#I tried to set it up so this week is Jaskier opening up and next week is Geralt.

[crazypaperwasteland]

How Geralt Lost Her-Part One

Summary: Geralt unknowingly hurt the person he loved most, leaving her feeling unwanted and forgotten by the people she cared for. Will he ever be able to make it up to her? Or will she leave him and never come back?

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Just a lot of sadness and Yennefer being a bitch (no hate to her, I love her. But in this story, she’s a bitch)

A/N: Just as a reminder, up until this post reaches 50 likes, Part Two will not be posted. Again, sorry about that. 

Masterlist

Part 2 (Link will be attached when it’s posted)

I could see that she had Geralt under her spell from the moment he saw her. It was fine, I knew what she meant to him, I knew that he loved her. He’d told me as much, he told me that she was dead too, and that a part of him would always love her. I was fine with that. The one thing I wasn’t fine with was the way that Yennefer looked at Ciri, I could tell that Ciri was uncomfortable as well. 

It made my blood boil. I could also see how Yennefer looked at me when Geralt turned his back, she tried to hide it, but she saw me as a threat. She’d been teaching Ciri witchcraft, in ways that I couldn’t teach her, and it seemed that she believed she was superior to me because she spent a lot of time with Ciri. I knew about Yennefer’s infertility, I knew that she had spent decades trying to have a child of her own. I also knew that she saw Ciri as a surrogate for that loss, that void she felt inside of herself. 

For weeks, we’d been on the road, after Ciri’s little spill at Kaer Morhen. After learning about Yennefer’s betrayal, Geralt had been giving her the cold shoulder and really only talking to me, Ciri and Jaskier, albeit very little. Geralt seemed to think that he could just come running back to me when his first relationship was at odds with him. I, however, was not content with that little arrangement. So I would sleep near Jaskier, if Geralt set his bedroll down next to mine, I would move away from him and go over to Ciri. The poor man looked so confused. But I was not a toy, I wouldn’t play that game. 

I never intended to let anyone in on the way I was feeling. Betrayed, forgotten, lonely, upset. However, eventually those things boil over. Especially with me. Yennefer was skilled in magic, there was no doubt about it. She’d singlehandedly turned the tide at Sodden with all of her flames and had not lost her life. But I was different. Once upon a time, I’d been at Aretuza, long after she’d left. 

The mages of Aretuza were fearful of her because of how she’d weaponized flames at Sodden, but when they heard of my abilities, they were even more terrified. There would always be mages who were unlike others, who had greater limits than average humans. I was one of them. A woman with an affinity for fire, I used it everyday, I felt it rising up my throat like bile everyday, fighting to shove it back down everyday. 

This day was one of the harder ones. Yennefer had put Ciri in danger. We had come across a monster, another monster after Ciri. While Geralt was incapacitated, Yennefer had tried to portal. But her magic was still…finicky. She had taken Ciri in her arms, trying to protect her, when in reality she’d opened a portal right into the creature’s path and nearly gotten Ciri snatched up into its jaws. 

It took a split second for me to burn it into a crisp from the inside out. The work wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Yennefer had put Ciri in danger again. And I felt the familiar burn of fire in my stomach, rising up my throat as if I could spew it at her like my poisonous words. 

Ciri had gone to check on Geralt, who was unconscious after being thrown into a tree and hitting his head, Jaskier went with her. “Do you realize that Ciri could have died just then?”

Yennefer glared at me while rubbing her arms, “yes.”

“She would have died all because of your mistake,” I knew Yennefer felt guilty, I could tell, but everything I’d been feeling was coming out now. The hatred I had for her ran deep, because she thought that she could steal everything from me. My best friend, my lover, my child. 

“You think I don’t know that?” Yennefer snapped, her eyes blazing. 

I felt heat rising in my clenched fists, “if you had simply left it to me, that thing would have been a pile of ashes in a moment. Instead you left me to knock you and Ciri out of the way because you decided you wanted to portal. You decided you wanted to test out your shaky magic when Ciri’s life was in danger!”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“No, you were trying to play house,” I shouted back, stepping up until there was no space between us. “Like you’ve been doing ever since you got here. Happy little family. Mother, father, daughter. With you as the dutiful wife.”

“That’s what this is about?” Yennefer laughed, “you’re worried that I’m going to take your place?”

“No, I want to make sure you understand some things.” I sneered, I grabbed her arms, she hissed as steam rose from between her skin and mine, my hands burned right through the fabric of her sleeves. Her eyes were frantic with mine at the pain I knew she was in. “I don’t give a shit if you buddy up with Jaskier, I couldn’t care less if Geralt chooses you over me. But let’s get one thing clear, Ciri is not your child. You can get close to her, you can teach her, you can love her, but she is not yours. She’s mine. And if you put her in danger one more time, I swear to the gods that I will burn you alive, you spiteful bitch.” I shoved her away and stormed off, twigs snapping under my boots. 

I sat on a cliff edge for hours, my feet dangling off. How many times had I considered jumping off of a cliff since Yennefer returned? Three times. Once, when she first came back, I saw how Geralt looked at her. He looked at her like he loved her, he looked at her the way he looked at me before she came back into the picture. The second time was when Jaskier recounted her as his friend and slipped an arm around her, that wasn’t what did it. It was that she looked at me and smirked when he said it. And then the third time was when I heard her and Geralt speaking in hushed whispers while we were staying at an inn one night. I heard Yennefer giggling in delight and speaking in a sultry voice. 

All I had left was Ciri, she was the only one that I hadn’t lost, that didn’t entertain Yennefer’s desire for the perfect family. I recalled what my father told me when he found out about my gifts. “You will always be alone. You are extraordinary, but you are also a wrecking ball. Everything you touch, you ruin. You aren’t worth the pain, and one day everyone you care about will realize it too.” For decades that echoed in my head, those words. 

I felt tears slip down my cheeks, for a second I thought it was beginning to rain, but then I realized that it was just me. My lips trembled as I picked up a rock and chucked it off the cliffside, letting out a wail that I hoped no one could hear. 

Alas, I never got that lucky. In fact, my entire life had just been a series of bad luck. A series I thought ended when I met Geralt and Jaskier, when I met Ciri. Turns out that it was only just beginning. 

“Is this why you haven’t been speaking to me?” I heard Geralt ask in his usual gravelly tone, only this time it was softer, as if he was afraid to startle me. “I have no idea why you would think I’d leave-”

“You love her, Geralt,” I cut in, “I don’t need anyone to tell me that what I’m feeling is unjustified, I don’t need anyone to tell me that I’m crazy. You love her. You’re cross with her at the moment, but the moment you accept her apology you two will be all cozied up to one another. In fact, you probably already are.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment, “me and Yennefer are done, (Y/N). I made that very clear to her.” I heard his boots moving on the gravelly rock before he sat down next to me. “I love you-”

“You only love me because you can’t have her, Geralt,” I turned to look at him. He seemed to jump back at the sight of my tear stained face. “I am no one’s second choice. All I have ever done is help other people, all I’ve ever done is think of everyone else, put other people first. And yet no one ever does the same for me.” I stood up and started to walk away from him, but he grabbed my hand before I could get very far. 

“You are not my second choice,” Geralt tugged me towards him until I looked at him again. “You should have just told me-”

“And what?” I shoved him away from me, “you would have told Yennefer to leave? You would have “listened” to what I had to say? Like you’re doing now?” I laughed, despair seizing me.

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re trying to make it seem like I am at fault. You wouldn’t have listened, because you are unwilling to see the pain I’m in, the pain that I have been in, because you also know, deep down, that you are the cause.” Geralt lowered his head, and I knew I was right. 

“Then explain it to me, explain so I can understand, because I truly don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” Geralt’s voice was pleading. 

I huffed a laugh, “it’s simple. She has her claws sunk so deep into your heart that you are blinded to any wrongdoing on her part. You have not seen the way she has looked at me or treated me, because you’d rather not see it.”

“How has she done wrong to you, (Y/N)?” Geralt snapped at me, “what exactly has she done to make you hate her so?” His tone was so…mocking that I flinched slightly. 

I felt myself choke on my tears, “this, Geralt.” I gestured between me and him, “she is determined to destroy everything that I perceive as mine.”

“No, she isn’t!”

I let the tears in my eyes fall, my legs felt wobbly beneath me, I saw guilt flash on his face at the sight, but I cast that observation aside. “Fine, Geralt. I’m done….I’m just…I’m done.” I took a step back away from him, “she wins. You’re hers, Ciri is hers, Jaskier is hers. I’m done.” I threw my hands up in defeat and turned my back on him, and I left. I left it all behind, Geralt, Yennefer, Jaskier and Ciri. I left it all behind because I knew if I stayed, it would eventually kill me. So with teary eyes and an aching heart, I walked away from the love of my life, my child, and my best friend. 

#jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt angst #the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer #cirilla #princess cirilla #ciri #ciri x geralt #rivia #geralt fluff #fluff #angst #sadness #aretuza #kaer morhen

[echo-bleu]

If I see one more Valentine’s ad, I’m going to scream. Why does a job posting board need a Valentine’s sale?

Anyway, I wrote a very aro fic for the last flash fic round (aroace Geralt, alloaro Jaskier, modern AU, friendship). So if anyone else feels bombarded by the amatonormativity right now, this is for you.

Read here on AO3. Title from The Amazing Devil’s Secret Worlds.

Do I have to be who I am?

Geralt leans against the steering wheel and glances at the clock. 3:52, the display glares back at him, momentarily too bright for his eyes. He unlocks his phone and checks the calendar again. Group therapy. Friday 4pm.

He needs to go in. He still has to find the room it’s held in, probably fill in more forms – he’s never filled as many forms in his life as he has since he’s come back from Sodden.

He doesn’t want to move.

Come on, you can’t just stay in the car all afternoon. If nothing else, your leg won’t thank you.

Geralt sighs and extirpates himself from the driver seat of his truck, careful to straighten his leg and watch where his foot lands. He grits his teeth through the first few steps – those are always the worst – and it gives him an excuse not to think as he builds up momentum.

The building is nondescript, four-story, walls washed with an off-white colour turning yellow with time. The front door is automatic, and it opens before him with a swoosh . Geralt looks around, but the lobby is narrow and entirely empty. It’s a residential area, and the letter boxes affixed to the back wall mostly carry people names, not businesses. He squints at it until he finds the name he’s looking for, but the sign doesn’t give a flat number, much less a floor.

Well, there should be people around he can ask. He heads to the elevator and pushes the first floor button.

The first floor corridor is just as nondescript, the walls a dull grey, but there’s an open door. Inside, rather than a flat, Geralt sees a large room with a few tables in the middle and a row of computers at the back. A young man, his back to Geralt, is pinning a rainbow flag to a giant cork board on the wall. He’s humming to himself, his dark brown hair bobbing in rhythm.

Geralt stands in the door frame for a few seconds, trying to gather the courage to speak up. Before he can, though, the other man whirls around.

“Where’s the— oh, hi there! Come on in!”

“Is this the… group therapy?” Geralt tries, his voice coming out as more of a croak.

The man’s face falls. “Ah, no, I’m sorry. You want to go upstairs for that. But Shani’s ill today, so I’m pretty sure it’s been cancelled.”

“Oh.”

They both stand there awkwardly for a moment. Geralt isn’t sure what to do. He came all the way here – it took him the whole day to psych himself up to it, if he’s honest with himself – and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to try again next week. Maybe he’ll write it off as a failure and give up.

He needs it, though. For Ciri. For Vesemir and Eskel and – for himself. Fuck. Triss abandoning him like that, even though he understands her reasons, really put him at a loss.

“You can stay, if you want,” the man says suddenly. “I don’t really think anyone’s coming, anyway.”

It’s a bit blindsiding, and Geralt stumbles over his words. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, uh, LGBT+ group. I’m trying to set something up for the students, but the Academy wouldn’t let me put up posters or announcements on their socials, and all I could get was this place, Shani’s art therapy room. It’s way too far from campus. I did my best to advertise, but fucking Marx keeps getting in my way. So I don’t think anyone’s coming.”

“Hm. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t even introduce myself before dumping that on you. I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt steps into the room to shake the offered hand, getting a better look at this Jaskier. He’s wearing a bright blue bomber jacket over a yellow band t-shirt, and a pair of dark jeans so skinny that they’re barely there at all. On his jacket are a solid dozen pins and badges, all brightly coloured. Geralt notices the one that says he/him and what he thinks is a bisexual flag.

It’s not until he feels the weight of Jaskier’s curious gaze on him that he realizes he never answered.

“Geralt. I should probably go. If the session is cancelled.”

“I don’t want to pry, especially not with Shani’s clients, but was that your first time?”

Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t offer therapy, but I know very well how nerve-wracking it is to come to a first appointment, and having to go home empty-handed like this has gotta be tough. Can I offer you a glass of water, at least? Orange juice? That’s all I have.” He waves toward a grocery bag on one of the table.

Geralt hesitates. His leg aches fiercely, and the drive back will be hell if he doesn’t give it a break. Jaskier looks at him with puppy eyes, and Geralt realizes that he’s almost as lost, left alone with his flags and his orange juice.

“Alright.”

Jaskier flashes a bright smile. “Come sit down, then.”

He serves them both orange juice in paper cups while Geralt lowers himself onto a seat. The plastic chair is uncomfortable as hell, but at least he can stretch his leg under the table and put the pressure off of it.

“Doesn’t the Academy have an LGBT society or something?” he asks, racking his brain on a way to make conversation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier sighs, sitting down across from him. “But it’s lead by fucking Valdo Marx. He’s an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“I was the president last year, but I had to step down to focus on my dissertation, and he’s… he’s the kind of gay guy who thinks the society should be for the gays and maybe the lesbians, and everything else is just splitting hair.”

Geralt eyes the badges haphazardly pinned on Jaskier’s lapel. He doesn’t know what the other flags mean, but he can recognize them as flags. “And you disagree.”

“Of course I disagree!” Jaskier lets out, indignant. “What, you’re one of those too?”

“No, I’m… straight. As far as I know.”

“Oh. Well, every group needs a token allocishet, even if you’re apparently also the only member beside me.”

Geralt blinks. “...Okay. What’s allo… what?”

“Allocishet. Straight, cisgender and alloromantic and allosexual.”

“I know straight and I’m pretty sure I understand cisgender, but what’s the rest?”

Jaskier smiles and points at a flag pin on his jacket, in shades of green, grey and black. “That’s the aromantic flag. It means I don’t feel attracted to people romantically. Alloromantic is the opposite, everyone who isn’t on the aromantic spectrum.”

“You don’t… fall in love with people?” Geralt asks, trying to wrap his head around that.

“No. It doesn’t mean I don’t love them, but just not romantically. Asexual and allosexual are the same for sexual attraction.”

“But you’re not that?”

“I’m alloaro. Allosexual, aromantic. Bisexual, to be precise. I feel sexual attraction for all genders.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Didn’t know that was a thing.”

Jaskier grins. “That’s okay. I’m always happy to teach these things! Maybe today won’t be a waste of time after all, if you go home knowing something new. Let me show you.” He takes out his phone, whose case is decorated with glitter and a unicorn playing guitar. He types something and holds it out for Geralt to see the screen. “That’s the ace flag.”

“Ace for… asexual?” Geralt asks, sounding the word out.

“Yep! There’s also a lot of variation inside the aro and ace spectrums, and people who don’t differentiate, but that’s maybe a bit much for today.”

“Hm.”

Geralt turns this over in his head. There are people who don’t feel any sort of attraction? It must be rare, if he’s only finding this out at thirty-five. Right? He doesn’t exactly spend his time talking about relationships with the people in his life, but it seems to him that none of them ever expressed something like that. Lambert came out as pansexual at fourteen, very sure of himself. Eskel has had relationships over the years, however short-lived. Even Vesemir talks about the men of his youth.

Yen… Well. Fourteen years of marriage has got to be proof of concept, right, even if it ended? Yen was certainly physically attracted to Geralt, once upon a time. Romance… Their relationship wasn’t particularly romantic, but what’s romantic attraction anyway?

“What’s the difference between romantic and sexual attraction?” Geralt asks abruptly, realizing too late that he interrupted Jaskier mid-sentence. A sentence he was very much not listening to. “Sorry, I—”

Jaskier waves dismissively. “It’s fine. I don’t know if I’m the best person to explain, since I’ve never felt one of those, but it’s like… When you look at someone you’re attracted to, do you want to kiss them? Cuddle them? Or have sex?”

“Uh… I don’t know?” Geralt scrambles to think of someone. With Yen, only the memories come to mind, sleeping side by side, the vanilla sex they quickly got bored of and the kinkier side she showed. And, overwhelming everything, the spectacular arguments that ended in their divorce. What attracted him to her? She’s beautiful, sure, but it was never about that. She was there. She didn’t take any of his shit. He was on leave and she wanted sex.

The men of his unit had magazines full of scantily naked women, but Geralt never looked at them. He had Yen – surely that was enough? And since the divorce… Well, it’s not like he’s hanging around in bars. Or cafés. Or anywhere he might meet someone new.

“Nothing? When you see a good-looking woman in the street or on an ad or something?”

“Er…”

“It’s alright, Geralt, it’s totally fine. But… you might want to look into this further. Just saying. Most people can answer that pretty readily. Or at least they’ll start blushing.”

That’s what makes Geralt’s face heat. “I’m not… I’m normal,” he says. But he knows as soon as the words come out of his lips that they’re the wrong ones.

Jaskier’s face falls. “Right.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Geralt internally winces at the thought of telling Lambert or Vesemir that they aren’t ‘normal’. “I just, um. I don’t know about this. I was married for fourteen years. I can’t be… whatever.”

“I don’t think it’s mutually exclusive,” Jaskier says softly, more kindly than Geralt deserves. “Especially if you didn’t have the words for it. Society expects us to be one way, and we often conform whether we mean to or not.”

“You don’t.”

“I did, for a long time. I tried to do what my parents wanted, study law and settle with a nice girl. I lasted all of one semester. But it wasn’t until I met others like me that I started letting go of those expectations.”

“So what did you do?” Geralt asks, genuinely curious.

“I stopped pretending. Got an ADHD diagnosis, picked up my guitar and toured the Continent for a few years. I had sex with a lot of random people who didn’t care about sticking to the norm. Then I came back and started studying music. Now I’m a grad student.”

“Wait, how old are you?” When he said he was part of the Academy, Geralt assumed he was faculty, not a student. Not that he looks old, but there’s a set to his shoulder, a way of carrying himself, that makes him seem like he’s seen more than his share of life.

“I’m twenty-nine,” Jaskier says. “I started late. It just means I have fewer fucks to give, especially to shitheads like Marx.”

Geralt nods. “Are there a lot of older students?”

“A few in each class. Especially in grad school, but even as an undergrad I was rarely the oldest. Why, you’re thinking about studying here?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Geralt shrugs. “I got discharged from the army a while ago. I can’t live on my pension forever and I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You have a major in mind?”

“Not really. I never went to college the first time around, I enlisted right out of high school.”

“Well, if you’re into Music, or Literature, or History, or pretty much any of the humanities, I know everyone, I could show you around at least.”

Geralt smiles vaguely and nods, fairly sure that it’s one of those times people offer something without any intention of following through. They only met half an hour ago, by mistake. Jaskier hardly wants a disabled vet following him around.

But instead of moving on, or showing any signs of wanting to Geralt to leave, Jaskier insists on exchanging phone numbers. “If you have any questions about the Academy, or about sexual orientations,” he says with a wink.

And he fills both of their cups again.

Geralt leans back on his uncomfortable seat and finds out that he hasn’t thought about therapy, or really about any of the myriad of things that have been troubling him, since he sat down. Jaskier chats about everything and nothing, about his friend Essi who is talking about starting a band with him, about his dissertation on medieval troubadours, about his volunteer hours at the refugee centre. Geralt tells him, just a little, about his tours, about his brothers and his father, about Yennefer and Ciri.

“You have a daughter? Oh, that’s wonderful! How old is she?”

There is nothing feigned in Jaskier’s enthusiasm, nothing but real warmth and interest.

“She’s six,” Geralt answers, swiping through his phone for a recent photo. On it, Ciri is riding on Eskel’s shoulders, giggling, with her horse plushie in her hand. “I only have her every other weekend since the divorce.”

He misses her, but he was gone for even longer swatches of time when he was deployed. It’s better this way. He doesn’t think he’d be capable of raising her fully right now, and that was the one thing he and Yennefer didn’t argue on.

The divorce, when it came, was both inevitable and overdue. Yennefer stayed through his rehab – and Geralt is infinitely thankful for that, but eventually, their hours-long, violent arguments started taking their toll on Ciri. And Ciri takes priority over anything else, for both of them.

“Wow, she’s adorable!” Jaskier exclaims. “She looks so much like you!”

“She’s adopted,” Geralt deadpans, because he never fails to find it funny to see people’s face fall at that.

Jaskier barely falters. “Oh. Well, I guess you get that a lot.”

“We do. But it’s all just a coincidence.” One that amuses but also annoys Yennefer to no end, especially when people assume that she can’t be Ciri’s mother. “Yen and I couldn’t have children of our own. We’re both infertile.”

“So you decided to adopt?”

Geralt shrugs. “Sort of. We tried for a long time, and then a friend of ours named me godfather of her baby. That was Ciri. She and her husband died in a car accident not long after she was born.”

“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.”

“It was a while ago. But that’s how we got her. If we hadn’t, I think we’d have divorced a lot sooner. Yen really wanted a child. I never really did, but… I thought it would make her happy. I was away so much, but I thought, at least Ciri would always have her. She’s a good mother.”

Something sad passes through Jaskier’s face, but he shakes it off. “I was an unwanted child,” he says casually. “Runt of the litter, too, until I had my last growth spurt. My parents are… Well, I haven’t seen them in ten years. But I can see that you love Ciri very much.”

Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that – is it just an attempt at sharing? A warning? A criticism? In the end, he does nothing. Jaskier moves on to a random story about an older woman who tried to sponsor his music in exchange for sexual favours.

“I wasn’t even against it until she tried to make me move in with her and do all the romantic shit,” he says. “But the second I started pulling away, she cut me off.”

“Maybe for the better,” Geralt says dryly.

“But can you imagine? I could have become famous! All the great artists of the past had rich sponsors!”

“Did they all have sex with them, too?”

Jaskier snorts. “I mean, it probably happened a lot. What about you? Any other adventures than with your ex-wife?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “No.”

“None?”

Geralt blushes. It was a contention point with Yennefer, once upon a time. She was his first, and he definitely wasn’t hers, even though she’s a couple of years younger. And now she’s dating again – which is why Triss gently ended their session, she couldn’t very well continue to be the therapist of her new girlfriend’s ex-husband – and Geralt isn’t. Isn’t even considering it.

“No.”

Jaskier hesitates for a beat. “Okay. That’s totally okay, you know that, right?”

“Hm.”

“You met after high school?”

“You’re still thinking that I’m a-whatever,” Geralt growls.

“Well, yeah. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Geralt stays silent. It wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes. Except that something in him tells him that if he starts considering it, he’ll take a step into a bottomless precipice. That he’s at the edge, he’s been hanging onto that edge for months, and if he lets go, if he lets himself explore this… Or any of the other things that Triss brought up…

He might never reach the bottom.

“Alright,” Jaskier relents.

Geralt wonders how they got there. Why is he opening up so much to this man that he just met? They haven’t dug particularly deep into anything, but it’s the first time Geralt has talked this much to anyone since…

Since. Since the divorce, since his injury, maybe. Before that, even – when was the last time Geralt made a friend that wasn’t in his unit, under his command?

A friend. It feels like a novel thought.

“You know, all the good songs and books are about these grand love stories,” Jaskier says, following his own track. “I love them, but I’ve never been able to have that, myself. It’s a process, accepting that you’re not going to get those things. It’s a kind of grief.”

“Love stories suck,” Geralt says, because no one could accuse him of being eloquent, and now Yennefer is on his mind.

“You suck,” Jaskier shoots back childishly.

Geralt snorts. “Well, yeah.”

“Geralt, is that a particularly poor attempt at not-straight innuendo or is it self-hatred?”

“Hm.”

“You’re really not much of a talker, are you?”

Geralt shrugs. “Probably talked more today than in the last three months combined.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Does that mean you like me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Jaskier averts his eyes briefly, and Geralt can see him compose himself and look back like nothing happened.

“Talking doesn’t mean I like you,” he corrects, beating himself, “but I didn’t say that I didn’t.”

Jaskier gives a little laugh. “Alright. You should study rhetoric, or something.”

“Maybe.”

“Could suit you. Or logic? Are you good at maths?”

Geralt shifts in his chair, flexing his aching leg. He’s been sitting down for too long. “I should go,” he says without answering.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks at his phone. “Gods, were did the time go?”

“Where it usually goes, I would wager,” Geralt answers, letting the corner of his mouth rise.

Jaskier’s muffled laughter is rather adorable.

“What would you say to grabbing dinner?” he asks.

Geralt hesitates.

“Not like, as a date or anything. It’s just that it’s almost 8 and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Do you even date?” Geralt asks, stalling as he tries to figure out how to answer.

“Kinda? Some people don’t feel comfortable having sex repeatedly without dating, and I’m not, like, romance-repulsed or anything. I just don’t feel attracted that way. I love romantic books and love songs as much as anyone.”

“Hm.”

“So, dinner? If you’re totally sick of me after three hours and just want to go home, that’s totally fine. But if you’re afraid that I’m just offering to be polite, I’m really not. I like you and I have no other plans.”

He says all of that without stopping for breath, too fast and too rambly, but it hits Geralt in the stomach nonetheless.

When was the last time someone wanted to spend time with him because they liked him? And he likes Jaskier back, there is no denying it. Not in any sexual or romantic way – though, would he even know? – but he likes Jaskier’s unashamed attitude, his enthusiasm and his awkwardness, his empathy. It’s been three hours and it already feels like they’ve known each other forever.

“Alright. I can do dinner.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #echo's fanfiction

[roughentumble]

Okay okay okay so I MAY have made a small snippet of the scifi au and it'll probably never be anything so feel free to it but here it is!

-

"-not even the Xanthian markets of Vega Nine? Surely you couldn't have forgotten that Lyesian witch lady who tried to hex your 'mating apparatus' to appear on your face, I mean really Geralt. Or that crystal ice rosette you got for clearing out the Arcturan Megaleeches that you never ended up trading for credits. In fact," the android lit up, with an accompanying jingle of his jacket's remaining bell cones, "You gave that to me!"

It rummaged around its tattered pockets until it found something that looked like it used to be quite delicate and expensive. As it was, it appeared to be an extravagant mess of diamond and silver that still held a faint reminder of its original rosette shape.

The android grimaced and slowly slipped it back into one of many miscellaneous pockets. "Well," it said, "you can't win them all. Or keep them all. Or something like that."

Geralt, who had been busy hacking at a barrier of metallically clangorous vines for the past three hours, turned to look at it.

"Aren't you supposed to be good with words?"

He turned back to his endeavor.

The android sputtered and fluttered it's finely articulated hands, turning on a booted heel and storming off to more appreciative lands.

A couple of hours passed by, Geralt making minimal headway in his effort to best the flora. In-between hacks he could hear the slight strumming noise of a stringed instrument. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the android under a tree, moving its fingers as if plucking chords on an invisible lyre.

"Geralt, ohhhhhh Geralt, plucked for me a rose. Inspired me a simple kiss and some middling prose."

He put more strength into his axe swings, thunderous clangs bellowing from the clash of metal against metal well into the night.

-

Geralt did not wake up to the sounds of whirring motors or bawdy lyrics in an electrical hum. It was quiet, peaceful, for the first time in weeks. He could hear the low chittering of still unidentified fauna, and relaxed, letting out a drawn out and heavy sigh. He set to work slowly, taking his time preparing and eating his morning meal and taking a long, long time in the river, scrubbing out dirt and oil without searching for wandering eyes.

For the next couple of weeks, Geralt took it slow and steady, falling back into his usual solo routine. He worked long days and fixed up whatever part of Roach was causing problems that day.

The next couple of months, however, were taken less graciously. Although he wouldn't let himself admit it, he was getting a little worried about the android. He threw himself into his work, trying to shake off the eventual concerned pauses that would come with renewed vigor until he was so bodily exhausted that Roach locked him in until his muscles stopped screaming at him.

He stared up at bright metal ceiling of her newly polished chassis, upgraded Sat-Nav whirring with constant innumerable calculations in the back ground.

Geralt sighed, stroking his hand along the edge of a window frame. The whirring lowed into a soft nicker-noise, calming and concerned.

"He's usually back by now, Roach."

The chassis rumbled.

"I keep thinking I hear his stupid rhyming, or footsteps coming closer. What if something got him? I haven't gotten that far yet, I don't know what predators are here."

He sulked.

"They probably stayed away from me, but a little loud shiny thing wandering around.."

The pneumatic lock hissed and opened, and Geralt left without another word.

-

"Jaskier! Jaskier?"

He had been carefully retracing his tracks, hoping the android stuck to places they had been. He was good at this, at hunting and finding. It was why he was hired so often for surveying contracts, why he was on this stupid, beguiling planet in the first place. Companies loathed casualties due to "overlooking", mostly because that's what caused them to fork over the bigger payouts. Once, Geralt was sent planetside to a pre-cleared area, only to find a very invisible and very, very venomous felid type creature that could have taken out a small town in a night.

These tracking skills found the android, ornate clothes further tattered, crumpled motionless in a grove. Geralt inspected him gingerly, gently, not wanting to cause the same surprising awakening as last time. His eyes caught sight of a disjointed neck bracing that had folded in and bent a fluid valve into closure. He slung Jaskier other his back, careful to not further warp any delicate parts. Fortunately, he was fairly convinced that he could fix the issue with some simple, albeit meticulous, tinkering. After all, the android was in much worse shape when he found him the first time.

Roach trilled and beeped. Geralt wondered, briefly, if she and Jaskier had some shared language or state of consciousness. He wrenched his worktable down, laying Jaskier out on top, and eased his neck into an accessible position. Pliers and clamps corrected the bracing back, and a mag cinch pulled the tubing open, allowing the valve to operate.

He was so focused on realignment that he didn't notice the whirring start back up.

"Geralt? Oh my stars, did I cut out again?"

Geralt noticed, now so close to them, that Jaskier's irises were made of copper, and had oxidized into a stunning turquoise. The android stretched, joints clinking into place, and sat up looking delighted.

"Well hello Roach! You sure have changed, haven't you old girl?"

The tools vibrated lightly in their casing.

THIS IS SO DELIGHTFUL AHHHHHHHHHH, if you ever write more, feel free to dump it in my inbox, or send me a link to where it's posted!!!! i love that his eyes are oxidized copper that's so LOVELY oh my word 😭💕 im imagining him all fixed up and buffed and looking gorgeous but he specifically leaves the eyes, leaves the oxidized copper, knowing geralt likes their shade of blue

#my heart 🥺💕 #witcher tag #oh i want to save this so i dont lose it.... hmm..... i'll think of a tag for it later #for now #ogc tag #writing tag #to save tag

[10moonymhrivertam]

That issue where you enjoy next week’s chapter more than the one that you’re supposed to be posting tomorrow 😅

#I feel like sometimes I get really stiff and arch #but next week’s chapter has some really natural dialogue in it imo #I tried to set it up so this week is Jaskier opening up and next week is Geralt. #and I....don’t know if it works #alas we shall forge ahead! #on the other hand I just read a bunch of daemon AUs so I’m very distracted by those XD #and thinking about how I would make this into a daemon AU

[witchersgoldenbard]

My sweet darling @mayastormborn asked for some nonverbal Geralt:

Some non-verbal Geralt during winter, and they all allow him to just *be*? No one asks him anything, they just bring him some of his safe-foods and a drink and top it up through the day. Any conversation is through gestures though as little as possible

Well, sweetness, I hope this little thing brings you some comfort and is somewhere near what you had in mind 💕👉👈 (tho it’s not and I will try again)

1.8k words, no warnings except the obvious

No Words Required

When Geralt wakes up with the first light, the weak rays of the winter sun slowly but stubbornly bringing a new day to Kaer Morhen, he knows it is one of those days that will have to remain silent on his part. Usually, he would turn to Jaskier beside him and press a kiss to his brow to wish him a good morning, but the very thought of talking is almost enough to quicken his heartbeat and make his hands shake. No talking, then.

He closes his eyes again and tries to fall back to sleep, maybe he just needs to start this day over. He doesn’t dare to hope, but it might be worth a try.

Despite giving it another chance, his tongue still feels too heavy in his mouth when he opens his eyes again, the world around him still blurry and sharp-edged at the same time. So Geralt has no option but to accept his fate. At least for today. Only for today, he hopes.

“Good morning, my love,” comes Jaskier’s tired voice from beside him, and Geralt thanks the Gods he doesn’t believe in that he can still find happiness in this familiar tone. Grateful that not all his senses are set to overwhelm him today.

He turns to smile at Jaskier, who waits a moment, gives him a chance to say the words he doesn’t have the strength to utter today. Wants to force himself to say, but his heart, his hands, his head, they all deny him. Warn him.

And Jaskier only softens his smile and asks, as quietly as he can, “Silence day?”

Bless him. Bless this man, this wonderful man, for understanding. For knowing him well enough, for seeing, for asking.

Geralt nods, but reaches out to hold Jaskier’s hand with only a slight tremble in his fingers, afraid to find that touch will be denied, too. But the warmth of Jaskier’s skin feels good, the softness under his fingers bringing its usual comfort, and Geralt smiles at the bard’s hands.

“Touch and noise still fine, darling?” Jaskier asks anyway, despite seeing the smile he is wearing. Always asking, always reassuring. Always loving and caring. Always there.

Geralt nods and taps Jaskier’s hand twice, too.

“Would you like me to tell the others?”

Geralt hesitates, quickly calculating if he has enough strength to grunt and hum his way through the day, make enough noise for them to let it pass. But it feels wrong, and he knows they don’t judge. They all have these days, even Jaskier, and it’s always better if everyone knows.

So he nods and is rewarded with a gentle smile.

“Wonderful. And this is going to be the last complex question of the day, I know they’re hard, but technically it’s still yes-or-no? Really, it will depend on your response, uhm—“

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand and regards him with an amused smile. He loves this man so much, how could he not smile even when the world is heavy around him?

“Right, sorry,” Jaskier mumbles and sits up, scratching the back of his head and looking at Geralt. “Is there anything you need? Except to not talk, and possibly the usual, you know. Anything you need, right now?”

The hand still wrapped around Jaskier’s wrist gives Geralt perfect leverage to just pull and have Jaskier land on top of him with an undignified squawk. The bard chuckles as he lies on top of Geralt, their warm chests pressed together like they were made for just this.

Jaskier hums the moment Geralt’s arms wrap around his middle, keeping the warm and comforting weight on top of him. Let the world be heavy, he thinks. I am safe right here.

“I’ve got you, love,” Jaskier promises. “And you’ve got this.”

***

The first time Geralt goes nonverbal around him, it’s a few weeks after Posada. They are returning from a contract, off to find the alderman to receive their well-deserved coin. Jaskier is prattling on about heroics and monsters and witchers, only interrupting his enthusiastic monologues to hum a tune, trying for a melody and always discarding it immediately.

He has grown used to silence beside him, looming and annoyed and stoic. Hums, at most, though they are always more like grunts, noncommittal and monotonous.

But then, suddenly, the hums stop and the Witcher’s ever-focused eyes have lost some of their shine. Jaskier notices these things — of course he does, he’s an artist after all! And Geralt has pretty eyes. But that’s beside the point.

“Geralt?” he asks, stopping in his tracks and watching the Witcher beside him. The same Witcher who doesn’t even notice that he stopped walking, eyes on the road before him, seemingly lost in thought.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls again. Still no reply, but the Witcher finally stops. Stands. Looks at him over his shoulder. His eyes still not entirely right, and Jaskier doubts it comes from the various potions he has had last night.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, and Geralt glances around after a second, hand moving to his sword. Good, Jaskier thinks, he’s not completely out of it. “No,” he says and takes a step forward, noticing the sudden tension between Geralt’s shoulders. He stops. “No, I mean… With you. Are you alright?”

Geralt frowns. Well, at least there’s a constant for you.

“Are you okay, Geralt?” he asks again, gentler but really starting to worry.

Another frown, but this time followed by a nod. Which is not very reassuring. Jaskier might not know him well, but he knows right then that he’s lying. He lets it go, though, and they make their way to the town, easily finding the alderman.

A wretched man who only wants to give them half their payment, but Geralt doesn’t seem inclined to argue. Jaskier frowns and gives the alderman a piece of his mind, making a whole scene for everyone around to hear. “And if the Witchers on the whole Continent might hear from the White Wolf’s bard that you betray them, that your hand doesn’t fulfill what your tongue promises, maybe you shall surrender to the monsters then. Leshen and whatever so pleases shall feast on you, maybe that will be the day you wish you had paid the White Wolf what he was promised and more!”

Needless to say, they leave with more coin than expected, and Jaskier can’t wipe the smug grin off his face.

Geralt smiles at him for the first time, then, over their small campfire, and Jaskier smiles back.

“Is speaking hard for you today?” he finally dares to ask.

Geralt stares at him. Nods.

Jaskier nods back. Grins.

“Well, good thing you have me then, isn’t it? A bard to yell at stupid people for you. We’ll make a great team, you’ll see.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything to that, obviously. But even the next day, when the first thing he does is insult Jaskier’s fashion sense, he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t deny it. And Jaskier is sure he didn’t imagine that small smile that could have meant Maybe you are right.

Either way, he was.

***

Jaskier leaves the bed before Geralt, promising to bring him breakfast.

“You still have three other meals you can try to leave bed for, let’s have breakfast here,” Jaskier argues with a grin and a fine that brooks no room for discussion even if Geralt were up for it.

And so, they have breakfast in bed. It’s warm and comfortable and Jaskier chatters away, not expecting a response in any way. Perfect background noise, taking away the sharp edges of his surroundings, making everything a little less overwhelming and oppressive. Jaskier knows his place in the network of Geralt’s nonverbal days as he talks, keeping his voice down and calm and so, so warm. Familiar.

It almost makes him feel normal. It definitely makes him feel safe.

When he finally has enough strength to leave bed, they make their ways downstairs to sit by the hearth. Geralt has found that the warmth helps, brings him physical comfort when there is nothing else to ground him.

“Good to see you, pup,” Vesemir says and claps a broad hand on Geralt’s shoulder after looking at Jaskier for a second. Geralt smiles.

Pup. Vesemir only calls them that on the heavy days, and it’s a constant that always helps them through the worst of it.

Life still happens around him, everyone has their own tasks, and where he’s sitting in the middle of it all, he feels like he still gets to be a part of it.

There are warm foods throughout the day and a jug of something hot and spiced always appears by his side. Geralt is not completely sure how the time passes, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Lambert is sat beside him, silent, offering his company. If Geralt leans into him and Lambert leans back, well, then that’s between them.

What matters is Eskel who lies down on the fur beside the hearth and gently pulls Geralt to lie on top of him, head on his broad chest, careful hand running through his silver hair. He talks, though all Geralt feels is the rumbling of his chest.

It’s all that matters.

***

The first time it happens around Eskel, they’re both still pups. Barely grown into Witchers yet.

“There are worse things than not talking, Geralt,” Eskel tells him, Geralt’s head resting on his shoulders. “I know it’s scary. It feels like there’s nothing worse. But it doesn’t make you any less of a Witcher. Or any less Geralt. You’re still the White Wolf, even if you can’t howl. I’ll howl for you, Wolf,” he promises with a kiss to his cheek. “And when the day comes, you’ll do the same for me. Because it happens. And it fucking sucks, but you’ve got this, okay? And I’ve got you.”

Geralt nods into Eskel’s shoulder and tries not to feel pathetic that the only sounds the world gets to hear from him that day are his sobs.

***

But Eskel was right then and is still right now. They’ve got each other and they take care of each other. Howl and fight and protect each other.

They do the same for Lambert on his heavy days.

And for Jaskier, years and years and years later.

For Ciri and Yennefer and everyone who needs it.

That’s what family does. Nothing has to change on the days you can’t talk, on the days that words fail you. There are always people to yell at the world for you, to wrap you in a hug and tell you everything you need to hear. Even Witchers can have that.

And Geralt has a whole family now to tell him: “You’ve got this. And we’ve got you.”

It’s really all that matters.

#Geraskier #geskel #geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #nonverbal Geralt #boggy woggy friends #Maya I love you a lot and maybe I’ll write you more nonverbal Geralt because we need more nonverbal rep #but also I just love you period. #💕 #Nat writes

[wherethewordsare]

I am once again hitting up your ask box to ask for fic

Can i pwease get selkie jask🥺👉👈

Cheese... As always, sorry this took a fucking age? I hope you like it? And just in time for Monster March!!! <3 <3 <3 

There had always been something about Jaskier that set Geralt on edge. But not in the way that he was used to. The way he would smile so easily even when Geralt was gruff and unrelenting left him disarmed and at ease. But it was also the way that there were nights when the moon was high and Jaskier couldn’t seem to find sleep that Geralt’s medallion seemed to buzz with a low but urgent hum. Those nights the smell of brine and sun and sawgrass was nearly chokingly strong, rolling off of Jaskier in waves stronger than a riptide. 

Magic. What kind, Geralt could never figure out. There had been something about the way Jaskier wore his heart on his sleeve that made it feel like there was so little the bard would actually hide from him, but this one thing. Maybe there was siren blood in him after all, maybe it was fae? But no matter what it was, Geralt wasn’t about to send Jaskier away for something he couldn’t definitively prove. And even if he could, would he?

They were near Oxenfurt, summer coming to an end and Geralt watched with interest as every so often, Jaskier’s head would pop up from where he sat around their campfire, looking westward. The way he tilted his chin as though someone had called his name. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked. He kept his tone light, his own eyes following Jaskier’s gaze west. 

“Hmm,” was all he got, Jaskier not turning to look at him, his eyes focused on the line of trees across from him. It took him by surprise, their sudden unexpected role reversal. He chuckled. 

“Jask!” Geralt set down the armor he was cleaning, waving a cloth in front of Jaskier’s face. 

“Ah! Right, sorry. Got lost in thought for a moment,” he turned to look at Geralt, his eyes still glazed over with that lost look. “You know, my home isn’t too far from here.” 

“Oxenfurt is just a day’s ride. Have someone waiting for you?” Geralt teased but the idea of Jaskier having someone that could pull him away from the path they traveled together made his tone more accusatory than he had intended. 

“No, not…” Jaskier’s eyes wandered back west again as he fidgeted. “Geralt, I need-” he licked his lips as if he was ready to say something. 

Geralt’s medallion gave a soft hum where it rested against his skin, warmer than it had been. There was nothing here to fight, only Jaskier, face flushed from sitting too close to the fire, his white linen shirt clinging to him slightly in the late summer heat. The nights wouldn’t be cool for another few weeks and they wouldn’t part for a few weeks after that if the snows held off. Or maybe. 

Whatever it was that Jaskier wasn’t saying hung between them in the slight vibration of low magic and crickets. 

“Come with me to the coast? There’s something I need to take care of,” Jaskier was suddenly on his feet, striding with unsure steps to his bedroll, his hands wringing in front of him. The magic stopped and Geralt watched as Jaskier turned his back on where he had been watching. He could see it for what it was, an offer to an answer of a question neither of them had been brave enough to ask. Not yet. 

“Could be some contracts that way,” Geralt mused, reaching for his sword to clean next. 

If he hadn’t been a witcher, if his sight hadn’t been so keen and had he not been already so attuned to Jaskier, he might have missed it. They had been traveling together for what must have been well over a decade now, and never once had Geralt seen Jaskier pull away from him not even remotely. In the fading daylight, it was hard to miss now. The moment Geralt wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, Jaskier had flinched away. 

He made no comment, only letting the sword rest back against the log as he changed tactics, reaching instead for another piece of his armor to clean. He couldn’t seem to catch Jaskier’s eyes as the bard finally settled down into his bedroll, turning over so his back was to Geralt. 

There had always been something about Jaskier that had put Geralt on edge, the smell of sea salt and warm sand and kelp that always surfaced, even with all the oils and perfumes he would soak himself in. A kind of worry gripped him, a beginning of an end to the unsaid things between them. Geralt waited patiently for him to drift off, keeping an ear open for the steady even breaths that came when Jaskier slept. Only then did he reach for his swords to clean them.

Silently he prayed to whatever deity would hear him that he would not find reasons to draw them when they reached the coast. 

--

It had been an easy kind of journey, a day to Oxenfurt then another few days to the coast proper. Once they had left the last village behind, Jaskier led the way, keeping always a few strides out front, his fingers nervously tweaking out half conscience tunes on his lute, barely paying attention to anything other than moving onward. Geralt found that there were moments of unending chatter and then complete silence. 

The last night that they camped, the trees had become pine and the grass was rough under Geralt’s hands as he gathered wood for the fire. Jaskier sat quietly by his bedroll, his eyes brighter than they had been in what felt like weeks. He moved his jaw every now and again as though he was trying to find the words to say but the most Geralt could get out of him was broken off sentences and hesitant glances. 

“Do you always kill the monsters?” He asked finally, setting aside his quill and lacing his fingers together in front of him, thumbs twirling anxiously.

“Only the dangerous ones,” Geralt said quietly. He had made sure not to reach for his swords in front of Jaskier since that night he had asked to go to the coast, afraid that the answers would slide away like the tide. 

“Oh, and how do you know when they’re not dangerous?” It had been a conversation they had had before, but then Jaskier had been less pensive, more chatty, taking notes for his ballads. Now his eyes barely looked up from the fire. 

Above them, the moon hung heavy and full, silver catching in Jaskier’s dark hair and casting his features into ethereal shadows where the firelight did not quite reach. Geralt risked moving a little closer, using the poking the fire as pretense before sitting beside Jaskier. 

“What are we doing here, Jaskier?” He wasn’t accusatory or flippant. There had been answers that he needed and he wasn’t sure what the right ones would be. 

Jaskier sat very still, his tongue darting out for a moment. “You know I trust you?” 

It wasn’t what Geralt had been expecting. Hell, it wasn’t something he had even really knew needed saying, not out loud. But they sat there, the words hanging between them like a door that would either be thrown wide open or slammed shut and locked forever. 

Jaskier chuckled, looking away. “I… Can you trust me, Geralt?” He looked over then, his eyes seeming endlessly blue just then, and so full of something that tugged at Geralt’s chest. He only nodded and let the night slip into an easy quiet between them. 

“Fall isn’t too far off at this point. It will be winter before you know it.” It felt so off-balance, Geralt being the one to keep breaking the silence between them. “Unless you have an engagement in Oxenfurt already lined up, I was wondering if you might-” 

Jaskier made a choking sound, his head whipping around to look at Geralt. “Wait!” There was panic in his voice as his hands came up as if to protect himself. 

It wasn’t hard to scent in the air, the sharp sting of fear and anxiety, Jaskier’s heart hammering behind his ribs. His eyes looked wild and it took Geralt a moment not to pull back himself. 

“Wait,” Jaskier took a shaky breath, swallowing. “There’s… Before you ask anything of me, let’s get down to the beach tomorrow. And then-” He looked down, pulling his hands towards his chest. The fear was gone but the anxiety only seemed to grow. It spelled of kelp in the sun and cold oceans in a storm. “Then you can decide if you still want to ask.” 

“Jaskier-” 

“Not here, witcher. Let me get to the shore first?” It wasn’t uncommon for Jaskier to ask things of Geralt but it was rare that they felt this important, this urgent. 

The sound of the fire and the crickets and the ocean far down the hill were the only sounds between them after that. Jaskier after a time made a murmured good night and slipped into his bedroll without another word. Geralt tried to ignore the sharp scent of salt that came from him, different than the ocean, deeper, tinged in everything that made up Jaskier. He doubted either of them slept much that night. 

--

Geralt must have drifted off at some point, however. When he woke up early, the sun was barely up, the fire had banked itself overnight and he was alone save for Roach who grazed in the hazy morning light. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt called, bolting upright and turning. 

“Let me get to the shore first,” he had asked. 

He debated with himself for a moment before deciding that he would leave his swords behind him, though Geralt couldn’t quite bring himself to leave the dagger in his boot behind as well. He moved down towards the beach, following the path through the thinning trees. 

Something was off the moment he stepped out past the first dune. There in the sand, clothes trailed down to the water, Jaskier’s boots kicked off just at the bottom of the first outcropping of rock. Down the beach, a wall of stone rose above the breakers. It would no doubt have a system of caves throughout it. The last of Jaskier’s things seemed to lead that way.

Geralt followed, wishing that he had in fact brought his swords. His medallion hummed then vibrated, shaking against his chest violently as something broke above the waves just to his right. 

A smooth head and wide eyes tilted towards him in the early morning light. The sky above the ocean still dark, the last stars slipping over the far horizon with the last sliver of the moon. The thing in the water moved up to the beach, a large slick body, flippers pushing into the wet sand. 

It gave a kind of greeting, nodding at Geralt as it rested in the sand. 

He hadn’t seen one in so long, Geralt almost didn’t recognize it as a Harbor seal, it’s pelt dark around its face, fading into a spotted silver coat. He didn’t move, let alone breathe as they watched each other for a long moment. 

 When the seal began to push up its body contorting unnaturally, Geralt took a step back, automatically reaching for the knife in his boot. Dark eyes watched him and seemed… disappointed suddenly as the body of the seal continued to convulse and shift. 

The sun broke above the trees and caught the creature in the face and those eyes suddenly shimmered a bright blue. He couldn’t throw his knife down fast enough as the hood of a cloak fell back from Jaskier’s face, sullen and terrified. 

“Well, was worth a shot,” Jaskier gave a wet laugh, pulling his cloak tighter around him. 

“You’re a selkie.” Geralt said flatly, his hands coming up to show he had no weapons. “I thought you were a viscount.” 

To his surprise, Jaskier snorted, the tension in his shoulders relaxing some as shuffled his feet in the sand. 

“I am in fact a viscount and a selkie, on my mother’s side,” he winced. “My father keeps her cloak from her. I just barely managed to-” he swallowed looking down. “Listen, Geralt, I know you plan on going back to Kaer Morhen this winter, and even if you-” he huffed, his hand shooting out from his cloak to rub at the back of his head. 

“You need somewhere to hide your cloak.” a decade of unasked questions started to click into place.

“Yes,” Jaskier sighed. “But you don’t have to-”

“And you trust me? A witcher? Jaskier, if something happened to your cloak you-” would be stuck, would die, would never be free again. He left everything to blow away out to sea in the wind. 

“I do, I trust you as a man, Geralt. I know what I’m asking,” his eyes were sad and suddenly infinitely vast. 

The wind tugged the hem of Jaskier’s cloak, the silvery ends snapping in tune with the crash of the waves. Geralt could see the top of his one thigh peeking between the slick material and suddenly he was far too aware that Jaskier was standing naked in more ways than one on a beach telling Geralt he trusted him with his life. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he took a steadying breath. “Get dressed bard.” This level of vulnerability left him feeling dizzy with a feeling he wasn’t ready to look at just then. 

Before going to collect his clothes, Jaskier closed the distance between them, sliding his cloak from his shoulders, the fabric shimmering in the sunlight as he folded it carefully and rested it over Geralt’s arm. 

“Hold this for me?” he asked softly, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. “Keep it safe?” 

There was no hesitation in him as Geralt nodded, laying a careful hand over Jaskier’s, still on the cloak. “Always.”

#geraskier #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #nonhuman jaskier #selkie jaskier #monster march #pre relationship #idk you guys

[seidenbros]

Let's just close our eyes and let go

Yes yes, I know, it's another modern Geraskier Crime AU (with magic), and I don't even know, when I'll start on the rest, BUT this first part can be read as a standalone, and since I simply HAD to get it out of my head (thanks to @i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky and our ideas exchange) I had to write it down and share it with you. In addition, might I recommend this song to listen to while you're reading? It inspired the title and I love it.

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier (Geraskier) Summary: Geralt works in the police force, recruited by Vesemir. Jaskier was kicked out by his parents at 15 and lived on the streets and in homeless shelters for some time. He earns his money as a hacker, steals from the rich and gives to the poor, and the money he earns playing gitar on the streets, he also gives to the homeless shelters. Geralt has seen him multiple times now, and finally plucks p the courage to ask Jaskier out for coffee, not knowing what's waiting for him at the end of the line. Warnings: mentions of homophobia, apart from that, I guess it's mostly fluff (Let me know if I need to add something. Word Count: 3295 _________________________

A couple of times, Geralt had been here now, when he was playing, when he was making music out in the open, playing his songs and gathering some money from the listeners. He deserved it, no questions about that, because his voice was simply wonderful. He played cover songs, but apparently some original ones as well. Jaskier, that was his name. Geralt had overheard someone call him that, and yes, Geralt had also put some money into the guitar-case every now and then, but so far, he hadn't talked to him. There was just something about the musician that captivated him, that made him smile without even noticing it. Sitting somewhere in the back, where he could still see the singer, Geralt enjoyed his coffee on his day off. Sure, there were a lot of things he could do, when he wasn't working on a case, when he didn't have to work through files on his desk at the police station, but sitting here and listening to some live music out in the open... that was what he enjoyed.

When Geralt saw the musician pack up his things for the day, he hesitated for a moment. He'd told himself that he would talk to him today, and not put it off for another day or week, but now that the time had come... He was usually such a tough guy that could make other man shrink down to the size of a little boy when he questioned them at the station, but when it came to his private life, to people he showed an interest in, it was completely different. He knew that it was his fear of rejection, but if he never tried...

So, he got up and stopped right next to Jaskier. “That was a good set,” he said, making the younger man look up at his as he collected the money out of the guitar-case to put it in a bag.

“Thanks.” Jaskier straightened after he'd put his guitar away, so that he could shoulder it, putting the bag with the money in the pocket of his jacket. He scrutinized Geralt for a moment, cocked his head to the side. “I've seen you around here, if I'm not mistaken.” He wasn't, he knew that, because that man had a face, and an aura about himself that made him hard to forget. In addition, he'd managed to make Jaskier nervous when he'd seen him. So much that he'd nearly hit the wrong notes, but he'd been able to compose himself. Still, that man had something about him, that captured Jaskier.

“Yeah, I've spent a couple of afternoons listening in,” Geralt admitted. Was he blushing? Jaskier couldn't be sure, but it definitely looked like there was a pink hue in his cheeks, that hadn't been there before. “I'm Geralt by the way.”

“Jaskier. I's a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a cheeky grin on his lips.

“Would you maybe like to join me for a coffee?” Geralt practically blurted out before Jaskier decided that he had to get going or whatever, surprising the singer with this, but it made him smile as well.

“Sure, I just have to get somewhere, so why don't we grab a coffee-to-go and you tag along?” It wasn't that Jaskier didn't like coffeeshops, but he enjoyed being outside way more, walking around, seeing something of the place that he called his home. Geralt agreed, happy that the other hadn't turned him down. Actually. Relief flooded his body, because he hadn't been rejected, so it was good that he'd plucked up the courage to ask for this date. Though... well he hadn't really asked him out, so he couldn't call that a date, could he? It was a shared coffee between two strangers, but still, a step in the right direction.

“So, Geralt... What do you do for a living, when you're not lurking around listening to unsuspecting singers?” Jaskier asked with a laugh, because really, he thought that it was cute, that Geralt had listened to him a few times. He felt flattered, and there was something else. Something that made his insides tingle, but he paid no mind to it.

“I work for the police,” he answered matter-of-factly, glancing at Jaskier. He'd seen all kinds of reactions from people. Some were okay, some were not, and with Jaskier... he could see him stiffen just for a second, before he put that beautiful smile of his back in place.

“Ahh a man in uniform then. I like that.” There was a teasing note in his voice, and Geralt didn't tell him that he technically didn't wear a uniform, but he hadn't even clarified what exactly he did, only that he worked for the police. Let him believe that for a moment. Maybe, hopefully, Jaskier would find out himself that Geralt wasn't really wearing a uniform.

“I'll be just a minute, don't go anywhere,” Jaskier said suddenly, giving Geralt another smile before he vanished through a door into a tall building.

A homeless shelter? Geralt was rather confused, didn't know what Jaskier wanted here, but he could see the interaction through the windows that spanned the whole wall. People in there greeted him, and then he talked to a woman behind the counter. She came around to give him a big hug, before he retrieved the money he'd earned today to hand it to her. The tears in her eyes really moved Geralt, just like this whole exchange did. It was nothing he'd expected, something that tore at his heart, and when Jaskier came out, he still had that kind of wondrous look on his face.

“What?” Jaskier asked quietly, a lot less cocky than he'd been before, the smile on his lips a lot softer. “I'm just giving a little back to the people who helped me.”

Oh... OH. That was something Geralt hadn't expected at all, but then again, he didn't know Jaskier. Only what he'd seen out on the streets before, what he'd come to find fascinating. And this? This only added another interesting layer to the person in front of him.

“So you,” Geralt started asking, but Jaskier cut him off with a nod of his head.

“Yeah...” Having finished his coffee by now, he buried his hands deep within his pockets and kept walking, Geralt following him. “My parents kicked me out when I came out to them when I was fifteen, so... I was on the streets for some time, found shelter here and in some other places. That's why I love giving back to them. They helped me, and now that I'm in the position to actually do something good for other people, I love doing that.” It wasn't the only thing he was doing, but that was something he wouldn't tell anyone, least of all a cop, because it wasn't exactly legal what he was doing. Oh, who was he kidding, it was completely illegal. Hacking billionaires bank accounts to transfer money from them to other, less fortunate people's accounts, or even his own so that he could give the money to the people who really needed it. Some kind of modern Robin Hood. Take from the filthy rich and give to the poor. He didn't take a lot for himself, only what he needed.

“I'm really sorry, Jaskier. No parent should turn away from their kid.” Geralt shook his head, not having expected any of this. Jaskier seemed so put-together in a way he couldn't describe that he didn't think that the young man had had to struggle like this. But maybe that was exactly what had made him into this outgoing person, that simply drew people in. “I went from one foster family to the next, always being given up, because they couldn't get a connection to me.” Geralt hadn't talked about this a lot. Vesemir knew of course, but apart from him, there were only a handful of people who knew his history. Seeing that Jaskier had confided in him – especially about his parents – Geralt felt good sharing his story as well. “I didn't talk a lot so the foster parents gave up on me and I ended up in the orphanage.” Geralt raised his head, looking at the sky that was turning darker. It was getting late, but he didn't want to go home right now, feeling good in Jaskier's presence, like he didn't have a worry in the world, like his simply presence was soothing to himself. “Got myself into trouble with the police at one point.”

“Hard to believe, seeing that you work for them now,” Jaskier pointed out, one side of his lips turned up in a smile. Geralt was a good-looking man, stunning even, but it was dangerous for Jaskier to get involved with a policeman, but still, he found himself more and more intrigued with this white-haired man.

“That's actually how I ended up there.” Geralt laughed, shaking his head, before he looked back at Jaskier. “Vesemir took me under his wing. He talked to me for a long time and lured me into joining the police academy, so, everything they had on me was expunged.” Seeing that Jaskier was shifting his guitar from one shoulder to the other for the third time, he reached out and took it from him. “Here, let me.” The case was heavy, and carrying all the way to... wherever they were going, he could take it for some time as well. What he didn't know, though, that it was a huge thing for Jaskier to let someone carry his guitar, one of his most priced possessions. “Believe me, I never thought, I'd end up in the police force, but it's the best thing that happened to me... so far.” Considering the path his life had taken, it had been the best thing, but he was certain there was something else waiting for him out there. Someone...

“We're here,” Jaskier said as he stopped in front of a building. Geralt hadn't even realized that he'd practically walked Jaskier home, he'd simply followed his lead, which he usually didn't do. He either asked questions about where they were going or he was the one to lead the way. But with Jaskier, conversation had flown so easily, that he'd simply walked along. “Come one.” The musician unlocked the door, then looked back at Geralt, who was still carrying his guitar. It was up to him whether he was going to give Jaskier the guitar-case or if he wanted to come upstairs with him for... whatever lay ahead. He'd enjoyed their conversation, he'd enjoyed simply being in his presence, so... Geralt followed him up the stairs, without any kin of expectations, he would simply see where the evening would take them. Of course, he was interested in Jaskier, otherwise he wouldn't have asked him out for a coffee, but he didn't know whether that kind of interest was reciprocated or not. He was eager to find out though.

Jaskier's apartment was In no way what Geralt had expected. It was filled with all kins of plants and flowers, blooming in the brightest colours. It was small, but cosy, and it smelled of so many different fragrances due to the flowers, but Geralt could still make out Jaskier's distinct smell. Like... Chamomile and sandalwood, but mixed with something sweet, that he couldn't really point out.

“You can put the case down over there,” Jaskier directed as he went for the kitchen to come back with something to drink for the both of them, handing one glass to Geralt. “Let's go outside, enjoy the warm evening air. I've got quite the view from up here.”

Jaskier hadn't promised too much, that much was for sure! There as a door that lead out to a rooftop terrace with a view over the whole city. Now that it had turned nearly dark, the lights sparkled beneath them, an the stars did so above them. Out here, there were even more plants, more exotic ones. Plants and flowers Geralt had never seen or hadn't seen in this area of the world.

“This is incredible, Jaskier...” Geralt said, looking around, fixing his gaze on one specific flower.

“Yeah, I seem to have a hand for flowers and plants in general. Friends call me the plantwhisperer.” Jaskier chuckled and touched his fingers to the flower that Geralt had been looking at, which immediately opened its blossom more.

“That flowers usually blooms like... once every five years!” It was astonishing, though, Geralt new immediately what it was that made it bloom: magic. The only thing was, that Jaskier seemed to be completely oblivious to it. Or was he? He looked so happy and innocent when he looked at the flower, that Geralt couldn't tear his eyes away from him. When Jaskier looked up at him, though, Geralt felt caught. He'd been admiring the flower, yes but Jaskier as well. Here, he seemed as much in his element, as when he was playing the guitar. He could just see him sitting up here, guitar in his lap, singing to his plants. He probably did, so it was no surprise that they were growing so quickly, so wonderfully up here.

“What?” Jaskier asked, a lot less confident than he'd sounded before. Geralt wanted to ask him, wanted to know whether Jaskier knew about his abilities, that he could influence the growth of his plants, and God knew what else, but right there and then wasn't the moment to do so. In addition, there were other things he'd rather like to know than that, so he stepped closer.

“That look on your face, that smile, it's just... mesmerizing.”

“Nobody has ever called me that.” Now, it was Jaskier's turn to blush. What was it about Geralt that made him so... nervous? Was it nervousness? He couldn't tell. All he could say was, that he felt drawn to that man that was stopping right in front of him. Like two magnets being pulled towards each other, because yes, even Jaskier had taken a step towards the policeman. The man he should rather stay away from, because this could never end well, knowing that they were on different sides of the law. Not, when you asked Jaskier, because he wasn't doing anything bad, but...

“But you are. The first time I saw and heard you, I just couldn't tear my eyes away from you, and I came back again and again, until I finally plucked up the courage to talk to you, which isn't like me at all.” Geralt shook his head at himself, smiling, taking Jaskier's hand in his.

“Yeah, I didn't pick you for the shy kind of guy,” Jaskier answered with a smirk, looking down at their intertwined hands. This was... delicate, careful, and oh so wonderful. The touch of their hands already made his heart flutter, made that feeling in the pit of his stomach all the more evident. They should take it slowly, they really should, but Jaskier couldn't resist. He rose to the balls of his feet to kiss Geralt. Without hesitating, Geralt pulled him towards him, kissed him back. He let go of Jaskier's hand to cup his cheek with this hand. He'd been thinking about this for... he didn't know how long, but feeling Jaskier's soft lips beneath his now, far exceeded his expectations. He could feel his own heart roaring in his chest at the contact of their lips, at the closeness of Jaskier's body to his.

When they broke the kiss to come up for air, Geralt was smiling to himself, his breathing a little laboured. He wanted to say something, but before he could, his phone rang. He could hear Jaskier chuckle.

“Perfect timing,” the musician said, pulling away slightly, to give Geralt some space.

“Let's just ignore it,” he said, once the ringing had stopped, ready to pull Jaskier in for another kiss, but his phone rang again. A different sound, that made him sigh, because it was Vesemir. “Or not. That one I can't ignore.” With an apologetic smile, he answered the phone and talked to Vesemir for a moment, before he ended the call again. Jaskier could already see it in his eyes what he was going to say.

“It's okay, Geralt. Work is work.” Though he was sad to see him go, he understood. He just didn't know what this between them was, now, where this was going, or whether it was going anywhere really. Or was this supposed to be just a one night thing? Jaskier felt self conscious all of a sudden, because he'd never felt this much for someone in such a short time. So much that it even scared him.

“Still... I'd rather stay here,” Geralt said with a sigh, ran a hand through his hair, before he handed his phone to Jaskier. “Can you give me your number? So I can call you tomorrow?” Not a one night thing then, which made Jaskier smile. His fingers flitted across the phone saving his number. He even made a silly selfie to accompany his number, which made Geralt smile. He didn't want this to end right here and now, because there was more between them. More that he wanted to explore. But for today, that was it. He leaned down once again to press a kiss to Jaskier's lips, quickly pulling away so that he wouldn't be tempted to stay longer.

Once the door was closed behind Geralt, he couldn't get the stupid grin off his face. It had been worth it to get out of his comfort zone and talk to Jaskier. It was worth the warm feeling spreading through his whole body. Yes, he had to leave him now, but he'd talk to him tomorrow. Something urgent had come up and Vesemir needed him there, had to talk to him. What Geralt didn't expect, was that his boss was standing right outside the building waiting for him.

“Vesemir?” Confusion was written all over Geralt's face as he looked at the man, who'd changed his life for the better all those years ago. “I thought we'd meet at the station?”

“I was already here.” Something was definitely going on, and Geralt didn't like it one bit. “Walk with me.” And so he did. He followed Vesemir for some time in silence, until they came to his car and got inside. Geralt was already getting a little tense, when Vesemir still didn't say a thing.

“What the fuck is going on, Vesemir?”

“The hacker we're looking for... we finally found him.” But that was good news, wasn't it? But Vesemir's face told him something different. “You're not gonna like it, son.”

“What is it?!” Geralt was painfully on edge by now. He hated when Vesemir did this, when he tried to be gentle, start a topic carefully with him, because it usually ended in Geralt getting more and more anxious before he got angry.

“The guy you just met with? Jaskier? He's the Sandpiper.”

It took a few moments for Geralt to comprehend what Vesemir had just told him, to really understand what was going on.

“Fuck.” Was the only word he could say to that. No more words followed, because he didn't know what to say. For months, they'd been after the guy who'd stolen money from all the higher-ups – not that Geralt pitied them, but it was against the law – and now he'd fallen for exactly THAT guy. What were the coincidences?

“FUCK!”

#staffi writes #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier imagine #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher imagine #the witcher modern au #modern au

[valdomarx]

The first time Geralt thinks about kissing Jaskier is in a packed, seedy tavern. The patrons are rowdy, the ale is watery, and the air is damp and sweaty. And yet, there’s Jaskier, joyously commanding the entire room as he performs, winking at audience members as he swans gracefully between the tables.

His hips sway to the beat of the music and his feet bounce across the floor, full of irrepressible energy. As he segues from one verse to the next, he pauses for a second and licks his lips. Geralt follows the movement precisely, entranced as the pink tip of his tongue flicks across plump, plush lips.

He’s hit by the urge to take Jaskier into his arms and press their lips together, to kiss him firm and deep and to feel that tongue playing into his mouth. He can almost picture it: Jaskier’s eyes widening at first and then crinkling with satisfaction, the little hitch of his breath, the softness of those lips against his own.

Coming back to himself, Geralt shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He has no idea where that strange thought came from. Best to put it aside and ignore it.

.

The next time it happens, the air is clear and there are stars overhead. It’s a warm Beltane evening and the local villagers are celebrating with wine and music and dancing. Geralt sits on a bench and observes while Jaskier, who has yellow flowers braided into his hair, dances around a maypole with a bright red ribbon in hand.

There’s a moment when he looks up and catches Geralt’s eye, and the tiniest smile flicks across his lips. It’s not one of his big, crowd-pleasing grins, or the flirtatious smirk he flashes when he’s on the prowl. It’s a tiny, genuine thing, a signal of real warmth and care, the kind given out rarely, making it all the more precious.

Geralt imagines standing and joining the dancers, Jaskier giving him that smile again. He imagines leaning in, inhaling that scent of lavender and road dust, running a hand through his hair, and kissing the smile from his lips. He’d smell like campfires and he’d taste like sweet wine.

.

He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. He should have known the bruxa had a mate, and he should have been ready to fight two rather than one.

But recriminations won’t help him now, as he’s bleeding out in a damp stone cellar. The Swallow he’s taken will slow his heart rate, but the gash in his side where he was swiped with sharp claws is too deep and he won’t survive the blood loss.

It’s a stupid, pointless way to die.

And then a beam of light spears through the cellar as the shutters are thrown open and a familiar face appears, peering into the darkness.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s nose wrinkles as he tries to see in the dark. “Are you... oh gods...”

Relief washes over Geralt like sliding into a warm bath. Everything will be okay now that Jaskier is here. Even though Jaskier’s breath is heaving and his hands shake as he presses a linen pad to Geralt’s side, he knows what to do.

Jaskier leans over him, takes his face in his hands. “Geralt, stay with me,” he begs.

Geralt wants to tell Jaskier that he’ll always stay with him. He wants to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him closer. He wants to kiss the unhappy twist off his lips.

But he can’t do any of those things with blood pouring out of his side, so instead, he passes out.

.

The winter has been long and cold and lonely, and even the other wolf witchers could only distract Geralt for so long. For weeks he’s been itching to head south, to greet the sun and the Path, and most importantly to meet Jaskier once again. It’s a thrumming want inside him, one that barely whispers its intentions even as it drives him forward along the roads of Velen.

And then, on a beaten path outside an unremarkable village, he spots him: Jaskier, shining like a jewel in bright clothing which is eclipsed only by the brightness of his smile. There’s something so familiar about the sight of his bard on the dusty road that Geralt’s heart leaps in his chest.

Before he has time to think, Geralt’s feet are carrying him forward and he’s sweeping Jaskier into his arms, lifting him off the ground, hugging him close as he squeals and giggles.

He sets him carefully back on his feet and basks in the warmth of his presence, admiring the way Jaskier ducks his head and the bashful grin that lifts his cheeks.

Geralt wants, with a powerful yearning that’s been building all winter, to take his beautiful face in his hands and to kiss him with all the longing he’s been burying away all this time.

For a moment he feels like he might finally have the courage to follow through. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head, feels the soft curls of his hair between his fingers, enjoys the look of surprise and delight on Jaskier’s face as he tilts his chin up to face him.

But... his mind supplies. What if it’s unwanted? What if he’s misread the situation? What if he messes up the one solid friendship he has?

He falters.

.

Jaskier registers the second that Geralt’s doubts arrive, when he draws back into himself and retreats from their embrace.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, earning a surprised bark of a laugh from Geralt.

Jaskier has been waiting months for this, even before his long, boring winter at Oxenfurt. Months of noting the way that Geralt looks at him, the way his eyes will flick to his lips at intense moments. Months of holding himself back, resisting his own urges, letting Geralt come to him.

He’s done waiting.

“I missed you,” he says, and Geralt’s hands squeeze him a little tighter, betraying his emotions even as he works to keep his face impassive. “And I think you missed me too.”

He lifts his hand to cup Geralt’s cheek, and Geralt goes very, very still, barely breathing. A few years ago Jaskier would have taken that for a rebuke, but he knows Geralt better by now. He’s holding himself back from what he thinks he shouldn’t want.

“Silly witcher,” he chides, and kisses him.

Geralt is still as stone beneath his lips, and Jaskier has just enough time to wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake. But then Geralt is pulling him closer and kissing him back as if he’s been starving for it, lips and teeth and tongue, hands clasping at his back and running into his hair like he wants to touch everywhere at once.

They’re both panting by the time they pull apart, and Jaskier can’t help but match Geralt’s dopey smile.

“It’s good to see you too, Geralt.”

#geraskier #the witcher #my writing #hmm once again it is *checks watch* loving jaskier hours

[writinglizards]

what I’m afraid to say

Part 3 of the train fic I was involved in!

part one | next

The healer eventually lets Jaskier leave after almost two weeks. By the time she does, they're both going a little stir crazy.

"Here," Madriga tells them both, handing Jaskier a small container of ointment, "it's mostly healed, but this will help with the scarring." Jaskier nods absently and Geralt's stomach drops out.

Realistically he'd been aware that the wound would scar but it's… it’s something else to be told, to realize that Jaskier is going to carry the mark of Geralt's failure on his skin.

"Thank you Madriga, darling," Jaskier says, smile winsome, and the woman rolls her eyes.

"Just get out of my home," she grouses, and they do so, gladly.

The sun is high in the sky as they set out, not quite midday, but close, and Jaskier babbles as they go, munching on a chunk of hard bread. His step is remarkably even, even if Geralt keeps worrying about him. He's…he's still not fully recovered, still a little thin. Two weeks in a bed have worn on him, and Geralt's worried he's going to tire easily, that he's going to need help and not ask, that—

"Geralt," Jaskier cuts into his mental downward spiral, "you okay?"

Geralt merely grunts in response.

"Oh, don't give me that," he sulks, "I know when you're in a mood, darling. You get all—" he breaks off, making a constipated face that does not resemble Geralt in the slightest, "—grumpy."

"I'm fine," he growls out, irritated. Then, much softer, "How are you?"

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder, "Tired," he admits, but he catches Roach's reins and tugs her onward after him when Geralt tries to stop, "but not so tired we need to take a break. Really Geralt, there's no need to fuss."

Geralt doesn't argue, only because he knows it's an argument he's going to lose even before he opens his mouth. Jaskier has that look about him, the stubborn one that says it doesn't matter what Geralt's about to try—he's set his mind and he's going to follow through, by the gods.

They make it another few hours before Jaskier admits he maybe needs a rest (his hand is pressed to his healing side, breathing gone a little shallow) and Geralt finds them a spot almost immediately.

"It's fine Geralt," Jaskier grumbles when Geralt tries to tug him down to sit on the rough forest floor, tries to get a look at his side, "I'm just out of practice. Two weeks in bed will do that to you."

"But you're holding it," he accuses. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Because it aches you idiot," he says, not unkindly, "it's fine."

"You didn't say it ached before," he huffs. He knows he sounds petulant, but he's worried, damn it all.

"Because I knew you'd hover," Jaskier sighs. "Honestly Geralt, you're a little predictable."

"Hm."

He doesn't let Jaskier help with setting up camp, forcing him down next to where he's hastily dug out a little fire pit before setting to work gathering firewood and setting a few snares. It's early enough in the evening he might as well.

"Think we'll catch anything?" Jaskier asks when Geralt comes back with another armload of firewood. Jaskier's already got a small cookfire going and Geralt frowns.

"I told you I'd do that."

"Yes, and you took too long. I took care of it. No worries."

"You need to rest."

"Geralt, I am tired of resting. I did! For two weeks! It's fine."

"I'm just—" I'm just worried, he thinks, but the words are lacking. It's more than that. I love you, I don't want to see you hurt, I've already failed you, please let me help.

"I know," Jaskier says placidly, even though he cannot possibly fathom what Geralt means, what he feels.

They settle, despite Geralt's fussing. There are enough provisions to go around now that they've had time to stock up, and Jaskier eats his hard bread and cheese with relish, humming happily.

It's almost normal, and Geralt lets himself be lulled into that sense of normalcy, the easy companionship that is sitting around a fire with Jaskier, right up until Jaskier pulls out the little container the healer had given him.

He tries not to watch as Jaskier struggles out of his doublet and hooks his fingers in the neck of his chemise to pull it over his head, hissing when it pulls at the wound on his side.

Geralt sighs, hard. "Jaskier, let me help."

"Ooh, would you?" he asks, shifting closer so Geralt can get his hands around the thin fabric of his shirt. "Thank you, Geralt."

"Hm." He tugs the fabric gently over his head, helps him move his arms in such a way that it doesn't tug at his side too much. He's careful not to touch his skin as much as possible—he knows it would be addictive, to have a taste of that soft, supple flesh under his palms only to know he can never have it again. He almost forgets why he's undressing Jaskier until he catches sight of the thick, angry lines against his side, and his hands still, the shirt hanging in his grasp.

"Geralt?"

"It's—" he reaches vaguely for his side, fingers hovering but not quite touching.

"It's scarred," Jaskier says softly, "you knew that."

"I hadn't seen it," he murmurs, pulling his hand back. It's…upsetting to look at. Knowing it's Geralt's fault. He can't fix it, not anymore, but— "Can I?" he asks, gesturing to the ointment. Jaskier hands it over without a word.

When Geralt twists off the cap, he's hit with a wave of scent, heavily medicinal. He can detect hints of celandine underneath other herbs he's less familiar with. Jaskier wrinkles his nose in response.

"That smells awful."

"Should cut back on the scarring," Geralt reminds, trying to keep his tone even and unaffected, "let me see?"

Jaskier twists, presenting his side to Geralt's careful attention as he coats his fingers in the ointment.

"Careful, I'm ticklish," Jaskier teases, and then Geralt's fingers are brushing against the first ridge of the scar, and they both go very, very quiet.

The ointment has to be rubbed in, has to give the skin time to absorb it so that the scar will soften and fade, with time. It will never be gone, exactly, but it will help Jaskier look a little less like he's been mauled by a cockatrice.

He lets out a soft, shaky breath and goes boneless under Geralt's hands, tipping a little further to the side, exposing more of the three jagged slices trailing from just below his ribs to just above his hip bone. Tentatively, Geralt runs his fingers along one of the angry, slightly raised lines. Jaskier's breath stutters.

"Okay?" His own voice is huskier than it should be, but he can't help it—Jaskier's soft and warm under his fingertips, alive, and it's hard to reel in the surging emotion in his chest, try as he might.

"Okay," Jaskier confirms, and then drops uncharacteristically silent again. He doesn't say anything as Geralt moves on to the second jagged scar, or when he pauses to coat his fingers in more ointment, presses them deliberately back to Jaskier's skin.

I love you, he thinks as his fingertips drag across Jaskier's side, and he paints the emotion into his skin with the ointment. I love you, I love you, I love you. Words he cannot, cannot say. He will not bind Jaskier to himself that way.

"Done," he murmurs softly in a voice that barely breaks the quiet. He doesn't want to disturb this odd hush that's fallen over them, doesn't want to upset Jaskier. Because he can't imagine Jaskier isn't upset with the thick, angry lines scoring his side. It's a scar. It's a mark.

Jaskier sighs shakily again, sitting upright and twisting away, out of reach. Geralt misses the closeness immediately.

"Thank you, Geralt."

"Hm."

He doesn't help him re-dress, although his fingers itch to. Instead, he pretends not to see how Jaskier struggles into the worn nightshirt, how he pants with exertion afterward.

When he lays out across his bedroll, Geralt finally lets his guard drop, anticipating a long, quiet night with the fire between them, the crackle of the dying embers, the hush of the forest. Normal.

"Geralt?" Jaskier is softly tentative, curled under his furs.

"Hm?”

"Would you—would you sleep with me tonight? Not—" he cuts off abruptly, blushing, "—not like—just sleeping. I...I missed having you close."

Something in Geralt's chest roils at the guilty admission, something he refuses to let bubble to the surface. Jaskier had slept in the healer's hut for two weeks while Geralt had been forced to stay at the inn. He had...missed him, it was true, but he'd never thought—

"Please?"

He doesn't verbally respond, just lays his bedroll out beside Jaskier's and settles down, too close and yet impossibly far. He couldn't close the distance even if he wanted to. Jaskier feels no such impediment and immediately rolls closer, tucks himself along Geralt's side, sighing with contentment.

"Thank you, Geralt," he hums softly, sleepy and sweet. Reluctantly, Geralt settles an arm over his waist. It's just to make sure he doesn't roll onto his bad side and hurt himself, he reasons. It doesn't matter that Geralt wants to hold him close to his chest, tuck him in there beside his heart where he can protect him from everything, himself included.

"Go to sleep, Jaskier," he says, and the bard shifts in the circle of his arm murmuring gentle nonsense. His heart beats even and true, and Geralt's beats back a slow and steady response—I love you, I love you, I love you.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes #rating: teen

[asweetprologue]

what I’m afraid to say

part two of a brand new train fic! we’ve been working on this one for a while, hope you enjoy!

part one | next 

He keeps thinking about it, though. They spend a week in the little town that hired him to kill the cockatrice, half of it crammed into the healer's tiny hut. Jaskier's wound wasn't deep, but humans are so prone to infection and disease. Geralt hovers, until the owner of the hut shoos him away. She's an older woman named Madriga with gray hair pulled back against her head in a neat braid, and she reminds him so much of Nenneke that he goes with fairly little protest. Jaskier is still on bedrest, though he's recovered enough to protest the fact, so he can't follow Geralt out of the little hut like he probably wants to. Geralt lingers outside of the small home for a few minutes, not sure what he should do with himself. He still feels a tight knot of worry in his chest, and he knows it won't dissipate until Jaskier is well again.

He itches to do something, or maybe to say something. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the blood spreading out under Jaskier's fingers, and his teeth clench around the feelings that crawl up his throat. He doesn't think his tongue would be able to shape them all into words even if he tried.

But maybe he can twist some of those feelings into action, and Jaskier will understand them. He's always been good at that, always seems to understand what Geralt means even if he doesn't know himself.

He wanders closer to the center of the town, down the stretch of road that leads to the healer's hut. The day is warm and the late afternoon sun hangs low in a cloudless sky, a soft breeze blowing a burst of yellow flower petals across the dirt path. Geralt is offered a few scattered waves from some of the townsfolk as he approaches, a novel experience in and of itself. He's not sure if it's because they're grateful for his work, or if they just feel bad about Jaskier's injuries. His playing the night before the job had been welcome in the small town, and everyone loved Jaskier. They'd been more than accommodating while the bard healed.

The evening market is just getting set up as he approaches the square, and there's a young girl, maybe just on the cusp of teenhood, sitting with her elbow propped on her table. There are several trays of baked goods set out, and Geralt remembers how Jaskier had complained that morning about the plain porridge that he's been forced to eat alongside thin broth over the last few days. The healer had mentioned something about feeding him something more substantial for dinner, and that's something Geralt can help with. Relieved to find something he can actually do, some way to show Jaskier that he cares, he reaches into his coin pouch.

He makes a few purchases from the girl—a harsh haggler, to his amusement. He can't put the rest of his plan into motion until later, but he has some supplies to stock up on after the hunt anyways. He spends a while talking with the locals until he can barter for what he can. Restocking their road supplies is easy enough, and he even manages to find someone willing to part with a bottle of dwarven spirits. He's low on Cat, now, so he shells out the coin for it and then spends some time in the fields looking for berbercane fruit. It's the right season for them, and it's easy enough to spot the bright red fruits amongst the golden shafts of wheat.

Once the sun is just barely turning the edges of the grains white gold in the evening light, he makes his way to the tavern Jaskier had played at a few nights before. The barkeep recognizes him instantly, of course, and asks him when the young bard will be well enough to play for them again. Geralt shrugs; he doesn't know. Humans heal so slowly.

He's able to purchase a decent haul: a full loaf of rye bread, a clay bowl full of thick pottage, and another with baked parsnips, beats and onions. Along with the honey cakes he'd purchased from the girl, he thinks the spread will please Jaskier after nearly three full days of gruel. After a second thought, he picks up another trencher for their host, and then he bundles the goods in his cloak to carry back to the hut.

By the time he follows the dirt path out to the edge of the town and up to the hut, the shadows are growing long. It's late in the summer season, and the sun sets earlier and earlier nowadays. It's a harsh reminder that soon he will have to return to the mountains and bid Jaskier farewell for the winter. Though at this point the bard might be better off on his own, Geralt thinks darkly. If he's only going to get himself hurt, then maybe Geralt should just… let him go.

He opens the door to the hut perhaps more forcefully than needed, hearing it bump against the chair that sits behind it. The cot Jaskier is set up on is in the main area of the two room hut, and he looks up in surprise when Geralt steps through the door. Madriga is less impressed, only raising an eyebrow.

Geralt stands there for a moment, thrown by the new, exposed bandages on Jaskier's bare chest and Madriga's knowing stare, and then he hefts the bundle of cloth in his arms and says, “I, uh. Brought dinner.”

“Good,” Madriga grunts, getting to her feet. She hobbles over to Geralt—it's a miracle that she doesn't use a cane, he thinks—and takes the packaged food from him. “It's high time for him to get some solids in him.”

“One of the loaves is for you,” Geralt adds, moving automatically to help reposition the pillows behind Jaskier so that he can sit up more easily. The bard's eyes are bright when they find his, and Geralt looks away quickly, overwhelmed. “And there's plenty of stew. If you have need.”

The healer just nods, and shuffles over into the little kitchen area she has set up near the stove, pulling out a set of bowls from a chest in the corner. After a few moments she brings them the food and says, “I'll take mine in my room. Need to rest my feet. Make sure he doesn't spill on those new wrappings.” Geralt nods, holding the two bowls of pottage, and Madriga takes her own bowl and bread and closes the door to her bedroom behind her.

“This was kind of you,” Jaskier says, accepting the bowl that Geralt offers him. A half of the loaf of bread sits in each of their bowls, and Jaskier immediately fishes his out to take a bite of the stew soaked rye. He makes an appreciative sound, his eyes fluttering closed, and Geralt is left staring. Finally he remembers his own bowl and digs in, barely tasting the dish as he sneaks glances at Jaskier. The window across from the bed casts them in a faint orange glow in the dying light, and a highlight across Jaskier's cheekbone casts his face into sharp relief. He's lost weight over the last few days, Geralt realizes. He moves a portion of his stew into Jaskier's bowl.

“You're mother henning,” Jaskier says around a mouthful, laughing a bit even though Geralt knows it makes his side hurt.

“Just want you back on your feet,” Geralt mutters, going back to his own bowl. Once they're both done, he reaches into the bundle of cloth and pulls out another wrapped package, the cheesecloth sticky to the touch. He's probably going to have to wash his cloak, but he can't care at the moment. “Here,” he says, pushing the package into Jaskier's hands.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, letting the cheesecloth fall open to reveal the honey cakes. “I love these. You remembered?”

Half a dozen responses hover on Geralt's lips. Of course, he wants to say, I remember everything, I'm always paying attention to you, there's nothing else. I care, I care, I care. Instead, he just says, “You rave about them every time we're in a town. Hard to miss.”

Jaskier's eyes crinkle up at the edges. He's so beautiful, even ruffled and covered in three days of sweat and old blood. Geralt aches to reach out, but he keeps his hands to himself until Jaskier offers him one of the honey cakes. He doesn't let their fingers brush in the exchange. “Didn't know you were listening,” Jaskier says, with a wry smile.

Geralt just hums around a mouthful of honey, and he burns with all the things he doesn't say.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher #the witcher #fic #fan fiction #writing #my work #train

[westmoor]

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

--

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

--

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

--

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar​ @elliestormfound​ @justjess94​ @fontegagrilledcheese​ @dani-dandelino​ @honeysuckletook​ @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

#post before i chicken out #the fox #the hare #the hart #geraskier #the witcher fanfic #shapeshifter!jaskier #geralt #jaskier

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 2)

Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

Just three days after the first installation and 4,000 words? That’s right baby! Because I run on validation and whew! Y’all provided.  The courting gift scene based on a recommendation from @tempered-char. Also with a hint of Geralt’s Delicate Sensibilities, as inspired by @valdomarx +Thicc Eskel as a bonus

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“Come in.”

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door.

Geralt wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. From what he’d seen of the world he wasn’t so sure he believed in love at all. He could imagine, however, that if he were a painter or a poet he could have fallen in love right there.

The room was a tiny, dusty study, and standing in front of the window was, presumably, Julian. The light haloed him, dust mites floating down. Grey-blue doublet and slightly darker pants brought out clear, bright eyes, rimmed with thick lashes. 

He had a rounder jawline, the sort that was in style with painters at the moment. It leant a softness to his face. Maybe that was the fact that he was...nineteen? Geralt couldn’t remember.

He realized he was staring and bowed. It was awkard, still holding his gift and the gift from the countess. He looked up, Julian was smiling.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lord Julian,” Geralt said. “I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Geralt, and please, call me Jaskier,” said the young man. He stuck out his hand. Geralt quickly shifted the gifts to one hand and shook. 

The hand was soft but not uncalloused, at the fingertips and base of the thumb. Long fingers, good for playing the lute that sat, gleaming and well cared for, in the corner.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, tasting the name. It was a good name, bright and pretty and a deadly poison if treated incorrectly. “I have a gift for you, and her ladyship gave me a gift but I haven’t opened it yet.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sat on a plush chair, gesturing Geralt to one opposite. “I have my own gift for you,” he said. “Father and Amaria didn’t think I could get my own courting gifts.”

Geralt decided to give up on subtlety. He wanted answers and he hoped this young man, Jaskier, was willing to give them.

“They want rid of you,” he said. It was a question but without the inflection at the end. “Enough to marry you off to a witcher.”

Jaskier sighed. “Just father, Amaria doesn’t have much to do with anything these days.”

“She seemed...” Geralt trailed off, not wanting to be disrespectful.

“It’s all about heirs,” Jaskier said, standing and beginning to pace. “Suitable heirs, which I’m not.” He sent Geralt a bitter little smile and flopped back down. “My father is not a nice man, you see. He’s never taken kindly to disagreements, and to him there’s only one ‘right’ sort of man. Men like him, manly and strong who kill first and don’t bother asking questions later. I questioned him, maybe three years ago, I didn’t think he should raise taxes again. He doesn’t forgive that sort of slight.” 

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on knees and stared at the ground for a second.

“I think he’d decided long before that, but he wants me struck from the family tree.” Jaskier looked up at Geralt. Some of his confusion must have been showing on his face.

This world of heirs and court intrigue was far from anything Geralt knew, and seemed more complicated than necessary.

“Follow me,” Jaskier said, rising and stretching out his hand again. “You can leave the gifts, we’ll be back.” Geralt set dow the gifts and hesitantly stretched out his hand, unsure if the gesture was figurative or if he was actually supposed to take it. Jaskier took him gently by the wrist and led him from the room.

“The halls are a maze,” he said, letting go a coridor later. “Follow close behind me, you could get lost.” Geralt did so. He couldn’t imagine anything more embarassing than having a footman fetch him from one of these little stone tunnels.

They emerged in yet another dusty hall, lined with tapestries. Jaskier stopped in between two, and in front of a large, painted wooden panel. It had a tree.

A family tree. 

“My father,” Jaskier said, tracing his finger along dusty, painted branches. “Finds it very important that the next Earl be his direct blood, and also his kind of man.” He looked at Geralt significantly. “That meant ridding himself of Amaria’s sons from her first marriage, by the laws of our country, he could have been heir. That also means getting rid of me.”

This explanation did not help Geralt’s bafflement. Jaskier sighed again, although he didn’t seem to be doing so at Geralt.

“Amaria had two sons, both manly and well suited to my father, but not his direct blood. And they were older than me, set to inherit the role of Earl first. They met with horrible accidents.” A shadow passed of Jaskier’s boyish face. 

“Strange coincidence, how a large rock managed to tumble from the ramparts on to Isak not even a week after the same thing happened to Tomas. Especially since there’s not rocks up there. I checked.”

“Your father,” Geralt said, a little numbly. “Had his stepson’s murdered.” He knew nobility could be nasty but still... “And we’ve made a deal with him.”

Jaskier patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry too much about it, Father mostly doesn’t do too much harm these days, and Filip, that’s my half brother, seems like he’ll turn out okay. Then again, he’s only seven.”

“Is he going to have you killed?” Geralt asked, knowing as he did that the Earl was trying, by way of marrying Jaskier to him.

“Not exactly. I don’t know if it’s because I’m blood or just because another ‘accident’ would look suspicious, but there’s an easier way.” Jaskier pointed to a name circled in blue. “That’s my aunt Matylda, father’s older sister. She got married, which officially makes her part of her husband’s family tree, not ours, and she can no longer inherit,” Jaskier paused. “If she weren’t already a woman, I mean.”

“But we’re both men,” Geralt said. “I could just as easily become part of your family tree and then your father’s problem.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “In theory, but of course that isn’t how he played it. I’ll be an honorary witcher, and my name,” here he tapped some fine script. “Will be circled in blue and removed from the line.”

They both looked at the tree, looming darkly for a while. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offered, although he supposed it wasn’t worth much.

“I’m sorry too,” Jaskier said. “You shouldn’t be roped into all this.”

Geralt privately considered that, yes, while he would have preferred to avoid all this intrigue and politics, Jaskier didn’t seem too bad.

Jaskier led him back through the stone rabbit warren that made up the bowels of the castle.

“Is her ladyship...like that, because of the death of her sons?” Geralt asked when they paused at the top of a staircase. 

Jaskier cocked his head sadly, and then continued walking. Aftr a few more paced he said, “Yes, mostly. She wasn’t always...present, I suppose before but when they died so close together, and in such an awful way-- there’s nothing nice about a block of stone dropping on you from four stories up--something broke. She’s a nice lady, just happier living in her head, I think. Maybe she goes somewhere else, where her boys and her first husband are alive, I hope.”

They arrived back at the study without another word. 

They sat.

“I, um.” Geralt said. “Hmmm. I got you,” he proferred the package, not knowing what to say and begging Jaskier to save him from trying to figure it out. 

Jaskier took the package and pulled the string so that it fell open. The doublet slithered out. Vesemir had sent a letter asking for measurements as soon as Geralt had told him the idea.

“It’s basilisk leather,” Geralt said. “Witchers, um, our Path, it can be dangerous, so you should have this.”

Jaskier held up the fabric, watching the colors, deep blue and green, shift across the slick material. Privately, and for no reason Geralt could really guess at, he was very pleased, both that the doublet was in what seemed to be Jaskier’s colors, and also at the awe struck look on his face.

“It’s as light as silk,” Jaskier said, passing the fabric between his fingers. “And you said it’s leather?”

“Basilisk leather,” Geralt said. Monsters. They were talking about monsters, which he knew about. Thank the gods. “It’s like armor, and it won’t burn or get wet, water just runs off.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as basilisk leather,” Jaskier said, holding the doublet up. “Where did you get it? It’s incredible.”

Geralt coughed modestly, and tried not to puff his chest. “I killed the basilisk. Making the leather needs different skills than normal tanning, it’s more like potion making.” He remembered that most people knew little about witcher skills and needs. “All witchers know some alchemy, and we make potions for combat so I...I tanned it. My brother Lambert drew up the design, I don’t know much about clothes.”

The tailor had nearly cried when they’d presented him with the fabric, exclaiming about it’s luster and the ‘glorious smooth hand’, whatever that meant. 

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face anxiously. It wasn’t a courtly gift, no crown of pearls or whatever nobles expected, but it had taken him two months to turn the basilisk skin into leather. It would have taken him half the time but he’d had to do it on the road. Lambert had fussed about the design for almost a week too, and it had been Eskel’s idea to ask for the buttons to be little black pearls like that.

Vesemir had smiled at the team effort, calling it the wolves gift to their new pup.

Jaskier looked up at him, face like a sunbeam. 

“Can I try it on?”

Geralt just nodded, and looked away modestly as Jaskier divested himself of his previous doublet before buttoning the basilisk leather.

He twirled, and in the light from the window the fabric seemed to glow, shifting and turning with each movement. 

“And it really will keep me safe?” he asked, looking down at himself, beaming. 

Geralt nodded. “It would take a battle axe a dozen tries to pierce it.”

Jaskier smiled at him again, and it made Geralt’s stomach tingle, although he had eaten some suspect meat on the ride to Lettenhove. Then Jaskier threw his arms around his neck.

Geralt wasn’t old fashioned. He could move with the times, whatever Lambert said, but manners had been stiffer sixty years ago and Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his ears going red.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier said, pulling back. “Thank you.”

Geralt shrugged uncomfortably. Jaskier smelled like soap and some sort of oil. Linseed maybe, probably for the wood of his lute.

“I have a gift for you, it’s not as lovely, but I hope you like it.”

Geralt carefully took the package. It was wrapped much prettier than his had been. “The countess already...”

“That was from her,” Jaskier said dismissively. “And maybe even from Father, although I doubt it, he wouldn’t waste money on me. But this gift is from me.” He sat forward eagerly. “Go on, open it.”

Geralt wasn’t about to refuse that eager, open expression, so he pulled at the ribbon, feeling rather like a bear trying to tie a shoelace.

The bright paper just fell away and there was a stiff paper box. He opened that too. 

Three glass bottles sat inside, nestled in paper. The paper was only there to keep them from clinking because as he pulled one out he saw the telltale dark sheen.

Brimstone glass. It was unbreakable. Sometimes witchers carried their more noxious potions in it but rarely, it was frighteningly expensive, usually only mages could afford it.

“How?” he said. How did you afford it? How did you know it existed? Did you know witchers use potions? He looked up at Jaskier, who looked nervous.

“Are they alright?” he said. “Only I won them off a sorceror in a pub. He told me they were indestructible and threw one at the ground to prove it. I thought they’d be useful...Was it a trick?” He looked so upset at the prospect.

“These, Geralt said, “Are Brimstone Glass, they are indeed indestructible and very, very useful.” Jaskier’s face split into a grin again. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said. It didn’t seem like enough, but if he hugged the lad like Jaskier had him he would kill him.

“Should I open the box from the countess?”

“Do,” Jaskier said. “I want to know what it is.”

The latch flicked easily under Geralt’s hand and the lid popped open.

Jaskier gasped.

“It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I don’t remember her well, but I remember her hands...”

It was a beautiful ring, opal, if Geralt was any judge, but Eskel knew stones better than him. Silver wound around the stone, with smaller gems studding the setting to either side. 

“I will use it in the ceremony,” Geralt said, offering it to Jaskier. “If it fits.”

“It won’t fit,” Jaskier said sadly. “Mother had very small hands, but it’s a nice thought.”

Geralt looked at the ring and Jaskier’s left hand. “Try it?”

Jaskier did, sliding the ring onto his finger easily. He looked at it in amazement.

“Amaria must have had it enlarged,” he said.

“A good gift,” Geralt said, although not sure who the gift was really for.

There came a polite knock at the door, interupting the moment, whatever sort of moment it was.

“My lord, it is time for supper.”

Damn. 

Jaskier slipped the ring back into the box and Geralt looked away as he changed into his regular doublet. He didn’t look away fast enough and caught a scandalous glimpse of collarbone and soft chest hair where the chemise got pulled down a little. The air felt a little stuffy suddenly.

The gifts, and Geralt was proud to see that Jaskier folded the doublet carefully back into the paper, although nothing could have harmed it, were handed to a footman to be taken back to their respective rooms.Geralt offered Jaskier his arm, like he’d seen the nobility do, and then Jaskier led him to the dining hall.

To his relief, the hall wasn’t packed. They were what Lambert would call ‘fashionably late’ (and what Vesemir would call a reason for three extra laps) and all the guests were seated. A table held Lady Amaria and a man who must be the Earl, although there was little visible resemblance to Jaskier. They were seated with perhap half a dozen other nobles, as well as a red headed boy of about seven, Filip, probably, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. There was another table of presumably more minor nobility, and then a small table with the wolves, two seats still empty.

All eyes turned to look at the pair. Jaskier bowed deeply, and since his arm was still linked with Geralt’s he was made to bow too, or else risk having his arm pulled from its socket. Then they made their way to the smallest table.

Geralt pulled out Jaskier’s chair for him and saw Vesemir’s approving nod, as well as Lambert’s smirk. He didn’t see the swift kick Eskel delivered below the table, but caught the way Lambert’s eyes watered suddenly, and smiled at his brother in thanks for the retribution. Then he sat.

“Julian,” Vesemir said, reaching over the table to shake hands. “I am Vesemir, Geralt’s teacher. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

“I am happy to make your aquaintance, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier said, and Geralt was impressed that he only winced a little bit as Vesemir inadvertently crushed his knuckles in a grip that could moor a boat. He did, however, gently shake out his fingers under the table once he’d been released.

“If you please, however,” Jaskier continued as if nothing had happened. “I prefer my nickname, Jaskier.”

“Jaskier it is, then,” Vesemir said, moustache twitching up at the corners. Geralt suspected he was thinking the same as he had done. Buttercups, pretty and poisonous.

“You were educated at Oxenfurt, is that correct?” Eskel said.

“Yes, in the fine arts, although I specialized in music composition and lute performance. I didn’t catch your name...?” The most delicate question mark was added to the end of the statement. Eskel blushed, Jaskier wouldn’t know it, but Geralt could see the back of his neck reddening.

“Eskel,” he said quickly. “And the asshole who’s snickering is Lambert.”

Jaskier didn’t look even a little intimidated by either of Geralt’s brothers, which was impressive, because Lambert could scowl like it was a contest and Eskel, although only an inch taller than Geralt, was naturally hugely muscled in a way even the mutagens hadn’t managed for Geralt. His chest and arms looked like they’d withstand a siege weapon.

Jaskier turned a smile on Lambert, who was sputtering indignantly at Eskel’s entirely fair description.

“I’m told you helped with my beautiful courting gift,” he said. Then he turned the smile on all of the wolves. “A team effort I imagine.” 

This stunned all three brothers, and made Vesemir smile. Lambert shrugged uncomfortably. For all his prickliness, he couldn’t take a compliment. 

“Eskel’s idea for the buttons,” he muttered, and Geralt knew he’d been entirely won over.

“The buttons are beautiful,” Jaskier said, smiling warmly at Eskel now, who looked like he’d rather be facing a mountain troll. 

“Was Vesemir that got your measurements,” he said, looking down at the tablecloth. Jaskier beamed at the whole table then.

“Truly a team effort, thank you all, it’s beautiful and I cannot wait to wear it.” With that the whole table was well and truly won over by Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t help but brag a little.

“Jaskier gave me Brimstone Glass bottles as a courting gift,” he said, and preened slightly under the others’ slightly jealous noises of amazement. Jaskier flushed a very pretty pink. 

“I just thought they’d be useful,” he said, although his smile was pleased.

Serving girls entered the hall with trays and the chatter in the hall expanded excitedly. A plump young woman set a tray down at their table and Eskel hummed in appreciation.

“It smells delicious,” he said. She smiled at him, looked him up and down, and then winked.

“Oh doesn’t it just, I could just eat it all up,” she said, not looking at the food even as she lifted the cloche from the appetizers. Then she winked and disappeared back into the kitchen. Another girl appeared and filled the goblets but the witchers hardly noticed for laughing at Eskel’s face.

“Seems Mabel took a liking to you,” Jaskier said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Through his own laughter, Geralt watched Jaskier’s father glaring at their table. Good. The old fuck could choke on it, he didn’t look like he’d ever laughed a day in his life. 

“Careful though,” Jaskier was saying. “She looked ready to take a bite out of you.”

“But,” Eskel gestured, baffled to his face.

“Oh pish,” Jaskier said, taking a swig of wine. “Nobody cares about that sort of thing, do they? Plenty of ladies around here like a few scars, makes men look rugged and dangerous.”

“Rugged?” Eskel rubbed his hand over his face, contemplating. 

“Definitely,” said Jaskier, nodding. He took one of the appetizers. Geralt moved a few to his own plate and slowly their little table descended into a quiet contentment. The appetizers were good, hors d'oeuvres , Geralt remembered Lambert telling him once. They were little bits of paste, meat and vegetable mostly, inside pastry casings.

He smiled when he noticed that he and his brothers were all looking between Jaskier and Vesemir to make sure they hadn’t missed any manners. Eskel swiped Lambert’s elbows off the table.

Eventually the appetizers were replaced with soup. The saucy kitchen girl, Mabel, Jaskier had called her, made a positively salacious remark to Eskel. Something daring about him licking everything clean. Eskel smiled faintly and turned redder than the beet soup.

“You should flirt back,” Jaskier said, once Mabel was gone. “If you’re actually interested, I mean.”

“It’s not that I’m not. Interested I mean,” Eskel squeaked. “But I can’t offer her anything, no marriage or security.”

Jaskier looked at him. It was definitely a look, although not a nasty one. “She asked you to lick her clean and you think that was an invitation to marriage?”

“I wouldn’t want to defile...”

“Oh shut up Eskel, sex doesn’t defile anything. It’s natural and normal and if you think it some how ‘decreases the value’ of a woman than you aren’t the man I thought you to be.” Lambert cut in. “Have some fun, maybe she can remove the stick you’ve lodged up your ass.”

“You’re right, of course,” Eskel said. But now Jaskier was looking worried.

“It won’t be a problem, right?” he asked Geralt. “That I’m not, um a virgin, I mean?”

“No,” Geralt said, probably missing the mark on reassuring, but doing his best. “Unless you mind that I’m not one either. And there is no fidelity clause, and no consummation, you needn’t sleep with me, and you’re free to see other people.”

Jaskier looked at first relieved and then impish, licking the soup from his spoon in a way that made significant parts of Geralt’s brain go numb. “I dunno,” he said, leaning towards Geralt and bumping him with a shoulder. “I can’t imagine consumation with you would be such a chore.”

Melitele’s great gauzy veil, this boy would be the death of him.

There was a pause between soup and the main course, but when Mabel picked up the dishes Eskel leaned towards her and asked if he’d licked it clean enough, to the woman’s obvious approval.

They sat and chatted, Jaskier, Eskel, and Vesemir debated over some old literature that Geralt had never heard of, and then they were interuppted with a cough.

The earl stood, face like stone, beside their table. 

They rose. Vesemir bowed.

“My Lord,” he said. “It is a pleasure to make your aquaintance. I am Vesemir, of the school of the wolf.”

Lord Pankratz inclined his head. “Greetings, Master Vesemir,” he said. “I wish to discuss some of the terms of the contract with you.”

He snapped his fingers and a footman brought him a chair, without waiting for Vesemir’s response.

The wolves sat, feeling wary. Jaskier was looking down at his hands, shoulders shrunk in.

They sat in suspense as Vesemir and Lord Pankratz hashed out details of the legal protections. The main course appeared and the earl stood, and bowed.

“Why don’t we continue this after desert,” he said, smiling smoothly. And it was a very smooth smile. Like an oil slick.

Dinner after that was subdued, despite Eskel returning Mabel’s flirtations. Jaskier looked down at his plate most of the time and the witchers picked up on his unease.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt whispered.

“I don’t know, but he’s planning something, and I don’t like it.”

Then coffee was served after dessert, and the Earl de Lettenhove sat at their table again. 

“Now, for what I really wanted to discuss, I know political marriages can be...challenging,” the earl said in a voice like a snake. “But I wanted to make it clear, should either member express a wish to anul the marriage, the contract will become void.” Here he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I couldn’t bear for my dear Julian to be unhappy, you see. He’s high maintainance I know, but I wish him the best.”

The earl smiled a despicable little smile. “Now, I think you two shouldn’t really see more of each other before the wedding, yes? Bad luck and all.”

The earl then hauled Jaskier away by his collar.

“What a cunt,” Lambert said.

“I figured that was in the contract anyway,” Geralt said. “Isn’t that normally how it works?”

Vesemir nodded. “Indeed, it’s how these marriages go. But I expect the earl is betting that the two of you wont be able to stand eachother, and so he gets rid of his son and doesn’t have to help witchers all in one go.”

“Yes, Jaskier explained things.”

And then Geralt told his family what Jaskier had told him. The suspicious accidents, the laws, the family tree.

“I agree with Lambert,” Eskel said. “What a gigantic fucking cunt.”

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What’s with my thing about clothing descriptions and fancy cloth? I’m a fashion design major, that’s what. 

We’ve got answers about Amaria, and the reason for the engagement, but what’s the wedding going to be like? oooh, cliffhanger, but not too much so I hope it makes up for last time when I was so bad to you all.

Tag List!  @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata  @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam@sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest@innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast  @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna 

@ailorian @toothhurtyam I’m having trouble adding you, I can’t tag if this is a password protected side blog or if you have Allow Blog to Appear in Search Results off, I think. 

#geraskier #the witcher #arranged marriage #arranged marriage au #its part two y'all #and the earl is a slimy sob

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

My Darling Cat Roommate

lmao this isn’t lambden, as the title may suggest. sorry folks

@stinastar hit me with some feels over and modern roommate au where Geralt just doesn’t know what to do to make Jask feel better and this happened. 

Warnings: We go into some Seasonal Affective Depression stuff here so like be careful with that if it triggers you, jask beats himself up a little, mentioning feeling numb at things that usually bring him joy, i swear in this one. I haven’t changed, dont worry lol

_______________________

Jaskier trudged home from work on Friday, exhausted but relieved he had the next week off. He wolfed down the leftovers Geralt had heated up for him and almost fell asleep on the couch before Geralt hauled him up and walked him into his room, where he promptly fell asleep on top of his duvet in jeans and his shoes. Sometime around when early morning coffee workers were getting up he undressed and snuggled under the warm blankets. 

When he woke to Geralt making a smoothie he was prepared to launch into a full ‘morning people’ rant, only to check his phone and realize it was 2pm. So, maybe he’d needed rest. 

It was still grey enough out that he shrugged and went back to sleep. 

When he woke up again it was dark and the TV was going. He wrapped up in his comforter rather than putting on sweats and shuffled out to the kitchen only because his stomach growled when he tried to roll over.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Geralt called over his shoulder as he floated past with the pasta he’d left in the microwave. 

Jaskier just grunted a small “Thanks,” before he disappeared back into his room. He scrolled through various apps as he ate and rolled back into bed. 

He might have fallen asleep, he might not, but he certainly didn’t get out of bed until his bladder absolutely demanded it on Sunday morning. 

Geralt intercepted him in the hallway before he could make it back to his room, “You feeling okay?”

“Hm? Why?” Jaskier took a moment to respond, staring at Geralt like he’d grown a second head. He knew his hair was probably greasy but he couldn’t look that bad.

“You slept all day yesterday.” Geralt looked like he was diffusing a bomb rather than talk to his roommate, “Did something happen at work?” 

Jaskier just shrugged, “I’m just tired.” And a little numb.

Geralt nodded, “I’m headed to the store. You sure you don’t want me to pick anything up for you?”

“I’m okay, Geralt…” he sighed, slipping past his brick wall of a roommate to slink beneath his blankets once again and make himself as small as possible. 

It was late January and the Seasonal Affective Depression was in full swing. He should have bought that fucking happy light when it was on sale. Should have bought the Vitamin D tablets he saw last week. Should have let Geralt drag him to the gym a little more when he felt the initial dip. Should have blah blah blah. He thought over every little thing he knew would have helped that he just hadn’t done and sighed, pulling his blankets tighter around him. He knew he wasn’t going to do any of it until it got bad enough that his hair would stick to his forehead once he hit this point. Might as well hurry it along so it could be over with. 

Geralt knocked on his door, snapping him out of his mini spiral. He hummed, not even bothering to turn over until he heard the rattle of the doorknob. 

“I know you didn’t want anything, but… uh. I was in the bulk section. Got you the peach things.” Geralt’s voice was lower and softer than usual as he raised the frankly massive bag of peach rings for emphasis before he set them on Jaskier’s desk. 

“Than-” Jaskier coughed when his voice came out raspy and broken, “Thank you.”

Geralt leaned against the doorframe for a moment, a curious frown on his face, “Bake Off is on in an hour if you wanna watch it.”

Jask forced a smile and shrugged, “We’ll see.”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, pausing a moment before pushing off the doorframe, “Okay.” 

Jaskier stared at the peach rings for a while after Geralt closed the door. Eventually he compromised with his brain and rolled out of bed onto his knees, waddling a couple of steps until he could reach the rings then launch back to bed. 

Normally he would have almost cried with happiness that Geralt had gotten his favorite treat. He loved it when Geralt did little things for him or thought of him enough to give him something, but he felt rather indifferent as he shoved the twentieth peach ring in his mouth. 

Without warning his door opened just enough for a plate to appear and be gently set on his desk.

Geralt muttered, “For the sugar high…” before his hand disappeared and the door once again shut. 

Jaskier almost smiled when he saw the neatly arranged concentric circles of Totinos Pizza Rolls on the plate. He got to his feet to fetch them this time. 

Around ten that night there was another knock at his door that pulled him from an hour long scroll through tiktok.

“Jask?”

“Yeah?”

Geralt held a big grey bundle in his arms, “Do you- Uh. I thought- weighted blanket?” He held his arms out with a hesitant smile. 

Jaskier sat up, “But don’t you use it to sleep?”

Geralt shrugged, unfolding the bean-filled blanket and laying it over Jaskier’s legs, “I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier stared at the ceiling for a while after he left, confused by Geralt’s suddenly attentive behavior. He would have expected the grouchy man to enjoy the silence that came with his bad days. For how much Geralt complained about his loud music, he certainly wasn’t expecting gifts. 

Geralt left a note in the kitchen Monday morning saying he’d made Jaskier a breakfast sandwich with instructions on how to warm it up without it turning soggy. Jaskier stood in front of the panini press reading and rereading the note as he heated his breakfast like it was in Old English. He ate at the kitchen table this time, annoyed with the crumbs in his bed, and counted up all the little gifts he’d been brought. He could come to only one conclusion.

Geralt was part cat. 

He’d stopped functioning and Geralt kept bringing him mice. 

He smirked and sent him a quick text, “Thanks for the breakfast. 👌 V  good.”

After breakfast, he decided maybe he could change his pajamas, but he stayed tucked under Geralt’s weighted blanket for most of the day. Every now and then Geralt would text him something stupid Eskel or Lambert did, or a meme he found on his break, and every time Jaskier would grin and send back an emoji. Words were out of reach but Geralt frequently only communicated in emojis and one-word sentences. He should get the message.

Jaskier fell asleep around two, really asleep not just the fitful light sleep he’d been having the last couple of days. He was rousted from a dream about a talking panini press by Geralt tripping over a pile of laundry and softly swearing as he tried to right himself without crashing into the bed or Jaskier’s lute. 

“Geralt? Darling, what are you doing?”

Geralt finally caught himself and nearly blinded Jaskier with a smile as he straightened up, “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Jaskier sat up and scratched at his hair, “Yes, but doing what?” 

“Oh! Yeah. Uh. I-” Geralt, still grinning, pointed to a small fern in a bright orange clay pot sitting on his windowsill. 

“You got me a plant?”

Geralt was practically beaming when Jaskier glanced back at him. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a cat?” 

Geralt snorted, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “You’re feeling better?” 

Jaskier tilted his head, “I think so? What makes you say that?”

“You called me ‘Darling’.” 

A hesitant smile crept on Jaskier’s face. There was an echo of the usual all-consuming warmth spreading in his chest that he usually felt when Geralt smiled at him. He may indeed be feeling a bit better. Come to think of it he actually wanted to shower.

“I taped Bake Off. If you’re feeling up for a trek to the couch,” Geralt offered, forced nonchalance dripping from every word. 

Jask nodded, “Let me shower, then we can finish off the peach rings.” 

Geralt’s smile nearly stopped his heart, a sure sign he was nearing the land of the living again, “I got lasagna on the way home too,” he chirped as he jumped up and made his way to the door. 

“Hey, Darling?” It felt a little forced and goofy saying the pet name like that, but Jaskier just couldn’t help himself, “Thank you.”

Geralt’s smile softened, “Anytime.”

#listen yall idk who im projecting on more with this one #but the feels are strong and i yearn #geraskier #geraskier roommates #geraskier roommates au #roommates au #the witcher #the witcher modern au #the witcher roommates au #geralt of rivia #jaskier #seasonal affective disorder #seasonal affective depression #cw SAD #depression #thems some heavy tags for something meant to be fluff #that kinda just hits the nail on the head for the fandom tho yeah? #lol #soft geraskier

[kueble]

#11 centaur? I have a weakness for centaur Witchers...

Thank you for the prompt!  I’m combining it with an anon I got asking for centaur Geralt, so here’s a little Geraskier for you.  I hope that’s ok!

18+ under the cut. Warnings: size kink? Do I warn for centaur!Geralt?

3100 words

---

If you told Jaskier a year ago that he’d be traveling with a witcher - let alone the White Stallion - he wouldn’t have believed it.  If you added the fact that he’s absolutely head over heels for him, Jaskier probably would have died laughing.

To be fair, it is a bit ridiculous.

But Jaskier dares anyone to spend more than a month at the side of the witcher and not start pining for him.  Despite his surly demeanor, Geralt is actually compassionate and righteous to a fault.  Jaskier has seen him turn down contracts he didn’t agree with as well as refuse payments from some of the poorer villages he’s worked for.  After their first week together, he’d given up on trying to drive Jaskier away, and there's been many nights he’s gone hungry to make sure Jaskier is fed.  

Personality aside, he’s also unfairly gorgeous.  Geralt would fight this to his last breath, but Jaskier has definitely spent more time than recommended just looking at the centaur.  He’s normally shirtless, which is a whole new kind of torture.  Having to look at those chiseled abs and strong arms all day long?  No one could resist.  Combined with his stunning gold eyes and the miles of silky silver hair just begging to be tugged on, Jaskier is in a perpetual state of horniness.

The non-human parts don’t even detract from it.  His coat is a little darker than his hair with ruddy pink scars scattered throughout.  He’s taller than Jaskier, bigger and wider all over, and it’s equally intimidating and mouth-watering.  The thought that Geralt could easily overpower him makes his skin buzz and his thoughts race.  He’s spent more than a few nights taking himself in hand to the image of being on his hands and knees with Geralt’s solid body caging him in.  

Both the best and worst part of being Geralt’s constant companion is the fact that centaurs simply do not wear pants.  The philosophers back at Oxenfurt could go on for days about the whole if a horse wore pants, how would he wear them nonsense, but Jaskier knows the truth: he wouldn’t.  And it’s not like he goes out of his way to look at Geralt’s frankly massive cock, but it’s always there.  Turn toward your companion to have a conversation?  Giant prick.  Try to compose the next great romantic ballad while walking down a dirt road in the forest? Huge cock.  It’s unavoidable, and it turns Jaskier on to no end.  

The amount of time he’s spent thinking about the logistics of taking that gorgeous dick inside of him is way more than he’d like to admit.  It’s gotten so bad that a few months ago he jumped at the chance to buy a set of well-made wooden plugs.  The smallest one was easy to take, and he’s already worked himself up to the largest one, which looks just shy of Geralt’s girth.  He doesn’t even bother complaining when he’s left behind on a hunt anymore.  It’s become a secret routine; as soon as Geralt is gone, he’s reaching for his oil and the current plug.  He’s spent hours working himself open to thoughts of how well he’d take Geralt.

Honestly, Jaskier never imagined he’d be fantasizing about being mounted like a mare, but here he is.

They’ve had exactly one conversation about the fact that Geralt is a centaur, which ended with Geralt’s grumbled explanation that it was the result of his extra mutagens.  He clearly thinks himself a monster, more so than the other normal witchers, and it breaks Jaskier’s heart to think about it..  Jaskier’s tried to argue about it, but Geralt won’t even discuss the matter anymore.  He is what he is, and that’s just life.

“You’re worse than usual tonight,” Geralt grumbles from his side of the fire, effectively pulling Jaskier out of his inner musings.

“What?” he asks, blinking as his thoughts fall back into place.

“You’re normally a bit worked up, but tonight it’s like you’re a maiden going to her wedding bed.  Did you see someone particularly enticing back in town?  What’s gotten you so riled up?  I can barely think through the scent of it,” Geralt explains, scrunching up his nose.

“You...you can smell when I’m turned on?” Jaskier squeaks, because honestly that knowledge would have been nice to know ages ago.

“Witcher senses.  I thought you knew?  I can leave you alone for a bit if you need me to?  Go for a run or something?” he asks, not quite meeting Jaskier’s eyes.  Which is good, because the thought of Geralt running brings up images of his chest muscles bouncing while he runs, which he’s sure sends another spike of lust out of him.  Or however the smell thing works.

“One, you’re the first witcher I’ve met, and you tend to be a pretty secretive lot.  I didn’t know.  Two, did it just get worse right then?” Jaskier asks, licking his lips as he studies Geralt.  He looks a bit uncomfortable, but mostly curious.  This wasn’t how he planned on offering up himself as a possible partner, but he’s a flexible man.

“Yes actuality.  Why, did you think about her tits?” Geralt asks with a grimace.

“Yours actually,” Jaskier snorts out, hiding his smile behind his hands.

“I don’t have tits.”

“You do.  They’re magnificent,” Jaskier counters, finally getting the nerve to stand up and slowly walk towards Geralt.  He stops in front of where he’s curled up.  They’re not quite eye level, but he’d only have to duck down a bit to kiss him.  And so without thinking, he does.

He gets headbutted for his trouble, Geralt glaring at him as he staggers back and rubs his forehead.

“What was that for?” he asks, frowning.

“Don’t mock me by trying to kiss me,” Geralt spits out as he crosses his arms over his chest.  His tail twitches, a clear sign that he’s agitated with him.

“I’m not mocking you, I’m hitting on you!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing up his hands at how stupid the man he’s fallen in love with is.

“Well get your kicks somewhere else,” Geralt grumbles, pursing his lips.

“Why do you think I’m so keyed up tonight?” Jaskier counters, because his friend is clearly an idiot.  Apparently the ability to smell lust doesn’t mean you can understand it.

“I don’t know.  Figured you’re using that imagination of yours,” Geralt tells him bitterly.

“I’ve been staring at you, watching the shadows from the fire dance across your bare chest, and longing for you, you idiot,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be obtuse.  I’m even more of a monster than the rest of the witchers.  Nobody wants this,” he grunts out, waving a hand at his legs and tail.

“You’re as stupid as you are gorgeous,” Jaskier says, sighing as he tentatively moves closer.

“Do you normally insult your bed-partners this much?” Geralt asks with a huff, but he looks almost hopeful and it makes Jaskier want to hold onto him and never let go.

“Only when they’re too thick to see how ridiculously beautiful they are.  But beyond that, you’re a good man, Geralt.  I’ve gotten to know you this past year, and you’re one of the few decent people left in the world.  I want you because you’re you, not in spite of it,” Jaskier says softly, hoping every ounce of pent up longing comes through in his voice.  Geralt tilts his head at him and frowns again.

“You’re telling the truth,” Geralt whispers, barely more than a breath.

“Of course.”

“Kiss me again,” Geralt says, his voice unsteady.  

Jaskier nods and moves closer, slowly sinking to his knees.  Geralt’s the taller one now, and he bends down to press their lips together.  It starts chaste, just a gentle press of mouths, but then it’s like a dam bursts and Jaskier can’t hold himself back any longer.  He licks into Geralt’s mouth, tracing his teeth, mapping him as their tongues slide together.  Geralt groans into the kiss, his hands coming up to grip Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier pulls back just slightly, brushing his nose against Geralt’s before kissing a path down his jawline.  His slight stubble feels good against Jaskier’s lips, and he slows down, enjoying the drag of it.  He nips at Geralt’s pulse point before darting his tongue out to sooth it.  Geralt shivers and arches into the touch, making Jaskier smirk into his skin.  He sits back on his heels and catch’s Geralt’s gaze, making sure he can see how much he wants this, how desirable he is.

“I want you to fuck me,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt lets out a pained groan before shaking his head.

“Can’t.  Too much to work up to.  But fuck I want that too,” he says, cupping Jaskier’s face and pulling him into another lazy kiss.

“I’ve uh,” Jaskier breathes out, cheeks on fire as he looks to the side, “I’ve been preparing for it.  For you.  We should be ok.”

“Preparing?” Geralt asks, his voice barely audible.  Jaskier realizes he’s going to need a better explanation if they’re going to actually do this, so he jumps up and rifles through his pack, grabbing the largest plug from where he has it hidden inside an old shirt.  He grabs a vial of oil, too, because he’s nothing if not optimistic.

“There’s a few different ones, but this is the biggest.  I...I’ve worked my way up,” Jaskier explains as he holds up the wooden plug.  Geralt’s eyes darken and he swallows thickly.

“Thinking of me?”

“Thinking of you and hoping for this,” Jaskier admits, waving a hand between them.  Before he can continue, Geralt fists his hands in his shirt and drags him into a rough kiss.  He melts against the witcher and lets him explore, arching into him as their mouths slant together.  Geralt plays with the hem of his shirt before shoving it up, fingers searching for more skin.  Jaskier moans into his mouth, whimpering as Geralt rakes his nails over his nipples and then runs them through the trail of hair disappearing inside his trousers.  

He needs to be naked like yesterday, so he breaks the kiss and gently sets down the plug and oil before tugging his shirt over his head.  He starts with the laces of his pants, but Geralt shoves his hands out of the way and undoes them himself.  His thighs shake as he stands there, finally getting Geralt’s hands on him after months of longing for them.  Geralt sucks on the skin where his neck and shoulder meet, grazing him with his teeth as he works his pants down his legs.

And then he’s wrapping his fingers around him, and Jaskier keens, ducking his head down to kiss him again.  Geralt pumps him slowly, teasing the head of his cock and gathering pre-come to ease the slide.  He bucks into his fist, mewling as his legs start to give out.  He steadies his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and steps out of his boots before kicking his pants off to the side.

Geralt shifts around and tugs Jaskier into his lap, settling him on his strong thighs.  “Oil,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier twists around to grab it off the ground.  Geralt has one hand around his waist, keeping him in his lap, so he opens the vial himself and coats Geralt’s fingers with it.  He watches the slick oil dribble down his long fingers in the light of the fire and then spreads his legs.

The first touch against his hole is hesitant, but he whines brokenly and Geralt seems to gain confidence.  He circles his hole, teasing before slowly pressing in up to the first knuckle.  Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and tucks his face against his collar bone.

He’s shivering by the time they’re up to two fingers, Geralt expertly working him open.  He holds up his hand and Jaskier adds more oil to it, squirming as Geralt slowly slides his fingers back inside of him.  He tilts his head up and catches Geralt in a sloppy kiss, more tongues and spit than anything.  He sighs into the kiss as Geralt works another finger in, slowly opening him up.

“I’m good,” Jaskier sighs as he breaks the kiss.  He knows it will still be a stretch, but fuck he’s ready for it; needs it more than anything he’s ever wanted before.

“I’ve only ever fucked other witchers. Are you sure you’re ready for me?” Geralt asks softly, and Jaskier nods frantically, wiggling on his fingers.

“I’m going to be sore tomorrow, but gods do I need you now,” Jaskier mumbles against his mouth.  Geralt seems to accept it and pulls his fingers free before sliding Jaskier out of his lap.

“Hands and knees,” he orders, and Jaskier races to comply.  Geralt moves into position, his large body completely surrounding him, and Jaskier whines deep in his chest.  It’s everything he’d imagined and more.  He didn’t know how impossibly warm Geralt would be, heat coming at him from every angle.

“Please,” he begs, letting his head fall down to his chest as he raises his hips and prepares to be mounted.  He can hear Geralt slicking himself up and has to close his eyes, completely overwhelmed by the thought of it.  Next time he’s going to get his hands and his mouth on him, show him how much Jaskier adores him, but they’re both too desperate for that right now.

“You’ll have to guide me in,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier forces his eyes open again.  Geralt moves closer, his front legs by Jaskier’s shoulders and hands on the ground in front of them both.  

The tip of his cock brushes against Jaskier’s ass, and he shudders, whole body lighting up at the feel of it.  He leans on one hand and reaches behind himself to wrap his fingers around it.  Geralt is massive, and Jaskier has a moment of worry that it won’t work, but then he lines up and presses back as Geralt pushes forward and the head slowly slides inside of him.

He cries out, the sound echoing in the clearing around them.  Geralt starts to pull back, but he pushes back and rushes out, “I’m good! So good! Just a lot.”

“You’re so tight,” Geralt growls from above him, and Jaskier moans as he’s slowly breached.

It’s just shy of too much, and Jaskier focuses on breathing as Geralt fills him.  There’s no way his entire cock will fit, but it’s still the most full Jaskier has ever felt.  Geralt stills, letting him adjust.  He feels a hand on his shoulder, soothing him as he gets used to the stretch.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier says after a long moment, and Geralt pulls most of the way out before thrusting back in.  Jaskier moans and drops to his forearms, fingers digging into the dirt beneath them.  It’s good - so fucking good - and he’s drunk on it, head floating at the feeling of being so full.

They move together, Geralt slowly stretching him open with each thrust.  He’s glad for the practice with the wooden plug, but it’s nothing like this.  Geralt is a solid heat in his ass, but flexible in a way the plug wasn’t.  He shoves deeper as he fucks him, and Jaskier rocks into it, chasing the feeling as he pulls back.

There’s no way he’s going to last, not when he’s wanted this for so long, not when Geralt is stretching him open so completely.  Geralt lets out an endless stream of moans above him, and Jaskier knows he’s close too.  His thighs are shaking as he holds himself up, body rocking as Geralt slams into him.  

He pushes up on one hand and works the other under him, sliding it down his body.  Before he can reach his swollen prick, he brushes against the soft skin of his stomach and shudders, realizing he’s so full of Geralt’s cock that he’s bulging.  He palms his stomach, pressing into it and feeling Geralt move inside of him.

“Fuck,” he whines, trembling as he slides his hand lower and finally wraps his long fingers around his aching cock.  He doesn’t have a good angle, can’t really pump himself, but he doesn’t need to.  Geralt thrusts into him, forcing him to fuck his own fist as they move together.

Geralt slams into him hard, and that’s all it takes, his muscles tensing as he spills onto the ground beneath him.  His arms give out, the force of his orgasm almost too much to handle.  It’s never felt like this, this desperate, this overpowering, and he howls as he comes.  

Geralt keeps fucking him, plowing into him one deep thrust after another.  Jaskier concentrates on holding his ass up, on giving him that target to thrust into.  It doesn’t take long for him to follow, and he hisses before coming inside Jaskier.  It’s so much, hot burst after burst filling him so much he thinks he’ll never be empty again.  He sobs into his forearm and takes it, reveling in the feeling of come dripping down his thighs as Geralt pumps him full of it.

He loses time after that, and the next thing he senses is Geralt gathering him into his arms and wiping him down with a wet cloth.  He’s talking, and it takes Jaskier a bit before he can focus on it.  “With me now?” Geralt asks softly, smiling down at him.

“That was intense,” Jaskier says, laughing as he tries to sit up and just flounders in Geralt’s lap.  He realizes they’re on his bedroll now, and there’s a blanket next to him. 

“I didn’t break you, did I?” Geralt teases, but he keeps touching Jaskier, running his hands over his chest, down his thighs, grounding him.  He shakes his head and Geralt shifts a bit, setting Jaskier down on the ground and curling up around him.

“Walking tomorrow is going to be hell, but I’ll survive,” Jaskier says, giggling as he snuggles up against Geralt’s side.

“We can rest for the day. It’s my fault you’re worn out,” Geralt tells him with a soft chuckle.  

“So you do care,” Jaskier says softly, lighting up when Geralt offers him a small smile.  “You know, next time I want to get my mouth on you.”

“Next time?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier can hear the hope in his voice.  Glad to know he’s not the only one invested now.

“Of course,” Jaskier confirms, and he can feel it when Geralt hums deep in his chest.  The witcher pulls the blanket over him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him closer.  Jaskier falls asleep to the feeling of fingers in his hair, feeling more content than he ever has before.

---

tags: @lovesight @mayastormborn @feraljaskier @allinthebones @selectivegeekwithstandards @saphiramalbec

If you’d like to be added/removed from my 18+ tags, let me know!

#monster march #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #centaur geralt #size kink #my fic #geralt #jaskier

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Feel It Like I Do

ty to @writinglizards for the title and @contemplativepancakes for making sure Geralt didn’t wear a shirt into the bath 💖

At least in the terms of Geralt's long life, they haven't known each other long but Jaskier has fallen hard. He was lost from the start if he's honest, enraptured by golden eyes and silver hair and a heart that cares just this side of too much. But loving someone is not always easy, and loving an emotionally stunted Witcher is all that much harder - especially if your Witcher doesn't believe he deserves good things.

And it doesn't help that Jaskier isn't quite sure how to approach things with Geralt. Normally, things with him start with sex. It's quick and easy and Jaskier has never failed to get someone into bed with him. Normally, when he wants something or someone, he smiles and charms and flirts his way into getting it, but things with Geraly have never been that simple. And not for a lack of trying.

But Geralt doesn't even realize he's being flirted with, which is a tragedy. Nor does he notice now when Jaskier picks up herbs he's getting low on. Geralt is thankful and appreciative but dense as stone and Jaskier finds himself lost, unsure of how to approach this wonderful, difficult man that destiny has brought to him. He figures it out unexpectedly on a dreadfully damp and foggy day - in the middle of a swamp, of all places.

So maybe Geralt had asked him to stay back at camp with Roach, but Jaskier's never seen a water hag for himself and if he's going to write about them, he'll have to have the details correct.

The first time he gets mud chucked at him, he grumbles and complains, but he can hear Geralt's chiding voice in his head reminding him he should have stayed at camp and he holds his ground. A little mud in his face is nothing for the chance to see Geralt at work.

Geralt dispatches of the hags - there are three of them, in all - without much trouble, but he earns himself a pretty hefty swipe for his trouble and when he returns to Jaskier, he's favouring his left arm. Jaskier frowns, reaches out before he can think better of it, but Geralt just brushes past him and toward their camp.

Jaskier follows at a safe distance. Geralt doesn't much like to talk after he completes a contract, or at all when he's taken a potion, so Jaskier keeps quiet and sits across from him when he makes it to their camp. He watches as Geralt hauls his pack into his lap, wincing still as he rummages through it and he wants to help. Jaskier aches to reach across and take the bag from Geralt's hands, to find whatever is it he needs. To help. He knows Geraly would never allow it, but he crosses over to sit next o him anyway.

"Can I do anything?" he asks. Geralt just grunts at him in response and Jaskier sighs. Instinctively, he reaches out and touches a hand to Geralt's good shoulder and Geralt freezes under him.

Immediately, Jaskier realizes he's made a mistake. Geralt tenses up under him, his whole body stiffening at the touch, but then he does something Jaskier would not have expected. He leans into it.

Jaskier holds his breath, afraid to move lest Geralt realize what he's doing and pull away, but his heart is racing and that, apparently, is what breaks the spell. They've known each other a little over three years now and Geralt has never allowed him to so much as touch him before, not more than a simple brush of their shoulders as they walk side-by-side and Jaskier is overwhelmed.

When Geralt turns to him, he looks surprised, almost embarrassed and when Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, Geralt rises to his feet and stalks off out of sight. But Jaskier is determined, so he picks Geralt's pack up from the ground and replaces the vials that spilled from it in his haste to escape. Setting it with the rest of their things, Jaskier turns to lighting the fire and laying out bedrolls. It's the least he can do to ensure things are as comfortable for Geralt as they can be when he returns.

And he does, a couple of hours later, silent as always. But he's given Jaskier something to go off, a brief glimpse into what Geralt actually wants but won't allow himself, and Jaskier, armed with this new information, is determined to give it to him. It's not much, but it's a step in the right direction.

For the next few days, they're in and around town, so Jaskier keeps a close eye on Geralt, especially his interactions with others. He's not sure how he never noticed before, the way Geralt stands taller, straighter when other people are around, or the way his whole body goes stiff when someone approaches him unprompted. He's bracing himself for the worst; for pain and hate, like the words spat at him in the streets, and Jaskier finds himself wondering if Geralt has ever felt a kind touch that wasn't paid dearly for.

But Jaskier knows now that that's something he wants; Geralt longs for kind touches, like anyone who's been denied for so long, and Jaskier hates the people who have made him feel like he's not allowed. And since no one else is willing, Jaskier will have to do it himself.

He starts small that very afternoon, stepping a little closer to Geralt's side as they make their way out of town. He isn't pushed away and if Geralt notices his proximity, he doesn't mention it, so when they lay down to sleep that night, Jaskier lays his bedroll out next to Geralt's. He'll be a little further from the fire, but the late spring weather is warm enough that it shouldn't matter.

When he wakes in the morning, Geralt had shifted and he's further away than he normally sleeps. It's frustrating, but Jaskier isn't one to back down from a challenge - especially not where Geralt's well-being is concerned.

So that night, he tries a new tactic. Maybe if he can get Geralt to initiate the touch himself, he won't be so quick to pull away. They find themselves at an inn, so Jaskier's initial plan of closeness through cold isn't going to work as well as he had hoped, but when they arrive the inn is old and cold enough that it just might work.

Once they've laid down for the night, he wraps himself in the scratchy blanket provided for them and stares out into the room. Geralt has made himself a bed on the floor - much to Jaskier's displeasure. It would make things so much easier if Geralt would just climb up here and sleep with him.

"I'm cold," he whispers into the darkness. There's nothing at first, then a rustling and footsteps fading away and returning. A very small part of him hopes that Geralt will come back and lay down next to him, but as always, he doesn't.

"Take this," Geralt says, draping something heavy over him. Jaskier turns to sit up, but Geralt is already moving away, back to his makeshift bed on the floor.

Jaskier resists a sigh of defeat, if only because Geralt would hear him, and settles back into bed, pulling the new blanket up over his shoulders. Only it isn't a blanket and when Jaskier inhales, Geralt's scent engulfs him. A quick grope around tells him the new addition to his bed is Geralt's travelling cloak, thick and woollen and likely warmer than the thin blankets that they carry with them. Despite the failure of his plan tonight, Jaskier can't feel entirely disappointed, though he worries that the way his heart thumps heavily against his chest is obvious to Geralt, sleeping only a few feet away.

After failing to fall asleep that night, surrounded by Geralt's scent, Jaskier takes a different approach. It's probably easier for him to reach out to Geralt first, but he wants Geralt to be comfortable with touch and he continues his attempt to get Geralt to reach out to him.

He pretends to be hurt or to have an itch somewhere he can't scratch himself, but Geralt never falls for it and Jaskier just gets more and more frustrated. On the one hand, he can understand why, after however many years of being met only with hate and disgust, Geralt would seclude himself. But Jaskier has never treated him that way and all he wants is to help. Because he knows how it feels to go without, to spend weeks alone without the faintest trace of human contact. It's awful, he can't even imagine the need for it after years. There are occasional visits to brothels in the bigger cities, but even then touch is a luxury paid for when Geralt can find someone who'll have him. Because he's a Witcher. Because he's inhuman.

Only Jaskier has never seen him that way, not even in the very beginning of this complicated relationship, and he longs for Geralt to understand that. After Geralt has been turned away from brothels, Jaskier has considered offering it himself. He could set his own feelings aside to give Geralt what he needs, but he suspects Geralt would see it as nothing more than a pittance and that's the last thing Jaskier wants him to think. Geralt is so much more than what everyone thinks and says about him and Jaskier is on a mission to prove that. A mission that apparently starts with convincing Geralt himself.

So one night, when Geralt is called out to take care of a wraith that's been haunting the village graveyard, Jaskier follows him. Geralt hasn't been sleeping well lately, and Jaskier has insisted on him sitting this one out, but they need the coin and what Jaskier earned at the tavern last night won't even cover their room for another night. So Geralt, exhausted and worn out, traipses up to the cemetery unknowingly with Jaskier in tow.

Jaskier sits and waits as Geralt disappears into the crypt, but he keeps an ear out for anything that could mean Geralt's in trouble. It doesn't take long before he hears the sounds of a fight, and right from the start, it doesn't sound good. Then abruptly, silence and nothing more.

Jaskier aches to run in after him and make sure he's okay. His fingers twitch against his thighs, and he runs through what he'd do over and over in his head, but he knows there isn't much he can do against a wraith. Something physical, maybe, but this is somewhere he can't really help. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest and without realizing it, Jaskier's on his feet and heading to the entrance of the crypt when he spots Geralt, staggering through the arch and toward him.

Immediately, relief floods through him and his legs shake but manage to hold him well enough to get to Geralt. Without thinking, Jaskier ducks under Geralt's arm, pulling it around his neck and helping him back toward camp. He's surprised at how well he manages to support Geralt's weight, and it's not until they reach the unlit fire at their camp that Jaskier realizes how much of Geralt is pressed against him. And for the first time, he panics.

He helps Geralt down to sit on a stump near the fire pit and while Geralt sits and catches his breath, he continually assures Jaskier that he's fine. By now, Jaskier knows he can hear Geralt's heartbeat, how fast it's racing right now, and he knows the words are just to placate him. He knows Geralt must be injured but he doesn't trust Geralt to tell himself, so as much as he hates to push further than Geralt is ready for, Jaskier starts unbuckling his armour.

He stands behind him, laying each piece out carefully on the ground next to them, keeping an eye out for any hesitation, but Geralt seems resigned to this. It's not until his armour is off and piled neatly, and he's in nothing more than his tunic, that Geralt flinches when Jaskier reaches for him.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier breathes. "I can't see how bad it is with this on, can I-" He doesn't even finish the question before Geralt gives a curt nod and drops his gaze to the ground. He lifts his arms to let Jaskier pull it off, wincing as his muscles pull.

There's bruising all the way down his side and Jaskier fists his hands in Geralt's tunic, pushing out the anger that always accompanies seeing him like this. Maybe if the people who cursed him in the street could see him now, they'd think better of Witchers. Then again, he supposes, most of them are probably beyond changing. He shakes his head to keep from wondering about how it happened and steps away to find salve and bandages.

When he does, he digs a spare piece of linen from the bottom of his pack, using it to wipe away any remaining blood where the skin is broken. Geralt lets him, sitting still until Jaskier spreads salve on the worst of his wounds. He winces then and pulls away, turning to scowl at him.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier breathes, " just- please, let me help." After a moment, Geralt turns back around and rests his elbows on his knees, relenting.

Jaskier is as gentle as he can be, though suspects the only reason he's allowed to do this is because Geralt, despite his many talents, can't reach his own back properly to do it himself. It doesn't stop Jaskier, once he's finished bandaging him, from brushing his fingertips down Geralt's back.

He doesn't mean to, doesn't even realize he's doing it at first, but Geralt presses back into the touch and Jaskier tries again. He doesn't want to take advantage, but Geralt's muscles are tense under his hands and he knows if he can just get Geralt to let him, he can ease that stress.

Jaskier eases into it, touching him softly and just letting his hands drift over Geralt's skin to start. And slowly, Jaskier can feel him relax under his hands and he risks a little more pressure. Geralt's breath comes a little quicker as Jaskier's hands slide forward over his shoulders, but Jaskier pauses, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Geralt's collarbone until he feels the muscles there relax again.

Jaskier is elated to be allowed such a simple thing and he revels in the heat of Geralt's skin under his hands, the scent of his hair, though tinged with dirt and sweat. He lets himself get caught up in it, slipping his hands further down Geralt's chest and back up to rub the sides of his neck. Geralt's head drops back against his stomach, a soft groan slipping between his lips. Jaskier stiffens, afraid that he's pushed too far, but when he looks down, Geralt seems relaxed - more relaxed than he's seen him.

It's so rare that Jaskier - or anyone, he suspects - gets to see Geralt like this, that he feels almost like he's intruding on a private moment. He knows it's only due to exhaustion that Geralt submits so easily to him now, but he likes to believe a part of it has to do with trust as well.

Jaskier brings his hands back to Geralt's shoulders, fingertips pressing into the stiff muscle and working out the knots. He tries to concentrate, but Geralt keeps letting out soft little huffs of breath that are incredibly distracting and quite often he finds himself losing focus and slipping too far forward. He realizes his mistake when his fingers brush over a nipple and Geralt shudders under him.

Jaskier withdraws as Geralt sits forward shifting awkwardly. This time he knows he's pushed too far - accidentally, but he doubts that matters now. Jaskier shuts his eyes and as Geralt shrugs out from under his hands, he lets him go. When he rises to his feet, Jaskier realizes what the problem is and he hates himself for the initial heat that runs through him. He rips his gaze from where Geralt's cock is hard in his trousers, but he knows he's too late and he knows Geralt has seen him looking.

Geralt turns away and Jaskier curses himself as the Witcher stalks off into the dark. He tries to tell himself it wasn't his fault, but maybe he shouldn't have tried anything at all. He didn't mean to push, he didn't mean to turn him on and he definitely didn't mean to see. But Geralt was definitely aroused and the fact that Jaskier is the one who affected him like that is something he struggles to reconcile.

As far as his progress in getting Geralt to open up, this incident has a negative effect. Geralt closes himself off again afterward and Jaskier is upset with himself for taking advantage because it was the first time Geralt let him get that close and he went and fucked it up. For both of them. But he has to keep trying because Geralt does so much and gets so little. And he never takes anything for himself so Jaskier wants to try and give something back.

So he starts small again because he knows Geralt's trust isn't easily earned, and he finds his progress hasn't been undone as much as he'd expected. Geralt doesn't pull away when Jaskier walks close and even when their hands brush together, he seems unconcerned about it. Which is a relief and Jaskier doesn't think too much about why. He wants Geralt to adjust to his touch in any context, though since the incident with the wraith, Jaskier can't help thinking about making him feel good in other ways. It's a dream and nothing more, but it's in his mind nonetheless. He just wants Geralt to be more open, to be able to let himself have something good besides the sex he pays for.

For months, Jaskier works tirelessly to acclimatize Geralt to soft and gentle touches. He puts his own needs and desires aside in favour of trying to convince the most stubborn man he's ever met that not all touch has to be bad. On occasion, Geralt relents, but it's only when he's injured or exhausted and while it's a small victory, Jaskier will take what he can get.

But after a little while, Geralt seems to realize what Jaskier is doing. He doesn't back off like Jaskier expected him to. On the contrary, he'll even give a little back on occasion. If he's trying to hold Jaskier back, more often he'll press a hand to his shoulder rather than grabbing his clothes and pulling him back. The first time it happens, Jaskier is so surprised he stops dead in his tracks. But he appreciates the effort.

Then, one night, Gerallt surprises him.

It's been over a year now since the wraith incident and Jaskier always keeps that night in the back of his mind, reminding himself not to be too bold when Geralt gives him an inch. But he still thinks about it all the time, how he got Geralt hard with only his hands and how he so desperately wants to do it again, he just needs Geralt to let him. And it's not that things are going badly between them, but Jaskier has no delusions of anything like that happening again. Especially not intentionally.

They're in Temeria, staying at a little in that looks like it's seen better days and they've only just paid for their room when Geralt goes off saying he has to do something. Jaskier's sure something is heading to the local whorehouse and he wants to tell him he doesn't need to, but Geralt is determined and Jaskier keeps quiet. He heads up to their room alone.

He feels helpless and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do because he can't just come out and tell Geralt to fuck him instead. He wants to be able to, but it's so much more than just sex for him, even if maybe it's not for Geralt. But he wants Geralt to know that there's an alternative to how he's been living, that Jaskier is here to offer him more than just soft touches and a conversational companion. Geralt can get what he needs from someone who loves him, someone who wants to be with him. He can have kindness and affection without having to pay for it. He could be there for Geralt if he'd just let him. But every time he tries to offer, the words fail him.

Jaskier pushes the thoughts aside in favour of tidying the room and organizing their things before heading down to find his own company for the evening. He orders an ale for himself and sits at a table near the low-burning fire, keeping an eye on the crowd, but no one strikes his fancy tonight. If he's honest with himself, it's been a while since he's been truly dedicated to pleasing himself rather than Geralt.

He only stays long enough to finish his drink and by the time it's gone, he's still alone so he heads back to the room alone. Only when he opens the door, he comes face-to-face with Geralt, looking a little sheepish.

"I had a bath poured," Geralt says. "If you want."

Jaskier does his best not to show his confusion, but he's speechless trying to figure out why Geralt would order him a bath. The only words he can manage to get out are "I don't need it" and he regrets it immediately. He quickly corrects himself adding, "go ahead. I'm sure you would enjoy it."

Geralt doesn't look at him and for a second, Jaskier thinks he's offended him, but when he really looks at him, Geralt looks... conflicted, like he's struggling with himself.

"Join me?" he asks so quietly Jaskier almost doesn't hear him.

Oh. "Are you sure?" he asks, watching for any sign of hesitation, but if Geralt is wary of what he's offering, he doesn't show it. He just nods quietly and Jaskier is still trying to figure out what's happening because this is very unlike Geralt and he doesn't want to agree to something if Geralt is going to be uncomfortable about it later.

But he seems anything but uncomfortable. Geralt undresses like it's the most casual thing in the world and Jaskier catches him as he's unbuttoning his trousers, tugging his shirt loose. He finds himself staring, watching the way Geralt moves as he drops his arms backs to his sides, and Geralt notices. Just as Jaskier turns his head to look away, Geralt steps toward him and catches his attention again.

He reaches out, undoing the top few buttons on Jaskier's shirt and despite his careful composure, Jaskier's throat goes dry and he doesn't know what to do with himself. Geralt has never willingly let Jaskier get this close to him unless they're asleep and Jaskier is starting to feel like maybe all of his hard work has paid off.

"You can't bathe in your clothes," Geralt says by way of explanation which, Jaskier supposes, is true. When he looks up from where Geralt's hands are on his shirt, Geralt is looking at him so softly, almost nervously, and Jaskier's skin flushes under the attention. He wants so badly to close the rest of the distance between them, but Geralt is already putting himself out here in such a huge way and Jaskier want to let him take this at his own pace. Whatever this is.

He does reach out cautiously, letting his fingers brush over Geralt's shoulder and when he's met with no resistance, he lets his palm settle. And Geralt takes another small step forward, returning to Jaskier's buttons.

"Why do you always want to touch me?" he asks. Jaskier moves his head to meet his eyes, but Geralt is avoiding him, his focus solely on getting Jaskier's shirt undone. He hadn't realized Geralt had been quite that attentive. He'd thought his little advances could have been passed off as just trying to be closer or, well, something. But he should have known better.

"When was the last time someone touched you with kindness?" he asks and this time Geralt's head snaps up, eyes meeting his with confusion. "When was the last time someone touched you without getting anything in return?"

"Last winter," Geralt says without hesitation and the quickness of his response only makes Jaskier's heart sink further.

"Not every touch has to be hard and biting," Jaskier breathes. His hands rise on their own, softly wrapping around Geralt's wrists and lowering his hands from their task. "Not every kind gesture has to be transactional. You deserve good things just for the sake of it."

"You don't have to do that-"

"Geralt," Jaskier says a little more firmly, "if you don't understand by now that I care about you, I don't know how to convince you." Well, that's not entirely true, but he's taking things at Geralt's speed, not his own. "I know I don't have to do that, I don't have to do anything and yet, here I am. I want you to know I'm here for you."

Geralt shifts his weight, looking anywhere but at Jaskier like he's not sure how to process this. Maybe it's a good thing Jaskier can never find the words to tell him everything. Jaskier's heart beats a million times a minute as he takes a step forward into Geralt's space. He reaches out, meeting Geralt's eyes again as he presses his palms to his chest. Slowly, cautiously, he pushes his hands up Geralt's chest, slipping over his shoulders and around the back of his neck.

They're so close now that Jaskier can smell the oils on him and he realizes Geralt must have taken a lot of care in choosing them because the scents he picks up on are lavender and cedarwood, two of his favourites. And his chest constricts at the thought of Geralt putting that much effort into anything so frivolous, especially for someone else. Especially for him.

When he meets his eyes again, they're soft and every instinct is telling him to lean in, to press his lips against that soft mouth but the last time he pushed too hard, he fucked it all up. This time feels like something real and he doesn't want to risk making another mistake.

But he's leaning in without realizing and Geralt meets him halfway, bumping their foreheads together. All Jaskier can hear is the sound of his own breath and the blood rushing in his ears like thunder. He shuts his eyes and Geralt tips his head just so, bumping their noses together. And if Jaskier is feeling this overwhelmed by their closeness, he can't possibly imagine how Geralt is feeling right now.

"Jask..." he breathes and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and moves without thinking.

He leans in, just barely brushing his lips against Geralt's. He feels his breath against him as he draws back, hears a soft little noise that sounds something like relief and then Geralt's leaning in again and kissing him in earnest. His mouth slots against Jaskier's like that's what it was made for, hot and wanting, but Geralt seems unsure of what to do with his hands.

Jaskier never considered what with Geralt's want for a gentle touch that he might also want to touch. His hands hover in mid-air, just shy of brushing Jaskier's hips like he's never done this before, but it doesn't take much encouragement. Jaskier takes Geralt's hands and presses them against his own hips and it's all the direction Geralt needs to be given. He slides his hands up Jaskier's sides, pushing under his shirt and the heat from his skin sends a shudder up Jaskier's spine.

He moans softly against Geralt's lips, sliding his own hands up to tangle in his hair and Geralt hums appreciatively in response, one warm hand sliding up to the center of his back to hold him close. His lips part against Jaskier's, deepening the kiss and gods, Jaskier has never thought about how Geralt would kiss, but now that he's been given the chance, he doesn't hold back. And once he gets his hands on him, he doesn't let go.

Jaskier absolutely delights in how tactile Geralt is. Even his mouth doesn't leave his skin, straying from his lips only to press against his jaw and slide down his neck. Jaskier's head tips back giving him better access and Geralt groans against his skin, a low rumbling sound that rips right through him. The low simmering in his guts spikes and he wants to lean into the touch and press himself against Geralt but he draws back instead, not that Geralt lets him get far. Geralt looks at him with big, dark eyes and whatever reservations Jaskier was about to voice die on his tongue.

His breathing is shallow and as he meets Geralt's eyes, he can feel his chest heave with each breath. Geralt looks at him like he's just seeing him for the first time and he reaches between them, tugging Jaskier's shirt up over his head before slipping his fingers beneath the waist of his trousers. Jaskier tips his head down, watching as Geralt's fingers work open the clasps. Then Geralt pauses, tips Jaskier's chin up to look at him and kisses him again, hard and eager.

Jaskier's breath pulls from his lungs and he finds himself walking backward. When his knees hit the tub, he stumbles a little, but Geralt winds his arms around his waist, bracing him. When Geralt draws away again, Jaskier is breathless, and the way Geralt's hands move back to his trousers again doesn't help matters.

His hands slide over Jaskier's hips, catching on the silky fabric and pushing his trousers down. Jaskier holds his breath as the fabric slides over his heated cock and Geralt's hands slip back over his ass, forcing the roll of his hips. He's already half-hard, but he can hardly control the state of his cock with Geralt pawing at him like this. Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he lets out a low, breathy "oh" as his cock presses into Geralt's hip.

And he realizes maybe he doesn't have to be so cautious with Geralt after all. Jaskier risks a quick roll of his hips and Geralt rumbles pleasantly, pushing back against him. He kisses him again then, slow and sweet and just this side of too much and Geralt moves against him, lips parting as he presses against Jaskier's chest. He's so close and Jaskier can feel every inch of him, every tiny little movement of muscle and Geralt is hard against him which is a feeling infinitely better than any of Jaskier's wildest dreams.

He aches to touch him, to feel more than just the press of Geralt's cock against his hip, wonders if he could get a hand around him because he feels huge. Geralt breaks away to kiss Jaskier's jaw, down the side of his throat and Jaskier can't help the little gasp that slips from his lips. In a hundred years, he never expected Geralt to be like this when he was finally allowed free reign to touch.

Before he realizes it, Jaskier has a hand between them, snaking down to cup Geralt through his trousers. Geralt's hips jerk into the touch and he rumbles low in the back of his throat. Jaskier pulls back. He thinks he's gone too far again, that Geralt isn't ready for so much, but then Geralt's arms wind tightly around him and his feet lift the floor. A rush of excitement goes through him and he loops his arms around Geralt's neck as they head toward the bed.

"What about the bath?" he asks and Geralt meets his eyes with a dark look.

"Later," he growls and Jaskier feels the vibrations all the way through him. He'd mention the bath getting cold, but he doesn't think it would matter; Geralt is nothing if not focused and Jaskier is thrilled to be the one at the center of his attention. He's not about to sabotage it over a little cold water.

Geralt drops onto the mattress with Jaskier in his lap. He shuffles back, stacking the pillows behind him with one hand, the other still firmly curled around Jaskier's hip. When he's satisfied, he slips his other arm around Jaskier, too, tugging him closer and Jaskier groans at the way their cocks grind against each other. Geralt is still maddeningly hidden, tucked away just out of Jaskier's reach, which is so unfair he could cry. Because he's thick and hard and pressing up under Jaskier's balls in a way that makes him needy.

Then one of Geralt's hands slips down, squeezing his ass as he lifts him and pulls him close against him. His fingers slip down, pressing between Jaskier's cheeks and Geralt's trapped cock is pushed to the back of his mind.

Jaskier's eyes flutter shut as Geralt's fingers graze against his hole. He tips his head down, pressing his nose into Geralt's neck, speechless for the first time in a long time. If anyone had told him a week ago that this would happen, he never would have believed them, might have even told them off for teasing him and yet.

Jaskier rolls his hips encouragingly, and Geralt's mouth finds his shoulder, teeth grazing the smooth skin, but he doesn't give any more than he already is. But his grip is firm and Jaskier is happy just to be in his arms; it's more than he could ever have hoped for, considering Geralt's (apparently prior) aversion to touch. He's enthusiastic about it now, fingers lipping against Jaskier's hole in repetition, pressing just a little firmer each time. And Jaskier breathes praise into his skin, humming softly where he can't find the right words to tell Geralt how he feels without chasing him away. Because he loves him too fiercely already and Geralt is only just learning how to accept him as a friend. Although after this, maybe.

Geralt shifts under him, reaching out and Jaskier's eyes follow his hand to where it dips into one of their packs of the floor. He nips at Geralt's jaw, running his mouth along the line of it, and as Geralt settles back into position, he tips his head to catch Jaskier's mouth with his own. His gentleness is gone now, replaced with eager intent and for a moment, Jaskier is so wholly captivated by his mouth, that he doesn't realize what Geralt is doing with his other hand.

Cool, slick fingers slide against Jaskier's hole, prodding gently at the muscle and Jaskier nearly jumps in surprise. For his movement, he earns a soft huff of a laugh against his lips and that's- well, that's incredible. He draws away, smiling down at Geralt even as Geralt's fingers press into him, stretching Jaskier around him. Teeth dig into his bottom lip but Jaskier keeps his eyes open, enthralled by the little half-smirk that remains on Geralt's face, by the wonder in his eyes as he slides into Jaskier like that's where he belongs.

"Fuck," Jaskier groans, worrying his lip between his teeth. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, but he doesn't miss the way Geralt's grin spreads as he gives a couple of short thrusts into him.

Geralt is unsurprisingly quiet, apparently too caught up in Jaskier's pleasure to worry about his own. And he's barely giving Jaskier a chance to think, much less worry about anything but Geralt's fingers inside him. It's not exactly how Jaskier was expecting this to happen - not that he ever really believed it would - but Geralt seems more than happy with things as they are. Next time, Jaskier decides, if he gets a next time - he'll show Geralt just how good a gentle touch can be and he'll drag those noises out of him one way or another.

When Geralt gets a third finger into him, Jaskier groans impatiently. His hips work hard, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers and gods it feels good. And he needs this. As much as he wants to prove to Geralt that he's good and deserving of kindness, he needs this, too.

"I'm good," Jaskier huffs, but Geralt seems inclined to let him continue like this. His eyes are dark and focused where they roam over Jaskier's body and Jaskier can feel his cock beneath him. He feels the way it jerks, in need of attention, when Jaskier whimpers or pushes his hips down and he wonders if Geralt is already imagining the feeling of him, hot and tight around him. Jaskier lets out a soft moan at the thought, but it's not until he pushes Geralt's shoulders back against the wall, that he seems to break the Witcher's spell.

Geralt looks up at him slowly, meeting his gaze, but as soon as his fingers slip from Jaskier's body it's like a dam has broken. Both of them fumble with Geralt's trousers, getting them undone and shoving them open just far enough that Jaskier can pull Geralt's cock from its confines. He gives him a quick stroke before shifting forward and sitting back on him.

The stretch is a lot more than he was expecting, but he rocks back onto him, easing the way without having to slow down. Because Geralt's fingers dig into his hips and his breath comes in short heavy puffs. And when Jaskier lets himself relax when he sinks a little lower, Geralt's eyes roll back and he moans so sweetly. It's a sound Jaskier will never forget for the rest of his life and he makes it his job to draw as many of those sounds from Geralt's lips as he can.

When Jaskier fully seats himself, he feels like he can't breathe. He's so full of Geralt's cock that he can barely think straight, but his body moves on its own. He rocks his hips forward without rising up and Geralt follows the motion, pushing somehow even deeper into him.

"Oh fuck," Jaskier whines, lifting his hips to slide up Geralt's cock. He drops back onto him just as quickly and the growl he gets in response makes his own cock throb.

When Jaskier realizes just how much Geralt likes letting go, likes letting him take the lead, he leans back, bracing himself on Geralt's thighs. He works his hips quick and hard while Geralt touches him. Geralt keeps one hand on his hip, but the other slips up his stomach, fingers sliding softly up the column of his throat and over his jaw. Jaskier likes it almost as much as he likes the cock up his ass. He preens under the attention, presses his chest out, moans a little louder when Geralt's fingers press into his skin.

It's rushed and inelegant, but Jaskier's heart swells when Geralt tugs him into a bruising kiss. Jaskier pants against him, moaning into Geralt's mouth as they move as one. Like this, he can feel every little change in Geralt's body and he has to wonder if it's not similar to how Geralt always seems to know how he's feeling. A shuddering moan escapes Geralt's lips, a little gasp, and Jaskier knows he's getting close. He loves it, loves to know he's the one making Geralt feel this way. He's the one with Geralt's cock inside him and his hands on him and even as he leans forward to rest against his chest, it feels unreal.

Geralt's hips snap up and he wraps his arms around Jaskier's shoulders, holding him close as he buries his face in his neck. He's mumbling something, but Jaskier can't quite make out the words, muffled by his own skin.

"Beautiful," Jaskier huffs, tilting his head and pressing his nose into Geralt's hair. He presses his cock into Geralt's stomach, rutting against him with every forward thrust.

When Geralt comes, he pulls his knees up, pushing Jaskier closer against him and letting out a moan that nearly has Jaskier coming undone right after him.

He works Geralt through it, fucking him steadily until Geralt's grip on him loosens and his legs drop back against the mattress. He mumbles a stifled "fuck, Jas," and pushes his fingers up Jaskier's back and into his hair, seeking out his mouth and kissing him softly.

Jaskier shifts without breaking the kiss and Geralt shifts under him, his fingers tightening in his hair. But when Jaskier moves to lift himself out of his lap, one of Geralt's hands drops to his hip, holding him down.

"No," he breathes, "don't stop."

"O-okay," Jaskier huffs, "do you want to-" Geralt cuts him off with a swift kiss and a quick snap of his hips. Fuck, he's still hard. Jaskier shifts his hips and when he's met with a groan, he looks up to meet Geralt's eyes. "Touch me," he whispers and Geralt's tongue darts out between his lips before one hand curls around the base of Jaskier's cock.

He lets out a sob, reaching out to curl a hand around the back of Geralt's neck. He's wanted to say those words for longer than he can even remember now, and in all that time, he was never expecting Geralt to be quite so eager to comply.

His hand is warm, even around Jaskier's heated cock, and he grips him firmly, stroking straight up to the head. He squeezes around the crown, rubbing his thumb underneath and Jaskier drops his head forward against him, hips jerking forward against his hand.

"Geralt-" he chokes, "oh, Geralt."

It takes him a moment to adjust to the additional sensation, but Jaskier manages to find a rhythm that suits them both, fucking back onto Geralt's cock and forward into his hand. He's already veering quickly toward the edge and when he shifts in Geralt's lap, he realizes he's not the only one.

Geralt's mouth drops open against his own, a soft moan escaping as Jaskier squeezes around him. Gods, it's barely been any time since he came and already Geralt looks like he's struggling to hold on.

"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, bumping their noses together, "are you close?" The only answer he gets is a quiet hmm, but it's as much confirmation as Jaskier needs. He works his hips a little quicker, wraps both arms around Geralt's neck and kisses him. He nips at Geralt's lips and when the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him, he buries his face in Geralt's neck, clenching his fingers in his hair. One hard tug is all it takes to push Geralt over the edge a second time and he pulls Jaskier tightly against him.

When Geralt comes again, Jaskier is right there with him. His legs shake under him and only Geralt's arms wound around his back, keep him from toppling over completely. His cock continues to rub against Geralt's stomach and Jaskier has to bite down on the Witcher's shoulder to keep from crying out.

Neither of them moves for a few moments, panting heavily against each other until Geralt shifts to pull out. Jaskier whines at the loss, but it's a weak protest and Geralt appeases him with a soft kiss, rolling Jaskier onto his side so they're facing each other. It isn't until then that reality sets in and Jaskier realizes exactly what they've done.

He opens his mouth to say... something, but Geralt moves closer, cupping his jaw and humming softly against his mouth. It's not a kiss, really, barely a brush of lips before Geralt pushes himself back up again, but it's enough to soothe Jaskier's worries.

"Would you still like that bath?" he asks and Jaskier smiles despite the prospect of very cold bathwater.

"It'll be cold."

"I'll warm it up," Geralt promises, setting a hand on Jaskier's hip.

"Okay."

He does, indeed, warm the water with igni before peeling himself out of his trousers and stepping into the bath. Jaskier watches from the bed. His legs are still a little shaky, but when Geralt tilts his head and spreads his knees it feels like an invitation, one Jaskier isn't willing to turn down.

He crosses to the center of the room, stepping into the warm water and Geralt's hands are on him again, turning him so when he settles he has his back to Geralt's chest. It's nice, leaning back against him like this. Bathing is one of the few indulgences Geralt allows himself and Jaskier is happy to be able to share this with him. Sighing softly, he tips his head back against Geralt's shoulders and runs his hands down Geralt's thighs, smiling as they only spread further apart.

"I like it when you touch me," Geralt hums from behind. His voice is soft and low, so much so that Jaskier doesn't quite hear at first, but as the words register, he smiles.

"I noticed that."

"I don't mean-" he lets out a little scoff, but his hands come up to cover Jaskier's fingers entangling with his own. "I mean like this, the small things."

"Oh?"

"Like when you pretend to be cold so I'll come sleep closer to you." Jaskier starts at that and leans forward to turn and face Geralt.

"You knew I was pretending?"

"Yes."

"And you still-?"

Geralt hums, a low rumbling sound that Jaskier would never tell him reminds him of a cat purring. "I told you," he says, "I like it."

"Well good," Jaskier settles back against him, bringing Geralt's hand up to kiss his palm, "because I have no intention of stopping any time soon."

#geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier #soft babs #with a little bit of spice #rex writes #the witcher

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

My dearest bouncey! I have a prompt for you if you like: Witchers as a 90s/2000s boyband 😂🤷‍♀️💖💖💖

Ellie, darling, this started as 500 words and turned into like 3.2k words and also a piece of art so... thank you so much. also shout out to my amazing art pal @mawbwehownets for the little comic!!

this contains lots of 90′s/early 2000′s nostalgia so there is also that

tw: hornyish, smooching, perilous music video situations (corny)

---

“Do I have to?” Geralt groans, letting his forehead thud down against the linoleum surface of their tour bus’s shitty dining table.

“Yes,” Vesemir says. His tone leaves no room for argument or whining. “But what if I let you pick the winner personally?”

“There have to be like fifteen thousand letters to go through! How will I manage that in less than two days?”

“There were a few more than fifteen thousand applications, Geralt. There were probably closer to five hundred thousand.”

Lambert wolf whistles and Aiden claps.

Geralt grimaces and keeps his face hidden against the table, releasing a slightly muffled: “Fuck.”

“Language,” Vesemir frowns. He tugs gently at Geralt’s loose ponytail and the singer lifts his head up from the table again, looking at his manager with beseeching eyes. “Anyway, we’ve narrowed it down to about fifty. You can go through those and choose whichever person you’d like to play your love interest. But you have to give me an answer by Friday. The shoot is in three weeks and whoever wins this stupid competition will need time to make arrangements.”

“I thought we were footing the bill for their food and their hotel room,” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What would they need to arrange?”

“Not everyone can board their pets at the flick of a wrist, dude,” Lambert scoffs from his seat on the couch. Aiden lies draped across his lap, as usual, and the two of them are halfheartedly watching The Lion King. They can only watch movies when the bus is stationary, otherwise the VHS player might move too much while running and damage the film inside the cassette. Even taking advantage of such a rare opportunity, Lambert and Aiden still seem more interested in each other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s voice acting. 

“Lambert has a point,” Vesemir sighs. He scrubs his hand over his lightly whiskered face like a tired grandparent and sighs again, more heavily. “It’ll be good for you boys to have a normal person around for a few days. Maybe they’ll be able to put some things into perspective.”

Geralt can only roll his eyes a little bit and thank his manager regardless of his own feelings; he and the rest of TW5 owe the seasoned musical expert their entire careers. Without Vesemir’s help and mentorship they would never have made it past their first disastrous record deal. They certainly wouldn’t have reached the heights they’re at now, enjoying international fame and recognition. 

The begrudging frontman accepts a heavy plastic bin of file folders from Vesemir and sets them down next to his bunk. “Are these organized in any particular way?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

Geralt digs his hand into the pile and pulls out a piece of pale-pink stationary, eager to get started and, by extension, get finished. He can already tell that it’s going to be a long couple of days.

---

“I want this one, please, Ves.”

“Huh?” Vesemir looks up from his palm-pilot. Geralt is standing in front of him and trying to hand him something. 

“I want this guy to be in the music video with me.” Geralt holds out the letter again, fingers trapping the accompanying polaroid headshot with great care. A pair of bright blue eyes stares up from the photo, highlighting the subject’s bright smile and unruly mop of messy brown hair. Vesemir tries to hide his amusement; totally Geralt’s type, if the big oaf could admit to having one.

“Alright. I’ll get everything in order. We start shooting in two and a half weeks so get your asses to the gym, please.”

“Yes, Ves,” all five young men chorus. 

“Tomorrow,” Coen mutters a moment later than everyone else, not glancing up from his composition notebook. Vesemir nods in understanding. Coen is the best lyricist of the lot and it’s easier to let him work when inspiration strikes than beg him to focus when he can’t get a solitary idea to stick.

“So why’d you pick that one, Ger-bear?” Lambert drawls. Aiden nods and leans against Lambert’s side. Geralt can’t help the mild jealousy that overtakes him every time he sees his bandmates touch each other with such casual affection. He wants that intimacy, that softness behind the veneer of famous indifference. He wants someone to hold. 

“Yeah. What drew your attention to that poor unfortunate soul. Was it the floppy hair, the big blue eyes, or the dopey grin?” Aiden smirks.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel sighs, looking between the two troublemakers with the tired gaze of an eldest sibling, “Fuck you for even asking in the first place and expecting a straight answer.”

“Straight is the furthest thing from his answer,” Lambert chuckles. He is promptly smacked in the head with one of the couch’s hideous throw pillows. The youngest member of the band rubs the side of his face and chuckles, “Alright, I deserved that one.”

---

“Holy shit!” Jaskier practically screams. “Holy motherfucking shit!”

“What!?” Yennefer comes flying around the corner. “What’s wrong!?”

“Nothing is wrong, Yenna! Everything is awesome! Everything absolutely fucking rocks!”

“Did you get hit on the head by a falling branch between here and the mailbox or what? You were whining about your finals work not five min-”

“Look at this!” Jaskier shoves an open envelope into her hands and cuts her off. Yennefer reads the watermarked documents once. Twice. Her eyes almost pop out of her head when the words and their meanings finally sink in. 

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I am absolutely not!” her giddy roommate cheers, bouncing up and down in place. “I did it! I won!”

“Holy shit.”

“I know! I get to kiss Geralt deRiv!” he practically cackles. Then freezes. “Holy fuck I get to kiss Geralt deRiv.”

“You said that already,” Yen teases. She shoves the paperwork back into his hands and grabs a takeout menu from the junk drawer near her hip. “Since you won the makeout lottery, you get to buy lunch. Lucky bastard.”

---

“So this will be your dressing room,” someone’s underpaid PA says, ushering Jaskier into a small, bright room. “Priscilla will be here shortly to get you into hair and makeup.”

“Oh, uh- thanks!”

“Yup.”

And with that, the young man disappears back down the hallway toward the sound stage. Jaskier jogs his leg anxiously as he waits for Priscilla to arrive, nervous and otherwise totally alone in the huge grey building. As the minutes tick by and his heart rate rises, Jaskier’s intrusive thoughts make an unwanted appearance: What if they forget about me being here? What if there’s been a mistake and they accidentally hired two love interests and I just sit in here for hours all alone while-

“Hi!” a bright, peppy blonde woman flies through the door and startles him back to reality. “Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla! You can call me Priss; I’ll be doing your hair and makeup for the video this week!”

“Oh… hi. I’m Julian, but I prefer Jaskier.”

“Lovely! Well, Jaskier, is your hair naturally this color?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Perfect! I don’t want to mess with such a lovely shade of natural brown, but do you mind if I give it a bit of a trim? I have a few ideas for styles right here in my book- How do you feel about some feathering back here? I think-” she fluffs a few of the hairs around the nape of Jaskier’s neck “-I could really bring out the curls if I adjusted the length a bit and used some product.”

“Just, uhm, go for it, then! Feel free to make me as pretty as possible!” Jaskier declares. He’s committing to this experience wholeheartedly, determined to allow himself every opportunity for positive change. He wants to really let himself enjoy it, and he needs a haircut anyway. Priscilla spends an hour washing, cutting, drying, and styling his hair into a lovely fringed sweep across his forehead. It ends just above his brows, giving his face a slightly softer shape than usual. He grins over his shoulder, “I love it! I’m going to miss you when I’m back at Oxenfurt. Good stylists are so hard to find.”

Priss blushes and nudges against his shoulder, “Oh, you little charmer.”

“I mean it,” he says, examining himself in the mirror. “I look like I could really be worthy of a heroic rescue! This is going to be such a fantastic memory, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

Priss bites back a genuine tear and smiles, “Now that your natural prettiness has been mildly enhanced, let’s get you over to wardrobe, shall we?”

“Wardrobe? Do I have, like, a costume? What’s the music video even about?”

“They didn’t tell you any of this when you got here?”

“Not… not really.”

“Well, my darling, I think you’re really going to like it; they’ve got you in Versace for the first scene.”

“Versace!?” 

Then Jaskier is being ushered into a bright, colorful room full to bursting with grim-faced, middle-aged women and he loses track of his only braincell for the rest of the morning.

---

“You must be Julian!” Lambert declares, bounding up to him and grinning. It’s a feral, animalistic grin and Jaskier resists the sudden urge to take a step back.

“I prefer Jaskier, if you don’t mind too much,” Jaskier corrects him quietly. Lambert rolls his eyes in a long-suffering kind of way and throws a meaty arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, completely ignoring the wardrobe technician’s wincing as he wrinkles the expensive silk jacket. 

“No need to be quiet and polite around here, my dude. We’re just a bunch of rowdy idiots, aren’t we, guys?” 

“Hell yeah!” Aiden calls back. Eskel sighs like the put-upon nanny in a Victorian Redanian comedy. 

“Speak for yourself,” Coen barely lifts his frosted tips up from his book long enough to speak. Geralt is-

Holy motherfucking Britney Spears on toast.

Geralt is the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his short, unfulfilled-until-right-now life. Forget Ralph Macchio. Forget Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Winona Ryder. This man is… Geralt deRiv is… he’s the picture of perfection. And he’s right there, standing in front of an elaborate party set with his thick, beautiful arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trained on the floor, as if willing it to swallow him whole. Jaskier realizes that he probably didn’t have any choice in the matter; maybe this was just as awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt as it was for Jaskier. 

“Ger-bear!” Lambert whoops, yanking Jaskier closer to the brooding frontman. If only he were brave enough to struggle for escape; alas. “This is your boy-toy for the week. Goes by Jaskier, apparently.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt manages to grunt. “How did you like the script?”

“I haven’t uh- I haven’t actually seen it?”

“Shit. Fuck. One second,” Geralt huffs, disappearing into the crowd of technicians and machinery operators and PAs. Jaskier loves him already, for real. Sure, he was pretty in the music videos and promo material, but the way he said fuck like it was the noblest word he could think of… Geralt interrupts his train of thought by coming back with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He shuffle-shoves them into Jaskier’s arms immediately. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine and shy, more tenuous than his usual goofy grin. He flips through the pages, glancing between the script to his expensive suit, “So I’m guessing we’re at a party for this scene? Or something?”

“This is… where we meet. This is where… you and I uh…”

Jaskier’s eyes scan the page as Geralt’s ability to speak slowly leaves him. 

Lover ENTERS LEFT, dressed to the nines. Lover adjusts their tie/boa and takes a look around the room. S/He looks sad and a little hopeful. PULL BACK to Geralt, who approaches slowly. Their eyes meet. HOLD SHOT. PULL BACK as they move towards each other. Geralt pulls Lover into his arms and they begin to dance.

“Oh, wow.”

“I hope it’s okay! If you’re not comfortable with that kind of thing we can-”

“I’ll be alright, thank you. I came here to put my acting chops to the test. Well, that and meet my favorite band, of course. Thank you again, by the way. It’s been wonderful so far and I really appreciate you allowing me to be here.”

“Allowing? Psh. Geralt ha-” Lambert is cut off by Aiden, who elbows him sharply in the side. “Ow! What the fuck, babe?”

“I knew it!” Jaskier crows, distracted. “I knew you two were an item!”

“They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They never confirm anything either,” Jaskier retorts. Geralt shrugs his acknowledgement and moves back towards the set. Jaskier follows after the taller man like a lost puppy, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, hungry for detail even in his anxiety ridden state. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he doesn’t want to waste a solitary second of it. “This is incredible, really just...wow. You guys do this all the time? You get to make tiny little movies for already great songs that you get to perform for millions of adoring fans? And you get paid!?”

Geralt hadn’t ever really thought about it like that. He’d been raised in the industry. He’d signed to Kaer Morhen Records as an early teen because his mother was a member of the Board of Directors and he’d been making music ever since; an outsider’s perspective to things was… new. A little strange. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty much what we do.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not that exciting, I promise.”

“Have you ever written a fifteen page paper about the history of lute-string design and manufacturing?” 

“No.”

“Then kindly shut the fuck up about what I should consider exciting,” Jaskier grins. Geralt is immediately and irrevocably smitten. Fuck. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes! “So, which door am I entering from?”

“Left,” Geralt points. Jaskier skips over and begins to introduce himself to the sound and lights crew. His smile seems to be as infectious as his cheer and soon the entire set crew is smiling at one another. There’s been a literal shift in the atmosphere; if he didn’t know any better, the TW5 frontman thinks Jaskier might be some kind of magical creature, because he can’t just be human. Geralt is well and truly fucked, and everyone in the band already knows.

---

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, slipping anxiously from behind the changing screen. The Versace is gone and in its place are a pair of tight, high-waisted blue pleather pants and a billowing white shirt, which has been strategically ripped in several places to reveal slivers of the lightly tanned skin that lies beneath. He looks like he’s in desperate need of rescuing. He looks like every fantasy Geralt has ever had about the perfect guy. He looks like a fucking dream.

“Nice,” he says.

Lambert and Aiden wolf-whistle and cheer as they approach. Aiden claps twice, loudly, and shoots Jaskier a set of finger guns, “Hot damn, baby. You single? You lookin’ to mingle? Because I am bi and spoon like a Pringle.”

“First of all, babe, I love you but that was the most horrific combination of words yet known to man. Second of all, yeah, I’d dump Aiden for you for sure,” Lambert adds. Jaskier is at a total loss for words. His mouth hangs open and his breath comes in uneven little gasps for a moment.

“Uh… I- Thank you?”

“Oh god, Eskel! Eskel, he’s short circuiting, do something.”

“You absolute-” Eskel groans and makes his way over to the gathered group. He tugs Jaskier away and over to the other end of the set, where a comically huge rocket/bomb (Jaskier can’t tell) is standing at the center of a vaguely science-themed room. A laboratory, maybe? Or like, a really weird spacecraft? A hospital run by rocket scientists? It doesn’t matter, it’s the Evil Lair of the Villain and that’s where Jaskier is being held captive. “Here, Cameron and Elise will help you get set up for the next scene. I’m sorry about the boys they’re... gay?”

“I understand,” Jaskier nods sagely and Eskel relaxes. Then for comedy’s sake he adds an equally dramatic, “I too am... gay.”

The set dresser, an electrician, and a few specialists (likely a rope rigger among them) come over and tie Jaskier to the bomb/rocket/villainous mechanism, ending his conversation with Eskel, who is now in a much better mood than he was before. 

Jaskier is told to make sure his hands are crossed behind the small of his back and the director instructs him to wiggle back and forth “as convincingly as possible without actually getting loose or moving the ropes too much”. Which is manageable, he supposes. 

“Then, when the chorus comes up, we’ll get a few shots of the boys dancing in front of you,” the director continues to explain. That’s… kind weird, but okay. I’ve seen weirder. “Then we’ll do the action shots, with Geralt rescuing you. Are you okay to do the kiss, or would you rather not? We have dynamic shots with or without, so it’s totally up to you.”

“I’m fine with that,” Jaskier smiles shyly. “I consent to be smooched.”

“Adorable,” Lambert calls. Jaskier blushes and the director shoots Lambert a glare. 

“He’s already pink enough, don’t make me change my gels you little shithead!”

“Sorry, Pierre!”

“Fucking sorry my ass,” Pierre grumbles beneath his breath. Then he smiles at Jaskier. “Do something nasty to him for me, will you? Not too nasty but… just a little?”

“I’ve got your back,” Jaskier winks. 

“No plotting! Not fair!” Aiden whines.

“You have a team,” Pierre retorts. “Now I have a team.”

“Rules are rules,” Eskel sighs. “Now can we please shoot this damn video?”

“Right,” Pierre claps, getting everyone’s attention. “Places!”

---

Geralt races up the stairs, trying to keep the long sleeves of his black mesh shirt from catching on any of the set pieces. The solid black t-shirt he’s wearing underneath makes his arms and back look bulkier than normal; it’s a visual technique to make him look larger than Jaskier, whose billowing white shirt will hide how wide his shoulders actually are. Fuck, those are some nice shoulders. And the smattering of dark chest hair that peeks from the front of the college student’s shirt? Geralt wants to bury his face in it.

Okay, focus. 

He reaches the top of the set and rushes towards Jaskier, ripping the ropes from around his torso and pulling him close. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head with his upstage hand, framing the slightly smaller man for the camera and making him seem even shorter, another trick of angles and body posturing. Geralt plays Jaskier like an instrument, bending him back by placing his downstage arm around Jaskier’s waist, pressing their mouths together and holding them still for as long as it takes the director to yell, “Cut!” with a satisfied tone of voice. 

Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed when Pierre laughs and claps some more and cries, “Print it, lads! That was a one-take wonder!”

He tries to ignore the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump as if disappointed. “Good job,” he manages to say.

“You, too.” Geralt wishes he could keep a picture of Jaskier smiling in his back pocket forever. No other sight could light up the world so effortlessly. “Thanks for being gentle.”

“I’m trying to sweep you off your feet,” the singer shrugs. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows and follows Geralt down the narrow set stairs.

“Are you, really?”

“Is it working?” Geralt asks, turning to look up at Jaskier. The student pauses to look at him and his foot catches on an uneven board. He topples forward with a short cry of surprise and seems surprised when Geralt reaches out to catch him. “Jaskier!”

“Oh my god!” Lambert races over, Aiden hot on his heels. “Are you okay, dude?”

“I’m fine,”  Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Just a little shocked.”

“You should take him to get a snack or something,” Eskel says, nudging his shoulder against Geralt’s. “He’s been busy all day and hasn’t even been to craft services.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Geralt asks, honestly baffled. Jaskier shakes his head, face heating once again. He wishes he could stop blushing, but Geralt’s presence seems to make it impossible. He wraps one arm around the younger man’s temptingly slender waist and leads him towards the food carts. He shoves a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of punch into Jaskier’s hands, not giving him a chance to argue. “Here, I’ll have something, too.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles, understanding that he is, in turn, being understood. They sit comfortable folding chairs off to the side, food spread across their laps. Jaskier laughs and chats around his mouthfuls, pulling things from Geralt like his favorite color and his least favorite nicknames. Songs he liked and dances he disliked. 

“You made it fun again, today,” the singer smiles. “Thank you for that. I wish you could be here for every video shoot.”

“Looking for another member of the band?” Jaskier jokes, doing some half-hearted jazz hands. Geralt shakes his head and laughs. 

“I wish we were,” he sighs. “But I guess five is the magic number.”

“Makes the dances look cooler,” Jaskier nods. “I agree with whoever made that decision. I wouldn’t dare ruin the aesthetic.”

Geralt laughs again and Vesemir turns to look, honestly shocked at the volume of the sound. 

“Plus, you can’t be the frontman if there’s no front.”

“Shut up,” Geralt chuckles, still grinning broadly. 

Vesemir makes a phone call.

---

2 Weeks Later, Backstage in Kaedwen

---

“He’s been sulking like this ever since Jaskier went back to Oxenfurt,” Lambert whines. “C’mon Vesemir, do something.”

“What do you want me to do, make Geralt’s boyfriend appear out of thin air?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Geralt growls, stomping past his bandmates and manager. He can’t help but feel grumpy. Jaskier had been like the sun, bringing light and wonder to everything he touched, and without that joy around it doesn’t seem worth the extra effort to smile. So he’s been moping. 

“Fucking hell,” Vesemir sighs. “Thank goodness I thought ahead.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asks, joining the little group in the hallway outside the dressing room. “What did you think of?”

“Three,” Vesemir smiles, glancing at his watch. “Two… One…”

“Boooooys,” echoes a high tenor. “Where’s my welcome wagon, Vesemir?”

“Jaskier!” Aiden practically screams, leaping out of the dressing room and flying down the hall. Lambert follows at a sprint and Vesemir hears the resounding oof oh fuck of both giddy musicians hitting their mark. 

Geralt comes back down the hall at a jog, eyes searching frantically. “I thought I heard-”

“Geralt!”

Vesemir’s heart clenches in his chest at the way Geralt’s face lights up. At the end of the hallway, surrounded by spilled luggage and apologetic boyband members, is Jaskier. Geralt floats to him, it seems, like he’s dreaming the whole thing. Jaskier takes his hands and then releases them and wraps his arms low around Geralt’s hips instead. 

“I missed you the most,” he whispers, just for Geralt to hear. “Couldn’t sleep without listening to your CD. I know it’s silly but I really like you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers reverently into his shaggy brown hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to do my thesis on pop culture’s relation to music history,” he says. “And then the manager of TW5 called Oxenfurt and offered me the opportunity to do some… first hand research while I worked on finishing the paper.”

“R-Really? You’re going to be here… every day?”

“Do you… do you not want me he-”

Geralt kisses him before he can even finish the question. It’s a stupid question anyway, of course Geralt wants him here. Wants him right here, kissing him silly. The singer presses his lips desperately, crushingly against Jaskier’s; he never wants to part from this man again. He never wants to be without that glorious laughter and contagious liveliness. Who knew that life could be so full of delight and happiness if he only let it? 

He kisses Jaskier for all he’s worth and more, pouring his heart and soul into it. When they pull apart, both gasping for air, Geralt asks, “Stay with me, Jaskier? You don’t have to do anything I just-”

“I’d love to be the big spoon,” Jaskier winks, whispering again. “Thank you, Geralt, for the rescue.”

#geraskier #bouncey's buddies #prompt fill #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff #getting together #boyband au #geraskier boyband au #the witcher five and their hit song 'please lambert stop farting on the bus' #ellie has the braincell #thirsty jaskier #thirsty geralt #soft geralt #protective geralt #clumsy jaskier #soft boys content #bouncey's endless au collection #bouncey's endless getting together fics