s weak and easily pushed back down in favor of swirling his tongue around the head, flicking against a spot just under Geralt’s slit that makes the other man’s thighs jerk. Jaskier takes him in, sucking at the head and trying not to smirk at the way Geralt plumps in his mouth. It’s a heady feeling, licking and sucking until Geralt is fully hard, precum smearing over his lips when he pulls back to place a sloppy open mouthed kiss on the tip. He strokes Geralt from root to tip, thumb swiping to gather the precum and spit slicking the tip to drag it down further, smoothing his way. 

Jaskier faintly hears Geralt say something, but he doesn’t catch the actual words and he doesn’t care much to stop and ask him. All he cares about is the way his skin itches, like every moment he spends here not doing anything will make him burst. Jaskier tips forward, taking Geralt into his mouth in earnest and letting Geralt slide between his lips. The first pass is shallow, just Geralt pressing into his mouth, but Jaskier relaxes, bobbing his head and slowly but surely taking him deeper. Geralt’s cock is a hot, familiar weight on his tongue that Jaskier craves more than anything else at times. Just to be able to tuck himself between Geralt’s thighs, to taste and lick until Geralt squirms underneath him, fingers in his hair.

That, Jaskier decides, when Geralt’s hips twitch uselessly and his thighs tense under Jaskier’s hands, is the worst part about this arrangement. Geralt can’t just drop the gun in lieu of holding his hair, and he needs both to properly aim, so Jaskier is left to occupy himself, a hand dropping down to grind the heel against his own burgeoning erection. He actually hears the hiss that Geralt lets out, and he tilts his head back, pressing Geralt into his throat and blinking inquisitively as Geralt glares down at him. 

“Don’t touch.” He sees Geralt’s lips move with the words and Jaskier whimpers around Geralt, swallowing and hoping that will persuade him. Geralt’s eyelids flutter for a moment, but his pupils are wide, wanting, and he bears those lovely, sharp fangs of his. “Don’t touch.” 

Jaskier’s hand comes back up to rest against Geralt’s thigh, fingers tapping out an apology and a promise all in one. Geralt nods in one jerky movement before resuming his vigil down the sights of the gun and Jaskier contents himself with the aching pressure of his pants, trapping himself in a layer of friction just tight enough to tease him. Geralt didn’t tell him what he couldn’t touch, and so Jaskier’s hands wander, fingernails scratching bluntly through denim as he drags his fingers over Geralt’s thighs, cupping the backs and pressing Geralt’s hips forward, nose brushing against Geralt’s abdomen. Geralt throbs on his tongue at the motion, and Jaskier begins to bob his head once again, drawing back almost to the tip and lapping at the head before sliding down again, moaning at the way Geralt carves into his mouth so firmly. 

Jaskier’s mind is hazy with desire, head pounding at the aching, persistent feeling of want that races through him. He doesn’t know if he’s ever, ever been quite so happy to have Geralt like this in all his years, though a memory of a day spent entirely in an inn tickles at the back of his mind. 

Jaskier is so finely attuned to Geralt that when his cock twitches, thighs tensing just so Jaskier pulls back completely, grinning when Geralt’s snarl reaches him through his earplugs. Jaskier sits back on his haunches, admiring the red flush of Geralt’s cock and the way that he twitches, precum dribbling from the tip. Jaskier leaves him like that, blowing a breath over him and watching the way that Geralt’s cock jerks at even that touch. Only once Geralt’s thighs relax does Jaskier touch him again, allowing Geralt one sharp rut into his mouth before he takes back over. Jaskier keeps him where he wants him, cock leaking and flushed, so close to the edge yet never falling over it. Jaskier faintly hears the click and snap of the bolt being pulled back, and that sound alone has his own hips grinding uselessly into the air. 

He only loaded one bullet.

                                                        -*-

Geralt is going to lose his mind. He didn’t know what he’d expected when he brought Jaskier, but having Jaskier on his knees, mouth hot and wet around him while he tried desperately to line up his shot? That was never part of the plan. He can’t say he minds the plan, not with the way Jaskier’s tongue presses up against him, cheeks hollowing and creating a drag so delicious that Geralt can feel his toes curling. He finds himself closer faster than he’d like, so, so much faster, but Jaskier is pulling back at the last second and Geralt can’t help the noise he makes at that.

Jaskier knows him, better than anyone ever has before though, because he waits, patient, until the boiling heat in his gut settles into a harsh, sweeping warmth instead. 

It doesn’t lessen further than that, not when Jaskier’s hot, talented mouth envelopes him again, drawing him in and lapping in long, languid swipes. Geralt has to force himself to stay still- any stray movement throws his aim off, and he’s entirely at Jaskier’s power as Jaskier works him with his mouth, drawing him closer and closer to the edge and stopping just when he thinks he’s going to get release. 

By the time he slots a bullet into the chamber, snapping the bolt into place to prime his shot he’s so ready to say to hell with the contract, to drop the rifle that he can hardly think. Jaskier’s arousal swirls around him, coats his tongue every time he drags a breath in through his mouth to calm the shaking of his hands. He can’t hear Jaskier for once, not even the beating of his heart, but he knows he’s going to need the protection if he wants to be able to walk home after. 

Geralt spots his prey at the same moment Jaskier swallows down around him, moaning and sending vibrations shooting through him. Geralt’s vision blurs briefly, but he straightens up, squaring his shoulders and tracking the beast as it slowly ambles along the street. It’s chosen a less populated area, easier to grab lone prey, but it won’t get anyone tonight. Geralt pulls in a deep breath, ignoring the very pleasant, very insistent mouth on his cock as he lines up his shot. He holds his breath, going still, and his finger squeezes around the trigger, body jerking slightly at the recoil as the shot rings out through the air, cacophonous even with his double layered protection. 

He watches as the beast crumples, twitching and pawing at the ground uselessly before going still. Jaskier’s arousal spikes in his nose, cloying and heavenly, and Geralt drags in a sharp breath, breathing as deep as he can to read him properly. Geralt rips his earmuffs and earplugs out, wanting to hear, and he stoops, pushing Jaskier back for a moment so he can set the rifle on the ground before he straightens back up. Jaskier whines pitifully, lips puffy and red, and as soon as he can he takes Geralt back into his mouth. Geralt doesn’t hesitate in burying his fingers in Jaskier's hair, fingers twisting and pulling at the strands as Jaskier’s hips jerk uselessly in the air.

Geralt drags in a breath, and Jaskier’s arousal hasn’t faded at all, hasn’t settled into the background like it usually would. Geralt’s eyes widen, nostrils flaring as he drags another breath in. “Jask, you…?”

Jaskier’s eyes are impossibly blue when he glances up, and something like an ashamed whimper falls from his lips when he pulls back, lapping at the head of Geralt’s cock. The sight and sound and thought of Jaskier having come, completely untouched and riled only by what they were doing makes Geralt’s knees go weak, and he groans low in his throat. 

“You’ll kill me, Jask- fuck that’s hot.” Jaskier’s eyes widen a smidge, as if not expecting Geralt’s passionate admission, and Geralt nudges his hips forward. “Please-”

That’s all it takes, Jaskier moaning and nodding his head before taking Geralt into his mouth. This time Geralt isn’t distracted, bound to stay still, and Jaskier yanks at his hips, moaning when Geralt’s hips snap forward of their own accord. He won’t ever get tired of this, the way that Jaskier’s eyelids flutter every time he presses forward, taking Geralt into his throat and swallowing him down. Jaskier alone is enough to make his cock give an interested twitch, but when he flicks his tongue on the drawback, hollowing his cheeks as Geralt presses forward? It has Geralt’s thighs quaking under Jaskier’s hands, and his own need for release raging through him.

Geralt can’t hold on for long, not after the way Jaskier dragged him close over and over again, and his nails scratch at Jaskier’s scalp as he moans, the sound deafening in his ears. Geralt grinds forward, hips stuttering, and Jaskier whines around him, swallowing him down when Geralt finally comes, shuddering and fingers twitching uselessly in Jaskier’s hair, riding out the waves of his orgasm as Jaskier bobs his head. His vision whites out completely, sounds drifting in and out of his mind like water under a bridge. He pulls back when he can’t take the overflow of sensation anymore, tucking himself away haphazardly before crouching to yank Jaskier into a kiss. Jaskier moans against his mouth, the sound cracking in his throat, and Geralt drags him up higher on his knees, Jaskier arching up into him.

“Geralt-”

“When we get home, you aren’t going to be able to walk.” 

“Please-” Geralt silences him with another kiss, lapping into his mouth and tasting himself on Jaskier’s tongue. 

[whitecrowapothecary]

Bottled Delights (4)

This is the final chapters folks! In this, Jaskier makes good on a promise, and Geralt explores something new. 

Tag list: @love-more-today-than-yesterday

Read it on AO3 here!

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Geralt had a fascination with Jaskier’s mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were together now or because he knew what Jaskier was, but he stared. He also didn’t know which would be worse. His lips were always moving, talking or smiling or singing, and Geralt got to see first hand how he did not hide those sharp teeth of his. Not in a way that affected Geralt anymore. Jaskier had dropped his glamour after Geralt had caught him a week ago and apologized. Jaskier was not amused when Geralt had called it an illusion, because he ‘wasn’t a mage’, and so Geralt had asked what he should call it. 

Geralt found himself watching Jaskier far more than was necessary, but he found Jaskier watching him nearly as much, eyes dark with hunger. The look made Geralt intimately aware of the blood rushing through him every time, as if it called to Jaskier as much as Jaskier called to him with a sly smile or crook of the finger. Geralt had just about had enough of it too- so that afternoon, Geralt told B.B. that under no circumstances was anyone to come into the house after lunch. B.B. had been a bit confused by the request, but did as he was instructed. Workers were cleared out quickly, and Geralt and Jaskier were the only ones around for dinner that night. 

Jaskier had quirked a brow when people had begun to clear out, but Geralt merely sipped his drink and shrugged. He was the one to take care of the dishes that night, and he was drying his hands, trying to figure out how to broach the subject when arms wrapped around his waist and a slim body pressed against his back. Lips press against the skin right behind his ear, and Jaskier’s voice is velvet. 

“Someone has plans.” Geralt hums, leaning back into Jaskier’s arms and delighting in the easy way that Jaskier’s arms tighten around him. “Are you that eager, darling? It’s hardly been a week.”

“I’ve been patient this long.” Geralt’s voice is scratchy, rough in his ears compared to Jaskier’s, but Jaskier chuckles, and his voice takes on a husky tone. 

“I would say so.” Jaskier grazes his teeth over Geralt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine, and he wordlessly takes Geralt's hand to lead him from the kitchen. Geralt hardly registers going through the main room to get to his bedroom, but he hears when the lock clicks, shutting the two of them in. Jaskier leans back against the door, eyes half lidded, and he nods toward the bed. “Undress.” 

This- isn’t quite how he was expecting things to start, but Jaskier’s voice is firm and Geralt does as he asks. He feigns calm indifference the best he can, tugging his shirt up and over his head and slipping out of his boots. He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pants, glancing up at Jaskier, and he smirks when he sees Jaskier watching, enraptured. The ties come undone easily, and Geralt lets them drop, stepping out and trying not to feel self conscious. Jaskier’s eyes roam over him, taking in the sight of Geralt undressed, and his brows raise.

“You aren’t done.” Warmth pools in Geralt’s stomach at Jaskier’s tone, and he hooks a thumb on either side of his smallclothes. They drop to the floor to join his other clothes, and now he’s truly bare. Jaskier huffs out a small breath, coming forward to smooth hands over Geralt’s chest. His fingers trace each scar, large or small, and something warm and flimsy takes residence in his chest. “On the bed, love.”

Geralt pushes the blankets down to the end of the bed, crawling into the middle and laying down on his back. He should feel vulnerable, exposed and on display like he is, but Jaskier stares at him like he’s been given a gift, shrugging off his doublet. It’s Geralt's turn to admire Jaskier as he strips, taking the time to pick his own clothes off the floor and tuck them somewhere safe. Jaskier digs through his things for a moment, looking for something, and comes back to Geralt quickly. He crowds into Geralt’s space, settling between his legs and humming when Geralt squeezes his thighs around Jaskier’s hips affectionately. Geralt props himself up on an elbow, admiring Jaskier between his legs and wondering aloud. “Have you done this before?”

“I’ve done many things in my life, love.” Jaskier leans down, kissing a trail from Geralt’s stomach up his chest, scraping his teeth over Geralt’s collarbone. His skin stings with the sharpness of Jaskier’s teeth, but he hasn’t drawn blood yet. “But never this.”

That pleases Geralt immensely for some reason. For Jaskier to trust him enough to even suggest, let alone go along with it? It makes heat boil through him, and he can feel his cock twitch against his hip. Jaskier notices immediately, and he brings a hand down to pet over the new scar on Geralt’s thigh. Shocks shoot through Geralt at the touch, and he gasps, thigh twitching madly the longer that Jaskier traces gentle fingers over it. None of his other scars are quite so sensitive, so new, and he reaches a hand up to draw Jaskier down. He kisses Jaskier to hide the noise he makes, and Jaskier laps greedily into his mouth, tasting them for himself and shuffling a bit closer. Geralt hears the soft pop of a cork, and he strains, listening closer. He doesn't smell anything out of the ordinary, but Jaskier has learned quickly that unless he wanted Geralt to have a sneezing fit their oil had to be relatively scentless. 

Still, he jumps at the first slick finger sliding over his hole, and he moans against Jaskier’s mouth. This is another thing they haven’t done yet- Jaskier was content to take, to rock in Geralt’s lap, but Jaskier had told him that wouldn’t happen if he drank. The thought had gotten Geralt half hard in an instant, and now as one warm finger circles his hole anticipation builds in his gut. Jaskier kisses him as he teases, pressing a finger in just to the first knuckle before slipping back out. Geralt groans against his mouth, disappointed, and his back arches against the bed when Jaskier slides a finger into him and crooks. He’s merciless immediately, and Geralt’s hips jerk when Jaskier’s finger rubs over that spot inside of him.

“Fuck, Jask-” Jaskier chuckles quietly, his other hand resting on the bed beside Geralt’s ribs. He keeps himself propped up, and the only point of contact they have is Geralt’s thighs around Jaskier and Jaskier’s finger working in and out of him slowly. Pleasure trickles through him in easy waves, washing over him and making his muscles relax. He tilts his head back, panting and groaning when a second finger prods at his rim. The second finger goes in as slowly as the first, and Geralt focuses on the feeling of being slowly and thoroughly stretched out. Jaskier spends his time trailing kisses across Geralt’s chest and collarbones, particularly taken by the juts of bone and fond of scraping his teeth over them. Geralt feels the moment that Jaskier finally breaks skin at the same time that a third finger presses up and into him, and Jaskier inhales sharply. 

He goes still over Geralt, fingers pressed deep as he inhales, breath hot against Geralt’s skin. Geralt’s hand comes up before he realizes what he’s doing, and he touches the back of Jaskier’s head lightly. “It’s okay.” 

Jaskier’s tongue flicks out, and he shudders at just the small taste, thrusting his fingers in and out roughly. Geralt moans, shifting his hips down and hand idly petting at the back of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier seems to tire of the teasing, and he pulls his fingers out, sitting back on his haunches and reaching for the oil. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he still seems with it as far as Geralt can tell. Geralt watches as Jaskier slicks himself up, and Jaskier has Geralt scoot further up the bed. He’s close to the headboard now as opposed to in the middle, but that seems to be what Jaskier wants. He searches Geralt’s face for a moment, and his lips twitch in a private smile. 

“You’re sure about this? I’ll be near insatiable.”

“I can handle it.” Geralt promises, spreading his legs a bit wider and smirking at the way Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. Jaskier crowds into his space, cock pressing insistently at Geralt’s hole while he tucks his face against Geralt’s neck.

“Let’s pray you can. Sing for me, love.” Geralt opens his mouth so say something cheeky, but Jaskier presses into him slowly and Geralt’s hips shift down of their own accord. He almost loses himself in that sensation alone, but teeth prick at his neck, razor sharp, and Geralt is caught between the instant of pain as Jaskier’s teeth sink in and the pleasure of Jaskier’s cock sliding deep inside him. Jaskier’s hips roll slowly as he takes his first mouthful of blood, and Geralt hears himself moan faintly over the sound of wood splintering. The drag of Jaskier’s mouth against his neck is an odd sensation, but he can’t feel Jaskier’s teeth anymore and sparks shoot over his neck and down his chest as Jaskier takes another long drink. Geralt hears wood crack again, but Jaskier’s hips pull back and snap forward and Geralt quickly stops caring about the sound. 

Geralt shifts in Jaskier’s grip, whining when Jaskier snarls against his neck and gathers him up. His head spins at the sudden change of position, and he’s seated firmly in Jaskier’s lap as Jaskier thrusts up into him. Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s neck, fingers sliding into the bard’s hair to hold him close. Jaskier makes a pleased, throaty sound against Geralt’s neck, pulling back to lap lazily at the wound. Geralt can feel his flesh knitting back together faintly, but Jaskier’s cock is pressing against his sweet spot and he’s quickly losing any semblance of formal thought. Jaskier keeps himself seated deep, grinding his hips up, and he’s so, so hard inside of Geralt, body thrumming with energy. Geralt blinks his eyes open, panting and taking in the sight of Jaskier in all his glory. 

His pupils are blown wide, overtaking the blue of his iris’ entirely, and there’s blood on his lips and smeared on his chin. Geralt dips to kiss him automatically, and the metallic copper taste of his own blood shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is. Jaskier seems to like Geralt lapping into his mouth for more of a taste, and he rocks up harder into Geralt. Geralt lifts and drops his hips in time with Jaskier’s thrusts, coming back together hard, and he gasps when a hand wraps firmly around his cock. He arches up into the touch immediately, grinding forward and moaning against Jaskier’s lips. His release builds rapidly as Jaskier strokes him in time with his thrusts and Geralt rocks between the two sensations, breathing raggedly. He doesn't think he could ever tire of the way Jaskier feels under him, muscles shifting with each strong, smooth thrust up into him.

“I’m- fuck, m’close, Jask.” He finds it difficult to talk, especially when Jaskier’s other hand grips his hip tight and he can imagine the bruise it'll leave. Jaskier growls softly, his hand speeding up just a bit as he thumbs the head of Geralt's cock, making the other man groan. He wants to give another warning, say something, but heat boils in his gut as Jaskier's hips stutter, a faint whine coming from Jaskier. He's close, just as desperate, and Geralt works his hips in time with Jaskier, kissing him as his release hits him. Jaskier follows a heartbeat after, snarling softly and burying himself deep, lapping into Geralt's mouth as Geralt pants, moaning and sagging in his lap.  His heartbeat thunders in his ears as he tucks his face into Jaskier’s neck, panting and moaning as Jaskier works him through his orgasm. His hand stills sooner than it usually would, and Geralt makes a soft little noise in his throat. 

“Sorry I-” Jaskier’s voice is muffled, and despite having just come he’s still achingly hard inside of Geralt. 

“Oh.” Geralt breathes, pulling back and looking closely at Jaskier. He looks- high for lack of a better word, cheeks flushed darkly and eyes half lidded. Geralt shifts in his lap, grinding down, and Jaskier moans, shuddering. “I don't want you to stop.”

Jaskier’s eyes meet his, and Geralt squeezes around Jaskier to goad him on. Jaskier snarls a warning, words scrambled in his throat, but Geralt is lifting up out of Jaskier’s lap and turning. He doesn’t get very far before Jaskier is crowding up against his back, a hand gripping the back of Geralt’s neck and pressing his chest down into the bed. Geralt goes without any resistance, trusting wholeheartedly in the man who’s got him pinned. The hand lingers for a moment, brushing Geralt’s hair out of the way before Jaskier kisses the spot. A hand guides Geralt’s hips a bit higher, and Geralt groans as Jaskier quickly seats himself back inside, teeth digging into the back of his neck without drawing blood. Geralt can feel his chest vibrate with the moan that falls from his lips, and Jaskier rumbles against his back, pleased. Jaskier’s hands are bruising on Geralt’s hips as he thrusts, fucking into Geralt with hardly a thought for anything else. The bed frame creaks perilously, protesting at Jaskier's strength, but Geralt pays it no mind, moaning as Jaskier angles his hips and slams very pointedly against his prostate. 

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s come on his thighs when Jaskier pulls back, and he has a very sudden thought that Jaskier is going to keep stuffing him fuller and fuller. One of Jaskier’s hands slides down, tracing over Geralt’s scar and tickling at the soft skin of Geralt’s inner thigh. Geralt isn’t sure what he’s doing until Jaskier’s fingers dig in a bit, spreading him a bit wider, and Geralt whines as Jaskier presses just a bit deeper. Geralt can feel himself growing closer and closer, and he’s floating pleasantly on the edge when Jaskier’s hips still and warmth floods him. He moans, tightening around Jaskier and squeaking rather unbecomingly when Jaskier snatches at his hips. 

“Sorry, you haven’t- I need-” Jaskier’s voice is deeper than Geralt has ever heard it, and Geralt shifts, arching his neck to the side. Jaskier’s nails dig into his skin, and his whole body goes still. He has the stillness of a predator, watching, waiting, and Geralt goes up onto his hands despite the way that Jaskier tries to press him back into the bed. It’s considerably harder to do now that Jaskier isn’t trying to hold back his own strength, but Geralt sits himself back in Jaskier’s lap and grinds down. His neck is still arched, and he eyes Jaskier, raising a brow as if to say what are you waiting for? “Geralt, you could-”

“Please.” Jaskier groans, the sound vibrating against Geralt’s back, and Jaskier doesn’t say anything else as he latches back onto Geralt’s neck. The witcher moans at the flash of pain that comes with the first draw, and he melts back against Jaskier as he drinks, hips grinding lazily up into Geralt. 

He doesn’t seem as frenzied, though with each mouthful he takes Geralt’s head spins more and more and Jaskier throbs inside him. He can feel himself faintly getting sore, but Jaskier is so gentle, sipping from him slowly and rolling his hips up softly. Jaskier doesn’t do much more than that, but Geralt tenses in his lap and comes, untouched. Geralt feels Jaskier huff out a hot breath, and he twitches as Jaskier drags his fingers through the mess Geralt has made of his stomach. Geralt's eyelids flutter as he leans heavily back against Jaskier, and Jaskier pulls back, licking the wounds closed and humming into Geralt’s ear. 

“You’re so good for me, love. You’ve taken me so well. Can you be good, just a little bit longer?” Geralt nods, but he’s drifting, head swimming, and Jaskier guides the both of them into a comfortable lying position on their sides. Geralt’s eyes close once his head hits the pillow, and he relaxes back into Jaskier’s chest when the man rolls his hips. Geralt’s cock gives a twitch, but he’s exhausted already from the blood loss and he isn’t going to get anywhere. Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s shoulder, panting raggedly against his skin and whining when Geralt squeezes down around him. “So good, can you keep that up, darling?”

Geralt gives a tired little hum but does as Jaskier asks, tightening around Jaskier and moaning softly when Jaskier shudders. Jaskier drapes an arm around Geralt, tugging him so they’re flush together, and Geralt very nearly falls asleep then and there. He feels Jaskiers teeth in his skin, little dots of pain, but he isn’t drinking, merely leaving marks that heal quickly without Jaskier needing to do anything. The backs of his shoulders are quickly covered in the marks, and each tiny taste of blood has Jaskier’s hips rutting into him a little bit harder. Geralt slides a leg forward  just a bit and Jaskier cries out against his back, hips snapping up at the way Geralt squeezes around him from the movement. Geralt smiles when Jaskier whimpers his name, hips rolling up and stuttering messily as he comes, filling Geralt up even more. 

Jaskier pulls out of him slowly, as if unwilling to do so, but Geralt sighs at the reprieve, relaxing into the mattress as Jaskier pets his stomach. Geralt falls asleep to Jaskier murmuring sweet nothings against his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness. Jaskier slips away from him at some point in the night, and he’s woken briefly to drink a tea that frankly, tastes awful. He feels much better after drinking it, and Jaskier smiles, telling him it helps with blood loss. His pupils are still blown wide and his hands shake when he takes the cup, but he’s gentle and refuses to let Geralt do anything when he smells Jaskier’s arousal. Geralt falls back asleep and doesn’t wake until he hears a soft growl and senses Jaskier leave the bed. 

He sits up in bed quickly at the noise, a hand shooting out to keep himself from falling over again when his head goes fuzzy at the sudden motion. The candles have burnt low, but Geralt sees Jaskier immediately, standing by the window and letting an early morning breeze blow across his skin. Geralt slips from bed, ignoring the way his hips twinge as he pads up behind Jaskier and wraps his arms around him. Jaskier freezes for an instant before he relaxes, sighing softly. “Can’t sleep?”

“Still coming down.” Geralt hums in surprise at that, and he holds Jaskier close with one hand, wrapping the other around Jaskier’s still-hard cock. Jaskier jerks in his arms, swearing, and Geralt strokes him slowly, nuzzling against Jaskier’s neck as he shudders. “Geralt…”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t go back to sleep, you aren’t going to.” Jaskier warns, voice rough, and Geralt laughs softly. Jaskier’s hips jerk again as Geralt’s hand disappears briefly, coming back much slicker than before. Jaskier growls at the sensation and Geralt nips at his neck, smiling when Jaskier snarls dangerously. Geralt does it again, twisting his wrist at the same time, and Jaskier dissipates into smoke. It disorients Geralt for a second, but Jaskier reappears and grabs roughly at Geralt’s thighs. Geralt goes up into Jaskier’s arms easily, ankles locking behind Jaskier’s back as Jaskier lines up and lowers Geralt down onto his cock. Geralt gasps at the instant fullness, moaning when Jaskier’s teeth dig into his neck, anchoring him. 

Jaskier takes him twice up against the wall, not actively drinking but driven by the taste of Geralt in his mouth. Geralt’s thighs cramp at holding his own weight, but Jaskier keeps him up when Geralt’s own strength fails, hips pinning him back against the wall and dragging moan after moan out of him. He’s sore in ways he’s never been before, but the pain lets him drift, mind hazy, and an orgasm rocks through him when Jaskier presses up into him and bites down harder, making Geralt’s hand tighten in his hair. Jaskier’s got him back in bed when he finally begins to come down, and Geralt watches the process with sleepy eyes. Jaskier sways, pupils constricting to pinpoints and something human coming back to his eyes slowly. His hands tremble when he gets a towel to wipe Geralt up, and Geralt draws him in to kiss him gently. His mouth tastes like blood, new and old, but Geralt has quickly grown used to the taste and he holds his love close until his body finally slows. Jaskier goes boneless in his arms all at once, exhausted, and Geralt hugs him close as the two of them drift off. 

-*- 

Geralt hears a crow cawing outside when he wakes up, the sun low in the sky. They’ve been locked away for more than a day, based upon the sunlight rapidly leaving them, and Geralt twitches his fingers to light the candles in the room. They’re practically nubs by now, but they’ll do as Geralt rises from bed. His knees give out briefly when he first stands, back protesting, but he gives himself a moment and then rises again. Jaskier is curled up on the bed, a hand idly searching for Geralt. He doesn’t find him, but he does grab a pillow and clutch it close, appeased by the scent Geralt has left on it. Geralt peers out the window at the crows lining the stone wall outside his house, and as soon as the first crow spots him the rest of them alight, flying off into the night. Regis must be checking in on them. 

Geralt goes about drawing a bath, needing one desperately. He’s sticky from at least three different substances, and Jaskier is no better. There’s blood crusted around the corners of his mouth and smeared down the left side of his jaw and Geralt shakes his head fondly. Leave it to Jaskier to clean him up but not himself. Geralt’s back tries to protest any kind of movement, but the warm water will do wonders, and he shakes Jaskier’s shoulder gently. Jaskier blinks sleepily, and his eyes are bloodshot when he looks up at Geralt. He groans softly, burying his face back in the pillow, and Geralt coaxes his face back out. Geralt kisses him gently, and when he pulls away Jaskier chases him, not done with the kiss. Geralt uses this to get him up and out of bed, and the two of them climb into the tub, Jaskier settling in Geralt’s lap. He’s still half asleep, swaying back and forth with his eyes closed, but that’s fine with Geralt. 

Geralt takes this time to wash Jaskier up, gently scrubbing the blood from Jaskier’s cheek and laughing when Jaskier grumbles. “Lemme help….”

Jaskier tries his best to wake up, but between Geralt’s scent and the warmth of the water Jaskier drifts off again. Geralt keeps him awake enough not to drown while he washes himself up, and he’s got Jaskier bundled against his chest, fast asleep when he smells a familiar mix of herbs and cologne. 

“There is something known as knocking.” Geralt says in greeting, Regis laughing softly and padding over. His gaze is polite as he looks the two of them over, and he raises his brows at the state Jaskier is in. 

“If it worked my friend, I think we would both do it much more often.” Regis’ gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the scene before him. There’s old blood on the sheets and the bed frame itself is in pieces. Hand sized chunks have been gouged into the wood of the headboard, and Geralt is rather proud of the destruction. Regis seems less so, but he shakes his head fondly. “You let him imbibe rather heartily.”

“That I did.”

“You two seem no worse for wear thankfully, though you’ve driven your majordomo half to worry. He knocked twice on the door before Jaskier scared him off.”

“How so?” Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier had a crow watching them for Regis when they began, not trusting himself fully. Regis perches on the chest against the far wall, resting his hands in his lap. 

“A rather spectacular growl, I was told. Rumors have spread that you took the poor lad hostage, brute that you are.” 

Geralt laughs- it should worry him more, but this is his home, and they can make whatever rumors they’d like. “So long as no one tries to burn me at the stake, I think I can live with it.” 

“If that’s Regis, tell him to fuck off.” Jaskier mumbles suddenly, shifting in Geralt’s lap and sinking a bit deeper into the warm water. “My head is killing me.” 

“With how much you drank, I’ve no doubt of that. Here.” Regis tosses a flask over to them, Geralt catching it nimbly and twisting the cap off. Whatever is inside is pungent and sharp, but Jaskier perks up and downs the flask quickly. He seems much, much better having drank whatever concoction Regis brewed up, and though his eyes are still bloodshot they’re clear and happy. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Jaskier turns to look at Regis over his shoulder, and the older man laughs, standing to take the flask back and tuck it into his belt. 

“It would serve you well to be nice to me before I bring you gifts, Jaskier.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier's cheeky grin, but Regis shakes his head, ruffling Jaskier’s hair fondly and heading for the door. The lock clicks open easily, and he pauses in the doorway. 

“I shall have to come back another night, when your staff has not been run off.”

“Tomorrow night, then.” Regis nods, ducking out of the room as Jaskier turns back to Geralt. His eyes linger on the bed for a moment, brows twitching into a momentary frown, but Geralt’s hands pet over Jaskier’s back, drawing his attention back. Jaskier’s gaze softens, and he tips forward, kissing Geralt softly and pressing their foreheads together. “You’re okay?”

“Sore. But good.” Jaskier leans back, tracing the small rings of teeth marks that trail down Geralt’s chest. There are identical ones on his back, but they aren’t bad enough to scar, and they’ll fade in time. Geralt’s neck is another matter in itself. There are at least four new scars on his neck alone, deep bites that overlap, but Geralt is moving his head just fine and he shivers when Jaskier traces each of them. Jaskier opens his mouth to apologize, but Geralt leans up and kisses him firmly on the lips, only pulling back when Jaskier keeps his mouth shut. “I like them.”

“Are you sure you didn’t lose too much blood? You aren’t hallucinating?”

“Fuck off.” Geralt’s tone is affectionate, and Jaskier laughs. He pulls the two of them from the rapidly cooling bathwater, steadying Geralt as they dry off. Geralt gets rid of the bathwater while Jaskier tidies their things, and Geralt’s brows go up when Jaskier comes out of the room carrying their clothes. Jaskier’s smile is sheepish, and he waves for Geralt to head up to the guest bedroom. Geralt does so with minimal protest, and only once Jaskier has deposited their clothes does he explain. Neither of them has bothered to get dressed, intent to spend the evening in bed.

“I- broke the bed, rather wonderfully. We’ll want to stay up here until they can deliver another one.” 

“When was that again?”

“The first time I bit you. And the second. And the third.” Geralt laughs as Jaskier scowls, cheeks pink. “I told you it was hard to control myself like that!”

“You did fine. You didn’t break me at all.” 

“Not for lack of trying.” Jaskier’s fingers trace over the dark hand shaped bruises running over Geralt’s hips and thighs, but Geralt shrugs, tugging Jaskier closer and kissing him softly. He recoils when he tastes the bitter, acrid tang of whatever hangover cure Jaskier was given, and it’s Jaskier’s turn to laugh. 

“No kissing until you rinse your mouth out.” Jaskier pouts, leaning closer, but Geralt places a finger on Jaskier’s lips, pushing him back. “Go, and bring back something to snack on.”

“Pushy pushy.” Jaskier chides, disappearing down the stairs again. Geralt gets himself comfortable on the bed, idly tracing at the scars on his neck and shivering at the memory. He hears Jaskier coming up the stairs, footsteps intentionally heavy, and turns onto his side to watch him come in, carrying a tray laden with food. Geralt watches, humming as Jaskier comes over and rather elegantly crawls into bed, holding the tray in one hand and slipping under the covers to settle down beside Geralt. “Figured you might be hungry after not eating for a day.”

Geralt's stomach grumbles loudly in reply, and Jaskier laughs. Geralt tries to take something from the tray, but Jaskier tuts and seems intent to feed him. Geralt allows it after a moment, and Jaskier relaxes once Geralt’s gotten something of substance in him. Geralt’s voice is amused when he lays back among the pillows, Jaskier disposing of the tray and coming back to lay against Geralt’s side. “You like to take care of me.” 

“Geralt, I drained you nearly dry and fucked you half to death.”

“At my insistence.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, but it’s obvious he would no matter what, and Geralt feels safer and happier than he has in a while. “Would you do it again?”

“You really don’t like your blood in your body, do you?”

[whitecrowapothecary]

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads. 

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

                                                             -*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

                                                             -*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

                                                      -*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s  hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.”   His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”  

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

[whitecrowapothecary]

This was such an amazing thing to work on and to have art to go with it is SO incredible <3

This is a little piece I made to accompany the wonderful @whitecrowapothecary ‘s geraskier fic Of Perfumes and Plants which uh y’all should give a read because 😍💞

[whitecrowapothecary]

Thank you ashley!!! You’re too kind 🧡

Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption. 

My knight in shining armor.

I would tag people but you have literally already tagged everyone I was going to😂

Last Sentence WIP

Rules: post the last line you wrote (from any WIP) and tag the same number of people as there are words.  

I was tagged by @stinastar and @dhwty-writes Thanks loves!

This is from a chaptered fic I’m working on that gives…nothing away lmao, sorry about that.

Next time proves to be an entire week and a relatively easy drowner contract away.

I’m tagging @whitecrowapothecary @witcher-and-his-bard @valdomarx @a-kind-of-merry-war @rebrandedbard @in-love-with-writing002 @contemplativepancakes @drownerbrains @drowningbydegrees @thevalesofanduin @thecomfortofoldstorries  @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @castillon02 @theamazingbard and @asweetprologue 

[whitecrowapothecary]

Bottled Delights (3)

Jaskier is more than meets the eye, and Geralt learns how to communicate. I think.

Tag list: @love-more-today-than-yesterday

Read it on AO3 here!

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Geralt finds that their relationship… doesn’t really change much after his confession. Jaskier was never one to hide affections before, but now Jaskier is touching him constantly. A hand on his arm when he passes by, a kiss on his cheek whenever Geralt comes back from town. Geralt hasn’t slept a single night in his actual room, mostly because Jaskier says the bed is too comfortable to just ignore. Geralt doesn’t point out that the bed in his room is just as comfortable. The best part of their new relationship is the kissing. Jaskier might say the sex, and Geralt can’t deny it, but sex he’s had before. He hasn’t been able to kiss Jaskier before, not in any reality, so he finds his eyes drifting, watching the way that Jaskier talks or sings and looking away quickly when caught. Jaskier seems to delight in the attention, and he’s more than willing to kiss him when Geralt isn’t truly paying attention, just to bring him back. 

They’re laying in bed, legs twined under the blanket and Jaskier laying practically on top of him. The night air blows through the room, raising goosebumps across Jaskier’s exposed back, but that could also be because of Geralt’s fingers, sliding featherlight over the bumps of Jaskier’s spine. 

“Why don’t I get to go out on hunts with you?” Jaskier’s tone is airy, light, but Geralt can smell his disappointment. 

“You could get hurt. Or recognized.”

“I’ve been on plenty of hunts before, for far more dangerous monsters than some nekkers, Geralt.” A pout begins to form on Jaskier’s face and Geralt’s hand slides up and down his back in soothing strokes. Jaskier relaxes against him, but his eyes are shadowed and Geralt frowns. 

“Why do you want to see nekkers?”

“I don’t! I want-” Jaskier cuts off in frustration, forehead thumping against Geralt’s chest as he hangs his head and sighs. Geralt prods gently between Jaskier’s shoulder blades in a silent request, and Jaskier lifts his head after a moment. “I want to go out with you, not be stuck here waiting for you to get back. I want to see you fight, even if it’s just some stupid nekkers or spiders or or-”

“What happens if I can’t protect you, or a knight happens by and sees you?” Geralt’s other hand comes up to gently touch Jaskier’s neck. The bruises from their first night are long gone, but they’re fresh in Geralt’s mind, and Jaskier can tell with startling clarity that the witcher is scared. 

“Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t need protection?”

Geralt makes a noncommittal noise at that, gaze unfocused, and Jaskier sighs heavily. He tucks his head under Geralt’s chin, Geralt’s arms going around him more securely, knowing he won’t get much out of Geralt now. He’s seen it before, the way that Geralt loses focus when his past drags him down, and there’s almost nothing he can do to yank Geralt back to the present. He closes his eyes instead, knowing the best that can be done for either of them is a little sleep. 

Jaskier wakes up with the sun, used to the routine, and finds Geralt already up, pacing. He’s in his armor, blades strapped across his back, and he turns when Jaskier shifts, holding out a silent hand. Geralt comes over, takes it in his and presses it to his lips as he crouches by the bedside. Jaskier hums sleepily, rolling fully onto his side. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, love. I pushed you too hard.” Geralt can feel guilt clawing in his stomach, and he doesn't like leaving Jaskier here, but he doesn’t know what he would do if a knight less understanding than Damien were to find the two of them in Toussaint. He’s surprisingly less worried about the monsters- Jaskier has seen many, read through Geralt’s bestiary more than once and knows the common ones on sight. 

“I won’t take long. Back before lunch.” Jaskier hums, cupping Geralt’s cheek with the hand he still holds and drawing him in for a kiss. Geralt lingers for a moment longer than he should, and eventually Jaskier has to tell him to go. He ducks out of the house into the early dawn morning, heading for the stable where Roach has already been prepared. He lifts himself up into the saddle easily and sets off on the road away from the vineyard. As far as he knew it was just going to be a simple hunt- one that wouldn’t take him long at all, and would have disappointed Jaskier to watch. 

It’s farther out than his other contracts have been, and closer to the city as well. He’d tried to say that, to tell Jaskier that, but the words had gotten too tangled in him and he hadn’t been able to find a way to get them out. Geralt rides through the morning, watching the sun rise in front of him as he heads east, further inland toward where the villagers had instructed him. The monster seemed far from any kind of civilization, but a contract was a contract and they’d need coin when they left in the spring. The trees begin to thin more the closer that they get, and Geralt stops when the scent of decay hits him. He leaves Roach near the treeline, not bothering to tie her. He’d rather she run away if a nekker gets too close than stay and be eaten. She’ll come back eventually. 

He follows the scent further out of the treeline, and he breaks out into a clearing filled with nekkers. More than he’s ever seen before in one place. He swears colorfully, unsheathing his sword when the first one notices him. Nekkers are annoying at most, but Geralt counts at least twenty of them and large groups can be deadly alone. His only hope is going to be to isolate with his signs. Geralt cuts the first three down with relative ease, but they keep coming, swarming around him, and where Geralt dodges one another waits, slashing at him with sharp claws. His armor takes the brunt of it, but one slashes a gouge into his thigh and he grunts in pain. A blast of Aard gets most of them away from him and he doubles down, cutting through the crowd of them and whittling away at their numbers. He sees a flash of teal in his periphery, and he turns in surprise as Jaskier leaps nimbly back from the claws of a nekker and dispatches it with a long, sturdy dagger. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt has no clue how he managed to keep up, or when he’d followed, but Geralt fights his way through the rest of the nekkers, using a small bomb to destroy the nest before storming over to where Jaskier stands, wiping his blade off on a piece of cloth before sheathing it. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, Geralt! You seemed like you could use some help.” Jaskier turns to him with a grin, but Geralt growls, scowling. 

“How did you get here?”

“I walked? Really Geralt, I’ve kept up with you for years, doing it now is child's play.”

“I told you to stay home. They could have killed you.” Geralt takes a step closer, thigh protesting, and Jaskier’s gaze flicks down. He sees Jaskier’s pupils go wide and his nostrils flare. 

“You’re hurt.”

“I will heal. If one of them had bitten you, you’d be dead Jaskier. You aren’t- built the same as I am.” 

Jaskier’s eyes flick up to him, and for a second Geralt sees hurt flash over his face before anger replaces it. “I am well aware of our differences, Geralt. But I can handle nekkers, as you’ve just seen.”

Geralt growls, shaking his head. He isn’t sure how to get it through Jaskier’s damn head, and his heart is thundering at the thought of Jaskier being here. “Why don’t you listen to me?”

“Because I am tired of being left behind!” Geralt hides the flinch at the way that Jaskier’s voice raises, and he meets Jaskier’s glare with one of his own.

“I am not-”

“One day, Geralt, you are going to leave on a contract without me, and you won’t come back. And I don’t know what I’d do if I weren’t there to do something.” jaskier’s voice is fiery with his wrath, but his voice cracks at the end and Geralt can feel his anger freezing in his veins. Geralt takes a step forward, sighing heavily, and his eyes widen at the stench that hits him. He lunges forward as a shape blurs behind Jaskier, and he tries to yank him out of the way- but it’s too late. A grotesquely clawed hand punches through Jaskier’s chest, the sound of bone crunching resounding in Geralt’s ears. Jaskier looks down as if surprised, brow furrowing at the pain, and his hands come up shakily to touch the bloody claws still stuck through him. Geralt sees Jaskier grab onto them, as if holding them will keep him steady as blood blooms across his chest, staining the white chemise beneath. 

“Jaskier-” 

The sound that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth at the sound of his name is inhuman, and Jaskier jerks as the creature behind tries to yank its hand free. Jaskier’s hands stay steady, keeping the hand firmly stuck through his chest. “Geralt, I am going to say this as calmly as I can. I am not human. I would very much appreciate it if you would stop gawking and kill this thing.”

Geralt reels back, eyes widening, and he moves automatically on Jaskier’s command, as if he can’t control his own body. Geralt uses one quick slice to detach the beasts arm at the mid forearm and another to stab it through the heart, his silver blade coming away coated in black blood. When Geralt turns back he watches, detached, as Jaskier pulls the arm through his body, dropping it into the dirt with a scoff. Jaskier’s entire form seems to be wavering, shimmering like waves in the Toussaint sun. The wavering stops all at once, and years fall from Jaskier’s form like leaves in the fall. His wrinkles smooth away, his back straightens a bit, and he turns to Geralt, ever the youthful nineteen year old that Geralt remembers from Posada. 

“That was my favorite doublet.” Geralt stares, horrified, as the hole in Jaskier’s chest knits itself back together, until all that’s left is the hole in his clothes and the red blood smeared across his skin. Geralt feels himself sagging, thigh protesting at holding him, and Jaskier reaches out to prop him up one handed. Geralt’s nostrils flare, an automatic bolt of apprehension shooting through him, and Geralt is backing up, out of Jaskier’s grip before he knows what he’s doing. “Geralt, please, I can- explain everything.” 

“What are you?” Jaskier grimaces, whistling and waiting as Roach comes trotting up. He doesn’t answer until Geralt pulls himself up into the saddle, and he takes the reins to lead them home. 

“A higher vampire.”

“Like Regis.” Jaskier’s head dips in a nod, and he glances every so often up at Geralt to ensure he’s still on his horse. 

“Regis and I hail from the same clan. He’s a… well, for lack of a better word he’s like a brother to me.” 

“How old are you?”

“Just shy of three hundred.” Jaskier’s voice is wry, and Geralt can see that Jaskier wants to say something about asking people their ages, but he refrains. The trek back to the vineyard seems to take half as much time as the trip out, and Geralt’s head is swimming from blood loss by the time they get back. Jaskier has to help him slide from Roach’s back, and he tucks one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulder as they hobble back inside. No one is in the house when Jaskier pushes open the door to Geralt’s room, depositing the witcher onto the bed. “Stay here.”

Geralt doesn’t have the strength to argue with him, and he instead works to shed his armor, leaving it on the floor. He’s panting by the time that’s done, and his fingers shake as he peels his pants off, snarling as the fabric pulls across his cut. He should have just cut them off, but if he can salvage them he’s going to. His thigh is a mess of blood and torn flesh, and he realizes with faint fear that his artery has been cut. How he’s made it back here is a feat in itself, and he’s staring numbly at his wound when Jaskier comes back. Geralt sees Jaskier pause, stumbling, and when he looks up Jaskier’s pupils are blown so wide he can no longer see the blue of Jaskier’s eyes. The bowl of water and towels is set hastily on the nightstand before Jaskier drops into a crouch beside Geralt, grabbing at his thigh and twisting it to get a better look. Geralt hears himself gasp in pain, but his head is growing fuzzy and his eyesight is fading. 

“Jask-”

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“Already lost too much.”

“No. No. I can-”

“It’s okay.” Geralt reaches a shaking hand up to touch Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier leans into the touch. 

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier says, and Geralt wants to ask him what for, but then teeth are digging into his thigh and his pain increases tenfold. It only lasts a moment, and then cold spreads through his thigh. Geralt watches in morbid fascination as Jaskier pulls back, eyeing the cut and then licking a long stripe through the bloody mess. Geralt’s other thigh jerks in surprise, and he has no clue what Jaskier is doing but he does it again, and then again before sitting back and pressing a hand to his mouth. His fingers are trembling, covered in blood, but Geralt’s bleeding is already slowing, and he watches as his thigh heals until all that’s left is a long, pink scar. Jaskier brings the bowl of water close now and wipes the blood from Geralt’s skin, stripping off his boots and his ruined pants. His hands are gentle as he tucks Geralt into bed, and Geralt sees tears sliding through the blood still on Jaskier’s face, pink drops staining his shirt. 

Geralt has heard about vampire saliva before- it’s a powerful healing aid, one near impossible to harvest. He’s never seen it in action, never had any reason to let a vampire get close enough to use it, but his fingers trace over the scar on his thigh over and over again. A hand smooths over his forehead, pushing his hair back, and Jaskier leans down, blue eyes locking with Geralt’s. “Sleep, love.”

Geralt’s eyes close before he can protest, and he slips into a black, dreamless sleep. He faintly realizes as he drifts off that Jaskier has coerced him, and he tries to feel angry, but the thought slips away from him. 

His room is dark when Geralt wakes later that night, and he sits up in bed, pressing a hand to his thigh as a dull ache settles into his skin. “A bite will only take the pain away for so long.”

Geralt jerks at Regis’ voice, and he looks to see Regis leaning against the wall by the window. Geralt’s voice is rough as he talks, and he lays back in bed carefully. “How did you get here?”

“Jaskier summoned me. He needed someone to watch over you while you recovered.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“The blood.” Geralt remembers then, Jaskier’s pupils blown wide, mouth covered in blood, and his stomach twists harshly at the thought. He has no clue if Jaskier broke an oath by helping him, some personal creed, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to ask him. He can feel anger present as well, festering in the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put to words what is making him angry, so he tries to push it back. 

“Where is he?”

“He needed some time to collect his thoughts. He should be back momentarily.” Regis steps away from the window, moving to stand by the bedside, and Geralt pulls himself up to a semi sitting position, propped up against the headboard. “Geralt, you are one of my dearest friends.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet, and Regis reaches out to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Remember that when he comes back. And when you talk.” Geralt hums, nodding, and that’s the best that he can offer right now. Regis leaves him once he knows Geralt isn’t on the cusp of death, and Geralt spends the time he’s left alone to think. He idly rubs at the muscle of his thigh, trying to work the ache out and knee jumping every time he touches the sensitive scar. It will deaden eventually, hopefully, but even the brush of the blanket sends flares down to his toes and the sensation is uncomfortable. A knock sounds a bit later, and Geralt calls a soft ‘come in’ to allow whoever it is to step in. Geralt can already smell who it is, and his heart lurches in his chest. Jaskier is subdued, quiet when he steps inside, closing the door behind him and wringing his hands. He’s clean of blood and in a new change of clothes, but his eyes are shadowed and his steps measured as he comes closer. 

“How does your thigh feel?” Geralt grunts, not wanting to say that it hurts, but Jaskier knows him too well and he nods, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “I can numb it again, if you’d like.” 

Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier sighs, glancing up at him. He squirms under Geralt’s gaze, seeming more and more nervous, until he’s on the verge of babbling, and Geralt stops him before he can start. “You didn’t tell me.”

“How do you tell? Should I have said ‘Geralt, love of my life, I’ve been lying to you our entire lives, I’m a higher vampire.’ I- couldn’t.” 

“Regis is my best friend.” Geralt points out, and Jaskier sighs in frustration, raking his fingers back through his hair and not caring when it stands up oddly.

“I didn’t know you knew him until you brought me to meet him. I wanted to tell you then, but I couldn’t find the right moment and-”

“You didn’t trust me.” There it is, what’s been gnawing at the back of Geralt’s mind. Anger rises in his throat, and his words come faster and faster until he’s choking on them. “You followed me for twenty years, and didn’t trust me enough with this secret. Watched me let others go, refused to kill them. And you lied to me.”

“I trust you with my life.” Jaskier snarls, dragging his hands down his face and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The part of Geralt that loves Jaskier wants to reach out and comfort him, but Geralt’s anger is a beast of its own and he can feel himself trembling with it. “But I- I’m a coward and how do you tell the witcher you’re madly in love with that you’re a monster?” 

“With words. The things you claim to be so good with.” His words are cutting and he can see Jaskier flinch, but his heart hurts and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think. He doesn’t care that Jaskier is a vampire, doesn’t care that he isn’t human in the slightest. He just- wanted to be trusted. To share everything that he could with Jaskier. He withdraws into himself then, wanting to protect the gaping, bleeding wound in his chest. He doesn’t know what of Jaskier is a fable meant to make Geralt trust him and what’s real, and the though carves its way deeper into his chest. “Who are you? Really?” 

“I don’t know.” Is all that Jaskier can say, and Geralt turns away from him then. Jaskier leaves the room without saying anything else, and his steps are silent where before Geralt knew them by heart. Geralt spends the day in his room, hiding away and unable to face anyone else. The pain in his thigh ramps up when he stands, and he practices footwork until he can’t bear his own weight anymore, and then he collapses back in bed. The pain is a welcome distraction, and Geralt sinks into the oblivion it brings, curling up in bed and fingers digging into the muscle so it won’t fade. He leaves the room at Marlene’s insistence on the second day, joining them at the breakfast table but hardly saying a word. B.B. seems worried, but knows better than to ask questions, and Marlene hugs Geralt until the man finally hugs her back, shuddering. She sees the horror in Geralt’s eyes that he won’t say, and she sends him out to the garden to harvest plants, telling him that doing work will do him some good. 

The sun is warm on his back and for as muddled as his mind feels, being outside helps, and he picks all of the plants that are ready before retreating to the lab in the cellar. The sharp alchemical smell of the old equipment is familiar, and he spends the morning crafting as many potions as he can with the supplies on hand. His mind processes while he works, mulling over Jaskier’s words. He hasn’t seen the bard since Geralt sent him away, and his scent is stale throughout the house. He wonders where he is, if he’s safe, and it feels like a sword through the chest to think about how he’d pushed the man away. Geralt has to face what he is every day of his life, face the stares and the threats, but Jaskier.... Jaskier doesn’t. He blends in as easily as any human would, moving through the world invisible, outlasting friends and in constant fear.

No wonder Jaskier didn’t tell him. He’d pushed Jaskier away immediately, just like the man expected, and the vial in Geralt’s hand shatters in his grip when he thinks that. He really wasn’t any better than the humans that Jaskier has no doubt dealt with before. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to find Jaskier, to beg him to stay and apologize for being an ass. Geralt cleans up the mess that he made in the lab before heading inside for lunch. He’s sitting at the table, plate still in front of him when lavender fills his nose, sharp and new, and his head whips up. He follows the scent, but it’s everywhere and Geralt can’t pinpoint where it ends or begins. He checks the guest bedroom, but the sheets are freshly made, undisturbed, and Jaskier’s pack is still on top of the dresser where it belongs. 

Geralt goes down to his room, hoping, praying, but Jaskier isn’t there either. The source of the scent seems to be a stack of books on his nightstand, a piece of paper folded on top. Jaskier’s scrawling, elegant script is obvious, and Geralt snatches the note up to read it. 

You need time, and I aim to give it to you. You asked me who I was, and I couldn’t answer. Maybe these can.

Geralt’s gaze goes to the books and he picks the first one up off the top. It’s old, the pages yellowed and the spine protesting when he opens the cover. He looks through it, and most of it is in a language Geralt doesn’t understand. But there, near the end, it switches to common, and Geralt realizes with a shock that these are journals. Journals dating back almost three hundred years exactly. Geralt pours over the journals, wanting to know more, to hear Jaskier’s voice without him speaking. 

The first journals from when he’s young are hopeful, optimistic, and Regis is talked about more than Geralt would have expected. It chronicles Jaskier’s lessons in controlling his emotions around humans, fighting the draw of blood, and hiding what he is. It mentions something about magnetism a few times, but Geralt isn’t sure if that’s referring to a vampire's inherent powers of coercion, so he tucks that away to ask Jaskier about later. Despite how old the journals are, Jaskier’s personality shines through in his words, the small snippets of complaints about Regis being hard on him, the lamenting of passing fashion or music. There’s plenty of music, scraps of paper tucked between pages with the names of songs or little snippets of sheet music that Geralt can’t read. Geralt lights all the candles in his room when it gets dark, unable to put down the journal he has laying in his lap.

Jaskier’s tone shifts around his 200th year, the joy fading from the pages. His words become melancholic, morose, and his journal entries become shorter and shorter. An entire year is missing before Jaskier writes again, and it’s only to lament his long lifespan. To point out how Regis refused to let him go. Geralt’s heart pounds at the insinuation within those words, and he finds himself reading faster and faster. The next entry is a short story about a ball that Jaskier went to, but in it Geralt can feel hope struggling to rise. Jaskier had finally played for an audience for the first time, and had been paid handsomely for it. Music begins to crop up intermittently, songs that Geralt knows vaguely from childhood. Songs that Jaskier wrote, published under a dozen different names. Then near the day that they’d first met in Posada, Jaskier bursts into multicolor life. 

His journals are smaller, but the pages are chock full of stories- embellishments of Geralt’s heroics but also observations. Questions about Geralt that Jaskier never voiced aloud, little notes on what Geralt likes and dislikes. Drawings of him, of Roach, of various plants Geralt had pointed out for collection. The melancholy hanging around his earlier entries falls away entirely, and Geralt remembers half the conversations they’d had, Jaskier scribbling in his journal for no apparent reason. He’s staring at a drawing of his sword, rendered in incredible detail when he flips the page, eyes drawn to the entry. 

Geralt talks in his sleep. Nothing that would embarrass him, but he calls out for his family. I hear him beg sometimes for people I know are dead, beg for people to make it stop. It breaks my heart to hear him this way, so sad, but when I ask in the morning he looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. I suppose I overstep too much. 

Geralt frowns at that. He had nightmares frequently, but he didn’t know he talked. Didn’t know that Jaskier was even awake to hear him. Though, as a vampire he doesn’t really need sleep, and judging by how full the journals are, he spent more time writing or drawing than ever sleeping. He skims through the newer journals, knowing most of what happened between the two of them, but lingers on the newest entries. The ink is fresher, darker, and they’re dated only a couple weeks ago. 

Geralt took me to a cemetery today. I wanted to call him crazy, because what would we possibly find in a cemetery? But we found more than I could have expected. Regis is here, in Toussaint, and apparently good friends with Geralt. Knowingly. Geralt doesn’t seem to care that he’s a higher vampire, and that should be good, right? So why does my heart pound at the thought of telling him?

More is added later, and Geralt’s heart kicks up in his chest.

He loves me. I know it now, after their conversation while I was carried home. How can I continue this sham, lying to him? I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I have to tell him in the morning when he wakes. If I don’t, I fear I never will, and he deserves better. So much better.

The last entry in the journal is longer than others, and he flips past just to make sure there isn’t anymore before he reads. It almost feels like an invasion to read Jaskier’s thoughts, but they’re all he has at the moment and reading them seems easier than making Jaskier talk. 

He kissed me today. I wanted to tell him, but his touch was so soft and my coward’s heart buckled. His lips are as tender as I’ve always imagined, and I found myself kissing him back before I could tell him to wait. I worry for him when he goes off on his own, and I want nothing more than to yell at him, to shake him and tell him there is no way he’ll lose me to a monster. That the only one in danger is him. He’s the best man that I’ve ever met, and the day that he finally leaves this world is the day that I leave it too. I love him too much to endure after he’s gone, and I only hope that if he goes, I’m there to send him off. To hold him in his last moments, to kiss him and tell him it will all be okay. Oh, to kiss him. I have to do it more, as much as I can, because if I don’t I fear I’ll drive myself mad with wanting. 

 He feels tears escape him then, and he wipes them away quickly, breath shuddering in his chest. He closes the journal, tucking it back with its brothers, and hears soft footsteps on the floor outside his room. They linger by his door, the scent of lavender and sadness drifting to him. Geralt is up and out of bed before he can doubt himself, and he nearly rips the door off the hinges opening it.

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathes, staring wide eyed as Jaskier freezes in the middle of the room, near the door. He looks haggard, dark shadows under his eyes and hair a mess. 

“Geralt. I was just-”

Geralt is moving forward, feet carrying him unconsciously. His hand comes up to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, and he’s kissing the bard without another thought. Jaskier freezes, making a soft, wounded sound against his lips, and Geralt shudders. He’s still moving, doesn’t stop until Jaskier’s back hits the wall and Geralt presses him bodily into it. Jaskier arches up against him then, hands scrabbling to grab onto Geralt’s shoulders as Geralt hoists him up into his arms. Jaskier’s thighs are snug and warm around his hips, and Geralt kisses him harder, lapping into his mouth and tasting the moan that escapes. Jaskier uses a hand to shove them away from the wall while the other buries in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt finds himself stumbling back, holding Jaskier’s full weight in his arms easily. Jaskier’s thighs flex around him, lift him slightly so that Geralt has to tilt his head back to kiss him properly. 

Geralt hears furniture scraping across the ground as Jaskier’s fingers twitch, and he’s guided back into his room, the door slamming and locking behind them. Jaskier kisses him greedily, like this is the last chance he’ll get, and Geralt responds in kind. He presses Jaskier up against the door and Jaskier moans into his mouth, grinding against him and tugging at his hair. Geralt pulls back then, huffing a laugh when Jaskier chases him. 

“Jaskier- hold on-”

“For what?” Jaskier’s voice is breathless, and he looks as gorgeous as he did twenty years ago and Geralt’s heart constricts, threatening to burst. 

“I can’t- do this without- apologizing.”

“You don’t-’

“I do,” Geralt interrupts, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and brushing his thumb along his cheekbone. “I pushed you away. I was in shock and- I was awful to you.”

“It wasn’t as if I didn’t deserve it.” Geralt shakes his head, kissing Jaskier again and pressing their foreheads together. Jaskier pants softly, lips parted, and Geralt can see that his teeth are pointy and sharp, just like Regis’. How he never noticed before with how much Jaskier smiled he doesn’t know. 

“You didn’t. You don’t. I read the journals.” Jaskier’s eyes flick over to the neat stack on the nightstand, and his eyes are scared when he meets Geralt’s gaze again. “I know who you are. Always. It was cruel of me to say anything otherwise. Will you- forgive me?”

“Only if you forgive me for being so foolish for so long.”

“Done.” Jaskier laughs then, relieved, and Geralt tilts his head to kiss the laughter from his lips. This time when they fall in bed together, hands roaming and lips kiss bruised, it’s with new eyes. Geralt explores Jaskier slower, holds him tighter and presses deep into him. Jaskier shakes in his lap, trembling and twitching with each feeling, and Geralt chases the experience of leaving Jaskier speechless. Geralt doesn’t let Jaskier get far, even when they’re done, and he sleeps with Jaskier tucked against his side. 

                                                          -*-

He wakes to slow, soft kisses being pressed into his neck, and he arches to allow Jaskier more room to work. Jaskier hums in thanks, taking his time to explore, and Geralt slides fingertips up and down Jaskier’s side lazily. 

“How did you hide so long?” The question has been in his head for days now and Jaskier chuckles, smiling against Geralt’s skin. He nibbles at a particular sensitive spot, making Geralt gasp, and his fingers press into Jaskier’s ribs in warning. Jaskier kisses the spot in apology, and goes up onto an elbow to look down at Geralt. 

“Magnetism.”

“You mentioned it in your journal.”

“Mhmm. It allows me to cloak my features, make people see what I want them to see.”

“Isn’t that something all higher vampires can do?” Jaskier shakes his head, smiling.

“No. Remember from your bestiary? Each higher vampire has an innate ability-”

“That makes them unique and impossible to classify. Like Dettlaff’s herd mentality.” Geralt can feel sleep sliding from him, and he grows more and more interested when he sees the grin on Jaskier’s face. 

“Precisely.” 

“Explain it?” Geralt phrases it as a question, but he’s curious and it sounds more like a command than anything. Jaskier laughs though, leaning down to kiss Geralt softly before he settles against Geralt’s side. 

“I can manipulate how others see me, how they perceive me. I use it as sparingly as I can, really. It’s a lot of work to keep up, so I don’t go over the top with it. Wrinkles for the most part, because a human who doesn't age is suspicious.”

“You aren’t using it now.” 

“No. I don’t think I have to.” Jaskier’s voice quirks as if asking should I be? and Geralt hums softly. “Let me show you. Give me the name of someone we know.”

“Triss.” Jaskier raises a brow, but Geralt shrugs. “She looks the least like you.”

Geralt sits up with Jaskier, and he watches as that same heat-like shimmer overtakes Jaskier. Only this time it isn’t kept to his face; it envelops him completely, and when it subsides Triss sits before him, curly hair loose around her shoulders and an arm clasped over her chest. Geralt reaches out to tug on a strand of hair, and his lips part in surprise when he actually feels the strands between his fingers. Triss shimmers again, and the illusion slips away, leaving Jaskier in her place. 

“Making people see is one thing. Making them feel, and believe? That’s an art all it’s own.”

“Does that carry over to your music?”

Jaskier scoffs, offended, and he gives Geralt a withering look. Geralt raises his hands in surrender and Jaskier huffs. “No. Music is something that I happen to be good at.”

“I have another question.”

“And you haven’t asked yet?” Geralt hesitates, unsure of if he really wants to, but Jaskier prods him gently and he takes Jaskier’s hand in his. 

“When I woke up, after the fight. Regis was here. He said you needed to clear your head because of the blood.” Jaskier hums, goading him on, and Geralt can feel heat rising up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Do you- have the same problem that Regis does?”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment before he leans forward, placing a soft kiss on Geralt’s neck. “No. I don’t drink if I can help it. It doesn’t appeal to me much.”

“Then, when you uh, licked my wound?”

“That’s different.” Jaskier’s voice is defensive, and Geralt finds heat pooling in his stomach when Jaskier noses at his neck and takes a deep breath. “You appeal to me. Very much so.” 

“And if I- wanted to let you?” Jaskier’s lips quirk in a smile against his skin, and Geralt shudders when sharp teeth just barely prick at his skin. 

“Then we’ll have to empty the house.”

[whitecrowapothecary]

Of Perfumes and Plants

Spurred by an unfortunate accident, Geralt moves through two years without his bard while Jaskier recovers before finally deciding to see what pleases him outside of monster hunting. What is he, besides a Witcher? (Explicit)

AKA @frostedbasilisk and I got talking about soap making and retirement. PLEASE go chek out their accompanying work once they’ve posted it <3

Read it on AO3 here!

“Do we have to leave?” Jaskier’s voice is muffled, muddied by the blanket he’s still currently curled up in. Geralt shakes his head, chuckling and tightening the strap over his chest. The length of his blades on his back make him stand a bit straighter, and he welcomes their weight.

“It’s spring. The monsters will be thawing, and by the time we make it back to Lyria there should be plenty of work.”

“There are monsters here, where it’s warm.” Jaskier points out, sliding from the bed and letting the blanket fall to reveal every inch of his skin. Geralt watches the way he pads over, feline grace hidden in each movement, and Geralt still loses his breath at the sight. They’ve been together for a few months now, and every time he wakes up with Jaskier in his arms, falls into bed with his lips touching skin, he fears he’ll wake up alone. He hasn’t yet, won’t- Jaskier is a very warm, very willing participant in this dream of Geralt’s, and no amount of waking up will make it any less real. Geralt hums when a warm hand slips to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“You can stay, if you want.” Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier away from his side if he can help it, but if Jaskier really doesn’t want to leave he can’t force him.

The scoff Jaskier lets out is almost a growl, and Geralt’s lips twitch when Jaskier kisses him hard before pulling back. “I told you, wolf. Where you go, I go.”

“Even if it’s cold?”

“The cold doesn’t affect me.” Jaskier shoots back, frowning when Geralt’s smile grows. Geralt knows it doesn’t, especially now, but Jaskier complains like a human anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, pulling back and waving a hand his way while he goes to get dressed.

“Insufferable, absolutely intolerable.” Geralt chuckles at that, knowing Jaskier doesn’t mean it in any true capacity. He goes over the list he’s made in his head while Jaskier pulls on clothes, trying to make sure he has everything they’ll need. He’s had Roach saddled for an hour now, and he can hear her occasionally stomp outside, impatient. Most of Geralt’s things have been tucked away, and Jaskier only has what he brought with him from last fall to pack up. Some of it, like his books, can stay at the vineyard. Geralt has a feeling he’ll be back sooner rather than later. “Breakfast first, love?”

“Ate already.”

“Eager, hmm? Give me just a minute, darling.” Jaskier slips out the door and up the stairs to the guest bedroom, where all his things are. Despite the fact that Jaskier stayed in his room, he’d been too lazy to drag all his things downstairs. Geralt is at the door, talking quietly with Marlene when Jaskier bounds down the stairs, lute on his back and satchel on his hip. Geralt doesn’t stop in his conversation, but Jaskier can feel his attention in the gentle way his nostrils flare and the way his head twitches toward the noise of Jaskier’s footsteps. Geralt allows Marlene to squeeze him in a quick hug, pressing a wrapped bundle into his hands that smells of salted meat and bread. Lunch, it seems.

Jaskier, much to his surprise, gets a quick hug and a chuck under his chin, Marlene smiling softly. “Take care of him, Master Jaskier. Make sure he eats.”

“Of course.” Marlene sends them off without another word, Geralt collecting Roach and getting their bags settled. It’s nice, to set out on the road again after so long, and Geralt enjoys being under the sun with a direction in mind. He can’t seem to stop the smile from tugging at his lips when he hears Jaskier strum at his lute. It’s all so familiar to him, this routine of theirs, but it’s different in a way it never was before. Now when Jaskier sings love songs he can feel, can believe when Jaskier means the words for him. He can enjoy when Jaskier’s shoulder brushes against him, when the bard winks and sings a particularly raunchy lyric. There are some things that Geralt does automatically though, like stop to let Jaskier have a rest despite the fact that he’s as bright eyed as he was when they left. He doesn’t need it, and tells Geralt as much, but Geralt just says that Roach needs a break too.

They make good time even with the stops, and they’re closer to Lyria than Geralt had hoped when the sun finally drops below the horizon. Setting up camp in the dark, while usually a nuisance, is easier. Geralt laments the fact that he didn’t know sooner what Jaskier was, to see the pretty way that Jaskier’s eyes glow. It’s much like his own eyes- eerie and off putting, but Geralt finds himself staring and standing still just so that Jaskier will look over at him and smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle in the cutest way, and the faint luminescence of Jaskier’s iris’ light up the veins in his eyelids. Jaskier clears a spot for their bedrolls while Geralt hunts for dinner, and he sits by the fire, turning the rabbits before closing his eyes and letting out a soft breath.

“It’s nice to be back on the Path.” Jaskier says, reading his mind and taking the words he was going to say from his lips. Geralt hums when Jaskier rubs a hand across his back, relishing the casual touch.

“Winter was long.”

“Ah, but not boring. Never boring with you, darling.” A kiss is placed on the crown of Geralt’s head, and he huffs a laugh.

“Suck up.” Geralt hears Jaskier snort above him, and he jumps when Jaskier leans down, quick as an alp, and nips at his neck. The groan that comes from him makes his cheeks warm, and he huffs as Jaskier laughs and presses a kiss to the spot.

“If I remember, and I do, you’re very fond of my being a suck up.”

“Fonder when you’re quiet.” Geralt hears Jaskier’s breath hitch in his throat, and he thinks he might have done something wrong, but he’s very quickly got a lap full of bard and very insistent lips on his neck. His hands slip up to steady Jaskier in his lap, thumbs smoothing over Jaskier’s hip bones and pressing in lightly. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a sweet noise as he kisses his way up to whisper in Geralt’s ear.

“I can be quiet.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier scoffs at the obvious skepticism, and Geralt smiles when Jaskier very pointedly goes silent. Geralt wants to point out that their food will burn if they aren’t careful, but Jaskier’s lips are soft against his own, and Jaskier runs fingers through his hair, tugging just enough at the strands to have Geralt losing focus. Geralt spends his time tasting Jaskier, lapping into his mouth and trying not to laugh against Jaskier’s lips when the man shudders in his arms. He’s reactive in all of the best ways, pliant and bashful under his hands. Geralt pulls back when he smells a flare of burnt flesh, Jaskier chasing his lips and growling when he’s denied. He leans, Jaskier going with him as he plucks the meat from over the fire, saving it. Jaskier whines quietly, low in his throat, and Geralt raises a brow, offering the rabbit to Jaskier. Jaskier looks like food is the last thing on his mind, pupils wide, and Geralt hums.

“Last night not enough?”

“Never.” Jaskier’s voice is husky, and the sound goes straight through Geralt. He supposes he could eat later.

They retire to bed much, much earlier than expected, and they’re laying together, Jaskier humming quietly as his heart settles back into its normal rhythm when Geralt speaks.

“That’s not very quiet.” Jaskier laughs, turning to place a couple of open mouthed kisses on Geralt’s collarbone before settling down again.

“Practice makes perfect?” Geralt makes a noncommittal noise, hugging Jaskier close before slipping out from under the bard. He can hear Jaskier groan in protest, but Geralt comes back with a small washcloth, wiping the two of them up before helping Jaskier back into his clothes. He settles himself back down, tugging Jaskier close and shutting his eyes. He hasn’t eaten, and really should, but he doesn’t care much and he can eat in the morning. For now, he just wants to hold Jaskier close and drift off, the scent of lavender and leaves a comfort.

Just under the crackle of their fire, hidden, is the soft sound of feet on dirt and leaves. Jaskier moves from his side, wrenching from him suddenly, and Geralt’s eyes snap open. His hand goes to his sword immediately, the ring of steel resounding in the air as he whirls to his feet. His heart clenches in his chest when he sees Jaskier, sleepy and disoriented, struggling between two men who wrench his arms back, drawing a cry from the bard. Geralt snarls, lips stretching wide to show off usually hidden fangs. He starts forward, fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, eyes on Jaskier and only Jaskier.

“Let him go.” His own voice is foreign to his ears, and he hears Roach whinny at the same time he feels a blade sing through the air. Geralt ducks, slipping under the blade and slashing upward. The bandit behind him cries out, sword dropping to the dirt as he presses hands to the soft, exposed flesh of his belly, trying desperately to hold his guts in. Geralt hisses, low and dangerous, and stops dead when he sees the blade glinting near Jaskier’s throat.

“Get back, mutant. You shouldn’t have come to this forest.”

“Jaskier, please .” Geralt’s voice is quiet, and he knows that Jaskier could break the hold easily, could disappear into smoke, but Jaskier’s eyes are wide and scared. He should have asked, should have known what Jaskier was comfortable doing. Revealing himself to these bandits, even as low as they are, terrifies Jaskier more than the blade at his throat, and Geralt chokes on the sour scent of Jaskier’s fear. Geralt can’t move, rooted to the spot as a sword raises, sailing through the air toward Jaskier. His body loosens all at once and he launches forward, roaring and catching one of the men with a blade straight through the ribcage, punching through his sternum with a messy crunch. He falls dead at Geralt’s feet as something else falls with a dull thud, and the harsh copper of blood clogs Geralt’s nose.

He can’t look, he knows what he smells and he can’t look. The other man, the one holding the sword covered in Jaskier’s blood backs up, stumbling over a log and falling straight on his ass. A noise unlike any that Geralt has ever made rattles from his chest, and he lunges, sword plunging into the man’s chest even as he cries for Geralt to wait. Geralt’s breath rasps in his throat as he wipes his blade off, and he turns from the carnage, heart beating faster and faster in his chest. He can’t- he can’t bear to look at Jaskier, the awful way his head’s been severed, but he can hear Jaskier’s heart beating as steadily as ever. He knows he’s alive, knows it in his mind, but the sight of Jaskier’s doublet covered in blood brings tears to his eyes and a cold, hollow ache to his chest.

He breaks their camp in a rush, shoving the bandit’s bodies away. Let someone else find them and think a new monster has cropped up. Better than the alternative. Geralt gather’s Jaskier up as gently as he can, draping him over Roach and murmuring soothing words when she skitters anxiously to the side. She can smell the wrongness in Jaskier’s blood, the inhumanness, but Geralt uses axii when needed to keep her calm. He rides hard back toward Toussaint, back toward his home. He can’t keep Jaskier out in the forest, can’t lug him along on his contracts, and Geralt doesn’t know how long he’s going to take to heal. He passes by a flock of crows and stops suddenly, Roach rearing up and threatening to toss him off. He stares at the crows until one looks at him, tilting its head, and then he speaks.

“He needs help. Meet me at Corvo.” The bird takes flight with the rest of its brethren, and Geralt can only hope that they’ll get the message back. Geralt’s still an hour out, but the sky is dark and Geralt isn’t worried about anyone seeing him ride with a corpse in his lap. He leaves Roach standing in the courtyard when he gallops into the vineyard, sliding from her back with Jaskier in his arms. His hip protests with each step he takes, sore from the saddle, but Geralt limps into the house, grateful that it seems to be empty. There are candles lit in his room, and his knees go weak when he senses Regis beyond the door. Regis doesn’t say anything at first, taking Jaskier from him and laying him out gently on the bed. His movements are quick, methodical, and Geralt sags back against the door. Geralt watches as Regis slices a groove through his palm, letting blood drip over Jaskier’s neck before neatly fitting Jaskier’s head back to the body. He sews around the cut in small, even stitches, and once done has Geralt lift him so a bandage can be wrapped around the bard’s neck. Regis settles him a bit more comfortably, leaning low to sniff before stepping back, apparently satisfied.

Regis’ attention turns to Geralt now, and his eyes are soft. “You did good, Geralt. He’ll be fine, given enough time.”

“He wouldn’t break free- he wouldn’t- I couldn’t- he wouldn’t move -.” Geralt isn’t making any sense, knows he isn’t, and his fingers are curled so tight he can feel his joints popping uncomfortably. He can hear the soft noise Jaskier had let out, the scrape of metal against bone in his head, and his stomach rolls in a way it never has before.

“Breathe, Geralt. Breathe.” He pulls in one breath, then two, and Regis takes his hands, forcing Geralt’s fingers to uncurl and release the tension in his joints. “There are some times, Geralt, that one must choose to be hurt, to avoid ruination.”

“He would've- I could’ve- they’re dead .” Geralt looks over at Jaskier laid out on the bed, blood staining the sheets and clothes ruined.

“What if he had, and one of them escaped? He’s nearly as famous as you, White Wolf.” Geralt shakes his head, choking back a sob and gripping Regis’ hands tight. “He made his decision, knowing it would be hard on you. But, the alternative would have been worse.”

“I know.” Regis’ words cut through the rising panic in his head, and he knew he was being illogical. He knew that Jaskier had a reason for everything. It doesn’t make it any easier to see his best friend and newly made lover decapitated. Geralt takes a deep breath, holds it, and then drops Regis’ hands, going to sit next to Jaskier. “How long?”

“It’s difficult to say. With my intervention it will be shorter than normal, but I wouldn’t expect him back for at least a year, maybe two.”

“A year.” Geralt’s voice is dead in his ears, flat and iced over, and he reaches to brush a lock of hair off of Jaskier’s forehead. “There’s nothing else to be done?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. The best thing for you would be to get back on the Path.” Geralt recoils, looking at Regis with wide eyes.

“I can’t leave him here.”

“You must. You’ll do no good hiding away amongst the grapes. Take the night, and head out in the morning. I’ll remain by his side through it.” Regis places a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder, black eyes melancholic, and Geralt sighs heavily. He leaves Regis with Jaskier while he tends to Roach, bringing her back to her stable and wiping her down. She’s covered in sweat and old blood, and Geralt settles her down as best he can. She headbutts him when he gets too close, as if to tell him it will be okay, and he presses his forehead to the long bridge of her nose. She allows the moment, nickering softly and bucking her head up gently.

“Yeah, back inside.” When Geralt comes back Regis has disappeared. He’s certain the man has only gone back home for supplies, but Geralt takes the time to clean Jaskier up. He’s gentle, afraid of doing something to damage Jaskier further, but he cleans the blood off his skin and gets him out of his ruined clothes. He doesn’t bother to redress him, instead tucking him under the blankets and stripping his own armor off. He’s covered in blood, both Jaskier’s and the bandits, and he scrubs at his clothes, watching the red slowly stain the water. The menial tasks at hand help, and by the time he’s gotten the clothes hung exhaustion drags at his limbs. He shouldn’t be tired, but he feels soul weary, as if one misstep will send him careening off a cliff he can’t make his way back up. Geralt curls up on the other side of the bed, closing his eyes and listening to the beat of Jaskier’s heart.

                                                       -*-

Regis sends him off the next morning, true to his word. It’s odd to ride Roach out alone, to have only the sound of her soft breathing and his own heartbeat to fill the silence. He rides through the day and into the night, passing the spot where they’d stopped before and continuing on. He stops just outside of Lyria, allowing Roach to rest while he listens to the owls hooting. He can’t bring himself to sleep, not yet, and even when he does lay down he can’t seem to drift off. He can’t sleep for the life of him, not alone out in the forest, and for once he seeks out towns. At least when he’s in a shitty room in a shitty inn he can hear other people, snoring and yelling and making a ruckus. It’s better than the silence that follows him around the Continent.

Hunts take longer now, too. Not because Jaskier helped finish them, but because he was there to help Geralt . Now when he stumbles back to camp or whatever inn he’s in, bleeding and dizzy, no one is there to catch him. No one patches the wounds that he can’t reach. It’s stupid, how much he came to rely on Jaskier for things, and rewiring himself to do it alone takes half the year. He takes as many contracts as he can, just to keep himself busy, and when fall grips the land tight he wonders where he should turn. He wants to go south, to see him again and know that he’s doing okay, but Regis seems to know him better than he knows himself. A crow lands near him in the forest one day, a small paper tied to its leg. Geralt gets a peck on the hand for his troubles, but he gets the little tube and unrolls it.

Go north.

And so he does. He walks the path up past Oxenfurt, through Kaedwen and into the blue mountains. The path is unforgiving, and he’s almost too late to make it through the pass, but he manages, coming upon the gates of Kaer Morhen trembling with the cold. Lambert and Eskel welcome him with open arms, and Geralt falls into the routine of the keep as if he never left. He stays up late with Eskel and Lambert, rises early to do his chores before training. He goes through the motions as best he can, but his body is on autopilot, his mind and heart a thousand miles to the south. They notice of course, and they’re sat around the fire in the library, mugs of ale in hand when Eskel broaches the subject.

“What happened?” Geralt makes a sound in his throat, swirling his drink before tossing back a mouthful. It’s some god awful swill that Lambert’s been making, but it’s alcohol and that’s all Geralt cares about. “You aren’t here with us, Geralt. Your body is, but you aren’t. What happened on the Path?”

“He’s moping over that bard of his, dumbass.” Lambert cuts in, and neither of them miss the full body flinch that jerks through Geralt. Ale sloshes on his fingers at the movement, and when he looks up Lambert and Eskel are staring at him, pity in their eyes.

“Did he reject you?”

“No. No.” Geralt grinds out, and he doesn't know how to say what happened, doesn’t know what he can say. “He- was injured. While on the Path.”

“Oh.” Geralt can feel the unspoken question. Is he dead? He shakes his head and hears twin sighs of relief. Eskel’s voice is gentle when he speaks, and Geralt hates the way his eyes burn. “Is that why he isn’t here?”

“Yes. I- had to leave him with a healer.” Geralt knocks back the rest of his drink, idly tracing the grains of the wood cup. "We got together last winter."

"Told you Toussaint would work." Lambert's voice is smug, and for the first time in a while, Geralt lets out something akin to a laugh. “So, tell us how it happened.”

“How what happened?” Geralt knows there’s nothing he can say about Jaskier’s injury without revealing what he is, and he prays that isn’t what Lambert is asking for.

“How you finally gathered the stones to tell him.”

“Regis.” Geralt holds his cup out to Lambert, who refills it from the pitcher at his side. Only once he’s drained half his cup does he continue. Neither of them are going to let him leave it at that, golden eyes intent on him. “I brought Jaskier to meet him, and on the way home he got a confession out of me.”

“Was Jaskier awake to hear it?” Geralt tilts his head at Eskel, lips twitching.

“He was. Pretended that he was too drunk to remember in the morning.”

“Smart little shit. That’s something I would do.” Both Geralt and Eskel say we know at the same time, and Lambert scowls. Geralt can feel himself smile, and the tension in his body loosens a bit. It’s easier to think about the good memories of Jaskier he has, and talking…. Makes it easier. Eskel and Lambert manage to pry more stories from him, but Geralt is slow to spill and even more careful when talking about what happened over the past winter. Still, they’re happy to sit and listen to Geralt’s stories for as long as he’ll talk, and eventually Geralt manages to coax a story or two from Lambert about whoever’s been following him around. Well, coaxing is a strong word. They have to practically force it out of him, but once he gets going they can’t stop him.

It’s nice, to see his face soften from its scowl, for his eyes to go liquid and warm as he talks. His name is Aiden, they get that much from him, and they’ve been skirting around each other for a year or two now.

“When’s the wedding?” Eskel pipes up at one point, grin on his face, and Lambert throws his empty cup at his brother's head. Geralt laughs, dodging the empty pitcher that flies at his head in retaliation.

“Har fuckin har guys, it’s not like I’ve been pining after him for twenty years.”

“Not pining anymore.” Geralt points out, though his cheeks are warm from the shot taken at him. “Are you going to bring him up for a winter?”

“Are you going to bring Jaskier?” Lambert fires back, and Geralt’s nod is instant.

“As soon as he’s well enough to make the climb. It… won’t be this year.”

“Ah shit. Fine, I’ll bring him if you bring your bard. Gives me time to convince the bastard.” Geralt nods, already thinking about what it would be like to have Jaskier here. The nights would be louder, that’s for sure. He can already imagine the way that Jaskier would marvel over the way sound bounces off the walls inside.

“Good thing your room is a level below us.” Lambert snorts, choking on his drink and coughing. The glare he levels on Geralt is hot enough to melt steel, but Geralt meets him with a raised brow.

“I don’t think it’s us you have to worry about. You’re dating someone with the loudest profession on the Continent.” Lambert has a point, but Geralt only shrugs.

“He can be quiet.”

“I highly doubt that.” Geralt hums, hiding his smile behind his cup.

                                                         -*-

Spring comes late this year, and by the time the witchers come down from the mountain, monsters are out in force. Lambert shoots east, Eskel west, and Geralt heads south. It’s the busiest spring for him in years, and he’s grateful that Jaskier isn’t with him. He keeps a grueling pace, only stopping for Roach’s sake and when he absolutely has to sleep. He fights his way through the countryside, heading ever slowly south. He loses count of how many nekker nests and drowner infestations he takes care of, how many times his work takes him into graveyards or abandoned ruins.

His worst, most confusing night comes at the end of summer. There are rumors of something carrying people off into the forest, and from the remains he finds, it can only be one thing. Some kind of vampire. The lack of blood makes it hard to track, but each person has a distinct smell, and Geralt uses those mingling scents to find the vampire’s home. He has the uncanny feeling that this vampire is more intelligent than it lets on. The scents lead to an old elven ruin, half toppled by the elements, but Geralt sees stairs going down and groans. He chokes down Cat, eyesight sharpening in the dark, and descends the stairs, his silver blade firmly in hand. He coughs quietly at the smell of the ruin, trying not to breathe too deep lest he begin to taste things. He can smell old, rotting blood mixed with the scent of dust and dirt and decay. Whatever vampire has been rampaging has been trying to store the blood for later.

Geralt’s amulet gives an angry hum against his chest suddenly, and he leaps out of the way as a woman springs from the shadows. She’s gaunt, hip bones jutting out alarmingly and skin tight to her ribcage. Her fingers are long, wickedly sharp claws, and Geralt hops back as she advances, screeching and hissing. He wards off her blows as best he can, spinning and dancing around in the cramped room of the ruin. She disappears from his sight with an angry hiss, and he keeps a sharp ear out for the soft scuffle of her feet. She’s hungry, and that means she’s clumsy. When claws rake across his side and up his back he swears loudly, stumbling and pressing a hand as blood pours from the wound. Maybe not as clumsy as he thought. She’s aimed right for the weakest parts of his armor, and he keeps a hand pressed firmly to slow the bleeding as she flickers back into view.

They circle each other, her pupils wide and dark, and he sees recognition flicker over her face. She goes still, sniffing, and then takes a few steps back. Horror overtakes her face, and Geralt should take the time to strike her down, but he frowns in confusion.

“Didn’t- know.” Her common is rusty, thick and rolling in her mouth, and Geralt stops completely. He doesn’t dare put his sword away, but he’s losing blood rapidly and he can feel it burning down his side. “Tell him- didn’t know.”

A startling realization comes over Geralt then. “His scent is on me, isn’t it?”

“In your blood. I did not know you were his.” The bruxa backs away until she’s against the rockface, and Geralt frowns.

“You're afraid of him? Not me?”

“Your killing would be a mercy compared to-” The word she says at the end is none that Geralt has ever heard, grating and harsh, but something in him recognizes it. Geralt takes a deep breath then, steadying himself and sliding his sword back into its sheath. It’s a stupid idea and he’ll blame it on the blood loss later, but he levels a look at her.

“You have to leave. There’s a contract for your death.”

“You would… spare me?”

“Just this once. If I get another contract, I can’t let it continue.”

“I will go. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I need a lock of your hair, and a bit of blood.”

He retreats back to town with the lock of hair, the ends dipped in her blood as if she’d fallen. Geralt doesn’t want to fool them, but the bruxa left as soon as Geralt had what he needed, and he’s still got the vial of her blood. If need be, he’s sure Jaskier could find her easily with it. The village alderman, while not pleased with the evidence, pays Geralt the coin he’s owed, and Geralt slinks back to his campsite on the edge of town. He downs a dose of Swallow on his way, ignoring the uncomfortable way his skin itches as the cut in his side begins to heal. Getting his armor off is a bitch alone, and he tears the partially healed cut open again twice before he finally wiggles out of the ruined armor. He’ll have to get it repaired at the next town over.

The cut starts on his ribs, a couple inches below his right nipple and curves viciously across his ribs and up his back. He can feel that it stops a few inches shy of the bottom of his shoulder blade, tugging with every movement. It would heal faster if he were able to stitch it, but he can’t reach it and he collapses onto his bedroll instead. A second dose of Swallow has his blood pounding through him and his side itching like mad, but he curls up on his good side and tries to sleep. He isn’t going to be able to move or do much of use until his side heals. Dreams of crows and blood haunt him through the night, and he wakes up twice to the sound of flapping wings, sweat coating his body and side aching fiercely. He looks around, listening and waiting, but the crows don’t come back, and he slips back into an uneasy sleep. The sun burns across his skin through the trees when he rouses, and Geralt feels hot and cold all at once. He isn’t healing as quickly as he’d like, and he hisses when his side pulls. The cut smells of decay, and Geralt pants as he washes it, fingers trembling and nausea battering him in relentless waves. He pours Swallow straight over the cut, jerking and swearing at the way it sizzles angrily against the wound. He can still feel the lingering effects from the other potions, but he finishes off the vial anyway and then lays down to rest.

Yennefer finds him that way, curled up in a ball, panting and gritting his teeth. The scent of lilac and gooseberries hits him first, and his head whips up. He struggles to sit up, but Yennefer scoffs and waves a hand.

“Save your strength. Where’s Jaskier?”

“Yennefer.” Geralt’s voice is a warning, and he snarls when she crouches, prodding at his side with a slight frown on her face. “He isn’t here.”

“Obviously. That’s not what I’m asking. Did you drink your potions?”

“I’m not dead.” Geralt replies, Yennefer rolling her eyes and standing up. “What do you want, Yen?”

“Jaskier was supposed to visit me this past fall, to help with a project. He didn’t show.”

“He was… Indisposed.” He listens as Yennefer begins rummaging through his packs. He has no clue what she could be searching for, and he’d be more irritated over the invasion of privacy if his head wasn’t swimming the way it is. Yennefer comes back with cloth and water, and Geralt grunts as she tends to the wound on his side. She’s not gentle, but Geralt can handle the pain as she presses a poultice to the cut and wraps him tightly in bandages.

“He was injured, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Still asleep?” Geralt goes still at that, eyeing Yennefer suspiciously and slowly sitting up. Whatever poultice Yennefer has crafted does wonders for his pain, and he pins her with a look as he struggles to his feet to find a shirt. Getting it on without pulling his cut is harder than he expected, but Yennefer isn’t inclined to help and Geralt isn’t inclined to let her. “Geralt, it’s touching you want to protect his secret, but I know very well what he is.”

“He’s still asleep.” Geralt relents, flicking his fingers toward the wood in the firepit he didn’t bother to start last night. It roars to life, crackling merrily, and Yennefer settles herself on a log, one leg crossed over the other. “What did you need him for?”

“His blood is extraordinarily useful. I merely needed a sample, but he wasn’t with you this year.” Yennefer tilts her head at him, as if studying a particularly interesting problem. “Though, perhaps your blood would work as well.”

“Not a vampire.” Geralt points out, raising a brow when Yennefer waves her hand.

“You’ve been claimed by one, and a powerful one at that. It makes you… unique. May I?”

“I won’t wake up under your control, or to a clone of me, will I?” Geralt isn’t particularly fond of the idea of Yennefer taking his blood and using it for…. Things. But it’s better than her hunting down Jaskier just to bother him.

“Not this time.” Humor colors her voice, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” Geralt allows Yennefer to take her sample, sitting deathly still while she cuts into his skin. It stings faintly, but that cut heals quickly, much easier than the one on his side. There must have been something on the bruxa’s claws that impedes his healing. Yennefer tucks the vial of blood she’s collected away and cleans her hands off. A portal shimmers to life behind her, his medallion humming in its presence, and he hmms. “Leaving before tea?”

“I’m already behind on my work.” Yennefer pauses before stepping through, looking back over her shoulder. “Give him my regards when he wakes.”

Yennefer disappears through the portal before Geralt can say anything else, and he sits by the fire for a while before struggling into his armor. His swords are impossible to draw with his right hand, so he straps them on to be accessible to his left. It’ll confuse anyone who sees him, since witchers aren’t supposed to be left handed, but Geralt doesn’t care. He eats a small meal, waiting until he knows his stomach will hold before he leaves again. He stops in the next town to repair his armor and mix more potions, restocking on Swallow and anything else that’s run low. Whatever Yennefer put on his side seems to work, and by the time his armor is repaired and he leaves town he’s healed fully. The scar is large and jagged, thanks to the lack of stitches, but what’s one more in a collection of hundreds?

Geralt is more careful around vampire contracts now- most of them recognize him, or recognize who he belongs to, and they keep a wide berth from him. It makes contracts harder, for sure, but like the bruxa before, most prefer their end at his silver blade if it has to come. He can’t very well stop taking the contracts, but his stomach twists strangely every time he has to hunt one down and see the fear and recognition in their eyes. It’s… too human an emotion. Geralt is in Lyria by the time winter takes hold of the Continent, and though he’d be blocked from getting to Kaer Morhen this late, he’s perfectly on track to get back to Toussaint. No letter had come by crow telling him to go north this year, though no letter had come to say he’d woken up either. He’ll have to chance it.

His ride into Toussaint passes by him in a blur. There’s no giant to fight at the crossroads like years ago, and he doesn’t bother stopping at the Cockatrice inn to rest. His only goal is to get back to Jaskier and the vineyard. Geralt doesn’t realize he’s close until he smells grapes, still far from ripe, and the faint tang of olives. He drags in a breath, sliding from Roach’s back and walking the rest of the way. It gives his hip a chance to settle again and takes most of the weight off of Roach. He’s itching to bolt inside when he finally sees the house, but he gets Roach untacked and brushed down before even thinking about going inside. He slings his packs over his shoulder, trudging up to the house and giving B.B. a tired smile.

“Welcome back, Master Geralt.”

“Thanks B.B.” The majordomo dips into a bow, smiling, and Geralt heads into his room. The door isn’t locked, and that should worry him, but he can hear Regis inside, talking quietly. His heart leaps into his throat, but he doesn’t hear anyone reply and he shoves into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Regis glances up from his book when he comes in, and Geralt stops, brows raising. Regis has somehow dragged an armchair into the bedroom and shoved it against the wall by the window. “Comfortable?”

“He enjoys being read to.” Regis nods toward the bed, and Geralt sets his things down before heading for the bed. Jaskier’s eyes are still shut, skin pale, but his eyes move behind his lids whenever one of them talks.

"Must be bored to death.” Geralt hears Jaskier’s heart kick up a notch when he talks, and that makes something warm and bright light up in his chest. “He hasn’t woken up at all?”

“No, but he’s close, I believe. His neck is all but healed.” Geralt glances at Jaskier’s neck, and the bandages and stitches are gone. There’s only the thinnest line of a scar, and when Geralt traces it he feels nothing but smooth skin. He's never seen a scar on Jaskier before- anything marking his skin at all seemed to be gone when they met next. Geralt takes a few steps away to strip out of his armor, and Regis eyes the repair on his side and the way he still favors it. Geralt doesn't say anything about it, but he can tell Regis is curious and he rucks his shirt up to the side to let him see anyhow. Regis rises to his feet quickly, and he peers at it curiously.

“Mina did this.” The name yanks at something in Geralt, and he drops his shirt, frowning. Regis steeples his fingers as he sits back down in his chair and Geralt goes to sit by Jaskier, holding his pale hand. “Did it heal quickly?”

“No. Yennefer found me burning with fever and had to put some kind of poultice on me.”

“So she still poisons. Hm. Good to know some things haven’t changed. Is she dead?” Geralt’s lips twist into a grimace, and he shakes his head.

“Not this time.” It feels like a weakness to admit, but Regis seems pleased by the answer and that makes Geralt relax. “Thank you, for being here.”

“He would do the same for me.” Regis’ voice is fond, and he listens as Regis gets up once more, coming over to touch Geralt’s shoulder lightly. “He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“I’ll be okay.” Geralt trusts in Jaskier, probably more than most people would say he should. Regis pats his shoulder, sighing and shaking his head at the both of them.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on him, sooner if I feel he wakes.” Geralt nods, and Regis finally takes his leave, slipping out the door without another word. He doesn’t move from his spot on the bed, sitting facing Jaskier as he brings the hand he’s holding up to his mouth. He kisses each knuckle softly, watching the way that Jaskier’s nostrils twitch and his eyes move.

“I missed you. Everything is… harder without you around.” Geralt takes a deep breath, and there are a thousand things he wants to say, but he wants Jaskier to say something back . So he holds back his stories, and says something else instead. “I love you, Jaskier, and I was so scared. More scared than I’ve ever been-”

Grief chokes Geralt suddenly, and he clears his throat, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead to ward off the burning behind his eyes. He laughs at himself then- for decades, years upon years he told himself to be emotionless. To care little and show even less. But Jaskier is so good at flipping things on their head, at dragging words from Geralt he wouldn’t have said in a thousand years. He’s overwhelmed with emotion that he’s struggled so hard to control, and he presses his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, just to feel part of him close and know he’s here. The hand tugs from his grip suddenly, and Geralt’s eyes flick up to meet Jaskier’s as they fly open.

Jaskier’s hands go up to his throat, cupping his neck as his lips form a wordless cry of pain. Geralt hates the sight, but there’s nothing he can do as Jaskier gasps, breath rasping from his throat as his back arches off the bed. He reaches for him then, smoothing Jaskier’s hair away from his forehead. Jaskier notices him, pupils constricting as he stares with dark, wide eyes. “Jask, it’s okay-”

But there isn’t anything resembling recognition in his eyes when he calms, and Geralt swears, leaping back away from the bed as Jaskier lunges. He dances away from Jaskier, and Jaskier comes after him with singular focus. There’s only so much room for him to work with, and Geralt knocks into the fireplace, turning as Jaskier reaches out to snatch him up. His fingers dig into the brick as Geralt ducks, and he doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier, not more than he is already. Geralt stops suddenly. He’s in pain, and Geralt knows what Jaskier wants. He’s given it to him freely a dozen times already- why is now different? Geralt raises his hands and Jaskier goes still, watching as Geralt inches over to the chair that Regis dragged in. He sits himself down, hands still in the air, and he watches as Jaskier’s hands clench and unclench beside him.

“Come here.” He lowers his hands, opening his arms in invitation, and the chair slams against the wall as his lap is very quickly commandeered. Jaskier’s weight bears down on him, and he’s not heavy, but he’s strong and Geralt knows he isn’t going to budge without a fight. “Jaskier. Jaskier, look at me.”

His name seems to rouse him a bit, and he looks startled. “Ger...alt.”

“It’s me, Jask. Just me.” Geralt reaches up, freezing when Jaskier catches his wrist in an iron grip. He ignores the way that Jaskier’s fingers dig into the tendons on the soft underside of his wrist, moving to cup Jaskier’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone. “I know you’re in pain. Let me help.”

Jaskier whimpers then, as if there’s nothing more he would want, and Geralt tugs his wrist away, grabbing Jaskier’s hand. In one small movement he uses one of Jaskier’s nails to score a deep, bloody scratch into his neck. He hears Jaskier’s breath catch in his throat, and Geralt relaxes as Jaskier takes hold of his shoulders, pinning him back against the chair as he leans forward. Jaskier’s tongue is hot and wet as he laps over the cut, shuddering in Geralt’s lap. Jaskier’s tongue chases any drops that escape, and Geralt murmurs soft words of encouragement. Just that small taste seems to have Jaskier relaxing, and Geralt wonders if he truly has that much control. The thought is stolen away quickly when fangs plunge into his neck, Jaskier’s grip bruising as he holds Geralt still and drinks his fill. Geralt shudders at the warmth that bleeds through his limbs, but this is different. This isn’t just Jaskier drinking for the pleasure of having a taste. With each draw of Geralt’s blood color comes back to him, and soon he has a very warm, very drunk vampire in his lap.

He expects Jaskier to stop then, to pull back, but he’s still drinking greedily and Geralt grabs weakly at Jaskier’s ribs. He pushes lightly, and usually that would be enough for Jaskier to pull away, but he doesn't, nails digging crescents into Geralt's shoulders. Geralt tries not to panic, thinking through what he could do when Jaskier's teeth wrench from his neck, leaving only blood and white-hot pain coursing through him. He sways forward immediately when Jaskier is plucked from his lap, and he watches with blurry eyes as Regis pins the younger vampire to the floor. His voice is low, urgent, but Geralt can’t hear anything over the rushing of his own blood in his ears. Geralt raises a hand, plants it against the arm of the chair, and promptly falls forward onto his face.

                                                        -*-

“ Enough , Jaskier.” Jaskier struggles against Regis, gasping, but Regis’ grip is punishing and he’s very carefully holding his breath. “Get a hold of yourself, before you kill him.”

Those words are like ice down his back, and Jaskier stops suddenly. He lays underneath Regis for a moment before his breath hiccups, and his voice is shaking when he talks.

“I’m sorry. Regis, go, before you do something you don’t want to do.”

“I’m not leaving you here.” Jaskier can hear the resolve wavering in Regis’ voice, and Jaskier motions for Regis to let him up. Regis’ eyes keep darting toward Geralt’s form crumpled onto the ground, and Jaskier grabs Regis’ upper arm. The noise that rings from his is embarrassing, but it sobers Regis enough for him to nod. “I tried to warn him.”

“Go.” Regis doesn’t stay any longer than he needs to, ducking out as Jaskier closes and locks the door behind him. He can get in if he really tries, but Jaskier isn’t worried at the moment. He darts over to Geralt, lifting him off the ground and hauling him into bed. His own hands are shaking now that his wits have come back to him, and he checks to make sure Geralt’s still breathing. His heart beats so slowly that for a moment Jaskier’s ears fail to catch the sound, and he tucks his ear against Geralt's chest just to hear its faint flutter. Once he’s certain Geralt isn’t dead he gets himself dressed, ducking out of the room to gather food and water and anything else he thinks he’s going to need. Jaskier’s first task is to clean the bite mark on Geralt’s neck- Jaskier doesn't trust himself enough right now to seal it shut, so he’ll have to heal on his own. He isn’t sure whether Geralt will choke, but he forces a dose of Swallow down Geralt’s throat anyway, sighing in relief when color slowly returns to Geralt’s cheeks.

Once he’s got Geralt settled he looks around, trying to guess how long he was out. He goes to rummage around in Geralt’s things, and he sees the repair work done to Geralt’s side, the new sword that Geralt must have gotten. A cursory sniff of Geralt’s satchel and the contents inside tell him two things. One, Geralt has been gone a while, all the way back to his home in Kaer Morhen and back. Two, he fought a vampire, and recently. Rage threatens to swallow him whole at the thought of another vampire not heeding his warning, but he tamps down on it. Geralt didn’t know any better, of course. His hands come up to brush over his throat- tracing where he knows there must be a scar. It’ll fade with time, but he can still feel the blade biting into his skin. It hadn’t been ideal, to let them cut his head off, and the way that Geralt had said his name breaks his heart just to think about, but his veil of humanity is all he has. It’s a fragile, easily ripped thing, and so sometimes one must die to preserve it.

He thought Geralt would understand that, and he hadn’t seemed angry when Jaskier had first woken up. Granted, Jaskier had hardly known his own name, let alone who was in front of him when he’d woken up. All he knew was that his veins were filled with agony, and blood would make it go away. And gods, Geralt’s blood had. The taste alone made his nerves flare and overload with pleasure, but the feeling of drinking again, of having his teeth sunk deep… It was shameful, really. He’d taken advantage of Geralt’s trust, and almost lost him in the process. He’d always thought that he would lose Geralt some day, to a creature or old age or angry humans, but not himself . He’d been scared the first time Geralt has asked him to drink, but it had been something different- something special then. This was… This was beastly.

Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh, going to sit on the edge of the bed next to Geralt and play with his hair. He’s had far more than enough sleep, but all there is for him to do is wait. Wait for Geralt to wake up so he can explain, can apologize.

                                                          -*-

The sun is very, very bright behind Geralt’s eyes when he rouses, and he groans. He tries to turn his head away from the sun but the bite mark on his neck pulls uncomfortably and Geralt stops. His eyes fly open at the same time he sits up, and he’s pleasantly surprised to note he isn't as weak as he suspected, blinking as his eyes adjust. Oh. The sun was definitely down when he got home. He’s been out for a few hours, judging by the brightness, and Geralt feels weak and shaky all over. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and he turns to see Jaskier standing over by the window, blue eyes wide and impossibly bright. Geralt throws the blanket from his lap, intent to get up, but Jaskier’s slamming into him, arms around his neck before he can move. He hears Jaskier sob as they tip backwards, Geralt wrapping his arms around Jaskier and squeezing until he squeaks. Even then he doesn’t let up, but Jaskier doesn’t care, nuzzling his hair as Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathes deep.

Somehow he still smells of lavender, but Geralt notices that his hair is damp and he laughs softly. Of course he bathed while Geralt was asleep. He must have smelled like someone who was asleep for two years. It’s been almost two years since he last held Jaskier, and the thought has his head spinning. Or it’s the blood loss. Jaskier’s voice trickles into his consciousness, and he listens eagerly to the lovely, melodic cadence of his words.

“-believe you. You’re so stupid . I could have killed you, you fool, you big, beautiful fool .”

“Not a very nice thing to say to the person who carried your head back home.” Jaskier laughs wetly, presses kisses into Geralt’s hair before pulling back. Tears flow freely down his cheeks and Geralt reaches up automatically to wipe them away. Jaskier leans into the touch, closing his eyes and sniffling.

“I- I’m sorry .” Geralt frowns, confused, and he shifts so that he can sit up, leaning back against the headboard. Jaskier goes with him, helping situate him before crawling into his lap, snuggling into his arms.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I was so stupid. I should have fought out of their grip, should have torn them to shreds, but I- I’ve always been a coward and I left you alone.”

“Did you hear what I said while you slept?” Jaskier wracks his brain, and slowly it comes back to him. He nods his head, afraid that any moment Geralt will burst into fiery anger.

“You were scared.”

“Terrified. More than I’ve ever been. But,” Geralt pauses, Jaskier sitting back to look at him. “I trusted you. I saw your fear, knew that you would come back to me. No matter the years it took.”

“How long?”

“Almost two years. Turns out, hunting is harder when you don’t have someone tending your wounds.” Jaskier lets out a startled laugh at that, and Geralt smiles softly, all for him. Geralt sobers a bit, and he reaches up, hand curling gingerly around Jaskier’s throat. Geralt feels Jaskier’s pulse fluttering under his hand, the way his breath catches as his eyes go wide. Geralt doesn’t hold him long, just long enough to feel Jaskier alive under his hands, but Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed when his hand drops to settle on Jaskier’s waist. “I thought- that something would happen while you were sleeping.”

The horror on Jaskier’s face is earth shattering, and tears come back to his eyes, spilling over anew. Geralt grunts when Jaskier surges forward, kissing him desperately. Jaskier’s hands bury in his hair, tugging him close, and Geralt drowns himself in the kiss. It’s been so, so long since he last kissed him, last did anything , and he hands roam with a mind of their own, petting and pressing into the spots he knows will make Jaskier sing. And he does, whining and moaning against Geralt’s lips and shaking in his arms. He laps into Jaskier’s mouth, tasting the noises he lets out and flicking his tongue in such a way that has Jaskier’s fingers tightening in his hair. Geralt shifts a bit, lifting him and settling Jaskier differently in his lap. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice or care until he presses a thigh up between Jaskier’s legs, smirking when Jaskier whimpers, hips canting down.

“Geralt- you’ve lost so much blood-” Jaskier’s voice cracks and Geralt hums, smoothing his thumbs over Jaskier’s ribs just to feel the softness of his chemise. Jaskier twitches in his lap, huffing out a hot breath.

“Missed you. Lemme take care of you?” Geralt presses warm, openmouthed kisses along Jaskier’s neck, chest rumbling at the quiet, stuttery gasps that come from Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier tilts his head back, allowing Geralt more room, and Geralt sucks faint marks into the column of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s hips rock down of their own accord, and he groans when Geralt holds his hips still. “Oil?”

“You’ll kill me.” Jaskier breathes, kissing Geralt hard before bounding off the bed. He yanks open the drawer of the nightstand, frowning. He pulls out a vial of lavender oil, but nothing else, and his eyes flick up toward Geralt. He watches as Geralt pulls his shirt up and off, tossing it onto the chair. Geralt looks over, and this time it's his breath that hitches, hand reaching out to beckon Jaskier forward. Jaskier jerks forward, a puppet on a string, and Geralt takes the oil from him, giving him a look. He sniffs lightly, but the smell doesn’t seem to bother him much, and he motions for Jaskier to come back. Jaskier shucks out of his pants on the way, movements near frantic, and it feels like their first time together all over again. Jaskier isn’t sure where to look or where to put his hands, but Geralt draws him back onto his thigh. Jaskier will take any friction that he can get, grinding messily against Geralt’s thigh and moaning when Geralt’s teeth find purchase on his neck.

Geralt nips and sucks slowly, leaving small marks that bloom darker and darker the longer he works at them. The scent of lavender makes the heat in his stomach coil a bit tighter, and Geralt pops the cork to coat a few fingers. He listens eagerly for the noise that Jaskier makes when he rubs at his rim with oil-slick fingers, touch light and teasing. He’s rewarded beautifully- Jaskier’s hands come up to grip at his shoulders, digging in, lips parting as he keens in Geralt’s ear. Jaskier tips forward, hips shifting backward to allow him a better angle as he presses his face into Geralt’s hair.

Geralt doesn’t tease- he wants to hear the way that Jaskier sings for him after so, so long away. The first finger slides in with a little resistance, but Jaskier grinds down and relaxes, shivering. Geralt works his finger slowly, waiting until Jaskier huffs and noses his temple to slip another one in. Jaskier’s hips rock between grinding forward onto Geralt’s thigh and back on his fingers, and Geralt is breathless at the sight. Jaskier opens up beautifully on his fingers, warm and pliant, and Geralt digs his teeth in a bit harder to make a better mark. Jaskier cries out at the feeling, tightening around his fingers and babbling sweet, nonsense words. Geralt’s heart races in his chest at finally having Jaskier back in his arms, sweet and needy and alive . He prods at Jaskier’s hole with a third finger and Jaskier growls, bearing down on Geralt’s hand until he thrusts his fingers inside. It’s rougher than he means it to be but Jaskier’s nails scratch at his shoulders and a whimper falls from his lips.

“I dreamt of this.” Geralt’s voice is scratchy in his throat, but Jaskier perks up at the sound, moaning quietly when Geralt draws his fingers back and then presses them deep, crooking. Jaskier jerks in his lap when he finally brushes over his prostate, and Geralt keeps his attention firmly there, basking in the way precome beads at the tip of Jaskier's cock. “Finally being able to touch you again.”

“Tell me. Please?” Geralt can’t say no to the way that Jaskier’s voice borders on begging, and he trails kisses up until he’s close to Jaskier’s ear.

“Dreamt of opening you up like this, watching the way your thighs trembled around my hips. Wanted to taste you, to wake up and lick until you squirmed.”

“F-fuck- fuck Geralt, you can- can do whatever you want-”

“I know. I have time.” That sends a thrill down Jaskier’s spine, and his hands come down to  fumble at the ties of Geralt’s pants. Geralt laughs low in his throat, rubbing up against Jaskier’s prostate and smiling when Jaskier’s fingers clench into fists. Jaskier’s forehead thunks lightly against his collarbone, breath hot over Geralt’s skin, and Geralt thrusts his fingers slowly. “You aren’t done, Jaskier.”

“Please, I can’t think -” Geralt’s touch goes featherlight then, just the barest shifting of his fingers, and Jaskier sobs in relief and frustration. He finally gets the ties of Geralt’s pants open, not bothering with finesse as he pulls Geralt’s cock from the flap in the front. The air punches from Geralt’s lungs at the first touch, and Jaskier shifts his hips forward, grinding them together. Geralt’s other hand comes up suddenly, stopping Jaskier’s hips, and he growls softly in frustration. “Geralt-”

“You have to choose whether you want to rut in my lap or if you want to sit.”

“ Fuck .” Geralt laughs quietly, nosing at Jaskier’s neck as his fingers thrust into Jaskier, beginning that slow, aching rhythm he had before.

“That's your answer?”

“If you don’t get in me right now-” Geralt growls at Jaskier’s tone, other hand coming up to tilt Jaskier’s head as he kisses him hard. Jaskier whines against his lips, sorry, and Geralt’s kiss softens, hand petting down Jaskier’s side before disappearing. Lavender drifts between them, stronger now, and Jaskier lifts himself up when Geralt pulls his fingers out and brings him forward. He wants to say something else, to demand that Geralt hurry up, but the head of Geralt’s cock nudges at his hole and those thoughts are quickly chased away. Jaskier bears his hips down, moaning when Geralt begins to slide in. He’s impatient, needy, but Geralt kisses him slowly, grip iron on Jaskier’s hips as he lowers him in slow, heady increments. Jaskier feels every inch, head swimming at the weight of Geralt inside him, and his vision whites out when Geralt seats himself deep and grinds up.

Geralt’s arms go around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him from moving as his cock throbs at the tight, wet heat enveloping him. “You’re so tight, fuck .”

Geralt’s voice brushes against him like the finest of silks, and Jaskier is suddenly terrifyingly, blindingly close. Geralt’s hips shift, pulling back a bit and pressing back up. It keeps Jaskier full, fuller than he’s ever been, and he pants raggedly, head tipping back. Geralt kisses down Jaskier’s chest, crooning softly when Jaskier tightens around him, shuddering in his lap. “M’close-”

A calloused hand wraps around him then, collecting a bead of precome from the head of his cock and stroking Jaskier in time with his thrusts. Jaskier arches up into the touch, crying Geralt’s name, and he only lasts two more strokes before Geralt’s cock bumps against his prostate and stars burst behind his eyes. He spills onto Geralt’s belly, keening when Geralt’s hips stutter at the way Jaskier tightens around him. Geralt goes still once Jaskier begins to shudder and shake with overstimulation, letting Jaskier sag in his lap as he places warm kisses up Jaskier’s chest and over his shoulder. “So good, Jask. So, so good.”

Jaskier tucks his face into Geralt’s neck, purring low in his chest. It feels good, Geralt’s hands wandering over him, and he’s a hard, heady weight inside him. He’s patient, not moving an inch, and Jaskier loves him even more for it. Jaskier’s hips lift, drawing almost all the way off before he drops back down. It’s Geralt’s turn to shudder now, to grasp at Jaskier’s hips and whisper his name. He tries to tell Jaskier he doesn’t have to, that this was all he wanted, but Jaskier sets a steady, firm rhythm and Geralt loses himself in it. Pleasure jitters through him in electrifying bursts, and the scent of lavender makes his skin burn with need. His hips rise to meet Jaskier the next time he drops down and Jaskier moans above him, bouncing a bit faster now in his lap. Geralt moves to meet him with each thrust, grinding deep and watching the way that Jaskier’s hands flutter against his shoulders, as if unsure what to do with them. Jaskier presses their foreheads together, waiting until Geralt’s eyes open to speak. “I love you, Geralt. I love you.”

“Love you too-”

“Come for me, sweetheart. Wanna feel you.” Geralt’s eyelids flutter, go half lidded as he gasps and grinds up. He doesn’t dare look away from Jaskier, and he whines, a small pitiful noise as Jaskier drops hard into his lap, tightening and grinning when Geralt’s hands hold him still as his hips stutter, fucking up into him in small, jerky movements. Jaskier kisses him as he begins to come, licking into Geralt’s mouth and tasting each whimper and whine and moan he lets out. Jaskier lifts his hips and drops in small, minute movements, continuing until Geralt’s grabbing at his ass and pressing him down firmly to stop him. This time when they kiss it’s soft, unhurried, Geralt’s hands skimming up and down Jaskier’s thighs just to feel him near. “I’d say that’s a fine welcome back.”

Geralt snorts then, trying to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I couldn’t get anyone to march in the parade.”

“Mmm, you’ll have to try harder.” Geralt laughs, rolling his eyes, and Jaskier grins, sighing softly and lifting his hips up. He moves as quick as he can, trying to preserve Geralt’s pants, but Geralt had pressed so deep that he’s okay for the moment. Geralt’s eyes are dark when Jaskier comes back with a washcloth to wipe Geralt’s stomach clean. Jaskier raises a brow, tilting his head, and Geralt grumbles. “Don’t grumble at me. Get out of those pants.”

Geralt, just to prove a point, grumbles again, but shoves his pants off his hips and down, tossing them with his shirt. Jaskier comes back after cleaning himself up a bit and ridding himself of his shirt, and he shoves Geralt over until he can crawl into bed, snuggling up against his side. Geralt settles on his back, an arm tight around Jaskier. “Did you dream?”

“Hmm? Ah, not really. Not until near the end. It takes a while for everything to… reconnect. I remember Regis reading to me for the past… Month?” Jaskier’s fingers trace over Geralt’s scars, skimming over the old ones and pausing whenever he finds one he doesn’t recognize. His fingers brush the edge of the one on his side and Geralt pulls in a sharp breath, wincing when Jaskier’s head pops up. “You’re injured?”

“No, no not anymore. It’s just new.” Jaskier frowns at him, leaning to try and take a peek. Geralt can tell the instant that Jaskier sees whatever Regis saw before, and Jaskier vaults over him, lifting his arm and peering closer. Geralt grunts at the manhandling, shifting as Jaskier prods at him to get him to roll. Jaskier’s fingers trace gingerly over the ragged edges of the scar, and Geralt releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her.” Geralt has never heard Jaskier so angry, voice trembling with barely held back power. Geralt rolls and grabs Jaskier’s arm before he can slip out of bed, fingers tight around Jaskier's bicep. Jaskier snarls, fighting his grip, but Geralt pulls him back, reaching up to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. He draws him down into a kiss, Jaskier cold and unwilling and mouth filled with rather large teeth. Geralt kisses the corners of his mouth, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s lightly until he relaxes, drooping forward. “You’re mine .”

Jaskier’s voice is thick, possessive, and Geralt hums against his lips. Jaskier presses himself down bodily, lapping into Geralt’s mouth and growling. The thought of having been claimed so thoroughly by anyone, but especially a very seductive, very powerful higher vampire shouldn’t please him as much as it does. “Always. As you’re mine. She was the only one who attacked. The others begged, Jaskier. They begged that I be the one to kill them. Not you.”

“Good. Good. ” Geralt can feel the way that Jaskier shakes against him, and he doesn’t often get to see this side of Jaskier- the side that shows just how inhuman he can be. Geralt loves him all the same, no matter how Jaskier snarls or rages or flashes his fangs. Jaskier spent years doing the same for him. It takes a few more minutes of kissing to coax Jaskier to lay back down, and he does so on the side with the scar, as if to protect it. Geralt can feel fatigue tugging at him, and he's half asleep when Jaskier snuggles a bit closer and says, "Stay with me."

"Mmm, not leaving. Got all winter."

"No I mean- stay. Don't go back on the Path come spring." Geralt still thinks he isn't hearing right.

"Witchers don't retire."

"Vesemir did."

"He takes care of the keep."

"And you have your vineyard. You don't… have to. I just-" Jaskier shakes his head then, tucking his face into Geralt's chest. "Forget it."

Geralt can tell that the past two years with them apart weighs heavily, and it drags at him too. It was awful, being alone again, traveling through towns where no one cared past what he could do for them. Geralt sighs then, turning his head to place a kiss on the top of Jaskier's head.

"What would I do?"

"Mm, not sure. Sword instructor?" Geralt snorts and he can feel Jaskier smile, just a small tentative thing at first that grows when he suggests more. "Baker? Laundress? Professional wine taster?"

"Wine taster?"

"You've the nose for it. What are you good at, besides fighting?"

"Plants." Jaskier hums as if Geralt has just gotten his answer, and Geralt is still thinking about it when he falls asleep.

                                                        -*-

Geralt thinks he's dreaming when he wakes up in the morning. Jaskier is a solid weight next to him, snoring softly, and when Geralt shifts Jaskier mumbles tiredly and hugs him a bit tighter.

"Stay."

"The sun is up." It's barely begun its ascent over the horizon, but Jaskier hasn't opened his eyes yet to see that. Jaskier cracks an eye open purely to glare, and Geralt sighs. "A few more minutes, then."

The purr that rumbles from Jaskier is strong enough to make his medallion slide up his chest, and Geralt chuckles quietly. Jaskier's purr doesn't let up at all, instead getting worse when Geralt turns onto his side and bundles the bard against his chest. There's no way he's going to fall asleep again, but he contents himself with the smell of lavender in Jaskier's hair and enjoys watching the sun rise. If he's being honest with himself, which he seems to be doing more and more lately, he didn't want to get up. He's so used to early mornings on the Path that to lay here feels… odd. He certainly doesn't mind holding Jaskier, listening to the little noises he makes in his sleep and smelling his hair. If he were to retire, and he's still unconvinced he should, he would get more mornings like this- almost every morning could be soft and slow and lazy. That thought alone is almost enough to convince him.

Geralt is staring a hole into the wall behind Jaskier’s head when Jaskier begins to rouse, squeaking quietly and stretching in Geralt’s arms. Jaskier’s hands roam, petting over Geralt’s side and chest, orienting himself again. Geralt gives a soft hum in his throat, letting Jaskier know he’s paying attention, but Jaskier isn’t inclined to say anything just yet, instead kissing wherever he can reach. It’s nice, being able to just lay here, but Geralt’s been itching to get up for the last twenty minutes and his arms tighten around Jaskier minutely. Jaskier perks up, lifting his head and laughing quietly. He places a gentle kiss on Geralt’s jaw, smiling when Geralt’s chest vibrates with a purr.

“You’re very patient.”

The witcher’s purr only grows louder and Jaskier sits up, throwing the blankets off of them. Geralt scowls as if offended, but Jaskier leans down to nip at this thigh and Geralt gasps. “Stop it.”

“Or what?”

“Do not make me kick you out of bed.” His voice is grave, but Jaskier does it again, yelling when calloused hands grab at him and haul him up. Geralt’s grip is strong as he manhandles Jaskier, ignoring the way that he squirms and tries to twist out of his grasp. He dumps Jaskier off the side of the bed in rather dramatic fashion, and Jaskier gasps in outrage.

“Hey! You ass-”

“I warned you.” Geralt hears the growl that sticks in Jaskier’s throat the instant before he lunges, tackling Geralt back into the bed. His instincts are honed too finely for it to surprise him though, and he rolls with the movement easily, laughing. He’s laughing , bright and happy, and it distracts Jaskier enough that Geralt gets his arms behind his back, pinning his shoulders down into the bed. Jaskier struggles against it, straining upwards, and Geralt drapes his whole weight down onto Jaskier’s back.

“No fair-”

“I don’t fight fair.” Geralt’s voice is low and rough in his throat, and Jaskier can’t stifle the shiver that goes down his spine at the sound. Geralt noses at the back of Jaskier’s neck, shifting so one hand can hold Jaskier’s wrists while the other braces himself on the bed. “Haven’t watched me enough?”

“I could use a refresher.” Geralt laughs above him, deep and quiet, and Jaskier shudders in his arms. He pushes his hips back, wondering if Geralt will notice, and smirks when Geralt’s breath catches. Geralt’s hand rises from the bed, fingertips grazing over the sensitive skin of Jaskier’s inner thigh. He presses his hips back further, delighted when Geralt huffs against his neck and presses forward. His voice is smug, insufferably so when he turns to glance back at Geralt and wink. “I thought you wanted to get out of bed?”

“I wanted to wake up. I’m awake.”

“Very much so.” Jaskier agrees, giggling when Geralt growls against his neck and flips him over. “I believe there were a few things you wanted to do when you woke up?”

"Mm." Geralt sits back, scooting down a bit so he isn't quite so hunched as he kisses slowly down Jaskier's chest, pausing to lick and suck at one of Jaskier's nipples until it's hard and pink in his mouth. Jaskier preens under the attention, breath going shallow when Geralt dips ever lower, kissing at Jaskier's hip bone and spending some time biting at them. Each caress of Geralt's teeth against his skin makes Jaskier's hips twitch, and Geralt digs his teeth in to leave a proper mark, so close to the sensitive inner crease of Jaskier's thigh that he can hear Jaskier's heart jackrabbit in his chest.

"You're teasing me." Jaskier accuses, voice rough with lust and fingers twitching in the bedsheets. "Punishing me for being so cheeky so early in the morning and- oh, sweet melitele's tits Geralt-"

Said man huffs a small laugh, lapping at the soft head of Jaskier's cock and flicking his tongue just so. It's always a surprise, what Jaskier will say when Geralt wraps his lips around him, sucking weakly and letting his eyes close to truly appreciate the way Jaskier's cock twitches on his tongue. He's a man of too many words, but he's speechless now, letting out an appreciative groan when Geralt bobs his head and hollows his cheeks, the taste of Jaskier heavy in his mouth in the best of ways. Fingers card through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp, and Geralt swallows Jaskier down just to purr with Jaskier firmly in his throat.

" Fuck! Fuck- you're too perfect, so talented with that damn mouth of yours‐" Geralt purrs again, the noise rough with the way Jaskier just sits in his throat, but Jaskier shudders underneath him and Geralt can feel his own erection, hard and aching in response. Jaskier groans when Geralt slips off of his cock, lips shiny with spit, and there's a flush of color high on his cheeks. "Geralt?"

"C'mere." Jaskier goes willingly, moved by Geralt's hands as Geralt lays himself down on his back and guides Jaskier to straddle his chest. His thighs are spread impossibly wide by the bulk of him, and Jaskier can feel the way his muscles will protest later, but the sight of Geralt under him, lips pink and shiny make it all worth it.

"Oh, oh my perfect, wonderful witcher. Do you want me to fuck your mouth? Please say yes, because you're very pretty and I'm very hard and- O-oh, oh darling ." Jaskier croons, voice husky as Geralt takes him in again and sucks just to get him to shut up. One of Jaskier's hands grips the headboard tight, the other reaching down to bury in Geralt's hair and tug. Geralt rewards the feeling by hollowing his cheeks, and Jaskier's hips roll forward languidly, rutting against Geralt's tongue and further into his mouth. Geralt groans happily, tilting his head just a bit as Jaskier's fingers tighten in his hair and hold him still. Geralt sinks into the heady feeling of Jaskier fucking his mouth, adoring the slow drag as he pulls back and the easy slide as he thrusts forward into Geralt's throat. His hands come up to cup Jaskier's thighs, not to stop him but merely to hold on as Jaskier uses his mouth as he sees fit. It's a release for him as much as it is Jaskier, and he loses track of how long Jaskier teases himself, pulling back whenever he gets too close, moaning and whining when Geralt laps at his slit to taste the precome leaking from him. His jaw aches something fierce at being held open for so long, but Jaskier is hot and unbearably hard in his mouth and his cheeks are flushed a deep, dark red. "Touch yourself."

The demand is breathless and harsh and Geralt is all too eager to please. His hips buck at the first touch of his own hand, callouses creating the perfect friction as he strokes himself in time with Jaskier's movements. He's so much closer than he thought, brain hazy from the pleasure fizzling through him and making his toes curl, and he whimpers when Jaskier stops just shy of pressing into his throat. He makes another sound, his own hand stilling, and he looks up to see Jaskier's iris' glowing in the low light of the room. Geralt's hand tightens around his cock, drawing a whine from him, and that noise seems to loosen Jaskier's restraint.

Geralt is pleasantly surprised and very, very aroused when Jaskier's hips surge forward,  rapidly filling his mouth and his throat as he gives up all pretense of teasing himself. His breath comes fast and choppy between Jaskier's thrusts, his hand speeding up and wrist twisting at the head to draw out the hot, tight feeling in his stomach. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap, and he purrs raggedly around Jaskier, nearly choking when Jaskier's hips stutter, cock hitting the back of his throat harsher than he means to. Jaskier murmurs soft apologies mixed in with his pleas for release, and Geralt purrs as loud as he possibly can as Jaskier sinks deep and grinds against his face, coming hard and fast down his throat.

Heat scorches through him when he feels Jaskier's come splash into his throat, and he moans when Jaskier pulls back, cock twitching as another small bit spurts out on Geralt's waiting tongue. Jaskier is nearly dislodged as Geralt's spine bows up, and he's coming too, fire raging through his veins as his nerves are set alight, the coil in his belly snapping as he comes messily over his stomach, sucking and licking at the head of Jaskier's cock just to have something to focus on. His hips jerk, rutting up into his own palm as Jaskier shifts back, overstimulated and breathing hard. Jaskier swings his thigh over Geralt, and he fits himself against Geralt's side, taking him in hand and helping him through his orgasm. Geralt whines, hips shifting back when it becomes too much, but Jaskier' touch is firm and slow and Geralt's nerves are singing with pleasure that's quickly turning to pain.

"Jask, please-"

"Just a bit more, love, let me see. You're gorgeous this way, lips red, blissed out just from sucking my cock." Geralt moans then, hips rocking up into Jaskier's hand, desperately seeking friction as Jaskier works him so skillfully. He doesn't soften, doesn't get the chance to, and Jaskier quickly brings him to and subsequently shoves him off the cliff of another orgasm, Geralt's hips jerking weakly as more come splashes onto his stomach. This time when Geralt shifts his hips away Jaskier lets him sink back into the bed, boneless and fucked out in a completely different way. "This what you dreamt of too?"

"Better than dreams." His voice cracks painfully in his throat, wispy and light, and Jaskier nuzzles his cheek.

                                                         -*-

It’s nice to have Jaskier back. Not just for the intimate moments he’d missed, but for the way he listened to B.B. talk about the history of a nearby vineyard, or the way he sang with the workers who lingered in the courtyard to watch him. Geralt finds himself humming along as well, albeit much quieter, and his fingers are coated in dirt as he digs up a mandrake root. The sun soaks through the black cotton of his shirt, and he can feel sweat sticking his hair to the back of his neck, but he doesn’t mind. The sun is good for his hip and the dirt under his nails is a refreshing change of pace from the usual blood and viscera he has to deal with. Geralt takes a deep breath as he pulls the root from the ground, snapping off a small piece just to savor the stronger smell. It oddly enough, smells like an apple- sweet and refreshing yet followed by an earthy tang.

Jaskier perks up suddenly from his perch on the wall, and he hops down, slinging his lute around his back and padding over. Geralt looks up when Jaskier dips into an elegant crouch, making sure not to get dirt on his silk. “What’s that?”

“Mandrake root.” Geralt holds the piece out, and the scent has faded a bit but Jaskier closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. Jaskier’s heightened senses are new to Geralt, but he preens when Jaskier takes the piece from him and breathes in deeper, pressing it to his nose. He makes a soft sound, smiling.

“It reminds me of a perfume I once sampled. It smelled like this, but sweeter. Mmm, hints of jasmine, maybe?”

Geralt’s mind spins with the possibilities, and he hums quietly, going back to digging in the dirt. Jaskier lingers next to him, sniffing his piece of mandrake root before disappearing. Geralt doesn’t mind being left alone, but Jaskier comes back with a basket, setting it next to Geralt and winking at him. Geralt dumps the roots he already has in the bottom and stands, leaving the rest of the mandrake root alone and moving on to the flowers. There’s many of them- celandine, moleyarrow, ginatia, honeysuckle. All incredibly useful, and all intoxicating in their own scents. Geralt sniffs each of them thoroughly, humming. Ginatia smells the closest, an almost perfect match, and Geralt plucks as many of the open flowers as he can. He leaves his other plants alone for now, and goes to gently wash each flower and mandrake root.

Jaskier follows him around, curious, but Geralt waves him away when he heads into the cellar and Jaskier rolls his eyes before heading off to do who knows what. His lab is quiet and cramped, and there’s no way he would be able to work with Jaskier in the room. Besides, if he lets Jaskier in, then it’ll ruin the surprise and Geralt isn’t sure that he can do it anyhow. He spends time plucking petals and cutting up mandrake root, dropping each prospective plant into its own receptacle. A hunt through the wine cellar a level below him rewards him with a bottle of good, strong vodka. Geralt covers the petals and mandrake root in the alcohol and lights a small flame underneath, nodding to himself.

He pops up from the cellar briefly, snagging B.B’s attention and pressing a small list into his hands. B.B is all too eager to head into the city for the items he desires, and Geralt dips back into the cellar to keep the concoctions from burning or flaring too high. They bubble softly, and Geralt works on making others while he’s at it- celandine is too strong for him, too sharp, but it’s a great colorant and Geralt’s fingers are quickly stained yellow-orange as he grinds the plants into a paste. The paste is added to a small batch of oil, and Geralt watches the way the color bleeds from the mashed up flower. The honeysuckle is treated much the same as the mandrake root, left to steep in the vodka atop a gentle flame. Its scent is sweet and musky, carrying with it a lighter, floral scent at the end. Geralt likes it immensely.

He’s so engrossed in his work, in making sure nothing burns that he doesn’t register the footsteps on the stairs until they’re very close. Geralt pokes his head out of the door to see who it is and finds B.B, arms full of items, and he takes them with a grateful smile. He stashes them under the alchemy table tucked against the wall, and something akin to giddiness makes his heart leap up into his throat. The mood seems infectious, because B.B. is smiling the whole time that Geralt takes the supplies from him.

“What are you making, if I might ask?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He knows exactly what he’s making, but if he tells B.B then Jaskier will definitely know. Geralt waits until the smell of vodka has dissipated to turn the heat off, leaving them to cool and steep further. The sun has dipped low in the sky when he finally makes his way from the cellar, and he blinks in confusion. He was down there that long? He dips into the house, scrubbing the dirt and flowers from his hands before going to pen a letter. Jaskier finds him hunched over the paper, a crease between his brows and ink on his fingertips.

“Writing me a love letter?” Geralt’s eyes flick up, brow relaxing as his lip quirks in a small smile.

“No. Yennefer.”

“ Yennefer gets a love letter, but not me?”

“You get a kiss.” Jaskier harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt reaches out for him then, and despite the stubborn set to his jaw Jaskier moves to rest his weight against Geralt’s side. Geralt hmms, tugging until Jaskier is sitting in his lap, trapped between the table and Geralt’s chest. Geralt, true to his word, kisses a trail over Jaskier’s neck, mouthing words into his skin. Jaskier keeps his arms crossed, sitting stiffly in Geralt’s lap, but Geralt is nothing if not patient. He brushes his lips over the soft column of Jaskier’s neck, purring and letting the vibrations travel through the two of them. He can feel Jaskier’s shoulders droop a little, and he turns Jaskier just enough to get at his jaw. He spends more time here, sucking a mark into the sensitive spot at the corner of his jaw and trailing his way up. He lets one of his fangs, usually so carefully hidden, brush against Jaskier’s jaw and he hears Jaskier gasp.

Finally, finally Jaskier relents, turning and catching Geralt in a slow, smouldering kiss. Something warm pools in his belly when Jaskier’s tongue slips into his mouth, slipping over his fangs. Geralt isn’t in any rush to do anything, content to hold Jaskier close and kiss him just for the hell of it. Jaskier seems to feel the same way, turning in his lap and draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of having Jaskier here, in his arms, and when they pull away to breathe Geralt doesn’t let him get far. He leans his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing in their mingling scents as a small, private smile tugs at his lips.

“How did I not see those pretty teeth of yours?”

“Don’t smile much.” It’s a sad statement, but Jaskier scoffs, pulling back to get a better look at him.

“You smile plenty, just not with teeth. I remember…” Jaskier’s brow furrows then, and he shakes his head. “A flash of teeth that night.”

“I can’t help it.” Geralt admits this like it’s something to be ashamed of- the way he’d snarled and bared his teeth, more like an animal than a man.

“Show me.” Geralt blinks at the command, dumbfounded.

“What?”

“You’ve seen mine, felt mine. I- want to know this part of you too.” Jaskier glances away, cheeks warm, and a rush of affection sweeps through Geralt, washing away any shame that still lingers. Time and time again Jaskier rises to meet expectations he didn’t know he had, reaches out with steady hands and holds every broken, bitter part of him.

“Okay.” Jaskier’s attention snaps back to him, and Geralt grins wide. He can tell he’s still hiding them, even now, and he tries again, grinning so wide his cheeks feel like they’ll tear. He opens his mouth, lessening the strain somewhat, and Jaskier’s heart thunders in his ears, a rapid fire beat. Jaskier’s hand comes up, and it should be weird, the way that Jaskier brushes a thumb down his fang, testing the sharp tip. His teeth aren’t meant for slicing, not like Jaskier’s, but blood rises as Jaskier presses the pad of his thumb hard against Geralt’s fang. The brief sting brings Jaskier back to himself, and he pulls away, drawing in a sharp breath, as if ashamed of what he’s done. Geralt catches his wrist, tongue flicking out to lap up the drop of blood clinging to Jaskier’s skin.

“Don’t-” Jaskier warns, lower lip wobbling, but Geralt only tips his head, licking at the pad of Jaskier’s thumb again and then glancing down. The cut has sealed already, just the barest mark present, but Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide, eyes dark and needy. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

Geralt grins then, flashing his teeth in a move closer to a threat, and he feels Jaskier shudder in his lap. “I can make a few guesses.”

“You’ll be the death of me.” Jaskier grouses, huffing when Geralt presses his lips together and tries not to smile.

“Not in this lifetime.” That draws a laugh from Jaskier, and he tips forward to kiss Geralt before he leans back.

“Shall I help you with your love letter then? Surely Yennefer needs more than a simple ‘i miss you’ to truly swoon.”

“Hmm. She asked for your blood.”

“Ah, I do recall having agreed to help her with something. Truly a shame.”

“Gave her some of mine.” Jaskier splutters suddenly, eyes wide, and Geralt raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair.

“Pardon me? You, a witcher, gave a sorceress some of your blood? ”

“You don’t have to be jealous.” Jaskier pins him with a withering look, getting up to pace the length of the room. Geralt turns in his chair, abandoning the letter to watch Jaskier walk, muscles coiled and tensed. “She said it might work.”

“Oh it’ll work. As my- witcher, your blood takes on special properties.”

“Like?” Geralt finds himself itching to know more, about how their dynamic works, and how Jaskier has affected him.

“Well, you carry my signature now. That, though, is thanks to these.” Jaskier steps up to him, blindingly fast, and traces the bite marks marring the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt jerks at the touch, sparks shooting through his skin, and Jaskier’s eyes go half lidded. He shakes himself, taking a step back and smiling. "But other vampires will now recognize you, see you as… kin, almost. And your blood… Vampire blood has long been used in magic, both for the inherent chaos we possess and our otherness."

"And my blood mimics that?"

Jaskier shakes his head, pursing his lips. "Your blood is that. Or as close as you'll ever get. You, my dear witcher, have the unique position of having been exposed to the mutagens which changed you, and my claim, which pushes those changes further."

"Hm." He hadn't thought that he would change in any type of way, and he doesn't feel any different.

"You won't." Geralt looks up, startled, to find Jaskier grinning sheepishly, like he's been caught red handed with his hand in too many pots. Geralt squints suspiciously, eying the vampire before him and thinking rather untoward thoughts at him. He sees Jaskier's mouth tug briefly down into a frown before his expression levels off, and Geralt's suspicions are all but confirmed.

"I don't like people reading my thoughts."

"I'm not , I promise you that. The claim allows for- how do I put this… I can feel what you're feeling. In small amounts, of course. I wouldn't get wounded when you do, but I might feel a dull pain, or when you think rather rude thoughts, I sense the feeling behind what you aren't saying. Cruel witcher." Geralt isn't quite sure how to take that news, and part of him thinks that Jaskier is bluffing, but his face is open and vulnerable, as if revealing this is something that weighs heavily on him.

"How come I didn't notice?"

"It can be hard, if you aren't used to it, or used to expressing feelings." That is a jab at him, he doesn't need their bond to tell him that, and he rolls his eyes. Jaskier smiles briefly, before standing still and crossing his arms. "Focus on me, tell me what you feel."

Geralt sighs, frowning and looking at Jaskier. His face is calm, betraying nothing, but Geralt is so used to using scent that he flares his nostrils automatically, taking a breath. Jaskier gives him a sharp look, and he can tell without really trying that Jaskier is telling him that's not what I meant. He presses his lips together, frowning, and breathes very light, ignoring Jaskier's scent in favor of listening to him. He isn't even sure what he's supposed to be doing, but Jaskier is a gentle, steady presence and Geralt feels a flare of affection the longer he looks. It's a lazy, steady kind of warmth in his bones, and Geralt blinks suddenly. Something spikes within him, eager and bright, and Geralt sits up very straight, staring harder.

Amusement flashes through him, and he can feel a laugh bubbling in his throat that definitely isn't his. "Do it again. Something else."

Jaskier's lips quirk in a small smile, and this time Geralt is listening so closely that the sweeping melancholy that swallows him is a punch to the gut. His stomach drops away and his mouth opens, trying to find words. The feeling fades, drifting away, but Geralt is up on his feet and pulling Jaskier into his arms before it can fully leave him. He hears, feels Jaskier make a soft noise that settles like a stone in his heart, and he hugs Jaskier tighter, breath shuddering when Jaskier clutches just as tightly at him.

"Sorry-"

" Don't . Don't apologize. Tell me why?"

"I pushed so much of this on you. I've- almost killed you, and you didn't ask for any of it." Geralt guides Jaskier to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping him close as guilt and sadness and anger burn in his chest.

"True enough." Jaskier's breath escapes him in a whimper, but Geralt holds him tighter and kisses the top of his head, just keeping himself as close as possible as he speaks. "There are some things that I did ask for. Like the first time you drank, and every time after."

"Your heart was so slow." Jaskier whispers, hands shaking as he grips the back of Geralt's shirt.

"Mhm. I could taste the Swallow you gave me when I woke up. Jaskier, you're good , even when you're half crazed with pain. And as for being forced with anything else?"

"Being with me." Jaskier mumbles, as if pointing out the obvious wrong.

"Being with you is the one thing that's gone right. Jask, if I- if I cared about what you were, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be so damn proud of the scars from your teeth, or so-"

"Impossibly, madly in love?" Geralt laughs quietly, and the sadness still makes him ache, but his love is a raging inferno, and Geralt has enough of it to share. "You… You're sure about this? Us?"

"A bit late to take it back now." Geralt says, chuckling into Jaskier's hair. There, a small tinge of amusement. It's such a relief to feel that he sits back, looking at Jaskier and raising a hand to cup his cheek. Jaskier leans into the touch like a man starved, and Geralt's heart feels like it could burst from his chest at any moment. Maybe that's why he talks without thinking, blurting out something he'd never dreamed of saying. "Marry me."

Jaskier goes stock still, blue eyes wide as saucers, and there are still tears left unshed that don't stay that way for long. "Geralt-"

"It might not mean much, what with the mark and all, and it doesn't have to be now, but I just wanted a way to-" He's rambling terribly, can feel his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, but Jaskier almost bowls him over with the force of his kiss. Their teeth clack together painfully, threatening to split Geralt's lip, but Geralt crushes him close, purring madly as Jaskier lets up a bit, softening the kiss. Geralt feels Jaskier's love, molten and thick and stunningly bright, and he basks in it as Jaskier pulls back and presses their foreheads together.

"Yes."

"Yes?" The hope rising through him makes all of his limbs feel like they’re floating, and Jaskier smiles.

" Yes I'll marry you, you beautiful bastard." Geralt kisses him then, though it’s ruined by the way Geralt keeps smiling, stupid and content and amazed. Jaskier doesn't seem to mind too much, and eventually he tucks his head under Geralt’s chin, resting in his arms. “So, husband, do I get to know what you were up to all day?”

“No.”

“This marriage is on the rocks already.” Jaskier laments, laughing when Geralt scoffs at him. “Is it a surprise?”

“... Maybe.” Jaskier’s grin is bright when he pulls back, and Geralt feels more like talking than he has in months. “I’m… Thinking about it.”

“About what, love?”

“Retiring. With you. But I…” Geralt doesn't know very well how to explain his fears, of leaving Lambert and Eskel to handle the Continent alone, of stopping and never starting again. Jaskier’s smile quiets, and there’s an understanding in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Jaskier can feel his hesitation, his fear, and he doesn't seem upset or angry in the least. “Who am I, without monsters?”

“I think,” Jaskier says gently, “That’s for you to find out.”

                                                              -*-

Geralt tries not to hide himself away in the cellar if he can help it, but he finds himself making more and more samples of scents, playing with them and seeing what fits together. The letter he sent to Yennefer was short and simple, since Jaskier had sat down to write his own letter that night and refused to let Geralt see. The package that arrived later was more precious than Geralt could have guessed, and Jaskier only laughs when Geralt slips away to his lab to work.

“Master Geralt? There’s someone asking for you.” B.B’s voice drifts down the stairs and he perks up, placing the cap back in the small vial and tucking it into his pocket. It isn’t as strong as he knows Jaskier is used to, but if Jaskier likes it how it is now, he doesn’t want to let it get any stronger.

“If it’s Jaskier, tell him I’ll be up soon.”

“It’s a woman.” That peaks Geralt’s interest, and he ducks out, heading up the stairs to where B.B is waiting. He constricts his pupils to adjust for the light, and he stops short at the top of the steps when he catches sight of ash-blonde hair and twin swords strapped to a tall, thin woman.

She turns to him at the sound of his footsteps, green eyes curious, and Geralt blinks once, twice, dumbfounded. “Ciri?”

“Geralt!” His arms open for her, gathering her in a hug as she laughs. He takes a deep breath, the scent of dirt and pine and blade oil drifting to him. He’s so stunned that he holds her for longer than he ever has before, squeezing her tight and sighing when her fingers press into his back to hug him tighter. She pulls back, grinning and reaching up to tug at a lock of Geralt’s hair. It falls over his shoulders, down to mid shoulderblade, and Geralt hadn’t really noticed its length before. “It’s getting long.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit.” Geralt keeps an arm around her shoulder as they head away from the cellar toward the garden. The sun seems to agree with her as much as it does him, and whenever he glances over her face is turned upward, enjoying the warmth. She has furs on, and he can imagine she’s sweating, but after the cold of the north he isn’t surprised she wanted to come here. “I heard you’re retiring.”

“We’ll see.” He’s suspicious immediately, narrowing his eyes at her, but Ciri only raises her brows and acts innocent.

“What have you been doing in your lab? You reek of flowers.”

“Did Jaskier send you to spy?” Ciri pauses, eyes wide, before she chuckles, shaking her head and bumping her shoulder against him.

“He may have invited me here, but can’t I be curious?”

“Curiosity gets you-”

“Killed, yes thank you for that.” Geralt gives her an unimpressed look, but the sight of her here is too good for him to pretend to be mad. “Really Geralt, what are you doing down there?”

“Making perfume.” Ciri laughs, shaking her head, but she stops when Grealt stares, stone faced.

“For what?” Geralt doesn’t answer, instead fishing the vial from his pocket and carefully unstopping it. Ciri leans in, sniffing and pausing. She sniffs again, closing her eyes for a moment before Geralt stoppers the vial again. “It’s lovely. Not too strong. Something I could wear.”

“You’d wear it?”

Ciri nods, moving to sit on the low wall bisecting the garden from the rest of the vineyard. “A monster won’t think much of someone smelling of mandrake root.”

“You’ll be easy to track.”

“The Elder blood makes that easy enough already. Could I take some?” Geralt pauses, as if never having considered someone else would want it.

“No. Something different for you.”

“I get my own?” Geralt nods, trying not to smile at the way Ciri’s face lights up like he’s given her the world in his words alone. Geralt is already thinking about what would fit her, and he turns his head, tucking the vial against his thigh to hide it when Jaskier drops in between them to sit next to Ciri on the wall. He wraps an arm around her in a hug, placing a sloppy kiss on her cheek and laughing when she shoves at him, grinning. “Gross!”

“I’ll forgive you for that just this once.” Jaskier says, huffing in mock offense. Ciri snickers, shaking her head and swinging her legs back and forth in front of her. The heels of her boots tap softly against the wall, and Geralt leans himself back against it, not quite sitting. He never seems to actually sit unless he needs to. “How was the trip down? Any lurking monsters?”

“Besides you?” A smile dances across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt is beginning to think he’s the only one who didn’t know. Jaskier’s eyes flick to him, winking, and Geralt scowls. Of course. “It was good, being on the Path is nice. I had to fight Lambert for a contract up near the coast.”

“Who won?”

“The one who can teleport.” Ciri’s voice is smug and pride settles itself firmly in Geralt’s bones. Him and all the others have trained her as well as they can, and having her out there on the Path is a comforting thought. Jaskier smirks, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder and tensing suddenly. Both Geralt and Ciri notice, and they watch in confusion as Jaskier sniffs, turning toward Geralt with a frown on his face.

“You smell like flowers. What are you doing down there?”

“... Making this.” Geralt holds up the vial now warm from being in his hand and against his leg, and Jaskier reaches with careful hands to take it from him. “It isn’t very strong, it’s only had a couple weeks.”

Jaskier tugs the cork from the top, sniffing politely. His eyes shut much the same as Ciri’s did, and he pulls in a long, slow breath, a rumble kicking up in his chest. Geralt sees and experiences the emotions flitting through Jaskier- melancholy, surprise, longing, and so much joy his vision goes blurry with it. Jaskier hardly seems to breathe out before he breathes in again, and Geralt uses the tip of his finger to plug the top of the vial. His head is swimming, and it isn’t because he’s the one huffing at the perfume. Jaskier’s eyes open slowly, and Ciri’s voice breaks the silence hanging around them.

“So, do you like it? Cause if not I’m taking it.” Jaskier growls then, making Ciri laugh and raise her hands in surrender.

“It’s perfect . I haven’t- how did you figure this out?”

“You told me.” Geralt replies, letting Jaskier place the cork back in the vial and handing it back reluctantly when Geralt holds his hand out. Geralt tucks it into his pocket, getting it out of the sun.

“Right, except I was as undescriptive as I’ve ever been in my life.”

“I like scents.”

“Your soap doesn’t smell like anything.” Jaskier points out, raising a brow when Geralt’s eyes flick over toward the lab. The smile that grows on Jaskier’s face is sneaky, pleased, and he reaches out to grab Geralt’s hand. “Tell me you didn’t make soap.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, looking resolutely away from the lab and clenching his jaw. Jaskier whoops, delighted, and he hops up from the wall, bouncing on his toes and letting his own excitement bleed into Geralt.

“Please, oh please Geralt can I see?”

“It isn’t done.” Geralt protests, looking to Ciri only to find her just as eager. He groans, outnumbered, and Jaskier loops his arm with Geralt’s and grabs Ciri’s hand, dragging them two of them along and back toward the cellar. Geralt pauses when they get to the lab, stopping Jaskier and shaking his head. “That’s where the perfumes are. The soap is down here.”

“Lead on, husband of mine.”

“Husband?” Ciri seems lost but pleased, and she trails the two of them, hand in hand with Jaskier as Geralt leads them down another level. It’s cooler underground, perfect for the casks of wine stored down here, and for letting the soap harden. The air is tinged with the acrid pull of alcohol, but Geralt is pretty sure he’s the only one who notices. He might have spent too much time down here. There are long wooden forms stacked neatly on tables in the middle of the room, and Geralt stops at the first one. The bar is uncut, just one long block, but Jaskier can see plants scattered throughout the light orange soap with moleyarrow petals gently sitting on top. He leans down to smell, making a soft contented noise. Ciri does the same, humming. Neither of them say anything for a while, occasionally taking another sniff.

“Is it too light?” Geralt can smell the soap from here, but if they can’t then he’s made it too weak.

“No. Orange and…. Rosemary?” Geralt nods, pleased. Jaskier moves onto the next bar, sniffing it for significantly shorter before he guesses. This block is a light spring green, celandine petals decorating the tops in a pop of yellow. “Honeysuckle and lemongrass?”

They go down the line of soaps, Jaskier guessing for the most part and letting Ciri chime in when he gets stumped. A long blue block smells of water and damp grass, like rain on a spring morning, and a pale purple block carries with it the smell of lavender and chamomile. Jaskier takes a moment to properly appreciate that one, as Geralt knew he would. There’s a pink block which smells exactly like Jaskier’s new perfume- refreshing apple and musky, sweet jasmine. Geralt stands quietly while they peruse them, and Ciri’s face is warm and happy when she pipes up.

“Geralt, can I ask something?” The witcher nods, looking apprehensive and curious all at once. “Why don’t you want to retire?”

“What would I do?”

“Mmm, not sure. Stay home with your husband, selling the soaps and perfumes you obviously love to make?”

“I-” Geralt, much to no one’s surprise, cuts himself off, frowning and glancing between the soaps and Jaskier, who’s gone back to sample the purple soap again. “It feels wrong. To leave the work for others when I can do it.”

“You did it for a hundred years. Maybe, just maybe, let your daughter take a shot at it?”

“I am.” He says, grimacing when Ciri raises a brow and pins him with an unconvinced look. “What if you need me?”

“Well, if I need the help of a cranky old witcher,” She grins when Geralt rolls his eyes, looking at him with such a fond expression. “I suspect he’ll be ready when I come and ask him to unretire for a time.”

“His loyal husband, by the way, is completely fine with that.” Ciri nods her head toward Jaskier, as if that settles it. Geralt’s expression is near panicked when he looks over to Jaskier, but Jaskier is a steady source of love and strength, smiling and nodding encouragingly. “You’re a witcher, darling, but you can be more than that too. You can fight monsters when needed, and then come home to me and all your lovely little soaps.”

"More than that." Geralt murmurs, looking at the two of them, united in the same goal, and then down at his soap, waiting to be cut and cured. He thinks, really thinks about leaving all of this behind in the spring- his bed, the mornings spent in bed with Jaskier, the harvesting of his plants and making of his fragrances. A strange sort of wistfulness breaks over him, and he crosses his arms as if that'll keep Jaskier from noticing. He finally concedes, voice rough. "Semi-retired."

"Great! Now I can stop fighting Lambert for his contracts."

"I'm beginning to think you only came to take my territory."

" Inherit your territory." Geralt smiles, leaning his head as Ciri places a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “Are you going to cut it?”

Geralt’s attention slides back to the soap, and he sniffs, brushing his fingers over the surface of the bricks lightly and then shaking his head. “Not ready. Couple more hours.”

“Well, then that’s the perfect amount of time for lunch, eh?” She’s eager, more so than Geralt has heard her be in a while, and he glances up. He looks at her now, and he can see the way her armor hangs off of her just so. It’s subtle, but Geralt frowns and steps away from his soap. He leads her back up through the cellar, leaving the scent of soap and dust and wine behind to bring her outside and back to the house. Geralt may or may not insist she eats far more than she needs to, and much to her dismay, Marlene, who’s made it her mission to fatten Ciri up, wholeheartedly agrees. It tugs at something in him to see her struggling, hungry but needing to keep her gear in good shape so she can afford food later. It’s such a familiar feeling to him that he almost wants to keep her here longer just to feed her well, but winter is almost gone and he knows she won’t stay for more than a day or two. It’ll be enough to get something started, and have her sent off with a full pack.

When she finally does leave a few days later Geralt presses a vial into her hands, hugging her tight. “Give it two weeks before you smell it. Leave it longer if you want it heavier.”

“If it’s perfect?”

“Add a bit of water, as clean as possible, and shake it well. And… Come back to tell me.” Ciri’s answering grin is the sun, and Geralt hugs her again just to know she’s safe and whole before he lets her go.

                                                            -*-

“I’ve procured us a booth at the farmer’s market tomorrow.” Jaskier announces a week later, laying naked with the length of his body plastered to Geralt’s side. Geralt’s fingers slide over Jaskier’s back, tracing idle patterns into his skin as he steadfastly says nothing. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, at least not for the immediate present, and Geralt mentally tries to quell his panic. Because he’s definitely not panicking over showing what he’s been doing to the public, and far worse, facing criticism for it. Not that he’s expecting much of it. Jaskier’s arm tightens from where it’s been draped over Geralt’s stomach, and he turns his head to rest his chin on Geralt’s chest.

“I don’t have enough soap.”

“Geralt, your lab and cellar smell like a noble woman's bathroom, which to be frank, is quite impressive, because she certainly wouldn’t have the nose for half the things you do and-” Geralt makes a noise in his throat, interrupting without a word, and Jaskier cuts off his rambling. “You have plenty, love. And I’ve the cutest little trays to arrange them in, as well as papers to wrap the bars.”

“You thought this out.” Jaskier hums, moving with Geralt as he shifts to see Jaskier better. Eye contact makes him uncomfortable on the worst of days, but Jaskier’s blue eyes are open and honest, and so lovely that Geralt doesn’t mind staring back. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then your soap shall remain in the cellar, and us in bed.” Jaskier’s answer is immediate, delivered with a shrug of the shoulder and a kiss to Geralt’s pec. His skin twitches at the feeling, but Jaskier just kisses the same spot again and smiles. “Do you not?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Geralt, if I may, you’ve married a master poet, a troubadour the likes that no one has ever seen, an-”

“Egotistical vampire?” The nip that Geralt gets in reply has his skin stinging and blood singing, and Geralt’s gaze is lazy when Jaskier leaves his teeth resting on Geralt’s skin, warning him. “What would you, master poet, call my stand?”

“The White Crow.” Geralt’s brows go up in surprise, and Jaskier perks up, grinning with too sharp teeth. A rush of warmth settles in his gut at the sight, and he tries his best to be nonchalant when Jaskier sits up, swinging a toned thigh over his hips and settling in his lap. Geralt’s hands go to brace him, a silver ring glinting on his left ring finger. It's deceptively plain from afar, but sharp eyes can see the vines and small, delicate buttercups that intertwine with each other, small leaves scattered throughout the petals. “You like it?”

“Surprised?”

"While my ideas are lovely and often award winning, wordplay doesn't usually interest you much." Geralt pauses at that, thinking through what he wants to say while he pets at Jaskier's thighs.

"I like being straightforward."

"For the most part." Jaskier teases, grinning when Geralt rolls his eyes. He's never going to live their twenty years of pining down.

"The name. It's nice, simple, but it means more. Reminds me of you, and Yennefer."

"She helped a bit." Jaskier agrees, moving with Geralt as he sits up, relaxing back against the pillows.

"She helped get me things, to make the soap and perfumes. It's- fitting." He doesn't want to seem like he's focusing on her, but Jaskier is full of nothing but acceptance and adoration, which lessens only marginally into something more platonic when thinking of Yennefer. Jaskier’s hands settle on Geralt's, holding them still, and Geralt's eyes flicker down to Jaskier's left hand.

It had seemed so unreal, kneeling before some priest while the man had intoned, Jaskier's hand firmly in his, blue eyes fire bright. But the sight of the ring on Jaskier's finger, a simple silver band with a wolf engraved in painstaking detail on it made Geralt undeniably giddy. Jaskier catches him looking, grinning and tracing his own fingers over the ring on Geralt’s finger, swirling along the vines and flower petals.

“Geralt, do you want to do the farmer’s market?”

“Will you be there?” Geralt doesn’t say to help, to keep him steady and prevent him from doing something stupid. Jaskier’s answering grin is enough, but Jaskier can almost never leave it at just a grin or flutter of lashes.

“Every step of the way, husband.”

“Then yes.” The thought of going with all of his soaps and perfumes is daunting- more impossible than an archgriffin fight and more terrifying than when he’d first seen Jaskier injured on the Path. Geralt pats Jaskier’s thighs, bucking his hips to dislodge his bard and smirking when Jaskier gasps, hands flying to Geralt's shoulders to hold himself steady. “We have soap to pack.”

“It’s hardly dawn.”

“ And training to do.” Jaskier groans, falling backwards between Geralt's legs and rolling to the other side of the bed. He pouts in bed among the sheets while Geralt gets dressed, and it isn’t until Geralt comes back, coaxing him from bed with a filthy, luxurious kiss that Jaskier perks up and moves to get dressed.

They’re training, out in the far off field where no one can really see what they’re doing. Geralt runs through his normal winter routine, but Jaskier is easily bored and uses every chance he can to try and disrupt Geralt. It’s… a surprisingly effective way to train, dodging Jaskier’s grabbing hands and whirling around him, silver blade singing in the air. He tries to keep his blade close to himself, but there are some movements that can’t be avoided, his blade perfectly in line to cut off a finger or slice a cheek open. Jaskier dodges with ease, going smokelike to allow the blade to cut through him harmlessly when needed. Geralt is so focused on the way that Jaskier dips and bends, weaving around Geralt, trying his best to land a blow he knows won’t hit that he almost misses the way his medallion vibrates. Almost. Geralt’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword before loosening, and he sinks into a crouch, rolling his sword through his hand and listening. The instant shift from lighthearted battle to a hunter, coiled and ready to spring is jarring, Geralt’s pupils mere slits among the burnt gold of his eyes. There, a shimmer in the air, hardly seen, and the quiet exhale of a breath when Geralt’s eyes land on the abnormality.

Geralt lunges, blade outstretched, and jerks when Jaskier grabs the blade, blood welling up and flowing freely as he stops the blow from landing. Regis and Yennefer flicker into view, the tip of the sword inches from Yennefer’s heart, and Geralt nearly drops his sword. She eyes the blade with thinly veiled mistrust, and Geralt straightens out of his crouch, sword tip dropping into the dirt as Jaskier lets go of the blade. Jaskier sniffs lightly, licking along the cut on his hand and letting the flesh knit itself back together. He eyes Yennefer over his bloody palm, lips faintly stained red.

“Yennefer, are those grey hairs I see?”

“Jaskier, as resplendent in last seasons silks as always.”

Geralt watches, confused, as Jaskier’s lips spread in a slow, Cheshire grin. It shows off every one of his sharp, pointed teeth, but Yennefer grins back, fierce and bold. The mage tips her head just so, and Jaskier places a soft kiss on her cheek, moving to hug Regis tight and clap him on the arm. He’s befuddled, to say the least, and Geralt growls, sliding his sword back into the sheath on his back.

“Don’t pout, Geralt, it creates wrinkles.” Yennefer chides, raising a brow when Geralt rolls his eyes and looks to Regis to help. Regis shrugs his shoulders, making the crow that’s landed on him take flight.

“She has a point, I’m afraid.” Irritation makes Geralt’s brow twitch, and he scowls, which only makes Yennefer raise a perfect brow.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, a little birdie told us that you’d be at the farmer’s market tomorrow,” Regis, Jaskier and Yennefer all share a look at the pun, and Regis continues on. “We’ve come to offer our services for tomorrow.”

“By sneaking up on me and hiding?”

“Merely observing. Your witcher training is impressive, the fact that you saw us more so.”

“Yennefer sets my medallion off.” Geralt reaches out for Jaskier, drawing him close and glancing at his palm to ensure he’s okay. He’s healed without a scratch, but Geralt holds his hand and presses his thumb into the soft center just to feel the skin and muscle shift.

“You saw something, I know it. Perhaps it was a lingering scent in the air, or a reflection of metal-”

“It’s the air.”

“The air.” Regis seems supremely disappointed at the answer, and Geralt smirks before turning back toward the house. He’ll tell Regis eventually, once the vampire is thoroughly perplexed, and he leads Jaskier and his two unexpected guests back toward the house.

“Did you make-” Yennefer starts, Geralt nodding and throwing a sharp glance over his shoulder. She stops talking as if she’d never started, but Jaskier is too busy pestering Regis to listen much. Or let on that he’s listening. Geralt figures it’s probably time to begin to actually pack up his soaps, and he brings the trio into the cellar, leaving them by the tables with a sharp look not to mess with anything while he goes to get the supplies stashed in his room. The paper Jaskier got to wrap the soap in is a soft brown color, lightly marbled by imperfections but beautiful all the same. It’ll keep the bars from sticking to each other and make it look nice.

When he slips down the stairs he hears three voices, talking softly, and he slows, hesitating. Listening.

“It’s incredible. Mayhaps the mutagens?” There’s a shift, weight moved from one foot to the other, and then a response.

“I’ve had witcher blood before. It’s not him alone, or the claim. It’s like he’s a-”

“Vampire. I told you as much in my letter, Yennefer, and the fact you’re surprised is almost disappointing.” Jaskier’s voice is cool, detached, and Yennefer’s answering sigh is long suffering.

“Jaskier, shut up before I detach your head again.”

“You push too far, Yennefer, if you tell him-”

“It’s his right to know, Jaskier. Just because you’re afraid of what he’ll think when he finds out your blood has made him immortal-”

Geralt steps around the corner finally, trays and paper in hand, and all three of them stop short. Jaskier and Yennefer are chest to chest, Jaskier’s expression stormy and Yennefer’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Regis seems to be an unfortunate bystander, stuck between two fighting tomcats.

“Witchers are long lived.” Is all he says, setting the trays down and grabbing the back of Jaskier’s collar to pull him away. He presses a bar of soap into the man’s hands, showing him how he wants it wrapped with the paper and tied in place with dark twine. “All but the orange-rosemary. And Jaskier?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“I knew.” The room goes silent around them, and Geralt’s hand darts up to catch the soap thrown at him, stopping it centimeters away from his nose.

“You bastard ! Oh Jaskier, no need to worry, immortality suits me just fine, I’ve known for a while, the absolute fucking nerve - I could wring your neck you old, cranky, cantankerous son of a-”

“Are you finished?” Geralt takes the yelling surprisingly well, and Jaskier throws another bar of soap, scowling when Geralt snarls and flashes his fangs. “Do not throw my soap, Jaskier.”

“Shall I throw a casket of wine, then, or- or-” Jaskier’s shoulders deflate all at once, and his anger collapses in on itself, like a star on its last life. “Should I throw myself at your feet, begging for forgiveness?”

“Might be a sight.” Geralt agrees, Yennefer scoffing and Regis coughing awkwardly into a fist. Geralt isn’t sorry when he sees the watery smile it brings to Jaskier’s face. “Can I tell you when I knew?”

"Three words or less.” Jaskier replies, and Geralt chuckles softly, moving to show Yennefer how to fill perfume bottles. The busywork of his hands makes it easier for the words to come to him, for the story to come in choppy, ugly stutters and stunted sentences.

“I was hunting. While you were recovering. It was after I’d left in the spring, and there was a contract for a cockatrice. It was early in the season, and easy enough work. But it wasn’t a cockatrice.” Geralt takes a moment, listening to the soft scratching of Regis’ quill. Of course he’s taking notes. “It was a griffin- an archgriffin. I had prepared badly, and it was old, cunning. It managed to catch me by the back of my gambeson, lifting me up into the air, and when it had decided I was ready enough, dropped me.”

“No.” Jaskier whispers, shaking his head as if to banish the thought.

“I can handle a fall, but it was smart, and dropped me off the side of a ravine. I hit nearly every wall on the way down, could feel my skull crack open and hear my spine breaking from the impact of when I finally landed.”

“Stop.” Jaskier pleads, tears leaving wet trails on his cheeks. Geralt’s face is so full of sorrow that it stuns even Yennefer, but his eyes never leave Jaskier. “You didn’t.”

“I did. There, in that ravine. I woke up a month later, covered in dust and blood, and by the time I climbed out of the ravine, Eskel had taken care of the griffin. And I-”

Geralt drops into silence then, staring down hard at his perfume. His eyes fly up to meet Jaskier’s suddenly, and Yennefer is very aware that whatever conversation they’re having, it’s one she’ll never be privy to. For once, she doesn’t mind the secrets kept from her. Regis beckons her over to his corner of the table, and his voice is low as he explains.

“They share a bond that transcends anything else, whether between human or mage or beast.”

“Before, or after the bite?”

“Always. It’s something akin to looking into one’s soul to see their greatest fear, but it isn’t limited to merely fear. They share emotions, memories, whispers of words left unsaid.” He waxes poetry much like Jaskier would, and Yennefer wonders if that’s where Jaskier got it from. “His recovery rate, on the other hand, is most peculiar.”

Geralt glances over at the two of them then, eyes shadowed, and he tilts his head back toward the table. Ushering them back to work. Yennefer resumes her careful pouring alongside Geralt while Regis begins to wrap anew. “My recovery rate is sped by the mutations.”

“You’ve proof?” Geralt smiles wryly, capping off the last perfume and handing Yennefer some labels. The stickers are color coded for the smell, and she works to stick them as straight as she can.

“It took nearly two years for Jaskier’s head to reattach. It took me a month to reform my shattered spine and skull. That, unless you’re going to cut my head off and compare, should be enough.”

“The wound on your side, it festered.” Yennefer points out, Geralt glancing at Jaskier when near murderous intent radiates from him.

“Caused by a vampire.” He says in way of explanation, and while Jaskier calms a bit, the feeling of foreboding never quite leaves the room. Geralt doesn’t seem to care much at all. Once all of the soap and perfume has been packaged they tuck it away in baskets, ready to be transported to the farmer’s market. They finish in time for dinner, thankfully, and though Jaskier and Regis don’t explicitly need to eat, they’re the most voracious. Yennefer idly picks at her food, more content to nurse the Sepremento made from Geralt’s vineyard. Whatever lingering doubts or fears haunted Jaskier seems to be gone, and Geralt is caught staring more than once, though he never looks away and instead, offers a small, private smile from behind the rim of his glass. Jaskier's answering grin is nothing short of a supernova- all encompassing in its light and gravitational pull. Yennefer finds herself smiling with no real reason why.

When they retire for the night there's some argument of who goes where- Yennefer insists on leaving and coming back, as does Regis, and eventually it's Geralt who tells Regis to go upstairs, and takes Yennefer by the wrist, dragging her to the main bedroom.

"As if we haven't shared a bed before." He grumbles, Yennefer frowning and glancing toward Jaskier. He doesn't seem phased by what Geralt says, and instead seems just as inclined for her to stay. Geralt and Jaskier work to get ready to bed in tandem, moving around each other without a thought, and Yennefer stands by the door, mystified by it all. The bed is big, they'll all fit for sure, but why ?

Geralt can see Yennefer trying to puzzle out what's happening here when one of Jaskier's shirts hits her in the face, causing her to blink in surprise.

"It's last year's silk," Jaskier says, "But you'll have to make do."

And somehow, that's what causes Yennefer to relax. Not gentle words or encouragement from either of them, but a joke, extended as a bridge over a chasm in which she has no way to fly across. She changes out of her dress, which thoroughly smells of perfume now, and into Jaskier's shirt. Jaskier and Geralt both give her a once over, seemingly satisfied with her level of comfort before crawling into bed. Jaskier commandeers the middle, sprawling wide as Geralt tucks in against Jaskier's side, facing the door. Old habits die hard, but Jaskier doesn't mind at all, and turns his head to watch as Yennefer slips under the covers, keeping an adequate distance between them. A respectful distance. Jaskier watches her with curious eyes, and Yennefer closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see Jaskier's smug face. It doesn't last long until Jaskier's hand finds hers, calloused fingers slipping against her palm before their fingers intertwine, and she falls asleep with that simple connection.

                                                        -*-

When they wake up in the morning Yennefer is smushed against Jaskier's chest, arm draped over the two of them and holding onto Geralt's forearm. Geralt is flat to Jaskier's back, spooning him with his arm around the both of them, and he nuzzles closer as he begins to wake. Jaskier's cheeks are flushed red with warmth at being sandwiched just so, but his arm tightens around Yennefer's waist when she tries to shift away. She frowns, shifting again, and Geralt's fingertips brush lightly over her hip, stilling her movement.

"You can't leave until he's awake. Arms like a python."

"I, unlike you men, have a regimen to keep."

"Later." Amusement tinges the sleep in Geralt's voice, and he hears Yennefer sigh loudly before settling in again. Her nails scratch listlessly against Geralt's arm, just small spikes of sensation, but a purr starts up in Geralt's chest all the same.

"How much did you hear yesterday?" It's been nagging at her since last night. Geralt hums low in his throat, going up on an elbow to kiss Jaskier's cheek and nuzzle him. When the bard doesn't react other than to begin to purr as well, Geralt relaxes a bit.

"Most of it. He's- afraid. That what he does- is- will be too monstrous for me."

"You're a witcher." She doesn't want to have to point out the obvious, but judging by Geralt's soft laugh it hasn't passed him by unaware.

"As much a monster as him."

Yennefer rolls her eyes, used to Geralt's mentality, but there's an acceptance that wasn't there when they met, years and years ago. The sun hasn't quite risen yet, coloring the sky purple and casting long, dim shadows, but Jaskier shifts as if blinded, groaning. Geralt nuzzles his cheek again, and this time Jaskier turns his head, catching him in a soft kiss that Yennefer looks away from. It should be more awkward, the three of them like this, Yennefer being Geralt’s… something, and Jaskier his husband, but Geralt seems content to have them both nearby. Now that Jaskier is awake Yennefer slips from bed, brushing a lock of black hair from her face and conjuring a portal. She leaves to do her regime, as she so aptly called it, leaving the two of them to get dressed.

Geralt has no clue what he’s supposed to wear to a farmer’s market, whether he should be in armor or not. He feels too naked just thinking about being in public without armor, and so he slips it on, doing the clasps and securing his swords. He looks more suited for battle than soapmaking, and Jaskier grins, fond.

“No one is going to attack you, love.”

“Rather not tempt fate.” Is all Geralt says in reply, Jaskier acquiescing with a chuckle. Geralt is for the first time in his long life, actually nervous. He remembers faintly through shattered memories being nervous to do the Trial of the Medallion, of looking in the mirror and seeing a shock of white hair after the Trial of the Grasses. But this is different- his stomach twists and flops, his slow heart beating a tick faster when they gather their things and wait near the stables for Yennefer to reappear. It’s mixed with anticipation, like the rush before a hunt when he finally finds his monster, and only his training keeps him from reacting when Yennefer appears next to them with a deep, resounding whoosh.

Yennefer suggests teleporting, but Geralt shakes his head firmly, wrinkling his nose. They walk, baskets draped over their arms and the scent of soap and perfume in the air. It’s going to be a warm, sunny day, and Geralt worries about his perfumes, but the glass is dark and Jaskier has brought a cloth to cover them with if needed. The farmer’s market is quiet in the early morning, and Jaskier checks in and gets the number of their booth, leading them down the row and stopping at a booth on the far left. They’re almost at the end, which Geralt knows is probably not a good spot to be, but it’s the perfect place to start. The booth holds a large wooden table and a few stools, lined neatly against the back wall. Geralt eyes the table with distrust, nudging it with his foot to see how steady it is. It doesn’t shake under the movement and Geralt nods, allowing Jaskier and Yennefer to begin setting up.

He might be the one who made the soaps, but Jaskier and Yennefer both insist that he doesn’t have an eye for decorating and placement the way that they do. They spread a white tablecloth over the surface, and begin placing things in their spots. The perfumes go in the center, farthest from the sun coming in through the lattice canopy above the market, the unwrapped orange-rosemary soap to the left on a whtie tray. The other soaps, the ones that have been wrapped, are placed haphazardly and without a care, a few purple here, a couple green nestled by the blue, pink scattered throughout. It doesn’t make any sense to Geralt, but the spread of colors draws his eyes, and he has to admit that they might know what they’re doing, just a bit.

Geralt settles behind the table, perching on a stool and watching as Jaskier and Yenenfer stand by the table, tweaking things occasionally until Regis tells them to leave it alone. Anymore fussing and they’ll ruin the artful display they’ve made, he says. They finally settle behind the display as people begin to arrive to browse, and Geralt settles in for the long haul. They’re left alone for the better part of the morning, but eventually people drift over, peering curiously at the soaps and even more so at Geralt. They stare, most with unabashed fear and confusion, but others with polite interest, eyeing his swords before asking what scents he’s created. Most people leave with at least one bar of soap, a vial or perfume if they’re particularly taken by a scent.

“How much for the lavender perfume?”

“20 crowns.” The woman hmms and haws, debating, but the vial is in her hand and the coins in Geralt’s quickly.

“What other scents are you going to make?”

“Depends on what you want. Describe a scent, and I’ll do what I can.” Jaskier grins beside Geralt, nodding his head when the woman looks doubtful. He points at the pink soap, watching as the woman sniffs it curiously before speaking.

“That, my dear, is a scent from my childhood, lovingly remade without a whiff of the original.”

“Truly?”

“My lady, would I lie to you?” Jaskier’s grin is disarming, and she blushes, clutching her perfume close and shaking her head.

“Of course not. My husband had a cologne once, suffused with pine and sage. He- died a few years back, and I haven’t found where he purchased it from.”

“Come back in two weeks.” Geralt’s voice is soft, and the woman nods before hurrying away, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. Geralt’s mind whirls around the two scents- they compliment each other well, but he doesn’t have access to sage this early in the season, and he-

“Geralt, you’ve but to ask.” Yennefer says, interrupting Geralt’s worried thinking. She waves a hand when he scowls at her for reading his thoughts, but that was going to be his next plan of action. It saves him from speaking he supposes. Geralt is still thinking while they sell through soap, more and more people crowding to the back of the market to catch a whiff and a look. The sight of a witcher, two humans and a sorceress selling soap quickly becomes the highlight of the day, and Geralt can hear the whispers as people pass by.

He’s a witcher- Geralt of Rivia they call him.

The Butcher of Blaviken? What’s he doing here?

Selling soap, apparently. That sorceress must have something on him.

But there are others? Surely she can’t control them all.

And on and on it goes. Geralt’s nerves become more and more frazzled every time he hears them mutter under their breath. Butcher. Butcher. Butcher. He isn’t sure what he expected- for him to be so far south that stories wouldn’t travel? Words have haunted Geralt for as long as he’s been on the Path, twisted stories and retellings that only get worse with age. His head is pounding by the time the market is over, and Geralt stands behind his table, staring at the meager stock of soap left after the day while trying to stop the spinning of his head. He can hear Jaskier and Yennefer politely turning people away, saying that they’ll have to come earlier next time, but he doesn’t look up. He’s so intent on not looking up that he doesn’t notice Jaskier sidle up beside him, placing his hand on the table next to Geralt’s.

He’s warm and mercifully quiet for once, and Geralt releases a hard sigh when Jaskier’s pinky loops with his, holding on loosely. The touch says a million things that Jaskier doesn’t. I’m here for you. I love you. Don’t listen to them No matter what others say, you are good . Geralt breathes in time with the rise and fall of Jaskier’s shoulders, letting the tension leak from him until he can finally look up, golden eyes flashing in the sunset painting the market.

“I’d say we did fairly well, hmm love?”

“Better than I expected.” He admits, and the coin purse they have is almost overflowing. It’ll do a lot to get himself more supplies, more scents, and maybe something for Jaskier to show his appreciation.

“Would you do it again?” Jaskier asks, voice deceptively light. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s hope, like a flower unfurling in his chest, and he moves to begin packing away the soap that didn’t sell.

“I have to make that perfume. The pine and sage.” It isn’t a proper answer, but Jaskier laughs, nodding his head.

“That you do, love.”

[whitecrowapothecary]

[the witcher characters + text posts part 12]: i need sleep edition!

[whitecrowapothecary]

Housesitting For Your Best Friend 101

This is inspired by something that @witcher-and-his-bard and I were talking about late last night that has sprung from my brain with very little coaxing. 

Find it on AO3 here!

“You’re sure.” The question is phrased more as a statement, but Jaskier rolls his eyes all the same, grinning. “I can-”

“Geralt, dear, I may be a great many things, like dashingly handsome, a great lover, patron of the arts-” Jaskier stops when Geralt coughs into his fist, blue eyes narrowing until Geralt straightens up and quirks a brow as if to say what? “But if I cannot look after your apartment for a week, then consider my move back home to be raised further by my mother imminent.”  

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A World In Monochrome

My brain is firing on like, almost all cylinders to pump out all of the sweet sweet ideas I obsess over. This one stemmed from playing the game and realizing that Cat causes total loss of color from Geralt’s sight until the potion wears off 

Enjoy it on AO3 here!

Geralt hated fiends. Well, he can’t say that with any honesty- for as brutal and base as they appeared, there was an elegance to them. They left people alone for the most part, content to wander their forests, caves or swamps, and only attacked if necessary. They were huge yet moved with incredible speed, and if necessary, their third eye opened, stunning and allowing them a chance to escape. To be compared to a fiend among friends was almost a compliment. 

What he hated most about them was how often they took him into caves; the dank, musty smell of old corpses and fiend dung clung to him for days after he’d finished the hunt, and he couldn’t carry a torch with him to light the cave. Not that he hadn’t tried when he was young and just set out on the Path. After too many times plunging into darkness without anything to light, Geralt prepared himself more carefully. Relict oil for his blade, Thunderbolt and Swallow on his belt, and Cat, choked down at the last minute to give himself all the time he needed. 

He hasn’t fought anything cave dwelling in a while, and isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when he takes his latest contract. Jaskier had wanted to bargain for a higher price, since this was Skellige and the fare back to Velen was expensive, but Geralt couldn’t. Mutation’s took all Witcher’s feelings people claimed, but his heart had gone out to Ohden, worried over his son, and he gave Jaskier a glance to keep him quiet. Jaskier hadn’t pushed, just hummed thoughtfully and thanked the man for his account of where to start. 

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A Moonlit Winter’s Night

This one took me a bit longer to write between work and everything else, but hoo boy am I glad to have it finished. Mostly inspired by a beautiful full moon we had the other night, and spurred on by my gorgeous friends. I guess you could also count this as day 4 of @witcher-and-his-bard winter prompts!

Read on AO3 here! 

“Invite him, wolf, before we do.” Lambert is well into his cup, but if he has to spend another winter with Geralt dragging his ass he will end up killing his brother and he’d rather not. 

“Hmm.” Invite him? What would Jaskier, bright, warm, stunning Jaskier do in a keep alone with witchers for the four months they’re snowed in? Well, there’s only one way to find out, he supposes. 

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[whitecrowapothecary]

The Five Times Jaskier Was Shy, and the One Time He Wasn’t

This is 100 percent inspired by artwork that @frostedbasilisk posted over the weekend and is also dedicated to them for the soft, lovely inspiration I got just looking at their work.

Read it on AO3 here!

Mornings were busy for them. They didn’t often spend a day in bed, and even when they did Geralt couldn’t bear to stay still longer than absolutely necessary. But, there were rare mornings when Geralt would wake up as the birds began to sing and the first rays of the morning sun hit his back through the window and decide not to get up. This morning is one of those days, where they’ve been traveling hard and Geralt could use a rest just as much as Jaskier.

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[whitecrowapothecary]

The Way the Pendulum Swings

Yes, I am back again with more writing, no, i cannot control myself. My fantastic friend @frostedbasilisk and I got talking, and I was inspired by Buffskier. (yes, i will continue using the name. Look at their beautiful rendition of Jaskier from a scene of the fic here!

Read on AO3 here!

“I think we need help.” Geralt says, leaning over and offering a hand to hoist Jaskier up. His doublet is now covered in dirt on the back and Jaskier’s pride is wounded, but Jaskier grins sheepishly all the same. 

“I told you, I’m uselessly lead footed.” Jaskier dusts himself off as best he can and fixes his hair, turning so that Geralt can dust him off the rest of the way. “If you can’t teach me dear, who possibly could?”

“Vesemir trained me.” He points out, and Jaskier raises both eyebrows in shock, tilting his head and hmmming. 

“You want to go up north, so that Vesemir can train me?”

“It’s only a few weeks early.” Jaskier pins him with a look that could wither the largest tree, and Geralt has to fight to keep from withering too. Jaskier’s expression lightens quickly, eyes softening, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose. 

“Fine. But if he can’t train me, I suppose it’s a lost cause, hmm? Then my big brute of a witcher will have to protect me.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, and though the word should sting, he wields it like such a compliment that Geralt feels himself relaxing. Jaskier likes his brutishness, and has said so many times. “Shall we set out in the morning then?”

“Mmm.” 

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[whitecrowapothecary]

When In Rinde

Geralt ruins all of his shirts, obviously, so he has to borrow one from Jaskier- if it’ll fit. Based off a prompt given to me by my lovely friend Ashley which was just “Geralt/Jaskier sharing clothes” It is explicit near the end, so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable!

read it on AO3 here!

“You smell like a kikimore den.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose in distaste, eyeing the green-black goo covering every inch of the sodden witcher before him. Geralt merely grunts, slipping past him as Jaskier shrinks back to avoid the worst of the mess. There’s a bath waiting for him, luckily, and Geralt strips out of his armor and clothes, leaving them in a heap to be dealt with later. He sinks into the water, ignoring the way his nerves protest the heat. He spends time scrubbing at his skin, watching as the water goes murky and the lavender in the water fades. He can smell everything- the way he still reeks of the cave, the sweat clinging to Jaskier’s neck as he scrubs at the guts on his armor. If he looked he could see the individual strands of Jaskier’s hair, each reflecting their own color of light from the fire blazing in the hearth. That’s too much, though, so he stares instead at his ruined nails and the blood crusted underneath.

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[whitecrowapothecary]

Hibernation

This is a prompt fill for day 19 of @witcher-and-his-bard winter prompts! Just as a warning, I will say there is implied character death, but NO actual death. 

Read it on AO3 here!

They were thoroughly snowed in. This was Jaskier’s third winter with the other witchers, and a storm had raged so fiercely the night before that none of them dared to venture outside. Instead, the witchers had cleared the main hall as best they could, pushing bookshelves against walls and using the small area to train. Jaskier had perched himself atop one of the rickety bookshelves, half watching, half writing as his witchers had spun and lunged around each other, sweating in the warmth of the room. This was a rare treat for Jaskier, who wasn’t one for sitting in the cold while the others trained. Vesemir, for all his years, moved as quickly as any of the others did, spinning between them and constantly changing who he targeted. It kept the others on their toes, and they flowed together like water, laughing when someone got knocked down and snarling when the edge of a dull blade slammed into them particularly hard.

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Bottled Delights

Higher Vampire Jaskier has taken my heart AND my only remaining braincell, sorry. It’s also my very first chapter fic, so hold on for the ride! I’m going to update every tuesday until all four chapters are out!

Read it on AO3 here!

Jaskier was beginning to age. Geralt hadn’t noticed over the years that they’d traveled together, but Yennefer had pointed out wrinkles that weren’t there before, and Geralt had found himself looking. A spare glance while they sat around the fire, when Jaskier was plucking at his lute and humming some silly tune. Stared when Jaskier walked backwards, grinning wide and talking animatedly about a monster fight Geralt had let him watch. They were around his eyes, crows eyes from smiling so much, so bright, and Geralt didn’t think that they were really anything bad. Enough for Yennefer to tease him about, sure, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care much about them, and it made Geralt all the more aware of how truly human Jaskier was. For years he’d seemed ageless, content to walk along before him, but now he lingered sometimes, slowed down to take in a sight like it’d be the last he saw and then hurrying to catch up.

It was enough to get him thinking- how long did humans usually live? He’d seen many older people, but when he’d asked their age they hadn’t been much older than Jaskier. Jaskier, when pressed, insisted it was just good genetics. Geralt hadn’t stressed the issue, but he found himself watching Jaskier when the other man was at rest. His face evened out, and Geralt swore that sometimes he looked as youthful as he did the day they first met. Humans were impossible to figure out.

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[whitecrowapothecary]

To Be Loved

A little drabble of feelings that have taken up residence in my head since listening to this song

Read it on AO3 here!

Geralt doesn’t remember the first to love him well. His memories are murky at best sometimes- they twist and slip away from him when he reaches to grasp at them, crying out in the dark for something to be there. Something real . He feels the phantom of a woman’s fingers sliding through his hair in his sleep, carding through locks that have long since faded from the russet brown he remembered. The scent of wood and hay and magic strangles him those nights and he wakes up gasping and gripping at his hair until pain sings through him. In a room full of other boys his age it’s a feat in itself to hide the tightness that crushes his chest and steals his breath, and when the memory of fingers in his hair slips away, lost among the haze in his head, he’s grateful.

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