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samstree · 3 years

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and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;)

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier being an idiot #geralt apologizes #mutual pining #miscommunication #cursed jaskier #jaskier whump #reverse trope #lying spell

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peaktotheocean · 2 years

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Beeline

pairing: Geralt/Jaskier notes: written for FlashFic 40! summary:

Ten years after a bard wouldn’t leave him alone in Posada, Geralt is at Kaer Morhen, attempting to telepathically communicate to his father figure that under no circumstances should Jaskier ever find out what happened to the bees of the keep.

Geralt always registered the few bees that flitted around Jaskier’s hair as the bard strolled next to him, lute in hand. It was easy enough to dismiss the buzzing when he kept hearing it, outside, at least. Perhaps, the stray bee flying itself in circles inside a tavern, determined not to be shooed away, should have been more of an indicator of something a bit more otherworldly about his companion.

He's ashamed to say, and he'd never admit to his family, that it took him another few years to find out exactly why there is always a pollinator or two around the bard.

Even then, it was after a particularly Continent-shattering orgasm, when, with their shared climax, the wood boards that made up the floor in their tavern room sprouted wildflowers.

Geralt smiles at the memory of Jaskier, giggling while on top of him, straddling his Witcher's hips even as he let his hands fall down to brush against the blooms that rose up to meet him.

"I thought perhaps that you'd just be the god of bees, the way they always flock to you."

"Swarm, darling, not flock," Jaskier corrects him. His head rests against Geralt's thigh and his hand is outstretched upright, into the fresh air, as a few of the bees stop to say hello, as if they're gaining pollen from his fingertips.

Perhaps, they are. Geralt does wonder. He's hesitant to ask, even after their time together and then together.

“Or just the god of flowers,” Geralt hums. “With your name, I mean. Jaskier.”

“And who loves the flowers the most?” Jaskier asks, closing his eyes and bringing his arm back down out of the sky. He lets his hand rest above his head, open-palmed, right on Geralt's torso. The Witcher takes it, knowing that's exactly what Jaskier intended to happen. Jaskier squints against the sun even as he smiles into it.

“The bees, of course," he answers Jaskier, even though he's not quite sure the question required one. "You're not just the god of bees, though, right?" Jaskier is, in Geralt's opinion, worryingly silent. "Are you?"

"Don't be silly, Geralt."

Yes. Because Geralt is frequently the silly one in this relationship.

"Do you have bees at Kaer Morhen?" Jaskier turns and shifts, cuddling up to Geralt in broad daylight, in a meadow off the road where anyone could see them. Geralt can't bring himself to get up just yet to get back on the path. He can't. He wouldn't. Not with Jaskier warm and content next to him.

He's not sure when that all changed.

"We used to, yes." Geralt carefully doesn't mention the trouble he and Eskel got into when they were younger, torturing one of the bees up until Vesemir tanned their hides.

He eyes the bees suspiciously.

Do creatures gossip?

Surely not all bees know one another?

And anyway, the incident occurred decades ago.

Regardless, Geralt tells himself, Jaskier can never know about it.

"Really?" Jaskier sounds sad just at the idea. Geralt resists the urge to try and fix it which is ridiculous because how would he even attempt such a thing.

"Not anymore, I don't think. After the siege, the area kind of...died for a while." He remembers how lifeless the keep felt, still feels sometimes. He doesn't know how Vesemir stands it.

Jaskier squeezes his hand, bringing him back to the present.

"Very little growth. The bees must have found a new place to live."

"I'm sure they did," Jaskier yawns and rubs his cheek against Geralt's leather like an overgrown cat. Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier's hair, causing his companion to come impossibly closer. He supposes they could stay in the field for a little longer.

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

Which is how they got here.

Not here exactly, which is four small villages past Ard Carraigh in the middle of the summer.

But rather here, as in Geralt watching Jaskier just pace around an area that's been carefully cordoned off with bright red rope.

The rope hangs from branch to tree, circling a little clearing containing nearly a dozen beehives. If the hives themselves aren't enough of a warning to unsuspecting guests, the crimson rope certainly is an indicator that one should keep away.

Not that anything like that has ever stopped Jaskier.

Geralt never finds himself this close to keep in the summer but needs must, or he supposes monsters must. Jaskier insists that Destiny brought them this close to Kaer Morhen for a reason and Geralt should have known better after seeing the twinkle in the bard's eyes.

With a wink to Geralt, Jaskier slips under the rope and makes a beeline for, well, the bees.

"Jaskier," Geralt hisses. "Get back here."

Jaskier is already pacing around each of the hives, inspecting them for Melitele knows what.

"Shush, Geralt. I'm busy."

"That area is roped off for a reason," Geralt points out. He eyes the rope carefully, not wanting to leave Jaskier to get into trouble by himself but not wanting to tangle himself and his swords up and be made to look a fool. "It's full of bees."

"I only need a few of them."

Geralt turns over the words in his head and curses, hopping over the rope to catch up with Jaskier.

"Need a few of them? These aren't your bees," he reminds him. He wants to step closer but the buzzing is not an encouraging sound. He wonders if the mages who enchanted their Witcher medallions with similar buzzing had been inspired by bees.

“Come now, sweet pea," Jaskier coos at one of them. They swirl around his head. He has a honeycomb in one hand. Geralt doesn't know where he got it from. “I know what I’m doing, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence," Geralt mutters.

"We cannot be this close to Kaer Morhen and not visit your father."

"What?" Geralt could hear his brain as it attempts to restart itself.

He isn't sure what to address first. The idea that Vesemir is his father? Making the journey to Kaer Morhen in the summer? The fact that Jaskier wants to go to the keep in the first place?

He doesn't get a chance to say anything because Jaskier keeps talking.

"I'm always so busy in the winter, we never get to spend time with your family. So I'll meet him now. And I can't greet your father for the first time without a gift."

At that, Geralt realizes exactly what Jaskier is doing and he doesn't bother fighting the smile that grows upon his face.

He can't say Vesemir won't appreciate the return of bees to the keep but Kaer Morhen is another five days journey. He doesn't doubt Jaskier's abilities over nature but surely even a minor nature god can't keep bees from antagonizing Roach. He supposes he'll have to trust his lark.

“Does the gift have to be a swarm of bees?” Geralt asks as a last-ditch effort to avoid the whole mess.

“Geralt," Jaskier chastises him, "You told me yourself that Vesemir used to enjoy beekeeping before the siege.”

--------------------------- Which is how they are here.

Here finally being Kaer Morhen not half a day past the solstice.

“This is your…bard,” Vesemir says dryly.

Jaskier hasn’t come into the keep yet. He’s been settling the bees in the old hives for a near hour. But of course, Vesemir heard the ruckus and came to watch almost immediately.

“Yes.”

“And the bees?”

“He wanted to bring you a gift.”

That does it. Vesemir, unbelievably, softens, just as Geralt had hoped, in the face of Jaskier’s kindness, however eccentric.

It’s another twenty minutes of Jaskier speaking quietly to the bees, encouraging their queen, and cleaning up the hives before he comes over to where the two Witchers stand

“Hello! You must be Vesemir!” Jaskier holds out his hand but realizes it’s covered in old honey and pollen. He plucks a handkerchief from Geralt’s front pocket and wipes it off before offering the now-clean hand for Vesemir to shake. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” he keeps going. “I had to settle the hive first, which you saw. I’m sure you know all about it. After such a journey, they were getting rather antsy. Beesy?” Jaskier looks to Geralt who doesn't bother to dignify the comment with any acknowledgement, let alone a response.

“I’m honored by your gift.” Vesemkr inclines his head while shaking Jaskier’s hand. “You and your bees are most welcome.”

Jaskier beams at him and then at Geralt who shakes his head helplessly. If Jaskier can charm Vesemir, there’s few on the continent who could resist.

“Now, dearest, she was in that flower first," Jaskier scolds gently, his attention caught by a few workers that took a tumble into Vesemir’s zinnias.

"Does he know your history with bees?" Vesemir whispers to Geralt, an eyebrow raised.

Geralt's eyes widen. He had been worried that his lover and his mentor wouldn't like each other that he never considered the opposite could occur. And just how dangerous that pairing would be for him.

“You take that story to your grave, old wolf,” Geralt hisses. His eyes flick to Jaskier, who is still seemingly convincing the bees one by one that they'll love Kaer Morhen and that Vesemir will take great care of them.

“I won’t be going there for a long time," Vesemir huffs.

“That’s what you think,” Geralt mutters. They stare at each other for long enough that Jaskier almost notices. Just before he does, Vesemir tilts his head in acknowledgement of Geralt's plea and heads back to Jaskier's side.

--------------------------- Geralt doesn't think of it until a year later, when he and Jaskier meet Eskel for the solstice.

It's then that Geralt remembers that Vesemir isn't the only one who knows that story.

“Eskel, it’s lovely to meet you.”

If Eskel is taken aback by an excitable bard clasping both his hands, he doesn't show it. Geralt isn't sure if it's a testament to his brother's steadfastness or the warm, happy smell coming off of Jaskier. Perhaps a combination of both.

“You as well," Eskel responds easily. "I know Vesemir appreciated your gift last summer and we all benefit from the work of the bees.”

“How charming of you to say!”

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the company of his brother and his bard, safe and whole and at the same table.

In doing so, he forgets one of the key rules of being a Witcher.

Always stay on guard.

It takes a moment for Geralt to register what he’s hearing.

"You know, Geralt and I got into quite a bit of trouble with the bees when we were younger…”

He looks up at Eskel and there's already a smirk on his brother's face, tugging at his scars. Geralt's eyes go wide and he suddenly sees everything happening in slow motion.

“Eskel, no!”

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

freeze frame 1: Geralt attempting to tackle his brother before he says another word freeze frame 2: Eskel sitting atop of Geralt, animatedly telling the story to Jaskier freeze frame 3: Jaskier tending to a particularly nasty bee sting on the end of Geralt's nose

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

on ao3 here!

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #this is my fic tag

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asweetprologue · 3 years

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salt rain

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Rainy day Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: T (for canon typical injury) Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt is injured on a hunt and confesses to Jaskier, thinking that this is the end. Jaskier is pissed. ao3

The raindrops fell into his eyes, stinging as they mixed with the sweat on his brow. Geralt blinked them away, staring up at the gray sky above them.

“Bet this’ll make a good ballad,” he said, the lightness of his tone probably contradicted by the way his teeth were stained with blood. He let his head fall to the side so that he could better see Jaskier, who shot him an infuriated, terrified look.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he said, turning his gaze away as he pressed hard into Geralt’s side, where the archgriffon had torn him open with a well aimed swipe. Geralt had stabbed through its throat while it hovered above him, but the thing had fallen nearly on top of him. Most critically, directly on top of his bag of potions, which were now no more than a few shards of glass on the ground. He had more back at the campsite, with Roach, but she was too far. They’d never make it there in time.

Jaskier pressed against the wound with some kind of fabric. His doublet. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the thin linen fabric clinging to him as the rain drenched it. Brown hair flopped down into his eyes, pushed flat by the downpour, and Jaskier pushed it out of the way impatiently. “You’re not going to die out here,” Jaskier muttered, almost more to himself than Geralt.

It was a nice sentiment, but a naïve one. He had no potions. The rain was soaking him and Jaskier both, ensuring that his wound continued to run bloody. Without Swallow or White Raffords, there was no way he could heal from such a large injury, not without serious medical intervention. “Jaskier,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Jaskier didn’t look up, his jaw clenched hard as he tried to put pressure on the hole in Geralt’s side. “You’re not,” he choked out through gritted teeth. “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, reaching a hand up to grasp the edge of Jaskier’s shirtsleeve. He felt weak already, the short distance to Jaskier’s wrist taking monumental effort to traverse. He opened his mouth, panting, and the rain fell on his tongue in splashes of clear, sweet spring. “Jaskier, please, look at me.”

This time Jaskier turned, his wide eyes clearly brimming with tears. He sucked in a breath when he saw Geralt’s face, his expression crumpling a bit. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, a choked admission of guilt. Geralt’s heart clenched in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to focus on the bard even as his vision swam. His hand fell to rest on top of Jaskier’s, where it was still pressed hard to his side. The skin there was warm and wet, though he didn’t know if it was blood or rainwater he found there. He was so tired. He wanted to close his eyes, but that would mean looking away from Jaskier’s beautiful, worried face, and he didn’t have the strength for that yet. “I’m glad you’re here, Jask.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said, pleaded. Geralt couldn’t tell if he was crying, face too wet with rain to say. “Don’t do this, please.”

“Not much of a choice,” Geralt replied, feeling his eyelids growing heavier. The ground beneath him was warm, and that, he knew, was blood, mixing with the rain and turning the dirt to mud. It was over. “I’m sorry. Don’t wanna… leave you.”

“Then don’t,” Jaskier cried, one of his hands coming up to cradle Geralt’s cheek. He blinked his eyes open, not realizing that he’d closed them. Jaskier’s hand was so warm against his cold skin. His eyes were so blue. “Stay with me.”

He couldn’t, so instead he just said, “I love you. Jaskier. I love you.”

Jaskier made a sound like he was the one who’d been stabbed, a choked cry of pure misery that Geralt felt echoed in his own chest. “No,” he sobbed, “how can you say that? Not now, please-”

“Always,” Geralt sighed, feeling his eyes slipping closed again. “Always have. Sorry.”

“Geralt? Stay with me, please, darling, please stay with me. Geralt? Geralt!”

Geralt slipped into darkness.

It was a surprise that he woke.

He knew immediately that he was alive because of the pain. It was dulled from the sharp, twisting agony that he’d felt lying in the field, but it was still there. His side throbbed with the telltale itch of his too-quick healing.

Upon forcing his eyes open, Geralt found himself lying in a thin bed in what looked to be a room at an inn. It was familiar - not the room itself, but the woodworm eaten timbers of the ceiling looked just as they had three nights ago when he and Jaskier had passed through the last town. It was a small thing, truly only fit for one person, but Geralt could see both his own bags and Jaskier’s lute case leaning against the small fireplace. Geralt sat up slowly, feeling the newer skin on his side pull at the movement. Still not fully healed, but it must have been at least a day since he fell unconscious. How was he alive? He had been sure, so sure, that this had been the end, even told Jaskier-

Oh shit. Jaskier.

Geralt threw back the thin blanket covering the small bed and heaved himself out of it, wincing as his side screamed at him. He’d had worse, certainly, and he needed to find Jaskier. The only thing that put his mind even slightly at ease was the presence of the lute; no matter how angry Jaskier was at him, he would never leave his instrument behind. Geralt just had to find him, convince him that it was no big deal, that he didn’t mean it like that. That he knew Jaskier didn’t feel the same, and there was no reason things had to change between them. Panic made Geralt’s throat tighten, and it wasn’t just the strain of his recent injury making his heart pound double time in his chest. He had to find Jaskier.

He pulled open the door to the room, letting it slam into the wall behind him, and practically threw himself into the hallway. Only to run headfirst into Jaskier as he rounded the corner, their foreheads cracking together. Geralt felt something warm and wet coat his front as whatever was in the bowl Jaskier had been holding tumbled out of his hands.

Geralt stumbled backwards, cursing as he looked down at the stew now coating his bare chest and the bandages around his waist. He hadn’t even thought to put on a shirt. Jaskier scrambled up from where he’d fallen flat on his ass, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, “are you doing up?” Geralt looked up, startled by the vehemence in Jaskier’s tone. “Shit, look at you, now I don’t have any lunch! Fuck.” Jaskier stepped forward, bowl abandoned, and his fingertips touched the edge of the bandage around Geralt’s middle. His fingers skimmed over the skin just at the edge, and Geralt suppressed a shiver. “Look at this mess. You shouldn’t even be standing, are you alright? We need to change these, come on.”

Geralt allowed himself to be maneuvered, Jaskier herding him back into the room and pushing at him until he sat back on the rumpled bed sheets. The floor was chilly beneath his bare feet, and Geralt spared a moment to feel a bit foolish for rushing out of the room in not much more than his braies in his eagerness to confront the bard. Now that they were in the same room, he found himself unable to even speak as Jaskier fluttered about, griping to himself. He was clearly angry, though Geralt couldn’t tell if it went beyond irritation at being bumped into. After a few moments Jaskier threw down a handful of bandages and gauze that he’d pulled from a bag resting on the single trunk in the room, the closest thing to a table. Geralt didn’t recognize it; Jaskier must have purchased some supplies while he was out.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Jaskier muttered, brow furrowed as he knelt before Geralt, right in between his knees. Normally having Jaskier in such a position would be enough to make Geralt flustered, but now he just felt anxiety crawling up his neck. Jaskier began to pull off the soup-soaked bandages around his waist, fingers gentle even though his brow was still wrinkled with consternation. He fell silent, using the ruined fabric to wipe the rest of the stew from Geralt’s chest before reaching for the clean supplies next to him.

Geralt reached out and caught his wrist, his own grip tentative. Jaskier could have broken out of it if he’d wanted to, but instead he froze. “I don’t need them,” Geralt grunted softly, waving to his side with his other hand. He didn’t have to look to know that most of the healing was done. The wound might still be partially exposed, but it was no longer bleeding, and witchers couldn’t get infections like normal humans. There was no need for extra bandages that would only slow him down.

Jaskier wrenched his hand out of Geralt’s grasp, his jaw clenching. “I say you do,” he snapped. “How would you know, anyways? You’ve been asleep for the better part of two days, while I took care of… all this.” He gave a sharp nod towards Geralt’s injury, though he avoided looking at it.

“I’m… sorry.” Geralt shifted awkwardly as Jaskier unspooled a roll of gauze and began to gently wrap up his side once again. He didn’t fight it further, afraid to make Jaskier even angrier than he already was. This must be about something more, he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. Jaskier had seen him injured plenty of times, and he’d never been so infuriated. It could only be about what Geralt had said to him, before.

I love you.

His own jaw tightened at the memory, the feeling of the rain on his face as he felt himself slowly bleeding out, just wanting Jaskier to know how he felt. He’d just wanted to say it. Just once.

And look where it landed him.

“How, uh.” He started and stopped, distracted by Jaskier’s hands as they hesitated over his wound, gently pressing the gauze down. “How am I…?”

“Alive?” Jaskier finished, voice still brittle. “Yeah, that is the question, hmm? It was Roach, really. I whistled to her - I’m quite good at that, did you know? Good lungs I guess. Anyways, she heard me and came. Brought all your potions, and I was able to get enough Swallow into you to slow the bleeding, enough to bandage you up and get back to town. It wasn’t easy, mind, you’re a heavy bastard and these arms are not meant for manual labor. Thank the gods Roach is used to taking care of your sorry arse, or I’d never have managed. You were bleeding all over the saddle, and I couldn’t remember which one was White Honey and which was White Raffords, and if I’d given you the Honey you’d have been bleeding out even more, so I just had to get into town and find a healer, which was a damn difficult thing to do in that storm-”

He was rambling, sharp, angry words carrying an undercurrent of anxiety. Geralt set a hand over Jaskier’s where they were tying off the bandage, just before he pulled away. “Jaskier,” he interrupted, as gently as he could. “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinked at him, seemingly startled. “Wh- For what?”

“You saved my life.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, “Roach did all the heavy lifting.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, imploring. Jaskier pulled his hands away, blinking hard as he looked away from Geralt and towards the fire. He didn’t move out from between Geralt’s spread knees, but he was no longer touching either. His arms crossed defensively, his hands tucking under his armpits. “I’m sorry.” Geralt didn’t know what else to say.

“You should be!” Jaskier suddenly exploded, standing up and pacing across the room. Geralt reached for him, but he was already gone. He watched from the bed as Jaskier threw his hands up, turning back to point an accusatory finger at him. “You were bleeding out in my arms and you choose that moment to what, confess your- to confess to me? Then, Geralt? That’s not fair! You can’t just say something like that and then almost- and then-” He put a hand over his mouth, turning away. His shoulders were shaking slightly.

Geralt rose, horrified. He stepped up to Jaskier’s side, hand hovering over his shoulder but unsure if his touch would be welcome. “Jaskier, Jaskier, I’m sorry,” he said, panicked. “Please don’t be upset. I’m not- It doesn’t have to change anything. I know it was out of line, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier wasn’t listening, scrubbing hard at his watery eyes. He looked up at the ceiling, taking a shaky breath. “I mean, I understand you might have had your reservations before,” he said, voice strained, “but how was I supposed to get over that?” He lowered his gaze, meeting Geralt’s eyes. This time there was no rain to mix with his tears. “Knowing that you… that we could have been…”

Geralt was at a loss for words. “I didn’t think,” he stuttered, “I didn’t think you would feel the same. As me. I just wanted you to know.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, a wet, pained sound. “You meant it?” he asked.

Geralt nodded gravely.

Suddenly he had an armful of bard, Jaskier flinging his own arms around Geralt’s neck as he buried his face in his throat. A sob shuddered out of him, and Geralt brought his hands up to spread across Jaskier’s shoulders. His side twinged painfully, but he ignored it. “You almost died,” Jaskier gasped, one of his hands burying itself in Geralt’s hair and clutching almost painfully. “How could you tell me you love me and then leave me?”

“I didn’t want to,” Geralt murmured, pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s temple. “I just wanted you to know. That I… loved you. Love you.”

“I’ve loved you for twenty years,” Jaskier hiccupped, his forehead pressing against Geralt’s shoulder. “You could have said it any time.”

Geralt pulled back a bit, one of his hands coming up to cradle Jaskier’s face as he met his gaze. He felt breathless, something light stirring in his chest even as he mournfully took in the tear streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks. “You too?” he asked, heart in his throat.

Jaskier choked out a laugh, and turned to press a brief kiss to Geralt’s palm. Geralt couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped him. “You’re the stupidest man I know,” Jaskier said into his hand, before looking back up at him. “Of course me too.”

Geralt couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward, from letting Jaskier’s breath gust over his nose before he used the hand on his cheek to guide Jaskier’s mouth to his own. It was only a brief press, sweet like fresh rainwater and salty with Jaskier’s tears. He pulled away slowly, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. When his eyes fluttered open, he found Jaskier staring at him, blue eyes startlingly bright.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you,” Jaskier said. He didn’t sound angry, though. His voice was still shaky, but a small smile was spreading across his mouth. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“I don’t plan to,” Geralt agreed easily. His side still throbbed, but the pain felt far away, and Jaskier was warm and soft in his arms. “Even if you’re still mad, would you do something for me?”

Jaskier hummed. “Depends on the request.” His fingers had gentled in Geralt’s hair, petting across the base of his skull.

“Will you say it?” he asked, tracing a thumb under Jaskier’s eye. Wiping away the last of the dampness there.

Jaskier looked confused for a moment, and then his face brightened like a storm cloud had passed. “Oh,” he said, fondness saturating his voice. “Oh, Geralt. I love you. I always have.”

Relief, affection, joy. Geralt felt lighter than he had in years. “Me too,” he said, leaning in to speak the words against Jaskier’s lips. “I love you too.”

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

#geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #witcher #tw: injury #fic #witcher fic #fanfiction #my work #sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo #s&s #sorry the prompt was automatically kind of sappy so I made it angsty #>5k #hurt/comfort #sort of #forgot to put this under a cut initially oops

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jaskicr · 4 years

Text

some witcher!jaskier thoughts

alright so suddenly i had some ideas for an alternate version of i have often dreamed of a far off place (you don’t need to have read the fic to understand this)

basically, witcher!jaskier asks tissaia to cast a spell to make him live a full human life without his witcher memories, and the spell breaks and returns him to a witcher when his human body dies, and all his memories are returned.

instead of being killed right after the mountain, what if jaskier instead led a full life with geralt, raising ciri with him and yen and died of old age?

so geralt and ciri and yen mourn him because they lived a full life with him and watched him grow old and die.

geralt and jaskier were in a relationship and geralt was by jaskier’s bedside as he took his last breath

meanwhile, jaskier (now julian) isn’t actually dead but he’s been returned to his witcher body, so he’s out there panicking

he fears that his family won’t want him because he’s a witcher, so he avoids going to find them and revealing that he’s alive

he’s terrified of them hating him and he doesn’t want to taint their memories of human bard jaskier, so he stays away even though he just really wants to go back to them and tell them that he isn’t dead

and gods, what if geralt hates how he looks as a witcher? jaskier the human bard had been, well, human, with handsome human features, with brown hair and blue eyes that geralt had always found beautiful

but julian the witcher has silver hair and golden eyes, ugly scars scoring across his face, and he looks nothing like jaskier

so julian tries to avoid his family, but one day, he unknowingly stumbles upon the same contract as geralt.

geralt, who’s still devastated over jaskier’s death, is fighting the monster in a grief-fuelled haze and he’s losing

julian arrives just in time to save geralt from the monster, but geralt is badly injured so when he sees julian, he thinks he’s hallucinating jaskier

he’s floating in and out of consciousness but he can see jaskier’s face above him, looking at him worriedly and tending to his wounds and it’s so familiar

but then jaskier’s face is wrong, the hair and the eyes and the scars are wrong but jaskier is here and geralt has missed him

meanwhile, julian is furiously patching up geralt’s wounds, and it’s a routine he knows too well

‘you stupid witcher,’ he grumbles. ‘i wasn’t even gone for a year, can’t you stay out of trouble without me?’

when geralt finally heals, he wakes up with a vague memory of seeing jaskier and his heart aches, because he must’ve been hallucinating but it felt so real

then he realises that there’s an unfamiliar witcher next to him, whose head is laid on the bed as he sleeps

and gods, why does this witcher look familiar? is that why he’d dreamed up jaskier? and why is there a witcher here?

then julian wakes up and sees geralt awake. ‘oh thank the gods, geralt, you’re awake,’ he breathes in relief

he starts fussing over geralt, looking over his bandages

and geralt is so goddamn confused because this witcher is a stranger and yet he’s taking care of geralt like they know each other

and there’s a painful familiarity in the way he tends to geralt’s wounds that makes geralt’s heart ache for the bard that he’d lost

he pushes julian away. ‘who are you?’

at first, julian is hurt, but then he realises geralt probably doesn’t recognise him.

after all, it’s been decades since he’s looked this young, not to mention the more witchery aspects of his appearance that make him look different

but julian is also so fucking happy to see that geralt is alive that he just leans forward and kisses geralt on instinct

and geralt is shocked because this strange witcher has the audacity to kiss him out of nowhere, but also...

there’s only one person who kisses like that

but jaskier is dead, so he pushes julian away, furious. ‘who gave you the right?’ he demands

but his mind is in turmoil, still full of thoughts about jaskier because he misses his bard so goddamn much

and it doesn’t help that he’s almost certain that he saw and felt jaskier earlier, and this witcher kisses exactly like jaskier, and his emotions are a maelstrom of confusion and grief and devastation, because what’s happening?

and julian is stammering out apologies as he backs towards the door, inwardly cursing himself for being so careless.

‘i’m just... gonna go,’ he whispers.

he can’t be around geralt, because if geralt realises who he is and rejects him, julian will break. ‘i, uh... you don’t need me anyway, i’ll... see you around.’

then just as julian is about to step out of the door, something clicks for geralt

‘... jaskier?’

and julian freezes. since his death, he’s worked to convince himself that his family would reject him if they ever realised

he never thought someone would call him by that name that ever again, but geralt recognises him

meanwhile, geralt’s one (1) brain cell is working overtime as he tries to connect the dots.

this witcher has the same face as jaskier, bar the scars, but... jaskier is dead so why does he share a face with this witcher?

but what if - but if jaskier is alive?

and julian is frozen in the doorway as he watches realisation dawn on geralt, and fuck, geralt is going to reject him now, isn’t he?

and he bolts

geralt is stunned, but forces himself to follow after julian despite his injuries, and manages to catch onto julian’s arm once they’re outside

‘wait,’ geralt pleads, and julian stiffens, but doesn’t turn around

‘jaskier, please,’ geralt begs, tears building in his eyes. ‘is that - is that you?’

and slowly, so slowly julian turns around, and geralt drinks in his face and thinks, oh. so that’s why he kissed like jaskier

he pulls julian into the tightest hug and they’re both crying.

neither of them thought they’d ever get to have this again, but they’re here

when geralt finally pulls away after like an hour of tearful hugging, he asks quietly, voice broken, ‘how?’

julian tries to turn his face away, wanting to hide his scarred, inhuman face from geralt, but geralt puts his hand on julian’s chin and turns julian to face him

then geralt kisses him and lets his hands roam over the raised scars on julian’s face, relearning the lines of his face and his body

and geralt is confused but so in awe, because jaskier is here and he’s alive even if he’s somehow a witcher

then julian spills his story and talks about the spell, but all geralt can focus on is that jaskier is alive and won’t be leaving him

and julian expects geralt to push him away because he’s so different now, he’s not jaskier anymore and he looks nothing like jaskier

but geralt just puts their foreheads together tenderly and murmurs, ‘i love you, jaskier, gods, we have forever.’

then geralt brings julian to ciri and yen and everyone in kaer morhen and there are many tearful reunions as everyone realises that jaskier is alive and won’t be leaving them anytime soon

but even then, julian has a fuckload of extra trauma - he had a life without geralt, a long life filled wth violence and pain, and it’s something they need to work around

yes, jaskier lived a full human lifetime with geralt, but julian had decades/centuries before that, and he isn’t the same person as jaskier

but geralt learns to love this new version of jaskier

and ciri is so goddamn happy that her other father is here with her, and she smacks jaskier a bit for not finding them earlier and making them mourn

but he’s forgiven when he pulls ciri into a crushing hug. ‘i love you, cub, i’m so happy to have more time with all of you.’

yen gives tissaia an earful for not telling them, but tissaia just gives a small, mischievous smile.

she always knew that it would work out eventually, and julian needed to get his dumb head out of his arse

this is a spinoff of this witcher!jaskier fic on mine, so if you liked this, please do check it out!💓

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #witcher!jaskier #witcher jaskier #mine*#i have often dreamed of a far off place #i am made of memories

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restmyheadatnightcontent · 3 years

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Geraskier & 23. life-or-death kisses? Hope things go okay for you! :)

hello dear anon! thank you - at the moment just a sore arm and i'm hoping it stays at that! also thank you so much for this prompt! hope you enjoy it!

23. life-or-death kisses

There isn’t enough time.

He can already hear the soldiers coming, their footsteps growing ever louder as they get closer and closer.

There isn’t time for him to call Yen, the xenovox is buried deep in his bag, and there is no guarantee anyway that she will hear him and be able to portal here in time.

He turns to see Jaskier murmuring comforts to Ciri as they hurriedly tie their packs onto Roach, and walks over to the pair.

“You need to take Ciri and get out of here,” he says to Jaskier.

“No! We won’t leave you – we can help – I can—” Ciri starts to argue, and Geralts heart drops as he sees the tears in her eyes.

“All you need to do is get yourselves somewhere safe.”

“And then you’ll come and find us?” she asks, voice tremulous with unshed tears.

“And then I’ll come and find you,” he agrees, praying to every god he can think of that he will be able to.

He crouches down and she launchers herself into his arms, and he holds her tight, hoping that she can feel his love for her, sending out another prayer to anyone who will listen, begging that they keep her safe and that he will be able to hold her again.

He pulls away and places a kiss on her forehead before lifting her up onto Roach, and he sees her set her jaw as she holds her head high, every bit the Lion Cub of Cintra.

Then he turns and finds himself filled with his arms full of Jaskier, and he can feel the other man trembling.

“It’s okay Jaskier,” he murmurs into the bards hair. “Take Ciri and go.”

Jaskier pulls back from him, takes Geralt’s face in hands. “Geralt, I—”

“Go,” he stresses. “It’ll be alright.”

Jaskier gives a tiny nod. They made a plan, in case something like this were ever to happen. Jaskier will take her, find Yen and head to Kaer Morhen where they will be safe, and Geralt will join them when he can.

If he can.

There have been many times in his life where he was close to death, where he had accepted it was time and he had been ready. as though it was inevitable. But now, he is ready to fight it, he will not go down easily, because now he has something worth fighting for, he has a family, and he will not give that up easily.

Jaskier must feel the same, because he tugs Geralt forward into a harsh desperate kiss. His hands are fisted in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s hands are pulling Jaskier into until they are pressed up against each other, as close as they can get, as though he can imprint Jaskiers body onto his own so that he can carry the memory with him.

They are both kissing like they may never get the chance again, and they have shared kisses before that they thought may be their last, but it has never been like this, there has never been this desperation. He knows what Jaskier is trying to tell him, as it is what he saying right back: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Eventually, the need for air becomes too great and he can hear the footsteps of the soldiers coming closer, so he pulls back and rests their foreheads together.

“Go,” he whispers.

Jaskier moves his hand to cup his cheek, eyes glistening with tears. “Come back to me.”

Geralt just kisses him again. I’ll try, he says without words, knowing that Jaskier will hear it, before stepping back to help him onto Roach.

And then with one last look, they dart off into the distance through the trees.

Geralt turns, sword in hand, ready to face them.

Because no-one gets to hurt his family.

#prompt list #anonymous #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fic #geralt #jaskier #my writing #my fic

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julek · 3 years

Text

day 17 ❄ freshly baked bread

winter prompt challenge

The leaves have turned brown by the time they start trailing north. Geralt had had a significant number of contracts south of the Alba, after meeting Jaskier in Lyria, and they’d been slowly making their way into Kaedwen so they can arrive at the keep before the first snow. Jaskier’s joined him for many winters at Kaer Morhen now, and he knows better than to wait too long, careful to expose the bard to frozen temperatures when he doesn’t need to.

They’re making camp under a white fir after a long day of walking, but Jaskier doesn’t seem too tired.

“Where are we, exactly?” he asks Geralt, absentmindedly strumming his lute.

Geralt stokes the fire. “Not too far from Hagge.”

Jaskier frowns and licks his lips, and Geralt knows he’s looking at his mental map of the Continent, which, in Geralt’s humble opinion, isn’t all that accurate.

“Hagge... You know I always confuse that one with Brugge? Must be the spelling. Anyway! If we’re near Hagge, we’re near Lettenhove!”

Geralt sits down on a log next to the bard, whose eyes are glinting with excitement. His voice always takes on a soft note when he talks about his family, his expression warm and fond — Geralt knows he misses them, and sadly doesn’t seem to get time to spend around them. Whenever they’re in a city that’s big enough to have a good correspondence system, Jaskier writes to his sisters and his parents, telling them all about their lives as they trudge around the Continent.

Jaskier heaves a small sigh. “Would it be too late for a quick detour? I know you want to get to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible, but I haven’t seen my family for a while and I’d love to hug my mother goodbye for the winter— you don’t have to, though, they can be a lot.” He huffs a laugh. “And maybe— it’s okay if we can’t, actually.”

Geralt shakes his head, a fond smile on his face. He thinks of all the times they strayed from their path just because Geralt had caught word that another Witcher was passing through, the times Jaskier’s missed a banquet just so he could have another round of ale with Geralt’s brothers. “It’s fine, Jask. We can ride out tomorrow.”

“Really?” Jaskier beams, his smile entirely too big for his face and too bright for Geralt to handle, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Oh, that’s so kind of you! I hope you’re prepared, though, they’ll have a million questions about you and they’ll want stories, Geralt—”

“Like you did?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier pauses, a small smile on his lips. “Like I did.”

Getting to Lettenhove isn’t hard by itself — the road’s well-traveled and the closer they get to the village, the more Jaskier remembers. They’ve walked through the marketplace and the smell of freshly baked pies lingers, Geralt’s mouth watering at the thought. There’s a narrow path just on the side of the road, and that’s the one leading to Jaskier’s family’s house. It makes a beautiful picture, the golden treetops curling into one another in each side of the path forming an archway, the stone house in the distance. Jaskier’s scent is tinted with excitement and happiness, and it feels warmer than usual, a bit more muted — home, Geralt thinks.

Jaskier’s family is almost as warm and bright as he is; Geralt’s barely set foot in their house and he’s already pulled into a strong hug, Jaskier’s father clapping on his back with a smile.

“You’re the Witcher!” Jaskier’s mother exclaims, and there’s nothing but pure joy in her scent. “It’s so exciting to meet you, after hearing all of Julian’s songs!”

Geralt can’t help but smile, already overwhelmed by their hospitality. After Jaskier’s sisters have hugged him welcome and introduced themselves —Kitty, Lizzie, and Jane— Geralt’s lead to a room on the second floor, which he belatedly realizes, belongs to Jaskier.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Jaskier’s mother starts as he sets his pack down by the door. “Had we known we’d have guests, we would have gotten the guest room ready— you’ll have to share with Julian, if that’s alright? Or I could ask the girls to find some clean linens and—”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, kindly interrupting her rambling, which sounds familiar. He bites back a smile. “This is perfect.”

She blushes bright red and goes downstairs, and her voice carries as she orders her family around to start preparing dinner. Geralt moves around the room, taking every detail in. Jaskier’s room looks like he’d imagine, and, at the same time, nothing like it — he immediately feels drawn to it, the dark wooden floors and soft blankets on the bed, the bookcase filled with all kinds of books and the seemingly endless stack of papers by his desk. It’s so him, so Jaskier, Geralt can’t think of another word to describe it.

“It’s weird, seeing you here.” Jaskier’s leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his lips.

“Good weird?”

“Definitely good weird,” Jaskier says, and presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips, then wraps his arms around him and lays his head against his shoulder. “I’m glad we’re here. Thank you.”

Geralt gently squeezes his waist, pressing his nose against the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in. He hums against his neck.

“Are you hungry?” Jaskier says when they part. “I’m sure Mother would love to stuff you full of pie and wine.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt wakes in an unfamiliar room. He frowns and goes to reach for his sword when he sees a familiar tangle of brown hair peeking out of the blankets, the warmth of Jaskier’s body against his own grounding him. He drinks Jaskier in; the way his legs are tangled in his, the bard’s head resting on the crook of his arm, his slow breathing. Sunlight filters through the thin curtains and falls around them almost gently, painting everything golden in the early morning.

Geralt traces small circles on Jaskier’s arm, basking in his warmth. They don’t get many moments like this on the road, and Geralt relishes every second of them — no contracts ahead, no obligations, nothing other than laying close to each other. He closes his eyes and gently nuzzles his nose against Jaskier’s hair, hearing the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“You’re thinking sappy thoughts, Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs against his chest, his voice thick with sleep. “I can tell.”

Geralt smiles, then presses a kiss to his temple. “Good morning.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier pulls the blankets over his head, making small sounds of protest, something along the lines of how it’s too early to be awake and too cold to get out of bed, then brings Geralt under with him, draping the covers around them.

“Hi,” he says in the dark under their pile. It’s too warm for Geralt, but for Jaskier, he’ll stay.

“Hi,” Geralt answers, and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s lips this time. It’s slow and sweet and lazy, their lips finding each other again and again, and it’s perfect. “We should get up,” he says when they pull back for air.

Jaskier pouts. “You’re an ingrate, Geralt of Rivia. I bring you to my home, feed you and bathe you—”

“You haven’t bathed me.”

“—share my bed and blankets with you, only for you to demand we get up at the crack of dawn, when we don’t even have anything pressing to attend to. Rude, that’s what you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, kissing the frown between Jaskier’s brows. “Will you find it in your good heart to forgive such an indiscretion?”

Jaskier purses his lips, considering. “Hmm, I think I’ll have to. After all, I can’t risk being uninvited to Kaer Morhen. I’ll miss Eskel too much.”

“It’s him you’re after, then?”

“Of course,” Jaskier says with a grin. “This was all a ploy to get to your brother, my one and only.”

“I think you are getting uninvited to Kaer Morhen, after all.”

Jaskier gasps in mock outrage. “Geralt! You wouldn’t.”

“Hmm.” Geralt tosses the blankets aside and sits up on the bed. “It’s decided.”

Jaskier, with his hair all mussed and sleep still tugging at his eyes, kneels on the bed, and he’s never quite looked so beautiful. “I could convince you to change your mind?”

Geralt turns to look at him. “How?”

Jaskier lifts his eyebrows and licks his lips. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

After a mind-blowing blowjob and another few hours of sleep, Geralt and Jaskier make their way downstairs. The house is silent, and there’s a note on the kitchen table: Went to town to run some errands before the cold settles in. Help yourselves to breakfast! We’ll be back at noon.

“Well, seems we’ve the house to ourselves,” Jaskier says and grabs a mug. “Tea?” Geralt takes a seat at the table and nods. “Okay, I don’t quite remember where everything is— What would you like to eat? I’m sure there’s fruit, and some nuts, and we could— Oh! I could make some bread for you!”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “You can bake?”

“Of course I can!” Jaskier starts pulling ingredients out of different drawers and sets them on the table. “I’m quite a proficient baker, mind you.”

Geralt hums and sips at his tea when the water’s done boiling. Jaskier chatters away, bright and awake, and he’s wearing one of Geralt’s shirts. His hair is still a tangled mess, but his cheeks are flushed and he’s in such a good mood his scent is intoxicating. Geralt’s seen him in many ways — performing at banquets and taverns, forehead damp with sweat and a smirk on his lips; composing by a riverbank, his brows furrowed in concentration and a pen hanging from his lips; moving around Novigrad like he owns the place, in one of his brightest doublets and a smile plastered on his face after he downs a bottle of Everluce. He’s beautiful in each and one of Geralt’s memory, but right now, with a line of flour across his cheek, wearing Geralt’s shirt and kneading bread for him, sharing his bed and his home and his life with him, this is the most beautiful Geralt’s ever seen him.

“I love you,” he blurts out.

Jaskier stops mid-rant and brings a hand to his cheek, his eyes wide. “I— you do?”

Geralt breathes out, his chest feeling lighter than it has in years. “I do.” He steps forward, moving closer to him, and presses his hand on top of Jaskier’s. “I do.”

Jaskier smiles, and it feels like sunshine is pouring down on Geralt. He bumps their foreheads together. “I love you too.”

Geralt lets out a quiet laugh and presses a kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, their breaths intertwined. He thinks of Kaer Morhen, the way the bard takes to it like he’s lived there forever, like there’s no other place he’d rather be. The way he sits by the fire with a book and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the way he teases Eskel and Lambert like they grew up together, the way he follows Vesemir around the keep with a million questions waiting to be answered. The way he belongs.

And Geralt belongs too, he realizes. Here, in the middle of Jaskier’s family’s kitchen, with his arms wrapped around his bard as sunlight washes over them, and the scent of fresh bread and love fills his senses. He’s home, too.

#mywriting #winter prompts #geraskier ficlet #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #this is so sappy i apologize in advance #they're in love. they're home. i don't need anything else

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

Hey there! You mentioned in the tags of the pining post that you wanted to write a lil som-n som-n~~ Prompt of Jaskier and Geralt, number 36? (If you want of course!)

36: Characters are tied together/shackled/forced to share a small space for a long period of time

I absolutely want to write that! Thank you so much for the prompt!

Ah, so this somehow got less pining-y and more angsty? Like, seriously angsty. As in, almost mcd angsty. I hope that’s okay tho

Word count: ~7k

Note: I will post this (and the other prompted fics) on AO3 once I have time to do some editing. But that’s going to take a couple of days

Summary: Jaskier wakes up tied back to back with Geralt. That wouldn’t be so bad. It happened before. But this is the time there is no hope of escape. And they’re running out of time before the vampire who is out for blood them will come back.

Content warning: injury, blood (both explicitly described), heavy angst, gruesomeness (no major character death)

"Jaskier?"

The voice came to him as if through a thick fog. His head was buzzing and it felt like tiny hammers were pounding against his temples from the inside. Simultaneously, the voice coming from somewhere behind him, urgent and almost afraid was too loud.

Jaskier tried to lean away, to put distance between himself and the voice, but all that did was send a strain through his chest, where something – a thin rope that kept him sitting upright? Binding him to something behind him? – cut into him with the movement, tight enough that it was hard to breathe.

"Jaskier! Are you awake?"

That voice was familiar. It was safe. Geralt. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head, trying desperately to get that fog in his mind to go away.

" 'm fine," he groaned and blinked against the dark splotches in front of him until they slowly receded. Not that that did him much good. He didn’t recognise the room they were in. The fancy furniture certainly didn’t belong to a room at an inn. The bed that stood at the wall was lavish and fit for a lord. Jaskier was rather certain that he would remember such a bed if he had seen it before. "On second thought, I might be having a problem."

Geralt huffed out a humourless laugh. "No shit." He sounded strained. As if he was trying his best and still failing miserable to keep fear out of his voice. Why was Geralt afraid? Geralt was never afraid.

Jaskier tried to move again, to turn to Geralt, but once again the ropes prevented him.

“Stop moving,” Geralt growled and only now did Jaskier recognise what he was leaning against. He was sitting – or rather bound– back to back with Geralt. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together tightly in frustration and looked down on himself. Sure enough, the ropes didn’t seem as if they would come loose by him wiggling around. He furrowed his brows when he saw something dark and crusty on his doublet. He had seen something like this too often to mistake it for anything else. It was dried blood. His blood.

His stomach churned and he had to suck in a deep breath to stop the bile from rising. It was a shame too. He had loved this deep blue doublet. Which was mostly because even Geralt had seemed to like it. The image of Jaskier presenting two doublets to him and Geralt telling him with a strangely fond look that the blue one fit his eyes would forever be seared into his mind. He could smell on himself that he had donned his favourite perfume – his favourite because it was the one Geralt had complimented once – thinking that maybe just this one time Geralt would notice him in the way he wanted to be noticed. As something more than just the bard that followed him like a stupidly loyal puppy. He remembered how excited he had gotten after that, knowing that Geralt would think he looked pretty when they got to the ball.

Wait.

The ball?

He squinted and searched the room again. It was true, the fancy decoration did look like it would belong to people rich enough to throw a ball. But that didn’t explain why Jaskier and Geralt were tied together and apparently left to rot in a different room from the jovialities. It also didn’t explain why Geralt had even gone to a ball without complaining in the first place.

Jaskier swallowed thickly. He opened his mouth but closed it again fruitlessly, when too many questions stormed his mind – far too many to decide with which one to begin.

In the ensuing silence, muffled laughter reached him through the walls. Laughter and music.

Strangely enough, the thought that shot through Jaskier at the sound was That should have been me.

And that had been Jaskier, he was sure of it. As he listened to the music rise and fall as if accompanying a complicated dance, his fingers twitched as if finding the chords to the sing without having the lute in hand.

There was no doubt in his mind. He knew and had played this song. He could almost see it: The ballroom full of dancing couples, admiring looks and the feeling that maybe later when Jaskier could excuse himself for a while, he would be able to gather the courage to ask Geralt for a dance.

But Geralt’s golden eyes hadn’t been part of the crowd of people watching him in admiration. A sinking disappointment came back, more memory than real emotion. He felt his heart drop as he remembered Geralt turning away and leaving him almost as soon as they had entered the ball room. The last glimpse Jaskier had caught of him had been his face set in a deep scowl and his shoulders had been tense.

And suddenly Jaskier knew which question was the most important one.

“Did you come back for me?”

“Jaskier-“ Geralt sounded strangely strangled.

“Did you? Or are you here with me now because you were forced to be with me? Is it somehow my fault again that we are in danger?”

Geralt remained quiet for a long time. Jaskier was almost certain that he would remain silent, when he felt Geralt shift behind him.

“I did come for you. Just not in time. I – I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

His voice was almost broken and Jaskier was sure that if he had been able to look him in the eye, Geralt would have averted his gaze. Bound as they were, Jaskier could do nothing but press his back closer against Geralt, by however little that was possible and pray that the feeling of Jaskier’s heartbeat against Geralt was enough to remind him that Jaskier was still alive – they both were – and Jaskier didn’t blame him.

Now that he thought of it, Jaskier remembered distinctly how he had seen a head of white hair weaving its way through the crowd towards him.

For a moment his head sped up, before he remembered the eyes of the person that had come towards them. They hadn’t been the honey-gold he had hoped for.

But they had been unusual enough to make it impossible for Jaskier to look away. To make him think that for a little while he could pretend. And those eyes had looked at him almost hungrily. It had sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He had relished in the attention and obvious interest.

It hadn’t been what – who – he had wanted. But it had been the closest thing he would ever get.

When finally the time had come for Jaskier to take his break, he hadn’t searched for Geralt to ask him for a dance after all.

He didn’t remember if he had been the one to approach the alluring white-haired stranger first of if he had been the one to be approached. It didn’t matter. He clearly recalled following the man willingly – no. That wasn’t quite the right word. Will had had nothing to do with it. He had wanted it, certainly, but thinking back on it now, Jaskier didn’t think he would have been able to leave this man, no matter how strong his will.

But who was he kidding? He wouldn’t have tried to leave anyway. Not when he had looked at Jaskier in the way he had longed for. Not when he had looked so much like the man he wanted to look at him in that way.

He remembered wanting whatever the stranger was willing to give him.

And then he remembered screaming. For Geralt. But not in pleasure. No, that had been the farthest thing from his mind. He had screamed and whimpered and begged in agony. A sudden, sharp, searing pain in his neck.

Now, that pain was little more than an irritated throbbing over his pulse-point.

He didn’t even notice that he let out a soft whimper as the memories of the stinging in his neck came back to him, but he felt Geralt tense and twist as if that he would be able to look at him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt grunted in frustration and flexed as if that could loosen the ropes. It must hurt him. The ropes must cut into him just as much as they did into Jaskier. And yet he didn’t stop, as if in this moment nothing was as important to Geralt than being able to see him. “Jaskier, what is wrong?”

Jaskier let out a dry laugh. “Do you want a list?”

There were too many things that were wrong, Jaskier was sure he didn’t even recall all of them, but at the very least he was here with Geralt.

He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. He didn’t want to be alone. Whatever was going on, Geralt’s presence at his back, his touch although involuntary, made it so much more bearable. But Geralt evidently wasn’t able to escape the bindings. He too was forced to sit on the cold floor and wait for whatever was about to happen. Maybe nothing would happen at all. Maybe they were to stay here until they died of thirst, forgotten by whoever had discarded them in this room.

It was simultaneously the worst and best thing, having Geralt here with him.

Geralt, who was still struggling to turn towards Jaskier.

And he wanted it too. More than anything did he want to be able to touch Geralt, to cup his cheek as he reassured him that he was alright. He wanted to see Geralt’s eyes.

He turned his head and sucked in a sharp breath. The wound on his neck had opened up again at the movement and Jaskier could feel a drop of warm blood trickle down his throat.

Geralt’s movements became even more urgent. It was only when they became harsh enough to jostle Jaskier about and making him cry out, that Geralt became deathly still, as if afraid to move even a single muscle.

“Don’t move, Jaskier. Don’t – I can’t risk you losing any more blood.”

“Don’t you mean I can’t risk it?” Jaskier teased, though his stomach twisted into knots at Geralt’s slip of the tongue.

Geralt remained silent for a long while. His reply was but a breath, so quiet that Jaskier wasn’t even sure if he had really heard it or if it was just his panicking mind hearing what it wanted.

“I can’t lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier’s breath got stuck in his throat. He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to reassure Geralt that he wouldn’t lose him, that he would stay with him till the end – which might be nearer than he had imagined. He wanted to ask him what he had meant. He wanted to beg him to tell him that it meant more than just Geralt feeling guilty for Jaskier’s injury.

But no words left his lips. Instead he complied and stilled. He rested his head back against Geralt’s, relished in that contact as if it was something more intimate. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the way their bodies were pressed together was because Geralt wanted it and not because they had no other choice than to stay like this.

Geralt didn’t move his head away. If anything, it almost seemed as if he was leaning into the contact as well.

It was most likely just wishful thinking, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Jaskier wished he too could hear Geralt’s heartbeat. As it were, he barely could hear his breathing. He knew it was there, but his own ragged breath and his own racing heart was too loud in his ears.

Geralt’s touch wasn’t enough. For years it had been what Jaskier had craved. Every evening, he had wished to be brave enough to breach the gap between their bodies as they shared a bed and press himself against Geralt. Every time Geralt was hurt by monsters or words, Jaskier had to remind himself not to let his comforting embraces linger and turn them into something unwanted. He had dreamed about Geralt not shying away from his touch.

Yet now that he had nothing but his touch, it was too little. His chest was aching with the need to see him; the small crease between his brows as he frowned, the slight upturn of his lips when Jaskier said something that Geralt wouldn’t admit out loud he found funny, the way his eyes would sometimes soften when their gazes met while Jaskier played slow songs by the camp fire.

He needed to see him and yet he couldn’t.

Jaskier had learned to love Geralt’s silences. There was a grace in his ability to move unheard and a beauty in the way he only spoke when he felt comfortable enough to do so. Jaskier had relished in the trust Geralt would show when he opened up and let Jaskier in.

But now he wasn’t comfortable and Jaskier had nothing. Nothing but his touch that was burning him and still could never be enough. He needed more, more proof that Geralt was still here, that Jaskier wasn’t alone in this, that Geralt was alright. He needed to hear him. Be it a rustling of his clothes or one of his grunts.

Jaskier’s tongue darted out as his mind raced, trying to come up with something that would get Geralt to talk.

“You know,” he began slowly. “I am surprised that I even have any blood in me at all. That man…he was a vampire, wasn’t he?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. Jaskier’s heart skipped at the beat and he held his breath, praying for something more.

Through some miracle, his wish was granted. But when Geralt spoke up again, his words were harsh and angry.

“Congrats on figuring it out,” he almost spat. “After you already let yourself be lured away by him. I told you to stay with the crowd. I told you not to follow me while I searched for the vampire.”

“I didn’t follow you,” Jaskier threw in meekly.

It evidently was the wrong thing to say, for Geralt let out a frustrated grunt.

“No you didn’t. Instead you followed the vampire. Why? Is it really so easy for everyone else to make you want them?” The angry words contradicted his earlier apologetic whispers, though the frustration in his voice stayed the same. Somehow Jaskier didn’t think it was directed towards him. “How could you not notice his eyes? They were gleaming as it got darker. He looked like a freak, he- “ Geralt’s voice broke off.

“He looked like you.” The words slipped past Jaskier’s lips before he had time to realise what they implied.

Behind him, Geralt froze. Jaskier could feel his muscles tense against his back and he knew if Geralt had been able to, he would have put distance between them.

“No, Geralt, that’s not – you know that’s not what I meant. You aren’t a freak. You are my friend. And I –“

“And you are in danger because of me.” He let out a frustrated grunt.

Jaskier huffed. “Really, Geralt? Are we doing this now?”

“Might not get any other chances.” Geralt sounded grim, all fight leaving him. “They are going to come back and finish what they started. And I can’t protect you. I couldn’t before and I sure as hell can’t now.”

“But you did protect me, didn’t you?”

Jaskier’s insides were cold and he knew Geralt must sense his quickly rising fear. Years ago, Jaskier would have said that Geralt was just being dramatic. That there was no way he wouldn’t be able to get them out of this situation alive. But a lot had happened since then. Too many times had Jaskier seen Geralt lying in a puddle of his own blood and on the brink of death. If Geralt said that they would die today…Jaskier trusted him. He trusted Geralt’s skill with a sword. But he also trusted his words.

At least they would be going together.

He closed his eyes, focussing fully on the feeling of Geralt leaning against him. He turned his head, not enough to tear the wound open once more, but just enough that Geralt would be able to feel the motion, that he would know that Jaskier wanted to look at him.

“I’m not dead.” Jaskier forced a cheer that he didn’t feel into his voice. The least he could do was make sure that Geralt wasn’t eaten up by guilt about this. Whichever way this ended, it wasn’t Geralt’s fault. “Granted, this situation isn’t ideal, but I am still alive and able to talk your ear off. So obviously you must have saved me.”

“I didn’t,” came Geralt’s harsh reply, almost like a bark. “I couldn’t. You are not safe.”

If Jaskier had been able to move, he would have put his hands on his hips. If Geralt had been able to see his expression, he would have made a grimace that made it clear what exactly Jaskier thought about Geralt’s self-deprecation

But he couldn’t. So he settled on putting as much challenge into his voice as he could.

“Oh yeah? Then why did the vampire leave? Because I very much remember being sucked dry by one – and not in the fun kind of way.”

Geralt let out an unamused laugh. “He said he left because your perfume was too bad.”

Jaskier really wished he could see Geralt’s face right now. He wished he could see his smile, even though he knew it wouldn’t be there. In any other situation, Geralt would wear a grin as he teased Jaskier about his perfume. Now though, Jaskier was almost certain that he scowled even as he told the joke.

Jaskier’s fingers itched to smooth out the crease of worry that was no doubt etched onto Geralt’s face.

“Oh haha, very funny,” he said instead, trying to put as much teasing into his voice as possible, a vain attempt to get Geralt to smile even now. “Come on. If this is as dramatic a situation as you believe, you could at least humour me. One last story to tell me. So, why am I not dead?”

“Because this vampire is a sick bastard,” Geralt bit out. “Likes to play with his prey.”

“Play?” Jaskier’s voice was squeakier than he would ever admit should anyone ask. If he even lived to tell the tale, that was.

Geralt hummed. “He likes his prey to be awake. So he can hear the screams and pleas.”

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Jaskier’s neck and he did all he could not to shiver at Geralt’s words.

“Alright,” he said, chipped. “So that explains why I’m alive. But what about you? Why didn’t he kill you? Not that I’m not very grateful that you’re alive, of course.”

Geralt hesitated and Jaskier could practically hear him think. When Geralt finally answered, his words sounded almost like a confession.

“Like I said.” Geralt squirmed; another useless attempt to free himself. “They want to see their prey desperate and begging.”

A snort escaped Jaskier that quickly turned into laughter. It was fuelled by panic and was bordering on hysteric, but it felt freeing to laugh nonetheless. Geralt didn’t join in.

“Why on earth would you beg? Remember Dol Blathanna? This is just like it was back then. It ends the same way it began. It’s almost-“

“If you say poetic, I will beg that vampire to kill me first just so that I don’t have to listen to you talk about making this into a song.”

“You wound me, Geralt. But this is exactly what I am talking about. Back then, you practically did the opposite of begging, what with your whole noble sacrifice act.” When Geralt didn’t reply, Jaskier tried to nudge him with his elbow. It didn’t work. “Come on, Geralt. Even you must admit that it’s hilarious that this vampire really thinks you would beg for anything.”

Geralt remained stoically quiet. There was a strange tension in his silence that froze Jaskier’s grin and made his chest squeeze painfully.

“Geralt –“ he began, but was interrupted by the doors flying open.

Without thinking, he turned his head to see what was happening. It stung and he pressed his lips into a thin line, but he barely registered the pain. There was no space for such a trivial thing when cold terror filled him instead at the sight of the white haired man striding into the room with an air of complete confidence.

Though man was hardly a fitting description anymore. Where he had possessed an almost ethereal beauty before, he was now grotesque. The hunger in his eyes had turned into starvation. His smile that had been charming before was too wide and filled with too many teeth. His fingers were more reminiscent of claws than human hands.

Everything about him screamed predator. Death.

He walked towards them in graceful, measured steps as if he had all the time in the world. He moved with the superiority that only came from nobility or a hunter that knew his prey was lying helplessly by his feet with no hope for escape.

A low growl rose in Geralt’s chest and Jaskier could feel the rumble in his back. It did nothing to soothe him.

They all knew that this was it.

Jaskier was staring death in the eyes when his entire being longed to see another pair of eyes instead. Maybe that was the worst part. Jaskier had never put much thought into his own death. But he had always hoped that in his last moments he would be able to look into Geralt’s eyes, maybe even see some hint of affection in them.

Now, he had not even this.

“Geralt,” he whispered. From the way the vampire’s eyes lit up in delight, it had been a pitiful attempt at keeping his desperation hidden from him. It wasn’t important. All that mattered was that Geralt heard him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt answered, equally quiet, a bittersweet pretence that their would-be murderer didn’t hear every word. “I’m sorry, Jask.”

“I’m not.” Jaskier’s heart was pounding in terror and his palms were damp with sweat, but of this, he was certain. “I’m not sorry that I am here with you. I would follow you everywhere.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but he twisted in their restraints until Jaskier could feel callused fingers touch his hands. The ankle was uncomfortable, but Jaskier clutched Geralt’s hand with all his mind. Geralt gave him a light squeeze that said more than any amount of words could.

For an insane yet peaceful moment, Jaskier thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. There were worse things than dying with Geralt holding his hand.

“How adorable,” the vampire drawled as he took in their linked fingers with a mocking half-smile. “You two are disgustingly sweet. It’s almost ruining my appetite. Do you have any sappy last words too?”

Jaskier did. There were things he had never told Geralt, that he needed him to know. But he would rather die silent than let this vampire witness him baring his soul.

Instead he ran a thumb clumsily over Geralt’s knuckles, praying that he understood everything that Jaskier didn’t dare put into words.

“No?” The vampire looked almost disappointed. “I would have expected more from you, bard.”

“What can I say?” Jaskier gave him a falsely sweet smile. “I live to disappoint. And I can’t say you weren’t disappointing either.”

The vampire’s face twisted into something ugly and within the blink of an eye he had crossed the room. Jaskier flinched back as the vampire crouched down before him and caressed his face with a mockery of tenderness.

“Oh, quite the contrary, my dear Jaskier,” he said, honey in his voice but his eyes filled with ice. “You could never disappoint. Not when you beg so beautifully.” His fingers left Jaskier’s cheek to trail down to his neck, as softly as a lover would. A whimper escaped Jaskier when the vampire’s fingers caressed the wound his teeth had torn into him before. The vampire looked at it almost in admiration. “Do you remember how you screamed? How you begged your witcher to come save you?” He got closer, until his too sharp teeth were right next to Jaskier’s ears. “I want to hear you scream again.”

Teeth sank into his flesh, tearing him open. Obscene slurping noises and moans filled the air as the vampire drank Jaskier’s blood.

It was an utterly inappropriate thought, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Jaskier remembered the romance novels he had read when he was younger, about how sensual it felt to have a vampire drink from someone. About how they had special venom that numbed the pain.

What a load of bullshit. There was nothing sensual about this and the vampire dragged his teeth through Jaskier’s flesh as if he wanted to make this as painful as possible. If that was his goal, he was succeeding.

Hot fire raced through Jaskier’s blood and he could feel the tips of his fingers begin to tingle and the dark spots from before crept back into his vision.

He was beginning to lose all feeling in his hand and somehow, despite the pain, the fear, the certainty of his impending death, that was the worst part. That soon he wouldn’t be able to feel Geralt’s hand in his.

It hurt. Fuck, it hurt so much, but Jaskier pressed his lips together as tightly as he could, refusing to let a single cry leave him. He wasn’t a brave man and he wasn’t heroic. But he wouldn’t let Geralt hear his screams as he died. He couldn’t do that to him.

And yet, there were screams.

It took Jaskier’s sluggish mind a moment to realise that those weren’t his own screams. They were Geralt’s. For a moment, he almost thought they were but memories of Dol Blathanna, but no. Back then, Geralt had told the elves to leave Jaskier alone with no feeling other than responsibility and guilt.

Now, his voice was laden with fear and unbridled desperation.

The words he screamed didn’t make sense to Jaskier, but he knew the emotion behind them. It was the same thing he had felt every time he had seen a monster charge at Geralt or when he had been forced to press his hands against a wound in Geralt’s stomach, pleading with him to stay with him.

There was a word for it. Jaskier was sure of that. But he couldn’t for the life of him think of it now. Everything was too muddled, burning too hotly, agonizingly.

And then the vampire drew back. A sharp gasp escaped Jaskier and he would have fallen forward, had he not been held upwards by the ropes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt asked, panic surging through his voice.

“Still alive,” Jaskier panted with a crooked smile, though he knew that Geralt wasn’t able to see it. Perhaps he could hear it in his voice. “And by the looks of our new friend, my blood doesn’t taste too good.”

The vampire bared his fangs at Jaskier’s words.

“Oh, don’t you worry, pretty one.” The vampire’s tongue darted out to lick a stray droplet of blood from his lips. “You taste delicious.”

“Thank goodness,” Jaskier deadpanned through clenched teeth. “Why don’t you drink some more then? Maybe you’ll choke on it.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt warned him harshly.

The vampire’s smile widened. He ran a hand through Jaskier’s hair, almost soothingly, before he gripped his hair tightly and yanked his head to the side.

Jaskier braced himself for the sharp pain to pierce through him again, but instead of biting into him, the vampire took a long sniff at his neck before drawing back in disgust.

“You would be truly perfect, my dear,” he said coldly, “if it weren’t for that disgusting smell. I can barely scent your blood through it.”

Jaskier blinked at him. “Really? You’re about to kill me and you complain about my perfume? Pardon me for not exactly being sympathetic towards your great woes right now.”

“No matter,” the vampire said, ignoring Jaskier’s words completely, “doesn’t change a thing about the taste.”

The vampire opened his mouth once more and Jaskier could already feel the teeth gracing his skin, when Geralt jostled him to the side.

“Spare him,” he growled and there was something broken about his voice. “Don’t kill him.”

The vampire tsked in disapproval. “Now, you know I won’t do that. Why don’t you try again, come up with a better suggestion?”

Glee stood in his eyes. Every sign of him enjoying this torture made nausea rise in Jaskier’s throat.

“Then kill me first.”

“No! Geralt, don’t say something like that!” Jaskier twisted his head. The movement sent piercing agony through his neck, but he fought back against it. He needed to see Geralt. He clutched his hand as tightly as he could, as if that could somehow dissuade Geralt from this madness. Quieter, barely louder than a breath, Jaskier added, “Don’t make me listen to you die.”

“Oh, now it’s getting interesting.” The vampire tilted his head to the side, his eyes darting from Jaskier’s wide-eyed expression to Geralt who must look as stoic and undeterrable as ever. “The both of you, begging for each other’s life. The question is only, who is begging more beautifully?”

“He’s a bard,” Geralt spat. “If it’s words you want, he has more of them than I do. And look at him.” Geralt’s head jerked back, nodding towards Jaskier. “He’s not going to make it long is he? I am a witcher. You can drink from me for longer.”

The vampire let out an appreciative hum. “You would do that to the bard? You would prolong his suffering and listen as I drained you for hours?”

Geralt hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was so unexpectedly soft that it made Jaskier gasp.

“I am sorry. I promised to keep you safe. This is the best I can do.”

“It’s not enough.” The vampire taunted, but his words were dripping with truth. “You will both die. But before he does, I will make him look at you, see how loud he can scream when he sees what I’ll have left of you.”

Jaskier whimpered, a plea leaving his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t stop the images of Geralt’s lifeless body from assaulting his mind.

“I’ll hate you,” Jaskier whispered. “Geralt, if you make me go through this, I will hate you. I’ll never forgive you.”

A harsh breath escaped Geralt and this thumb brushed oh so tenderly over Jaskier’s knuckles.

“I’d rather you hate me than me having to live knowing that I could have saved you.”

Jaskier wanted to shake his head, to protest, but the vampire’s grip was still tightly holding him in place. Jaskier’s eyes burned and his throat was impossibly tight. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his chin, his neck and he could feel them mixing with his blood.

“I can’t,” he sobbed. He hadn’t wanted to say this. Not like this, not in front of their murderer who watched the exchange hungrily. But he couldn’t stop himself. He needed Geralt to know. “I can’t hate you. I- Geralt, I love you.”

Geralt let out a strangled noise, before he found his voice. “Then let me do this.”

Jaskier’s shoulders wrecked with his sobs, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak up again. He had said everything he could say. Now the only thing he could do was let Geralt be the hero Jaskier had always known him to be one last time.

Jaskier’s silence must have been answer enough for the vampire. Ever so slowly, the grip in Jaskier’s hair loosened and the vampire stood to his full height.

“Don’t worry,” the vampire told Jaskier as if he was a parent calming their child. “I will make it slow. You will have your beloved by your side for as long as possible. And it won’t take you long to follow after him.”

Relishing in every second of Jaskier’s agony, the vampire slowly rounded him until he came to a halt before Geralt.

Geralt didn’t scream, didn’t even draw in a sharp breath, as if he didn’t want Jaskier to hear what was happening.

It was in vain.

There was no mistaking the stomach-churning squelch of the vampire biting into flesh.

It was the most horrible sound Jaskier had ever heard. He couldn’t listen. He needed to drown out those sounds. Words tumbled from Jaskier’s lips. Pleas, screams, whispered words he was desperate for Geralt to hear.

If Geralt were to die now, the last thing he ever heard shouldn’t be Jaskier’s cries. It should be reassurances of how he couldn’t have done anything different, of how Jaskier didn’t blame him for a single thing, of how much he was loves. That more than all else.

Jaskier had no control over his words. He couldn’t tell what else he was saying, only that time and time again, he repeated the words he had been too much of a coward to say before it had been too late.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It felt like hours. Geralt’s body was tense and Jaskier’s voice became hoarse, giving out and leaving nothing but the horrible sounds of the vampire killing Geralt.

But nothing was as terrifying as when the sound of the vampire devouring Geralt suddenly stopped.

Jaskier’s blood turned to ice and claws of despair plunged into his chest.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered into the silence. There was no reply. A pit opened up in Jaskier’s chest. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg, but all of his words had dried up. What use were words anyway? They hadn’t been able to save Geralt and now that he was gone, there would be no one to listen to them other than the reason why Geralt would never again say another word.

The vampire must have held Geralt up, for when Jaskier now heard the rustling of clothes as the vampire stood up again, Geralt slumped over and dragged Jaskier with him to the ground.

Jaskier’s side hit the floor painfully, but he was too numb to care.

He looked up with all the contempt he could muster as the vampire came into his view again. But there was something off about the way he moved. He had been slow before, but there had been a regal elegance to it, perfectly controlled. Now his movements were sluggish and almost wooden.

He didn’t crouch before Jaskier as he had before. Instead he fell to his knees.

“It’s your turn again,” the vampire purred – no, slurred.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he narrowed his eyes. They widened again when they landed on the blood that was smeared around the vampire’s mouth. It was black.

The same colour of Geralt’s blood after he had drank his potions. The potions that were toxic to anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

But why – the vampire should have been able to smell it. He would have never drunken poisoned blood. Except…he hadn’t been able to smell the blood, had he? He had said so himself. The perfume had been too strong, strong enough to even overpower the smell of the toxins.

A disbelieving laugh escaped Jaskier. The vampire whirled around as if to fix Jaskier with a death-glare, but his eyes were unfocussed. He bared his teeth and surged towards Jaskier.

He didn’t reach him alive.

With a heavy thud, the body landed on Jaskier, unmoving. Dead.

For a terrifying moment, Jaskier didn’t dare move. The only sound in the room was his own panting breath. The noises of the ball had long since subsided.

He was alone.

The knowledge sank into his chest like a stone dropped into the ocean. He was alone. Geralt had saved him – had given his life to save him – and now he’d have to save himself.

With more strength than he thought he still possessed, Jaskier twisted in his bindings, kicking at the vampire’s body until it moved.

Bile rose in his throat when his free hand found the vampire’s head and pried his mouth open. He fumbled and he cut himself on the teeth, but he persisted, yanking the rope as good as he could against the sharp teeth until finally, they snapped.

Jaskier rolled to the side, panting heavily, as his chest finally was no longer restricted.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he counted his own heartbeats.

Ten. Ten heartbeats he allowed himself, before he clenched his jaw and faced Geralt’s body.

Tears stung in his eyes and his face was contorted to a grimace of grief and pain as he grabbed Geralt’s heavy body and rolled him onto his back.

He wouldn’t be able to get him out of here. Even if Jaskier had normally been strong enough to carry him, there was no way, he would be able to do so now, with his vision swimming at the tiniest of exertions.

Still, his insides twisted painfully at even the idea of leaving Geralt all alone here lying next to the man – the monster - who had killed him.

Jaskier’s eyes darted frantically through the room before they landed on the bed. It wasn’t what Geralt would have wanted and it was worse than he deserved, but it was the best Jaskier could do.

Jaskier’s hands shook, as he grabbed Geralt beneath his arms and tried to hoist him up. As he more dragged than carried Geralt to the bed, his knees gave out under him more than once and he had to furiously blink away the darkness that threatened to swallow him once more.

When he finally heaved Geralt onto the bed, Jaskier nearly collapsed on top of him.

When he had gathered enough strength to right himself once more, he felt his heart jolt in his chest. Geralt didn’t look peaceful as he lay in a stranger’s bed. He didn’t look like he was just sleeping. Half of his neck was smeared with blood and his skin was deathly pale. Jaskier had seen him like this before, every time Geralt had taken his potions that had drained his face of all colour. But he had always known that sooner or later, Geralt would open his eyes again.

He wouldn’t ever do so again now.

For once he had gone where Jaskier couldn’t follow.

Taking a shaking breath, Jaskier reached out. His hand found the cool metal of the medallion. It felt wrong taking it from him. Geralt never took it off. Never.

But Jaskier needed to give it back to his family. They deserved to have this. And Jaskier was selfish enough that he wanted to keep something of Geralt’s with him too, for as long as he could.

His breath hitched. He would have to return to Roach alone. He would somehow have to make her understand that Geralt wasn’t going to come back to her.

His hand trembled and slid off the medallion, landing on Geralt’s chest, right above his heart. How often had he pressed his hand against this place and complained to Geralt that he could feel nothing? That his heart was too slow? Now, he would give everything to know that that was the reason why there was no beat beneath his hand.

After a too long moment of hopeless hope, Jaskier lifted his hand off of Geralt. It came away sticky with blood.

Jaskier worked almost mechanically. Wiping away the blood, first from his hand and then from Geralt’s neck. He used random pieces of fabric to bandage the wound as he had done so often before. He knew it was useless, it was too late, but still, there was a comfort in the familiar motions.

He didn’t know how long he worked like that. It didn’t matter. He treated Geralt’s wound as best he could until there was nothing left for him to do.

His mouth went dry, as he brushed a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear. He was so beautiful. Jaskier wished he had had the strength to tell Geralt before it had been too late.

The certainty that this was the last time he would ever see Geralt buried itself into Jaskier’s chest like a blade.

“You did it,” he whispered, a watery smile on his lips. “You saved me.” It was already too late. Geralt couldn’t hear his words anymore, but Jaskier couldn’t leave without telling him. He owed that much to him. “I don’t care what you said before. I am alive. Because of you.” A sob interrupted his words. “I will never forget you. I promise. I love you. I-“

His voice broke one last time. Too many things had he left unsaid between them and now he would never get to say them in any way that mattered.

His fingers trailed over Geralt’s face, desperate to memorise every scar, every feature, as if those weren’t already branded into Jaskier’s mind.

His finger’s came to a halt above Geralt’s slightly parted lips. Jaskier could almost imagine a faint breath ghosting over his fingers. But that was impossible. Wishful thinking, nothing more.

Still, he let his fingers linger and leaned closer, grasping onto this last impossible hope.

And then it happened. Geralt’s lips moved. No sound left them, but Jaskier could still understand the word they formed. It was a name. His name.

“I am here!” Jaskier’s other hand cupped Geralt’s cheek. “Geralt, I’m here. I am safe. You are safe. You did it, you – you’re alive!”

“’s loud,” Geralt mumbled faintly, but his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile. His eyes opened just the tiniest bit, but the sliver of gold they revealed was the most beautiful sight Jaskier could imagine.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice got stronger with the word, though his shallow breaths were laboured and it was obvious how much it pained him to speak.

“You bastard.” Jaskier let out a laugh that might as well have been a sob. “You made me think you were dead. Don’t ever do that to me again!”

“I won’t.” Geralt’s expression softened impossibly. “And I… I wouldn’t leave you without telling you…”

Geralt tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too much. Jaskier caught it mid-air and pressed it against his own cheek.

“What? Tell me what?” he breathed.

Geralt’s thumb caressed his cheek with aching tenderness.

“That I love you.”

Jaskier’s heart felt like it would burst, like all of the agony, all of the fear and despair had been chased away with just these four words that he had never dared to dream he would ever hear come out of Geralt’s mouth.

“Tell me again?” he asked with a shaking voice.

A glint entered Geralt’s eyes and his lips twitched slightly. “You first.”

“I love you,” Jaskier said without hesitation. “I love you. And you better not wait until the next time I think you’re dead to say it back again.”

“I won’t.” For a moment Geralt looked at him, searching his face as if Jaskier was a miracle he couldn’t figure out. “I will say it as often as you want to hear it. For however long you are willing to have me.”

“Forever?” Jaskier had aimed for a teasing tone, but instead it came out tentative and small.

He could see Geralt’s throat bob labouredly as he swallowed. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. I never want to lose you again. I can’t.”

“Then you’ll have me forever.” He paused. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned his face slightly, just enough to press a fleeting kiss against Geralt’s palm, but still holding eye contact. “Yes?”

“I can’t lose you either. I love you.”

#thanks for the prompt!#so this was not supposed to be that long #i thought it was going to be less than 2k #and yet here we are #prompt #my writing #geraskier #angst #injury #blood #geraltxjaskier #witcher #witcher fic #fanfic #fic #geralt/jaskier

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Note

Also, we talked a mill years ago about an Inuyasha AU? You wanted to make G wear the necklace etc. Which OBVIOUSLY is a fantastic idea and I really which you would, please 🤣😘💗

Okay, so this isn’t exactly the necklace bit, but it’s the most Inuyasha crossover thing I could think of at the moment! Also I’m sorry that this has been sitting in my inbox for so long! <3 Oops!

Geralt turns into a human one night a month, during the new moon.

wordcount: 1.7k

TW: emotional Geralt whump, angst with a happy ending, pining

---

“Stay in the room,” Geralt instructed, glaring Jaskier down from his place near the door. The bard nodded obediently and made a show of pulling his recently acquired book from his travel bag.

“I might go down and perform for a bit, but I promise not to bring anyone back and I promise not to start any fights.”

“I’d rather you didn’t leave the room at all,” Geralt grumbled, “But I suppose the coin wouldn’t hurt.”

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“Next town over. Nightwraith.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” the bard pouted. His lower lip stuck out slightly and his eyes crinkled so cutely that it always made the Witcher question his ‘human’ parentage; there was a siren’s power in the way he turned up his nose and fluttered his pretty lashes. “Surely I could sit incredibly high up in a very sturdy tree and watch my glorious companion in all his… glory?”

“Excellent word choice,” Geralt rolled his eyes. He hefted his swords over his shoulder and shot the bard another meaningful look. “I’ll see you in the morning. Stay. Safe.”

“Yes, Milord,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, flopping back against the pillows and opening his book. “Return to me in as few pieces as possible, dear heart.”

“Hmm.”

And with that, Geralt disappeared into the late afternoon light.

---

There had been several distinctive changes to Geralt’s physical body after the second round of experimental Trials; his hair, of course, and his ghostly-pale skin were the most obvious. His greatest secret, however, and the strangest of all the Trials’ side effects, were the temporary changes he underwent on the nights of the new moon. His Witcher strength and senses abandoned him and his body returned to its pre-Trial state. He became, for all intents and purposes, a normal human man.

He hated it. He hated himself. There was no power behind his punches on his human nights and while he remained graceful and competent with his swords, he lost his speed and dexterity. It left him feeling helpless and alone, and an onslaught of emotions (which he was usually able to suppress or ignore) flooded his mind, pulling tears from his eyes and putting a ruddy redness on his cheeks and ears that he found ugly. No doubt Jaskier would find him just as hideous. And useless…

If he couldn’t protect the bard, the handsome young human who smiled at him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be friends with a Witcher, then what good was he? Keeping Jaskier safe, keeping him alive and smiling like that, was what motivated Geralt to slump his way back to their room even when he wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and pass out from exhaustion. Making sure Jaskier was okay (and, alright, getting his wounds fawned over and his hair washed wasn’t too bad either) was what kept him alive.

I can’t believe I forgot to keep track, Geralt berated himself as he set up his small campfire just inside the mouth of a cave. I almost revealed my secret to Jaskier.

Geralt wasn’t sure which outcome he feared more: Jaskier seeing him in his less horrible state and rejecting him completely for keeping secrets/being a true monster, or Jaskier finding his human body attractive and being even more disgusted by his Witchery appearance. Geralt wouldn’t be able to stand either outcome, so he disappeared into the woods or back to the Path (if Jaskier was stuck in a town, teaching or performing) whenever the night of the new moon arrived.

He sighed and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on his bent knees and setting his chin on one upright palm. He glanced up at Roach and grumbled out an excuse: “I just don’t want to lose him.”

Roach whinnied quietly, reproachfully, and Geralt nodded.

“You’re absolutely right, I should tell Jaskier about all of this, but if I tell him now, after travelling together for so long, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And I do trust him! I trust him as much as I trust my brothers, maybe more considering their pranks… But I don’t want to scare him off, either. I’m such a fucking coward.”

As the last light of day slipped away beneath the horizon and darkness fell, Geralt felt his hair grow coarser and heavier atop his head. His eyesight dimmed and his knowledge of the landscape - every scent and sound - disappeared from his consciousness. The scars on his skin faded away into nothing as his pupils dilated into circles, the irises shifting from honey-gold to a deep, forest green.

From a nearby bush, Geralt heard a familiar voice mutter, “Holy shit.”

He leapt to his feet and backed against the cave wall, throwing his arm across his face to hide it. “Dammit, Jaskier, I told you to stay at the inn!”

The bard took a nervous step forward, away from his hiding place, and waved bashfully. “Sorry, dear heart. Are you really- is it really you in there, Geralt?”

“Yes?” the Witcher-turned-human raised an eyebrow, lowering his arm back down to his side with no small amount of shame. “Who else would it be?”

“Well,” the bard said, taking a measured step forward. “I wasn’t sure if this was, like, a reverse-werewolf type deal. I didn’t know if you’d have the same memories as before or- or if-”

“It’s still me,” Geralt blushed, actually blushed, and dipped his head down to avoid Jaskier’s curious gaze. “I’m sorry for not telling you before, but-”

“Don’t.”

Geralt glanced back up, even more confused, his emotions playing havoc with his pulse. “I- Don’t I owe you an apology?”

“No,” Jaskier said, settling down on the rocky ground across the fire and gesturing for Geralt to join him. The flames lit up his face, highlighting the roundness of his cheeks and the softness in his eyes. So youthful, yet so determined. “If you’re still Geralt in here” - he tapped the side of his head and grinned playfully - “then you’re still my best friend.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh yeah, my Witcher is definitely in there somewhere,” Jaskier laughed brightly. The sound wound down and he wiped a tear of glee from the corner of his eye. After a long, sobering pause he asked: “So is this what you looked like before… they did all that stuff to you?”

“Before the Trials? Yes. This is what I looked like fifty years or so ago, when I was young and mortal. My shoulders are wider, of course, but that’s just old age.”

Jaskier made his way slowly around the fire, inching closer to Geralt, who had finally taken a seat on his bedroll. When the bard was right next to him, close enough for Geralt to feel their combined body heat through his shirt, he took a lock of Geralt’s hair in his hand. “It’s… it’s not as soft, like this. But it has curls! And it’s almost red!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier looked overjoyed at the change, and every one of Geralt’s fears flashed before his eyes. He was tempted to wrench away, to fling himself up into Roach’s saddle and ride hard until they both needed a rest.

But Jaskier had begun talking again, and Geralt did his best to pay attention. “It’s different, but not bad. I think you’re only slightly more handsome when you’re a Witcher, but your eyes are a lovely shade of green and I’d love to do up your hair someday… if you’d like that. If you’d let me.”

Geralt made a startled noise and turned his head sharply, his eyes boring into Jaskier’s very soul. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course!”

“You don’t- you aren’t mad? Or scared? You don’t think I’m more approachable like this? You wouldn’t prefer me to be like this - like a human - all the time?”

Jaskier shook his head, a sadness Geralt often noticed but didn’t understand falling over his face. “Oh Geralt, you silly, silly, wonderful man. I don’t lo-” - he paused, took a deep breath, and continued - “I love you, okay? As a Witcher. Like this. I have always loved you and I will always love you, regardless of what you look like, but I fell in love with the White Wolf. The man whose reputation needed mending and whose heart… whose heart is so incredibly large despite how often the world tries to harden it.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped. He clutched at his chest, the ache he felt there intensifying a hundredfold under Jaskier’s steady gaze. “I love you, too. I never thought-”

“You often don’t,” the bard teased, closing the space between them with careful, intentional slowness. “Now, keep up the good work and stop thinking entirely. Just kiss me, Geralt. Please?”

“Would you like it if I kissed you?” the Witcher asked, incredulous. Jaskier lifted one delicate hand and slid a lock of Geralt’s curly hair back behind his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek and smiled.

“Very much, darling.”

“Alright,” Geralt breathed, closing the space between them. It felt so much more intense like this, with his heart beating as quickly as Jaskier’s, threatening to burst from his chest because it was overflowing with happiness. His hand, smooth and unblemished in its current state, cupped the peach-soft skin of the bard’s cheek. He ran his thumb over the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, feeling the bone and joint working as their mouths moved together. When they finally pulled apart they were both beaming broadly, “Was it okay?”

“You’re very soft like this,” Jaskier noted. “But I miss your eyes and your hair… when will my Geralt return?”

“I’m still yours, Jaskier. Even when I look like this,” Geralt frowned. Jaskier took one of the Witcher’s hands in both of his and held it flat over his heart.

“I know, my dear. And I’m always yours, of course. It’s just… odd. I’ll get used to it the more often I see it, I’m sure. How long does it usually last?”

“I’ll be back to normal when the sun rises.”

“Until then?”

“Come here,” Geralt held up the corner of his blanket. Jaskier shifted so that they were cuddled together, side-by-side. “Better?”

“Now that I’m with you? Of course.”

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier inuyasha au #idk what i'm doing anymore #stina what have we created #vaguely inuyasha based content #human geralt #getting together #first kiss #bouncey's endless au collection #bouncey's endless getting together fics

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Note

Prompt: Either out of embarrassment or being a little shit, Jaskier lies outrageously to Geralt about humans (on the level of “I’m molting” or “These? They’re rocks, to snack on.”) and might get away with it?

Hi Dahliavandare! I always love seeing you in my inbox. I changed this just a *teeny* bit. WARNING: VERY SLIGHTLY HORNY (it’s Jaskier, duh) There is also a little bit of angst because Jaskier gets sick.

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“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“What?” The young bard yelped. “I wasn’t even singing that time.”

“No, you just--hmmm.”

“I just hmmm what?” Jaskier asked, pausing in his near-constant strumming.

“You smell like...hmm.”

“I smell?” Jaskier said, both hands planted on his hips. “That’s pretty rich coming from you, my friend--”

“Not friends.”

“You smell like a barn. Anyway-”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt said, running one, gloved hand through his hair. “Witchers can sort of smell emotions, right?”

Jaskier looked up at him, a sudden hint of anxiety in his scent. “I thought that was a myth.”

“Not entirely.” Geralt shook his head as if clearing a thought from it. “We can’t smell complex things, but joy, fear, anger...desire.”

Jaskier, for once, didn’t look at Geralt, studying instead the flowers at the side of the road. “Desire?”

“I-yes.” Geralt said. “And I wanted to know if all humans smell like...”

“Desire?” Jaskier said, then began talking fast. “Oh yes, of course, most humans, especially my age, well, they smell like this all the time. All the time. Naturally.”

It sort of checked out, at least to Geralt’s thinking. Young humans were horny, and although the overriding scent when Geralt was around was fear, he remembered being a teenager, with all the baggage that entailed at Kaer Morhen, and yes, constantly horny was among those memories. Jaskier himself was definitely still young by human standards, perhaps twenty or so from his youthful features.

Geralt chalked the horniness up to humanity and hormones and left it at that.

---

Later on, Geralt had other questions related to humanity, more specifically that part of humanity that included Jaskier.

“I thought humans couldn’t eat those?” Geralt couldn’t, he’d eaten one during training on a dare and spent the next day with his head in the privy.

Jaskier looked down at the mushroom in his hand. It was a beautiful, bright red, with little white spots. He’d been snacking on similar ones for the last mile or so.

“Of course we can,” he said. “Humans eat these all the time.” There was a rising tone in his voice that indicated something, but as Geralt had mentioned before, witchers couldn’t actually smell the more complicated emotions.

“They, um,” Jaskier said. “They just can’t be eaten by humans during-er- during summer. It’s fall now, so it’s okay.”

Geralt shrugged. What did he know of human biology? He wouldn’t be eating another of them ever, at any time. His stomach lurched a little just at the thought.

---

“You didn’t buy the ring.”

Jaskier looked up at Geralt, eyes bright in the sunshine. The bustle of the market around them pushed against him like a tide, but a little patch of space was left around Geralt. Jaskier stepped into the space. “The ring?”

“You liked it,” Geralt grunted. “I could tell.” It had been a little thing, cheaply made of poor materials, but the bard’s eyes had lit up upon seeing the little buttercup detailing, and he’d admired for several minutes, although without touching.

Jaskier shrugged. “It was made of iron.”

“And?”

“Human’s can’t wear iron, Geralt.”

“Then why did the man sell it?”

“Well some humans can wear it of course, those with very tough skin, but I’m delicate.” Jaskier sniffed.

“Humans...can’t wear iron?” It didn’t sound right.

“Not right up close to their skin,” Jaskier said. “It turns us, um, purple.”

Geralt shrugged it off. He’d once been called to a castle where a baron had believed himself cursed because his finger was turning green, but he’d simply been wearing a cheap brass ring.

---

After the first winter they met again in the spring something was definitely different.

“Your freckles,” Geralt said.

“What about them?” Jaskier said, looking away.

What about them indeed. They glimmered like chips of mica. At first Geralt had thought it a trick of the light, but no, there was a definite glitter to Jaskier’s skin.

“They’re...shining?”

Jaskier cocked his head at Geralt, cheeks shimmering. “Geralt,” he said slowly. “You know humans shimmer in the spring...right?”

Shimmer?

“I’d never noticed,” Geralt said. Admittedly he paid a little more attention to Jaskier than perhaps he ought, but still, one would think he’d have seen this before.

“It’s part of the growing process,” Jaskier said.

---

“Jaskier, your cheeks are red,” Geralt said, stepping out of the small bathtub the inkeeper had brought up. He stepped closer to the bard, still naked and dripping water, and pressed the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead.

“Nnhgh,” Jaskier said.

“Are you well?” Geralt asked, cupping Jaskier’s flushed face with his other hand. It didn’t feel like he had a fever.

Jaskier pushed his hands away, face even redder than before.

“I’m perfectly fine, Geralt,” he said, higher pitched than usual. “Human faces get red for no reason now...put on some pants.”

---

“Jaskier you’re drunk,” Geralt said. It was a pretty obvious statement, considering he had his bard draped over him like a shawl.

“Hehe, yep,” Jaskier said, reaching up with one, long finger and tracing Geralt’s jawline with it.

“You didn’t have any alcohol, I’m sure of it.” Jaskier normally had an extremely high alcohol tolerance in any case.

“‘O course not,” Jaskier said, leaning even more fully into Geralt’s hold. “Had milk.”

“Milk can’t get people drunk.”

“Milk can’t get witchers drunk,” Jaskier slurred. “Get’s humans drunk though, dunnit?”

“Can it?”

“Yeah, definitely, not the kids, but like, how often do you see, like adult humans drinkin’ milk?”

Not often, Geralt thought. He put Jaskier to bed in the inn and it was like pouring an octopus into a bucket. One loose yet gripping arm pulled Geralt closer to Jaskier, the bard leaned in and brushed soft lips to Geralt’s cheekbone.

Geralt wondered if it was another mystery of humans that the spot seemed to tingle all night and he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.

---

Geralt clutched Jaskier as the bard fell to his knees, groaning. His face was sickly in it’s palor and he was trembling. He’d just lurched up from the table at the inn and stumbled to the door. Geralt had followed him and the young bard had just collapsed like this.

“Jaskier,” he said, clutching a chilled cheek, his other hand seeking one of Jaskier’s. “Jaskier what’s wrong.”

“Lemon,” Jaskier whispered, lacing shaking finger’s with Geralt’s. “In the fish, there was lemon.”

“Lemon’s fine, isn’t it?” Geralt asked, slow heart racing as he looked into eyes that were becoming glassy and clouded.

Jaskier shook his head and it seemed to exhaust him.

“’S fine for humans.” He said. “Not fae.”

“Fae,” Geralt said, cradling his friend. “Jaskier you’re not making sense.”

“Mmh,” Jaskier said, smiling sadly. His face changed, his eyes going glow bright and his ears lengthening a little. His skin took on a slightly green tint.

Geralt looked into the face of his fae bard, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone and the shimmering freckles there. “How do I heal you, you have to tell me.”

Jaskier blinked slowly, eyes dimming further.

Geralt shook him, desperation taking over.

“Jaskier what heals a fairy?”

What heals a fairy? He’d learned that at some point hadn’t he? Long ago. They were rare, and most witchers never saw one in their whole lives but if you could help one they’d grant you one wish, not tricks.

Poetry.

Fuck.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped, throat feeling dry. Those beautiful eyes blinked at him, slowly.

“I...I think you have pretty eyes,” Geralt said. “And I like when they, um, match the skies.”

Jaskier blinked at him in confusion, brow wrinkling slightly.

“You look pretty in blue,” Geralt managed, inventing wildly. “And look pretty in green. You look lovely in about every shade in between.”

Some of the deathly palor was fading from Jaskier’s face now and Geralt sought more words. “I thought you were pretty that day you wore purple,” he said. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, idiot he was an idiot, nothing rhymes with purple.

“I like your spirit, your moxy, your...your yurple.”

Jaskier was indeed looking better now, and he was smiling.

“I like the way you talk to me, and how you’re always there,” Geralt whispered. “I like the way you hum to me when you help me brush my hair.”

Jaskier sat up slowly, blinking in the dim light.

“I like the way you give treats to Roach, um, and I like the way you smile,” Geralt gulped at the look on Jaskier’s face. “But most of all I like how much I love you, so I want you to promise to, uh, stay? For a while?”

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier said, cupping his cheek. “That was bad.” Then he kissed him and Geralt’s brain went very very fuzzy.

A little later, in their room in the inn, where Geralt was finishing the fish and Jaskier was having stew avec no-lemon-at-all, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier tilted his head thoughtfully as he chewed a piece of potato. “Well, at first I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

Geralt nodded. Fae were a feared and reverred group amongst humans, so caution was reasonable.

“Then it became a sort of game,” Jaskier said shrugging. “I couldn’t resist. So I left you little hints. I thought you’d figure it out for sure with the freckles or the milk.”

Geralt huffed a little sheepishly.

“I don’t care that you’re fae,” he said after a moment.

“I know,” Jaskier said. “And I don’t care that you’re an awful poet.”

“It worked, didn’t it.”

“It did, and now you get a wish, no tricks,” Jaskier held up his hand as if taking an oath. “I promise.”

Geralt thought for a moment. A wish from a fae was no small thing. It should be something powerful, something earth shattering and precious and rare.

“I wish you would kiss me again.”

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

Oop, here it is (after quite the wait, sorry about that) I’m actually so proud of this and it’s super sweet and fluffy.

#geraskier #fluff #creature Jaskier #fae jaskier #Roach borrowed the braincell and she isn't giving it back #the witcher #geralt of rivia

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samstree · 3 years

Note

how about 'void' for the word prompts??

Creatures of the Night (3)

Geralt goes to the coast alone after Jaskier marries Valdo. He can't escape the past. Or rather, Jaskier can't escape him.

(endgame geraskier, background valdo/jaskier, angst, eventual infidelity, implied depression)

AO3 | Previous: [1] [2]

The coast smells of fish and seaweed.

It’s not unpleasant if one admires it from a distance, like watching a sunset from the grassy cliff or dipping toes into the water a little. The coast is mild and vast, the calmest part of the continent.

Geralt embraces the sea, letting the scent of candles and jasmine fade from his nostrils. It’s been too long, months already. Too long for him to cling to that scent and that night. He needs it gone from memory.

He fails.

The smell of fish and seaweed and blood is everywhere when Geralt emerges from the waves, a sea serpent’s head in hand and an apology by his lips. The villagers sigh in silent acceptance. They knew the fishermen were beyond saving anyway. Still, he ignores the gash on his arm and grieves with them for a moment.

He forgets, just for a moment.

Dripping a bloody trail up the shore, Geralt nods to each family member of the lost men. By the end of the line, he meets brown eyes and golden hair, a lopsided hat and a fur-lined cloak.

Valdo Marx.

Geralt drops the head, his arm tingling with blood loss.

“You are a hard man to find, White Wolf.”

The cold wind ruffles Valdo’s hair, tangling up his fashionable curls. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that Geralt doesn’t like. Yes, bards can be just as dangerous; Geralt has learned a long time ago.

“And what brings you to me?” he asks, meeting the other’s man’s gaze.

“I believe you already know.”

Geralt nearly wavers.

“Do I?”

“You left early that night. At the handfasting.” Valdo paces around Geralt, who’s only realizing the other bard stands a tad taller than him albeit having a much slenderer build.

“It was a long party.”

“You were bored by the most important party of your best friend’s life?”

Bards. Must they speak in circles all the time?

“What are you saying, Marx?”

Valdo’s footsteps halt in place, the danger in his eyes burning anew. “I know what you said to him.”

In his long life, Geralt rarely feels shame so heavy. He breaks eye contact with the other man, fists clenching before settling by his sides. Perhaps this is where he loses Jaskier completely. Running away to the coast isn’t enough. This is where he needs to promise to never see Jaskier again and let him live a peaceful life with his husband. Geralt opens his mouth to make the promise, except—

“I know what you said to Julian on the mountain, how you broke his heart. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces.” The bard clenches his jaw, breathing deep. “The state he was in, I swore to myself that I would never live to see it happen again. Seeing him hurt once is enough, and yet…”

“What?” The implication makes Geralt’s stomach sink. “Is Jaskier alri—”

“You don’t get to ask me if he’s alright.” Valdo steps into Geralt’s space. Somehow, a troubadour almost makes a witcher cower under his fury. “You drove him away, and then you dared to come back. You behave like he’s a puppy to summon at your whim and then kick out once you tire of his bark.”

“I don’t—”

“You said something to him that night. Essi told me so, and Julian hasn’t been the same since. He deflected my questions and defended you, but one can only guess. Was wishing for destiny to take him off your hands not enough? Did you have to come all the way back to his side just to drive in the knife?”

“No, of cour—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, witcher! What did you say to him that night?”

“Nothing!” Geralt bites out the words. A lie. “I didn’t say anything.”

No wonder Jaskier wants to protect this man. Geralt can see it now, the devotion of Valdo Marx, archnemesis of Jaskier the bard for twenty years. And yet, Valdo was the one to offer him a shoulder to cry on when he was shunned by Geralt, a supposed friend for twenty years.

“Forgive me if I find it hard to believe. Historically, you shouldn’t be trusted when it comes to Julian’s heart.” Valdo’s heat is dying down into disgruntled acceptance.

“Just tell me if Jaskier is alright.”

Geralt is so close to begging.

He just might. For Jaskier. Again.

“You want to know? What, do you care?” Valdo scoffs. “No, he is not! He went down the same path soon after. If anything, it’s only worse now. Last time he cried and cursed, tried to drown himself in wine. But at least there was something. But for the past months…he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak. There’s nothing when I look at him. Nothing. Only a void.”

The waves rumble in the distance, lapping at the shore. The coast can’t erase the anguish poisoning Geralt’s every thought either. Not when he’s inadvertently hurt Jaskier.

His love hurt Jaskier.

“If it wasn’t you, perhaps…” Valdo says reluctantly, watching a seabird pass by. “It wasn’t easy to convince him to come, even though he always dreamed about the coast back when we were young, romanticized it in so many songs like a fool. But when I heard you were here, I had to come and find you, and leaving him alone in this state wasn’t an option.”

Geralt wants to flee like the coward he is, but the hope fluttering in his stomach is a powerful thing. “He is here?”

“He’s here. And if you indeed didn’t cause him any harm, Geralt of Rivia, I loathe admitting that you might be my last hope. The relationship between you two is something I’ve never understood, but even I can’t deny you’ve known him in a way no one else could.”

Geralt can’t believe the words he’s hearing, words he doesn’t deserve.

“You are asking me to…help?”

“To speak to him. If you still care about him in any way. “Funny I came here not sure whether to strangle you for hurting the man I love or beg you to save him.”

The bard turns to leave, his coat flapping. Geralt pauses for a moment before following.

He needs to fix it. If his confession sent Jaskier into a downward spiral, Geralt needs to fix it somehow. He can stop loving Jaskier. Yes, he can stop so Jaskier can finally be free of him. It’ll only feel like ripping his heart out of his chest. He’d stop, even if it kills him.

“It was never my intention to hurt Jaskier.”

Defending himself in front of Valdo is a moot point, and the mock from the troubadour is an answer enough.

“It’s what he believes too. The idiot is kind and terrible like this,” Valdo sends one last look at Geralt before they begin the ascend, the silent threat looming in his brown gaze. “Try anything like the mountain again, there won’t be anything left of you for the fish to eat.”

And Geralt is wise enough to believe that.

The two miles he walks behind Valdo stretches into infinity, and at the same time, nothing at all.

On top of the cliff, Jaskier’s silhouette stands straight, frozen in place like a statue, or the loneliest painting on earth. Geralt can only see his back, but he can already tell Jaskier is too thin. He doesn’t even stir when Valdo drapes the coat around his shoulders and coaxes him out of the trance.

And then, Jaskier is turning around, cheeks pale and eyes so blue.

Geralt’s world begins and ends at the same time.

Thanks for the prompt my dear! <3 I wonder how many people are team Valdo... Hmm.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #implied depression tw #valdo marx #protective valdo #pining geralt #hurt jaskier #eventual infidelity #cheating #endgame geraskier #requited unrequited love #geralt x jaskier #the coast

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

When It Pulls Me Under (Will You Make Me Stronger?)

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list

From the moment he sees the notice, Geralt is horrified. The description of the man is far too familiar, the details piercing through the thick protective walls he's been building around himself.

There is a group of men gathered around the signboard, picking up flyers and huddling around one in particular. A contract on a man possessed. It sounds like an old wive’s tale and most of the men are surely there to pick up an easy coin on what they think is a drunk roaming the town. Geralt knows better.

Demonic possession isn't common, but he's seen it before. He's fought them and sent them back to the otherworld they come from. Only this time, the man they describe, the one thought to be possessed, is Jaskier. Geralt is certain of it.

It's been months since they've seen each other, but the way they parted, Jaskier's whole demeanour, his expression- if he truly felt the way he looked on the top of that mountain, the way he felt, he'd be much more susceptible to possession.

And it's Geralt's fault.

He shoves through the crowd, grabbing the notice from a gruff-looking man with a black beard. A few of them shout and shove, but when they look up at him, all fall silent. One or two slink away, knowing they're no match for a Witcher, especially in this field, but most of them watch him in stunned silence. They reek of fear, and for once Geralt is glad for it. He doesn't want anyone getting involved and mucking this up. It's been a long time since their parting on the mountain and he can only hope the demon hasn't taken hold of Jaskier completely.

It's rare that Geralt has full faith in any notice or request for a Witcher, but as he folds the paper and tucks it into his jerkin, he's certain.

The request says to speak to the local blacksmith, so that's where Geralt heads first. He doesn't know what to expect, nor is he particularly looking forward to what he'll find, but he needs to know. Jaskier was- is important to him and if he can help in any way, he'll be happy to. Demons can and will eventually take over their host body, leaving the host all but dead, unable to move and think for themself, and Geralt would rather let the thing possess him than let that happen to Jaskier.

The blacksmith says exactly what Geralt was expecting; a foppish, well-dressed man with a bright smile. He'd killed four already in town, and there were rumours of cases in surrounding towns and villages as well. All people betrayed. Like Jaskier was betrayed by him.

He spends the remainder of the day gathering any information he can from the locals and rents a room at the inn. It's more for Jaskier once he's finished than it is for himself, but it gives him someone to keep his things when he's not needing them. And it gives him an excuse for a warm meal and an ale - not that he thinks he deserves either.

Because all of this is his fault. Four people are dead, likely more, and Jaskier risks losing his own life if he's not quick enough - all because Geralt fucked up so many months ago.

He never wanted to push Jaskier away. If anything, after losing Yen, he wanted to bring him closer, hold him closer, know that someone at least was still there for him. But everyone leaves eventually - Yen had only proven that - so why not make it sooner rather than later. Why fall further in love only to have him ripped away later anyway, if not by choice, then by the brutal mortality of a human.

He shakes his head, looks down at his stew, but he's not hungry any longer. Pushing the bowl aside, Geralt empties his mug and rises from the table. He has to get started or he'll lose his mind lingering here, even if there's not much to go off yet. He'll just have to wait.

The last murder took place just at the back of the grain farm, so Geralt sets himself up there, waiting. It's late before there's any sign of anything, and when he does show up, Geralt smells him before he sees him. He stinks of fear and betrayal and loathing and Geralt wants to run so he doesn't have to see the pain on his pace, so he doesn't have to face what he's done. But he knows better now. Jaskier deserves better. And he has a job to do. More people will die if he doesn't take care of this now.

Luckily (or not) Jaskier spots him too, sauntering over like he doesn't have a care in the world. Only Geralt can tell immediately that it's not Jaskier. The movements are too fluid for a human body, the way he holds himself just slightly off.

The demon approaches knowing full well who Geralt is, what he's there for, and it steps right up to him, the smug smirk on its face a mockery.

"Well, Witcher," it says in Jaskier's voice, "didn't expect to see me, did you?"

"You're not him," Geralt says calmly, keeping his voice as steady as he can manage. "You reek of your own plane, I'd know you weren't him in an instant"

"Oh, but I am," it purrs, "your bard is in here... somewhere, but he's sleeping. It's all me now."

Geralt grits his teeth. He knows that isn't true. His medallion trembles against his chest and he can smell the scent of ozone and sulphur but, he knows Jaskier is still in there. He's fought against demons who have completely consumed their host and they aren't like this.

"Get out of him," he warns, knowing full well there's nothing he can do. He needs to bring Jaskier to the surface, needs Jaskier to be the one to push the demon from his body. Any harm Geralt can do risks harm to Jaskier as well.

"I don't think I will," it shrugs. "I like this body. Everyone likes this body. It's so easy to get close to them, to lull them into a sense of security and then-"

"Enough!" Geralt growls, "I know what you've been doing with his body! I'm here to put an end to it."

"Mmm, sure you are. And how do you intend to do that without harming your poor, precious bard?"

He doesn't know. The last time they saw each other, Geralt was furious and Jaskier was... if he had to put a word to it, he'd say he was devastated. The last person he'll want to see is Geralt and without time to find someone he will react to... Geralt doesn't break eye contact. He has to try something.

It's a long shot, even for him, but he mumbles the beginning notes from memory; he's heard them often enough to know the whole damn song by heart. If anything could bring Jaskier back, it's his music.

But he hums a little and there's no response. Again, and there's no response. So he thinks back to a night he spent at a tavern, to a bright-eyed bard with curly blonde hair. She had announced the song as belonging to Jaskier, but Geralt didn't recognize it, but it was emotional. And he understood at once who it was intended for. Clearing his throat, he tries out the words,

"The fairer sex, they often call it-"

The demon laughs and mocks him, but Geralt doesn't relent, singing as much as he can recall from that night. And when he runs out of words, his chest aches and he moves instinctively, reaching out to grab Jaskier's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispers and the body under his hand jolts. It's so brief he would miss it were he human, but it happens, and when he looks up, there's clarity behind those blue eyes, recognition.

"Jaskier!" he exclaims and Jaskier's whole demeanour shifts.

"Geralt?" he asks, groggy, confused.

"Yes! Yes, it's me. Jaskier, are you-" there's a gurgling groan and Jaskier stiffens again.

"I don't think so," the demon's voice comes, taunting and sharp. "You had a chance. You left him, right? Your choice. So he's mine now." There's a choking sound and a growl that could rival that of a wolf and Jaskier's limbs loosen again.

Geralt reaches for him immediately and Jaskier slumps forward into his arms, panting.

"'S hard to fight," he mumbles and Geralt tugs him forward, helps him straighten up.

"How did you do that?" Geralt huffs, meeting Jaskier's eyes again as they stand up straight.

"Heard you," he offers a small smile, "knew you must have come to help. Geralt, I didn't mean to- I didn't want this-"

"I know. Jaskier, I know. It took advantage, it's my fault."

"No, I should have known better than to think you'd-"

Geralt doesn't think before winding his arms around him and pulling Jaskier into a warm embrace. He holds him close and presses his nose into Jaskier's neck.

"Not your fault," he mumbles. "I never wanted you to think you were unwanted, that I didn't care-"

"Geralt," Jaskier says, pulling back out of his arms, "what are you saying?"

Unthinking, Geralt leans forward, catching Jaskier's lips in a desperate kiss. His mouth tastes of sulphur and ash, but he pushes past that, feeling Jaskier soft and real under his hands. He's human, Geralt reminds himself, this can be expelled. And even as Jaskier pulls back again, a look of shock on his face, he seems brighter, his skin a little less pale.

"Geralt," he whispers, "what-" Geralt tips forward, their noses bumping together in the proximity.

"Can you hold it?" he asks. "You broke free from its hold, can you keep that control?"

"It's hard."

"I need you to try," Geralt breathes, shutting his eyes. "I can't help you, Jaskier, you need to expel it yourself."

"How?" he asks, panicky.

"Hold on to something. It was able to take hold because you were weak, right? Because of what I said?

"Geralt-"

"You need to be strong, find something and hold onto that, show it that it has no place in your body any longer. What helped you break free the first time?"

Jaskier suddenly goes very quiet, ducks his head so he's not looking at Geralt.

"I heard your voice," he admits, "and I've been hoping, gods Geralt, I've been so desperate to see you again, to make sure you're okay that nothing has finally-" he cuts himself off and Geralt nods quietly. He understands.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "hold on to me, then. Focus on me, on my hands, on my voice." He kisses him again and Jaskier lets out a soft sound, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck and holding him close.

He kisses him like he's dying for it and Geralt thinks grimly that it's an apt comparison. But he'll take it. He'll do anything to get this thing out of Jaskier, to have Jaskier back at his side like he used to be. To maybe be given a chance for what he really wants.

He puts all of his energy into kissing Jaskier, running his hands over his body, proving to him that he cares, that he's here now even if he hasn't been. That he's coming back to take him away from this darkness. His hands slip under Jaskier's doublet, tangling in the soft linen of his shirt and he clings to him.

Jaskier makes a soft sound and presses forward fitting against him like that's where he belongs and Geralt wants so badly to believe that he does. That all of this can be fixed, after all. Fingers slip into his hair, tugging lightly and Geralt can't help the little groan that escapes him, but it only seems to push Jaskier on.

Jaskier draws back, nipping at Geralt's lip and when he pulls back completely, he's panting, his cheeks flushed and bright with colour.

"How do you feel?" Geralt asks and Jaskier tips forward, brushing his lips against Geralt's neck.

"Good. Stronger than I have in months. Geralt, I have a thought. What if... if you're what I need to fight it off what if you- if we-"

"Anything," Geralt hums, "anything to get it out of you."

Jaskier leans in, pressing his lips to the shell of Geralt's ear. "Fuck me," he whispers and Geralt nearly stumbles at the request.

"Jask-"

"I need you," he whispers, "Geralt, I want you. I've always wanted you and you- you can give me that now and I'll never bother you again, but please."

"Okay," Geralt huffs, "okay, but not because I need to. Jaskier, I... want you, too. That's why I'm here, now."

"Say it again," Jaskier whispers.

"I want you."

"Mmm. Again."

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats, slipping his hands down to the small of his back and tugging him forward, "I love you. I want you. I will do anything to get you free of this thing." He lifts him off his feet and there's no hesitation. It feels like Jaskier's body would appear to anyone else that he's alone in it now, but Geralt knows better. He knows Jaskier can't keep this up forever, that the bond between them is the only thing keeping the demon at bay.

Geralt finds a spot near the treeline and kneels down in a patch of clover. He tugs his cloak off and lays it out as well as he can, spreading it out with one hand before laying Jaskier down on it. It feels somewhat like handling a bomb, afraid that one wrong move could shift Jaskier's control and he could lose him again. Geralt may be what he's clinging to to pull himself back, but he's also the reason Jaskier was so low in the first place. He thinks, briefly, that it's a good thing his emotional stability is not what's keeping Jaskier safe or they'd be fucked.

Jaskier settles himself and reaches up for him, fingers slipping around his neck and Geralt moves over him, dropping onto his elbows. He noses at Jaskier's neck, kissing behind his head and down to the crook of his shoulder, gently lifting his shirt and doublet out of the way as they interfere. His heart is pounding and he's never felt so out of his depth with Jaskier before, but he can't fuck this up. If he fucks this up-

Soft hands come to settle on his face and he's aware of Jaskier's voice, but it's foggy, like a dream. Geralt's body moves as though on its own, working open the clasps on Jaskier's doublet and lifting the shirt up over his head. He runs his fingers through dark chest hair, stopping over a freshly healed scar. It snaps the last of his focus and Geralt curls his hand into a fist, pressed firmly over Jaskier's head.

He doesn't realize he's trembling until Jaskier pushes him up, rolls him onto his side.

"Hey," he breathes, and Geralt's eyes snap up to his. "Hey, it's just me. It's... quiet right now, thanks to you." Jaskier climbs onto him, straddling his thighs, and for a split second, Geralt is terrified he's fucked up, that the demon is in control and this is Jaskier's revenge on him.

But his medallion only lightly shakes against his chest and Jaskier's touch is soft and reassuring. So Geralt steadies himself, allows Jaskier to undress him and tries to focus on the touch of him. But he should be doing more, he should be- He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud until Jaskier interrupts him with a pointed kiss that lingers longer, Geralt suspects, than intended.

"You don't have to do anything," Jaskier breathes against him, "it, er- it's actually better being able to touch you. I- well, Geralt you must know that I've wanted you."

"Yeah..." he replies slowly, "Jaskier, I-

"Shh," Jaskier hums, "if you really think this will help, let's just get rid of this thing first."

Jaskier reaches down with one hand, easily pulling Geralt's trousers open and slipping a hand inside, wrapping around his cock. It feels good and he's thought about this more times than he can remember, but he can't settle, and even Jaskier's hand around him, fingers slipping up the length of him, fails to get him hard. He squirms and bucks, trying to get his body to cooperate, to no avail.

He feels the shift when it happens, like a shudder in the air and he knows Jaskier is slipping. His medallion shakes and Geralt pulls Jaskier's hand from his cock, settling his hands on his sides.

"It's not your fault," he whispers, "it's not you."

"Geralt, you don't have to-"

"I know. I want to, I just- I don't know what's wrong."

"You're in your head," Jaskier says simply, "you're always so... locked up up there. Maybe we shouldn't."

Geralt shuts his eyes and pulls Jaskier against him. Jaskier settles and Geralt pushes one hand up his spine, curling around the back of his neck. The other moves down, following the same line toward his lower back to cup his ass. He pushes Jaskier's hips forward and there's a soft little groan against his neck and he can feel the press of Jaskier's cock, hard against Geralt's hip.

"I still want you," Geralt whispers. The words feel stilted on his tongue, but there isn't time for him to worry about how he sounds or what Jaskier thinks of him because he's not the one at risk here. He reaches into the pouch on his thigh, fumbling with the bottles until he finds the one he's looking for.

There's not a lot of oil left, but it's the only one he has that he would risk putting on Jaskier's skin. Tentatively, he pushes Jaskier's trousers down, slipping his fingers between his cheeks. Jaskier's breath catches and Geralt can hear the thudding of his heartbeat, smell the scent of arousal drifting between them, but he's so worried about fucking this up. Jaskier's life could be in danger if the demon gets hold again.

"Okay?" he asks and Jaskier hums his confirmation into his neck, nosing under his jaw. Geralt hurriedly uncorks the bottle, and slicks his fingers, pushing back again and Jaskier shudders as they brush over his hole. Even Geralt shudders at the touch and he presses forward eagerly.

Jaskier opens for him easily, allowing two fingers inside him quickly. He fumbles to get his trousers undone, letting his cock slip free and peek out, rubbing against Geralt's skin. Pre-come eases the way as he rocks his hips in time with Geralt's fingers and Geralt's cock stirs.

Jaskier shifts, lifting himself to push back onto Geralt's fingers and then settling again so his cock sits alongside Geralt's. His hips twitch hard as Geralt's fingers brush his prostate and Geralt groans at the sensation. He readjusts his own position, shifting his torso so he can press deeper, bumping against his prostate with every thrust.

He keeps a steady pace going, one hand remaining on Jaskier's neck to brace him, even as Jaskier slumps against him, rutting mindlessly and nipping at his neck. He looks beautiful like this, feels incredible, and Geralt should be able to muster more than a twinge of arousal, but all he feels is scared.

Scared that this won't work, that he's taking advantage, that once this is done - if it is successful - Jaskier won't want anything to do with him again. He uses that emotion to push through, fucking into him until Jaskier's thighs shake around him and then, with a quick thrust, Jaskier's coming.

He shakes and shudders, hips jerking erratically and Geralt holds him with one hand, fucking him through it with the other. He's aware of Jaskier whispering in his ear, but he's too focused on the medallion, now shaking violently against his chest.

Then, just as abruptly as it started, it stops and Jaskier slumps.

Geralt holds his breath, withdrawing his hand and wrapping both arms around Jaskier's shoulders. He listens for a pulse, for the sound of breath and for a moment, there's nothing. Geralt shuts his eyes. He doesn't believe in any gods, nor destiny, but he pleads to them now, not to let Jaskier be taken from him, not for his words, not for his mistakes.

Just when Geralt thinks he's lost him, Jaskier inhales sharply against his neck, gives a soft grunt of protest and shifts to get comfortable. He doesn't wake and Geralt doesn't let him go, clinging tightly to him.

Jaskier doesn't wake until late that evening. They're back at the inn and Geralt's had a bath drawn and food brought up for them both, but he hasn't been able to eat. He'd cleaned them both up in the field, dressed Jaskier as well as he could manage and brought him back here. Since then, he's been pacing the room. For hours. When Jaskier stirs, Geralt nearly jumps out of his skin. He's at the bedside in an instant, on his knees next to him.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asks, confused. He's still a little woozy and Geralt doesn't know how much he'll wind up remembering.

"I'm here."

"How did I-" he eyelids flutter a little, "Geralt, did we-"

"Shh, relax. I'll tell you everything after you have a bath and something to eat." He reaches out, resting a hand on Jaskier's chest and Jaskier's hand comes up to cover it, slipping his fingers between Geralt's. His eyes fall shut again.

"You didn't get to come," he mumbles and Geralt huffs a laugh despite himself.

"It doesn't matter," Geralt breathes, leaning in and tentatively laying his head on Jaskier's stomach. "You're okay and that's all that matters." Jaskier's free hand curls around to push his fingers through Geralt's hair and he sighs softly.

"Later then," Jaskier says, "you can join me in the bath and I'll make you come."

#geraskier #demonic possession #monster march #spicy #nsft #rex writes

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dapandapod · 3 years

Text

You bring me colours

Hello and welcome to mean and angsty hours. Today I bring to you a soulmate fic, but it is sad and hurtful.

Thank you my lovely enablers for helping me bringing this to life, despite my very weak protests. Be mindful, my loves, if you are having a bad day you might want to skip this one. It ends happily, do not worry, but the way there is ouchie.

Warnings; Implied character death (real and not real), vauge description of drinking and depression, just, sad in general. A little bit soft too, and hopeful, but mostly sad. Im sorry.

On Ao3 here

Everybody has a soulmate. When your One comes into the world, they bring colors with them. And when they go, so do the colors. Many a poet sings of a world gone gray, of a love unknowingly lost. Because you don’t always meet your one. For some, it is enough to know they are out there. For some, the hunt lasts their entire lifetime. Some lucky few find each other, and some never do, settling in peace anyway.

---

For Vesemir, he had color for almost a century. But a witchers life is rough, and he knows not to seek them out. Not to give hope, not to feel greed. Just gift them with colors as long as he is able. He has an inkling who is His. His One. They must know too, but they never say.

Vesemir sits at the teachers table. It is lively in the hall, the children are laughing and making a mess as children do. They are his pride and his burden. Not all will be allowed to grow up, but he will do his best to give them a fighting chance. He raises his spoon towards his mouth, the soup smelling warm and rich.

The spoon falls with a clatter to the table.

Everything is black and white.

He is in front of everybody. In charge of so many lives. He was gifted with color for such a long time, this was to be expected. But if his One is who he thinks it is, then….

The screaming begins outside. The sacking of Kaer Morhen has begun.

---

Jaskier has always seen color. Always seen the color of the sky, the flowers and the nuances of snow.

When Jaskier is six years old, that changes.

He runs to his mothers, tears streaking down his face. Her dress used to be a bright green, her eyes a rich blue.

“Where did the colours go?” He cries. He knows he is too big to cry, but he is scared and sad.

Mother seems to be sad too. Heartbroken in fact, and she picks him up and holds him close.

After that day, the only color Jaskier can see is yellow. The color of the sun, of buttercups, some cat’s eyes. Of puss, of stains and of age.

There are many ways to die. The old Geralt dies when his knife plunges into Renfri's neck.

Geralt's colors came some years ago. When it happened he didn’t panic. He followed Vesemir's advice and pushed it as far back as he possibly could. It was only a small disappointment that the world didn’t turn grey when Renfri died. Because that is what Geralt felt like.

The colours stay, and he despises them. They glare at him, blaming him for still being there. How can he think he ever deserves happiness?

-----

In Posada, Jaskier finds someone with yellow eyes. They call to him like no other, so he goes. It is the best decision he has ever made, if the most difficult one. But with Geralt around, it is almost as if his memories of colours are springing to life. Sometimes he remembers that poppies are red, that water can be rich blue, and that autumn leaves can look like a fire. The fire he remembers from his past, but around Geralt they are so vivid they almost look real.

His mother told him not to tell. To hold those memories close. She taught him the colors through names and pictures, so that if someone asked, he would know.

Jaskier knows that his lost colours means that his One is dead. Some kind of dead, at least, if the professors are to be believed. If you get to keep a colour, even if it’s just the one, there is a chance. So Jaskier leaps at every chance he gets. He is one of those who chase, and will continue to chase.

----

Geralt is reluctant to Jaskier. Reluctant, because when he is around he is starting to feel alive again. Jaskier pokes and prods and smiles and sings and talks, and it is all Geralt can do to fight it.

---

A hot summer day Geralt finally gives in and they're just being goofy and like wrestling in a river. All the sudden Jaskier can see the color of the grass and he freaks out and scrambles out of the river and just lays down in front of a tuft of grass like 'holy shit geralt look at that.”

The bard is absolutely mesmerized for a moment, but when Geralt comes to look at what caught his attention, before he catches himself. Shit. Geralt can’t know.

So he plays it off, especially when the tuft of grass slowly fades back to grey. There is a lump in his throat, hope so big in his chest he wants to explode. They are out there, his One. They are still here.

---

There are many changes during their travels. Yennefer, for one. It is with her arrival that Jaskier realizes he is in love with Geralt. Deeply, desperately in love with him.

Another change happens on a cold and lonely mountain top. Geralt finally breaks, breaks everything, and Jaskier feels a spark inside himself diminish.

The further away from the mountain he gets, the more muted the world becomes. Even his memories stay out of his reach, as in fear of the pain he feels.

----

The moment Jaskier leaves the mountain, his world goes gray. Things click into place. He closes his eyes against the pain, letting it tear through him, cut him open.

Jaskier was his One.

And he killed him.

---

Geralt doesn’t know why the sky is still blue. He doesn’t understand how Ciris cloak is not grey, her eyes as startling blue as the love he once lost.

He thought he lost Yennefer on Sodden hill, but when he meets her, she is wearing a dress the color of Jaskiers eyes.

He breaks down at her feet, finally crumbling after all this time. He tells her everything, and she wipes his tears with infinite patience. How he deserves that from her, he doesn’t know.

“Why blue?” she asks him. “What relationship do you have with blue?”

And Geralt thinks about it. It is Ciri who finally puts the pieces together. Blue as Jaskiers eyes, he had said. And if you get to keep a colour, even if it’s just the one, there is a chance, or so a bard had told her in her grandmother's ballroom.

---

There are many ways to die. Jaskier is drowning. Drowning in pain and alcohol, sinking to a bottom, looking up at a golden sun. Not even the bright yellow can cheer him up, not when it reminds him so much of Geralt's eyes.

He doesn’t chase anymore. He accepts. Accepts that he will be alone, that nobody wants to be with someone destined for no one.

---

Geralt finds him in a tavern. Geralt walks in, so Jaskier must out. The one thing Geralt asks of him, after all these years. The least he can do is listen.

But Geralt follows him outside. Grabs his arms. Cups his cheeks. Asks for forgiveness. It takes time for Jaskier to register his words, he is deep down, he is drowning. But the sun seems closer now, becking him upwards.

He doesn’t understand why Geralt is here, but his broken heart is held together with Geralt's arms around him.

---

Geralt is scared to tell the bard. After all the pain he caused, how can he possibly make things right.

Geralt does everything he can to get the colours back, but they won’t come. Now that he has had a taste, now that he knows that it was his words, not his hands, that took them, he fights. He won’t make Jaskier follow him anymore. He tries something new.

They walk beside each other, a careful pace forward is set. It takes time, but his colours return. Jaskiers smiles are brighter, his eyes cornflower blue.

Then Jaskier confesses to him, he sees no colours but gold. How he carried it inside all this time, hoping that his One is out there, and Geralt can’t wait any longer.

“I want to give them to you. The colours that you bring to me, I want to give back to you.”

And he tries. Everyday he tries. And Jaskier holds his hand all the while.

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twiistedgalaxies · 3 years

Text

Three Times Jaskier Didn’t Seem Quite Human

(And one time Geralt asked too many questions.)

“Jaskier isn’t human,” Yennefer stated bluntly, swishing a wine glass in her right hand.

Geralt blinked, “What?” This gave Yennefer pause. She knew that her on and off again lover was oblivious, but she hadn’t realized it was quite to this extent. Jaskier gave her a pained, pleading look from the other end of the table. She ignored him.

“You seriously haven’t noticed?” she continued with a huff.

“...No?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together in confusion. The nerve of these idiots. Yennefer had half a mind to just state the obvious, to keep these two from continuing to dance around the subject, possibly until the end of time.

But it was much more fun to gently direct Geralt to the answer and watch his bard squirm. Yennefer took a sip of her wine, mentally cursing her high alcohol tolerance, “You’ve been travelling with the man for decades,” Geralt’s face was blank, the puzzle pieces not fitting into place, “He hasn’t aged, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he protested, though from the way his eyes shifted towards his companion he was clearly thinking it over. If they were not at such a high profile party Yennefer would have strangled him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was at that exact moment that Jaskier decided to pick up his lute and perform for the crowd - granted, it was what he had been invited to do, but Yennefer sent him a withering glare anyways. She was met with a cheeky wink. Oh if looks could kill.

“I could prove it to you, you know? A few well placed detection spells and-”

Geralt shook his head, “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

“You two are hopeless,” Yennefer sighed.

-@~*^*~@-

It had been after a particularly difficult hunt, when Jaskier had to dress his companion’s wounds for the umpteenth time. Geralt sat upon a stool in the center of their tiny room at the inn. He looked more irritated than usual as Jaskier gave him what was essentially a sponge bath around where a kikimore had stabbed his shoulder with one of it’s spindly arms. Jaskier winced, it was too close to important organs for comfort. Humming as he worked, Jaskier tried to stitch shut what he could and thoroughly bandage the rest. The wolf medallion on Geralt’s chest thrummed contentedly each time the bard’s delicate hands drew near.

“Where did you learn?” he asked suddenly, his gruff voice cutting through the peaceful quiet.

“Hm?” Jaskier hummed, ignoring the Witcher’s grunt of pain as he applied one of his many salves to his shoulder, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear.”

“The salves, the stitching, all of it,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at that, but Geralt continued, “It’s a very odd skill for a bard to have.”

A laugh, Geralt had to bite back a hiss as Jaskier’s touches grew less gentle. He clearly wanted him to drop it. “What? Do you think that I was helpless before you came along with your bulging muscles and witchery glares?”

The witcher shook his head, silver hair sending droplets of water in the air, “No it’s not that,” the bard had certainly proved capable and skilled many times over, “It’s just, were you a healer before you became a bard?”

Jaskier froze, seemingly caught in a memory, “Something like that,” he began to bandage Geralt’s shoulder, “This kikimore did quite the number on you, didn’t it?”

Geralt gave him a look of disbelief because obviously.

“Come on, come on, give me the details, I can’t write my ballads off of just grunts and intrusive questions now can I?”

-@~*^*~@-

Jaskier had tagged along on what was supposed to be a minor contract. Nilfgaard had stormed a small town, leaving destruction and countless corpses in their wake. Corpses that were perfect for every Alghoul in a three mile radius.

He and Geralt were engaged in their usual banter (which consisted mostly of Jaskier rambling about whatever was on his mind, punctuated with the occasional grunt from his witcher), when a sudden, piercing screech rang through the air. It was high pitched, shrill, and caused Jaskier to clutch his head as he let out a groan of pain.

Meanwhile, Geralt immediately leapt into action, drawing his silver sword as a pack of the necrophages surrounded them. He was able to take out several, his sword and the ghouls creating a smooth, gory dance. It all seemed to be going well before an Alghoul caught Geralt off guard, leaping onto his back while extending its spines. This sent Geralt off balance, and he was quickly overwhelmed. His sword got knocked out of his hands in the scuffle and he thought that this, however stupid it may be, would be what would kill him.

A cry of rage. Slashing, tearing. Suddenly the weight that was dragging Geralt to the ground grew lighter. He felt something wet and sticky. Geralt looked up to see Jaskier standing over him, holding Geralt’s silver sword, out of breath, and covered in Alghoul viscera.

The bard looked down at himself, annoyance on his admittedly handsome features, “That was my favorite tunic too!” The tunic in question, once baby blue (like his eyes which were now flashing gold, what the fuck?) was now stained red and black. Jaskier brushed a bit of entrails off his shoulder, visibly disgusted.

“Huh?” Geralt said, intelligently.

-@~*^*~@-

The pair was making their way north, Jaskier strumming on his lute and Geralt sat atop Roach. The dirt road was a tunnel bordered by a wall of towering trees, whose orange and red canopies blocked out the sun, casting the duo in dappled shade.

Jaskier strummed a few chords in the major key, before he spoke, “Geralt, are you doing alright?” His face was soft and forget-me-not eyes distant like they often grew when he was lost in thought. Geralt shot him a confused look. “It’s just that, you’ve seemed rather distracted lately.”

“Hm?”

“I,” Jaskier sighed, collecting himself, “It’s just with the kikimore and the alghouls, and just last week when you forgot your potions in Roach’s saddlebags. I’ve never seen you get like this before, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Geralt replied, gaze sliding to anywhere but his bard.

Jaskier reached up, intertwining his lithe fingers with Geralt’s own, “I’m worried about you, Love.”

Geralt huffed, he could never resist the man’s pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes, “Yen and I had a conversation at that party a few months ago.”

He felt the bard tense, “Is that so?” There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. Jaskier must have realized Geralt, man of few words that he is, wasn’t going to elaborate any further, so he spoke, “What did you two talk about?”

“She said you aren’t human and I just thought about it more and… it makes too much sense,” Geralt began, feeling awkward as he tried to find the words to explain, “The way you don’t age, your medical knowledge (even of witcher potions!), how you know your way around a sword and how your eyes gleamed-”

“Geralt, as you know I have an impeccable skincare routine and-”

He frowned, “Don’t give me that shit, bard.”

Jaskier sighed, “You really want to know?” A nod. “Okay, well, here goes nothing.” The bard let go of the witcher’s hand, and pulled off a golden ring that, now that Geralt thought about it, he had never seen the man without. A shimmer fell over the bard’s body, like a statue being unveiled. The first thing Geralt noticed was his eyes, they were a sickening, piercing yellow. His face was marred by countless scars, from claws, burns, knives, and magic. Jaskier’s build underneath the glamour more closely resembled Geralt’s, though he retained his shorter stature. The bard smiled sardonically at the witcher’s shocked expression, “Like what you see?”

Geralt’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, “How?”

“You’d probably know me better as Julian,” Jaskier’s eyes got that distant look to them again, his face was downcast, an unusual expression for someone who typically embodied sunshine, “I was in the Griffin school, before we were attacked,” a joyless laugh, “I had never wanted to be a witcher, ya know? Wasn’t cut out for it. But my father, Viscount Pankratz himself, couldn’t pay a witcher for his contract, so he offered me up instead. I failed as a noble, so maybe I wouldn’t fail as a witcher. He was wrong, of course, I spent most of my time writing poems instead of studying Signs. Singing instead of sparring. After the trials I spent a few years on the path before I grew sick of it and returned to Kaer Seren.”

Geralt hummed, encouraging Jaskier to continue.

“I was made to look after the students, I had to patch up their wounds and keep them from blowing themselves up with alchemy. I loved the little rascals, which is why..” Jaskier trailed off, fingers tracing the grooves in his lute.

“It’s okay,” Geralt said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He shook his head hurriedly, “No, no I want to, I have to,” his voice cracked, “I left after the trials killed them. All of them. I couldn’t bear to be a part of it. A part of everything. So I ran, like a coward,” He spat out that last word like a curse.

The pair stopped. Geralt placed his gloved hand on the bard’s shoulder, a rare gesture of affection and reassurance.

“Eventually, I found a mage and spent my life’s savings on a well-made glamour and the lute the elves at Posada so lovingly destroyed. It wasn’t until I had graduated from Oxenfurt that I found out what happened in Kaer Seren.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asked, his voice gentle.

Jaskier’s face flushed red with shame, “I was afraid. Afraid of what you would think of me. That you’d hate me.”

Geralt frowned, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

At that, Jaskier laughed, “Just look at me! I’m an ugly fuck-up.”

“No,” Geralt said resolutely.

“Huh?”

“I said no. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? Made long nights on the path easier to bear? I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you,” Geralt continued, looking Jaskier directly in the eyes. He didn’t reply to that, just slipped his ring back on and hugged his arms to his chest.

The rest of the day’s journey was spent in silence.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing feedback. I had one hell of a time writing this, I originally had only written the first scene, and it took a few months for my single window's screensaver brain cell to finally hit a corner and figure out how to continue and finish the story.

Ao3

#The Witcher #The Witcher netflix #the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #fic #ao3 #ff.net #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher!jaskier #feral jaskier #yennefer #dandelion #netflix #non-human jaskier

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