#Geralt just stands around the corner peeking at his bard

[frostedwitch]

When Jaskier is left alone to his own devices in Kaer Morhen he plays with the fantastic acoustics of the old keep. He wanders the cold empty corridors and rooms with high stone ceilings, singing and listening to his notes echoing back at him. On long sleepless nights he can be found alone in the great hall, his melodies surrounding him like a ethereal sirens song.

#jaskier #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #kaer morhen #like Vesemir walks in one night and Jaskier is there singing #Jaskier is sat alone on top of the long dining table letting out these straight up ethereal ooohs hmmms and ahhhs #First off Vesemir thinks fuck is that a wraith? a siren? #but no his brain clicks and he knows its the bard #but its so beautiful and he understands Geralts obsession with the human #another night Eskel finds him #Jaskier's voice sounds like the sad call of a long dead lover calling for their love to come back #and Eskel finds a way to get Geralt to go to the great hall the next night #Geralt just stands around the corner peeking at his bard #the sound so mystical #that he goes straight up like his under a spell and hugs the bard #have you seen that video of a girl singing the titaic theme in a stairwell??? #you need to see it #thats Jaskier

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

shelter me from winter’s bite

Everyone’s doing a hypothermia fic so I figured I may as well contribute. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

title taken from Brian Czyzyk’s poem “Hoarfrost” (he’s my favorite young queer poet and you should check him out).

tw: hypothermia, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending

---

“Do you always have to be so damnably loud?” Geralt growls, glaring at Jaskier from across the small room. 

“My apologies for existing,” the bard snaps back. He’d only been rearranging his pack, looking for something reasonably clean to sleep in while his clothes were laundered by the innkeeper’s lovely wife. “I’ll try to do so more quietly from now on, good sir.”

Geralt huffs out a breath in passive-aggressive annoyance and Jaskier bristles. 

“Oh well, then. C’mon witcher, I know you want to say it!”

“Say what?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and threatening. He’s ready to play the game and by god he’s going to win this time.  

“It’s practically your motto at this point,” the bard hisses through his teeth, angry and bitter and tired. Geralt sees victory. Sees some peace and quiet on the horizon. “Say it!”

Geralt does as he’s told, like any good witcher would: “Fuck off, bard.”

“There it is!” Jaskier laughs joylessly, throwing up his hands. He pulls on his doublet and boots and heads for the door. “If you want me gone so badly, Geralt, then I will go. I’ll get out of your lovely white hair and leave you to mope in peace.”

“Fucking finally,” the witcher snarls, turning away. He doesn’t see the genuine hurt in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard quietly closes the door rather than slamming it. He doesn’t hear the quiet sob that rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he stands very still, shocked and suddenly exhausted all the way to his bones. He doesn’t smell the salt of his bard’s tears as he slips silently down the hallway and out into the late autumn night. He doesn’t notice the snow starting to pile up on the windowsill ahead of season.

He’s too busy being a self-flagellating moron to notice any of that.

---

Geralt is woken in the middle of the night by a commotion downstairs. He can hear several loud, panicked heartbeats and one very quiet, very slow heartbeat beneath all of those; it’s achingly familiar but the half-asleep witcher can’t quite call its source to mind. Geralt listens as the innkeeper barks out a series of sharp orders: “Meredith, you get to the kitchen and make some strong black tea! Florence, fetch a pail of warm water and two or three towels from the laundry. Josiah you lazy lout, get into the attic and fetch some blankets! The poor lad has gone blue all over!”

The witcher peers into the hallway and catches the skinny stable hand, Josiah, racing for the attic staircase. “What’s going on?”

“A farmer from the next town over was on his way over to help a friend’s sow give calf and he found-” the lad pauses to suck in a great gulp of air and launches off again “-and he found that friend of yours lying in a snowbank, muttering nonsense and shivering like a leaf. The poor fool didn’t have a cloak on him or anything, just a doublet and walking boots! He’s near-dead!”

Geralt curses and makes for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the main floor. There are voices coming from the kitchen and he follows them as if in a dream, his feet moving without aid of his conscious mind. “Jaskier? Is it the bard, Jaskier?”

“Are you the great brute what kicked him out?” the innkeeper’s wife asks, crossing her arms over her ample chest and narrowing her eyes. Geralt falters. 

“No, he- he left on his own, in a huff.”

“Wonder who could have started the huff,” the woman rolls her eyes. This isn’t about his status as a witcher, Geralt knows; this eye roll was made by a woman who knows a lovers’ quarrel when she sees one. Except that this stupid little spat might have cost Jaskier his life.

“Where is he? May I see him, goodwife?”

The woman points to a table in the corner, which has been cleared of cooking implements and cushioned with a heavy bearskin. Jaskier lies atop the brown fur, his skin frighteningly pale, his lips and fingers tinted a slight blue. Geralt rushes to his side and takes one of the bard’s stiff hands in his own. He brushes a stray lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s forehead and nearly recoils in shock from the temperature of his skin. Even colder than his hands, which are already dangerously frigid. If Jaskier cannot play his lute-

Geralt doesn’t even allow himself to finish the thought. Instead he works on rubbing small, careful circles onto the back of the bard’s hands with his thumbs, warming the skin in tiny increments: “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

The bard remains unmoving, heartbeat fluttering weakly, lungs barely drawing breath; Geralt fights back an overwhelming sense of panic, trying to recall whatever training he’d received at Kaer Morhen concerning freezing humans. 

“Do you mind if I take him upstairs and tend to him myself?” the witcher asks.

“Can you take care of him?” the innkeeper’s wife replies. 

Geralt bows his head, shame licking like flames up and down his bent spine, and nods. “Yes, Ma’am. I have dry clothes for him in our room and I was trained extensively for emergency situations such as this, all witchers are.”

“Alright,” she narrows her eyes. “But he’d best be alive come morning.”

“I’ll happily turn myself over to the village elders to be dealt with accordingly should the bard come to any harm,” he vows. Her eyes widen minutely and he can read the surprise in her body language, but she remains relatively calm. 

“Any further harm, rather. Alright, then. I’ll have my husband and the girls bring those supplies up to your room for him. We’ll be glad to go back to sleep.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Geralt bows formally. She blushes despite her irritation with him and waves him away. 

“Take your bard and go, witcher, before I change my mind and spend all night caring for him myself out of motherly pity. Go.”

Geralt hefts Jaskier into his arms, heavy bearskin blanket and all, and hurries up the stairs to his room. He will not let Jaskier come to any further harm. Not by his hand. Not by his word. Never again. 

---

Back in their room, Geralt quickly undresses the shivering human, peeling away what few damp layers there are with growing disappointment. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared for a walk in the snow at all! Although, to be fair, it hadn’t seemed that cold earlier in the evening and the snow had been sudden and heavy. 

He wipes Jaskier down with a warm cloth and slips one of his own clean shirts over the bard’s head. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the way Jaskier’s shoulders don’t quite fill out the dark material. Or on the way his dark, wiry chest hair peeks out through the open laces at his throat. The witcher quickly shuffles him into clean smallclothes and wraps him in a thick wool blanket. 

They sit curled before the fire and Geralt holds Jaskier against his chest. He hums with his voice like gravel, grating out one note after the other in some attempt to soothe the bard’s aching body. Jaskier shivers and shakes violently in the witcher’s strong embrace, his eyes clenched shut with the cramps that wrack his frame as his muscles return to their normal temperature. Geralt feels like he’s holding a porcelain doll and keeps his grip deliberately loose, tight enough to comfort but not restrain.

“G-Geralt,” he groans. “Hold me, please.”

The witcher squeezes his arms more confidently around the bard’s middle, burying his face in Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing deeply. The warmth that usually emanates from his busy human body is gone and his chamomile-honey scent is buried beneath a layer of damp cold; it feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Geralt murmurs against his temple, begging the younger man’s forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Gods, I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I’m a fool, you know. I’m a fool witcher who never says anything important until it’s too late. I’m so incredibly sorry, my love.”

“This is a very good dream,” the bard sighs, smiling despite the pain. His eyes open, bleary and addled. “Like I was having in the woods, but better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier seems to understand the unspoken question, even in his current sorry state.

“The real Geralt would never be so gentle with me, dear heart. You must be a dream, sent to me on my deathbed to ease my passage into the afterlife. There’s no other explanation for your sudden displays of tenderness.”

“It’s... It’s really me,” Geralt affirms. He runs his hand up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, “I’m here, Jaskier. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I forgive you for being stupid ever other day, dear witcher. It is of no consequence to me.”

“It almost was,” Geralt frowns. “I nearly- I almost-” 

Jaskier’s arm raises weakly and his too-chilly hand presses to Geralt’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have stormed off like an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept picking the fight. We both fucked up, alright? What matters is our second chance. We got to have one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wearing your shirt?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“Yours were all being laundered and this one was clean and it had been in my pack near the fire so it was already warm and-”

“Did you take care of me all night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs after his hum and glances away for a moment. “What did you mean about... about the dream in the woods?”

“Oh. Well, when I was very cold and things were hazy and slow, I dreamed that you were there with me. Everything got very fuzzy and warm for a little bit, and when it was warm you were holding me like this and giving me little kisses. It was... nice. Even though I knew I was dying because you were being so soft, so considerate; saying things to me you’d never say out loud in real life.”

“I love you, Jaskier. I will try my best not to lose my temper needlessly,” the witcher swears. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Can we still cuddle like this?” Jaskier asks, leaning his weigth against Geralt’s firm chest. “It’s so nice to be held.”

“Of course. Anything you want. I’m not going to waste my second chance by treating you poorly. Not for another second, my beloved bard.”

“B-beloved?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, well then I’m definitely still dreaming.”

Geralt lifts Jaskier into his arms and carries him over to the bed, which is piled high with their extra blankets. He tucks Jaskier into the nest against the wall and lays along the outside of the mattress. He presses his lips to the bard’s, reveling in Jaskier’s returning warmth, and smiles. “I’ll prove it’s not a dream. Every day.”

“Sounds nice,” Jaskier yawns, snuggling into the witcher’s arms and settling down to sleep. 

“It will be.”

#geraskier #hypothermia #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #geraskier fic #geraskier fluff #whump with a happy ending #fluff with a happy ending #geralt #jaskier #jaskier whump #jaskier gets hypothermia #caring geralt #soft geralt #winter fics #geraskier winter fics

[borkingbarnes]

Control

Goddess of Lightning!Reader x Geralt of Rivia 

Summary: A man of power and dominance, the Witcher does not give up control. But when he does, it’s oh so sweet. 

Word count: 3k

Warnings: smutsmutsmut (18+ only!) 

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written a full length fic- as in about 2 years, really. Apologies for the lack of introduction of backstory/powers. Believe it or not, this was originally supposed to be a chapter in a series I was going to write, but I have commitment issues so here we are :) I hope you enjoy! 💕

The trio sit at a corner table, a mostly empty pitcher of ale situated between them. A roof over their heads and a designated night off a rarity. In true Jaskier fashion, conversation had primarily consisted of his ramblings, the other two content to sit back and listen to his wild tales, occasional quick rebuttals from the Witcher when the stories became too embellished. Tall tales of the bard’s many conquests– though he quite preferred to call them “nights of passion” –had the Witcher rolling his eyes. 

“Come on Y/N, tell me, a pretty woman like yourself, you have men falling at your feet. Surely you must have had some luck yourself.” the bard prompts, nudging her elbow with his. 

At this she smiles slightly. Throughout the time she had traveled with them, she had shown no interest in the men that strolled up to her, armed with corny pickup lines and empty promises of their performance abilities, no man having yet to prove themselves worth her time, let alone even be consider-worthy of bedding. 

“Men are simple creatures, dear bard.” She says, finger trailing the rim of her stein. A slight quirk of the Witcher’s brow across from her tells her he’s now paying attention. 

“I wouldn’t call any of it luck. It’s much too easy to pull a man completely undone in mere moments if you know what you are doing. See, men are both completely enticed, yet terrified of a confident woman.” 

Pausing to take a sip of her ale, she doesn’t miss the way the Witcher’s eyes follow the movement of her tongue when she swipes it across her lip. 

“They’re all the same; driven mad by lust in the presence of beauty. They think they’re in control, flirting and charming their way through, but really, they don’t control a damn thing. Bat an eye and say just the right words and practically watch as they become putty. And you can tell when they want you. You can tell when they want to fuck you.”

Her eyes snap up to meet the swordsman’s gaze. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Witcher?” she asks, watching as he takes a sip from his cup, her tone low and sultry. 

Her laughter rings out across the tavern as the Witcher inhales sharply in surprise, air along with his ale, coughing as the liquid makes its way down the wrong pipe, glaring daggers at her. Jaskier joins in on her laughter, leaning into her arm resting on the table. 

“My gods, Y/N, never in my months travelling with this grump, have I ever seen a Witcher blush!” He chokes between fits of laughter. 

“Watch yourself, bard.” the Witcher growls, wiping drops of ale from the corner of his mouth, continuing his steely glare. 

The cackling laughter stops when the broad man slams his cup down, “I’m going to bed.” He says gruffly, getting up from his seat. 

“Aww come on, Geralt! It was just a bit of fun!”, the bard yells after the Witcher’s departing form, to no avail. 

“His loss.”

A soft tap against his door brings the large, brooding man out of his thoughts. Her voice drifts through the thick wood.

“May I come in?”

A grunt in response, and she takes that as answer enough, knowing the Witcher to be a man of few words. 

The door creaks as she opens it, stepping inside to find the Witcher sitting in front of the window, his back to her. He’s stripped of his armor, wearing dark trousers, back bare. 

Upon her entry, he turns to look at her, inhaling sharply as he takes her in. 

Clad in a red slip, the silky material hugs her body in a delicious way. Her hair is down, lips tinged the same shade of red that outlined her form, legs bare, and his mind wanders briefly what else may lay exposed beneath. 

She smiles softly, though there was nothing soft in the way she looked at him.

He watches her hips sway as she crosses the room to stand before the bed on which he sat, leaning down on it across from him, offering just a peek. 

“You never answered my question, Witcher.” She says, voice barely above a whisper. 

His jaw clenches, brows furrowed as his mind tries to comprehend what hell was happening. His gaze drops to her lips when she takes it between her teeth teasingly, quirking an eyebrow at him.

A hand reaches toward his face tentatively, giving him time to move away. When he doesn’t, a finger rests beneath his chin, tilting it up, the atmosphere seeming to change. “You know, for such a strong fighter, you sure are little bitch when it comes to taking what you want.” 

With that, a growl emits from the large man, calloused hand moving to grasp her by the throat. She holds his gaze as she blocks his movement, pinning his with one, the other grabbing his own throat harshly. 

He stares at her, hardened gaze, his breathing now audible. 

She pulls him to her by his neck, “If you want this darling, you’ll play by my rules.” She whispers in his ear, feeling him swallow harshly, her scent filling his senses. 

Pulling back to look at him, the corner of her lips tilt up when they meet the Witcher’s face, amber irises swallowed by dark pupils, lips curled into a snarl. 

The smirk is disappears as she tilts her chin up at him, breath fanning across his own lips as her hand tightens around him, “Now, this will be the last time I ask. Do you want to fuck me, Witcher?” 

He stares at her for a while, searching her eyes for any indication that she was purely just fucking with him, the joke from earlier extending to now. When he finds none, his eyes close briefly. When they open again, “Yes, Princess” is ground between clenched teeth before he’s shoved backwards, onto his feet. 

“Turn around and strip”, she commands. 

A long, riled exhale before he obliges, turning away from her as he pulls at the laces of his trousers until they pool at his feet. He steps out of them and a clinking sound makes her turn back to her, brows furrowing. 

She had moved away from the bed, now holding thick chains, swirling the end in a circle beside her.

“Arms out” she all but snarls, wicked grin on her face. 

She pauses slightly to admire the man. Thick thighs with a cock to match. 

His jaw sets in place, a growl rumbling in his chest, but he obliges to her command once again, holding his wrists out together in front of him, part of him intrigued by what was to come. 

He hisses through his teeth as cold metal clashes against his fevered skin, the chain wrapping around his wrists and forearms tightly. Links pinch skin and he stumbles slightly when she yanks them towards her. 

“Look at you Witcher, so obedient for me.” A dark chuckle escapes her pretty little mouth, and he can’t help but stare at her lips, breath heavy, chest heaving. She steps towards him to properly secure the chains, and his eyes go to her chest, her newfound closeness allowing him a proper look. 

His hands twitch, fists clenching, teeth ground together. 

“Onto the bed”, she commands, admiring the view of way the muscles in his shoulders tense and flex as he walks. She all but purrs as she watches him lay onto his back, cock straining, begging to be touched. 

“Now now now, what shall we do with you?” she tsks, a hand sweeping up his thighs before nails dig into the flesh, causing him to flinch, dick twitching, a forced breath through his nose. 

He watches as she walks toward the headboard, grabbing the thick chain, bringing his arms above his head. Her breasts come down to graze his face briefly as she bends down to secure the steel links to the metal bars of the headboard, the moment too fleeting for any movement from him before she pulls away. 

She steps back, small smile on her lips, admiring her handiwork. She doesn’t miss the feral look in his eyes, amber flashing in the dim light. Teeth slightly bared. 

Carnal. Exactly how she wanted him. 

“Spread.” She commands from the foot of the bed, a slight shock emitting from her hands to the inner of his calf. 

As she situates herself between his legs, she flashes him a smile, devilish and sinful. Open mouthed kisses are trailed up his thick thighs, muscles tightening. Higher and higher, so close to where he wanted her. 

Chains rattle against the metal bars where they’re anchored, and she watches the ripple of the muscles in his arms, straining against their confines. When she meets his eyes, she almost shudders at the hunger in them.  

Her path diverges slightly at his hips, cheek brushing against his dick. The valley of her breasts follow and he growls lowly at the slight pressure, metal bars creaking against the strain that he puts on them as she crawls up his body, leaving a searing trail in the wake of her lips. Her hands roam the toned muscles, electric tingles from her fingertips sizzling across his burning skin, finding their way to his core. 

Her eyes flick up to his face, a devilish smirk, before her teeth scrape against his nipple. She tilts her chin to the side as his hips buck up, desperate for any sort of contact. 

He growls in frustration when she moves just out of reach, eyes glaring, teeth clenched and bared. His breathing comes in heavy pants, and despite having obeyed her previous orders, he refuses to submit. 

“Eager, are we?” She purrs, grabbing his jaw roughly with one hand, twisting it to the side so that his neck was exposed to her. Silky fabric meets his chest before the weight of her breasts drag against him as she slowly lowers her body onto him before placing an open-mouthed kiss onto his neck, sucking and nipping. 

A deep moan rumbles in his chest and he can almost feel her smile against his skin. Without the chains, he would surely have flipped her over and fucked the damn impudence right out of her. Show her who really called the shots. 

She suddenly ceases her ministrations and a sharp slap stings against the skin of his inner thigh, drawing a snarl from the Witcher. 

“Those hips don’t move unless I say they do” she growls, millimetres from his face. He hadn’t even noticed that he had rutted up again, rational thoughts disappearing, leaving only carnal instinct in its wake. His teeth are bared at her and she looks up when the metal groans yet again, his resolve bending along with the bars he was tethered to.

His mind feels hazy, the edges of his vision seeming to blur, save for the woman in front of him, who is all too clear and focused to his eyes. His chest feels tight, whole body wound, and his brain barely registers the fatigue in his arms from straining against the chains. Never had he felt like this; so capitulate, his pleasure at the mercy of her hands, and hers alone. 

“Y/N…” he growls. A warning. But a dark chuckle in response tells him that she’s taken his empty threats and squashed between her agile fingers, control coursing through her veins. Any hope that he’d have any say in his current fate vanishing. 

A sharp grunt escapes him, head jerking forward as she moves back down his body, grinding herself along the shaft of his dick before settling between his legs once more. 

There’s no warning before she takes him into her hand, long and thick, slight squeeze making him hiss between his teeth. 

“Is this where you want me, Witcher?” she taunts, lips so close to the tip that he could feel her warm breath. A growl in response. 

“Words, big boy.” 

A sharp jolt to his hip when he ruts up in her hand. Bristling at her, she mirrors his intensity, silently challenging him with a quirk of her brow. 

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, attempting to calm himself, “Yes, Princess”, ground out low through clenched teeth. 

“Very good” she says sweetly, giving no warning before her lips wrap around the tip, a loud clank of chains against metal in response. 

He watches her hungrily as she moves her lips off of him with an open-mouthed kiss left at the tip. Moving down to the base of his cock, lips grazing the shaft on the way down, a low groan escapes him as she presses her tongue flat on the underside, licking a broad stripe up before capturing him in her warm mouth again. 

Taking him back in, she slowly sinks her mouth lower and lower, until her nose touches his skin, feeling him throb at the back of her throat. She lets him thrust into her mouth, wild snaps of his hips; a string of curses falling from his lips. He snarls once she pulls back up, unable to control the desperate need that festered in the pit of his stomach. 

Her hand returns to the shaft, pumping the slickness of her spit mixed with his leaking pre-cum. When she meets his gaze, he swears for a moment they flash before a sweet electric tingling along his cock takes the air of his lungs momentarily, eyes squeezing shut. 

He watches her with parted lips, eyes focused as if in a trance as she takes him back into her mouth, her pupils blown wide as his cock moves between her lips slowly, hand in sync with her movements. 

His hips rise sharply when he feels her flick her tongue on the underside of the tip. Nerves ignited, each passing of her lips spreading pleasure through him like a wildfire and he begins to feel the familiar squeeze of his lower abdomen, his breath coming in pants as she continues to work him with her mouth. 

In an instant she ceases her ministrations, a loud frustrated growl sounding from the Witcher. 

In the next moment she’s straddling his hips once more, hand wrapping around his throat. 

“You thought it would be that easy, Witcher?” she sneers, fingers tightening. She relishes the feeling of his strong pulse under her fingertips, the usual slow beating of a Witcher’s heart now erratic through the delicate skin. 

He snarls at her in response, the sound turning into a low moan as she grinds herself against him. 

She leans down, warm breath against his ear, voice low and wicked. “Don’t you want to play, darling? Don’t you want to fuck a Princess?” 

Wiggling her hips slightly, she grasps him again in her free hand, before sinking down, guttural groan leaving him as he arches against the bed, sharp clang as one of the metal bars snap. 

Delicious warmth envelopes him, squeezing, beckoning. And gods in the century that he had lived, never had he felt anything like this.

Her movements are precise, skilled passes of her hips as low grunts escape him, “fuck, Princess” growled between clenched teeth when nails sink into his chest, the burn they leave only fueling the sensations, his lower abdomen tightening, muscles straining. 

His own hips snap up to meet hers each time, the soft moan escaping her lips setting his senses ablaze. 

A loud laugh from outside of the door snaps their heads in its direction. It doesn’t cease and soon she joins in with it. His brows furrow as he stares at her, the image of her beginning to sway slightly. 

A loud snort jolts him awake, reaching quickly for the knife beside him. Amber eyes scan the room, focusing on the form of the bard crumpled on his own bed in hysterics. 

“Geralt! You–! HA!” The bard all but screeches, “Did you – did you have a sex dream?!”

The low growl and blade whizzing past his head to land in the wall behind him only seems to spur the minstrel on, howls of laughter ringing out as he clutches his stomach. 

“Oh! Oh princess!” He mocks the Witcher in a high-pitched voice, another round of hysterics rendering him incapable of forming coherent words once more as he babbles uncontrollably.

However, the cackling soon stops when a pillow is pressed roughly against his face, arms and legs soon flailing as his air is cut off. 

When the Witcher deemed Jaskier was on the verge of collapse, the pillow is lifted, only to be replaced by his face, mere inches from the bard’s, “Speak a fucking word of this and your head shall roll with the kikimore I slayed in the forests of Pontar.” 

A knock at the door saves the minstrel, Y/N’s voice sounding from behind the thick wood. 

Great. Just what he needed. 

“Come!! Come in!” Jaskier exclaims, using Geralt’s diverted attention to quickly slip out from his position, scrambling to the door. Throwing it open to reveal Y/N, chipper and looking as if she had been up for hours, unlike the men inside. 

Closing the door after she walks in, Jaskier stands behind her, chin tilted to his chest, smug smile spread widely across his face in the direction of the Witcher, eyebrows wiggling up and down. 

His ministrations are not acknowledged, but the clench of the Witcher’s jaw lets him know that he had gotten under the broad man’s skin. Triumphant, he moves to stand beside the warrior. 

“What do you want?” Geralt growls, words coming out harsher than perhaps he meant them to. 

He took in the sight of her, clad in fitted matte black armor, the metal and leather conforms to her figure, showcasing the body of a fighter, sword on her hip. 

The images of her from his dreams flash in his mind, red silk behind his eyelids when he blinks, and he shakes his head slightly to clear it, the motion not going unnoticed by Jaskier. 

Rolling her eyes slightly at the Witcher’s snappiness, she pulls out a knife which had been strapped to her thigh, twirling it between her fingers. 

“While you lazy buttocks slept, I got a contract, and for this one, I require your help.”   

Taglist: @cap-n-stuff​ @itsjammin​ @sgtjbuccky-main @silver-starburst @chrevastan​ @boopboopbarnes​ @goldenkillmonger​ @just-add-butter @1xxmrsalphaxx1 @sadbhabie2020​ @coal000 @dewy-biitch@part-time-patronus @jamesbbbarnes @frostygilbert​@jitterbuck @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ @slytherincoven​ @omegaalex1998​  @nsm-shitposts​ @part-time-patronus​                                                       

#Geralt of Rivia #Geralt of rivera #geralt x reader #Geralt of Rivia x reader #Henry Cavill #Geralt x y/n #Henry Cavill characters #the Witcher #the Witcher Netflix #Geralt smut #Witcher smut #Geralt fanfic #witcher fanfic

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 10)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

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

Geralt awoke slowly, not sure how he’d managed to fall asleep, but his hands were warm. His hands were still clutched around Jaskier’s hand, but blue eyes were meeting his. 

It was evening, the small window dark outside, but someone, probably Yennefer, had placed a small candle on the washstand that was the only other furniture in the room. It lit Jaskier with a warm and golden glow. His eyes were bleary, his hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo. 

“G’ralt.”

“I’m here,” Geralt whispered, relief doing the job of several hours of sleep and a good meal. 

“You’re here,” Jaskier said. His voice was weak, but his heartbeat was stronger than before, taking up it’s familiar place in the background noises of Geralt’s life. 

Jaskier kicked feebly at the blankets around his legs and Geralt pulled the blankets back. Jaskier was just in his smallclothes, a bloody bandage wrapped around his thigh, bright red and fading to pink where less blood seeped through.

“Ow,” Jaskier said.

“More than ow,” Geralt grumbled. He began to stand up, Jaskier’s bandages needed changing, and he meant to fetch Yennefer, but she swept through the doorway before he could even fully straighten. 

“Wow,” Jaskier muttered. “Hello, beautiful and, oh, stunningly violet-eyed lady, but as I’m married, may I ask for some trousers?”

“Not with a ten-foot pole, bard,” Yennefer snapped. “And no trousers, you’ll mess with the wound.” She began to change the bandages with ill-tempered movements that were, nevertheless, gentle. 

Jaskier blanched as he saw the, frankly, gaping wound in his thigh, but he smiled wanly and tipped his head up to Geralt. “I’ll finally have a battle scar, just like you.”

Geralt knelt again, swiping Jaskier’s hair back from his slightly sweaty forehead. “I hope this is the only one you ever have.”

Jaskier grimaced, his eyes were going glazed over as exhaustion and pain caught up with him again. “Me too,” he whispered, settling more fully back into the pillow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said urgently. He had to say something, had to let Jaskier know. “I swear,” he swallowed and clutched Jaskier’s hand again. “I promise to you, on the swords I wear at my back, to do the right thing for you. I promise I will always think of you, and hold you dear to me.” Geralt knew his shoulders were shaking, because he knew the ultimate betrayal he was going to commit. “Everything I do for you will be for your own good.”

Jaskier smiled and patted Geralt’s cheek sweetly, his hand uncoordinated, but warm. “That’s nice, my husband.” Jaskier’s eyes slid closed. “Hero,” he murmurred, turning over.

Geralt glanced up. Yennefer was staring at him with wide, purple eyes. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt an overwhelming urge to give her a hug. Given that this course of action would probably result in being turned into something amphibian, he didn’t.

“You just,” she said, looking at him as if he were the dumbest thing on earth. “You just swore your affection for me.”

Geralt returned the look. “I wasn’t even talking to you.”

Yennefer smacked him over the head, not terribly hard, but emphatically. “Didn’t you feel it you great...you giant LUMP of a foolish witcher? His great windfall,” she pointed at Jaskier, perfectly lacquered nails glinting menacingly in the candlelight. “His great windfall is now mine, you just swore to love me.”

They gaped at one another in the dim light, golden eyes meeting purple.

“Fuck.”

Yennefer just nodded her agreement.

They sat, backs against the side of the bed, staring at the wall. Jaskier turned over a little, his warm breath ruffling Geralt’s hair. 

“I still love him,” Geralt said.

“How can you tell?”

Jaskier made a disgusting snorfulling noise and flopped yet again, his elbow conking the back of Geralt’s head. Geralt looked over at him as he drooled somewhat.

“Because I think he’s beautiful like this.”

Yennefer snorted. “If that’s love I don’t want it, but your feelings for him don’t have to be erased for you to be my lover of surprise.”

Geralt rested his head in his hands.

“I’m not a homewrecker,” Yennefer said.

Geralt glanced up at her. “Never?”

She shrugged. “Maybe sometimes, but not now. I don’t want to take you from your husband.”

“We’re married for political reasons. It wasn’t a love match.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Geralt chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, I didn’t plan on him being so...”

“So stupid?”

“Yeah, a little bit. No self preservation, no filter, no understanding of personal space. Endless enthusiasm for the most dangerous parts of my job. Desperate for attention all the time. Ability to speak to the dead...”

“That last one is a joke,” Yennefer said, snorting.

“No.”

“A poet, then. And a good one?”

“Apparently.”

“Damn.”

They stayed, staring at the wall until Geralt’s stomach growled. 

“Stew,” Yennefer said. She stood and left the room.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, still drooling into the borrowed pillow. Although his words had bound him to Yennefer, he hoped Jaskier would remember them, remember that they were meant for him, because Geralt was going to do what he fully should have done the day they left Chateau Lettenhove, and leave Jaskier behind.

Geralt trudged downstairs. The thought of leaving Jaskier ached, but the bard had never really been his to keep. 

Yennefer set a bowl of stew down in front of him so hard it slopped over onto the table. 

“So,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

Geralt shrugged and she huffed. 

“Don’t make me hex you,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to leave the boy, aren’t you?”

Geralt shrugged again. When it didn’t satisfy he said, “I’m not good for him.”

“He doesn’t seem to think so.”

“He thinks a griffin would make a nice pet.”

Yennefer snickered. Geralt liked the way she laughed, and she was pretty, her purple eyes were striking, but he couldn’t help but think how he liked blue eyes so much better. 

He wished he didn’t know exactly why blue had become his preference.

“I’m not keeping him if you leave him here,” Yennefer said. “I don’t need a puppy and I don’t like music.”

“He has a friend here.”

“That’s good, do you know anything about the friend, or were you just going to drop him in the center of the city and hope they stumble into eachother?”

“Her name’s Essi. She’s pretty and a bard.”

Geralt finished his stew without saying more. He remembered how Jaskier had extolled Essi’s virtues. Her talent, style, her remarkable beauty. He’d told a story of how Essi had gotten them out of a bit of a fix with a rowdy drunk.

Between her and Jaskier’s skill with a fish knife, he’d be fine.

He’d be better than fine, he’d be with people like him who knew art and music and liked fine clothes and fine wine. He’d never be sliced open by bandits or slashed by some dreadful monster. 

Geralt rose from Yennefer’s table and walked back up the stairs to the little room. Jaskier seemed to be asleep still, blankets tangled around him. Geralt had brought his bags from their camp and set them and his lute in the corner. One of the bags had a bit of white cloth peeking out. 

Geralt pulled at it. It was from Jaskier’s wedding outfit. a little scrap of the lining was loose and slightly tattered. On an impulse, Geralt tugged at it. A piece, only a few centimeters square, came loose in his hand. Geralt stared at it, pale and fluttering slightly. 

Jaskier had been so beautiful that day, and he’d laughed when Geralt danced with him. There was music playing in the sleeping city, blowing in through the window and Geralt wished he could have just one more dance. 

He tucked the tiny fabric scrap into his black leather bracer. 

Yennefer was standing in the doorway. 

“Can you find Essi Daven for me?” He asked. 

“I already have,” she said, stepping forward, into Geralt’s space.

Geralt nodded at her, feeling the warmth of being around her, the affection blooming around their linked destinies. 

“I was thinking,” she said. “What you said earlier, to him, you promised to care for him.”

“I did.”

Yennefer’s lips were red painted and perfect. 

Geralt sensed her move before she even began, her arms came up and his hands went into her thick, dark hair.

It was a good kiss, full and passionate without being indecent. 

It wasn’t a great kiss.

Geralt pulled away as Yennefer did and felt no compulsion to lean back in for another one. 

“Um,” came a small, hesitant voice from the bed. Geralt turned.

Jaskier was looking at them, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, beginning to step forward. 

“I would like to wash my face,” Jaskier said, without intonation. “Since I’m rather undressed, I’d like privacy, please.”

Geralt took the dismissal for what it was, stepping out into the thin hallway with Yennefer at his side. 

“I didn’t know he was awake,” she whispered on the edge of hearing. “I wouldn’t have--”

Geralt shrugged minutely. “He and I aren’t like that,” he whispered back, wary of the bard awake just feet away. He knew the sentence was a lie. Geralt hadn’t even thought of going to a brothel for a long time. Jaskier flirted with everyone and never did more. 

“I don’t love you,” Yennefer breathed. “You swore to protect and care for him, you never said love.”

“I never said love,” Geralt whispered back.

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

“No,” Geralt confirmed. “No more kisses.”

“You should explain--”

“No.” Geralt swallowed as he remembered Jaskier’s expression. Hurt, just for a brief flash of a second, heartbreak. “It’s better this way, a clean break.”

“It’s cruel.”

“It’s better if he hates me.” The thought burned like venom.

“What about your political marriage.” Yennefer made it clear that she didn’t think their marriage was all that political.

The hidden fidelity clause. Geralt cursed himself for forgetting, but so long as word never got back to Lettenhove it was fine.

“If he’s discreet it will never come up,” he said to Yennefer. She looked doubtful, lips pursing around something she didn’t say. She pushed a little box into his hands.

“A xenovox,” she said. “Since you’re destined to like and protect me.”

Geralt gave her a small smile and a nod.

Inside Jaskier’s room, something heavy hit the floor. Geralt went to push the door open, heart hammering, picturing Jaskier fainting from blood loss or putting too much weight on his bad leg.

Yennefer stopped him with a hand on his chest. “If you want a clean break...”

Geralt nodded. He caught a glimpse of Jaskier, on the floor but concious, as he walked away. 

Geralt wished he hadn’t been able to smell the salt of tears. 

Roach whinnied at him when he greeted her. She was stabled near the edge of the city at a rundown inn. He’d stabled Thunderbolt closer to Yennefer’s lodgings. Geralt accepted Roach’s headbuts, raising a hand to pet her soft muzzle, then pressing a kiss to the white on her forehead. He was exhausted, eyes sliding closed even as he stood there, smelling the familiar smells of horses and clean hay. 

Roach leaned her head over his shoulder, looking around.

“No Jaskier,” he whispered. She flicked her ear. “No Thunderbolt.” 

Roach looked at him and Geralt couldn’t help but feel that it was somewhat accusatory. She blinked her long eyelashes at him and he shrugged, scrubbing his hand over his face. 

Brushing Roach’s mane wasn’t really necessary. The stable boy had taken one look at Geralt, who was still covered in Jaskier’s blood, and terror had ensured that Roach would be the best cared for mare in Oxenfurt. 

Geralt had tipped the boy extra too. 

Geralt brushed her mane anyway, not ready to sleep in a tiny, dirty bed all alone. He hummed lightly to her

Toss a coin to your witcher...

The song had grown on him, like moss, or a horrible fungal disease. 

Geralt went through his familiar motions as he cared for his horse and got ready for bed. The watchful eyes of the inn patrons followed him but he didn’t care. He felt hollowed out, like someone had cut him open and removed something important before sewing him up.

The bed was, indeed, tiny. Geralt’s feet hung slightly off the end when he laid straight, so he curled on his side. He would leave first thing in the morning. Maybe he’d head north early this year, there was no reason he couldn’t go to Kaer Morhen early. Vesemir would probably be glad for help with repairs.

Vesemir had liked Jaskier. 

Jaskier had liked Vesemir too, he’d gotten along with all the wolves, even Lambert. And he’d been so excited when Geralt said he’d bring him to the keep. 

Geralt thought about the library of the keep, all those books that hardly ever even got seen. He could picture the large wooden desk beside the fire where he was sure Jaskier would sit. Or maybe they’d bring up one of the few couches and they could sit there together. Jaskier would talk about what he’d learned or the new song he was composing with his head resting in Geralt’s lap as the fire crackled.

It would never happen now. 

Geralt had broken Jaskier’s heart. And he’d done it on purpose. He hadn’t meant for Jaskier to see him kiss Yennefer, hadn’t really ever meant for there to be a kiss with Yennefer. But Jaskier had told him not to leave him so many times. He’d said he didn’t want to be abandoned or dropped off or gotten rid of. 

Geralt didn’t think he’d ever be able to rid himself of thoughts of Jaskier. The damn bard would walk the path beside him every day until Geralt’s death, without ever needing to be present. 

Geralt had to leave Jaskier though. Next time the wound could be to his jugular, to his heart. Had the crossbow bolt hit just slightly to the side it would have been an artery and Jaskier would have bled out onto the grass in minutes. 

Geralt stared at the cieling. 

“I feel you should know that I didn’t like doing that.”

Yennefer’s voice came from the little box resting on the table. Geralt sat up.

“Doing what?”

“I just dropped your husband off with Essi,” Yennefer said. Geralt winced at the reminder. Husband. “He was crying. I don’t do crying. He nearly got snot on my dress.”

Geralt’s heart twisted in his chest. “He’ll be happier with her,” he said.

“Maybe, he greeted her as ‘little sister’ so they must be close.”

Little sister. Geralt had thought that Essi meant something else to Jaskier but...but he really didn’t have any right to care who meant what to the man.

“Thank you,” Geralt said.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re being stupid.”

Geralt hummed. He stared at the little box on the table, feeling even worse than before. After a long time he spoke.

“I think I’ve been very stupid already.”

He didn’t know if Yennefer was still listening. 

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

Shorter chapter, but that’s where this one needed to end I think. They’ll figure it out. Also, now Geralt has one (1) destiny guaranteed friend. 

Vibe for this chapter: Evermore from Beauty and the Beast.

Tag List!

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god  @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf   @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan   @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher  @aj-itated  @watchthewolvesfall  @00qtea  @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @westmoor  @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437   @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @little-piece-of-tamlin @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas   @fontegagrilledcheese @so--many-fandoms @kirk-spock-in-the-impala @oniongrass @flowercrown-bard @maya-the-yellow-bee   @comfyswitcherblanketfort @wellthisstinks  @thenameislion-dandelion @flowercrown-bard @obsessedchildsworld @debellatis @zotinha456 @tumbleweedtech @goblin-loves-shiny-things @birdsflyhome @holymotherwolf @the-shenny-of-azkaban  @darkangel91939  @enkelikauneus   @saphiramalbec @silvermirror1997  @just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard   @iamaqt314 @itsthelittlethingsnlife @oneshots-galore @inikokoru @gryffinqueen  @anythinggoesfandoms @artemisthehuntress @pomegranatebitch @nuitarius @ub-sessed @tookarma @spearmint-honk @nicelytousled @wingirl2015 @live-long-and-trek-on   @kingcitywitch  @flowrhippieprincess @oneshots-galore @laughingatlivedragons  @nanamis-trophy-wife @annafortoday  @dapperanachronism  @jaybeefoxy @gods-no-longer-tread-here @flustratedcas @nbspaceboy  @comorbid-corvid @ellwren @red-wasabi89   @ouradarablelove  @chanonce

#arranged marriage au #the witcher #geraskier #platonic yennalt #yennefer is a good friend #geralt is stupid and made some bad decisions #they will figure it out though #angst #sort of break up

[goofgoofdildo]

I asked @goldandlights Ages ago if I could write a ficlet based on their post about Jaskier and Geralt both thinking the other doesn’t like touching them, and then I was suddenly busy doing volunteering work and hurting my knee so I only coughed up this now. I wrote it in a daze so not sure of the quality, but I wanted to keep my word that I would write something. read the tags also ig.

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

Geralt watches Jaskier’s sparkly eyes scan the crowd. They catch on a man in his twenties, with strong arms visible inside his rolled-up sleeves. He’s tall and lean, weight rested on the support beam as he stands by and smiles along. Jaskier winks at him, and Geralt looks into his soup, which has grown cold, showing Geralt’s sour expression reflected back at him from between circles of solidifying fat. 

Jaskier has told him, voice so gentle. He had sidled up to him, close enough to feel the heat but not touch, and said, ‘You know, when I perform, I sell everything. It’s a performance, and. I flirt with people a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything, you know? It’s just to get them to pay more, so we have coin?’ And Geralt thought he should say something, but he didn’t. ‘Anyway,’ Jaskier sighed and pressed on, ‘you can tell me to stop, I won’t mind at all, this just makes it better for us, but I can stop, if you say so.’ Jaskier touched his hand on the bed back then, the skin of his palm feeling like a blessing, and Geralt would have given him anything. 

He almost told him he wouldn’t mind if Jaskier took a lover, really, it was okay, Geralt didn’t have a problem with it. It wasn’t as if Geralt had ever been in a relationship that exclusive. It was stupid, he knew, because that wasn’t what Jaskier was asking. He was just asking for permission to do his job, to do it well. Jaskier felt so devoted to the relationship, that he even considered asking Geralt for permission for something so futile. And Geralt never minded, really. It was easy to say yes, he wasn’t some horrible brute that would insist on controlling every Jaskier’s move and conversation. After all, a wink or two equalled to nothing, especially not when it was him who Jaskier fell into bed with in the night. And even if he were a man inclined towards such possessiveness, there was no reason for him to worry, not when Jaskier had only been with him ever since this started. As his eyes remain locked on his sweaty, glowing lover, he thinks back to the night in Vizima. 

They’d pushed on to make it into the city, even though a storm and the accompanying darkness had been chasing them. When they made it into an inn, they were all thoroughly soaked. It reduced Geralt to short grunts, Jaskier into a mess of chattering teeth, and Roach huffed indignantly every time Geralt tried to spur her faster on. 

In an inn packed with wet travellers, getting a horrible, drafty and creaky nook of a room was a clear win, they both knew this, but it didn’t stop Jaskier from shivering violently. Watching him stuff his fingers tinged blue with cyanosis into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm up, water dripping from his face onto the dusty floor, Geralt felt, not for the first time, a guilt wash over him. This was his doing. He selfishly let Jaskier come along with him, and when he did, Geralt failed to take proper care of him.

He told Jaskier to undress. All of his clothes were wet, as he insisted on keeping them up top in the pack so as to avoid wrinkleage. Geralt told him to dry his hair with the shirt of his that survived the rain. It was the one he slept in, pushed to the bottom of the bag. It took Jaskier dropping the shirt thrice for Geralt to help him very gently dry his hair. 

Jaskier ended up in Geralt’s last clean shirt, wrapped in their spare blanket on top of the flimsy quilt found on the bed. Geralt hoped that once warm, Jaskier would fall asleep fast, at least, to end his shivery suffering. But watching him writhe on the bed, curled in on himself, as Geralt kneaded his rolled-up bedroll in his hands, it became very clear that Jaskier was not getting very warm. Geralt cleared his throat. Jaskier barely ever touched him. Sure, he washed his hair, he stitched his wounds. Jaskier saw that Geralt needed a massage and he provided it, his hot hands on Geralt’s back a revelation. But Geralt had made it clear that he needed no-one. So all of those things, Jaskier’s services, well. They couldn’t have been anything but insurance that Geralt would keep him. For some reason, Jaskier wanted to follow him, and Geralt wasn’t strong enough to let him know he had never had to earn his place. How he desperately wanted Jaskier to stay. He was constantly worried about scaring him off, too, about crossing a boundary beyond repair. And maybe that line would prove to be a hand on his cheek, or maybe a look at his blackened eyes. Geralt constantly felt like he was teetering on the edge of eternal doom of not being able to ever see Jaskier again. 

But then, Jaskier was hidden in a pile of blankets and that pile was still shaking violently. 

‘Jaskier?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you,’ he bit his tongue, ‘I shou—just. What if I held you?’

‘What?’

Fuck. ‘To keep you warm.’

Jaskier’s head peeked out of the blankets and a hand held them open until Geralt dropped the bedroll he’d been wringing with his hands. Once Geralt sat on the bed, he waited for Jaskier to position himself however he wanted. He seemed so scared, so hesitant, and Geralt was about to get out, take it back, but then his bard braced his thighs with his legs, knees by Geralt’s hips. 

‘This okay?’ he said in a tiny voice. Geralt nodded earnestly. And then Jaskier plopped into his lap, as if it was nothing. He drew the blankets over them and wrapped his hands around Geralt’s torso. Jaskier’s dead-cold feet tucked themselves in the hollows behind Geralt’s knees as his legs lay stretched on the bed. It stretched around him, enveloping and consuming, the weight of the other body. It pinned him in place. He breathed hard as his arms slowly made their way around Jaskier’s torso. Jaskier wriggled closer, arms tightening around him, and then a thumb dipping under his shirt, touching skin. It sent a shock through Geralt’s body that he had trouble not showing. The thumb stroked that tiny bit of skin. ‘Can I put my hands here?’ Jaskier whispered, his head pressed sideways into the space between Geralt’s arm and chest. He nodded. Jaskier’s horribly icy hands pressed into Geralt’s back, the touch warming him nonetheless. Jaskier lifted on his knees to press even closer, and when he sat back down, Geralt first felt his nose press into his chest, Jaskier’s ear now so close to his heart that Geralt got worried he might hear the way it was slowly picking up speed, when he felt the second thing, that being Jaskier’s unclothed cock press against his own through his breeches as the bard sought to steal as much heat from him as possible. It made it so much obvious how vulnerable Jaskier was making himself. Oh, how precious the cargo in his lap was. How close, yet not enough. 

When Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier and sunk his back a bit lower to settle in for the night, Jaskier’s hands started making patterns on his lower back. Jaskier’s belly dragged along Geralt’s as he shifted to reach Geralt’s ear. ‘Thank you, Geralt,’ he whispered, his nose pressed behind Geralt’s ear. It made him shiver, that sweet breath on his skin, the tingling feeling left by a nose dragged along the curve of his neck until Jaskier’s cheek rested on his shoulder. Geralt moved a hand into Jaskier’s hair in response, carding through the strands reverently. It was soft even now, wet and tangled. Geralt thought of how much he liked it when Jaskier washed his hair, tried pressing the tips of his fingers into Jaskier’s scalp. Massaging it gently. ‘mm, Geralt,’ Jaskier grunted, but before Geralt could worry he was doing it wrong, Jaskier was pressing closer still, nosing at his neck once more. Geralt kept up the pressure, his other hand rubbing at Jaskier’s back to help him relax. The hands on his back picked up the pace, now warmer. A set of clipped fingernails ghosted along Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Geralt’s head tipped back, air leaving his lips in the shape of ‘Jaskier’. ‘Mhmm?’ was Jaskier’s response muttered against Geralt’s neck. Geralt’s fingers in his hair tightened their grip, and then a pair of dry lips pressed gently into his collarbone. Geralt inhaled sharply. 

‘Geralt?’ Jaskier shifted to look at him. 

‘Yeah?’

Jaskier pressed another dry kiss into the corner of Geralt’s mouth, ‘Geralt,’ and he stayed close, his breath on Geralt’s cheek. 

Geralt chased that mouth, ’Jaskier.’ And then he kissed Jaskier, gently at first, but then Jaskier whined in the back of his throat and pressed closer, his cock hardening against Geralt’s stomach and that knowledge, that Geralt was making Jaskier aroused, was intoxicating. Geralt licked into his mouth, pulling him in by his hair. Jaskier’s hand was now holding his jaw, drawing in him hungrily, sucking on his lower lip. His nails were making patterns into his back and Jaskier kept making all those sounds, like he was having the time of his life. Geralt’s world changed in that moment, with the knowledge that he could be touched like that. 

At the time, when Jaskier first touched his cock, when he took his fingers and pressed them inside himself until Geralt got the hint, Geralt gave little thought to what it would mean for them. He lay Jaskier down, because Jaskier wanted him to, needed him to, and he fucked him. He touched Jaskier, relishing in every contact of skin on skin. It was a gift, to him, that he could do it, and something in the earth shifted every time Jaskier’s tongue licked into his mouth, every time he thrust back onto his cock. The world shifted on its axis. They fell asleep together, Jaskier wrapped around the Witcher’s back, stroking his bicep. Gently. Lovingly.

He wasn’t there in the morning. Jaskier turned away from him, curled in on himself on the tiny bed, even though it was still so cold. He must have been cold. Geralt didn’t dare touch him. 

They didn’t talk about it. Geralt was on a hunt while Jaskier entertained the guests in the tavern, and when he came back, there already was a bath arranged for him. Jaskier helped him bathe, rubbed a salve on his bruised side, put him to bed, and left to perform the rest of what he glamorously called a set. 

Geralt couldn’t fall asleep that night, his mood soured. He’d thought he’d learned his lesson of not getting his hopes up. But secretly, in private, he could admit he was a foolish man. A romantic, Jaskier would say. 

He remembers his mood only picking up the next day after the skies had cleared. The day turned out to be pleasantly warm and by the time they laid out their campsite, they’d made good time on the road, and managed to carry a normal conversation. They didn’t touch the whole time. Had dinner on opposite sites of the camp, even though they smiled at each other warmly. But now that Geralt knew what it felt like to touch Jaskier, he desperately longed for it. He excused himself and went to refill their water skins that they’d emptied after dinner. The sun was slowly setting as he was coming back. It caught on Jaskier by the fire, made his hair shine. 

When Geralt got closer, he saw Jaskier had laid out their bedrolls next to each other, like always, not shying away, and it brought him some peace. They both started settling in, Geralt checking around the campsite for anything Jaskier could have forgotten to do, just out of habit. When he finally turned to the bedrolls to settle in, he saw Jaskier put away his lute and look at him, a warm smile on his lips, his eyes piercing. Geralt’s throat went dry. 

Jaskier was on the bedrolls only in his shirt, clothes folded neatly on the side. He was sitting on his heels, hairy thighs spread wide, off-white shirt pooling at his crotch where the hand holding an instrument just seconds ago now disappeared to rest idly. Geralt had no idea what was happening. He wanted to tell Jaskier to touch himself, for christ’s sake. He wanted to ask if he’d been bewitched, even though he hadn’t let him out of sight the whole time. He wanted those lips on his. 

And he got that, but not before Jaskier let him fuck his throat. And then after the kissing, they tumbled onto their bedrolls, bodies plastered together, and Jaskier fucked himself on Geralt’s cock until he came on it, like he didn’t turn away from him in the night, like there was nothing odd about this. He didn’t let him pull out, either, his forehead pressed into Geralt’s chest, sitting on his softening cock, Jaskier repeated ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ until his breathing calmed down.  

Geralt didn’t know what he was thanking him for, but as he held Jaskier in his arms that night, grazing his bare shoulder with his lips, legs intertwined, he thought, I can live like this. If he could only hold Jaskier in the night, when the lust rode over the part of Jaskier’s brain that was repulsed by affection from a white-haired Witcher, then Geralt could live through the cold light of day. 

He knew he looked like all the things Jaskier had been told to fear, but as the man himself had said, they also made him interesting. But it was clearly a different thing to write a song about his wondrous yellow eyes, and to look into them as the Witcher touched him. 

Geralt is very old. He has the white hair of an old man. Maybe Jaskier despises the way the strands slide over Geralt’s pale skin in the harsh light of day, making him look gaunt like the dead. Or maybe the touch of a hand scarred with the taking of lives of creatures is too much for him. Geralt eats raw meat, sometimes. It’s easier. But maybe it disgusts Jaskier. Maybe it scares him. Geralt had never even considered that his breath might smell bad because of this, before they started fucking. He had never thought to rub oil into his skin for fear that Jaskier might find the scarred skin of his back much too rough for comfort, too easily reminded of the way Geralt got the scars, in the first place. 

Or maybe it’s just his face. His nose has been broken many times, after all. It sits a bit wonkily on his face. And his scar disturbs the skin, reminiscent in shape of his pupils. Out of all the things Jaskier grew up around, only cats and snakes have yellow eyes like that.

Geralt, watching himself in a bowl of soup, feels every bit the wretched creation of a misguided experimenter that he is. If he can only have Jaskier in the night, then that’s a blessing, and a miracle. If Jaskier can’t bear to be with him like that outside of bed, that’s okay. Geralt can’t compare in any regard to the blacksmith with shiny tight curls of chestnut hair on his head, can’t beat the sweet smile of a flirtatious barmaid. He wonders if, when Jaskier asked if they were to take other lovers, if he really meant to suggest that Geralt find someone else alongside Jaskier, so the burden of comforting Geralt wouldn’t only rest on him. But Jaskier said he would not take anyone else, maybe out of misguided loyalty, and Geralt felt it was polite to promise the same. And then, it almost made it feel like they truly belonged to each other, like this was a real thing Geralt could have. 

So when Jaskier finishes his set and makes his way over to Geralt, sitting beside him, but hesitating to touch his hand even as he reaches out, at first, Geralt tells himself he’s thankful for this. He wants this, this is good. He’s a Witcher and having Jaskier like this would prove dangerous for both of them. He pulls away from Jaskier and settles further into the corner of their bench. 

Jaskier, now hunched over his own steaming bowl of broth, watches Geralt move out of the corner of his eye. His hands tremble with grief for touch he can’t have right now. He wonders what that smells like to Geralt. Maybe like security, like understanding. And Jaskier does understand that Geralt has boundaries, and he respects them, it pleases him to know that Geralt likes him enough to show him how far he can go, and lets him make it right up to the line. He holds him in the night, after they fuck. Sometimes, he feels Geralt’s lips on his shoulder when he shakes from a post-orgasm forty winks. Jaskier tucks those touches into the bottom of his heart, where nobody will ever see how much he wants them. How he wants so much more, yet would never ask. 

He knows Geralt lets some people touch him in everyday, non-utilitarian ways. He has seen him and his brothers, clutching arms and punching chests, holding hands, even. Geralt says they sometimes fall asleep in a heap by the fire in winter. But clearly, that requires an amount of trust that he hasn’t reached yet. It’s okay. 

Jaskier watches Geralt in that corner. His hair is mussed quite badly, his cheekbones highlighted by the way dust has settles in the hollow of his cheeks, and Jaskier absentmindedly raises his hand to call over the barkeep so he can request a bath for their room. They haven’t looked for contracts, yet, it’s way too late for that, so they might even fuck tonight. Here’s to hoping the bed isn’t ridden with lice, he thinks. 

The barkeep saunters over, giving him a cheeky grin. She’s beautiful, with round cheeks and a sharp nose. There are laugh lines around her eyes, a roughness to her hands, and a sparkle in her eye. She has been calling the owner her husband the whole time, but flirted with Jaskier nonetheless, clearly enjoying the attention, although he suspects it’s all just talk. He likes her. She places a hand on the table in front of him, leaning on it, and he slips a hand on her waist. He laughs when her eyes sparkle and fully expects the little swat of the washcloth across his knuckles that she delivers with a playful stomp of her foot. 

‘Careful now, bard, or I might become utterly besotted with you, and whatever will my husband do, when he finds you in my chambers?’ 

Jaskier laughs, his head thrown back, ‘Well, dear lady, we might just have to find out!’

Geralt drops his spoon into the earthen bowl with a surprisingly loud clatter. His jaw is tightly set, even though he looks up with an apology in his eyes and resumes his eating. 

The barmaid’s smile dwindles, but then comes back to her, this time in the form of a soft curl of her lip. ‘Well, it’s all just talk anyway, bard. I’m too old for you, and you’re too inexperienced for me!’ she exclaims, and then lets Jaskier tell her his order. She pats his shoulder as she goes.

Geralt’s eyes are closed now, as he rests his head back in the corner of the wall. He’s all tensed up. Jaskier reaches out a tentative finger to trace along Geralt’s pointer finger where his hand rests on the bench. Geralt’s breath hitches. ‘Forgive me,’ he says, and draws his hand back. Jaskier swallows his hurt. He wants to touch so badly, but instead, he draws into himself. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Geralt,’ he pushes out and stuffs his face with the broth. 

The bathwater is cold, as was to be expected, Jaskier supposes, but there is a hearth next to it, and the room looks very nice, actually. Candles are burning in arrangements of two and three in their holders, illuminating the room very well. Perhaps this is the lovely barkeep’s way of apologising to Geralt for what he saw as infringing on his territory. Jaskier reminds himself to be less generous with his affections, next time. With another lover, he could hold them, touch them in a show of affection to ward of the sting of jealousy, but he supposes it is different with Geralt. 

Jaskier looks into the water as Geralt undresses, making ripples on it with his little finger. He’s already added the little scented oil they had left. Geralt can smell it in the air, and it calms him a little, but he still moves with a weight holding him down, guilt dripping off of his limbs in invisible thick streaks. He wishes he could just tell Jaskier to go find the barmaid again. He wants to tell him he doesn’t need to keep doing him the service of bathing him, doesn’t need to watch him rub his skin back into gaunt paleness in this bright candlelight. But then, Jaskier smiles at him tentatively, like this might be the last thing holding him here, and Geralt once again remembers that, at the core, he is a weak man. So he goes and dips into the water, watching Jaskier turn once he’s in. As if it’s somehow better to see only his chest and face clearly. 

Jaskier lathers a washcloth up with soap while Geralt dutifully scrubs at his face. He lets the cloth hover just above Geralt’s shoulder, asks, ‘May I?’ And Geralt nods courtly, displeased already that he can’t just tell Jaskier to fuck off if he doesn’t want to do this. He wants it so much, though, that he’s willing to cling to this. 

He lets Jaskier wash him, run the cloth across his chest, his back. Jaskier massages his scalp with practiced fingers as he washes his hair. Geralt allows himself to stop thinking about them, about the man that is presently seeing to his aching back, and just focus on the sensation of being touched, gently. Being taken care of, even if out of perceived necessity. Jaskier hums a little melody under his breath, washing the back of Geralt’s neck, and Geralt wants to make home inside this moment, but only until he feels bare skin gently press against his shoulder. 

Jaskier’s hand moves up and down a couple of times. ‘Okay?’ he asks, as if Geralt would ever ask for more. He nods nonetheless, and Jaskier’s hands start mapping his shoulders, massaging gently where he feels a tense muscle. Geralt’s hands ball into fists under the surface of the water as he tries to hold back content groans. He doesn’t want to sound like a fucking animal, not when all they’re doing is bathing and touching lightly. 

Jaskier stops humming when his hands breach the surface of the water to rub at Geralt’s tummy. He throws his head back and finds himself almost cheek to cheek with Jaskier, who’s smiling lightly and breathing more easily than he has the entire time they’ve been in town. It unsettles Geralt greatly. 

‘The bed seems nice,’ Jaskier whispers into his hair. It makes goosebumps appear along Geralt’s arms, and the low growl underneath Jaskier’s usual tone makes his gut clench. He thinks Jaskier might even be able to feel it. He makes himself nod, yes, he want to satisfy Jaskier. That’s what this is about, after all, although he suspects the pleasure really is his, and not Jaskier’s, especially with those fingers tracing circles into his skin at the hip. He nods a couple more times, just to make sure Jaskier has caught the answer, and the touch finally disappears. 

‘Alright then, I’ll leave you,’ Jaskier sighs as he stands up, and leaves for the bed in the other room. The water seems to turn colder the minute Jaskier withdraws his touch. Geralt tells himself to cheer up. He can earn it, tonight. He can hold Jaskier until the morning, clutch onto his body like a drowning man, and he’ll be okay in the morning. 

When Geralt makes it into their room, there are candles lit in every corner, and the bed has got a blanket and a heavier quilt on it, too, which are both certainly luxuries, for Jaskier and his standards. Jaskier isn’t there, he’s probably taking a leak outside or making sure the bath is drained and taken care of, so Geralt sits on the bed and waits. He opts to keep his shirt on, but he doesn’t keep his breeches, studying a scar from a week ago that is now healed on his thigh. Jaskier tended to that, it healed so nicely. But there are some uglier ones, turning skin into a sort of thick shell. The one on his face feels like that, too. 

There is a polished piece of silver by one of the candlesticks, reflecting light back into the room and away from the wall. Geralt thinks back to the barmaid. She must be behind this, how good the rooms look. He regrets letting himself snap like that. 

The mirror keeps looking at him, so he rises from the bed, checking the door with a glance, and takes it. He sits back, the mirror on his thighs, and looks. He’s always been like this, or so it feels like. But ever since that first night with Jaskier, or maybe the morning, something has changed. He tries to see himself the way Jaskier sees him. He studies the reflection, baring his teeth. They’re a bit yellowish, he will admit. And sharp. He knows how to kiss and suck with them, but he knows Jaskier can feel them. And there’s fuzz peeking out of his shirt, which Jaskier seems to like, except in the light, one can see how terribly pale it is. It clashes with his bright eyes, his knotty hair. He must look and feel like an oversized stray cat. 

He’s still looking when Jaskier comes in. His strong back comes into view clad in a black shirt, white hair splayed over his shoulder blades. Jaskier thinks he looks lovely like this, half-undressed and soft from the bath. Geralt doesn’t even register him coming in, he’s so engrossed in whatever he’s studying on his thighs. Maybe he’s looking at his scars, as he’s recently started doing more frequently. It worries Jaskier, but he doesn’t know how to ask. 

Jaskier undressed on his way to Geralt, already delighted at the amount of light in the room. They’ve been fucking for months now and he hasn’t had the chance yet to really look at Geralt in this much light. Fucking glorious. 

He climbs onto the bed behind his witcher, hands hovering, keen to touch. But he’s not preoccupied with studying his own thighs for scarring. There’s a mirror on his thighs, reflecting the stoic face of the White Wolf back at them. 

‘Jaskier.’ He says, grip going white-knuckled on the mirror. Geralt is rarely startled. 

Jaskier points his chin at the now slightly raised mirror and Geralt’s gaze follows. They are both now in the reflection, one hair of white hair, long, the other short and brown and messy. One gaze warm, the other fresh. They go amazingly together. Jaskier smiles a little smile while Geralt stares. 

‘What are you thinking about?’ Jaskier says, dropping his gaze. It feels too heavy to hold it on their shared reflection right next to Geralt’s unyielding eyes. 

There is silence for a long while, and Jaskier studies Geralt’s thighs for him, since he’s busy looking in the mirror. There are a couple gashes on there that he was there for. He starts looking over them, the ones he knows by heart, when Geralt takes a breath. ‘You,’ he says. It takes a bit for Jaskier to realise. He’s thinking about Jaskier. 

Okay. Right. That’s…a thing. 

Jaskier wants to ask, he does. So many questions. What about me? Are you thinking about me in the mirror, the man so close to your reflection? 

‘What are you thinking?’ Geralt beats him to it. 

Jaskier’s eyes are still fixed on one of the bigger scar on his thigh. He places a tentative hand on top of it and looks up at Geralt. His knee brushes Geralt’s lower back, but Geralt doesn’t flinch away. 

‘This scar,’ he tells the truth, really, when you think about it. Geralt looks him in the eye, then at the place where his hand covers the white tissue. 

‘Remember how you got it?’ Geralt hums. ‘We went with Eskel,’ Jaskier drags his palm further up Geralt’s thigh, ‘I think about the two of you…how. How Eskel leaned into your side by the fire, while you rested. He touched your hair as I bandaged you up.’ 

Geralt hums again, and Jaskier knows that he’s pushing it, and he shouldn’t, but the words are out before he can stop them, before he can truly reconsider. He says, ‘I wonder why it is that you let him touch you like that, but not—not…me.’

Geralt goes completely still, gaze locked on his thigh. Jaskier withdraws his hand, clasps it over his mouth. He shouldn’t have said that. He goes to say, ‘Sorry, Geralt, I didn’t me—,’ but Geralt’s mouth moves first. 

‘You’re…repulsed?’

Jaskier’s world shatters. ‘I’m what?’

Geralt is still not moving, but he sighs, ‘You touch me in the night. You kiss me, and let me hold you. I know you do it for me, Jaskier. You never touch me in the daylight, never when you can—can see, uh. See me,’ his knuckles are white in his fists now, ‘And that’s okay. I know I don’t quite reach your standards, but. But I won’t inconvenience you,’ The last part is choked out, Geralt’s jaw set tight. 

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier whispers, ‘I didn’t know. I thought…Well, I thought.’ 

He decides, then. He pushes and pulls on Geralt until he settles against the headboard, and Jaskier climbs into his lap. Geralt looks at him, and his eyes are glazed over. 

‘Geralt, love. I see you. I’ve always seen you, in every dark corner, in every thick forest, I always see you. I know what you look like. Know your hair, know your scars, know your teeth. I want them. Please, Geralt?’ And Geralt’s tears are beginning to spill, but he’s not moving and Jaskier is getting desperate, ‘Can I have that? Please? Can I hold you?’

Geralt nods frantically. Jaskier cups his jaw and swipes at his tears. ‘Can you show me how you want to be touched, love?’ he whispers. 

Geralt reaches towards his cheek and takes Jaskier’s hand. He intertwines their fingers. 

‘In public?’ Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods, says, ‘Please.’ And then he places a soft palm against Jaskier’s cheek, presses a kiss to his temple. He leans forward and hugs Jaskier. He repeats his plea a couple times, until he settles with his lips over Jaskier’s. 

‘Say it,’ he says, ‘Can I have you?’

Jaskier presses kisses to his jaw, ‘You have me, you have me, you have me.’ 

Geralt receives the kisses, the praise that night, and as he settles, Jaskier on his chest, he allows himself tentative hope that they’ll wake like that in the morning. He kisses Jaskier’s forehead and settles, eye catching that mirror, and thinks vaguely as he drifts off, we looked good together.

#I really don't know if this is good or not but am happy I actually wrote it hah #sex ment #self image issues #of the massive variety #self worth issues #geraskier #goldandlights

[anna-pixie]

safe passage -> the witcher {part one}

This is going to be quite a long series - hopefully! Let me know if you’d like more parts :)

Summary: Your parents have married you off to the prince of a far away town, but to get there you need to pass through some trecherous lands. Your father hires a Witcher and his bard to assure your safe passage. When feelings get involved, what could possibly go wrong?

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: None

“The next time I see you, you’ll be a proper woman.” Your mother blubbers, grasping one of your hands in her own as she cries. You pull yourself from her gasp with a roll of your eyes, still sour due to the fact they were pawning you off for their own gain. 

“That’s if I ever do see you again. Who’s to say he won’t keep me locked in that tower of his forever?” Your voice is sharp as you spit the words, turning away from your parents sorrowful gazes and heading towards the carriage waiting for you. 

Your wrist is snatched quickly and you’re turned back, your father's eyes glaring into your own, “You’d best hope this attitude is fixed by the time you reach your new home. A month on the road should be plenty of time for you to really understand why we did this. We’ve paid the Witcher his coin already, he is waiting in the carriage and will assure your safe passage to Vizima.”

“I hope he lets me die on the way there.” Are the parting words you utter to your father, who releases your arm with a resigned huff. You pick up the bottom of your pink gown as you step into the spacious black carriage, not bothering to glance at the man who already resides in there. 

Your mother waves at you once more, whilst your father signals to the rider that it is time to leave, and the carriage rolls on slowly as you leave your life behind. Tears prick your eyes and you sigh sadly, finally looking forwards at the hulking man sat across from you, a smaller man that you hadn’t even noticed sat next to him. 

You had never seen a Witcher before in person, but their reputation precedes them - this one in particular. You’ve heard of the inhumanly large man, with hair the colour of pure silver and eyes like a cat - but it is the wolf pendant hanging around his neck that really tips you off. You’re sitting in a carriage with the white wolf himself. Geralt of Rivia, or as he is more commonly referred to, the Butcher of Blavikken. 

And, oh, the stories must have failed to mention that he may be the most attractive man on the continent. He observes you with his bright eyes, his chiseled jaw clenched as his fingers tap against his large thigh. 

“I’m Jaskier, you must be Princess Y/N!” The smaller man greets you, a wide smile on his mouth as he extends his hand towards you. Although your aim was to not get along with your carers, to anger them until they left you to die in the forest, you can’t help but smile warmly at the man in a blue ensemble, shaking his hand gently. 

“It’s a pleasure, Jaskier. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

The man furrows his brows at you, “Better circumstances? We’re delivering you to your new husband! A prince! Shouldn’t you be happy?”

“I should. It’s a princesses duty to accept her husband with happiness no matter if it is her choice to do so.” You reply, a tight smile on your face as Jaskier takes in your words. Your eyes travel to the man next to him who has remained silent, his yellow gaze fixed on you, unnervingly so. 

Your body heats and you squirm a little, looking out of the window to escape his suffocating gaze. 

“Is that why you hope for me to let you perish on our journey?” The butcher speaks, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest. Your breath catches in your throat at the sound of it, it’s so raw, so dark and masculine. You’ve never heard anything like it. 

“Oh, you heard that.” A blush coats your cheeks, and the younger man begins laughing while the white wolf merely continues gazing at you. 

The corner of his lip quirks up ever so slightly, “Your father paid us a hefty sum, with even more promised once we deliver you to his highness. Forgive me, princess, but I cannot let you perish, even if that may be your wish.”

“Perhaps I will just have to outsmart you then, run away.” You jest, although a wry smile coats your mouth as you realise you will never be able to outrun a Witcher, there is really no point even bothering. 

“I’d love to see you try, princess.” 

The next few hours is spent with Jaskier trying to get to know you, and by the time you’ve stopped to set up camp for the night you feel as though you’ve been well and utterly interrogated. 

“And then as I was jumping out of the tower, the needle caught on my leg, went all the way through.” Jaskier’s face is pale, and you smirk as you show him the scar on your shin, letting this be your revenge for his incessant questions. 

“Forget I even asked.” He pretends to gag, leaving you giggling to yourself while he exits the carriage. 

“Impressive, you’ve shut the bard up for a while.” Geralt comments whilst returning to help you climb out of the carriage. You take his hand and jump, gulping when his other hand rests on the back of your waist, steadying you. 

“I have two younger brothers, I’m quite well versed in how to deal with an annoyance.”

“Hmm,” He observes you, his hand lingering for a moment, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“I’ve never been this far out of the city before.” You think outloud as you gaze around the tranquil clearing, watching Jaskier drink from an almost too-blue lake. The unnamed carriage driver slumps against a tree, a hood covering his head while he takes a nap. There is a calming breeze in the air, the thin tree branches swaying and rustling, “It’s so peaceful.”

“Don’t get fooled into a false sense of security. There is a reason you were never allowed out of the city, monsters lurk everywhere, even in the most tranquil places.” Geralt’s eyes dart around while he speaks, like he has just reminded himself that he needs to check for potential dangers. 

You observe him as his nose scrunches ever so slightly. Is he trying to sniff out the monsters?

“Witcher’s have increased senses,” Jaskier speaks, startling you as he appears beside you silently, “Smell, taste, hearing, you name it he’s got it.” 

“That’s amazing.” You’re awestruck as you watch him slink around the nearby trees, hopefully determining that this is a good enough place to spend the night. 

“I tend to forget that one too many times, run my mouth when Geralt annoys me not realising he can hear everything I’m saying.”

“Well, if we need to run our mouths during this month we’ll make sure to do so far away.” You joke, sending a joking glance towards the laughing bard. Your head snaps forward when you hear a low chuckle, and you realise with a groan that Geralt had been listening in on your conversation. 

“See what I mean?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, heading to grab the tents from the back of the carriage when Geralt gives him an approving nod. 

You lounge back, leaning on a thick tree bark whilst the two men construct the tent, under the shade of two large trees. You look over to the carriage driver, still asleep under the tree adjacent to your own. You don’t know the man, your usual driver remained in the city, continuing to serve your parents whilst they hired a replacement to take you to your new husband. 

Your eyes catch the end of a scar peeking out of his black sleeve and your brows furrow as you look at it, your gaze travelling back up again expecting to see the driver sleeping peacefully, but you instead catch his dark gaze peering back at you. 

A smile crawls up his lips but before you can dwell on it too much, your attention is stolen by Geralt who places a large hand on your shoulder. You can’t help but shiver at the feeling of his warm skin through your thin dress, looking up at him with a curious gaze. 

“We have two tents. Jaskier, the driver and myself will take one - apparently it’s not … “lady-like” for you to lay with men you’re not betrothed to.” His tone is sardonic, clearly not agreeing with the strange marital traditions of upper society. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” You smile at him, shuffling behind him as he leads you to the small white tent in which you’ll be sleeping. 

You’re on your knees, about to crawl into the tent when Geralt’s voice stops you once more, “We won’t spend every night on the floor, princess, we’ll take some care to stop at inns. Your fathers request.”

“Oh how lovely of him to ensure I have a comfortable place to lie whilst I wait to be sold off like a prized pig.” You mutter quietly, turning away from Geralt before you can catch the way his stoic face drops for a moment as he gazes at your retreating figure. 

You decline Jaskier’s invitation for you to join them in eating that evening, you’d been thrown a leaving banquet the night before and still felt stuffed. You can hear the low chatter of the men whilst you toss and turn, waiting for sleep to overtake you. 

Slowly falling into a slumber, you can just about make out the shadow of a man standing outside of your tent, unmoving as they seem to just stare at you. In your drowsy state, you don’t think twice about this, simply groaning to yourself before falling into a restless sleep.

#geralt x reader #geralt x oc #geralt x you #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia x oc #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia #geralt x ofc #the witcher #the witcher imagine #witcher imagine

[purplesauris]

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. 

This time, when Geralt heads down the mountain he’s the last to leave. While Vesemir has never said no to the guests they show up with, something in him hesitates to bring Jaskier here. He’s opulent, almost garishly so, and revels in the finer things when he manages to drag Geralt into a town bigger than the backwater villages they frequent. So he may or may not spend some extra time making up the guest room, Vesemir watching and putting Geralt to work until he finally leaves.

He heads for town after staying that extra week, hurrying a bit more than usual down the mountainside. He doesn’t want to miss their meeting, though he’s definitely going to be late, or else he isn’t sure he'll find the bard this year. He’s a days travel away from Oxenfurt when he’s stopped by a woman on the road, begging for someone to find her husband. She claims he was dragged off into the woods, and promises ample payment, and Geralt is unable to say no. Coin can be hard to come by, especially in the spring when so many monsters are still thawing out.

He brings her back to her village and gives strict instructions to watch his horse and watch her well. If he comes back to Roach missing, he says, there will be more problems than a missing husband to contend with. With Roach guaranteed safe Geralt treks into the forest, following the path that the wife relayed to him on the way back to the village. He finds the husband without much difficulty, shacked up in an abandoned hunting cabin with two other tittering, intoxicated women. The sight of Geralt stops their celebration, and one of the women screams, throwing her half full bottle at him. It crashes against the doorframe, shattering and spewing wine against his leg. He wrinkles his nose, looking at the three before him and doing his best not to flinch when they scream at the sight of him.

“Your wife is waiting.”

“M-me wife?” He nods, crossing his arms and tipping his head back toward town. The man goes with little convincing, stumbling past and shaking like a deer. 

“P-please, we didn’t- didn’t know he were married, honest.”

“Somehow I doubt that. I’m not here to meddle, just find him. You live in the same village?” One of them nods, the one who threw the wine bottle, and Geralt sighs. “Sober up a bit before heading back, or they’ll know you were together.”

“Right, course.” The witcher stands there for another awkward minute before grunting and leaving out the way he came. He takes his time going back, knowing there’ll be a story spun and not feeling particularly inclined to dispute it. Despite the obvious lack of monsters, Geralt can tell there was activity, once. He can smell an old nekker nest a quarter mile from the hut, but nothing has used it in ages. There were also animal tracks, but nothing more than a couple of wolves, if he were to guess by the lack of rabbits about.

He gets Roach and double the payment the wife had offered when he gets back, the husband thanking him profusely for saving him. His wife hangs off his side the whole time, teary eyed with relief. Geralt leaves out of the village astride Roach, intent on traveling through the night to get to Ja- Oxenfurt. The contract took up more time than he would have liked, and he wonders how long Jaskier will wait before giving up on him. Roach isn’t one to complain about the long night, and by the time they get into the city Geralt has slid from her back to lighten her burden. He finds the tavern on memory alone, and spends some time brushing and getting Roach settled in the stables before finally heading inside to hope they have a room. The sky hadn't begun to lighten yet, but dawn isn't far off, and Geralt desperately needs some sleep 

He reeks of booze, but the barkeep doesn’t care and says nothing when Geralt asks for whatever ale they’ve got that isn’t made with river water. He takes his usual spot in the back, tossing a look around the bar for a bright doublet or a flash of blue eyes, but either he isn't here or he's asleep. Geralt drinks himself into a light buzz and eats whatever stew is bubbling over the fire before going to get a room upstairs for the night. He tries to spend as much time as he can in the main room, but the room is quiet for once, devoid of it’s usual rabble.

He’s halfway down the hall when he smells the faint scent of sweat, lavender and a hint of chamomile, Geralt stopping and dragging in a deep breath. He follows his nose easily, backtracking to the room right next to the stairs. The scent in the hall is stale, but if Jaskier hasn’t been out since last night that would account for it. He wants to knock, to try the knob and show himself in, but that feels like too much a breach of privacy, and Geralt is too tired to think straight anyhow. He retreats to his room, shaking his head and berating himself. Jaskier is here, that much he knows, so all he has to do is go down sometime around dinner, where Jaskier will most likely be entertaining for his room and board. The plan is a good one, he thinks, and he props his swords up by the bed and lights the hearth with a twitch of his fingers. His armor comes off in pieces, left on the table in the corner of the room, his clothes following. He crawls into bed only after examining the sheets closely. Clean, thankfully.

Geralt is stretched out, languishing in a patch of sunlight a few hours later and wondering if he should try to sleep more when he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs. Geralt frowns, hand wrapping around the dagger under his pillow as the footsteps draw closer and closer. His grip tightens, pupils constricting to ease the shift of light as he watches the door. 

The knob turns in slow motion, and the scent of sun- warmth and lavender hits him like a ton of bricks. He doesn't have time to do more than sit up in bed before Jaskier is slipping into the room, ducking and looking around frantically. He knows Geralt's first instinct is to throw his knife it seems. His eyes skim over Geralt's armor and the fire burning low in the hearth before he finally spots Geralt, motionless on the bed, dagger peeking out from under his pillow. Geralt hears Jaskier's heart stutter in his chest, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Geralt!" Jaskier closes the door fully, grinning and padding over as Geralt swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He's about to get up when Jaskier surges forward, throwing his arms around the witcher's neck and squeezing him tight. Geralt goes still, eyes wide, before allowing himself a moment to enjoy and take in the bard. The warmth that seeps through his doublet, and the stronger lavender scent that Geralt inhales when he buries his face in Jaskier's hair is like being home again. He wraps an arm around Jaskier, holding him against his chest and squeezing gently. They stay like that for a minute, then two, Geralt refusing to be the one that pulls away first this time. Finally Jaskier seems to have had enough, because he pulls back, eyes misty and a wry smile on his face.

"You're late."

"Surprised you're here." He replies, and honestly he is. He's more than a little late.

"Where else would I be?"

He shrugs, not sure what to say to that, and Jaskier smiles fondly. "They told me a big brute with white hair came through early this morning. I would have come in earlier, if I'd felt inclined to nurse a stab wound."

Geralt huffs a small breath at that- it's as close as he'll get to a laugh this early, or late he supposes, in the day. He's fully awake now, but his muscles are loose and the scent and sight of Jaskier close has him relaxing, leaning back on a hand. He watches Jaskier puttering around, exploring the new armor he'd had crafted on the way up the mountain and looking at the clasps closely. He glances over at the bed, blue eyes curious, and raises a brow. "Good winter?"

Geralt shrugs, pulling the dagger from under his pillow and rising to his feet. "Mhm. You?"

"It was fantastic, if I'm honest. I'll tell you more on the road." Geralt takes that as his cue to get dressed, and he gently nudges Jaskier out of the way to do so. 

                                                       -*-

Something had happened to Geralt. He wasn't sure what- he couldn't see any visible change, no knock to the head or magical influence, but something had changed. Jaskier hadn't been able to help himself when he found Geralt in the tavern, hair mussed from sleep and golden eyes vulnerable to whatever emotions played through his head. He hadn't expected Geralt to reciprocate the hug, allow it even, but he'd squeezed them close together and Jaskier's heart had soared at the contact. 

He wasn’t much different on the Path, though. They still bounced from town to town, taking whatever pickings there were. Geralt was stricter on the bounties though, asking for larger sums than he had before. Despite it, when they agreed and stiffed him later he didn’t raise a hand. Instead, he seemed pleased with himself, and took the coin that they did offer. He also stayed away from towns if he could absolutely help it. He isn’t sure if the long winter made Geralt more skittish or he just doesn’t want to, but Jaskier tries his best not to complain. 

They spend much of the year this way, pushing hard and taking any contract they can find. Jaskier will play for the bigger villages and stay back at camp mending when he has nothing else to offer. He becomes startlingly proficient with starting a fire no matter how wet the surroundings, and his game trapping could actually carry the both of them through the empty nights where they would have had nothing before. Through all of it, Jaskier finds himself happier than he was during the winter. They talk more, or at least Jaskier gets more replies instead of dead silence. A hum here, a nod and Geralt’s pretty cat eyes locking with his to let him know he’s paying attention. If Geralt sees the way he preens under the attention he doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t stop either. Fall has come early this year and sunk claws into the land, and all around them is the smell of decaying leaves. It's Jaskier’s favorite and least favorite time of the year.

“We’re stopping in Novigrad.” Jaskier perks up at the first words Geralt has spoken today, smiling. 

“Finally decided you missed the comforts of a bed, hmm?”

Geralt hums, tugging on Roaches reins to keep her from straying toward a particularly green patch of grass. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” Geralt nods, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Jaskier thinks he spies a bit of pink to Geralt’s cheeks, but he just swings his lute up into his arms and begins to practice. He’s going to need money to spend in Novigrad, after all.

                                                         -*-

Jaskier navigates the streets of Novigrad like he was born here; with a drunklike stagger and a grin on his face. He winks and waves at any strumpet that walks by, and laughs when Geralt tells him to stop teasing them. They stop in the main square to check out the notice board, and Geralt sighs out a heavy breath at what he finds. 

“Something good?” Jaskier peers over the man's shoulders, up on tiptoes and wanting to see what could possibly make Geralt excited. Because he’s almost certain that’s what that noise means, and he happens to be an expert on his witcher by now. 

“Something dragging townspeople away.”

“Drowners?”

Geralt shakes his head, and leaves it at that. He goes to see the soldier who posted the report, and tells Jaskier to get comfortable at the inn. He’s expecting it to be a long hunt, based on the bodies alone, and he doesn’t expect he’ll be back for a couple of days. Jaskier doesn’t like it, but that night he plays in the Kingfisher, and makes enough coin to pay for their room three times over. As he does the next night, and the next night after that. 

Jaskier is nursing a hangover in bed on morning three alone when the door to the room swings open, slamming into the wall. He groans at the noise and influx of light, but the sight of Geralt stops him short. He looks… bad, for lack of a better word. 

The sight is enough to have Jaskier stumbling out of bed, closing the door behind the witcher and hurrying with sleepy fingers to get the clasps to his armor undone. Geralt’s eyes are hazy with fatigue, and he doesn’t say a word when his armor drops in pieces onto the ground. Blood stains every inch of his clothing, and Jaskier has no clue what’s his and what could be the monsters. Fear shoots through him, cold and slimy, and he shudders at the thought of Geralt out there alone. Jaskier calls for a bath and a meal, picking all of the armor up and depositing it with the rest of their stuff. His armor seems to be intact, and the only blood is on his gauntlets and greaves. Whatever soaked into his clothes must be dead. 

In the time it took for Jaskier to tidy up  Geralt has stripped down and tossed his clothes into the fire. He doesn’t seem to care about trying to salvage them, and Jaskier frowns at the waste. Bloody grooves slash over the scars littering Geralt’s back and chest, and he can see two neat puncture wounds scabbing over on the meat of Geralt's shoulder. 

“Shit Geralt, what the devil happened? What was the contract for?” Geralt doesn’t seem to hear him, staring glassily at the fire. Jaskier’s chest tightens, a lump forming in his throat. He’s never seen Geralt like this after a hunt. The tub and food are brought up quickly, and he drags it in himself, sending the attendant away. He doesn’t need anyone else seeing a naked, wounded witcher in his room. He’s not sure what Geralt would do to anyone else who saw him this way anyway. “In the tub.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier walks over, taking Geralt’s hand in his. The older man pulls in a breath as if starved of air, and his pupils are tiny slits as he stares at the point of contact. “C’mon love, lets get you cleaned up.”

This way, holding onto Geralt in some capacity, is the only way that Geralt seems to be able to focus. He hisses at the first contact of the hot water, but Jaskier uses a firm hand on his shoulder to keep Geralt from escaping. He uses the best washcloth they have to gently wipe him down, dabbing at the worst of the cuts and frowning at their jagged edges. The water goes murky and then pink as he works to get the witcher as clean as he can. Once he’s satisfied he leaves Geralt to soak for a moment, digging through their packs until he finds a small round bottle, a red band wrapped around the neck. Swallow. Relief washes through him, and he hurries back to Geralt, pulling the stopper and holding it to Geralt’s lips. 

“Drink.” Geralt presses his lips together, twitching away from the bottle, and Jaskier frowns. He takes hold of Geralt’s chin, holding him still, and moves the vial closer again. “Don’t be an ass, or I’ll let those cuts get infected.”

Geralt’s pupils are still miniscule, and if he didn’t know better he’d think that the man was high on something. They stare at each other, Jaskier’s grip tightening bit by bit until Geralt’s hand comes up, taking the vial and tipping it back into his mouth. Jaskier takes the now empty vial and tucks it back away, taking a deep breath to hide the shaking of his hands. Water splashes behind him, and he has to avert his eyes at the sight of Geralt standing up and getting out of the water. The potion must be working, because even though he’s sluggish, he’s moving and acting better than before. He dries off with stiff movements, and grunts before collapsing onto the bed. 

“Are you going to eat or sleep?” Geralt’s stomach growls loudly at the mention of food, and Jaskier gives a shaky smile. This, he knows better. He grabs the tray of food and moves back to the bed, humming a soft tune. “Move over.”

Geralt groans but wiggles his way over, allowing Jaskier to clamber up on his knees and tuck himself next to Geralt on the bed. Jaskier drags the nightstand a bit closer and sets down the tray as Geralt settles his head in Jaskier’s lap. He isn’t sure what to do with that, but Geralt holds his hands out for something to eat and Jaskier gives him what’s easiest. Fruits first, then the cheese and bread, and by the time he’s finished all that, even Jaskier can see that sleep is dragging at him. He’s expecting Geralt to move once he’s eaten his fill, but he merely stops asking for food and closes his eyes, his breathing settling down almost immediately. Already the cuts on his chest are sealing shut and fading, and something lightens in Jaskier's chest. He knows Geralt will be okay, he came back relatively whole, but the glassy, lost look sticks in the back of Jaskier’s mind. He’s stuck here for another few hours at least while Geralt sleeps, so he settles in for the long haul and closes his eyes. He trails fingers through Geralt’s hair, messing with the soft strands and gently tugging at any knots he finds. 

Jaskier’s headache is gone when he jolts awake later, snorting and blinking his eyes open. The fire in the hearth has burnt to embers, but Jaskier is pleasantly warm even without the covers over him. When he looks down at Geralt he finds golden eyes staring back, and he huffs. He’s being watched quietly, a contemplative look on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Come north with me.” That’s about the last thing that Jaskier had expected, and he chokes on a breath, leaning away to cough and thump at his chest.

“Pardon? I don’t think I heard you right, because the Geralt I know would never ask that. You are Geralt, aren’t you? Not a doppler in disguise?”

The man in his lap wrinkles his nose in such a distinctly Geralt way that though he doesn’t say it, Jaskier believes him already. “No. The potion would have killed me.”

“Ah, so has a grievous head wound occurred?”

“I’m serious.” Jaskier laughs, shaking his head in disbelief, but Geralt is still looking at him with that same contemplative look. “You don’t have to.”

“Of course I’m going. When do we leave?”

“Soon.” 

                                                         -*-

Soon ends up being by the weeks end, once Geralt is sure Jaskier has warm enough clothes. Jaskier had objected at first; he’s weathered many a winter with what he has, but Geralt insists. Jaskier isn’t sure how they’re going to be able to pay for all of the clothes Geralt tells the tailor they need, but Geralt pays down to the last crown without complaint and without letting Jaskier help. Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that all Geralt’s higher bounties had been an excuse to get the original sum without complaint. Once they get all they need and load Roach up, there’s nothing stopping them from heading out of Novigrad and toward Kaedwen.

Jaskier has never been this far north, though he’d always dreamt of going to Zerrikania or seeing the valley of Dol Blathanna for himself. He entertains himself with thoughts of far off lands while they trek through the forest, and eventually, rising toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Geralt had warned him before they left that the path up the mountain was dangerous, and that if Jaskier didn’t listen to him he was unlikely to survive the journey up, let alone back down. It wasn’t hard at first, though- it was as if they were on their way to another town for a contract. He’d kept telling himself that even as the terrain got rougher and the air biting cold. 

They’re stopped for the night, huddled around a fire that Jaskier hasn’t left since Geralt made it when he speaks. He hasn’t talked much since they got well into the mountains, finding he needed his breath more than they needed conversation. 

“I feel as though I’m going to shake my way off the mountain. How do you stand this- this cold?”

“Told you.” 

“Yes, well, remind me never to doubt you again about anything weather related. When will it snow again, by the way?”

Geralt pauses then, looking up toward the sky and sniffing before replying in perfect deadpan. “Two hours.”

Jaskier smiles fondly, rolling his eyes and going to tuck himself away in his bedroll for the night. He doesn’t give Geralt the satisfaction of a reaction when snow begins to fall almost exactly two hours later.

                                                        -*-

When they finally crest the peak and Kaer Morhen comes into view, Jaskier thought he couldn’t get anymore out of breath. The sight of the keep nestled with its back against the mountain steals whatever air is left in his lungs, and he has to pause to take it all in. Parts of the outer wall are crumbling and he can see an entire side of the keep has collapsed in, but it cuts an imposing figure all the same. Almost more so for what Jaskier can see it’s survived. Like Geralt, the keep has seen more than most would ever know, and carries the battle scars to prove it.

“It’s… breathtaking.” He admits, looking back to find Geralt watching him, a small smile on his face. He doesn’t have any words to truly describe how he feels right now, but Geralt has never needed words, and he can see the understanding in the witcher’s eyes. He’s just as affected by the sight of his home, and he can’t imagine how homesick Geralt must feel climbing the path up to the mountain, or the relief at finally being here. “C’mon Geralt, let’s go see your home.”

Geralt nods, and they descend into the valley, Geralt letting Jaskier run a few paces ahead, breath puffing out ahead of him and ears red from the cold. He keeps a close eye out for any monsters that Vesemir hasn’t had a chance to come out and get, but the way to the entrance is blissfully clear. The gates are open when they finally make it, and two figures stand, arms crossed with twin swords on their backs. Jaskier slows his pace, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting Geralt’s family. He’s never been to Geralt’s home or met his family, and suddenly he finds himself doing both. He smoothes a hand over his hair, hoping it isn’t too messy, and straightens his cloak a bit.

“I look okay, don’t I?” He looks toward Geralt for an answer, but a slightly higher voice calls out over the distance. 

“Hurry it up you slow bastard! I’m freezing my ass off over here.” He hears Geralt growl and mutter something under his breath, but Jaskier raises a hand and waves to the two witchers waiting for them.

“Who do we have here? A paramour of yours?” Jaskier doesn't react to the phrasing, instead glancing to see how Geralt will react. He tries not to let his heart hurt over the fact that Geralt would never think that way. 

“You know who he is.” Geralt grits out, glaring at the witcher before him. He’s a bit shorter than the others, hairline receded further back and nose hooked, broken at least twice. Despite that, he’s not bad to look at, and Jaskier mentally makes a note to try and meet an ugly witcher. Jaskier looks between the two obviously feuding witchers, noting the tension and seeking some way to break it. The other witcher though, stands there peacefully, as if he were used to this as an everyday occurrence. He’s handsome, though Jaskier is beginning to think all witchers are. Three wicked scars slash down the right side of his face, and that tickles at his memory. Jaskier stops for a moment, frowning, before a grin splits his face and he reaches out to take the man by the arms. He holds him still, looking him over, and laughs. Both Geralt and the unnamed witcher go still, watching the casual touch with barely concealed interest.

“Eskel! I should have known you were a wolf! I must have been drunker than I thought that night!” Eskel smiles, the scars bisecting his lips tugging with the movement, and draws Jaskier into a tight hug. It only lasts a moment, but Jaskier is rosy cheeked and bright eyed with excitement. Something twists inside Geralt at the sight, and he clenches his teeth together to keep from saying anything stupid. 

“Good to see you again, Jaskier. The academy treating you alright?”

“Well they weren’t too happy to lose a professor for the winter, I can tell you that. Oh! Geralt, why didn’t you tell me Eskel was your brother?” Jaskier turns those blue eyes on him, and Geralt just shrugs, unsure of what to say.

“You didn’t tell him?” Jaskier looks over at the other man, and raises a brow when Geralt snarls loudly. “Did he tell you about me at least?”

Jaskier looks the third man up and down once, glances toward Geralt, and then shakes his head. “Must not have been important.”

“Not been- Oh, I like this one Geralt. I’m hurt you haven’t brought him sooner.”

“Lambert.” Geralt’s voice is full of warning, but Lambert gives a tooth filled grin and motions for them to actually come into the keep. 

“Let’s stop standing around, your bard has a tour to get to and Vesemir has a thousand bullshit tasks for us to get done. I tell you, the old man had a list written down before I even stepped my ass into the courtyard.” 

Lambert takes off at a brisk pace, seeming more inclined to get out of the cold than chat anymore, and everyone else follows him. They pass through the training grounds first, leaving Roach at the stable, and Jaskier doesn't object when his arms are filled with a pack or two. He just shoulders the weight and trails along behind, eyes wide and flying to take in every detail he can. Geralt lingers behind a bit, occasionally pointing out a small detail Jaskier hadn't noticed yet, warmth blooming in his chest at the smile Jaskier gives in return.

"Is he always like that?" Jaskier leans over to whisper, eyeing the back of the grumpy witcher's head.

"Wait until Vesemir gets him going." Jaskier snickers, bumping their shoulders together lightly. His cheeks are red from the cold, and he's glad for the ability to hide his blush for once. 

Jaskier wants to stop and look at everything as they head for the keep, but Geralt takes him gently by the elbow to keep him going. He would fight the grip, but Geralt reassures him he'll have plenty of time to explore while they're snowed in. For now, Geralt is obviously itching to get settled and see his brothers. So Jaskier tells himself to be patient, and doesn't voice any objections to their pace. He's going to have plenty of time to overturn every stone. Lambert and Eskel break off when they finally step inside the keep, giving Geralt a look before making a beeline for where a round of Gwent seems to have been abandoned. 

"How did they know to stop and come out?" He doesn't realize he's voiced it aloud until Geralt answers, shrugging and heading for the far side of the room. 

"Witcher senses."

"They can't be that good." 

"They are!" Lambert calls after them, voice resounding through the room and bouncing off the walls. Jaskier scowls, throwing a dirty look toward the eavesdropping witcher before retreating into the next room. Geralt leads them up to where the guest bedroom is, pausing on the landing before the door. For the first time in years, Jaskier thinks that Geralt looks nervous. 

“Is this mine?” He asks softly, not wanting to spook him but eager to look around. Geralt blinks a couple of times, swallows, and then nods. The sight of Geralt nervous is rather endearing, and Jaskier falls for him a bit harder. “Well, show me in, dear witcher.”

Geralt twists the knob and pushes the door open, stepping inside and out of the way. Jaskier follows behind him, stopping in the doorway as he sweeps the room with a first cursory glance. It’s slow, but Jaskier’s bright eyes soften, and a smile curls at the corners of his lips. A large fireplace is tucked against the far wall, near it a bed that clearly hasn’t been touched in many, many years. The blankets seem a bit threadbare, but Jaskier bets they’re warm, and he could go for a good nap right now, if he’s honest. Old velvet, deep red and trimmed in gold hangs from the ceiling along the walls, making the room seem warmer than it actually is. The middle of the room is dominated by a fur carpet, and a wooden table is shoved into one corner, two stools tucked underneath.

“It isn’t much.” Geralt mumbles, growing more and more restless the longer Jaskier stands and stares. Jaskier takes a couple more steps in, dumping his things on the bed and turning to Geralt. There are tears in his eyes, sticking to his lashes and slipping down his cheeks in shimmering streaks. Geralt reaches up to brush them away without a thought, thumb sweeping gently across sun kissed skin. “Jask-”

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier leans into Geralt's touch, reaching up to cradle his hand as he places a gentle kiss onto the calloused palm. Geralt’s whole hand tingles pleasantly at the contact, and he takes a step closer as Jaskier closes his eyes, sniffling softly. “You did all this for me?”

“You deserve it. To be comfortable. I know we live a little- rough.” He isn’t sure what else to say, is choking on the warmth and yearning and love rising in his chest. Jaskier’s eyes are made even more brilliant by his tears when he opens them again, and Geralt loses himself in them. They’re inches apart now, and Geralt’s nose fills with the scent of cold, lavender and that edge of chamomile. Jaskier looks at him, searching for something, and Geralt is about to do something very stupid when Jaskier does it first. He leans up, closing the space between them and gently pressing a warm kiss to Geralt’s lips. His touch is featherlight, like Geralt could break at any moment, and in a way he does. A dam fractures in his chest at the contact, and Geralt uses the hand still cradling Jaskier’s cheek to guide him closer as feelings he’d hidden deep away rage through him. 

Their lips press together harder, less hesitant, and Jaskier’s hands come up to curl in the edges of Geralt’s cloak. He presses himself up against Geralt, drawing him closer as their breath mingles and Geralt’s fingers tangle in his hair. Jaskier hardly knows where he begins and Geralt ends, and it isn’t until they hear a sharp whistle and an “Atta boy!” from the bottom of the steps that they break apart. Jaskier is breathing hard, and he laughs when Geralt growls, glaring toward the stairs. Jaskier tugs lightly on the cloak in his hands, and Geralt’s attention is drawn back as easily as that, golden eyes soft in the low light coming from the hall. 

“You know, if I’d known this would happen when you brought me to visit, I would have insisted years ago.”

“Years?” Geralt hardly recognizes his own voice, rough and out of breath, and he leans to kiss the smile from Jaskier’s lips on instinct alone. Jaskier melts into the kiss, leaning heavily against Geralt. He slides his hands over Geralt's chest before pulling back and bumping his nose against Geralt's. 

“You’re very dense, when you want to be. I don’t normally nurse witchers back to health for fun, you know. Blood isn’t my strong suit, nor are monster guts. I’m not very inclined to write dozens of songs about them just because I like fame either, though the stories do make good coin.” Jaskier pauses, smiling when he feels a rumble vibrate under his hands. He goes on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on the corner of Geralt’s mouth in apology. “The fame is nice, I’ll admit. It makes it easier to travel with you, to provide something, even if it’s only songs that drive you mad.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier kisses him again, chuckling softly against his lips and just enjoying being close.

“I couldn’t agree more. Now, I know you’re eager to visit with your brothers, so go see them.” Geralt begins to protest, brow scrunching, but Jaskier silences him with a firm, hot kiss, and Geralt finds he’s rather enjoying being silenced like this. “You get to see me all year. They don’t. I’ve got some unpacking to do, and a nap to take. Come up later, if you’d like?”

“Mhm.” Though he’s still reluctant, he does as Jaskier asks, retreating back down the stairs with silent steps. Jaskier closes the door behind him and gets a fire roaring in the hearth, grinning like a fool. His whole body tingles, and he traces his lips with trembling fingers. He’s sure he’s going to wake up any minute, no matter how the cold pinches at his toes to tell him he’s really here. In Kaer Morhen, with a witcher who’s spent the better part of this year earning enough coin just to bring him home to his family. 

Jaskier putters around unpacking as he told Geralt he was going to, and once the room has warmed sufficiently he sheds his outerwear. The velvet helps trap the heat in surprisingly well, and when he peeks behind them he finds windows. The fur is soft under his feet as he digs through their packs, trying to find something to wear to nap in. Near the bottom of the pack is a white shirt, something Jaskier has never seen Geralt wear, but it’s soft and warm and smells like him. He slips it on without a second thought, swimming in the fabric, and then tucks himself into the bed for a nap. 

He’s woken up by the door clicking shut a little while later. There’s only one person he thinks that would come in without knocking, but for now he keeps his eyes shut and snuggles a bit deeper under the covers. He waits until he hears the soft clink of metal to open his eyes, and watches lazily as Geralt methodically strips out of his armor. His back is to the bed, and Jaskier enjoys the view more than he was allowed to before. When Geralt tugs his shirt over his head and glances over his shoulder, Jaskier doesn’t bother pretending to be bashful. His gaze is hungry as it trails over pale skin before meeting Geralt’s eyes, the man quirking a brow. Jaskier merely winks in response, warmth blooming in his chest at the soft chuckle he earns. 

“How are your brothers?”

“Nosy.” Jaskier rolls onto his back as his witcher pads over, sitting on the side of the bed and leaning down to kiss him softly. Jaskier reaches a hand up to thread his fingers in Geralt’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and tasting the sigh that brushes against his lips. Geralt shifts, turning himself so he isn’t quite so contorted, and Jaskier moves with him, sitting up and letting the blankets pool in his lap. Geralt uses a hand to steady Jaskier, fingers splaying against his ribs before they bunch in the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier hears Geralt’s breath stutter and catch in his throat, and the kiss moves from soft and sweet to heavy and hot. Geralt laps at his lips, nipping gently until Jaskier opens up. He’s swept away by the way that Geralt is able to use his tongue, and heat pools low in his belly at the implications of it. 

Jaskier’s side cramps with the way they’re sitting after a few blissful minutes, and he pushes the blankets back, breaking the kiss for a second to clamber into Geralt’s lap. Geralt scoots himself back a little bit, plants his feet better and grabs at Jaskier’s shirt again, yanking him close. Geralt leans up, trying to kiss him, but Jaskier smiles, taking a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging. The soft whine that he gets in response goes right to his groin, and he mouths at the sensitive skin just under Geralt’s jaw. When he nips at the skin, teases at leaving a mark Geralt’s whines again, arching his neck and pressing up into the touch. Jaskier can’t deny Geralt when he asks so nicely, and he kisses his way to a nice spot before digging his teeth in. His grip tightens in Geralt’s hair when Geralt’s hips buck, keeping himself from being displaced. The witcher keens needily underneath him, and Jaskier hums against his skin. Jaskier bites a bit harder before releasing and sucking at the mark, leaning back to admire his work. Witcher’s skin is hard to mark, but he's pretty proud of himself at the mark that he’s made. He leans down to add a couple more, enjoying the sounds that he coaxes out with each sharp point of pressure. 

Bruises bloom in a pretty arc of teeth marks, darkest purple in the middle and fading toward a lighter pink at the edges along the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt is panting, hands clenching and unclenching against Jaskier’s sides, and Jaskier brushes his thumb lightly over one of the marks. Geralt’s eyelids flutter at the feeling, and Jaskier shudders at the rush of power it brings him to see Geralt this way.

“What got you so worked up, love? Hmm?” Jaskier keeps constant contact with Geralt in some way, sitting in his lap and rolling his hips lazily as the man comes back to him slowly. He’s sure Geralt is back when he blinks rapidly, hands grabbing onto him and holding him still. Geralt rolls his neck, stretching to kiss Jaskier before answering.

“The shirt.” 

“Oh?” Jaskier purrs, rolling his hips down until Geralt tightens his grip again and presses him down firmly. Once Jaskier stops trying to move Geralt’s hands wander, skimming over Jaskier’s thighs and back up, hands sliding under Jaskier's shirt. Geralt's fingers tickle at the soft skin over Jaskier’s ribs before he brushes over one of Jaskier's nipples with the pad of his thumb. The younger man hums at the attention, draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and kissing the shell of his ear. “What about the shirt, Geralt?”

“S’mine.” Jaskier hums in encouragement, and Geralt shivers under him. “Makes you smell like me.”

“And you like that, don’t you? That all the others here know I’m yours?” The answering growl and roll of Geralt’s hips is all Jaskier needs, and he kisses just under Geralt’s ear, sucking at the sensitive skin until a faint mark blooms. “Geralt?”

“Mmm?” Geralt noses at Jaskier’s hair, breathing in softly as his hands wander once more, smoothing down Jaskier’s thighs. He isn’t wearing pants, and his smallclothes don’t hide anything and Geralt aches to touch. 

“Can I- can I touch?” Geralt grinds his hips up, shuddering when Jaskier gasps so close to his ear, and Geralt does it again just to hear Jaskier make that same sweet sound.

“Only if I can.” Jaskier surges forward to kiss him then, whispering ‘deal’ against his lips as he fumbles to open the fly of Geralt’s pants. Geralt falls back against the bed, taking Jaskier with him and never letting him stray too far. 

                                                       -*-

When Jaskier wakes up that next morning, he’s sore in ways he hasn’t been in months, and sated in a happy, boneless kind of way. Geralt is already up, no surprise there, and Jaskier groans, sitting up to get dressed. Geralt slips the shirt from last night on over his head, tugging his hair out of the collar and tucking the ends into his pants. It’s a bit rumpled, but Jaskier helps fix it as best he can while dressing himself for the day. He knows not to doubt how cold it is anymore, and dresses warmer than he would normally. Geralt waits patiently by the door, tying his hair back and holding a hand out to Jaskier once he’s got his boots on.

“Why are we up this early again?”

“Chores.” 

“Right, right.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and lets himself be guided, yawning and rubbing at his eyes down the stairs. He trusts Geralt enough not to let him fall, and together the two of them pad into the main hall. No one else seems to be around other than Eskel, toiling away in the kitchen, and though he eyes the bruises blooming along Geralt’s throat, he doesn’t comment. 

“Vesemir’s waiting for you outside. Jaskier, you’re with me.” 

“See you at breakfast.” Geralt presses a kiss into Jaskier’s hair before heading outside, leaving the bard and the other witcher alone. Jaskier wanders over, wringing his hands, and Eskel nods toward the space next to him.

“Roll up your sleeves, we’ve got bread to make.”

“Bread?” Jaskier does as he’s told though, and spends the better part of an hour learning the basics of doughworking from Eskel. Once they’ve got the bread in what Jaskier assumes is a huge version of a stereotypical stone oven Eskel has him wipe up and begin to cut up the vegetables they'll need for the day. Jaskier falls into the rhythm of work easily, moving past Eskel without crashing into him and tossing vegetables into a pot set to simmer over the fire until lunchtime. He even takes the time to tidy the kitchen up a bit until Lambert and Geralt come inside, shoving each other and laughing on their way to get food. Jaskier watches them fondly, snapping a spoon across Lambert’s knuckles when he tries to nose around the stew and shooing him away. Eskel gives him a proud smile and winks, heading off with his brothers to sit down and eat. 

Jaskier leans against the counter watching them for a moment, and jumps when he hears footsteps come up next to him. The witcher next to him has to be Vesemir, based on the grey hair and fact that the only other witchers here are all at the table in front of him. 

“So, you’re the bard he kept talking about, hmm?”

“And you’re Vesemir, his father?” Vesemir nods, arms crossed across his chest.

“Tomorrow morning, get up a bit earlier. The chickens need tending if we’re going to have enough meat and eggs for the winter.”

“Yes sir.” Jaskier is sincere, looking toward the witcher to find Vesemir looking back. He doesn’t feel trapped like he usually would; instead he finds it’s more like Vesemir is reading him, and hasn’t found anything particularly horrible yet. 

“Hey bard! Eat before everything gets cold.”

“Coming!” Jaskier turns to Vesemir to ask if he’s going to eat as well, but the older witcher has disappeared, and Jaskier blinks in confusion before grabbing himself a plate and going to join the others at the table. He settles himself on the bench next to Geralt and digs into his food, enjoying the fluffiness of the eggs and the lovely crust on the bread from yesterday. Jaskier is halfway through his plate when a sly look comes over Lambert’s face.

“So,” he begins, and Jaskier looks up. Lambert uses his fork to gesture toward Geralt, raising a brow. “Was that you?”

“Lambert.” Geralt starts, but Jaskier holds up a hand and Geralt goes blissfully quiet. 

“I would take care, Lambert.” 

“What, is it crime to wonder who made my brother's neck look like an ekimmara's amateur work?” 

“Unless I deign to tell you, I’d prefer if you keep your thoughts to yourself.” Jaskier’s eyes narrow minutely, and Eskel looks between the two of them. They’re two untested forces, and no one is sure who’s going to break first.

“What, can’t handle a few hard questions? If so, I’m surprised you made it up the mountain.” Jaskier stands up, pushing the table up against Lambert, and in spectacular form, punches him directly in the nose. Lambert goes crashing off of the chair and takes the table with him, swearing. Geralt stares, wide eyed at Jaskier with his fork still poised for a bite. Eskel had picked his plate up well before, and he's clutching it in mute shock as Lambert rages on the floor. He sits up, gripping his nose and shoving the table off of himself with the other hand. Eskel looks between his brother, then the bard, then back to his brother, and begins to laugh. Louder and louder until he’s doubled over trying desperately to pull in breaths between laughing at Lambert and telling him he finally got what he deserved. 

Jaskier shakes his hand out as Eskel laughs, blood staining his skin red. He stoops down and plucks a napkin from the table, using it to dab at his knuckles with mechanical indifference. There’s a messy crunch as Lambert rights his nose, and Eskel finally stops laughing long enough to help him off the floor. Geralt has abandoned his fork by now and comes to gently take the napkin from him, inspecting the skin carefully. Most of the blood seems to be Lambert's, but Jaskier has split two of his knuckles, and the skin around them is already bruising. 

Geralt wipes away the blood best he can and glances up at Jaskier when he flinches. "Okay?"

"Fine." Jaskier's voice is light, almost forcefully so, but he smiles wistfully when Geralt gently kisses the first knuckle, then the second. "You know that isn't sanitary."

"No, ancient magic. Mothers have used it for centuries." This makes Jaskier smile, genuine this time, and he grips Geralt's fingers weakly. Jaskier turns to Lambert, watching as he presses a napkin to his nose to staunch the rest of the bleeding. Geralt is ready to get between them if Lambert decides to be spiteful, but instead he sees something like respect in Lambert's eyes.

"You're alright, bard. You're alright. Never had a human knock me flat."

"Pray you don't see me angrier." Jaskier replies with deadly seriousness. This time it's apprehension that shines in Lambert's eyes, and he gives a curt nod.

While Geralt goes to get something for Jaskier's knuckles the bard helps right the table, picking up cups and plates off the floor. It's a good thing they don't seem fond of fine cutlery, or Jaskier would be picking shards of ceramic off the floor. Instead all he has to do is use another napkin to gather the eggs and bread off the floor and dispose of it. Lambert helps once his nose has stopped bleeding, and waves Jaskier off when Geralt comes back to finish tending to him. 

Jaskier follows Geralt a few steps away from the table, hopping to sit on the tabletop. Geralt nudges at his knee and steps easily between Jaskier's legs, taking hold of his hand again to look at it.

"In the hall, Geralt? You could at least wait until they'd left." The joke is weak but Geralt takes pity on him and chuckles, shaking his head. 

"I'm sure they know to respect your privacy now." Jaskier hmms at that, hissing when Geralt presses a thumb into the bones of his hand. They shift uncomfortably, but nothing moves out of place and Geralt seems pleased with that. Once he's certain Jaskier hasn't broken anything he smears a sharp, pungent salve over Jaskier's knuckles and uses a bit of cloth to bandage his hand. "Good as new. No lute today." 

Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses his injured hand to his chest. "Whatever shall I do without it? How else am I to write my newest ballad? 'The man who punched the Prick'?"

Geralt wrinkles his nose, and Jaskier nods sagely. "You're right, the name could use some work. Back to the drawing board I suppose." 

"Whatever you do, it'll have to be left handed." Jaskier winks, raising a brow, and Geralt snorts. He doesn't say it, but he gives Jaskier a look that says later. 

                                                          -*-

Jaskier fits himself into their routine without much of a fuss after that; he gets up to tend the livestock with Vesemir long before anyone else, and joins Eskel in the kitchen preparing the day's meals after he's done. After breakfast the boys head for the training grounds while Jaskier makes for the library where he pours over tomes no one has seen in decades and gathers information for his songs. Vesemir joins him when they're finished with training, and Jaskier spends an hour picking his brain before lunch. Despite his gruff exterior, Vesemir seems glad to have someone to talk to who doesn't try to piss him off. Lunch is a short affair, just a quick meal before everyone branches off to finish up final chores and take some time for themselves. Jaskier spends his time after lunch in the woods surrounding the keep, setting out traps for the smaller game and keeping Geralt close for anything bigger. Dinner is the longest affair of the night, where the ale is broken out and Lambert insists on at least three songs. The first time Jaskier had tried to sing Toss A Coin he'd been met by three golden glares, and hasn't touched the song since. That was fine though, because Jaskier had plenty to sing about and more that no one had ever heard yet.

It’s nearing the end of their first month that the keep seems to get busier than ever. The snow has fallen thick and there’s no more going out into the forest, so Jaskier spends most of his days stuck inside. The witchers still train despite the biting cold, and Jaskier insists on helping them clear the training grounds of snow when he has time. None of them will let him stay outside for more than an hour, not when he shakes the way he does even with three or four layers on. The other witchers seem to grow more distant too, as if the end of the month meant something that Jaskier wasn’t privy to.

They’re in bed after retiring early from dinner, Jaskier in one of Geralt’s shirts when Geralt tugs him a bit closer and tucks his nose into Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier hums softly, never glancing up from his book but reaching to take Geralt’s hand in his. 

“Hmm?” Neither of them need many words anymore, and Jaskier doesn’t want to break the cozy atmosphere they have by talking. Geralt presses a kiss against his temple, and Jaskier smiles. Geralt doesn’t seem to want to say anything either, he just seems to want to hold Jaskier a bit closer and smell his hair. They sit that way for a little while until Geralt sighs, tugging on his shirt and whining softly. Jaskier turns, kissing Geralt gently before going back to his book, but that doesn’t seem to sate him this time. He whines again, and Jaskier finally closes his book and tucks in on the floor under the bed. “Bed time?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier slides down further under the covers, bundling Geralt into his arms and closing his eyes. Geralt tucks his head under Jaskier’s chin, nose pressed against his collar bone, and throws an arm over Jaskier’s stomach. The fire in the hearth is still roaring merrily, but the light isn’t enough to bother either of them and Jaskier drifts off to sleep warm and cozy. 

A breeze rustles Jaskier’s hair later that night and he shivers, huddling under his covers to try and block out the cold. He’s almost drifted off to sleep again when he realizes there shouldn’t be a breeze at all, and he sits up in bed. Moonlight floods his room, washing out the color of the velvet and casting everything in stark contrast. The bed next to him is empty, the sheets cold, and Jaskier frowns. Where in the devil could Geralt have gone? 

The floor is icy when he slips out of bed, and he tosses a few more logs on the dying embers of their fire and hurries to yank on pants. He shoves his feet into his boots without socks and grabs whichever cloak is closest, which happens to be his. He heads out of his room with the singular task of finding where Geralt has gone, wrapping his cloak tight around him and shuffling down the steps. Geralt’s room a floor below his is empty, even more barren than he would have expected, so Jaskier carries on. He’s never been up this late in the night, and the keep is eerily silent without any arguing witchers or the crackle of a fire. He pops his head into the kitchen, thinking Geralt, with his bottomless stomach might have wanted a snack, but again he finds the room empty. 

He’s about to head up to the library when he hears wood splintering and cracking outside, and Jaskier is heading for the huge doors of the keep without a second thought. He wouldn’t be cutting wood would he? The barn out back is full up, and besides, why would he do it so late? Jaskier follows where he thinks the sound came from and trudges through a couple of inches of snow to the courtyard. He hears the sound again, and this time he can tell it’s coming from the training yard. He doesn’t bother being quiet, breaths puffing out in front of him as he pulls in sharp, jagged breaths. He didn’t dress to be outside long, if at all, and he hurries to the training grounds so he can get Geralt to come back to bed.

A snarl ripples through the air as Jaskier gets closer, and he stops at the low wall of the walkway to peer over the edge. He looks just in time to see Geralt toss both Eskel and Lambert off of him, the two witchers flying through the air and landing nimbly in the snow.  They charge back at him, and Geralt sweeps Lambert’s feet from under him, slamming the palm of his hand against Eskel’s chest. Eskel goes down wheezing, and Jaskier is running before he can think about what the hell is going on. He slips and slides down the path and rounds the corner into the training yard, staring in open mouthed horror as Lambert sends Geralt crashing into the scaffolding on the far side of the yard. Wood groans and cracks under Geralt’s weight, and judging by the damage it isn’t the first time he’s been tossed that way either. 

“Melitele's tits, stop.” His voice is shrill in the cold air and he’s beginning to lose feeling in his toes as he stands ankle deep in the snow. “What the hell are you guys doing out here?”

Three pairs of cat eyes lock on him at once and he gets three different kinds of growls. Lambert starts toward him, snarling when Eskel grabs his shoulder and digs his fingers in. Eskel hasn’t looked away from him, but his voice is rough and full of barely concealed rage. “Go inside.”

“What are you guys doing out here? Beating each other in the middle of the night? For what?”

“Jaskier, you don’t have much time. Go. Inside.” Eskel’s voice is strange, strangled and blurry. The witcher glances behind him, toward the sky, and Jaskier glances back too. The moon is huge and yellow and so, so impossibly close this high in the mountains. The sight would be mesmerizing if it weren’t for the snarl and feeling of something warm and very, very riled up emanating behind him. He swallows, heart fluttering in his chest, and turns around slowly to find Geralt inches from him. Jaskier relaxes a bit, smiling, and jumps when Geralt’s hand comes up and grabs his arm tightly. 

His fingertips dig in mercilessly and he gasps in pain, turning and placing a hand against Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, let me go.”

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He grits out, grip loosening only marginally. “Inside.”

“Not without you.” Geralt snarls, shaking his head, and finally releases his grip. 

“You don’t want me with you. Not tonight.”

“I do. Geralt, tell me what’s going on. Please.” His voice is pitifully soft in his own ears, and Geralt lets out a sharp breath before jerking his head toward the keep. 

“Geralt.” Eskel’s voice is sharp, afraid, and Jaskier isn’t sure why. Lambert is shaking under Eskel’s grip, and Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand, leading him out of the snow and back toward the keep. Well, it looks like he’s leading, but he has a feeling Geralt is really herding him back inside instead. Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand tight, afraid that if he lets go Geralt is going to bolt back outside and he won’t get his answers. He shivers as he makes his way back upstairs, slipping into his room and shutting the door as quickly as he can to keep in the heat from the fire. Geralt stands resolutely by the door, back rigid and fists clenched. Jaskier tosses another log on to keep the fire going strong and unclasps his cloak, tossing it on the table. 

“Geralt, what’s going on? I woke up alone and- and I’m not sure what I did or what’s happening to you but-” His voice wobbles, betraying him, and he turns around to see Geralt trembling. Jaskier pads closer, taking one of Geralt’s hands and kissing his knuckles one by one. He can feel the fine tremor that goes up Geralt’s arm at the contact. “Talk to me, please. Don’t lock me out.”

“It’s a witcher thing. We- monsters are strongest during a full moon- but- so are we. Energy has to go- somewhere.” 

“So this happens every month? Is that why you always took longer contracts around the full moon?”

“Yes. Don’t wanna- hurt you.” Jaskier huffs, stepping a bit closer. Geralt takes a step back, Jaskier following, and he growls when his back hits the wall. “Jaskier, don’t-”

“You won’t hurt me. Not in any way that can’t be fixed, or any way that I would mind.” Jaskier rises up on his toes, brushing his lips against Geralt’s gingerly. He presses himself bodily against the older man, and Geralt’s hands come up to grab at his sides. Geralt whines, shaking, and Jaskier’s grin is serpentine. “You said the energy has to go somewhere, right? Well, I happen to know a couple of ways to get rid of energy without having to be in the cold.”

Geralt groans then, breathing out sharply and drawing Jaskier tighter against him. Jaskier captures his lips in a firm kiss, slipping a hand up into Geralt’s hair to tangle his fingers in the silver strands. Geralt leans forward, away from the wall, and Jaskier bends with him. “Jask, if I-”

“You won’t.” He whispers, and Geralt can feel his smile as Jaskier kisses him briefly. “And if you do, you’ll be back out in the cold for the night. Deal?”

Geralt nods, heat roiling under his skin and hands grabbing roughly at Jaskier. They’re about as close as they can be, but Geralt presses him closer anyway and catches his lips in a filthy, heated kiss. Jaskier moans into the kiss and laps into Geralt’s mouth, tasting his breath and jolting at what he finds. He isn’t sure whether it’s the moon or Geralt, but his fangs are long and sharp, and the way Eskel’s voice sounded garbled makes more sense now. It doesn’t deter Jaskier in the slightest, and heat licks down his spine at the thought of those teeth leaving pretty marks. Jaskier breaks away to kiss down the length of Geralt’s jaw, nipping gently.

Geralt moans suddenly, fingers digging into Jaskier’s sides as Jaskier kisses his neck, palming him through his pants and using his other hand to pin Geralt’s hips back. His head tips back against the wall, baring his neck, and Jaskier spends some time leaving small marks. Deft fingers tug at the ties of Geralt’s pants, and the older man jolts when Jaskier takes him in hand, tugging him out of his pants. He almost complains that his fingers are cold, but the temperature difference between them does something funny to his stomach, and he isn’t sure he wants Jaskier to stop touching him. 

Jaskier huffs hotly against his neck, stroking him slowly and pressing his thumb against the head. He listens to every whine and twitch of Geralt’s hips, adjusting his grip and speed until Geralt is writhing back against the wall, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. One of Geralt’s hands lets go of Jaskier and he cups the bard's cheek, tipping his head up and kissing him desperately. The kiss is messy, but neither of them care, Geralt groaning into Jaskier’s mouth when Jaskier pulls back too soon. Jaskier’s eyes are dark, the pupil swallowing most of his iris, and he turns his head, nipping at Geralt’s thumb and smirking when Geralt twitches in his hand. “Be good.”

Geralt isn’t sure what in the hell he’s doing to be bad, but then Jaskier is sinking to his knees in front of him and all his breath leaves him at once. Jaskier glances up, gauging his reaction, and leans forward to place a wet, openmouthed kiss on the side of Geralt’s cock. He doesn’t stop there, humming and licking a long strip up the underside before taking the head into his mouth. Geralt’s hips twitch forward and Jaskier raises an eyebrow, lapping at the slit in what Geralt supposes is reprimand. He only whimpers in response, mind going blank when Jaskier hums, taking him further into his mouth. He bobs his head achingly slow, enjoying the weight of Geralt’s cock in his mouth and his taste on his tongue. Jaskier can feel his jaw complaining already, but he welcomes the soreness. They’d done a lot in the month that they’d been here, but Jaskier seems particularly fond of being on his knees whenever he can. 

Geralt buries his fingers in Jaskier’s hair as he pushes deep but stops short of all the way, eyelids fluttering at the feeling. Jaskier’s mouth is so incredibly wet and warm around him, and he’s unable to help himself this time when his hips twitch forward. Much to his surprise Jaskier moans, hands coming up to grab the sides of his thighs and urge him forward. Geralt is gentle at first, pressing forward until his cock hits the back of Jaskier’s throat and then pulling back. Jaskier doesn’t let him get far, chasing him and swirling his tongue around the head. Geralt growls, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair in warning, but Jaskier is persistent, only stopping when Geralt snaps his hips forward roughly. The vibrations from Jaskier’s moans rock through him, and Geralt tips his head back, setting a rougher pace than he’d thought about before. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, swallowing around him and tilting his head to make the angle easier. Geralt glances down, and the sight of Jaskier’s lips stretched around his cock, drool on his chin as Geralt fucks into his mouth makes his cock twitch hard. Pleasure washes over him in steady waves, pooling in his belly and making his muscles clench as he lets out a shaking breath. His hips stutter, Geralt moaning and tugging on Jaskier’s hair. He mumbles Jaskier’s name in warning, closer than he’d like to admit, and Jaskier moans, fingers pressing into Geralt’s thighs and urging him forward again. Geralt grips Jaskier’s hair tight, and he’s sure Jaskier will tell him to stop, to let go, but Jaskier bobs his head and sucks harder, all too eager to please. He doesn’t bother trying to warn Jaskier again, grinding into his mouth and shuddering as his release hits him, heat searing from his head to his toes. Jaskier takes him as deep as he can, nose pressed to his skin and throat tightening around him as Geralt comes, hips stuttering. His vision whites out as Jaskier pulls back, sucking and lapping at the head until Geralt is overstimulated and has to use his hold in Jaskier’s hair to keep him still. 

He can feel his thighs trembling underneath Jaskier’s hands, and he tries to regulate his breathing as best he can as Jaskier pants, leaning into Geralt’s hand and whining softly. Arousal, sweet and heady, overwhelms any other scent in the room, and Geralt guides Jaskier to his feet. He uses his thumb to wipe Jaskier’s chin before leaning in, kissing him thoroughly and tasting himself on Jaskier’s tongue. Jaskier whines into his mouth, shifting, and Geralt stoops a bit, scooping the bard up easily. Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips, muscled thighs flexing as his kisses harder, nips at Geralt’s lower lip and only pulls away to yank Geralt’s shirt up and over his head. Jaskier’s cock is hard against his stomach, and he grinds up, craving friction as Geralt carries him to bed. Geralt walks without really looking, and he grunts when his shins hit the bedframe and he tips forward. Jaskier gasps as they sway, and Geralt catches them before he squishes Jaskier on accident. Jaskier’s nails dig into his shoulders as his heart thunders, and Geralt snarls, pressing him back into the bed and grinding down. 

“Fuck- Geralt-” Jaskier arches up against him, digging his nails in harder and gasping when Geralt bites at his neck. Geralt’s chest rumbles against his, and Jaskier realizes with a jolt that he’s purring. Jaskier drags his nails down across Geralt’s chest, leaving angry red marks, and Geralt trembles. Jaskier uses his heels to push at Geralt’s pants, sick of clothing being between them, and Geralt moves to help. Geralt is now blissfully naked, but Jaskier is still fully clothed and he fumbles with the fly of his own pants. His hands are batted away so Geralt can make quick work of the ties, and Jaskier groans when some of the pressure on his cock is lessened. He’s hard, painfully so, and he feels like he could come just from Geralt looking at him with those cat eyes of his. When Jaskier moves to take his shirt off Geralt stops him, eyes dark at the sight of Jaskier bare but wearing Geralt's too big shirt.

“The- more I hurt, the rougher I get-” He’s trying to explain best he can when his mind isn’t quite so jumbled, and Jaskier’s scent spikes with what Geralt can only describe as love. 

“I won’t break.” Jaskier promises, cupping the back of Geralt’s neck and dragging him down into a kiss. And he won’t- he knows his own limits better than anyone could imagine, and he also knows what he wants. What he wants just so happens to line up with what Geralt needs in the moment. Jaskier slides his fingers up into Geralt’s hair and grabs a tight fistful, pulling and reveling in the snarl and snap of Geralt’s hips, arousal sweeping over him in waves. Geralt sits up, Jaskier losing his grip, and Jaskier tries to go with him, but Geralt pushes him back and leans to grab something from the nightstand. Jaskier knows instantly what it is and his cock throbs. “Wanna fuck me?”

Geralt growls low, nostrils flaring, and Jaskier is the one to crowd into his space this time, thighs bracketing around Geralt’s hips as their cocks slide together. The friction is delicious and Jaskier spends a moment just grinding down until he hears the pop of the stopper. Geralt has hooked his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder to see what he’s doing, and Jaskier shudders when oil-slick fingers dip between his cheeks, drawing tight circles around his rim. He croons at the sensation, grinding his hips forward and gasping when Geralt’s chin digs into his shoulder. Jaskier takes Geralt’s earlobe between his teeth and tugs, gasping into his ear when Geralt presses against his rim with a warm finger. Jaskier goes still, focusing on that one sensation as Geralt slowly pushes in. Jaskier moans, rocking his hips down, and Geralt presses a second finger in quickly after the first.

Jaskier whimpers at the stretch, squeezing around Geralt’s fingers and rocking between his fingers and his groin. Geralt shifts, pressing sharp teeth against Jaskier’s neck and rumbling when Jaskier’s cock twitches between them. Geralt thrusts his fingers in and out slowly, enjoying the way that Jaskier squirms and begs, whining when Geralt teases a third finger before pulling back and thrusting his fingers in again. Geralt’s skin is flushed, hot with the roaring fire at his back, but Jaskier has left the velvet pulled back and a cold breeze sweeps through the room. Jaskier is so close to coming, moving desperately between grinding down on Geralt and riding his fingers, and he still hasn’t added another finger. Jaskier slides his hands down Geralt’s back, over the many ridges of his scars, and rakes his nails back up fiercely, Geralt howling. 

Jaskier is expecting more, aches for it, but he cries out all the same when Geralt shoves a third finger in him and crooks his fingers, rubbing mercilessly against his prostate. Jaskier’s release builds rapidly in his stomach, scorching through him, and he whimpers pitifully when Geralt’s other hand clamps around the base of his cock, squeezing tight. 

“Wh- no, nonono Geralt please. Please.” Jaskier begs, writhing in Geralt’s lap as fingers crook inside him again, rubbing hard and making his cock dribble. Geralt doesn't seem to hear him anymore though, and he pulls his fingers out completely, waiting until he knows Jaskier isn’t going to come. Jaskier’s cock is flushed an angry red, and even the breeze coming from the old window makes him whimper. Geralt lifts him from his lap, turning him around and rearranging him the way he likes. Jaskier moves pliantly under his guidance, tucking a pillow under his chin as Geralt slides a hand down his spine and presses Jaskier’s chest into the bed. Jaskier hears the pop of the cork again, and he tries to turn his head to look back at Geralt to watch what he’s doing. 

Geralt drapes himself over Jaskier’s back, fitting them together and lazily grinding his cock between Jaskier’s cheeks. Geralt has used plenty of oil, and every time the head catches on his rim Jaskier tries to angle so that Geralt can slide in, but Geralt just hums and adjusts his own angle, denying him a little while longer.

“Told me to be good, but then did that.” Geralt’s voice wavers with the purr that’s taken residence in his chest, and Jaskier whines. “S’like you don’t want to walk tomorrow.”

“I’d consider it a failure on my part if I can.” Jaskier gasps out, sliding a hand back to scratch at Geralt’s thigh. That small movement costs him, and Geralt snarls in his ear, bearing more of his weight down on Jaskier.

“Stop it. You don’t know-” Jaskier does it again, and then again, raking over that same spot until he’s almost certain that if he does anymore Geralt will actually begin to bleed. Geralt trembles against his back, jerking with every scratch, and Jaskier chokes on a breath when Geralt suddenly begins to press in, cock twitching weakly. He goes fast- hardly gives Jaskier time to adjust to the heady feeling of stretching so deliciously around his girth before he’s snapping his hips. One hand braces beside Jaskier’s head and the other grips his hip with almost crushing force, Geralt snarling and panting in Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier moans and whines at each hard press of Geralt’s hips, spreading his legs wider to create a more stable base as Geralt desperately tries to pound him into the bed.

Jaskier can feel his orgasm rushing up on him again, and he reaches back, grabbing a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging him down to kiss him desperately. He keens into Geralt’s mouth when Geralt shifts his hips, slamming against his prostate and shoving him over the edge. Jaskier clamps sinfully tight as he comes, pulling at Geralt’s hair and sobbing against his lips as he spills onto the bed sheets. Geralt doesn’t let up though, sitting up and planting Jaskier in his lap. This angle has Jaskier shuddering with each thrust, eyelids fluttering madly as Geralt grinds directly against his prostate. The feeling quickly becomes pleasurable to the point of pain, and Jaskier whimpers. Geralt’s lips curve into a smile against his, and he wraps one hand around Jaskier’s softening cock. Jaskier shies away from the touch, it’s too much, too soon- but there’s nowhere to go, and Geralt continues to roll his hips, grinding against his prostate and forcing Jaskier to fuck up into his hand. 

Jaskier rocks between those two torturous sensations, crying out when he’s forced very quickly into a second dry orgasm that has him shaking like a leaf in Geralt’s lap. Geralt drops his hand from Jaskier’s cock finally, petting at his stomach and allowing Jaskier to settle heavily in his lap. He purrs in Jaskier’s ear, tugging the collar of his shirt out of the way and leaving soft, gentle kisses along the column of his neck. Jaskier focuses solely on breathing so he doesn’t pass out, whining whenever he shifts and Geralt’s cock presses deeper into him.

“Okay?” His voice is thick with arousal, but Geralt nuzzles sweetly at his neck and Jaskier can’t help but squeeze around his cock. 

“Cruel, torturous witcher.” His voice cracks, wrecked from Geralt fucking his throat, and Geralt chuckles throatily. 

“I warned you.” Jaskier hums, knowing he’d brought that particular punishment on himself and finding he can’t stop himself from pulling on the handful of Geralt’s hair he still holds. Geralt growls, pressing sharp fangs against the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder in warning. He mumbles against Jaskier’s skin, warm breath making him shiver. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Mmm, I think I’ll be okay. Haven’t even finished yet.” Jaskier pulls again and tightens around Geralt’s cock, calling Geralt’s name when he snaps his hips up roughly. Their skin slaps together obscenely as they settle into a rhythm- Jaskier lifting himself off as far as he can before Geralt drags him back down, thrusting up to bury himself deep. He can’t say he’s ever had someone fill him up quite like Geralt does, and the angle is more heavenly than he’s ever had before. It doesn’t take much more coaxing from Jaskier for Geralt’s hips to stutter, Jaskier giving one last harsh pull on his lover’s hair before Geralt is snarling, shoving up and spilling inside of him. Jaskier cries out when pain lances through his right shoulder, Geralt’s fangs sinking deep into the meat near his neck as he comes, holding Jaskier tight against him. Jaskier’s not sure that pain on this level is supposed to be hot, but he melts bonelessly back against Geralt, shivering as something akin to an orgasm washes through him. The feeling makes his legs tremble and his cock give a valiant twitch, but Jaskier is thoroughly spent and it’s all he can do not to fall asleep in Geralt’s arms right now. 

Geralt rolls his hips up, grinding as he works himself through his orgasm before finally going still. Moonlight washes over the both of them, but it’s weaker, and Jaskier knows dawn isn’t too far off now. Jaskier releases his hold on Geralt’s hair, petting the tangled fibers down flat and crooning softly as Geralt comes back to himself. It takes a few minutes, but once he realizes Jaskier’s blood is in his mouth and his teeth are still very much sunk into Jaskier’s flesh he pulls back gingerly. Jaskier hisses at the pain that trickles through his shoulder as Geralt lets go, and twin lines of blood drip down his chest and soak into the black fabric of Geralt’s shirt. Jaskier tries to twist his neck to look back at Geralt, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder and more blood trickles from the wounds. Jaskier settles down again instead, reaching to take one of Geralt’s hands in his for a moment and peeking out of the corner of his eye.

There’s blood on Geralt’s lips still, and some smeared along his chin, but the sight doesn’t bother Jaskier as much as it should. Geralt on the other hand, looks stricken, eyes wide and scared. He can smell the harsh copper of Jaskier’s blood, can taste it on his tongue, and shame sweeps through him when his cock twitches inside of Jaskier against his will. “I’m- I-” 

Jaskier shifts in his lap, lifting up until Geralt slips out of him and he can turn to sit face to face in Geralt’s lap again. Despite Geralt’s growing horror at what he’s done, Jaskier’s eyes are bright and full of love, and he tips forward, kissing at Geralt’s neck before sinking his teeth deep in one smooth movement. Jaskier’s teeth aren’t nearly as sharp as Geralt’s and he hears Geralt’s skin crunch horribly before giving way. Despite the waning moon Geralt lets out a noise somewhere between a growl, a snarl and a hiss, grabbing at Jaskier’s thighs and wrenching their hips together. His shoulders twitch madly as fire lights along his nerves all over again. It’s hard to stay coherent with pain surging through his neck, but the moon’s influence is weaker and Geralt masters himself with a couple of deep breaths. Jaskier’s mouth and chin are bloody to match when he pulls back, and Geralt watches in helpless fascination as Jaskier licks his blood off his lips. 

“There,” Jaskier says, sitting back a bit and smiling. “Now we match.”

“Jaskier, I could’ve-���

“Hurt me? As I said before love, you didn’t do anything that won’t heal, or that I didn’t want.” Jaskier’s gaze is soft and patient, and he presses his forehead to Geralt’s, just breathing for a minute. Geralt matches his ragged breaths with Jaskier’s slow and even ones, and soon his heart settles back into it’s slow, heavy patter. 

“You- wanted that?”

“Every bit of it.” Geralt stares, waiting for Jaskier to break down and admit how scared he was- is- but Jaskier does no such thing. He only presses a soft, coppery kiss to Geralt’s lips and slides from his lap. “But, I wouldn’t mind if you felt inclined to sneak us a bath.” 

Jaskier stays behind in the room while Geralt tugs on pants, feeling filthy but knowing he can’t wander the keep naked in this cold. Geralt has a tub in his room, and he brings that up the stairs before venturing down to hope that there’s enough hot water left in the kitchen to get the both of them sufficiently clean. His neck throbs with every step that he takes, but his wounds have already clotted and by tomorrow they’ll be halfway healed. Jaskier won’t have the same luck, even with the salve they have, but they’ll have to take it one step at a time. He’s in the kitchen, dumping more water into the pot and using Igni to hurry the warming process along when Lambert and Eskel come in, arms crossed. 

Geralt ignores them, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms as well. Neither of them say anything as they go about grabbing a late night snack, but as always, Lambert is the first to crack. 

“So,” He starts, and Eskel groans. “What happened to the whole not hurting him thing?”

Geralt shrugs, uncomfortable with the reminder, but Eskel comes to his rescue. “Please, look at his back and neck. I think Geralt had more to worry about than Jaskier did.”

That makes Geralt chuckle, and Lambert takes another good look at him before whistling low. “Damn, the White Wolf looks awful red.”

“Fuck off.” Geralt says, but there’s no malice in it and he has to keep himself from smiling. Eskel doesn’t let Lambert say anything else before dragging him away, and Geralt lugs the hot water up to the room. Jaskier is sitting at the table, staring at the bloody wound on his shoulder through the small mirror he’d brought with them. Geralt’s stomach flops as he nudges the door shut, and he pours the hot water into the tub to cool down some before they climb in. Jaskier has finally shed Geralt’s shirt, and he smiles when Geralt comes over to gently touch the skin near the wound. Jaskier shivers lightly at the touch, snagging Geralt’s hand and pressing a warm kiss to his palm. 

“Right as rain, love. Want to help me with the sheets?” Geralt grunts, but doesn’t actually let Jaskier help in stripping down and changing sheets. The only thing he lets Jaskier do is get himself in the tub, sinking low into the water and sighing happily. He keeps his shoulders above the water, and when Geralt strips to join him Jaskier winces. “Sorry love.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier gestures for him to come close, and he traces soft fingertips over the marks on Geralt’s thigh. The blood vessels beneath his skin have burst, leaving dots of red-purple in nail shaped trails down the side of his thigh. Geralt bends down to kiss the top of Jaskier’s head, slipping into the bathtub behind him and resolutely ignoring the way the heat prickles uncomfortably at his thigh. “Right as rain.” 

Jaskier laughs at the mimicry, leaning back against Geralt’s chest and closing his eyes. “So, this happens every month?”

“Making plans?”

“Well, I’d hate to get us banned from every inn we stay in.” Geralt laughs softly, tucking his cheek against Jaskier’s and gently kissing at his shoulder. 

“We’ll figure something out.” 

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #major sluttiness #nsft #winter prompts

[jaskiersvalley]

Hello. Your writing is very capturing. I spent last night on reading all your stuff and here I am, in your ask box. Especially the illiterate!Geralt is a good read. I saw a few hc about the witchers being unsettled by Jaskier being well... Jaskier and with no fear approach them and talk to them. After a while they started wondering if Jaskier is a human, but they can't smell magic on him. What he really is? How he managed to fool a witcher?

Welcome to my ask box Nonnie, it is a delight to have you here! Even better, you bring a prompt that has my little heart singing because writing about Jaskier and all the witchers is something I am rapidly falling in love with. So thank you, you have truly made my day.

While the continent was big, it was still rather limited in terms of numbers of contracts. So it was only natural that from time to time Geralt bumped into a fellow witcher. Sometimes he got there first, other times there was only a drink at a tavern to be had and maybe some quiet company if it was a fellow wolf he encountered. The perk of having Jaskier alongside him was that even if he missed out on a contract, Jaskier could earn their keep and food if coin was short. So there was no longer a vicious competition between him and other witchers which was such a nice change of pace. There was no worry that if he got to a contract late, he would have to spend the next however many nights in the woods and hunting for food because he couldn’t afford a meal at a tavern.

Sometimes Geralt would still be in the stable with Roach while Jaskier went ahead to get them a room and some food. Which was how Geralt walked into the inn and frowned when Jaskier wasn’t visible at the bar. Looking around, he wasn’t too difficult to spot, sitting opposite...Eskel?! Pleasant surprise flooded Geralt at the sight of a fellow wolf and he walked over. Already, Jaskier seemed to have made a new friend in the form of the other witcher and was chattering away, demanding details from a fight. He even looked horrified when he spotted the bloody bandage peeking out from under Eskel’s sleeve.

“Oh you poor thing,” Jaskier was reaching for Eskel’s arm without any hesitation and Geralt saw the surprise from the other witcher. Hell, he could even smell the suspicion and confusion coming off him.

“Maybe this would be better done in a room than where people might be trying to enjoy some food,” Geralt suggested. “Not everyone can eat after seeing a bloody arm.”

“Yes! Have a bath called up for us, would you?” Jaskier looked at Geralt with a smile before turning back to Eskel and guiding him up atairs. “And don’t forget to have dinner brought up too!”

By the time Geralt got to the room, Jaskier had gently bullied Eskel into showing the wyvern bite to him and was fussing over it. Above Jaskier’s head, Eskel sought out Geralt’s gaze with confusion.

Later that night, Geralt had a rather interesting conversation with Eskel, mostly consisting of “he doesn’t even smell of fear” to which the only reply was “he never did”.

They parted ways and Jaskier made sure Eskel had plenty of supplies and coin, sharing what he could of his own despite protestations.

Funnily enough, Lambert was next. Once again, Geralt had been preoccupied, this time he was sharpening his swords when the music died down sooner than expected. However, there was no sound of fighting or arguing so obviously Jaskier hadn’t gotten himself into trouble. Yet. When he didn’t go upstairs to their room, Geralt decided to venture down to make sure nothing untoward was happening. Like that time Jaskier had convinced the whole tavern to play some kind of strip card game that Geralt still didn’t understand and, quite frankly, didn’t really want to either.

The sight that greeted Geralt was both better and worse than anything he could have anticipated. Jaskier was in the corner, sitting at a table and opposite him was Lambert. Who was pressed up against the wall like a cornered cat and staring at Jaskier in horror and disgust while the bard talked his ear off. He seemed to be utterly oblivious to the fact Lambert looked ready to bolt.

“Lambert,” Geralt greeted and there was a visible drop in anxieties.

“Geralt. This is-”

“Jaskier, I know. He’s with me.” Turning to Jaskier, Geralt pulled his coin pouch out. “Charm the barkeep into three strong ales, would you?”

As soon as Jaskier was away from the table, Lambert was leaning closer.

“What the hell is wrong with him? He just walked up to the table, sat down and started talking! He does realise we’re witchers, right?” He gestured towards Jaskier’s back. Geralt’s sigh of “yes” didn’t seem to help. Lambert ranted on. “I can do monsters, creatures and spirits. But whatever that is, it’s not human and it scares the shit out of me. Not even an whiff of fear or hesitation.”

“It’s just Jaskier. He’s friendly.” Geralt shrugged. He’d been there, the confusion and distrust at the absolute lack of any negative reaction from Jaskier. But he’d grown used to it.

“You keep the contract, I’m skipping out.” Lambert made to move and got almost to the door when Jaskier got back to the table and called his name. Like a dog caught stealing a sausage, Lambert slunk back sheepishly. At least he got ale out of it even if he had to sit through the most terrifying conversation of his life. Jaskier could talk, he’d give him that.

By morning, Lambert was gone and Jaskier pouted at the fact he couldn’t bid farewell to his newest friend properly.

Last but not least was Vesemir who they encountered on a dusty road between nameless towns.

“I’ve heard of you,” he told Jaskier who had been prancing around as he played his newest song. It had been stuck in his head for days, taking shape and now he couldn’t get enough of it.

“Alas I have not been granted similar privileges. Please forgive me, darling grey wolf. I am ignorant not through lack of interest but rather lack of sources.” Jaskier cast Geralt a side glance.

He was treated to a long, hard look by Vesemir who also took a subtle sniff of the air as he took a step closer to Jaskier. “They were right.”

Who the mysterious “they” were and what they were right about was a mystery to Jaskier but he wasn’t going to get answers because Vesemir nodded at them. “See you for the winter.”

As he turned to continue his path, Jaskier shouted after him. “Just a small token for our brief yet passionate meeting!” With that, he presented Vesemir a handkerchief in a flourish. Once again, the old witcher’s eyes drifted to Geralt before taking the offering, tucking it into his armour and turning with a nod.

“So, where are we going for winter?” Jaskier asked, hopping a lttle to catch back up with Geralt.

Kaer Morhen. That was the answer and Jaskier excitedly bustled through the doors. He and Geralt got set up in a room before making their way down to the others.

“Friends!” Jaskier yelled, arms in the air as he took in the three familiar witchers. “It is so good to see you again.”

He went around to hug all the witchers to varying degrees of success. While Eskel returned the hug with a small, entertained smile, Lambert was doing his best impression of a terrified statue. For his part, Vesemir accepted the hug but wasn’t too enthused by it.

Witchers didn’t need to sleep a lot so it wasn’t all that unusual for them to gather around a fire and talk late into the night. At first, Jaskier had tried to keep up but he needed sleep and often ended up fast asleep in Geralt’s lap while the others talked.

“I’ve never met anyone like him.” Eskel nodded towards Jaskier’s sleeping form.

“Not natural,” Lambert added. He had been doing his best to keep out the way as much as possible.

Even Vesemir weighed in, “He’s certainly a rarity. There’s no magic around him. No stench of enchantment or even the scent of a beast.”

“He’s plain old human,” Geralt said. “And just seems to have no concept of self-preservation around others. But trust me, he does feel fear.”

Which was how they ended up trying to find out what did elicit a response from Jaskier. Lambert’s idea of drinking a potion and wandering around with black eyes and veins backfired somewhat when Jaskier got ready to trek out with him to the fight he was no doubt preparing for.

Inviting Jaskier to train and spar hadn’t worked out either. No matter how much Eskel threw him around, disarmed him in more and more brutal ways and held swords to his throat, not once did Jaskier ever smell anything but tired.

Nobody was prepared for the ear splitting shriek one morning. It was definitely Jaskier but he hit a pitch even Geralt was stunned by. They all went rushing to the bathroom  to see what had happened. Bursting in, Jaskier was standing in the tub, suds sliding off his head and clutching a cloth to himself while Vesemir looked just as stunned, holding a basket of laundry.

“What happened?” Eskel asked.

“I was merely here to hang up some clean clothes,” Vesemir replied.

“There I was,” Jaskier’s voice was still breathy with fright, “taking a nice bath and washing. Only to turn around and he was there. I’m putting a bell on you!”

The air was sour with his calming fear and, oddly, it seemed to settle the witchers. No longer was Jaskier some ethereal being without a single thing in the world that could scare him. From then on, both Lambert and Eskel seemed to take great delight in sneaking up on Jaskier and trying to scare him. There was something so soothing about knowing Jaskier could still be frightened to the point of outraged screeching. Especially when he cottoned on to the game and, once he was over the initial panic, he chased after the culprit until he could jump on their backs, smacking them playfully over the head until Geralt prised him off.

Even Lambert seemed a little more comfortable now that he knew Jaskier wasn’t infallible. By the end of winter, he was unofficially crowned winner of scaring Jaskier the most. Not that it was ever a race between him and Eskel. They absolutely didn’t have a tally hidden in the library with bonus points awarded for exceptionally memorable screams.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #tldr: jaskier isn't scared of witchers

[jaskicr]

reverse au BUT canon universe geralt and jaskier are sent to an alternate universe where their roles are reversed but they remember their canon lives

ft. bamf jaskier and blushy geralt

canon universe geralt and jaskier touch a weird artefact and they’re sent to an alternate universe where jaskier is a witcher and geralt is human

(this is established relationship)

so they grow up without memories of their past (???) selves but they get vague impressions/dreams that tell them something’s not right

they regain their full memories they’re 15/16 ish

jaskier is born first. he’s sent to kaer morhen and goes through the training and the trials to become a witcher (he gets extra mutations bc i said so, im a sucker for witcher!jaskier with white hair and cat eyes ok)

he remembers his life as a bard when he’s 16, not long before he sets out on the path

and he realises that geralt isn’t with him in kaer morhen - he’s in the cohort geralt would have been, he’s friends with eskel and all that, but geralt isn’t here

and jaskier thinks that whatever happened, geralt must be dead

it hurts, as he walks around kaer morhen, knowing that geralt should be there, knowing that, in another life, geralt had walked within the same walls

but jaskier still holds out hope, returning to kaer morhen every winter and hoping that someone like geralt would show up

but geralt never does, and on his travels, jaskier asks mages and researches to find a way to reverse whatever was done, but he can’t

after maybe 2 decades, jaskier gives up and properly mourns the witcher he had known, who doesn’t exist here

once, he tries picking up the lute, but it hurts too much. it reminds him of what he’s lost, reminds him that geralt isn’t here

he puts down the lute and picks up his swords. he doesn’t touch the lute after that

something like blaviken still happens but maybe in a different way bc it’s jaskier

a few decades after jaskier is born, geralt is born into a noble family

from a young age, he’s unnervingly good at sword fighting and combat, and he enjoys it, but something draws him to music

at first geralt isn’t very good at it, but there’s an inexplicable urge within him that tells him to continue, a quiet yearning for melody and music that makes him want to be good at it

so he goes to oxenfurt, and that’s when he remembers being a witcher once, remembers the path, remembers jaskier

and he searched desperately for jaskier. he scours the campus, asking professors and students, searching the faculty and alumni

but no one has heard of jaskier

and geralt knows that there’s no way that jaskier wouldn’t have gone to oxenfurt - the only reason jaskier isn’t here, isn’t in whatever universe this is, is because he’s dead

geralt vows to live in jaskier’s memory, and he takes up the lute

he misses jaskier’s singing, misses his songs. so he learns the lute, learns to sing, so that there’s always a part of jaskier with him

when geralt graduates from oxenfurt, he sets out on the road

in a fit of nostalgia, he travels to posada, something bittersweet and wistful rising within him

unbeknownst to geralt, jaskier is heading to posada as well, tracking a contract

they unknowingly end up in the same tavern

at this point, jaskier has learnt to tune out bards. it hurts too much to remember what he’ll never have, so he doesn’t register the bard that’s playing right now

geralt is playing when he spots a dark figure in the corner, black armour and swords marking him out as a witcher

it’s all too familiar, and a tentative hope blooms in geralt’s heart

maybe -

he makes his way over, heart hammering, and says the words etched deep into his memory

‘i love the way you just.. sit in the corner and brood’

and geralt’s heart is in his throat, hoping and hoping and hoping for the right response

and jaskier hears a familiar voice saying words he had said, a lifetime ago

jaskier raises his head and sees a familiar face, a face he knows as well as his own despite the different hair and eyes and stature, and his heart stutters

it can’t be. but it is. and jaskier just knows.

geralt almost cries when unnaturally bright blue eyes with slitted pupils rise to meet his, set in a familiar face marked by a long scar and framed by silver hair

‘i’m here to drink alone’

it’s this familiar exchange, repeated but reversed, that lets them know that the other remembers, that they’re here

and for the first time since they woke up in this different world, they feel complete

they bask in the moment, drinking each other in, because they’ve found each other, and even if they’re different, even if everything is different, they’re together

geralt slides into the seat opposite jaskier, and it’s so, so familiar, but so different

‘i thought you were dead,’ geralt whispers

jaskier smiles, a small and sad thing, but he reaches over and grabs geralt’s hand. their callouses are reversed, now. jaskier’s hands are rough from the grips of his swords, and geralt’s fingers are padded from years of playing the lute

‘me too,’ jaskier confesses softly. then his smile turns slightly more playful. ‘i didn’t think you’d have red hair and green eyes. you look good.’

then geralt ducks his head and blushes under his freckles (yes he has freckles it’s hella adorable ok) and jaskier is fascinated bc he’s never seen geralt blush

(and he!! has freckles!!!)

‘this suits you,’ geralt mumbles, still blushing. he peeks out from under his lashes and jaskier sort of melts. ‘the hair and the eyes, i mean.’

and, well. jaskier had been insecure about his mutations that mark him as something other, something inhuman, but hearing geralt’s acceptance of him...

jaskier squeezes geralt’s hand, still in awe that he’s here, he’s real. they’re here, together. ‘i missed you.’

geralt beams, and jaskier‘s heart warms at how easily geralt seems to smile now. ‘i missed you too.’

the elves happen pretty much the same way apart from the fact that geralt and jaskier expecting it

and when geralt follows jaskier, neither of them object to it

they try to find out what happened to them, but all they’ve figured out is that their lives have been reversed, and no one else seems to be affected

so they travel the continent together trying to find an explanation or a cure

they try to return to the place where they found the artefact, but they only find a patch of dirt

jaskier brings geralt to kaer morhen

they ask vesemir about their situation (and geralt aches at the fact that his old mentor doesn’t know him), but he has no idea

eskel and lambert look at geralt with no recognition, and it hurts

but they take to geralt easily, and in no time, it’s almost like they’re back in their own world

they find yen earlier than they do in canon. she’s hostile at first, not knowing why they’re seeking her out, but when she hears their story she’s intrigued and promises to try and find a cure

in the meantime they try to settle into the new lives and new dynamic

they both have two lifetimes in their heads, two whole lives that are theirs, that they’ve lived

of course, they’re not the same people, shaped by new experiences as well as old

geralt is more open, more affectionate, more vocal with his thoughts and feelings. he smiles more, and he’s less gruff with others, though he still isn’t completely comfortable in social interactions

jaskier is a bit quieter, a result of his witcher upbringing. he’s still mostly open about his emotions, and being around geralt makes him smile and chatter liked he used to, but there’s a hypervigilance in him borne out of his witcher training, something lethal and deadly

they learn about each other again, finding new things to love and explore

now, geralt is the one who plays in taverns, and jaskier is the one who takes contracts

geralt still retains the skills and memories of his training as a witcher. though he lacks the enhanced strength, he can still fight, and jaskier gets some lightweight swords for him

geralt helps out on contracts sometimes, when he’s confident that he won’t get hurt. jaskier is reluctant at first, but concedes that geralt should be able to hold his own against weaker monsters

that’s when geralt realises that witcher!jaskier is a huge bamf and also very buff (buff jaskier rights!!!) and geralt really shouldn’t like it as much as he does

jaskier also looks unfairly good in armour with his swords in his hands

and now he understands why jaskier used to be obsessed about his black eyes after taking a potion, because HNNNG

with geralt by his side, jaskier doesn’t mind playing the lute again. it doesn’t hurt like it used to, with geralt by his side once more

geralt lends jaskier his lute and jaskier plucks out tentative notes on the strings, before he launches into one of his songs

jaskier’s voice is rough and untrained, lacking the oxenfurt training he used to have as a bard, but it’s pleasant and sweet, and geralt joins in, their voices twining together in a lovely duet

jaskier doesn’t join geralt when he sings in taverns, fearful of how humans would react, but on the road, they sometimes sing together, and it’s unexpectedly nice

(maybe jaskier gets a glamour at some point, and the continent discovers that the famed bard geralt occasionally gains a partner)

as a witcher, geralt had been unable to lash out at the people who’d insulted him and attacked him

but now, he’s human, and watching jaskier’s shoulders slump as humans spit vitriol at him, well, geralt gets to be feral now

he’s far more dangerous than jaskier had been as a bard. sure, bard jaskier was feral, but he lacked the skills that geralt remembers from his time as a witcher

the humans don’t stand a chance against geralt, and jaskier is the one hauling geralt out of fights now, and many taverns witness a white-haired witcher dragging his redheaded bard out as he yanks him into a fierce kiss

they’re both very soft and very gone on one another. geralt is far more tactile now and jaskier does not mind. they cuddle a lot and jaskier is the big spoon

they’re both openly affectionate, there’s a lot of soft hand holding and hair braiding and casual touches and like. they’re just soft, ok?

jaskier makes it his mission to make geralt blush as much as possible, because it’s adorable

(he also discovers how far down that blush goes, and geralt gets to witness jaskier’s witcher strength and stamina)

they make it work. jaskier gets insecure sometimes, knowing that his features are unnatural and scarred and nothing like what he’d looked like as a bard

but geralt reassures him, telling him that he’s beautiful no matter what

sometimes, geralt hates his own human frailty, how weak he is without his enhanced strength and how easily he gets hurt

but jaskier shows him everything he loves about geralt’s human body, telling him how happy he is that geralt gets to live a life without the suffering of a witcher

and the longer they’re together and the more they get to know each other all over again, they become less sure whether they want a cure or not

geralt likes being a human bard. humans don’t hate him anymore, and he likes being a bard more than he thought he would

but he knows that jaskier is, by nature, someone who loves people. and watching jaskier be rejected by prejudiced humans makes geralt’s heart hurt, because jaskier loves people so fucking much, and now he’s hated by them

but jaskier doesn’t mind being a witcher either. he can help people now, even if they’re ungrateful. there’s a deep satisfaction as he slays monsters terrorising innocents, and like this, he also gets to protect geralt

(not that geralt needs protecting, but still, it’s nice. and geralt has realised that he quite likes jaskier swooping in to save him aka picking him up in his arms)

and jaskier sees how free and easy and open this geralt is, unburdened by decades of hatred and conflict, and he wants this for geralt, wants geralt to know the happiness of a human life without being hated by the very people he helps

both of them like the lives they lead now, and they don’t know if they want to go back. but their old life is the original world, and they still wonder if they should go back

idk how it ends - either they somehow find a cure and return to canon universe with a whole load of new experiences, or they never find a cure and they learn to live in this new world

or maybe they do find a cure and decide that they’ll stay in this world because they’ve learnt to accept and love each other even with the changes, and it’s their world now

there’s a fic for this now!

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #witcher!jaskier #witcher jaskier #bard!geralt #the witcher #mine*

[king-finnigan]

Geraskier prompt- geralt is in deep denial, and goes to a brothel and finds a mage who offers to give him a vivid vision his mind conjures up with his deepest desires for a few more coin. Geralt, intrigued, accepts and is blessed with none other that Jaskier and romance ensues. When geralt wakes up there’s major angst, then eventual fluff and smut :)

Despite what he always tells Jaskier, he really does enjoy the bard’s company. Sure, he never entirely shuts up, and if he does, he’s either humming or singing or tapping his fingers. It’s loud, and it’s annoying, and it took a long while for Geralt to get used to it, even longer for him to appreciate it. At some point, a few years ago, though, he realized he’d come to miss the bard whenever they’re apart.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from parting ways with Jaskier every winter, Geralt going to Kaer Morhen to spend the coldest season with his brothers, Jaskier most often going to Oxenfurt. And while, yes, he does miss Jaskier during those long, dark months, he has his brothers to keep his mind off the bard - repairing the run-down parts of the keep, training in the courtyard, bickering and nearly beating each other up from time to time - so the winters aren’t too bad.

It’s those weeks in between that are the worst. Those weeks when he leaves Kaer Morhen and heads to the south-west, in search of Jaskier. It’s those weeks when it’s almost too quiet for his mind to bear, the silence sneaking up on him, making him feel lonely and slightly jumpy, making him wish he just had Jaskier back already, someone to keep his thoughts from spiralling downwards into self-hatred. 

Jaskier’s always been good at that: keeping Geralt sane.

A few weeks after setting out from Kaer Morhen, he passes through a large town in Redania called Inerith. He decides to check the notice board for any contracts - after all, he’ll probably need the money, at some point; he can’t live off his supplies from Kaer Morhen forever. It’s empty, which is a bit strange for such a large town, but he figures it’s just a quiet neighbourhood. 

Well, the notice board is empty, save for one sheet of paper. It’s an advertisement for the brothel, at the corner of the main street. It offers the reader their ‘deepest, darkest desires’. ‘For only sixty crowns more!’ it announces cheerily. Geralt scoffs at the notion, though there is a certain curiosity stirring in his stomach. He thinks for a second, about how it’ll take another few weeks until he reaches Oxenfurt, until he’s no longer alone.

He sighs, and heads to the corner of the main street. Sure, it won’t chase away his loneliness completely, but a warm body next to him might keep him from getting stuck in his own head for at least one night. And, admittedly, he is a bit curious to find out what his ‘deepest, darkest desire’ is. Probably a good talk with someone he trusts, or a nice ale. Jaskier crosses his mind for a fleeting second, but he pushes it away, nearly laughing at his own ridiculousness. Sure, the bard is a good friend of his, but nothing more than that - just a friend.

He stops in front of the brothel. It’s a very nice building, with white walls and a purple door, large windows tempting passerbys to look inside, yet there are purple curtains blocking everything from view. He sighs, heading inside, and is greeted immediately by the madame. She looks him up and down, head tilted slightly in curiosity. 

“I will not allow permanent harm to be done to any of my girls or boys, Witcher. And hurting them costs extra.”

He frowns. “I’m not seeking to do harm to anyone. I’m merely seeking someone to keep me warm.”

She nods, face relaxing slightly. “I believe you. Forgive me for being so direct, but the rumours, you see...” Geralt nods. He knows about the reputation Witchers have, has had this talk with plenty of madames before. “So, a boy or a girl, tonight, Witcher? I might have to see who’s willing to bed you, but I think either can be arranged,” she continues, as she leads him to a spacious living room, filled with couches the same colours as the curtains, prostitutes lounging on them, casting curious glances in his direction.

It’s a good question, and he’s not really sure - he doesn’t really prefer one over the other. He looks at the covered windows, sees a hint of blue sky peeking out between two curtains, and without thinking twice, he says: “Boy.”

The madame nods. “Have you read about our special service, on the notice board?”

Geralt nods. “I have. What does it entail?”

She smiles at him. "A Mage will look into your mind, and conjure up a vision of your deepest desire, one you might not even know about yourself. It could look like an older person, or a younger person, or the hatefuck you’ve always wanted, or the person you’ve been too afraid to confess to. Of course, it’s just a vision, the whore stays the same underneath the glamour, but it’ll look and sound and feel like the real thing. Costs only sixty crowns extra, on top of the amount you already have to pay, of course.”

He stares at the wall behind her for a few seconds, biting the inside of his cheek, as he thinks. He’s not really sure what to expect, but he’s got the money and the curiosity, and he figures that if he doesn’t like it, he can always leave, so he turns his eyes back to the madame, nodding once.

She smiles. “That is arranged, then.” She snaps her fingers at a man with blonde hair and warm, brown eyes, laying on one of the couches. “Adrian, are you up for a Witcher, tonight?” 

The man- Adrian, stretches out, looking Geralt up and down for a few seconds, and the Witcher can smell a hint of lust trickling through the heavy perfume of the room. “Certainly am,” Adrian says, before standing up, sauntering over to Geralt, laying a hand on his chest. “He’s a fine one, this Witcher,” he mutters to the madame, and she nods in agreement. “So,” the whore whispers, leaning up a bit to meet Geralt’s eye, “did you take the special service?”

He swallows thickly, then nods, earning him a soft chuckle from Adrian.

“Curious to see what the big, bad Witcher desires most,” he purrs into Geralt’s ear, before stepping back, extending his hand, which Geralt takes. “Come on, big boy, let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”

Geralt follows Adrian up the stairs, towards one of the rooms. It’s spacious and quite luxurious, painted white, with a bed the same purple as the curtains downstairs, but Geralt doesn’t really pay attention to it too much. Adrian lets him in, but keeps the door open, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes hungrily taking Geralt in. “Just a minute, Witcher. Have to wait for the Mage, first.”

Well enough, a few seconds later, Geralt hears footsteps approaching them, a middle-aged man appearing in the doorway. The Mage rubs his hands together, pulling his eyebrows up at Adrian, who nods in confirmation. 

“Alright,” the Mage mutters, extending his hand towards Geralt, palm flat, fingers slightly spread. “Ready whenever you are, master Witcher.” Geralt frowns, but steps closer, letting the Mage touch the side of his head with his fingers, before the man reaches out and holds on to Adrian’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Geralt feels dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He gasps for air, his vision going white for a couple of seconds. The hand on the side of his head disappears, and he hears footsteps, before a door is closed softly.

He feels a gentle hand against his cheek, callouses on the fingertips, and it grounds him back into reality, calms him down. 

“Geralt, are you alright?” a familiar voice asks, and his eyes snap open. The Mage is gone, and so is Adrian. Instead, he sees Jaskier, blue eyes staring at Geralt with concern, his familiar scent of roses and lemon tingling in the Witcher’s nose. 

“Jaskier?”

“If that’s who you want me to be, then yes.”

He frowns, thoroughly confused, until he remembers what the madame had said. Sure, he may look, feel, and smell like Jaskier, but it’s not him - it’s still Adrian. But fuck, if it doesn’t seem so incredibly real - if it doesn’t seem like Jaskier is right there, in the room with him, like they never parted ways for the winter at all. He hadn’t expected the bard to be his deepest desire, but now that he’s here - now that it looks like he’s here - smelling of himself and arousal, Geralt can’t deny that he wants this, more than anything.

He contemplates running for the door, getting the hell out of here before he complicates the friendship he has with Jaskier, when Jaskier- Adrian, steps towards him, plastering himself against Geralt’s chest, lithe arms wrapping themselves around his neck. “How long, Witcher?” He even fucking sounds like Jaskier.

“Months,” Geralt replies, hands settling on Jaskier’s- Adrian’s hips off their own accord, and he feels warmth seeping into his skin. “It’s been months since we last saw each other.”

Jaskier- Adrian, godsdammit, tuts, nose brushing against Geralt’s. “Not what I meant, darling. How long have you wanted me?”

His breath catches in his throat when Jaskier’s lips brush over his. “Years,” he manages to choke out, before he pulls the bard closer, kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t - because it certainly feels like he will. Years of tension, of longing looks he wasn’t even aware he was casting, of secret dreams of the bard’s body against his, shattering as Jaskier softly moans into his mouth, opening his lips and inviting Geralt to deepen the kiss. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more, as Jaskier moves one hand down, palming Geralt’s already hard cock through his trousers, making the Witcher gasp slightly. 

“Gods, you’re so big, Geralt,” Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier mutters, nipping at Geralt’s lower lip. “Wonder if that’s all going to fit, darling.”

“I- you... you don’t have to,” he whispers, shivering slightly as Jaskier runs a soft finger along his cock, rubbing the head gently through the fabric, barely more than a tingle.

“I want to, darling. Want to split myself open on your cock, see if I can come on it untouched.” He bites his lower lip, lashes fluttering slightly in excitement. “Have been waiting for this for years,” he whispers. 

The illusion breaks for just a second, then, as Geralt remembers that this is not really Jaskier, this is not his dearest friend who he’s known for decades. This is Adrian, a whore who he paid to fuck. He’s about to pull back when Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier drops to his knees, tongue hot and wet against the fabric of Geralt’s trousers, and he groans at the sensation, threading his fingers through brown curls - Gods, they feel as soft as they look.

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, looking up at him through thick lashes, “want to suck you so bad, feel you come in my mouth.”

He has to choke back a needy sound, and nods, lets Jaskier unlace his trousers, lets lithe fingers pull out his painfully hard cock. Jaskier gives him two long, languid strokes with just the right amount of pressure that it leaves Geralt’s head spinning, nimble fingers catching beads of precum, smearing it out across his skin.

“Fuck,” he utters, fingers tightening in those brown curls. “Please, I need you-” He groans, deep and guttural when Jaskier wraps his lips around the head of his cock, sucking harshly - bordering just on the right side of painful - before letting go again.

“Gods, Geralt, I love hearing you beg.”

He chuckles, wiping some stray hair away from Jaskier’s forehead, as those familiar, blue eyes look up at him, pupils blown wide. “Of course you do.” He sighs softly as Jaskier kisses the tip of his cock, lips catching a bead of precum. “Fuck, please, Jaskier, need you so bad, please-” His sentence is choked off again, as Jaskier takes him in his mouth, sinking halfway down, before moving back, taking Geralt’s cock deeper with every slow bob of his head.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the soft pressure of Jaskier’s mouth, combined with his slow movements, not enough to bring him closer to the edge, but enough to drive him insane; those searing, blue eyes, continuously staring at him, even as tears glaze them over whenever Geralt’s cock hits the back of his throat; or the knowledge that this is all just a beautiful illusion.

It’s the last realization that makes something in him snap, and he grabs the back of Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s head, stilling him. “Tap my thigh if you want me to stop,” he says, and Jaskier nods obediently, clearly aware as to what’s coming. Jaskier lets himself go slack, hands holding on to Geralt’s thighs but doing nothing more - just holding on - spit starting to drip down his chin, as Geralt starts moving his head, up and down his cock.

The hands around his thighs clench a bit, the first time Jaskier chokes, but he soon relaxes again, lets Geralt fuck into his mouth, blue eyes falling shut, his own cock straining against his trousers.

“Fuck- feels so good, Jask,” Geralt mutters, cock twitching at the soft moans Jaskier lets out, at the wet sounds that come out of his throat every time the Witcher thrusts deeper. Way too soon for his own liking, he finds himself near his climax, and he pulls Jaskier’s head back, off his cock, ignoring the needy little sound the bard lets out.

“Jaskier, I’m going to-”

“Please, Geralt, come in my mouth, please. I want to taste you.”

“I- alright.” He lets go of Jaskier’s hair, and the younger man moves forward again, taking Geralt’s cock in his mouth with renewed fervor, sucking eagerly, and before soon, he feels himself hurtling over that edge, coming with a strangled “fuck!” 

Jaskier gently sucks him through his orgasm, before eventually pulling back when the pleasure starts to border on pain, making a show of swallowing, blue eyes staring up at Geralt intensely.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, softly petting Jaskier’s hair, who grins at him. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.” He moves his hand under Jaskier’s chin, and the bard stands up, letting Geralt pull him into a searing kiss. 

It isn’t long before Jaskier (not Jaskier) starts palming at Geralt’s cock again, though. “Need you, Geralt,” he whines against the Witcher’s lips. “Want you inside me.”

Geralt can’t help but grin at that, reaching down to put his hands around the back of Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier seems to get the message and jumps up, wrapping his legs around the Witcher’s waist, pulling him in for another kiss while Geralt carries him to the bed. 

He lowers Jaskier onto the soft sheets, the bard quickly undressing himself as Geralt does the same, settling between Jaskier’s legs afterwards. “How- how do you want...”

Jaskier sits up, pressing a soft hand against Geralt’s chest. “However you want.”

He swallows thickly. “Well, I don’t- I don’t know...” In all reality, he’s dreamt about this moment a billion times and now that he’s here with Jaskier (not Jaskier), he doesn’t really know what to do. All he knows is that he just wants to please the bard, in whatever way he can.

Jaskier sighs softly and rolls his eyes, though smiles anyways. “Alright, fine, I’ll decide, then.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second, contemplating his choices, arousal spiking in his roses and lemon-scent, before he turns around, his knees on the soft, purple sheets, head on his forearms. “Like this,” Jaskier whispers, looking over his shoulder. “I want you to fuck me like this.”

Geralt can’t help but smile, though softly, as he runs his palm along Jaskier’s spine, earning him a shiver. After a few more gentle strokes, he moves his hand towards Jaskier’s ass, resting just on top of it, the other pulling his cheeks apart. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, as he sees the round end of a wooden plug. “Oh, prepared, aren’t we?”

Jaskier grins over his shoulder, wiggling his ass softly, invitingly. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, taking the end of the plug between his fingers, tugging softly, earning him a sharp hiss and a spike in the scent of arousal, hanging heavily around them. “You’ve always been impatient.”

“Yeah, well, still am,” Jaskier huffs, attempting to move his hips, only stopped by Geralt’s hand, keeping him still. “Please, Geralt, I need you to fuck me, and I swear to all the gods, if you don’t do it right now, I won’t talk to you for a week.”

He chuckles softly, though a distant part of him wonders if the Mage planted Geralt’s memories of Jaskier into Adrian’s head, because good gods, does he sound exactly like the bard - from his accent, to his impatience, to the way he words his sentences. It’s uncanny, and he strains to fight the blurring of the lines between the whore in front of him and the real Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He looks up at Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s voice, soft and concerned, meeting searing blue eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods. “Fine,” he grunts, tugging at the plug, pulling the thickest part past Jaskier’s rim, to distract both himself and the bard- whore- bard. It works, and Jaskier lets out a breathy moan, Geralt’s cock twitching against his stomach in interest. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing the plug slightly back in again, before completely pulling it out, just to hear Jaskier moan.

“Sweet Melitele’s tits, Geralt. Please, please, just-” He keens, high and sweet and more beautiful than any music Geralt’s ever heard, when he pushes the head of his cock past Jaskier’s rim. “Oh, fuck, feels so good, please, pleasepleaseplease-” 

His begging dissolves into breathy moans and soft pants as Geralt pushes in further, until he’s completely seated, sparks of pleasure shooting through him as Jaskier twitches around him. He stills for a second, lets Jaskier get used to the size of him, forces himself to move back from that edge a bit, before he pulls his hips back, slamming back in. It earns him a loud moan, so he does it again, and again, and again, angling his hips differently every time, until he finally finds the spot that makes Jaskier scream.

“Oh, gods, oh gods, ohgodsohgodsohgods-” Jaskier (not Jaskier, dammit) mutters, body shaking with pleasure, cock steadily drooling precum on the purple sheets. Slowly, Geralt increases his speed, thrusts growing more and more shallow, until he’s barely pulling out anymore - though he finds he doesn’t need to, when Jaskier comes with a strangled shout underneath him, painting the sheets and his own chest white with cum. He clenches around Geralt, and the pressure is enough for the Witcher to come as well, groaning softly, stilling completely.

After a while, he pulls out, collapsing next to Jaskier, who has rolled onto his side, facing Geralt. He closes his eyes for a second, lets himself revel in that post-orgasmic haze, in the feeling of someone next to him, in the soft patterns long fingers without callouses trace into his chest. He frowns, the sleepy, content haze suddenly gone, and he looks to his side, finding Adrian looking back at him.

His heart shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, it really shouldn’t.

He gets out of there as fast as he can.

---

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself it wouldn’t change the way he looked at Jaskier. He told himself everything would be fine and he could go back to the way things were, as if nothing had happened at all. He told himself he could forget all about it.

He now knows he’s wrong, as Jaskier pulls him into a tight hug, grinning into Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! It’s so good to see you!” The bard pulls back, holding the Witcher at an arm’s length, blue eyes sparkling. “Something the matter, Witcher?”

Geralt blinks, tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s lips, forcing the memory of how they had looked wrapped around his cock to the back of his mind. He shakes his head. “Been a long journey, is all.”

Jaskier grins at him, looping an arm thought Geralt’s, dragging him to an inn at the corner of the main square of Oxenfurt, near the university. “I understand. Kaer Morhen is a long way away, my dear Witcher, so how about we get you some rest and a nice bath? I bet that’ll make you feel better.”

He knows it won’t, as he looks at Jaskier, and can’t stop his mind from wandering to that one night, a few weeks ago, but he lets himself be led to the inn, anyway.

---

He sits in the bath obediently as Jaskier dumps bucket after bucket of clean water over his head, chattering excitedly about all the taverns he played in during the winter, all the people he’d had drinks with, all the classes he gave at the university. Geralt lets himself be near-manhandled as Jaskier scrubs at his back, pointedly ignoring the proximity and the warmth radiating off the bard.

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing in roses and lemon, trying to push away the memory of how it had smelled with arousal mixed into that scent. He breathes in again - roses, lemon, and... pine trees. His eyes snap open, and his hand snatches Jaskier’s wrist, bringing it to his nose, ignoring the bard’s confused protests.

There it is, again, as Geralt pushes his nose against Jaskier’s pulse, breathing in deeply. There’s a lingering hint of pine trees and musk beneath those familiar roses and lemons, but it’s barely there, almost as if Jaskier desperately tried to scrub the scent away.

He lets go of the bard’s wrist, as Jaskier keeps staring at Geralt, confused. “You were with someone else. Not long ago. A man.”

Jaskier blinks, then blushes furiously, looking away. “Alright, yeah, maybe I was.” He looks at Geralt again, shrugs. “But what I get up to during the winter isn’t exactly your business, Witcher.” He sounds defensive, and quite honestly, Geralt doesn’t blame him. He knows full well he has no right to comment on the company Jaskier keeps, has no right to demand an explanation.

Has no right to feel so jealous.

So, he turns back around, letting Jaskier scrub shampoo into his hair, a little bit more harshly than usual - but still softer and kinder than Geralt deserves. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, doesn’t deserve his friendship, his company, his kindness, his sparkling blue eyes. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, and Jaskier deserves better than him - deserves someone to keep him company during the cold, long months, when Geralt’s fucked off to Kaer Morhen, someone who smells like pine trees.

“Was he good to you?” The question is out of his mouth before he knows it, and Jaskier’s hands still in his hair for a split second.

“Who?”

“The man you were with. Was he good to you?”

Jaskier hums softly, arousal spiking in his scent, which is answer enough to Geralt. “Yes, he was. He was very good to me, but...” His voice trails off, and he gets up to grab another bucket of water, dumping it over Geralt’s head, who wipes it out of his eyes.

“But what?”

“Well, he was...” He hears Jaskier sitting on the stool behind him again, feels a comb through his hair, teeth lightly scraping against his scalp. “He was nice, and comfortable, and safe.”

“Those are all good things.”

Jaskier sighs softly. “Well, yes, they are, but it’s not... what I want. For some people, comfort and safety is what they want in life, but not for me. I want- need something... more. So, being with him was nice. But only for a while.”

“And what do you need, then?”

It’s quiet between them for a while, Jaskier still combing Geralt’s hair, though there are no longer any knots left. “Adventure,” Jaskier says, eventually. “The thrill of danger, the feeling of adrenaline in my veins, travelling around the Continent, never truly settling down.”

It explains why Jaskier’s still around him, he supposes, explains why Jaskier always joins him on the Path, even after spending an entire winter apart. But it doesn’t explain why Jaskier sticks by Geralt’s side, specifically. Hell, the bard could walk the roads alone, and he would get exactly what he wants. Maybe he keeps close to Geralt for safety, maybe for songs, maybe for the Witcher’s hunting skills. He doesn’t know. And he’s too afraid to ask - scared that if he does, Jaskier will realize he doesn’t really need Geralt and leave him on his own.

Jaskier chuckles softly behind him. “What? No scathing remark? No telling me that I’m romanticizing danger? Not even a hmm?”

Geralt smiles softly. “Hmm.”

Jaskier laughs, patting Geralt on his shoulder, before standing up, drying off his hands. “Alright, then, I guess that’ll have to do.”

And with that, he’s gone, presumably to go get some food downstairs, and Geralt gets out of the bath, drying himself off, pointedly ignoring the lingering feeling of Jaskier’s hands against his skin.

---

They continue travelling after that, heading east on Jaskier’s request. Everything is back to normal - or at least, it should be, but Geralt can’t stop the memories of that one night resurfacing every time he looks at Jaskier. Hell, sometimes he forgets it was all an illusion, a vision created by a Mage. Sometimes he forgets that it wasn’t Jaskier at all, and it makes him slip up a few times, the boundaries they’ve created between them over the years suddenly unclear and slightly blurry. It gets worse the longer they travel together, Geralt slowly letting his guard down too much.

One time, Jaskier sat down next to him after a performance, gulping down two cups of ale before basically inhaling the plate of food Geralt had gotten for him. The Witcher had put his hand on the bard’s thigh under the table, had told him to take it easy or he would choke on it. Jaskier had simply nodded, and Geralt’s attention had strayed to the rest of the tavern, making sure there were no potential threats coming their way. It was only when he had noticed Jaskier staring at him, that he’d realized his hand wasn’t just still on the bard’s thigh, but that it had strayed up a bit. He had snatched his hand away, cleared his throat, and excused himself for the night, getting the hell out of there as quickly as he could manage. Jaskier hadn’t mentioned it.

There was also that one time that Jaskier was reading something, and Geralt had looked over his shoulder to see what it was. Without thinking twice about it, he had turned his head, brushing his nose against that sensitive spot under Jaskier’s ear, inhaling roses and lemon. Jaskier’s stuttering breath and skipping heartbeat had shaken him out of it, and he’d gone to brush Roach, scolding himself for what he’d done.

And then there was the staring. He couldn’t stop his eyes from straying to the bard every time they were in the same room, couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing, along with a suffocating wave of longing. It had come to a point where even Jaskier was a bit freaked out about it, it seemed, furrowing his brow in confusion every time he caught the Witcher staring. Hell, he even asked about it a couple of times, asked if there was something wrong. Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell him, so he merely grunted something noncommittal and turned away.

---

He doesn’t realize they’ve travelled so far to the east, until Jaskier one day closes the door to their room at the inn after a performance and says: “Can we go to Inerith, next?”

There’s something familiar about the name of the town, something nagging at the back of Geralt’s mind, but he ignores it. “Why?”

Jaskier clears his throat, looking both excited and a bit embarrassed. “Well, there’s a brothel there-” Geralt snorts. Of course it’s about sex, it almost always is with Jaskier. The bard ignores it. “-where they offer a special service, I’ve heard. They can show you your deepest, darkest desire and project it as a vision. Heard it really works, as well.”

Oh. Oh no. So that’s why the name had sounded so familiar to Geralt, it’s the town with... where he... He squeezes his eyes shut for just a second. “No, not going back,” he says. After all, he can’t face what he’s done, can’t risk anyone recognizing him, can’t stop himself from going to the brothel again, if they were to pass through the town.

He doesn’t realize what he’s said, until Jaskier asks: “What do you mean, going back?” 

Geralt freezes in the middle of cleaning his swords, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth, Jaskier’s rapid heartbeat, and his own faltering one. “Nothing,” he says eventually.

“Oh, nonono, you don’t get to say something like that and not acknowledge it,” Jaskier quips, standing in front of Geralt, hands on his hips. “You’ve been to Inerith, haven’t you? You went to the brothel.”

Geralt sighs, putting his sword to the side, wiping a hand over his face. “Hmm.”

“Did you- did you see your deepest desire? What was it?”

He swallows thickly. “No, I didn’t see it.” he lies. “I didn’t have the money. It was just a normal fuck.”

Jaskier purses his lips, something mischievous and gleeful shining in those blue eyes. “I know you’re lying, Geralt. Come on, what did you see?” His eyes widen slightly. “Or who did you see? Was it the sorceress, the-” he waves his hand a bit “the scary one with the purple eyes?” 

He looks at Geralt for a second, gaze intent, and the Witcher looks away - he can’t bear the heaviness of those eyes on him.

Jaskier gasps slightly. “It wasn’t the witch? Oh, now you have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” Geralt snaps, and moves to get up, pushed back into the chair by Jaskier’s surprisingly strong and firm hand against his chest. “Really?”

Jaskier grins at him, a wicked edge to his smile. “Really. You’re going to tell me what you saw, Witcher.”

“I will do no such thing.” He stares at Jaskier, who stares right back, unyielding, unrelenting, curiosity and glee in those impossibly blue eyes. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, the memories resurfacing again, Jaskier’s gaze too intense to bear, and he looks away, guilt creeping up on his mind.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt looks back at the bard, sees his eyes widening in realization, face going slack. “Oh. It was me, wasn’t it? You saw me.”

He can’t hide it anymore. The truth has already been threatening to spill over, these past few weeks, the realization in Jaskier’s eyes the last drop. “Yes.” Jaskier’s hand is still on his chest, his entire mind narrowing down to the heat and the weight of that one point of contact, only distracted when Jaskier leans forward, crowding his vision, forcing Geralt to look at him.

“Oh, you bastard,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt resists the urge to close his eyes, resists the urge to get the hell out of here. This is what he’s been fearing, these past few weeks - that Jaskier would find out and hate him for it.

He startles when the bard climbs into his lap, knees around Geralt’s hip, heels under his own ass. Surprisingly strong hands tighten around his shoulders, as Jaskier bites his bottom lip. “You bastard. You got what you wanted, you got to fuck me, but I didn’t get to fuck you? I can’t believe this.”

Geralt frowns, tries to blink away his confusion. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“Haven’t I flirted with you for years? Haven’t I offered several times?”

Jaskier has offered to keep him warm, to help ease his tension and stress, but- “I thought you were joking. I didn’t think you meant it.”

Jaskier laughs, a bit bitterly. “Gods, you’re so stupid.” He smiles at Geralt, something hot and heavy mixing with his scent of roses and lemon, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Tell me,” he whispers. “What did he do for you? What did he do while looking exactly like me?”

Geralt’s mind shortcircuits, and he finds himself unable to put the memories to words, to tell Jaskier, though the sight of the bard’s pupils dilating, of his cock straining against his breeches desperately makes him want to. He swallows thickly. “I- he...” 

“Can’t find the words?” Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier’s grin only widens. “Alright. Show me, then.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs, and he hooks his hands under Jaskier’s legs, holding him up as he gets out of the chair, walking to the bed. He tries to gently lay the bard down, he really does, but his own excitement and nerves make his hands falter, dropping Jaskier down unceremoniously. The bard yelps as his back hits the sheets, but giggles soon afterwards, fighting to kick off his boots.

Geralt kneels at the foot of the bed and helps him, before moving up, untying the laces of Jaskier’s breeches, as the bard watches him, pupils dilated, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Finally, the laces are undone enough for Geralt to pull the breeches down Jaskier’s legs, discarding them somewhere behind him, leaving the bard in his underclothes.

Jaskier yelps again when Geralt pulls him towards the edge of the bed, positioning the bard’s legs over his shoulders. He looks up at Jaskier. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispers, and Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows, carding a hand through Geralt’s hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a soft groan from the Witcher.

“I’m not worried about you not stopping, I’m worried about you not goddamn starting, Geralt,” he mutters, pulling one eyebrow up in challenge.

Geralt doesn’t respond. Instead, he dives down, closing his mouth around the head of Jaskier’s still clothed cock, earning him a soft moan and another tug at his scalp. He looks up as he licks a few stripes up the shaft, slowly wetting the fabric, and meets Jaskier’s intense gaze, the bard’s lips parted as he pants slightly. 

“Gods, you’re gorgeous like that,” Jaskier mutters, loosening his grip on Geralt’s hair in favour of running his fingers through the strands. If the Witcher could’ve blushed, he would’ve, but he decides that he’s teased Jaskier enough, and pulls away slightly, earning him a soft whine that turns needier when he tugs Jaskier’s underclothes down far enough to release his cock.

He wastes no time wrapping his mouth around Jaskier’s cock, licking away beads of precum before he swallows him down completely, basking in the bard’s moans, in the soft tugging at his scalp as nimble fingers tighten in his hair again.

Jaskier’s cock hits the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, fighting the urge to gag, as he holds still. He only starts moving again when Jaskier pulls him up, letting the bard guide him as he sucks.

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters when Geralt hollows his cheeks around the head before moving down again. “You’re perfect- so fucking gorgeous...” His whispered praises turn into soft babbles, and Geralt knows he’s getting closer to that edge. He looks up at Jaskier again, stroking one hand up and down the bard’s hip, trying to convey his message with his eyes.

“You-” Jaskier gasps softly, panting for air. “You want me to come in your mouth? Is that it?”

Geralt’s hum of agreement is enough to send Jaskier over the edge, back arching off the bed as he comes, legs spasming slightly. Geralt diligently sucks him through his orgasm, swallowing every drop Jaskier has to give, only letting go when the bard twitches away from him, overstimulated.

He sits back, letting Jaskier’s legs fall off his shoulders in favour of tugging the bard’s breeches off, before undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s shirt. The bard sits up, lets Geralt tug the rest of his clothes off, before he starts pulling at the Witcher’s shirt, as well. “Not fair that I’m the only one naked,” he mutters, and Geralt can’t help but smile. “I want see you.”

Geralt lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it away, before standing up, fumbling hands working on the laces of his trousers, eventually managing to push them down and kick them off. He stands there sheepishly for a couple of seconds, as Jaskier gapes at him, lips parted slightly, hungry eyes raking up and down Geralt’s body. He can’t stand the intensity of those blue eyes for long, and steps forward, leaning down to kiss Jaskier, the taste of the bard’s spend still on his tongue, relishing in the soft, content sighs Jaskier lets out.

“Did you fuck him?” Jaskier eventually whispers against Geralt’s lips, and the Witcher frowns, slightly confused. “The whore that looked like me. Did you fuck him?” Jaskier clarifies.

Geralt had forgotten about that one night at the brothel in Inerith, in all honesty, too occupied with the real Jaskier, right in front of him, to remember. “Yes,” he manages to choke out. 

“How?”

“On his knees.”

Jaskier sighs softly, biting his lip, eyes suddenly uncharacteristically insecure. “I... I don’t want that. I understand if you do, but not... not the first time.” 

Geralt ignores the slight whooping feeling in his stomach at the insinuation that there will be more times to come, and nods. “I understand. I don’t want that, either. I want to see you.”

Jaskier smiles at him, pressing a soft kiss to the Witcher’s lips. “May I?” he asks, hands softly pushing against Geralt’s shoulders, and he nods, letting himself be gently pushed and pulled until he’s the one sitting on the bed, Jaskier in his lap. His hands fall on the bard’s waist like it’s second nature, and he can’t help but press soft kisses against the side of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in roses and lemons and the salty tang of sweat. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against Jaskier’s skin, the words too heavy to say them to his face. “You’re beautiful and you’re perfect and I- I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Jaskier whispers, hands softly petting Geralt’s hair, the gesture so tender it’s almost overwhelming. 

“Oil?” he asks, and he feels Jaskier nod above him, pulling back a bit to reach down for his bag, at the foot of the bed. 

“Good thing I left this here,” he mutters, and Geralt smiles softly. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to let it all sink in. The fact that Jaskier loves him back, that he’s right here with him, his warm body pressed against Geralt, that he’s showering the Witcher with soft touches and softer kisses and even softer words. It’s almost too much, his chest not able to contain the happiness and love that he feels, but he resists the urge to take off, to run away from all this. For Jaskier. He’ll do anything in his power to make sure Jaskier never gets hurt again - especially not by Geralt himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier’s voice is impossibly soft and tender, his finger gently tilting Geralt’s chin up, and he opens his eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods, ignoring the stinging in his eyes. “Yes, it’s just... a lot.”

Jaskier frowns softly, cradling Geralt’s face in his hands. “We can stop, if it’s too much. It’s alright, I understand.”

He shakes his head a bit. “No, I want to keep going. I want you, Jask. Now and always.”

Jaskier smiles, kissing the tip of Geralt’s nose softly. “You’re so cheesy,” he whispers, earning him a chuckle from the Witcher. “Alright, we’ll keep going then. I just need to open myself up, first.”

Geralt smiles up at Jaskier. “May I?” And by all the gods, he’ll never forget the sight of Jaskier blushing softly at his request. 

“Well, if you really want to. Most people just prefer that I do it myself, get it over with-”

“I want to.” He holds up his hand, and Jaskier puts the vial of oil he got from his bag in his palm, looping his slender arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt, in turn, pops open the vial, pouring some chamomile oil into his hand, spreading it around and between his fingers, before reaching behind Jaskier, pressing two fingers against his rim.

Jaskier hisses softly, pushing his hips back. “Gods, yes, just like that.” Geralt smiles, pressing soft kisses against Jaskier’s jaw, as he pushes one finger in, slowly but steadily, basking in the soft whimpers the bard lets out. “More,” Jaskier demands, almost immediately, and Geralt can’t help but chuckle at that.

“You’re so needy,” he whispers, but obliges anyways, pulling the finger out, before pushing two back in. Jaskier moans softly, arching his back, pushing his hips back against Geralt’s hand. He slowly works Jaskier open, only adding a third finger when the bard is practically begging for it.

“Do you need a fourth finger?” he whispers and Jaskier frantically shakes his head. 

“No, just need you. Please, Geralt-”

He chuckles softly, taking the vial of oil again, slicking his cock up, Jaskier’s hungry eyes following his movements. “Alright, alright, no need to get impatient.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, but bats his hand away, giving Geralt’s cock a few firm strokes that leave the Witcher’s head spinning, before positioning himself just above the tip. Gently, slowly, he lowers himself on Geralt’s cock, eyelashes fluttering softly as he pants, the Witcher’s hands settling on his hips just to have something to hold on to.

Once Jaskier’s fully seated, he stills for a few seconds, hands on Geralt’s shoulders, breath coming out in shallow bursts, red-kissed lips parted slightly. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks, wiping Jaskier’s sweaty hair from his forehead, fingers trailing down to the bard’s lips. Jaskier smiles at him, kissing his fingers softly.

“Better than alright.” Geralt can’t help but smile back. 

Slowly, Jaskier pushes himself up, before dropping down again, impaling himself on Geralt’s cock, moaning softly. “Fuck, Geralt, feels so good...” He does it again and again and again, and Geralt lets him take the lead, his hands only tightening around the bard’s hips and helping him fuck himself on Geralt’s cock when he senses that Jaskier’s getting tired.

He forgets about his own pleasure, as he watches Jaskier’s unfold across his face, watches the bard bite his lip, watches his eyelashes flutter, watches his mouth fall open, losing himself in the scent of roses and lemons and sweat and lust - committing every little detail to memory, just in case. He’s sure that if there’s a paradise, then he has found it right here, in Jaskier’s arms.

“Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier whispers, and he realizes with a small start that, he himself, is as well, so lost in the man he loves that he’d forgotten about his own body. 

He reaches between them, taking Jaskier’s leaking cock in his hand, giving him a few firm strokes. “Come for me, love,” he whispers, and Jaskier cries out, his head tipping back, spilling all over himself and Geralt. A few more thrusts later, Geralt comes as well, choking out Jaskier’s name.

They sit there for a while, softly panting, until Jaskier pulls himself off Geralt, collapsing onto the bed next to him. The Witcher, in turn, gathers all the strength he’s got, and pushes himself off the bed, walking to the wash basin with wobbly knees, wetting a cloth. He walks back to the bed, cleans the spend off the bard’s stomach and from between his legs, before cleaning himself.

He lies down on the bed, Jaskier scooting up until he’s got his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his arms around the Witcher. “So,” he eventually mutters. “Was I better than what you had in Inerith?”

Geralt smiles, pulling Jaskier closer. “Yes. You were perfect. You will always be perfect.”

“Hmm.” He hears Jaskier’s smile more than he sees it, feels lute-calloused fingertips tracing patterns into his skin.

“I meant what I said, earlier.” It’s important to him that Jaskier knows this, knows that he means it more than he’s meant anything in his life, that he didn’t just say it in the heat of the moment. “I love you.”

Jaskier smiles up at him. “I love you, too.” Geralt nods, feeling slightly relieved, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

He slowly lets himself get comfortable with the feeling of being happy. It’s strange and unfamiliar, and he still has to fight the thing in his gut that tells him this can be snatched away any moment - this might be snatched away any moment, but he slowly sinks into it, like a comfortable, soft bed after a long day.

He notices after a few minutes that Jaskier’s fallen asleep, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the bard. He really is beautiful like this - hair tousled, skin sticky with dried sweat, lips and cheeks rosy - and he’s more than Geralt can ever deserve. He leans back in the pillows, closing his eyes, eventually, and lets sleep overtake him. 

Lets himself get used to the feeling of being happy, everything he’s ever wanted right here in his arms.

#m-hm #squish answers #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #smut #this isn't even a drabble anymore #the witcher fanfiction #it's 7.5k whoops #geralt is overwhelmingly in love with jaskier #don't convince me otherwise

[justauthoring]

A Song About Love

Request: Hi! Can I request a geralt x reader where the reader is an elemental and a slave to the king and had been Geralt first love who he thought was dead. So, when Jaskier and geralt are in the castle jaskier sneaks down the wrong door and finds her, telling geralt which prosides to geralt finding her and a really heartwarming/romantic encounter. The king finds out they are escaping and she reveals her powers and saves both of them which leads to a romantic smut of the reader and geralt. Requested by: @dark-night-sky-99​ Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader Word Count: 1, 634

Please don’t plagiarize my work!

Truthfully, he’d just been wondering to occupy his time.

Thinking back now, he should’ve just stayed by Geralt’s side. But, he’d never been one for listening and sometimes (he couldn’t help it) his curiosity got the better of him. Plus, the King was an ass from what he could tell and Jaskier had no real want to be around his insufferable self for a moment longer.

So, instead, he elected upon the idea of sneaking down into the dungeons of the King’s castle and exploring an area he certainly was not allowed to. An area Jaskier is positive that if he was found in, the King would -- quite possibly -- have his head.

The thrill of danger had never stopped him before, however. He followed a damned Witcher on the daily, after all.

And your door is just too tempting not to peek in at. Oddly enough, it’s the first room he’s seen in this dungeon beside the cages. It’s clearly designed differently, but if the bar on the outside gives Jaskier any clues, he imagines it to be no different that the cages that surround it. Maybe a little more... what was the word?

Fancy.

Fancy for a cage that was.

It was also considerably more barred than anything else in that dungeon. There was not just one bar, but a multitude of them. As if whatever was on the inside was powerful enough to break through one metal bar... Whatever was on the other side of that door was clearly dangerous. It filled Jaskier with an immeasurable amount of excitement.

There’s a little window to peek in at. Jaskier takes it upon himself to slide the slate open, leaning up a little on his toes to peer inside. He’s not really sure what he expects to see. But a frail looking woman is certainly not on his list.

Jaskier’s brows twitch in curiosity, watching you for a moment. You don’t really notice him, your back turned to the door, head dipped down. There’s a soft hum leaving your lips, and something glows before you. But Jaskier can’t properly see what it is. It’s a red and orange hue of sorts, but your frame is covering him from seeing anything more.

Biting his lower lip, Jaskier leans back with the intent to open the door. But as he does so, a voice booms;

“Bard!”

It causes him to jump, instantly assuming he’d been caught until he turns his head and finds the familiar yellow eyes of Geralt. He instantly calms at the sight, shoulders sagging with relief as the Witcher bounds up to him; quickly and urgently. “Geralt, I--”

“We shouldn’t be down here.” He says sharply, cutting Jaskier off. “We should go. Before your idiocy gets us caught.”

“But--!”

“No, buts. Lets--”

“Geralt?” 

It’s a new voice. A softer, weak and somewhat raspy sounding voice. Instantly, Jaskier’s head snaps back towards the door, staring at the now shut slate as Geralt turns to it in confusion. For a brief moment, his narrowed eyes flicker back towards Jaskier who races his head in surrender before he leans forward, pulling the slate open.

Your eyes peek through.

“Is that really you?”

Jaskier takes note of the way Geralt’s shoulders instantly tense. But not in the same way they did when there’s was danger nearing, it was... different, somehow. His entire stature changes as your eyes remain on Geralt’s only, having to push yourself up just to see through the slate. 

“Y/N...” Geralt’s voice is low. A hum, almost. Jaskier is sure he’s never heard the man sound quite like that before.

“It is you,” even if he can’t see you, Jaskier can sense the small smile that grows on your lips by the tone of your voice. “I... I thought i’d never see you again.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier takes it upon himself to. “You know each other?”

Instantly, your eyes fall on Jaskier, fear flooding your gaze. It settles uncomfortably in Jaskier’s stomach and he frowns, loosing the chestire grin and softening his gaze in hopes of showing you he means no harm. Geralt just simply glares at him, stepping back and beginning the tedious work of unlocking all five bars that keep you trapped on the other side of that door.

When the door is open, you’re in nothing more than a tattered dress with a cuff connected to a chain against the wall around your ankle.

Instantly, you fall into Geralt’s arms. He holds you carefully, keeping you steady and returning the embrace for a moment before pulling back, eyes flickering across yourself in search of injuries. Jaskier think it’s to be pointless; anyone could tell you’re worse for wear by one look into your gaze. You looked... afraid, frightened even.

Scuff marks cover your entire self. Dirt is stuck to your cheeks, your hair a tattered mess. As you wobble on your feet, Jaskier’s eyes is brought down to your ankle, where burn marks reside from the cuff. You look tired, skinny (unbearably so -- like you haven’t been fed in days) and most of all, you just look... sad. That’s the only word Jaskier can find to describe the expression in your eyes.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Geralt says firmly, pulling back to lean down, grabbing the chain gently in his heads.

“You can’t. He’ll -- the King -- will have your head. I... I already tried to escaping, I don’t want to--”

Geralt stops you with one look. “I will free you from here. If I had known you’d been here, I would’ve came a lot sooner.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow; “I mean no offence, my lady, but... why would the King want you?”

You frown up at the boy, hesitant. A nod from Geralt assures you it’s okay and with a shaky breath, you race your hand, your fingers stretching outwards as the same red and orange hue glows. It’s fire. You’re conjuring fire from your very own fingers.

“Oh,” Jaskier frowns, “you’re an elemental.”

You nod.

With one tug of his brute strength, Geralt manages to free you from the chain. The cuff was still locked around your ankle, but none of you have very much time to dwell on it. “The King, he’ll... he’ll come down soon,” you explain, voice shaky. “He will... if he finds us, i’ll never get away. He already put fire-resistant metal bars on the door, I... I don’t want to be stuck here forever, Geralt.”

Geralt glances at Jaskier, who nods, not eager to be on the reciprocating end of this King’s wrath. With that Geralt turns to you, taking you into his arms and rushing forward, his steps quick. Jaskier follows closely behind, his head consistently turning behind him in fear of being caught.

And for a while, nothing happens. The three of you actually manage to make it outside, just by the gates. But, the King and his guards are already there, waiting for you.

“Witcher,” the King boasts, “I do believe you have something of mine.”

No one says anything. But the look in Geralt’s eyes is deadly.

“I’m afraid i’ll need her back before you can leave.”

With a glance around, Jaskier realizes just what kind of trouble you’re all in. You’re completely surrounded, a guard at every corner, and even the Witcher himself wasn’t that good to defeat every single one of them. A sinking feeling erupts within Jaskier and for the first time, he wonders if he’ll actually make it out of this one alive.

Geralt tasks him with the job of keeping you safe while he valiantly fights off any guard that comes his way. But, he is overpowered eventually. Jaskier watches with fear in his gaze Geralt is knocked down to his knees, a grunt of pain leaving his lips as he slashed across the chest.

In the next second, you’re ripping yourself from his gaze.

“No!” Your voice booms, interrupting everything and creating a domino-effect of silence. Jaskier is nearly knocked off his own feet at the power behind your voice, stumbling backwards. He watches with wide eyes as you position yourself directly before Geralt, protecting him with your body, hands held out before yourself.

“You know it’s futile, witch.” The King laughs, “I will never let you go.”

“I am not your toy,” you growl, voice leethal. It’s so different then the feeble tone Jaskier had heard you speak in moments ago. You are so different then from then. Something within you has changed and even having only known you for no more than twenty minutes, Jaskier feels as if this was who you were. Before you were... broken.

“I never was.”

A wave of fire leaves your hands, directed towards the King. Just the King. A wave of heat hits Jaskier in the face, making his skin grow hot. But he barely pays mind to it, amazed at the sight before him.

The King falls to his back. His guards rush forward with the intent to protect, enact revenge, anything, but a swipe of your hand as them screaming in pain as their skin burns and they’re knocked back.

Eventually, any guards remaining realize; maybe it’s just not worth their life. They flee within seconds.

You stand there for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, before your legs wobble beneath you. You sway for a moment longer and then, you’re falling.

Geralt catches you swiftly in his arms.

There’s a moment of confusion, exhaustion, you blinking slowly up at Geralt before your lips curve up into a soft smile. Your hand rises slowly, falling on his cheek. “You found me...”

And Geralt just smirks; “I told you I would.”

And Jaskier can’t help but think, this will make a song that’ll go down in history.

-

Let me know what you thought?

#The Witcher #The Witcher imagine #The Witcher x reader #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt of Rivia imagine #Geralt imagine #Geralt x reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #imagine #imagines #my fics

[dapandapod]

Teef

So it i ENTIRELY possible that I can’t get enought of THIS!!! (click it! look at it! love it!) picture right here by @sad-comet​ and I felt a compulsion to write something about it and I really hope you don’t mind! Your amazing drawing is living rent free in my head and I crave to put it in everybody elses too!

Please enjoy my sillyness and sudden teeth obsession! On Ao3 here!

                                        ~~*~~   

There are reasons Geralt doesn’t smile much. There are reasons he won’t bring people with him on contracts if he can help it. Yes, potions might be part of the reason. Yes, there is a real danger for any onlookers of being maimed, or get ripped into pieces, or being gutted, you get the jist of it.

But the biggest reason is hidden behind his lips. Sealed behind a stern face, locked away with the fewest words possible.

Three words or less indeed.

The day Jaskier finds out, Geralt returns to their room on the third floor of the inn. He is exhausted, but warm and clean after a visit in the baths. One might even say content, if you were so inclined. 

The contract is finished and paid for, the food edible and a soft warm bed awaits.  Geralt enters the room he shares with Jaskier and finds the bard sprawled on the wooden floor. He is writing, scribbling, or possibly doodling in a notebook. He lies on his stomach, feet up in the air, swinging them back and forth. His tongue is peeking out between his lips and it sparks something small and warm in Geralt’s chest that he’d rather not examine too closely.

He shuffles past Jaskier to his bed and sits down heavily on the bed with a thump. Geralt stretches, arms high up in the air, his old and soft linen shirt rises up and lets in cold air over his lower abdomen. 

The scratching of pen and paper stops but he pays it no mind. If Geralt got a coin for every time Jaskeir lost his train of thoughts he would be a rich man.

He grunts, one arm bent behind his neck and twisting his back just so. A yawn attacks him from out of nowhere and his mouth opens wide, jaw almost cracking. 

Then there is a gasp from the floor in front of him.

Fuck.

Geralt's mouth snaps shut and his eyes dart towards the bard on the floor. Only, he is not on the floor anymore. Jaskier is scrambling to get up, long limbs everywhere, towards Geralt. Three fucking cockatrice around a maypole, this is not good.

“Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, and no, bard no, go away. 

Geralt presses his lips tightly together, hiding his reasons even though it’s already too late. He glares at Jaskier, hoping to deter him, but when did that ever work. Jaskier walks straight up to him, like always, and gets right up his face. His heart is already beating fast but with every step Jaskier takes towards him it grows a bit heavier. 

This is it. This is when Jaskier finally decides he’s had enough. One thing too strange about him and his friend leaves him forever.

“Geralt, you have fangs!” Jaskier exclaims, putting both of his hands on Geralt's face. “No I don’t” Geralt mutters, making an effort to show as little teeth as possible. Jaskier actually chuckles at that, and it’s only Jaskier in this world that would find this funny. It eases some of that tight coil in him, and shoots a small jolt of that something through his veins.

And then Jaskier lets his thumbs stroke his cheeks softly. A deep, burning flush stains Geralt’s face, ears, and neck and that bloody bard just smiles wider. 

“Yes you do, darling witcher. Is this why you are so tightlipped all the time?” Jaskier muses with a knowing glint in his eyes. Geralt glares up at him, trying to hide his embarrassment and worry.

“Don’t need another reason for people to run away from me.” He mutters, incredibly self aware. 

He really doesn't want Jaskier to leave him, but he doesn’t want his pity either. Jaskiers thumbs come up under the soft skin right under his eyes and Geralt has to fight back a shiver. 

“I would never run from you, Geralt.” Jaskier mutters, as if he read his mind. “May I see them?”  There is a glint in Jaskiers eyes, something that absolutely doesn’t help Gerlats flush.

“Why?” Geralt asks, and Jaskiers smile turns into a sly smirk. His right thumb finds the corner of Geralt’s mouth and pushes a little.

Fuck.

“Because they are hot.”

Fuck.

Geralt’s hands are on his legs, fingers twitching with nerves. There are very, very few in this world he would allow this close to his face. Very few he would trust not to run for the hills, or to plant a knife in his back. 

Even fewer that sparks that hot coil of something inside him. That odd kind of hunger.

Instead of replying, he opens his mouth. Jaskier absolutely beams and he leans in close to study his teeth. His fangs.

“That’s amazing.” Jaskier says, breath hitting Geralt’s face as he says it. 

He tips Geralt’s chin up with one hand and lets the thumb of the other run across his upper lip to let him see clearer.

“They look sharp.” Jaskier comments, as if his fingers don't shoot electricity through Geralt. “May I touch them?” 

Geralt can use words. Sometimes. Just not… right now. Fuck.

All he can do is hum and lift an eyebrow, giving Jaskier his best Im-so-unimpressed-face. Jaskier grins and apparently takes that as a yes.

“Open up.” He says, and lets that thumb slide over his teeth. And when Geralt reluctantly opens a bit more. Jaskier is standing very close now, placed right between Geralt's knees. It’s unreal, it’s strange, so to anchor himself Geralt grabs a hold of the fabric of Jaskiers pants. No other reason at all.

Jaskier presses the meat of his thumb against one of Geralt’s fangs, and then looks up to meet his eyes. His own lips are slightly parted, a blush tainting his cheek. That spark is there, making Geralt’s head spin.

“Of all the ways I imagined I would get to explore your mouth, this wasn’t it.”

#geraskier #teef #geralt x jaskier #dapanda writes #the witcher #the witcher netflix #fangs #geralt has fangs #jaskier likes #my writing #please look at that picture #its freakign amazing #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geralt/jaskier

[ahh-fxck]

For the Two-part Drabble Game: Geraskier, Situation 25, Sentence 24. Have fun and thank you ☺️

25 - Being somewhere you’re not supposed to be

24 - “I never want you to feel like you’re not good enough.”

All right, here you go @elliestormfound! Thanks for the ask! This was a fun little piece to write, I hope you enjoyed it :) Here is the link to the story on ao3

Geralt flexed his fingers, sore from hanging on the ladder after so long. Below him, a river of detritus and sewage boils around the foot of the ladder. Above him is the closed lid of one of the access points, which he’d been forced to duck into at the last minute as he was running to escape an angry crowd. It had hardly been his fault that they hadn’t wanted to pay. Once the man he’d presented his bounty to had started shouting, it hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather. And once the first rock had been thrown, he knew it was time to make a swift exit. 

He hangs there, listening carefully to the sounds of the street above. Below him, the water rushes and gurgles, stinking its way out to the sea. Above, he can still hear the occasional angry voice raised in protest.

From below him on the ladder, feet inches above the sewage, floats a voice. “Are they gone yet, Geralt?”

“Not yet,” Geralt growls quietly down at his companion. “Be quiet.”

“All right, it’s just, we’ve been here for hours and my limbs feel like they’re going to fall off, and it stinks something horrible in here.” Jaskier complained, shifting the lute case on his back. “Did we really have to flee into the sewer?”

Geralt peers down at him in the darkness.

“Fine. Next time I’ll let you lead us away from the angry mob,” he replies drily.

Jaskier grumbles, shifting again. “Are they gone yet, Geralt? My arms are killing me.”

“No,” Geralt grumbles. “They’re still searching the market.”

“Should we try finding another exit?”

“Do you want to wade in monster infested sewage?”

“Oh Melitele, there’s monsters in there?” Jaskier gasped, climbing up a couple of rungs suddenly. It put his head near Geralt’s calves. His dirty pants frankly didn’t smell any better than the rest of the sewer, but at least the supposed monster infesting them was a known quantity.

“Don’t stick your ankles in the water and you’ll be fine,” Geralt points out, unimpressed. He shifts his feet so that he doesn’t accidentally step on Jaskier’s fingers. They fall into an unhappy silence, suspended between the sewage and the angry people in the market above.

Jaskier is silent for a long moment, then he asks in a muffled voice, “Geralt? Why are people so awful?”

Geralt goes still, cocking his head to the side as he takes that in. He falls into a long silence, which grows heavier and heavier with each passing moment. When he answers, his voice is quiet.

“They’re just scared. I’m different. It’s not their fault.”

Below him, Jaskier gapes, then puffs angrily. “That’s crap and you know it!” he hisses quietly. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met, and if they can’t see that they’re bloody blind.” His fingers tremble on the ladder, his muscles screaming as he demands they continue to hold him in this unaccustomed position.

“Lot of blind people, then.” Geralt notes mildly, then ducks down away from the lid at the top of the ladder, gesturing for Jaskier to be quiet. Overhead there is a boiling murmur of voices, shuffling footsteps. After a while, they move off.

“Well, that bloody jeweler better get ready for fame. Yorik the Pig-Fucker has a nice ring to it,” Jaskier seethes quietly into the yawning silence left in the wake of the people moving away. “And I’m going to write a hell of a ballad about how you took care of his troll problem, too. Geralt’s jaw tightens, and his hot golden eyes rake over Jaskier below him in the darkness.

“I talked the troll into finding new territory, Jaskier. There’s nothing epic about that.”

“Tell that to my new ballad,” Jaskier mutters grumpily, shifting his legs to try to ease their stiffness. Geralt glares down at him, but the glare slowly softens.

“Why?” he asks, examining the bard as best he can from where he’s standing.

“Why what?” 

“The songs? The...” he grimaces in distaste. “Following me?”

Jaskier looks back up at him thoughtfully. He’s asked this before, but every now and then, it comes up again, as if he can’t wrap his head around the idea that Jaskier likes him. Jaskier licks his lips, taking an uncharacteristically long moment before replying.

“People go out of their way to tell you that you’re not enough. That you’re bad, or scary, or stupid. None of that is true. I sing because I never want you to feel like you’re not good enough.” 

Above him, Geralt sinks into silence, his throat closing. Jaskier’s words made him feel sore inside, uncomfortable. The human didn’t seem to understand exactly what he was, even after years of traveling with him. Even after sharing his bed. Hard to identify emotions boil inside of him, and he shifts uneasily.

Jaskier watches him from below, his own heart sinking. Geralt was the least easy person to say kind things to that he’d ever met, and it bothered him deeply. Someday, though. Someday, his Witcher would finally hear him without flinching.

At the top of the ladder, Geralt listens as the voices finally begin to disperse. He glances down at Jaskier, who is shivering miserably beneath him. His own muscles are sore from holding the same position for hours, he can only imagine what kind of pain his bard is in. Nevertheless, he waits until the sounds of the market have dispersed entirely and the scent of night wafts down from the access point before he moves again. Beneath him, Jaskier gives an exhausted whimper as Geralt shifts and climbs up a few rungs to peek out from below the cover.

The rush of relatively fresh air is a relief to his desperately sensitive nose. It might still stink of urine and horse dung, but at least it hadn’t spent miles rolling atop a river of sewage. Gulping in the fresh air, he surveys the street. Finally, it’s empty. Quickly as his sore muscles will allow, he scrambles out of the sewer, then reaches back down to help Jaskier. The bard swallows another whimper as he begins to climb, his stiff muscles screaming.

“Geralt! Put me down!” Jaskier complains as Geralt begins to jog up the street, staying close to the shadows where he can.

As soon as Jaskier is in reach, Geralt leans down and fists the back of Jaskier’s doublet, dragging both him and his lute carefully out of the sewer. He deposits them on the cobbles and helps Jaskier stagger upright. The hours of standing suspended have taken a toll on his human companion, who winces as he flexes his legs and looks around the empty street.

“Back to Roach?”

“Hmm.” Geralt agrees. He watches the bard stagger a few steps, sighs, and heaves him over his shoulder in one easy movement.

“Be quiet. We need to get out of here. You can barely move,” Geralt grumbles, picking up his pace. Thankfully, at this time of night the city is far less crowded, and he is able to make his way to the outskirts with relatively little interference, bard slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Jaskier bubbles and puffs with irritation, but much to Geralt’s relief, remains relatively quiet until he sets him down some time later. Jaskier staggers, but by now at least a modicum of feeling has returned to his legs, and he rights himself quickly.

He goes to the Witcher, grabbing his arm gently. Geralt turns to face him, expression unreadable in the darkness of the alleyway near the inn. Jaskier regards him seriously, then reaches up and gently tucks some of Geralt’s hair away from his face.

“You are special to me. You know that?” He asks, fingers lingering softly on Geralt’s dirty cheek. Geralt regards him in the darkness, his golden eyes catching the little moonlight and glowing with it. His face remains stony, but Jaskier can see the little muscles in his face, especially at the corners of his eyes soften into a vulnerable look of confusion. Jaskier can see it because he’s known Geralt for so many years. Stepping closer, Jaskier cups his cheek, pressing his chest lightly against the Witcher’s armored body. He smells awful, they both do, but at least in the fresh air it’s bearable.

“And one day, you might even believe it,” Jaskier says with a soft smile, tilting his head to the side as he regards his handsome Witcher in the moonlight. Then, he leans up and presses his lips to Geralt’s, eyes sliding shut. Geralt stiffens, then hesitantly leans in to deepen the kiss. Jaskier hums a soft note of happiness. Someday would come soon enough. For now, he would just have to show the Witcher exactly how special he was... as soon as they’d both had a bath.

#drabble #witcher drabble #witcher #the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher geralt #the witcher jaskier #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier drabble #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #ahh fxck writes

[kueble]

Ugh becsuse i love you. 19. Kisses meant to distract the other from what they were intently doing

Best wife ever 💜

Geralt finishes packing away the last of his alchemy supplies and sits down on the edge of the bed so he can take a moment to simply watch his bard.  Jaskier has been writing since they got back to the room that evening.  His hair is disheveled, having lost the battle as Jaskier ran his hands through it, tugging at the strands as he struggled to get the words down just right.  He’d tried to explain his process to Geralt once; had rambled about how the words are so solid in his mind but jump around as he tries to out quill and ink to paper.

Jaskier mumbles under his breath, scrunching up his face as he frantically scratches at the paper in front of him.  His pace has been slowing for the past hour or so, and Geralt thinks it might be time to intervene before the bard misses out on another night of sleep in the name of art.

The only art form Geralt sees is the man himself.  He’s perched on the edge of his chair, doublet long since shed and the sleeves of his chemise rolled up, exposing lean forearms. Geralt knows the strength in those surprisingly muscular arms; has been held up by them after a bad hunt, has had themlift his hips during a night of passion, has been cradled in them when the world seems all too much. 

Jaskier’s tongue peeks out of his mouth the way it always does when he’s concentrating. It’s the bard’s default look when he’s writing, stitching up a tear (be it on cloth or skin), or when he’s staring across a campfire at Geralt, his heavy gaze strong enough to feel. Geralt watches as he wets his lips and longs to feel that tongue pressed against his own,  It hits him - a sudden realization he keeps having over and over again these past few months - that he can.

Standing, he makes his way across the room and drapes his arms over Jaskier’s shoulders.  The other man hums questioningly at him, but Geralt doesn’t bother answering, just leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head.  Then he dips lower, kissing just behind his ear, grinning against the sensitive skin when Jaskier lets out a soft gasp.  Moving again, he kisses the nape of Jaskier’s neck, tightening his arms when Jaskier shivers against him.

“What’s this then?” Jaskier questions, even as his body turns in the chair and he abandons his quill to the desktop.  Geralt hums and kisses his cheek before nuzzling it with his own.  He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Jaskiers mouth before shifting his weight to accommodate the bard who is currently trying to climb onto him.

“Come to bed,” Geralt mutters before claiming Jaskier’s mouth in a sweet kiss.  It’s chaste, just a light meeting of lips, and still both men sigh into the kiss.  Jaskier nods and brings his legs up, wrapping them around Geralt's waist.

“You know you can always ask me to stop writing when you need me,” Jaskier tells him, smirking against his collar.

“I just did,” Geralt says with a laugh as he kisses him again before carrying him over to the bed.

#my fic #prompts #geraskier #the witcher #all the kisses #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier

[officerjennie]

23 with all the Witcher characters you'll write

Anon.

-squishes your face-

Anon I love you. I wish you nothing but the absolute best life anyone could ever imagine, because you have given me such a gift.

Characters included here: Jaskier, Aiden, Lambert, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir (let’s be real, he’s just there for the snacks. Catch him filling his pockets with nuts and pastries to horde in his office). Prompt: orgy

(edit most of the way through writing this: HOW THE FUCK DID I WRITE SOMETHING FOR THE PROMPT ORGY AND INCLUDE NO SEX, I JUST-)

--

Despite popular believe, Jaskier had the best ideas.

The entirety of his previous afternoon had been spent with preparations for the event. It had only taken a little bit of bribing to convince Vesemir that this wasn’t going to end horrifically or with some destruction or another, and really only another bottle of (very expensive) wine as the cherry on top to be given permission to use the mess hall in Kaer Morhen as the location. Though honestly, there wasn’t anywhere else that would have suited the party - so Jaskier was very glad no more bribing was in order there.

If he was honest, convincing everyone to take part in it was the easy part. One really didn’t know the definition of ‘sexually repressed’ until one met a horny witcher who was trying to deny himself the lusts of the skin and Jaskier could count on his first three fingers some witchers that suited that bill to the T.

The fact that he knew exactly five made that rather sad, but he digressed.

With some rather flirtatious invitations, Jaskier had secured participation, but that was only phase one of his plans. After that was making it an actual party, an event, because there was no way in all of the fresh hells that he would let this be even close to mediocre. 

So, the table settings began.

At the end of the evening he found himself spinning in glee, hands clapped in front of his face, fingers touching his lips as he admired his handiwork. All done by himself - the boys could all thank him later for his hard work, since he’d wanted it to all be a surprise for the lot of them, and he had honestly outdone himself.

He hoped no one asked how he got the flowers during this time of year. Some secrets were better left untouched.

It was close to dark, the outside colors bringing in brilliant oranges and purples, when Jaskier set off to round everyone up. Geralt was the first person he found - a given, really. He’d spent enough time traveling around with him that he knew exactly where he’d be, the exact position he’d be in on his bed as he sharpened his sword (because his daggers would have been the first he sharpened, and it was too late in the evening for him to be starting on the task), no doubt trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking forward to anything or affected by the thought of such an event.

His rather tight pants gave him away, though. With a very firm kiss to his delicious lips and a swipe of his eager tongue, Jaskier let Geralt know it was ready. He tugged him up off the bed and patted his arse and sent him on his way, determined to find everyone else before he went down himself and got far too distracted.

The grumbling he heard from his witcher just made him smile more.

It took a little longer to locate Eskel, but Jaskier had figured it easier to find him than the others. Surprisingly he hadn’t been out visiting Lil’ Bleater, the little lady having already been put up snug in her bed, bleating out so cutely when she saw Jaskier that he had to spent a few minutes giving her some love before he went on his way. As he did, he couldn’t help but think about how witchers just...really did love to imprint on animals. Geralt with his precious Roach, Eskel with his classy lady. He wondered what sort of animal Vesemir might relate to, or Lambert?

Wait, no, he didn’t want to know that second one. He blinked in horror and set that thought firmly to a forgotten corner of his mind to grow dust.

Instead of finding Eskel with his adorable little lady, Jaskier ended up running into him in the kitchen. It had been the smell of some wondrous pastries that had clued him in, drawing him in like the hungry sweets demon he was, his fingers already itching to snatch some up and run away with his booty.

Not that he really needed to steal one. It was just more fun that way.

Sure enough, his nose had not lied to him. Eskel was pulling out some of his own handmade and famously delicious apple pastries out of the oven just as Jaskier peeked his head in, and his mouth watered just at the sight. Also, dare he say it, but Eskel was very cute with flour dusted on his spikey, scary shirt.

“Are those for little ol’ me?”

Eskel didn’t startle at his voice but Jaskier didn’t expect him to, used to the terrifyingly good hearing that came with all of the other witcher mutations. “You did say snacks, right? Figured these might do.”

“Oh! Oh, Eskel,” Jaskier felt his eyes tearing up, skipping into the kitchen and just stopping himself from flinging his arms around his now officially second favorite witcher. He skidded to a stop right in front of him, wringing his hands with emotion to keep from burning himself or Eskel (or accidentally impaling himself on said scary spikey shirt). “You really didn’t have to, I had the snacks all set up and planned out, but I’m ever so touched you did! Oh, these will make the perfect addition.”

“They have to cool first, Jask.” Eskel had a very knowing twinkle in his eye as he stepped around the bard, going to place the flat pan on a rack he had set up on the table. “I’ll bring them down when they’re ready, then you can have one.”

Jaskier pouted, eyeing the pastries and wondering if it was worth burning both his fingers and his tongue on them. Which, yes, it was, but he’d rather not disappoint the pastry chef. So he deflated with a deep sigh, content in knowing that he’d get some later - and that Eskel very much did not forget about his plans.

Vesemir was next on his list, and it only took one single stop by his office to remind him. All Jaskier had to do was knock on his door and wait patiently for Vesemir to say he could come in, then he poked his head in to see if he’d be joining them.

“I’ll be there.”

That’s all the answer Jaskier got, and he considered it good enough. With him checked off the list, there was only two left, and they would thankfully be easy to locate this evening. They weren’t usually - well, Lambert by himself was. But any time Aiden was joining them for the winter Lambert was made scarce, always off doing something with his dear friend, and that something was usually mischief.

Aiden was a wonderful and a horrid influence on Lambert, and everyone adored him for it. Most of the time. 

Luckily, Jaskier already knew where they were. He’d heard their training all the way in the keep and made his way to the training grounds, stopping by Geralt’s room to steal one of his coats on his way, not willing to face the cold with his own considering Geralt’s were much warmer (even if much less fashionable - had the man never heard of color?).

As it happened, they’d just recently stopped their training session - luck considering how long they’d go some evenings. Both of them had abandoned their shirts at some point, maybe even right at the start of their training, though Jaskier wasn’t sure how either of them could stand it when the snow in some places came up to his shins.

Stupid sexy witchers. It was entirely unfair. Both the cold resistant part and the sexy part. 

“Hey, little songbird.” Aiden stretched his arm back and rested it against his shoulder, dangling his sword behind him and watching as Jaskier’s eyes followed the movement. “S’time already?”

With his mouth suddenly quite dry, and what with his feet suddenly not knowing how to walk in snow, Jaskier had to stumble out some sort of an answer. Not that he could really hear it, he was paying too much attention to how Aiden flexed his arm just so - damn stupid sexy witchers.

Lambert laughed at him without a single ounce of pity, and if Jaskier’s brain wasn’t currently melting he would have pointed out that the same damn tricks worked on him if Aiden wanted them to. At least Aiden took some pity on him after that, heading back to the keep and shooting him a wicked grin as he brushed past him. 

Even with all the snow, it was suddenly a bit too warm for the coat he’d nabbed.

But that - that was everyone. Jaskier shook himself, a wide grin blooming on his face, the cold air biting at his cheeks and nose. Everyone was headed to the mess hall, the snack tables and punch were all ready. Eskel had been kind enough to make some of his apple pastries which would be a big hit. And! Jaskier had procured enough lubricant that they wouldn’t all be regretting it come the morning.

He rubbed his hands together as he turned around, hurrying back to get to the mess hall himself. This, without a single doubt, was his best idea yet - and hands down a night that he would always remember. 

#written over several days and not proofread not sorry #how do i even tag this #jaidertaltesk #...that just looks like the typical Gay Panic Keyboard Smash #big poly #jaskier #aiden #lambert #geralt #eskel #vesemir #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #crosspost later #i'm not saying Vesemir WOULDN'T join in on a big smexy pile #i'm just saying he saw snacks and has his priorities straight #....how did I manage to write for This Prompt and not include anything close to Lemony? #lemony in spirit but not in practice #Anon love #asks

[fea-warriorheart]

Another Life

His heart pounds as he edges around the side of the barn, peeking out into the field beyond. There's no sign of his hunter, yet he's not stupid enough to think he's safe.

He's given odd looks as he sneaks across the gap between the buildings, from people and animals alike. One of the horses gives him an indignant huff as he brushes past, and he's probably lucky there's a fence between them.

He's in a bad spot. His hunter knows it better than him. He has to get to familiar ground before-

"Found you!"

Jaskier shrieks as strong arms wrap around his waist, lifting his feet off the ground. He can hear the smug grin as the boy behind him adds, "Too exposed, lark."

The hands dart down his sides, tickling him while also letting his feet touch the ground once more. Jaskier shrieks again, but there's no fear this time; laughter and mirth sound in every sound as he squirms in the stableboy's hold.

"Geralt! Stop it! I yield!"

A soft laugh comes from behind him, and the arms around him loosen, releasing him. Jaskier turns, face flushed and split with a grin as he takes in the redhead before him. Geralt's a good head taller than him, despite only being two years older. While Jaskier spends his days studying and being proper, Geralt spends his split between helping at the estate stables and learning medicinal practices under the watchful eye of his mother. He's lean from winter, as most of the village is, but there's already muscle starting to build back up on his frame with the scraps of food he's given by a sympathetic cook.

Laughter sparkles in Geralt's fern-colored eyes, a feature many might call dull compared to some of the other shades sported by humanoid races, but Jaskier was of the firm belief it fit him perfectly. Geralt was a child of nature, just like his mother, and it was fitting for such a prominent feature to reflect that.

"Julian! Get back here!"

The brunette grimaced at the sharp tone. Geralt's expression instantly smoothed into the neutral stance most of the servants took when a member of the house approached, let alone one of Jaskier's parents.

His father stalked over, scowling at him. "You're late for your lessons. I shouldn't have to come out here and drag you around. It's disgraceful."

Julian bowed his head slightly. "Yes, father. My apologies."

An iron grip latched on to his upper arm. His father sneered at Geralt as he started dragging him back towards the manor. "Get back to work, brat."

Julian didn't risk glancing back. Geralt would only get in further trouble; he knew his father already disliked the boy for being friendly with him, but kept him around because of his old friendship with Visenna. The woman had been there for Jaskier's birth, as well as his two sister's. Plus, Geralt had a way with the animals that no one could quite explain - or replicate - and it was too much trouble in his father's eyes to find and train a new boy for the job.

Geralt is one of the few good things Julian has in his life. He won't risk him by being stupid.

-

A fierce storm is raging against the windows of the kitchen. Many of the servants are fast asleep, but Jaskier paces the room, worry lines etched into his brow. Geralt is making them both a pot of tea; a messenger had arrived in the early evening, stating that Jaskier's father had been ambushed by bandits and that his location was currently unknown. Despite being reassured by his mother, sleep had not come easy to the young viscount.

Geralt rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, and offered him a steaming cup. "Sit down," he murmured. "You'll do nothing for no one wearing holes into the floorboards."

He sits with a flop, tracing a finger along the edge of the cup as he waits for it to cool a bit. Geralt sits beside him, something they're only allowed to do in moments like this; moments of solitude in a life full of company. "You know I worry."

"Yes. It's why I knew you would seek me out."

Jaskier glances at him. Geralt's coat is drying by the fire; he'd accompanied the messenger to the manor through the storm, soaking both of them through, and his mother had insisted the poor boy stay the night. He'd taken a place by the kitchen fire to stay out of the way, and had been waiting when Jaskier slipped inside.

With Geralt, Jaskier is able to be... well, Jaskier. He's able to laugh and tell stupid jokes and not care about being proper, but only with Geralt. With all others, he must be Julian Alfred Pankratz.

It's no wonder why he feels drawn to the boy.

He sighs softly, leaning against Geralt. "What if they hurt him?"

"He's a hardy man, you know. This isn't the first time he's had to fight."

"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"I know, lark." Geralt gives him a one-armed hug-squeeze around his shoulders. "He'll be alright. Probably just lost his way in the storm, is all."

Jaskier shrugs miserably, sipping at his tea. They sit in silence for a while; Geralt eventually stands to clean their cups and dry them off. He's placing them back in the cupboard when the door slams open, startling both boys and causing the fire to give a threatening flicker.

Two figures stumble inside; one is unmistakably his father, while the other has broad shoulders and wears a thick cloak, obscuring all but the chestnut beard with gray flecks peppering it. The stranger slams the door shut, bolting it against the wind, and Jaskier's father stands there for a moment, breathing heavily as he takes in the two boys.

The stranger turns, then, and Julian's heart clenches when he sees the Witcher's medallion hanging around his neck. He pulls down the hood of his cloak, golden eyes reflecting the light of the fire. His gaze is on Julian, studying him curiously.

He turns back to Julian's father. "I assume you didn't expect either of them to be here. Which would fulfill your payment."

The man tenses, then shakes his head. "No, I expected my son to be here. He always waits up when I'm late. The stable boy, though- bah. You can take him."

Julian feels his world slow to a halt. When he looks at Geralt, he feels like he's moving through pine resin. The redhead's eyes are wide with shock and fear, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, though no sound leaves him.

"Fine. I doubt I have enough rations to bring both of them with me, anyways." The Witcher turns back to them, crossing his arms. "Your name, boy."

"No!" Julian's voice starts working again, and he stands between them. "You can't take him!"

"Julian," his father hisses, storming over to him and yanking him away. "He claimed the Law of Surprise for saving my life. It must be fulfilled."

"No! He can't take Geralt! Please, father, you can't let him!" Tears burn his eyes. Geralt still isn't moving, still hasn't looked away from the Witcher.

Golden and green gazes snap to them as Julian is backhanded. The Witcher is there in an instant, gripping his father's wrist enough to make the man cry out.

"I don't take kindly to those who would abuse a child for caring for a friend," the Witcher says softly. "Touch him again and lose your hand. Your oath has been fulfilled. Leave us, now."

"Wait." A small voice sounds from the corner where Geralt stands. He's trembling, eyes darting between the Witcher and Julian. "Can I- Can I at least say goodbye?"

Something in the Witcher's face softens, and he steps back, nodding. "Do you have any family?"

"My mother, she lives in the village..."

"You can say farewell to her as well and grab some spare clothes. Make it quick."

The Witcher leans against the fireplace, and Geralt rushes over, wiping at Jaskier's tears with soothing motions. "It's alright, lark. Don't cry... It'll be okay..."

"Geralt... Please, you can't leave me..." Jaskier gripped his shirt, twisting the fabric in his grip. A gentle hand brushes through his hair.

"You know I can't just ignore this, lark... I have to go, but we'll see each other again eventually, yeah...?"

Jaskier sniffles. Geralt lifts his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He smiles gently, and for the life of him, Jaskier can't help but feel the truth in his words. He nods, even as his bottom lip wobbles. "Yeah."

The Witcher steps in again, a hand on Geralt's shoulder. He hands the boy his coat, and with one last look back, Jaskier's best friend vanishes into the stormy night.

-

He learns in Oxenfurt how few boys survive the Witcher mutations. He does not want to believe it, but part of him mourns his friend. Geralt was strong, but verging on too old for the Trials; his body would be more likely to reject them than to adapt to them. And besides, Geralt was a farmer, a healer, not a monster hunter.

So Jaskier does his best to move on. But there are nights, often dark with storms, where he curls in on himself and wishes things had happened differently.

He graduates Oxenfurt a master of the arts and top of his class, and then he just... wanders. He plays as a bard in taverns and inns, earning enough coin to stay the night and occasionally buy some new clothes. He takes lovers, but never partners; he loves too much and yet too little, flitting from person to person as his very being rejects each and every one.

He's nineteen, playing in some backwater village. The road there had been harrowing; he had been lucky to join a group of merchants at the last town. A nest of monsters - he wasn't sure what, he hadn't paid attention - had been terrorizing most travelers in small groups for weeks. They'd even been so desperate as to put up a notice for a Witcher.

Despite all of the stories, Jaskier hasn't seen another since that night. He's beginning to wonder if they're just a figment of everyone's collective imagination; perhaps the monsters just kill themselves off or migrate elsewhere when the pickings are slim.

He's just finished a song, collecting some meager coin as the door opens. Jaskier is retreating to his table when a hand rests on his shoulder; his mind runs through anyone he might have pissed off. He hasn't been in town long enough to anger any husbands, fathers or brothers, and no one would have followed him through such a dangerous area. So truly, for the life of him, he doesn't know why-

"Lark."

His world goes still in a way that has happened only once before.

He turns slowly. He's no longer a head shorter; his eyes are about level with his nose. His skin is paler than Jaskier remembers, contrasted with dark armor. A wolf's head gleams above it, snarling at his foes, and two swords are visible on his back.

Snow white hair brushes his shoulders, tied back clumsily. Jaskier can't find the strength to breathe as he finally looks him in the eye.

Gone is the green of ferns and grass in the spring; molten gold takes their place, slitted pupils darting in minuscule movements as he searches Jaskier's face. For all the differences, he's still the same boy - still the stable boy Jaskier knew.

He's still...

Jaskier is breathless as he whispers, "Geralt."

A small smile spreads across the boy's - man's, he's twenty, twenty-one now - face. He takes Jaskier's hand in his, squeezing it gently. "I told you I'd see you again."

//An indulgent thing that I came up with out of the blue. Lost steam at the end which is why it sort of trails off, but hey, if anyone's interested in a part two.... (bold presumption, I know.)

#witcher #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #geralt of rivia #fic #what-if