#because hope is blooming in his chest that maybe jaskier will SEE him. maybe jaskier will understand. maybe jaskier CLULD come to love him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

restmyheadatnightcontent · 2 years

Text

4. nightmares

bit late to the party but here is my first work for @febuwhump this year!

this is very sad and angsty and i’m sorry

the witcher | jaskier | implied geraskier & yennskier | 1497 words

cw: torture, violence, child abuse, nightmares

______

He is back in the chair again.

The ropes are tight around his wrists and the wood hard against his back and the draught from the door chills his skin once again.

It usually it plays out the same way, as it did in Oxenfurt all that time ago, the fire fucker will be there asking his questions and clicking his fingers, that damned flame flickering in the darkness coming ever closer, until there is nothing but the pain.

Fire consumes the soul, he had said and in the dream the fire gets bigger and bigger, and hotter and hotter, until every part of him is burning and it feels like his very soul has caught alight.

It isn’t always Rience’s face he sees.

Sometimes it is his father, and he is not armed with fire but a simple belt in his hands, the same belt that young Julian feared so much. This is not how boys should behave, Julian he taunts and suddenly he is Julian all over again, nothing more than a child trembling in a doublet that is buttoned too tight trying desperately to find the right words that will mean his father will just leave him alone.

Sometimes it is Yennefer, this time not as his saviour but as his tormentor. He had heard about Sodden, how she had burned it all, the fire bursting forth from her fingertips and whilst in the day he marvels at her bravery, at night it is nothing but fuel for his nightmares.

You’re nothing but a bard, what can you offer the world but silly tunes with empty words? she taunts him. Gone is the Yennefer he has grown to know and, dare he even say care about, and in her place stands the fierce mage he knows she can be. Gone is the woman who had bared her heart and shared her fears with him, the woman who had faced Rience with nothing but foolish courage and a bottle. Gone is the tender figure he has seen helping Ciri with her magic, getting a chance to have everything she thought she had been denied. Gone is the person he has seen quietly and determinedly let down her walls and put herself back together again, piece by piece.n

Here, in his mind, she is everything the cold-hearted witch he once believed her to be, and her fire consumes him.

Sometimes it is the other Witchers, some men whose names he never even learnt but he saw torn limb from limb as they fought desperately to protect their home, their family. You don’t belong here, they say. You brought them to us, you brought her to us, you killed us, they sneer. He watches as their hands move in a familiar way and the flames are there again.

Igni, his cursed brain supplies and then he burns again.

Sometimes it is Ciri, the Witcher princess who looks on him with such disdain and distrust. Whilst he only saw a glimpse of her true power during the basilisk battle, and a few glimpses of the lessons she has had, but in his dreams the force of her power is so almighty, there is nothing he can do but watch as she screams and screams, the sound reverberating inside his very skull, twisting him from the inside out.

Sometimes it is Geralt, he storms through the door, sword in hand and for a moment a flash of hope blooms in his chest because Geralt is here, Geralt will save him, that he is finally forgiven for his mistakes and he can stop singing his songs, written in a fit of anger that twist the dagger in his heart a little deeper every time he plays them. Maybe this time, he will be saved.

Maybe this time there will be no more fire.

I need your help, his Geralt had said and Jaskier had foolishly believed him and followed him up a mountain headfirst towards the danger just like he always had, hopeful that this time he could make a difference, tell a story that really mattered.

But just as quickly as it had bloomed, the hope wilts.

I don’t need you, the Geralt in his nightmares says, voice colder and harsher than Jaskier has ever heard it. I never needed you. I never wanted you, and the words burn him as much as the fire, scorching lines across his already broken heart. The golden eyes that used to look upon him fondly are now filled with nothing but hatred. I have my family now, and you play no part in it, he says and Jaskier is briefly out of his chair, back on that mountain with the wind rushing around him hearing distant calls about shovelling shit and if life could give me one blessing.

Before the fire comes, Jaskier feels his heart shatter all over again as he stares into the eyes of the man who claimed his heart all those years ago toss it away so carelessly.

And he burns.

Sometimes, like tonight, he lives it all as though its happening now, but there are nights when he is just an observer trapped in the corner, just an audience member to the tragedy that he knows will unfurl before him. He wonders which is worse – nights like this when he knows that this is nothing more than a memory, having to watch it happen all over again whist stuck helpless in the corner, as though trapped behind a glass wall, unable to do anything but watch himself pathetically whimper and plead for the mage to stop, knowing that he won’t, hearing his own screams echo off the empty walls endlessly until he finally wakes up. Or if it is worse, experiencing it for the first time all over again, not knowing what is going to happen but just knowing that it will hurt.

He could recite the story from memory now: himself bound and helpless in the chair as he watches Rience comes out of the darkness, his flame already lit. The whispered questions echo in his mind – where is the Witcher? Where is the girl? What do you know? What will it take for you to tell me?

And then his hands are burning, and he is begging for it to stop and he screams again and again I don’t know, please, I don’t know anything, he never told me anything but Rience doesn’t listen. He just keeps smiling as the flame grows hotter.

And he hates this moment the most – the one where he realises that no-one is coming.

That he is alone, and he will most likely die alone.

No-one will come for him, and that realisation knocks the air from his lungs like a punch, as he condemns himself to the fate that now awaits him.

Sometimes, he breaks, and he hates himself for it.

The words pour out of him, flowing too easily, and he can only cry as he tells the mage everything he wants to hear knowing that he has just led all those he ever cared about straight to their deaths.

Sometimes, he holds out until the fire wins and the last words he hears are who will know?

Who will care?

And he has no answer for that, and just hands himself over to the pain.

And just like that it is over.

He is back in the bed that he daren’t call his because that would mean he is staying which he will not do, not when he is so clearly unwanted, sat up desperately gasping for breath like a man drowning, drowning in guilt and shame and smoke and fear. He frantically checks his hands, expecting to see the wounds as fresh as they were mere seconds ago in his mind, but he finds nothing but the faded scars, the only trace of that night left on him. He doesn’t look too closely at the shadows, because although now he knows he is safe, the fear is still running through his veins.

He takes a breath, and tries to settle himself.

He is awake, again.

Rience is gone, the fire is gone, and he is safe, however temporarily.

He is safe.

And he is alone.

Again.

No-one will come to check on him, he has learnt by now. He tried to choose a room that was out of the way, so as not to be a nuisance, and he doubts that even if anyone does hear his cries, they will not come to him.

He is not the only one with nightmares, he is not the only one hurting.

He is just a stranger here, and strangers do not get comfort

And so he does the only thing he can think of, the thing he does every time he wakes and the only thing that seems to calm his trembling hands and his trembling nerves.

He grabs the bottle and takes a drink.

#febuwhump #febuwhump2022 #febuwhumpday4 #the witcher #jaskier #geralt #yennefer #ciri #rest writes #the witcher fic

28 notes · View notes

wherethewordsare · 3 years

Text

Sign Sealed and Delivered

Part 2 to This Fic Here

It had been easy for Jaskier really. There were so few people in the world that he had truly trusted, but giving Geralt his cloak had felt as natural as breathing. He knew what his clan would say if they knew, the traditions that he was breaking by giving his cloak so freely to not just a land walker, but a witcher, a monster hunter, would have been beyond scandal. He just hoped that some part of Geralt didn’t realize what Jaskier had truly done.

It wasn’t every day you asked a witcher to accept a betrothal pact.

He had never felt safer though once Geralt held his cloak, knowing that as long as he lived, the cloak would be kept safe. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the way Geralt had asked him to return to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter.

“I want to keep it there. I don’t feel right traveling with it. What if something were to happen? You’d be at risk as long as I was?” There was a worry to the crease of his brow that softened Jaskier to near puddy. “But I want you to know that it’s safe. It only makes sense that you come with me.”

“Of course I know it’ll be safe, dear heart, that’s why I gave it to you,” Jaskier laughed, hoping that the heat he felt in his face wasn’t showing too much.

“Please?” Geralt asked softly. His hand twitched on his thigh as they sat by the fire, the autumn settling in around them.

Jaskier looked over and nearly lost his breath. Golden eyes stared back at him with a warmth he hadn’t been expecting. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come with you.”

That was how Jaskier found himself following his witcher up into the mountains as the first frosts clung to their bedrolls each morning. After the first particularly cold night, Jaskier woke up to find Geralt slipping into his bedroll and wrapping an arm around him.

“‘S cold, and it’s only going to get colder,” was his only explanation as he settled in against Jaskier’s back. It made sense to stay together for warmth and it wouldn’t be the first time but something felt different about this time that Jaskier couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Geralt’s hand splayed over his ribs like he wanted to keep him safe. Maybe it was the way his cold nose buried into Jaskier’s nape.

It became a routine quickly for them to share a bedroll, to walk a bit closer along the path up, for Geralt to give small reassuring touches to Jaskier’s arm or the small of his back when the ground grew uneven.

Once Jaskier’s feet found a patch of ice before his eyes could and he would have been flung down into the slush of mud had Geralt not grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close. They stood like that for a moment, Geralt looking particularly smug and ready to say something to match the mischief in his eyes.

“Not a word, witcher, or so help me, only one of us is making it to this keep of yours,” Jaskier sniffed, righting himself though Geralt still had yet to let go.

“Hmm.” Geralt kept his council but still smirked as they continued their way. He hadn’t mounted Roach once since they had set off, keeping beside Jaskier the entire trek. He pointed out species of trees and roots that only grew on the mountain, ones that he used for certain potions, ones Eskel used for cooking, and ones Lambert used for other purposes that made him scrunch his nose.

“We have narcotics in Oxenfurt, Geralt. I’m not some naive village waif you’ve picked up along the way,” Jaskier only laughed when Geralt shot him a look. “Oh please, Remember when you picked me up just outside of Foam that one year and I stuffed myself on those rolls from the market?”

Geralt stopped walking, looking around him as if he had just noticed where he was. “This was a mistake. I realize you and Lambert should never meet. I won’t survive the winter.” He looked almost forlorn though the corners of his mouth tilted slightly.

“Sorry, was that a joke? Are you making jokes right now? Who is this? Where is my Geralt, hmm?” Jaskier was still laughing though fairly winded as they hiked the steep incline. But then Geralt was looking at him, his eyes soft and the smile almost fond.

“Your Geralt, hmm?” He took a long stride ahead of Jaskier before reaching back and offering him a hand up. Roach was wandering up the hill slightly ahead of them, sure of the path she was taking.

Jaskier snorted, looking away. He felt caught somehow though, as a selkie, he had already given himself away if Geralt knew. Did Geralt know? There was no way he could know. Selkies weren’t exactly common anymore, and on top of that, they made a habit of staying clear of land usually.

After that, they had found it hard to keep a conversation going. Jaskier had been surprised to find that Geralt became such a conversationalist. He wondered if it had to do with them getting closer and closer to his home. When they finally arrived Geralt looked at him, almost grinning before walking down the slope. He must have seen someone Jaskier couldn’t because he was shouting for someone.

Another witcher appeared. “Well, pretty boy, finally made-” The witcher stopped, looking at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow disappearing into his dark hair. “Well, hello there. Geralt didn’t mention his bard was-” he didn’t get to finish the statement as Geralt’s fist connected with his stomach.

“Good to see another year hasn’t done anything about that mouth, Lambert,” Geralt grumbled as Lambert heaved, still bent over. It suddenly dawned on Jaskier that that time outside of Posada, Geralt may have held back some.

“Leave off of him, Geralt. He’s just mad his cat isn’t here.” Another witcher appeared at the gate, a series of scars across his face.

It happened so quickly. One second the three of them were standing there, nearly perfectly still, the next there was a brawl spilling out into the courtyard beyond them. There were curses and fists thrown in every direction. Jaskier simply looked at Roach who laid her ears flat and huffed, otherwise unbothered.

“What have I walked into, Roachie girl?” He looked around and could make out the stable. “I think this might take a moment. Let’s get you seen to.”

Jaskier led Roach away from the courtyard and into the stable, finding a clean stall for her alongside three other horses. Looking around he noticed that there had been room enough for many more but otherwise, the stables were empty.

“I guess when there aren’t many witcher’s left, there isn’t need for witcher steeds, hmm?” He said softly, undoing her tack. He had watched Geralt do this enough times that it was easy to get her settled though she would nip at him unless he bribed her. “You can’t keep doing this to me. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“You do that by yourself, plenty, Bard.” Geralt deadpanned from the door. “Move over, you’ve missed a good portion of her flank.” He took the brush from Jaskier but didn’t push him away, letting him stay in the small space. His face was a mess of mud and blood and marks.

“You win?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so, but the season has just started. I’ll get Eskel back,” He mused, brushing down Roach. She knew better than to nip at him for sugar. Jaskier gave her some anyways.

“Got to stop spoiling her, Jask,” Geralt sighed but he didn’t make an effort to stop him. He picked up their bags, carefully slinging the one with Jaskier’s cloak in it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you-” He licked his lips and looked down for a moment. “Come on.”

Jaskier followed him, his eyes not being able to take in enough at once. The hall though in a state of disrepair still held the ghosts of its grandeur. They went in near silence, Geralt only turning every so often to make sure Jaskier was still following. There had been a handful of times when he had to stop to wait for him. The walls were nearly a maze, and the stairs didn’t seem to have a rhythm or reason to them. After several flights, they stopped outside a large door and Geralt set their bags down.

“If you don’t want to stay here, I can find somewhere else. I just thought since-” He didn’t say anything else, pushing the door open slowly and sliding in before Jaskier. He stepped back to let Jaskier look around, taking in the simple four poster bed, the little bit of furniture, the large bay window that looked out over the mountains.

On the mantle a few small personal objects made up the only decoration of the place. It took him a moment but Jaskier recognized a few of them. There was the small wood carved wolf’s head he had given Geralt during a festival years ago, an ornate flask that Geralt said wasn’t practical but apparently hadn’t tossed away like Jaskier had suspected. There was a pressed flower laying on a book, the bright blue of the bloom faded slightly but Jaskier thought it looked familiar.

“This is your room,” he realized, whirling around and taking in the large bed again and Geralt still standing by the door. He hadn’t set his bags down just yet, watching Jaskier.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“You want me to stay here, in your room,” Jaskier’s heart pounded against his ribs so hard he knew Geralt could hear it.

“Yes,” Geralt looked down, frowning.

“With you?” It was too much to hope for but he had to hear it.

“There’s another room down the hall if you would rather. You don’t need-”

“I’d love to, Geralt. I mean, stay here. With you, if you’d-” something bubbled up in his chest, light and floating like sea foam. The room already tasted like him. “If you’d have me, of course.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, only set his bags down finally and began to unpack. Jaskier made himself comfortable on the bed, watching as potions and clothes made their way to where they belonged. Their kettle and pots were hung by the hearth and Jaskier’s things seemed to be put away along side Geralt’s. The last bag was placed beside Jaskier and he knew what was in it.

“I could keep it here, if this is where you think it would be safest,” Geralt almost whispered. His thighs were pressed against the bed and he hovered over Jaskier slightly.

Jaskier bit his lip, knowing full well that laughing was not the response here. He reached up tentatively, his hand wrapping around Geralt’s wrist as he slowly pulled him down. He kept his fingers loose so as to not make the witcher feel trapped. “Geralt,” he said softly, shifting up on his knees, they were nearly chest to chest now. “I know I’m safest where you are.”

He let Geralt close the distance between them, his mouth slotting against Jaskier’s in a firm line, crowding him back onto the bed. Jaskier let himself be maneuvered, the laughter he had been holding back spilling over, bright and warm and safe as Geralt wrapped his arms around him.

The mattress wasn’t the most comfortable and the furs needed airing out and they both still had weeks of travel clinging to their clothes but Geralt was kissing him breathless and the ache he had been carrying for well over a decade finally slipped away from his chest.

Finally Geralt pulled away, his hand sliding up to trace along Jaskier’s brow, fingers brushing back his fringe. “I’m going to earn that trust, over and over,” his arm still around Jaskier’s middle gave him a light squeeze and he dipped down to press another kiss to his face before sliding out of his arms again.

Jaskier made an indignant sound in protest which only made the witcher chuckle. “Oh no, you don’t! Years I’ve been waiting for this! Where do you think you’re going?” He groused, reaching for Geralt again.

“Dinner,” Geralt hummed smugly.

At the mention of food, Jaskier’s stomach growled and he flopped back into the pillows with a groan.

“Come on, I got to tell the others I came home with a seal-wife.”

Geralt caught the pillow that came flying at the back of his head with very little effort and it only made Jaskier more petulant as he tried to burrow down into the musty furs. “Go to land, Jaskier, it’ll be fun, Jaskier. Fall for an ass hole of a witcher, Jaskier,” he muttered but he couldn’t help the smile that was threatening to split his cheeks.

There would be time enough for the other things he wanted. For now, Jaskier could sit through dinner with witchers and know that he was safe and wanted but still free.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #selkie jaskier #jaskier #fluff #going to kaer morhen #getting together #marriage proposal #Jay Writes #long fic

183 notes · View notes

pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

Thicker Than Water (Part 6)

lPart 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, (here) Part 7, Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

TW for hypothermia, illness, talk of self-isolating behavior, mention of Yennefer’s self harm scars.

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

The trek to Kaer Morhen was a penance, and that was just getting from the city to the base of the path that the witchers called ‘The Killer’. Autumn was truly giving way to winter now and fine flurries came down with more ferocity than was warranted from a few snowflakes.

They were all on foot, Roach pulling the cart with their supplies. As they advanced up the trail Ciri and probably Jaskier would sit in the cart. The path was called killer for a reason, it could kill witchers. For now, though, they let Roach rest as much as she could. It would be a tough climb for her as well, and whenever they stopped Geralt gave her extra brushing down and treats.

Geralt...hm. Well, since Jaskier had snapped at him back in the city their relationship, already tense as a bowstring, had gotten worse. They didn’t snap at each other, but tiptoed instead, walking on eggshells. Jaskier was waiting, had half expected Geralt to cast him aside again, or to gripe about Jaskier’s uselessness. Instead the witcher walked around like he’d been kicked.

He was always looking at Jaskier though, glancing at him with that piercing, penetrating gaze. He was examining the bard for something, but for what, Jaskier didn’t know. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to let Geralt have the satisfaction of seeing it. He kept walking, head up, eyes straight ahead. He didn’t complain. He barely spoke. Making himself as unlikely a target for Geralt’s ire as possible.

That was the odd thing though. Geralt didn’t seem to have much ire, per say. It was almost an overbearing sort of concern. Jaskier tried to make it fit in his head, there was something there, Geralt’s anger at Jaskier for sleeping with the innkeeper, the care with which he’d carried Jaskier into town, this awkward caution. It meant something. In his heart Jaskier knew what he hoped it meant. He couldn’t trust his heart with this though, he needed to use his head. There was a disconnect between Geralt’s words and his actions. Between the mountain and now. He needed to use his head.

His head was aching.

Jaskier really barely could think, much less work out the complexities of Geralt’s character. His chest ached. That little, half-ache had taken root in his lungs and bloomed into a great, heaving flower. He was coughing now, which he was trying to hide, he knew, without much success. The cough had started dry and grating, but had progressed to a hacking wetness. It would have been bad enough, but it was upsetting Ciri. Jaskier wouldn’t go within six feet of her, for fear of making her sick too. Her big, grass green eyes watched him almost as consistently as Geralt did, and she was picking up the little crease between her brow as well. Sometimes, when a particularly vicious cough made him double over her lip trembled, and that was a special sort of torture. Yennefer kept giving him tea, too, which was a weirdly kind, somewhat pitying gesture.

“I’m not good at healing,” she grouched at him from across their campfire the first evening on The Killer.

Jaskier shrugged. “’s fine,” he said, taking another hesitant sip of the tea. It was herbal, not in the way that mint was herbal, but the way that a handful of leaves and moss tasted herbal.

“Mh,” Yennefer said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It’s one of those things you have to specialize in, magical healing. Magic heals magic injuries best, anyway.”

“I’m okay,” Jaskier said, fully aware that he wasn’t, but glad that Ciri and Geralt had gone to fetch more wood so he wouldn’t have the big witcher sniffing out his lie.

“You need a healer.” Yennefer skewered him with her gaze, purple meeting blue like a lightning storm. “You’re sick.”

“I don’t see why it should bother you.”

Yennefer sighed and stood up, grabbing the kettle from the fire. She poured herself a mug of the tea and sat down with it next to Jaskier. After a brief examination she drank it, then winced. “Eugh. It bothers me because we’re friends.”

“We are not.”

“Eh, well, Geralt screwed me over, he screwed you over, the enemy of my enemy...”

“Geralt isn’t my enemy--”

“Could’ve fooled me with that shouting match back in town.”

“Anyway he screwed you over more...literally.”

Yennefer looked at him, a little smirk on her lips. “Is that what this is about? That I slept with Geralt?” She looked at Jaskier, squinting at him as he studiously examined his tea. “No, that isn’t it,” she decided. “You aren’t upset he slept with me, you’re upset he never slept with you.”

“I’m upset that he decided he loves you!” Jaskier shouted, unable to take the prodding. He regretted it as it kickstarted a coughing fit that made him double over. He spat out some phlem and straightened up in time to see Yennefer’s grimace.

“He decided he loves you,” Jaskier said, panting a little. “After only just meeting you. He decided he couldn’t live without you in his life, so he bound you with that djinn to keep you safe. And that sucks for you, it does, and he shouldn’t have done it. Melitele knows the man never thinks things through, it’s just...”

Jaskier looked into the fire and Yennefer waited.

“He barely knew you and he couldn’t bear to be without you. I spent two decades at his side and he’s never called me a friend.” He scoffed ruefully. “Called me a shit shoveler though.”

Yennefer nodded. “I heard.”

“You did?”

“I hadn’t gone that far when, well...you’re a pain in the ass, bard, but you didn’t deserve that. Men like Geralt...” she twisted the mug in her hands, turning it round and round and Jaskier saw flashes of scarred skin at her wrists. “People like Geralt and I,” she continued. “We pull at our safety ropes until they come undone. It’s just how we are. We were hurt so much, so long, that when we hurt we reach out and undo any ties that could help us.”

Jaskier was at a loss, so he bumped his shoulder against Yennefer’s. “You’re so much more fashionable about it though.”

Yen smirked and returned the shoulder bump. “Definitely. Geralt though, he cut all his safety ropes that day.” She didn’t have to specify which day. “I cut mine first though. I didn’t want him romantically, not really. It’s djinn magic, he’s not my lover, and I can’t fix him and I don’t want him to fix me.”

“Fix him?”

“I think people like Geralt and I can heal, but we can’t heal eachother. Ciri helps. I’m a mom to her, you know? She called me Mama the other day when she was really sleepy and it felt...” Yennefer trailed off, then she looked over at Jaskier.

“I don’t love him, not like you do, and he doesn’t love me. But I’m not good with these things, and I can’t help you two fix what he broke that day. More than that, I won’t. It’s not my job to fix you two, or to deal with your problems for you, and if you two can’t communicate on your own then maybe you shouldn’t at all.”

“I communicated,” Jaskier said. “Twenty years. I thought those were the best years of my life, and I gave them to him, and did all the communicating. I’m not doing anymore. If I’m not...” Jaskier was ashamed to find a lump in his throat. “If I’m not a curse and a burden to him then he has to tell me, has to say it, because I can’t keep going if his words are just going to contradict his actions.”

“Good,” Yennefer said, standing and pouring her tea out onto the ground. “Don’t. Make him communicate. It’s up to him. And to make it be up to him, that’s up to you. He has words. If he can use them to hurt you then he can use them to heal. Don’t give in.”

It seemed that portion of the conversation was over because Yen began setting up her magic tent. “You’ll sleep in here tonight. The cold isn’t doing you any good.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Can’t. I could make Ciri sick.”

Yennefer sighed again. “You’re right, of course, but you’ll sleep in Geralt’s tent. He can’t get sick and he’s a walking heater.”

Jaskier was about to protest when his lungs heaved again and he began coughing. The force was so great he swore he felt his ribs creak. Despite all the mucus his throat felt torn and raw. He dragged air back into his lungs then spat. Blood came out.

Of course, that was the moment Ciri and Geralt returned from getting firewood.

Ciri gasped, eyes wide, and Geralt dropped the armful of logs he was holding. They scattered but the witcher paid them no heed as he advanced towards Jaskier, stepping over the rolling wood. Geralt gripped Jaskier’s face and tilted his head back, holding his mouth open.

Jaskier wondered what he could see with his witcher-enhanced eyes.

“Throat’s raw,” Geralt grunted after an awkward moment of peering into Jaskier’s mouth. “Probably nothing internal.”

Geralt wiped the blood from the corner of the bard’s mouth with his rough leather glove, then he peeled off his glove and pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier just leaned in to the warmth of Geralt’s palm, but it was obviously chilled, the temperature of a normal human, not the furnace heat Geralt normally held.

Geralt frowned and stepped closer, taking his hand away and pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s forehead instead. It was a gesture that Jaskier’s nursemaid had sometimes done, an easier way to check for fever if one’s hands were too cold to tell. He wished he could linger there, in the warmth of Geralt, so close, with his cloak still smelling of the pine forest all around them and the copper-sharp scent of snow as well.

“Fever,” Geralt grunted.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, eyes filling.

Jaskier pulled away and bowed theatrically, ignoring his aching joints’ many protests. “Never fear little princess,” he said. “’twould take more than a fever to best the bard Jaskier.”

Ciri didn’t giggle, but at least she didn’t begin to cry.

That night Jaskier and Geralt tucked in together, sharing not just a tent but a bedroll. Geralt had turned onto his side and pulled Jaskier in so that his face pressed to Geralt’s collarbone and he was surrounded by the witcher. It was as if Geralt was shielding him with his body, protecting him from an enemy, but that enemy was inside Jaskier already, and he could feel the fever burning through him, even as he relished the warmth.

His mind drifted to other times. Days and nights when coin had been tight and they’d shared beds, shared meals. They’d shared lives for so long, orbiting around eachother. Geralt like some bright planet and Jaskier his moon. He ached for it to be like that again, but he couldn’t do it alone, Geralt had to be part of it too, had to want that life to exist, not just allow it to happen.

The next day dawned white. Snow had fallen and continued to do so, the little flurries of before now a full snowstorm that whipped and raged. Geralt loaded a pack full of supplies onto his back to lighten Roach’s load, then they set off.

Ciri and Jaskier walked as long as they could, but the wind beat them back. Yennefer was struggling too, pushing magic in front of her so that the snow buffeted off of it, streaming around her and making the walking easier, but Jaskier could tell it drained her, and her shield flickered sometimes.

Ciri stumbled once, around mid morning, and Geralt picked her up by the back of her cloak, scruffing her like a kitten. He patted some snow off of her and placed her int the cart with the supplies. Jaskier was going to go at least a couple hundred more feet, but Geralt scruffed him too, bundling him into the cart alongside Ciri. Jaskier prayed he wouldn’t get Ciri sick, but with the wind howling around him he imagined that whatever ill humors he could exhale would get swept away. He curled up opposite the princess, the pair of them ducking down miserably as the snow blew over the sides of the cart. He heard Geralt speaking to Yen.

“We can make it by nightfall, if we push. Can you make it?” His voice was pitched above the wind, but still barely reached Jaskier.

“I can make it,” Yen said. “I’ll have to, they need warmth, and Jaskier needs medicine.”

“Vesemir knows herbs and potions, he can heal him.”

“Then we’d better get a move on,” Yennefer said. Her voice was strained, but they forged on anyway.

Jaskier took occasional peeks over the sides of the cart. It was a winding path, a goat track, really, but the northern mountains were said to be beautiful and he imagined it must be very scenic. As it was, the wind and snow obscured most of his vision. What he could see were ancient pines, large and weather worn. Nevertheless, they swayed like reeds in a current in the hellstorm that whipped around them.

“Ciri,” Jaskier wheezed. “Let’s play a game.”

Ciri, tucked into her cloak so far that he could barely see her, gave a muffled, “okay.”

“How many red things can you name?”

“...apples,” was the muffled reply.

“Cherries.”

“Rubies.”

“Wine.”

“Chili peppers,” Yennefer said, the wind almost stealing it, but Jaskier and Ciri smiled at eachother for dragging her into the game.

“Raspberries,” Ciri said.

“Blood?” Geralt grunted.

“Gross,” Ciri said, at the same time as Jaskier said, “What a witchery answer.”

“Tomatoes,” Yen said.

The game trailed away for a while as the cart rattled worryingly across some tough ground. Geralt and Yennefer ate while they walked, and Ciri and Jaskier chewed on some dried meat. Mostly Ciri, Jaskier dozed, too exhausted to even chew.

When he opened his eyes again the wind was still howling, but the sky looked darker. It must be evening.

“Dandelion,” Ciri whispered. “are you awake?”

��Mmhm,” he said.

“I’m cold.”

Jaskier was too, the snow had soaked into him so he was damp, but then it froze again, taking him with it.

“We’re almost there,” Geralt grunted. His voiced sounded strained and weary, but Jaskier didn’t have the strength to look and find out why. “C’mon girl,” Geralt said, clicking his tongue at Roach. “We can make it, do it for me.”

“Hey Ciri,” Jaskier slurred, tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Hm?”

“Roses are red.”

He imagined Ciri smiling at him tiredly, but he couldn’t see her, bundled in the blankets. He could hear her teeth chatter though. “Jam is red, sometimes,” she said.

“Eskel’s shirt is red,” Geralt said, raising his voice above the wind.

“N-no fair,” Jaskier muttered. “I’ve never even seen him.” To his surprise he was drifting off again. It felt different though, a little like drowning. Some part of him felt he should panic, but he hadn’t the energy.

“You can see him,” Geralt said, sounding a little frantic. “He’s right there, standing on the path ahead of us. We’re here, Jaskier, look at Eskel.”

Jaskier wanted to, but his eyelids were too heavy.

“Geralt--” began a new voice.

“Eskel please, they need help.”

“I know, give her to me, I’ll carry her the rest of the way.”

Carry who? Jaskier wondered, then he realized that he hadn’t heard Yennefer speak lately.

A whistle came from up ahead. “C’mon Pretty Boy,” another new voice. “I’ll take your pampered horse, you lay them in front of the fire.”

There was some rustling and Jaskier wreched his eyes open with his last ounce of effort. An older man with a moustache and a face like a wall of granite was lifting Ciri from the cart. He took care with her, cradling her and walking away quickly. Vesemir? Probably. His eyes fell shut again.

“Jaskier c’mon,” Geralt said in his ear. His breath stuttered warmth across Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re here, just don’t fall asleep on me, please.”

Jaskier wanted to open his eyes, just to reassure Geralt but everything seemed to be drifting away. He was laid down on something soft and felt the heat of fire on his face. There was the scent of pine logs, snapping and cracking as their sap burned away. Hands, Geralt’s hands, rubbed up Jaskier’s arms, forcing the blood to move. His soaked cloak was stripped away, leaving him chilled but dry, and then soft, dry fabric was pulled around him. Someone had wrapped him into a blanket and was rubbing his fingers. Both his hands were cupped between two larger ones and warm air was blown across them. The blood returning to his hands felt so hot it burned and hurt and he squirmed, but he was too tired to pull away.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he heard Geralt say as he rubbed more heat into Jaskier’s fingers. “Ciri’s okay, and Yen’s okay. You have to be okay, Jaskier. Warm up. You need to be warm.”

“Give ‘im some time, Lad,” Jaskier heard. Another new voice. Must belong to Vesemir.

“He’s so cold,” was the whispered reply.

“The boy trekked after you for years, he’s resilient. He’ll be okay.”

“But--”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, let him rest.”

Jaskier heard no more, but it was so nice, the fire and the fur beneath him, and Geralt, holding his hands. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about it.

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

They finally got there!

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @samukai @charlies-dragon @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @morte-mistrata @mewithanie @sharondnovels @stinastar @ionlylikemycat @annafortoday @its-the-quenchiest-stuff @kkiyomizu @so--many-fandoms @endless-whump @ineffable-monster-romancer @sweetiepieplum @tookarma @seraphim-miryam

Tags are being weird, if I missed you, or you want to be added, let me know

#geraskier #the witcher #Yennefer #is a good mom #Ciri #Jaskier #jaskier whump #angst with a happy ending #not yet #it's coming though #Geralt cares he's just bad at emotions #sickness #kaer morhen #hypothermia #Roach is a very good girl #Yennefer Jaskier solidarity

122 notes · View notes

jaskierswolf · 4 years

Text

My Contribution to the non-sexual consensual use of Axii ficlets! @elliestormfound and @hailhailsatan. Have some mutual pining. TW: injury and canon-typical violence

___________

“Geralt!” The bard’s voice carried like a siren’s call over the noise of the battle.

Geralt pulled his sword from the drowner he was facing and spun in a pirouette to lob off the next one’s head before it could attack. His senses focused and he searched through the crowd of dead drowners, looking for the bright lilac doublet that Jaskier was donning. He growled as he spotted Jaskier on the ground. He should not be on the ground and he should not be so close to the fight. A drowner caught Geralt on the arm and he hissed as he spun again to slash the monster’s torso open. He did a quick spin with his sword held high and ready but thankfully that had been the last one. The battle was over. He charged over to where Jaskier lay on the ground. “Jaskier! Fuck.” A patch of blood was blooming amongst the soft lilac on Jaskier’s stomach. “I told you to run!”

Jaskier whined. “I tried, they cut me off. Fuck, Geralt.”

Geralt tore apart the expensive fabric in seconds and inspected the wound as he pulled Jaskier into his arms. “Fuck.”

“Oh gods, I’m dying aren’t I? Geralt, I’m too beautiful to die!”

He was too beautiful die. Geralt agreed with that, but unfortunately, in Geralt’s experience that meant shit all.

Jaskier began to wriggle in Geralt’s arms, aggravating the wound and causing it to bleed more. “Stay still!” Geralt growled. “You’re making it worse.”

“I will not spend my last minutes on the Continent on the dirt!” Jaskier snapped and then winced as his twisting pulled on the wound. . “Oh bloody hell. That hurt!”

Geralt sighed and ran his finger along the edge of the claw mark. It was deep and bleeding profusely. Jaskier wasn’t wrong. If they didn’t fix this fast then Jaskier would likely bleed out. The image of Jaskier lying pale and cold in his arms was not one he enjoyed. “I need to stitch it.” Geralt muttered. “Now.”

“Won’t that hurt?” Jaskier pouted but Geralt could see the glimmer of fear in his usually bright eyes. His face had gone incredibly pale already and looked like he was about to be sick.

Geralt frowned as the idea hit him. “Maybe not.”

“Maybe… Geralt? What, what does that even mean?” His voice was shaking now, barely above a whisper.

Geralt hummed, trying to keep the growing panic out of his voice. “I can take away the pain, with Axii. It doesn’t have to hurt.”

Jaskier looked down at his stomach, where Geralt’s hands were pressing against the wound to try and slow the bleeding as best as he could. Jaskier choked and looked away. Geralt swallowed. His own hands were covered in the bard’s blood. It was a sight he’d hoped he’d never see. Jaskier nodded weakly, still not looking at Geralt; eyes closed tightly as he bit his bottom lip. “Do it.”

Geralt nodded as he made the sign of Axii. “You don’t feel any pain now.” He murmured quietly.

Jaskier’s breathing eased almost immediately and his face smoothed into a blissful expression. “Thank you…” He practically purred. “Oh that’s. that’s much better.”

“Hmm.” Geralt carefully laid Jaskier down on the ground and brushed his fringe from his forehead before going to get his healing supplies from Roach’s saddlebags. It didn’t take long to stitch up the wound, and he helped Jaskier drink a healing potion they’d brought for emergencies last time they’d encountered a healer. Jaskier had a tendency to get himself into trouble and Geralt had just known something like this would happen.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he gulped down the brew. “Urgh. That is. That’s disgusting.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You lost a lot of blood. Drink.”

Jaskier grimaced but finished the last of the potion. “I feel fine.” He huffed. “Better than I have in ages in fact. There was this weird feeling in my chest just here.” Jaskier held his hand over where his heart was in his chest. “It’s been all achey for a while, every time I look at you, which you know, just isn’t fair, because you are so beautiful to look at.”

Geralt stilled at the bard’s words, tumbling from his lips as if he were drunk off his head. He knew that feeling well, it was the same feeling Geralt had when he looked at Jaskier, especially when the bard was off wooing barmaids and stablehands. “Jaskier.” He said in a low voice, a warning to his friend before he said something he would regret.

Jaskier sighed with a soft smile on his face and stared up at the sky as Geralt finished bandaging his stomach. “That ache has gone now. Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt hummed, the ache in his own chest only intensifying at Jaskier’s words. “You’re welcome.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fanfiction #axii #mutual pining #remember when I used to write fluff?#wolfie's witcher writing #injuries #jaskier whump

336 notes · View notes

thearvariblues · 4 years

Text

Of all the flowers you picked

Inspired (unsurprisingly) by The Amazing Devil’s beautiful Elsa’s Song

Geralt didn’t believe the news about Jaskier’s death at first. He never did. Those rumors came and went all the time, spread mostly by wannabe-bards wanting to earn more money by claiming that their mediocre attempt at a ballad is the last work of the one and only Jaskier, or by Valdo Marx, who probably thought that if enough people believe in a thing, it will come into being.

Oh, no, Geralt didn’t believe his Jaskier was dead.

He was very much alive, as always, probably charming his way into a pretty boy’s pants right now.

And Geralt would meet him in Oxenfurt in a month, just as they’d agreed before parting ways, and they would have a good laugh.

But this rumor didn’t go away. It was actually becoming more and more widespread the closer he got to Oxenfurt.

He couldn’t get away from it. In every tavern he went to, at every market, he heard the same. The White Wolf’s bard had died.

With every step taken towards Oxenfurt, Geralt’s hope grew dimmer and dimmer, flickering feebly in his chest.

The accounts of what had actually happened to the bard differed, of course, from being stabbed by an angry husband of one of his conquests to drowning in a river while trying to save a student. And while Geralt could see the former being true, he couldn’t, for one second, believe the latter.

When the dying flame of hope in his chest finally went out, he was two days away from Oxenfurt, sitting in a tavern he had stopped at for night. He would have preferred to ride on, but he had pushed Roach enough during the past few days, and she needed her rest.

That was when he heard the whispered conversation between a young patron and a traveling minstrel.

“I’m telling you,” the patron was saying. “I study there, I know. He was just lying there in his bed like a ragdoll, staring. Someone must’ve poisoned him, I don’t know. Or it was magic. He was what, sixty? And he didn’t look a day over twenty. Maybe he just couldn’t afford whatever was keeping him young all that time.”

“Might have been a revenge,” the minstrel suggested. “He must’ve pissed lots of people off when he was alive.”

“I dunno,” the patron said. “If it was, I probably means he shouldn’t have got separated from that stupid Witcher of his.”

Geralt took a long, shaking breath.

He drank himself into oblivion that night. And the night after. And the next.

When he finally reached Oxenfurt, tired and reeking of cheap vodka, it didn’t take much to find someone who would point him to the place where they buried the bard – a little hill in a wood just west of the town walls.

Geralt knew from Jaskier’s stories that the bard always loved going there, either to think, compose, get drunk or, on several occasions, have a romantic midnight rendez-vous.

It was on his way there when he realized that he probably should have brought flowers. It was what people did, wasn’t it? Geralt didn’t really know. He mostly dealt with dead monsters, and those didn’t really care about common courtesy.

But then of course, Jaskier would rather see him bring the cheap vodka than some flowers.

And it didn’t matter, anyway. Because Jaskier was dead, and no matter what Geralt would do, he would stay that way.

But then he passed a window, and on its windowsill sat a flowerpot full of sage, and what harm would it do to just take a few of those little purple flowers and bring them to his bard? So Geralt did.

And then, a few minutes later, he also took several white lilies from a flowerbed near another house.

And then he plucked several red roses from a bush by the city gate.

And then, as he was crossing a stream in the wood, he saw little blue blooms in the grass, almost the same color as Jaskier’s eyes.

Geralt looked down at his mismatched bouquet and sighed. He heard an echo of a drunken conversation he and the bard had several years ago.

“One day, I’ll be dead,” Jaskier had said. “And you, my dear Wolf, will forget me. Boom. In a heartbeat.”

“No. No, Jaskier. No,” Geralt had insisted. “I will never forget you.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How?”

“When I’m dead and you come to lay flowers on my grave – shut up, you will – I want you to bring me forget-me-nots.”

“But you won’t know if I did it or not. You’ll be…” he had gulped, unable to say the words.

“Dead,” Jaskier had finished for him. “I’ll be dead, Geralt. But I will know. Trust me. I will.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. Whatever.”

“Promise me, Geralt.”

“I promise.”

And now, Geralt bit his lip, staring at those tiny flowers mocking him with their color, and then he ran, ran away from the stream and the horrible blue blooms and his foolish promise.

He ran until he reached the hill, and on it, a simple grave with a little headstone, so unbecoming of the frivolous bard that Geralt wanted to scream.

He fell on his knees in front of the headstone, breathing heavily, and placed the tiny bouquet on the ground, hand shaking.

So this was it. This was where his bard would forever rot.

Geralt closed his eyes, feeling the tell-tale prickle of tears.

His urge to scream grew stronger, memories of Jaskier rushing through his mind no matter how hard he tried to stop them. Everything they’d been through, great adventures and small ones, and everyday moments, too. He could almost hear Jaskier’s melodic voice, see his bright smile, and his eyes, blue, so blue…

“I love you,” he said, words he’d never dared to say, to even think too loud. He threw his head back and looked up to the sky. “You hear me?” he shouted. “I fucking love you you dead bastard!”

He didn’t know what he expected. A rainbow? A little bird singing the melody of Toss a Coin To Your Witcher? Some fucking sign that the bard heard?

He knew what he didn’t expect.

He didn’t expect to actually hear Jaskier’s voice by his side.

“Of all the flowers you picked…”

Geralt gasped for breath as a man stepped into his line of vision – and it was Jaskier, looking just as he did he last time Geralt saw him, but also different somehow. His eyes seemed brighter, his skin was almost glowing, and his smile…

Geralt’s medallion hummed.

“I knew you would forget,” the bard said, his inhuman face grinning, “forget-me-nots.”

#geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #my fics #tw: major character death #well... sort of #angst

325 notes · View notes

longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.ii

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

Take a look at @gen-syz-art incredible art for this chapter here ✨✨✨ (beware of spoilers)

___________________

Looking for Jaskier takes some time.

The gardens almost seem even bigger than they were last time, and there are so many different scents that Geralt can’t isolate the one he’s looking for from the rest.

He could just ask, for in his search he comes across eight different people, and at least one of them should know where Jaskier is, but Geralt makes a point out of finding him on his own.

It takes him almost an hour to finally come across a willow tree, its long vines falling all the way to the ground like a curtain, and be greeted by Lucio that pokes his nose out of them.

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sanctuary, into a safe place, completely detached from the outside world.

The curtain of vines surrounds the tree from all sides, and the sun that breaks through them makes this hidden little world feel even more magical. There’s enough space to fit quite a few people, the willow old and generous, and Geralt thinks that it’s probably the best place to spend long summer days, hiding from the heat and from the outside world in general.

Jaskier doesn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with writing something in a notebook he’s got open in his lap, but when Asra perks up to greet the witcher, he raises his head.

“You found my hiding place,” he smiles, bright as the sun.

He pats the empty space beside him, and Geralt comes closer before he even thinks about it, getting down into the grass and resting his back against the tree trunk, as well. He tries to get a look at what Jaskier is writing but the younger man hides the notebook from him as soon as he notices.

“Searched the entire garden,” Geralt chuckles in response.

After an entire day spent in bed and a proper night’s sleep, he feels like himself again, the wounds on his thigh now healing much faster and the pain almost gone. He doesn’t limp as he walks any longer.

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate,” Jaskier says, and he’s so torturously-close that Geralt can’t help but lean towards him until their shoulders are pressed together. “If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

He’s got a dark-green chemise on, the sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and every time a ray of the sun catches on it, it shines, and though Geralt himself prefers much more subtle colours and designs, he can’t deny that it looks beautiful.

“I can see why,” he nods. “It’s peaceful here.”

Jaskier hums an affirmation, his eyes closed blissfully. Geralt still can’t quite get used to just how relaxed he is in his presence, how there isn’t even a hint of fear that he is so used to feeling on other people. That almost makes him forget about the world outside the mansion and his role in it.

He thinks, once again, how when he’s with Jaskier, he can be more than just what his mutations make him.

And then, it finally hits him.

It’s not that he wants to return to the mansion.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave.

***

They spend almost half of the day in Jaskier’s little hiding place.

Jaskier tells him more about his time in the Academy and, when Geralt asks, tells him that though he’s got an honours diploma for all seven liberal arts, his heart and soul have always belonged to poetry and music. When Geralt considers it, he’s almost surprised by just how easy it is to think of Jaskier as a bard.

Can a prince also be a bard? An illegitimate one probably can. It’s a perfect disguise.

Bard.

It’s easy to refer to him by that name in Geralt’s mind.

After Jaskier tells him that, he finally lets the witcher see his notebook, filled with poems, neat lines or runes crossed out and then written again over and over. Geralt doesn’t understand much in poetry but the lines that he reads are filled with such emotions that they pull on the strings deep in his heart.

Once he gets to the unfinished poem that Jaskier was working on when he’d found him, Jaskier snatches the notebook from his hands and refuses to give it back, a beautiful shade of red spilling over his cheeks.

Geralt can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the soft skin, and before he can pull away, Jaskier intercepts his wrist and tugs him down onto the grass, laughing as Geralt blink in mild confusion, his body suddenly unable to resist, though Jaskier’s strength is nothing compared to his.

They stay lying side by side in the soft grass for what seems like hours, Jaskier reciting poems and ballads by heart, and Geralt just listening. At some point, he lets himself get convinced - somehow - to also recite something, and he entertains the bard with a highly indecent poem about a farmer’s daughter and a knight that he and his brothers used to giggle over when they were still kids in Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier plays courtier, gasping at the crudeness, but then breaks into laughter, unable to keep his act up.

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on both elbows to get a proper look at the witcher, and reaches out to brush a stray silver strand away from his face.

Even if Geralt’s life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to decide whether he likes this quiet comfort or the maddening teasing more.

And though the knowledge of having to leave in a few days is a constant reminder somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he allows himself - if only for a little while - to put it aside.

***

“Do you want to see the sunset?”

The library is painted gold and scarlet with the light of the setting sun, and the colours play beautifully on the silk of Jaskier’s chemise.

Geralt doesn’t necessarily want to move, more than comfortable on the soft settee and with Jaskier half-asleep in his arms, but when in the last two months had he been able to say no to this man?

Jaskier’s eyes light up when Geralt hums an affirmation, and the next moment he’s already up on his feet, alerting the dogs napping peacefully on a chair by the window. They jump down onto the rug, ears perked up and tails wagging, feeling Jaskier excitement in his scent the same way that Geralt feels it.

He lets himself be pulled away from the settee, Jaskier’s warm fingers wrapped around his own, and follows him into the hallway and towards the wide staircase.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Jaskier urges, adorably impatient.

Geralt’s healing thigh gives a little stab of protest as they pick up the pace, nearly running up the stairs, but Geralt’s had much worse, so it barely registers with him.

They make their way up onto the fifth floor and down yet another hallway to the very end of the west wing of the mansion, where Jaskier pushes open the door of a bedroom and they rush inside, towards the balcony doors, the golden light streaming through the glass, nearly blinding.

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to push down on both door handles, throwing the arches open, and for a second, the view takes Geralt’s breath away.

This high up, they can watch the golden disk of the setting sun as it slowly makes it's way down, touching the treetops of the pines in the forest. In the distance, Geralt can see the glimmering ribbon of the river, and all around the mansion, there are valleys of flowers in full bloom. The scent is sweet and heady, almost intoxicating, and Geralt takes in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand in his chest.

He steals a look towards Jaskier, who doesn’t seem to notice it, too mesmerised by the golden light. It reflects in his eyes, making them look bottomless. Had their lives been different, Geralt would’ve let himself drown in that depth.

“Oh, isn’t this just gorgeous?” Jaskier asks in a breathy whisper, never taking his eyes off the horizon.

Geralt takes a step closer to him without even fully realising. It’s like in the past two days he’d grown so used to having Jaskier in his arms that he can’t keep a distance between them anymore. His scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin - everything about him is drawing Geralt in, and he’s helpless against it.

Finally, Jaskier looks away from the setting sun and at Geralt. He keeps their eyes locked for a long moment before his gaze drops to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat before picking up its pace. The fire in his chest flares up, so bright that it’s almost painful.

Jaskier takes a step towards him, suddenly so close that all Geralt needs to do is dip his head, and he’ll finally learn what his lips taste like. He holds himself back with all the self-control he’s got but it’s running out fast. He knows that this will make everything worse, that it will make leaving more painful for both of them, but he still desperately hopes that Jaskier would close in that remaining distance between them.

Because then, maybe, it would be easier to justify Geralt’s absolute powerlessness against him.

Without it fully registering with him, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, the bard’s breath ghosting over his lips.

The moment seems to last forever, Geralt’s self-control cracking and breaking like porcelain, but just before he can make the mistake that he so longs for, Jaskier presses his fingers to the witcher’s lips, creating a barrier, and leaves a kiss over them, laughing as he breaks away.

Geralt fails to bite back a low growl, disenchantment curling into a ball in his chest like a small animal, its little claws digging deep into his heart.

And still, despite himself, he cannot hold all these torturous little games against Jaskier.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, my darling?” Jaskier murmurs, jumping up to sit on the bannister.

Instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter, unwilling to risk his safety.

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he says flatly, ignoring the question.

They’re still so unbearably close, and Geralt can’t deny himself the pleasure of bringing his other hand up to rest it on Jaskier’s thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough for it to be justified as him making sure the bard is safe.

Jaskier doesn’t make any move to get away from the touch, and when Geralt runs his thumb over the inner side of his thigh, his lips part on a soft little gasp.

It’s impossible not to think about the bed back in the room. About just how easy it would be to lift Jaskier up and carry him to it, lay him down onto the silk and velvet, biting marks into his neck. Impossible not to imagine all the sweet little sounds he would make.

Up on the bannister, Jaskier is higher than him, and when he reaches to tip Geralt’s chin up, there isn’t much he can do but comply.

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, his ankles locking behind Geralt’s back to keep him close.

Standing between his spread knees is just more than Geralt can take, and he tightens his grip on the bard’s thigh to keep himself grounded. Knowing that there are going to be bruises left, and Jaskier is going to have his skin painted with them for days, marked and claimed, does absolutely nothing to help the situation.

“I want you to stop putting yourself in danger,” Geralt growls, low and impatient, almost threatening.

He’s referring to much more than just sitting on the bannister, a five-floor drop on the other side, and they both know it very well.

Jaskier’s scent spikes up with sweet, heady notes of arousal even as he hisses at the tight grip on his thigh. Geralt bites his tongue painfully not no lean in and nose at Jaskier’s neck, right under the jaw, where that scent is the strongest. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back anymore.

Jaskier’s eyes light up with a spark of mischief, almost a challenge, and it only takes him one perfectly calculated move to twist out of Geralt’s grip, standing up on the bannister and laughing victoriously.

Geralt’s heart drops at the sight, and he grabs Jaskier’s hand tightly, ensuring his balance. The bannister isn’t necessarily narrow, Jaskier could probably lie down on it if he wanted to, but he could still slip, and that is not a risk that Geralt is willing to take.

The fire in his chest gives way to the rush of adrenaline, and he sighs deeply, calming himself down.

This is going to be the death of him.

“I’m putting myself in danger,” Jaskier grins, walking the length of the bannister in theatrically slow steps, his hand still in Geralt’s tight grip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Oh, there are so many things Geralt could do about it.

In his imagination, he presses Jaskier up against the wall of the balcony, bites into his lips, parting them with his tongue. He sucks marks and bruising kisses into his neck, the skin there so flawlessly smooth that the love-bites stand out like blood-red flowers against it. He leads Jaskier back inside, pulls him down onto the bed, undoing the intricate lacing and buttons of his clothes.

He takes him apart with hands and lips, drinking in every little whimper and moan, until Jaskier is trembling and gasping, and does it all over again.

But none of that can go further than his imagination.

So instead, he just yanks Jaskier towards him, catching him before he falls, and grins to himself at the way that he yelps in surprise. A small but pleasant victory.

“Balcony bannisters are no place for a prince,” Geralt murmurs, and the last word just slips.

He bites his tongue way too late, never having meant to say it out loud, to admit - so incautiously and foolishly - that that is what he’d somehow grow to think of Jaskier as. If it’s not true, then he’s just childish for believing something he’d heard in a nearby town, and if it is true… then I can turn out to bear far worse consequences, for both of them. An illegitimate prince hidden in a giant mansion in the middle of nowhere is unlikely to afford for his identity to be known. And the King certainly doesn’t.

For a long moment, Geralt feels like he can barely breathe, waiting for a reaction, but Jaskier just gives him a long, slightly puzzled look that could mean just about anything, and, finally, gives him a charming smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “It is no place for a prince.”

***

The three days after that go by in relative peace.

They spend most of the time in the gardens or in the library, reading, talking or just being in each other’s presence, even if neither says a word.

Jaskier decides, at one point, to give the cooks a day off and take over the kitchen, entrusting Geralt with the venison brought in by his hunters earlier in the day, while he’s busy with herbs and vegetables. Geralt doesn’t really protest, used to helping out in the kitchen in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier does look ridiculously good in an apron. He does turn out to be rather bossy in the kitchen but Geralt fails to find it in himself to mind.

They play with the dogs, both Asra and Lucio now used enough to the witcher to trust him, napping with their heads in his lap whenever Jaskier’s is unavailable. They’re just as unafraid of Geralt as their owner, and for Geralt, who is used to animals hissing and growling at him, it’s almost touching.

At night, if the sky is clear, Jaskier lures Geralt out into the gardens to lie down in the grass and watch the endless stars shimmer in the sky. He remembers a lot of astronomy from the Academy, and tells Geralt about the constellations high above, as well as making up his own ones based on what he sees in the sky.

It gets cold at night, and he keeps close to Geralt, safe and warm under their shared cloak. Geralt keeps an arm around him and presses his cold nose to his temple every now and then to make the bard giggle.

Jaskier almost kisses him more times than Geralt would be able to count, but each time he breaks away, laughing and leaving him with nothing. Geralt knows that he’s just waiting for him to break first, and it takes him everything he’s got not to.

A couple of times he comes very close to pushing Jaskier up against the nearest wall, for he never stops his torturous teasing, but on some level, he almost enjoys this inability to have him, because though the fire in his chest can grow painfully hot, no-one’s ever made him feel like this.

It helps, in a way, that Jaskier is always hearing his intricately embroidered shirts with sleeves that cinch in on his wrists and high collars that keep most of his skin hidden, because Geralt isn’t sure that he’d able to think about anything other than the marks that he could leave on that skin had it been any other way.

And that… well, that ends up playing against him.

It’s his sixth morning in the mansion - the second to last, he tells himself repeatedly - when he fails to find Jaskier in any of the places that they would usually spend the morning in.

The first place that Geralt searches through is the downstairs library that seems to be Jaskier's favourite room of the mansion. There are books that they’ve left behind the night before, pieces of parchment all over the table, and Jaskier’s cloak but no sign of the bard himself.

When Geralt doesn't find him there, and then in the gardens, and then in the smaller library upstairs, there is no other place that he can think of other than Jaskier's bedroom. It's still relatively early in the morning, and maybe he's too unwilling to get out of bed just yet, warmed by both Asra and Lucio.

Reluctantly, Geralt makes his way up to the last floor and to the door of Jaskier's bedroom. He'd never been inside, and for some reason, it feels unnerving. All the time that he’d spent in the mansion, he’d only been on the fifth floor twice: first when Jaskier was giving him a general tour, and then when they rushed to the balcony to watch the sunset.

Jaskier’s rooms have remained something almost forbidden, a place where Jaskier would disappear to at night and then leave in the morning. Something private, sealed off to all guests.

After standing outside the door for a few long moments, Geralt knocks, expecting to hear the now-familiar tap-tap-tap of the dogs' claws along the floor because they're always the first ones to check, but gets no answer.

Feeling like he shouldn't be doing this, he tests the door handle, and it turns with no resistance.

The bedroom is just as big as he'd imagined, with a canopy bed lined with wine-red velvet and arch windows that let through the soft morning light. There are large paintings in golden frames hung on the walls, stacks of parchment and books on the table by one of the windows, a chandelier for what must be a hundred candles on the high ceiling.

It’s a gorgeous room.

But right now, Geralt can't quite concentrate on any of that, because all he can look at is the open door to the bathroom in the far end of the room. He can hear water splashing softly and then Jaskier's footsteps that he'd grown to recognise among all others.

His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he can't bring himself to say something, nor can he turn around and leave, giving the younger man his privacy. Instead, he just stands and watches, waiting for... he doesn't even know what, exactly.

Jaskier stays out of his field of vision for some time, murmuring some song under his breath, and when Geralt does finally see him, he's got his back to him, a silk dressing gown flowing down his body in waves.

For reasons that Geralt can only assume to be cruel fate, Jaskier keeps his robe off his shoulders, just a little above the line of his elbows, like a voluminous shawl. It covers his arms below the elbows, his lower back and his legs, providing some modesty, but after only seeing Jaskier in his silk shirts, barely any open skin, Geralt feels like all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The half-discarded dressing gown provides Geralt with a perfect view of Jaskier's neck and shoulders, drops of water still shining on his beautiful pale skin, of the curve of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades that Geralt wishes he could follow with his lips and fingertips.

He can see the soft outlines of muscles, the little birthmark just above Jaskier’s right shoulder blade, just a few tones darker than his overall pale skin, the thin white scar on the curve of his left shoulder.

And there's something else, too. Something Geralt didn't expect but that looks so elegant on Jaskier's body that it causes little to no resonance in the witcher.

Right between Jaskier's shoulder blades, perfectly centred, his skin is adorned with a delicate, geometric design. It looks like white ink, just brighter, standing out against the skin, almost glowing in the low candlelight of the bathroom, and though Geralt's never seen anything like that before, it looks beautiful.

He'd only seen tattoos on Skellige and in Novigrad, but this one is so starkly different from all of those, so delicate and precise, that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to this realm. Unusual that a member of the royal family - legitimate or not - would have something like this but perhaps this is exactly what marks him as one? Hidden under all that silk, Geralt never would’ve known he had it if he hadn't seen it now. So how can he assume that other members of the ruling family don’t have one?

It’s way too late when it registers with him that he’d crossed the room already and is now only a few steps shy of the open bathroom door, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely aware of his presence.

“Did you want something?” he murmurs, completely unfazed as he brushes past Geralt and into the bedroom.

His hair is still wet from his bath, falling into his face in loose locks, the smell of pomegranate sweet and heady in the air, almost making Geralt’s head spin.

Jaskier’s collarbones are a sharp outline, the delicate skin stretched tight over them, and though Geralt’s always had a thing for it, he can feel a sharp spasm of pure lust somewhere deep in his abdomen from just how bad he wants to bite into them.

Without fully thinking his actions through, he catches Jaskier’s wrist and turns him around, so they’re face to face again. Jaskier gasps but doesn’t resist, his cornflower-blue eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, like he’s completely unbothered by the state he’s in, by Geralt seeing him like this.

“I was wondering if you were going to let yourself in if I leave the door unlocked,” he murmurs, taking another step towards the witcher, until there is no more space left between them. “If you came looking for me while I was still in the bath, what would you have done?”

He shifts, pressing his hips to Geralt’s thigh, and it resonates through the witcher’s entire body like lightning when he realises that under the thin silk of the dressing gown, Jaskier is completely naked.

“Would you have helped me with my hair?” the bard goes on, that same intoxicatingly sweet murmur. “Or would you have simply fucked me right there and then?”

And at that, Geralt snaps.

He grabs Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him from the floor, and sits him down impatiently onto a chest of drawers just behind his back, not even trying to bite back a growl when the bard wraps his legs around his hips, knees spread wide apart.

His dressing gown has more than enough fabric to keep him covered even like this, but Geralt’s head reels from knowing that it would only take one brush of his fingers to get it out of the way, letting the heavy silk slip down Jaskier’s thigh.

“You’re killing me,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, leaning down to Jaskier’s ear, and he shudders in response.

Jaskier keeps his balance with one hand flat on the polished wood of the chest of drawers, but the other one is in Geralt’s hair almost immediately. He leans in unbearably close, his lips brushing over Geralt’s in a feather-light touch as he lets out a shaky breath.

“Then make me pay for it.”

At that moment, there is nothing that Geralt wants more than to kiss him, Jaskier’s lips parted and bite-swollen and right there.

But he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

And so instead of Jaskier’s lips, Geralt bites into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the tender skin right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and sucks a bruising, blood-red mark into it, making Jaskier arch his back and gasp the witcher’s name.

Geralt pulls back, for just a second, his gaze fixed on the fresh love-bite, standing out sharply against Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin, untouched by anything or anyone else. He looks owned, claimed, taken.

But it’s not nearly enough.

Geralt bites another bruising kiss right next to the first one, pressing his tongue to the fresh mark to both soothe the pain and make Jaskier even more sensitive. And then another one. And then another one.

He loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s skin, the sound of his voice, his gasps breaking off into soft whimpers when Geralt bites just a little too hard. In the scent of dried herbs and vanilla and pomegranate, only made sweeter by the intoxicating sweetness of lust.

Geralt leaves a scattered pattern of love-bites all the way down Jaskier’s neck, sucks three marks onto his collarbones, growling with pleasure, and he’s more than sure that there are going to be fresh bruises on the bard’s thighs from just how tight he’s still holding him.

Jaskier keeps him close with his ankles clasped behind Geralt’s back, his breathing deep and fast like he can’t get enough air. He looks unbearably gorgeous like this.

Geralt’s mind is hazy with lust and pleasure, his cock hard and throbbing under the now painfully-tight leather of his trousers, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is in the same state. His scent tells him everything he needs to know.

And it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just carry Jaskier over to the bed, undo the belt holding his dressing gown closed, and fuck him, tearing more of those beautiful whimpers from his chest.

But that would be a far greater mistake than the one that Geralt has already made.

He takes in as deep of a breath as his lungs allow him, and takes a step back, pressing one last desperate kiss to Jaskier’s neck, now covered in his marks.

Geralt doesn’t have anything to say for himself, but he doesn’t have to, for after just a few seconds of catching his breath, Jaskier grins at him victoriously, like it’s all a part of his little game and he’s not affected by it in the slightest.

“I’ll take that as the answer to the question of whether or not you would’ve fucked me if you’d gotten here a little sooner,” he murmurs.

Geralt doesn’t try to stop him when Jaskier jumps down from the dresser, adjusting the folds of his dressing gown. It’s more than hard to keep a hold on his self-control, and he fears that any touch could send it all to hell.

His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, and he’s still painfully hard, but it brings him a sense of possessive satisfaction to see Jaskier’s neck and collarbones marked with his teeth. Those love-bites won’t fully fade for more than a week.

“Now, if you don’t have the intention of undressing me, I need to change,” Jaskier says, walking over to the wardrobes in the opposite corner.

Geralt watches his every move, still standing by the chest of drawers, not willing to risk it and close in the distance between them again. He wants to ask about the symbol on Jaskier’s back but it seems unfitting to bring that up now.

Jaskier picks out his clothes and takes them out of the wardrobe, already reaching for the belt on his dressing gown when he seems to notice Geralt’s gaze.

“I’m not giving you easy ways out, Witcher,” he grins, even as the belt starts to slowly give way. “Turn around.”

He clicks his tongue, and from somewhere under the furs and pillows on the bed, emerges Lucio that Geralt had not noticed before. Jaskier whistles to him and, when the dog jumps down from the bed to sit next to him, indicates at Geralt with a move of his head.

“Ambush, Lucio,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Geralt. “He’s a purebred hunting dog, Witcher. If you move as much as a fraction, he will let me know. Now turn around.”

For a lack of a better option, Geralt does.

He can hear the dressing gown fall to the floor in a soft whisper of silk, and knowing that Jaskier is right behind his back, completely naked and covered in his marks is making it hard to breathe. But Geralt can feel Lucio’s razor-sharp attention on him, and he knows that if he tries to get even the smallest look, Jaskier will immediately know about it, and the entire little game is going to be ruined.

No, he stays with his back to Jaskier the entire time he’s changing, forced to listen to his own quickened heartbeat, and it seems like an eternity has passed until Jaskier revokes his command and Lucio loses all interest in the witcher.

When Geralt finally turns around, he finds Jaskier wearing a black chemise with blood-red rose petals embroidered into the sleeves, the colour matching the love-bites on his neck almost perfectly.

Geralt hasn’t told him yet that he’s leaving tomorrow.

But gods, he’s going to miss him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

20 notes · View notes

all-hail-the-witcher · 4 years

Text

cuddling

here is my contribution for ace week! im literally squeezing this in at the last possible second (as its 11:32pm on 10/31 as i start this) but better late than never i suppose!!

i dont often talk about my sexuality on this blog, but i do identify as ace and its not something ive ever been overly comfortable with. but seeing the plethora of ace week fics on my dash this past week (mostly by @jaskierswolf, hi, hope you dont mind being tagged) has been so awesome and has made me feel so much more comfortable in myself that i had to write something for this :)

this is some gray romantic/ace geralt with some ace jaskier. warnings for mentions of dubious consent/ not wanting to have sex but doing it anyway. there is no explicit sexual content but it is referenced.

___

Geralt was a Witcher. His entire livelihood consisted of him doing things for humans: killing monsters, bargaining with sorceresses, fighting wars, protecting them from pretty much anything that could hurt their fragile mortal selves. It had been trained into him ever since he was a child. Do what the humans ask of you. It is your job.

So why would sex be any different?

Humans enjoyed sex. This was something Geralt had come to learn during his time on the path. What was even worse was that some of them especially enjoyed having sex with Witchers.

Geralt did not enjoy sex. He was not a human, and it was decidedly a human activity. But that did not stop humans from wanting to have sex with him. Some sought him out specifically, wanting to know what it was like to lie with a Witcher for a night. Others insisted on paying him for his monster hunting duties with a round. He never took pleasure in it. Sometimes he would pretend he did. He had gotten quite good at pretending over the years, learning little tricks that humans seemed to like. But the act of it itself made his skin crawl for days on end and he could feel their fingers and lips long after the marks on his skin had faded.

But he worked for humans. He couldn't deny them what they asked of him.

He assumed Jaskier would be the same. The man was certainly human, so much so that he would flirt with grass if it came down to it (which, admittedly, Geralt had only witnessed once, and Jaskier had been very drunk at the time, but still). But he never tried to bed him, which surprised Geralt. He knew he was good, if the praises of the the people he'd laid with before were any indication Humans generally needed him for a favor and then left him to the wind. Jaskier hadn’t asked him to kill a monster or help him track down an unruly mage, and it had been years at least since they had first crossed paths. The only logical conclusion that Geralt could come to was that Jaskier was waiting for him to bed him and then he would leave, just like everyone else.

The problem was that Geralt had grown quite fond of Jaskier over the years (and his incessant flirting) and while he didn’t want the bard to leave, he also didnt want Jaskier to be miserable following him around anymore. Five years was quite a long time to wait for a round, especially in human years. Resignedly, Geralt told himself that in the next town he would lay with Jaskier and then the whole thing could be over, and they could both move on with their lives.

He rented a room with one bed, as they often did, despite there being enough coin for one with two. Jaksier hardly noticed, flouncing off to play a few sets for the locals while Geralt went upstairs to prepare.

He felt the characteristic tightening of his stomach and the shakiness that always came with this particular activity, but he stripped down obediently, even talking the time to rub some of the oils Jaskier liked to much into his hair before laying down on the bed to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. “Geralt! You’ll never believe th- whoa, were you expecting someone?” He stood in the doorway awkwardly.

“Just you,” Geralt grunted. They should get this over with.

“Me? Geralt...did you think I wanted to have sex with you?”

“Well...” Geralt picked at the blanket, feeling foolish for having to explain himself, he thought that humans should understand these things. “Humans always need me for something. And you dont need a monster killed, so I figured....” “Oh dear heart,�� Jaskier walked over and sat down on the bed next to him, running his fingers though his hair. “Please do not take this the wrong way, but I do not want to have sex with you.”

“You don’t?” Geralt was shocked. “But...humans....”

“Not all humans like sex Geralt. I certainly don’t. It makes me skin crawl and I feel all weird after. So I don’t do it. I’m still plenty romantic with people, but I dont get into bed with them.” “Hmm.” Jaskier didn’t like sex either? Maybe it wasn't a human thing after all.

“What it Geralt? That was your I’m-Contemplating-Something hum.”

“It...makes my skin crawl too.” He said carefully after a few moments.

Jaskier’s hand slowed in his hair. “Dear heart,” he began carefully. “Do you like sex?”

Did he? No one had ever asked him what he wanted before. He didnt think he did. It didnt feel pleasant and he usually had to jump in a cold stream after. “No.”

“Then why did you want to do it with me?” “You’re human,” Geralt shrugged. “Humans either want me to kill monsters or want me in their bed. I serve humans, I can’t turn them down. You are a human.”

"But you dont like sex?”

“No. I’m a Witcher. It’s probably the mutations. But can still get by.” Actually, now that he thought about it, from what he remembered, he’d never been much interested in it before the trials either.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tilted his chin up to look at him and he saw sadness swirling in his eyes. “Not wanting to have sex is not a Witcher thing. Plenty of humans feel the same way too. Admittedly there aren't many of us, I’ve only come across a few in my lifetime, and I think there's a word for it but I can’t remember it right now. Sex does not interest me either, but there are far more other important things in a relationship than just sex.”

Geralt was confused. “But sex is the only thing people ever wanted me for.”

“And I’m terribly sorry about that, dear heart, but you’re with me now and I will never make you have sex with me. Have you ever- or wait, is there anything else that you dont like?”

Geralt’s head was spinning, and he was still stuck on the part where Jaskier had said that he would never make Geralt have sex with him. For the first time that evening, he felt his hands stop their shaking and something like warmth bloom inside him. “Hmm?”

“Is there anything else you dont like doing? Besides the sex bit I mean.”

Besides sex....Geralt tried to remember what came along with laying with someone. He usually blocked it all out after. “Kissing,” he finally said. “Burns my skin.”

“Alright, we’ll do none of that then.” Jaskier moved from the bed, beginning to take off his doublet and Geralt seized up for a second, afraid that Jaskier was going go back on his word, but then he reached for his nightclothes. “Are you familiar with cuddling?”

“Cuddling?” The word felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Jaskier smiled. “Go put your nightclothes on. I think I have something that you will enjoy far better than that nasty sex business.”

So here it was then, Jasper did need him for a service after all. Geralt got out of bed and slowly pulled on his night clothes, painfully aware this would be their last night together before they parted ways for good, before returning to the bed.

“Right, so youre just going to lay on your side, yes right like that, and then I lay behind you, see? And I put my arm around you like this, and we snuggle.” Jaskier’s breath tickled his hair.

“What do we do though?” “What do you mean, what do we do?” Despite Jaskier’s words though, he didnt seem angry. “This is it. We hold each other and enjoy each others presence. We can change positions, if you want, like you can take a turn holding me for example or I could lay on your chest, but we just hold each other close. Show each other we care. This is called cuddling.”

“Hmm.” As far as Geralt was concerned, it was far better than sex. But he knew it wouldn't last. This was all Jaskier wanted from him, clearly, which prevented Geralt from thoroughly enjoying it.

“Where will you go?” he spoke into the silence a few long moments later.

Jaskier paused drawing light patterns on Geralts forearm. “What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow.” Wasn't it obvious?

“Well I’ll go wherever you’re going. Just like we always have?"

“You...you’re not,” Geralt swallowed thickly. “You’re not leaving?”

“Leaving?” Jaskier’s voice rose an octave. “Why on the continent would I be leaving?”

“You’ve got what you wanted from me, with this....cuddling business. You have no reason to stay.”

“Oh dear heart.” The next thing he knew he was being flipped around to face Jaskier. Jaskier, who had tears in his eyes that were just barely visible in the low light. Instinctively, he reached up to brush them away. “I’m cuddling with you because I care about you, because I love you. Not because I want something from you.”

“Oh.” Geralt didn’t know what to say. Jaskier loved him? No one had ever loved him before, much less cared about him or wanted him to be comfortable.

Jaskier placed his hand on Geralt’s chest. “You never have to do anything you dont want to do with me. And if you don’t want to travel with me anymore, I’ll leave. You are your own person, Geralt, even if you are a Witcher. And you make your own decisions. You wouldn't take a contract that you felt unsafe doing, so in the same vein, you dont have to have sex with anyone if you dont want to. You make your own decisions. You dont even have to cuddle with me right now if you want to. You choose what you want to do based on what you’re comfortable doing, do you understand?”

Geralt nodded into the darkness. This was all so much. He hadn't been able to make his decisions in...well ever. And now Jaskier was giving him permission to. “I want you to stay,” he whispered. “I....care about you too.” He didnt say that he thought he could love him, he wasn't ready to say that yet. And according to Jaskier he didnt have to say it if he didnt want to.

“Good. Now that we've got that sorted, come here,” Jaskier pulled Geralt into his chest, running his fingers through his hair delicately. Geralt closed his eyes, never had he felt more safe in his entire life. Who knew humans could be so gentle?

Just as he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness he whispered, “Jaskier?”

“Hmm?”

Geralt felt a small smile tug at his lips at hearing how own language on Jaskier’s lips. “Can we do more of this...cuddling?”

Jaskier’s laugh sounded through his chest, vibrating pleasantly against Geralt’s ear. “Of course we can, dear heart. Of course.”

___

that turned out way longer than i thought it would and its now 37 minutes late but oh well.

throw me an ask if you wanna be on my tag list!

taglist: @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @barlowarts @eminasan @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @nonegenderleftpain @electricrituals

142 notes · View notes

jaskicr · 4 years

Text

reverse au where witcher jaskier and bard geralt have canon memories - and a reunion

summary:

This is where he’d first met Jaskier, in this dark tavern in Posada. As Geralt plays his lute and sings, his heart aches at the memory of Jaskier, a painful reminder of who he’d lost.

His eyes wander through the tavern until they settle on a dark figure in the corner, sitting at the table where Geralt had once sat, a lifetime ago, and Geralt’s voice dies in his throat.

A witcher.

He makes his way over, hope blooming in his heart as he leans against a pillar and blurts out the words etched deep into his memory, words that had been Jaskier’s, once upon a time.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

Or: Geralt is reborn into a world where he’s a human bard, and when he finally regains his past memories, he thinks that Jaskier is dead - until he sees a witcher in Posada.

---

The witcher looks up, and Geralt stares, transfixed, at the golden cat eyes, set in a face that he knows far too well. It’s a face he’d spent decades staring at, spent decades loving and cherishing. It’s a face that had always looked at Geralt with joy and love, filled with laughter and song as they’d travelled on the Path.

Geralt had gazed at that face over a crackling campfire, across a creaking bed countless times over decades, drinking in those familiar features, so wondrously breathtaking every time. A face that Geralt had seen lax with bliss, bright with happiness and affection, contorted in righteous rage. Geralt had held that face between his hands, had caressed it with a brush of his fingers, a face that he'd kissed and worshipped - and loved with every beat of his heart.

A face that Geralt had never thought he’d get to see again, a face that he’d mourned and cried over - and now, it’s right in front of him.

Jaskier’s face - which Geralt holds closer to his heart than anything else, the memory crystallised in the depths of his mind - has harsher lines, a long scar running across it, and it’s framed by short silver hair, but that face - Geralt knows it better than his own, has loved it with every fibre of his being.

It’s Jaskier’s face, changed but still so heart wrenchingly familiar, and it’s Jaskier, Jaskier is here, and unbridled hope ignites in Geralt’s chest.

Maybe he won’t be so alone in this strange, unfamiliar universe after all. Maybe destiny has shown a sliver of kindness.

Maybe he can have his heart, his joy, his love back.

Jaskier - please, please be Jaskier - blinks, eyes widening in surprise, and for a moment, a flash of fear runs through Geralt. What if he’s wrong, and this isn’t Jaskier? What if Jaskier doesn’t respond the way Geralt had, back in another life?

What if… what if he stares at Geralt without recognition, looking at him like he’s no more than a stranger?

If Jaskier doesn’t recognise him, doesn’t remember him, Geralt thinks that he’ll break, the fragile thread of hope shattering and the broken pieces piercing into his grieving heart.

He’d mourned Jaskier, had grieved him. Geralt had thought him gone, and there’s an ache within him, carving out a painful, agonising hole in his chest, in his heart, the loss of Jaskier rendering him hollow. He would do anything to fill that ache, to have Jaskier back, but -

He can’t do it - to have Jaskier’s face before him again, only for the world to be cruel, so painfully cruel, and tear him away from Geralt once again - to have destiny dangle this hallucination, this illusion, this miracle of Jaskier before him, only to rip it away…

It would be cruel. Unspeakably cruel. But the world - it has never been kind to Geralt, and he has learned not to hope, because hope is a fickle thing - more often than not, holding out hope ends in misery and devastation.

And yet, Geralt can’t help but hope, because if there’s any chance that Jaskier is here, any chance that he isn’t dead or gone, and Geralt can be by his side, if there’s any chance at all, Geralt will grasp at it with pleading fingers, begging for that empty void within him to be filled with warmth and life and love once again, longing for Jaskier to once again be with him, for them to be together.

Please, please, please.

There’s a long pause, during which Geralt’s heart thumps loudly in his ears, body tensing in dread and hope and trepidation and anticipation and a fervent plea to destiny, until finally, finally, Jaskier rasps, “I’m here to drink alone.”

It’s impossible, utterly miraculous, but - those words had once been Geralt’s, and now Jaskier is saying them back to him, an echo of their first meeting.

I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.

I’m here to drink alone.

link to ao3 in reblog!

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

187 notes · View notes

kueble · 3 years

Note

Since you wanted fluff, I love the Christmas Tree Farm au, I'd love to see some general snow shenanigans (snow angels, snow men, a snowball fight) with these two dorks if that's something you'd be interested in!

Thank you for this! Just want I was after. Here’s two idiots playing in the snow.

---

When Jaskier pulls up to the cabin, he has to double check the address in his phone. Geralt’s house looks like it’s out of a storybook. It’s an actual log cabin, currently covered in snow with tempting smoke curling out of the chimney and into the surprisingly sunny sky. He looks at his backseat and blushes a bit, deciding to leave the duffle bag he packed here until he sees where the day takes them. He’s hopeful, but not expectant, and he jumps out of his care and hurries up the walkway to the front door. There’s a simple wreath hung on the door; plain evergreen boughs with a dark red bow. It suits Geralt, classic and understated, and Jaskier smiles to himself as he knocks.

“We don’t want any,” Geralt mutters as he swings the door open.

“Rude,” Jaskier tells him as he’s ushered inside. He tosses his keys on a table by the door and looks Geralt up and down, enjoying the way his sweater hugs his chest. His hair is tied back in a tiny bun with a couple stray tendrils hanging down to frame his face, and it’s ridiculous and offensive at how much Jaskier wants. “Thought we were having a bit of a snow day?”

“Excuse me for not sitting around in my overalls,” Geralt snorts at him. He digs into his closet and then starts pulling on a pair of tan Carhartt overalls. He completes the look with a matching jacket and looks so utterly wholesome that Jaskier can’t help stepping into his space and claiming his lips in a quick kiss.

“You look like a farmer. It’s adorable,” Jaskier tells him, reaching out to bob him on the nose.

“And you look like a city boy who is about to freeze his ass off. I have an extra pair of snow pants, let me grab them,” Geralt says before digging in the closet again. He tosses Jaskier a pair of black snow pants and he starts to take his boots off so he can pull them over his jeans.

“I tried,” Jaskier says, laughing. “Least I have my rustic boyfriend to help me out?”

“Boyfriend?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Was kinda hoping,” Jaskier mumbles as he feels his cheeks heat up. He knows he gets like this, too eager and too much all at once, and he wouldn't be surprised if Geralt was already sick of him. But he hasn’t felt like this in, well ever actually, and he can’t help wishing for everything he’s never had.

“Glad to confirm then,” Geralt tells him, chuckling lowly before leaning forward and kissing him again. Jaskier is definitely starting to get addicted to this, to the soft press of Geralt’s chapped lips against his own. He has to pull away before he begs Geralt to show him his bedroom instead of going through with their plans for the day.

“Come on, you promised me a snowman.”

Geralt hmms and picks up a scarf and a knit cap from the table by the door. “For the snowman,” he says, grinning as he guides Jaskier outside.

Once they’re on the front porch, Jaskier has to take a moment to look at the scenery. Geralt’s yard looks like a greeting card, full of snow drifts and lined with towering evergreens. The sun is out, making the snow glitter in a way that takes his breath away. He’s sure that come summer there will be flowers blooming instead, and he offers up a little prayer to whoever is listening that he’ll still be here for that. Odds are looking good, though, because Geralt just takes his hand and leads him through the knee deep snow.

It turns out that making a snowman is a lot harder than he remembered. Maybe that’s part of the magic of being a kid? All play and no work? Right now, Jaskier is bent over, pushing what is supposed to be the middle section of the snowman around the yard. He takes a break and looks over at Geralt whose own snowball is way more impressive. Their eyes meet and Geralt shoots him a quick grin before starting to roll the snow again.

They meet in the middle of the yard and Geralt comes to a stop. “Right here, yeah?” he asks and Jaskier nods. Geralt bumps his hips into Jaskier’s to move him away from his snowball and then effortlessly picks it up in a way that makes Jaskier’s knees feel a little weak. He settles it on top of the base and the whole thing looks a lot more like an actual snowman than it did a second ago.

“This city boy is tired. I’m going to make snow angels while you make the head,” Jaskier informs him before stomping a few feet to the side and plopping down in the snow. He can’t see him, but Geralt’s deep laughter fills the yard as he starts waving his arms and legs around. He’s starting to get warm again and can feel sweat gathering under his hat. He’s definitely looking forward to curling up in front of the fireplace like Geralt had promised him earlier.

“Here you go,” Geralt calls out, making Jaskier twist up so he can see him set the head on the snowman.

“Thanks for the head!” Jaskier blurts out, giggling when Geralt blushes beautifully and sticks his tongue out at him.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, reaching a hand down to help Jaskier up. Jaskier wraps his arms around him once he’s standing and darts in for a frosty kiss.

“Yeah but you like me anyway,” he says, shrugging as he saunters over to their snowman. Geralt hands him the hat and starts wrapping the scarf around it. Jaskier plants the knit hat on its head and reaches out to poke the giant pom-pom on top of it.

“I found some sticks for arms,” Geralt tells him, handing them over. Jaskier jams the arms into the snowman and stands back to survey their work.

“Oh! We don’t have a carrot!” he exclaims before looking at Geralt hopefully.

“I uh... I used all my carrots on the chuck roast that’s in the oven right now,” he says, pursing his lips. Jaskier waives a hand in the air and puts his hands on his hips to look around the yard again.

“Never mind. Our snowman will have an even better nose. Oh! A pinecone!” he calls out as he scurries over to the line of pine trees at the side of the yard. He digs in the snow a bit and manages to find a pretty skinny looking pinecone. He holds it up triumphantly and Geralt just shakes his head at him. Jaskier hurries back to their snowman and shoves the nose in place.

“Well...it’s something,” Geralt says as he takes in their slightly lumpy snowman.

“He’s perfect! I simply adore him,” Jaskier says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s call him Greg.”

“You’re going to name the snowman?” Geralt asks, laughing softly.

“Already have. Now get over here. It’s selfie time with Greg,” Jaskier orders. He stands on one side and gestures for Geralt to stand on the other. The photo comes out perfect, both of them looking rumpled and rosy cheeked while Greg stands stoically between them.

“Come here,” Geralt mumbles after Jaskier tucks his phone away. He doesn’t wait, just reaches out and pulls Jaskier into a tight hug. “You’re adorable and I can’t get enough of it,” he whispers against Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier shivers and leans back just far enough that he can meet Geralt’s amber eyes.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks, waiting for Geralt to nod before continuing. “I think I’m falling for you.”

“Good,” Geralt says before kissing him roughly. Jaskier deepens the kiss, licking into Geralt’s mouth, and holds out a hand to shield Greg’s innocent eyes.

#geraskier #my fic #geralt x jaskier #winter prompts #geralt #jaskier #the witcher

59 notes · View notes

flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7/ part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 belongs to this

Content waring: memory loss, Alzheimer, use of the name Julian, minor allusions to future character death. Probably counts as hurt/no comfort

about 6k

“I need to talk to you,” Geralt said, his hands twitching at his sides.

“I like it when you talk,” Jaskier said with a bittersweet smile, beautiful in its earnestness but lacking the teasing tone Jaskier would have used before.

Despite his words, Jaskier didn’t push Geralt to keep talking. He just kept on looking at him expectantly, while Geralt’s jaw worked as if grinding his teeth would make the words smaller and easier to come out.

“It’s almost winter,” he said finally. Small words. One sentence at the time. It wasn’t easier. “It’s going to get cold.”

Jaskier didn’t react. Whether because he had nothing to say, not noticing the truth in Geralt’s words or because he wanted to be attentive to Geralt and let him say his piece, Geralt couldn’t tell.

Somehow the lack of response made it even harder to form the words.

“Do you remember Eskel?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s lips twitched. It was only a miniscule shift, the movement of a single muscle, but it brightened Jaskier’s entire face.

“I miss him.” Geralt’s admission was quiet. Unplanned. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this, hadn’t wanted to make it personal. It would be easier if he could keep his own emotion out of it. “We won’t see him again this year.”

Something unspoken clung to the words like an echo one couldn’t hear clearly enough to understand. Geralt didn’t want to understand.

“Kaer Morhen is colder than here. Too far away from any healer and –“ and there were ghosts, memories haunting the walls that Geralt had been able to ignore for most of his life. He didn’t think he would be able to ever return if another ghost would walk the halls because Geralt in his selfishness had brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, where there would be no help for him if anything happened.

Geralt became still, unnaturally so, until with an unknown force, his hands started shaking. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jaskier.

“We can’t go to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt pressed forth, intending to make his voice sound stronger than before and failing miserable.

Jaskier’s face showed no change, as if the words Geralt had said were meaningless. But he did reach out a hand, brushing it against Geralt’s and let it linger there, not yet taking it but giving Geralt the option to.

He took it wihtout hesitaion. Geralt clung to Jaskier’s hand as though it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. As though Jaskier wasn’t already sunk deeper than Geralt ever would.

Jaskier didn’t seem to mind staying at the coast. That, at least was a relief, even though last year’s memory of Jaskier’s excitement at the prospect of seeing their family again played over and over in Geralt’s mind. A family Jaskier might not even know existed anymore, even if their mention still brought a smile to his face without fail.

At least he didn’t get to miss them.

Not like he used to. Not like they missed Jaskier.

Geralt tried to distract himself from the ache such thoughts brought with them. As long as he worked with his hands, his mind didn’t have time to go down that line of thought until its end.

So instead of thinking about what he was missing – too much, everything, nothing he could bring back again – he tended to what he had.

Jaskier sat on a bench, watching Geralt cut back the withered flowers. Geralt was so focussed on his work that for the longest time, he didn’t see the sour look on Jaskier’s face, barely concealed by a cracked mask of aloofness.

Geralt furrowed his brow, one of his hands still holding onto the rose bush he was in the middle of cutting down, when his eyes had fallen on Jaskier’s disapproving frown.

Geralt opened his mouth, but before he could ask Jaskier what was wrong, Jaskier spoke up.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Geralt closed his moth again, dumbfounded. After a moment he asked “Do what? Cut the roses?” he looked back at the pitiful bush. “They have wilted. It’s better to cut them now so that new ones can come next spring.”

“Why?” Jaskier said, something sharp blazing in his eyes. “Are they not pretty enough anymore? Do you have no use for them anymore?”

“Well, no. I don’t. We can’t sell them like this and –“

“Don’t punish them for being flowers! You watered them and made them pretty. You are the reason they are like that. You can’t just get rid of them just because they cannot be what you want them to be any longer.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond, so instead of saying words that would surely be the wrong ones, he just let go of the roses.

Immediately, Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed and he slumped forward a bit.

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Geralt moved over to him. For a moment, Jaskier tensed, but when Geralt sat down next to him, he sagged again.

“That’s why they have thorns.” Jaskier’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Because they are pretty. And they know that once they don’t have that anymore, they have to protect themselves. No one will want them anymore.”

“You thought about that a lot, haven’t you?” Geralt asked, studying Jaskier closely. As if he would even know if he had thought about it before of if he was even making sense.

“Of course I have thought about what I am,” Jaskier said, clearly aiming for sounding irritated, but something in his tone made it seem like admitting defeat.

“You don’t have thorns.”

“It would be better if I did. I can’t choose to be a weed. Should make the best of what I am.”

“You are the best.” The words were rough like grating stones, but they left Geralt’s lips light as feathers.

Jaskier huffed, frustration coming off of him in waves. “Always the best. Until one day I’m not and I will get discarded for the next in line. The next perfect flower.” Jaskier’s eyes slid from the withered flowers to the dandelions still fighting for their lives, stubbornly refusing to back down despite the frost coating them. A strange smile quirked Jaskier’s lips. “You didn’t pull the weeds.”

Geralt’s frown smoothed out. “It would be no use.”

“No use,” Jaskier repeated slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “They are better than useful.”

“How so?”

“Because they don’t wilt. Flowers die slowly and become ugly until they get cut away, no matter how many thorns they have.” He paused, tilting his head to the side looking on in contemplation. “Dandelion’s don’t fester. They become more beautiful even when their time to bloom is over. And then, when they do finally go, they are breathtaking. No one notices a dandelion while it’s in full bloom. But have you ever seen a child that didn’t watch gleefully as the seeds flew off?”

Geralt scooted over, until his thigh brushed Jaskier’s. “People have always noticed you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “For being a perfect rose.”

“I noticed you,” Geralt said. Maybe it would make a difference to Jaskier. “I don’t get rid of weeds.”

Jaskier’s eyes lingered on the dandelions a moment longer, until they turned back to Geralt, searching him for something. Geralt hoped he would find it, whatever it was.

“Have you ever made a wish on a dandelion?”

Apparently Geralt’s expression was answer enough. He felt a pang at the disappointed smile Jaskier gave him. “I will make one next year.”

Jaskier’s smile widened and the gentle pressure against Geralt’s leg increased for a split second before Jaskier pulled away.

Jaskier straightened his jacket and put that broken mask back on. Geralt’s heart cracked at the sight.

“You should probably get back to your work,” Jaskier said in a tone that sounded so unlike him, distant and almost cold, that Geralt’s insides clenched painfully. “I shouldn’t keep you from it.” When Geralt didn’t make a move to get up, Jaskier added “Don’t you have roses to cut?”

Geralt shrugged. “Not if you don’t want me to. They are your roses.” He pressed his lips together tightly. “And just so you know. You don’t need thorns. Not with me.”

Even if you don’t know who I am.

Jaskier changed. It didn’t really come as a surprise, not anymore. Not after all the changes Jaskier had gone through already.

But something seemed different about this time, something that gave Geralt pause and made him look closer at Jaskier in hopes of finding the itch that came with not knowing.

Then, one day while they were sitting at the table drinking tea, it hit him. This change was happening backwards. Somehow, Jaskier was getting better.

Geralt couldn’t help but stare at him, his heart racing in his chest with a burning hope that almost couldn’t be contained, taking in every detail he could about Jaskier’s change.

The cup in Jaskier’s hand still shook, but a blind man could see that Jaskier was putting all his focus on keeping it as steady as possible, not even letting himself get distracted by the light snowfall that could be seen through the window.

Jaskier also seemed taller somehow. He sat straighter than he had in years – in fact, Geralt couldn’t think of a time when Jaskier had ever paid attention to his posture while not surrounded by nobles he needed to impress – until his aching back made him hunch over into a more comfortable position again. Even then, he often endured the prim and proper posture with a grimace, until it got too much or Geralt gave him some of Yennefer’s medicine against his aches.

When Jaskier wasn’t stubbornly refusing to hunch over, he had a strange look on his face, his body tense despite the relaxed posture and his eyes darting left and right as if expecting to get scolded any minute.

And lastly – at least as far as Geralt was aware – Jaskier never slept in any more. No matter how often Geralt mentioned the dark circles under his eyes or reminded Jaskier that he didn’t have to get up in time for anything, Jaskier continued to wake early and hide his yawns behind a façade of unneeded discipline he had never shown during their time on the road.

So yes, Jaskier was getting better, but Geralt noted with a sense of dawning dread that he was also getting so much worse. Haunted, tense, constantly looking over his shoulder as though he thought someone was looking at him, judging him, ready to cut him down once he showed signs of withering.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, so as not to startle him. Jaskier didn’t seem to hear him, too focussed on his cup to take note of anything around him. “Jaskier!”

At Geralt’s raised voice Jaskier flinched.

Ripped out of his concentration so suddenly, Jaskier lost control over the cup in his hands, the tea sloshing over before Geralt could jump in to steady the cup again.

“No,” Jaskier breathed, suddenly rigid, his widened eyes darting to the door. Mortified, he stared back at the wet spot on his shirt where the thankfully cooled down tea had landed.

He frantically started rubbing at it, only looking up when Geralt gently took his hands in his, stilling his motion.

“It’s alright,” Geralt said softly. “Nothing happened.”

“I can’t let them see it.” Jaskier’s shaky voice broke Geralt’s heart.

“There’s no one here. Just us.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced. His tongue nervously licked his lips and his eyes flickered over to the door again, before nodding faintly.

Minutes seemed to pass, in which Geralt just watched Jaskier relax and tense over and over again.

“You are safe here,” Geralt said finally, the constant anxiety in Jaskier getting too much to bear. “Whatever you are afraid of, it can’t reach you, Jaskier.”

At the last word confusion overwrote the hunted look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“What?”

“You are safe,” Geralt repeated with all the conviction he could muster, doing his best to emulate the tone Jaskier used to use on him whenever he came back from a hunt, pumped up with potions and pacing like a caged animal.

“No, I mean…Jaskier?” He said his own name as though it sounded foreign to him. “I…Sorry to disappoint you, but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

Geralt sighed inwardly, while his face remained stoically blank. One would think a few months would be enough to get used to the idea that the man he loved didn’t remember him, but Geralt knew not even an immortal’s lifetime wouldn’t ever be enough for that.

Brazing himself for the unavoidable blank stare he would receive, he said “I am Geralt.”

Not even a twitch on Jaskier’s face. His name was completely erased from his mind.

At the very least, Jaskier didn’t draw back as he had done a few times before. He also didn’t lean forward eagerly trying to befriend the man whose heart he unwittingly held in his hand.

This time, Jaskier held out his hand to Geralt in a clear invitation.

Briefly, Geralt hesitated. The gesture looked almost like he was supposed to kiss his knuckles. As he lifted Jaskier’s hand to his lips, he risked a glance at his face, stopping shortly before his lips could touch his skin. Jaskier’s face didn’t show any rejection.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat, as he pressed his lips against Jaskier’s knuckles, not breaking eye contact for fear that he had misunderstood.

But Jaskier only nodded slightly and said “Pleased to meet you. I am Julian.”

It was as if a rug was pulled out from under Geralt. He froze, his light grip on Jaskier’s hand tightening just like Geralt’s chest.

“What?” Though his mind was racing with questions and fears, this one word was the only thing he managed to force out of his mouth.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re Jaskier.” Even while Geralt said it, he could taste the bitter lie in his own words. The truth was Geralt had no idea who Jaskier was right now. All he had was Jaskier’s word and the way he carried himself that looked so painfully unlike Jaskier.

The slight narrowing of Jaskier’s eyes was the only indication of any reaction to Geralt’s words. Apart from that, he was all the viscount he seemed to be in his own mind.

Before his eyes, Geralt had watched Jaskier become a stranger to him and he hadn’t even realised it until now. How long had this been going on? How long had Jaskier thought himself trapped in this life he had spent so long escaping from?

His eyes were drawn to the wet spot on Jaskier’s shirt. Such a minor inconvenience that had Jaskier tense up in anxious anticipation of who knows what.

“Come on,” Geralt said, holding his hand out, hoping that Jaskier wouldn’t reject it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” After a brief pause, Geralt added with forced casualness that couldn’t hide the tightness in his throat “Julian.”

The name was heavy like rocks, cutting like shards of glass grazing his throat. But it coaxed Jaskier into reacting, into taking Geralt’s hand and letting himself be guided to the bedroom, where he sat down on the bed and let Geralt change his shirt without protest.

They were quiet while Geralt put the new shirt on Jaskier.

Jaskier endured Geralt’s care with little to no reaction, only the slightest press into his touches, as if he was afraid of them being noticed. Geralt pretended not to, as he knelt down in front of Jaskier to tighten the fastenings, wishing with every fibre of his being that Jaskier would grant him more of his brief touch.

It was Jaskier, who finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Who is Jaskier?”

Geralt had expected the question to come, but nothing had prepared him for the way it was said. He froze, looking up at the stranger sitting before him, cold and aloof and distant.

And with such longing in his voice that even the most even tone couldn’t hide it.

Every part of Geralt yearned to give him what he was longing for. If only he knew how.

Jaskier didn’t repeat his question. Geralt half-hoped that he had already forgotten about it, had moved on in his mind to places that hurt less. But Jaskier was looking at him with hopeless, starving desperation and Geralt felt his mouth moving without his permission.

But despite his inadequate and rough words, Jaskier looked mesmerised.

“Jaskier is the best bard the continent ever knew. The best man I ever knew.” His throat became dry. “Stubborn and stupid and unable to shut up.” His wet laugh faded into a soft tone. “He is brilliant.”

He didn’t know what other words he spoke. Too many, it seemed. Too few. Never enough to encompass everything Jaskier was.

“Where is he now?”

A sound escaped Geralt that might have been a sob. “I don’t know. Gone.”

“For how long?”

Geralt had to close his eyes. He couldn’t bear looking into Jaskier’s face, slowly revealed by the fallen pieces of the mask that broke off with every word Geralt said.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t even know when he started leaving. I don’t think he will come back.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. He was quiet for a long time and Geralt didn’t dare breathe while Jaskier assessed him, silently begging the blue eyes to pierce his skull and read his thoughts.

Please come back. Come back to me!

He didn’t. Jaskier stayed hidden in his realm of shadow, leaving only Julian behind.

“And yet you love him still?”

The words came unexpected. They were enough to dissipate the tightness in his chest, replacing it with something light and burning.

“I don’t think it would be possible not to love him.”

Jaskier smiled at that, the mask finally coming off completely. “Sounds lovely.”

“It is.” Lovely and painful and hurting him more than anything else in his life. And it was worth every bit of it.

“Do you think I’ll ever know what it feels like?” He sounded frail, like a touch that was only slightly too harsh would make him crumble.

Geralt reached out to touch. Jaskier stayed solid, though his shoulders slumped. His posture clashing horribly and beautifully with the name of viscount he still claimed.

“I know you do.” Rarely had Geralt ever been so sure of anything in his life.

Jaskier must have felt it, for he leaned in after eying the door suspiciously for a moment.

“I wish I were a bard.” His voice was but a whisper, but his confession was loud as the roaring thunder. “So I could write a song about what you and he have.”

Something unfurled in Geralt’s chest and he traced the places where lute calluses used to be with his thumb.

“He named himself after a weed.” He didn’t know why he said it, but the words seemed fitting somehow. The discomfort of saying something so mundane was worth it, when Jaskier’s face lit up as it hadn’t in days, with no trace of decorum or tension.

“And is he still making you happy even after he had served his time?”

He was making Geralt miserable. He made him lose sleep and ache for what they used to have and he made him want to scream in his helplessness, but he still smiled at him and reached out to hold his hand sometimes.

“Yes,” Geralt said without a trace of hesitation. “Even now.”

“And later?”

Geralt’s blood turned to ice. “Later he will hurt me enough to make me wish that I hadn’t ever met him. But it will have been worth every moment we had together.”

Jaskier twisted his hand in Geralt’s until he could weave their fingers together.

“He must be truly lucky then.”

An involuntary laugh escaped Geralt. “I hope so or else we have collected all those seashells for nothing.”

Jaskier knitted his brows together. “What?”

Geralt’s eyes trailed down Jaskier’s neck where the broken piece of seashell still hung around his neck; not a day having passed on which Jaskier hadn’t worn it.

The warmth spread from Geralt’s chest, melting the ice in his limps. “I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a long story about a siren and a prince.”

Jaskier’s chin trembled and Geralt could almost see him biting his own cheek. “Father says a viscount shouldn’t listen to such nonsense stories.”

Geralt shrugged. “Perhaps not. But bards are surrounded by such ‘nonsense stories’. It’s up to you which path you want to be yours, really.”

Jaskier hesitated for all of one heartbeat, before the helpless longing in his eyes was replaced by giddy determination.

To say that it was easy having this man who didn’t even know who Jaskier was around him would be a lie. It was, however, like a small wonder; sometimes hurting, sometimes cursed, always beautiful.

After that first day when Geralt met ‘Julian’, Jaskier had become both more open and more closed off in a way.

His smiles came easier, when he woke up early he let himself get coaxed back to bed and he sometimes sat down closer to Geralt than he had allowed himself to before whenever Geralt told him a story, wishing he had Jaskier’s ability to colour the words with his voice in a way Jaskier deserved to hear.

But he was also less and less responsive. He followed Geralt around, let himself be guided and protected, but he rarely talked anymore. It was too quiet. Too empty.

As the snow fell, pilling up on their windowsill, Geralt found himself picking up the lute more and more often. It still felt strange to hold the treasured instrument in his arms. It was too small for him, too breakable.

But on some days it felt like the lute was all he had left. Whenever Geralt took it in hand, Jaskier relaxed a bit, even though he didn’t always seem to truly hear it.

It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to get frustrated and bring the lute into town for someone to tweak the pegs until the instrument didn’t sound like a yowling cat anymore.

The first time hearing the strings being in tune had made his chest ache with an unbearable heaviness. Geralt had lifted his hands off the strings as if they had cut him. But he remained sitting with the instrument in his lap, the fading notes still drifting through the air.

He still wasn’t good at playing it by any means. If Jaskier hadn’t been somewhere in his mind or far away, he might have teased Geralt about being a brute with no sense of rhythm and the natural flow of music.

His heart clenched at the mental image that would never come to pass in real life.

Straining his mind, Geralt did his best to imitate the finger placement he had seen Jaskier use so often. It was possibly the most basic chord that even children easily mastered, but to Geralt it was an accomplishment when he was finally able to play a real, albeit simple song for Jaskier. Weeks upon weeks of Geralt watching Jaskier teach Sera how to pluck the strings to make them sing finally payed off, even if it was just in such a small way. He remembered Jaskier’s patience with his student and the memory of the gentle but firm encouragement he gave the new bard until she had the confidence to match the skill, was enough to push Geralt through his awkward attempts at playing.

Jaskier didn’t stir much when Geralt played for him. Geralt felt foolish. Here he was playing a children’s lullaby for a master bard who had serenaded him with ballads beyond compare.

But Jaskier leaned in close, a smile on his lips that stretched the wrinkles around his mouth, though his eyes were still distant.

Every once in a while when Geralt messed up even this simplest of songs and silently cursed his own clumsiness at playing, Jaskier reached out and corrected Geralt’s finger placement. It didn’t even seem like a conscious action and when Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye, he saw little passion, but the fact that Jaskier still somehow knew how the chords were meant to be played even when he wasn’t the one playing made Geralt’s chest want to burst.

He held the lute out for Jaskier, offering it to its rightful owner. Jaskier stared at it with a mixture of longing and the false dispassion that had slipped onto his face every once in a while.

He didn’t reach out to take the lute, but he didn’t push it away either when Geralt put it in Jaskier’s lap.

“Viscounts don’t play around with frivolous things like music.” The clipped words sounded foreign coming from Jaskier’s mouth, like lines in a play or the repetition of someone else’s words.

Of all the things for Jaskier to remember, this shouldn’t be it.

Geralt shrugged, a vain attempt at casualness that he probably missed by a mile. “Neither do witchers.”

Geralt’s heart sped up in restless anticipation when Jaskier lifted his arms seemingly automatically and rested his fingers where they belonged. He didn’t play, but the sight of him like this – like himself – was radiant enough.

An almost shy and hesitant smile graced Jaskier’s lips. “And yet here we are.”

Geralt’s heart clenched and he felt something in him come loose.

“And yet here we are,” he said in agreement.

The moment they shared was brittle but charged with unspoken emotion. Geralt couldn’t begin to guess at what this moment meant for Jaskier; he could barely make sense of all the feelings rushing through himself. He knew this meant something entirely different for Jaskier than it did for him, but that didn’t make it mean any less.

“Play for me?” He asked quietly, afraid to break what they had between them.

No reply left Jaskier’s lips, but his hands answered for him. While Jaskier’s eyes lost focus again, watching shapes and images only he could see, he strummed the lute like Geralt had done often times before. No chords, no rhythm. Just Jaskier.

---

The flames danced high into the night sky as if they were trying to reach the stars.

It was surreal, sitting in the same spot they had sat in half a year ago. With everything that had happened – everything Geralt had lost and done his best to rebuilt – the winter months had raced past him until they once again found themselves apart from the solstice festivities in town.

“The nights will be shorter from now on,” he said, just to fill the silence.

Jaskier didn’t answer, just stared into the bonfire. It was almost the same as during the summer solstice. Back then, Geralt hadn’t known just how little time he had had left with Jaskier. He hadn’t known Jaskier would disappear and leave Julian in his stead, who then left as well, leaving nothing but a shell behind.

Ambers flew into the sand, pushed away from the fire by a gust of wind.

Geralt felt rather than saw Jaskier shiver next to him. Instinctively, Geralt laid an arm around him and pulled him closer, trying to shield him from the wind that tugged Jaskier’s scarf loose. Geralt’s lips quirked into a broken smile when he saw Jaskier’s nose scrunch up in disgust at the scarf as if it was the ugliest piece of clothing he had ever worn, which in all honesty seemed quite likely.

“Don’t be so critical,” Geralt said, though he knew better than to expect an answer. “I loved the scarf when you gifted it to me. It was our first winter we spend here together, remember?” He left a pause for a reply that wouldn’t come. “You were so frustrated while knitting, but you didn’t stop, because apparently ‘knitting is what old people do’.”

Jaskier’s fingers trailed over the frayed ends, and odd little smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes didn’t waver.

Geralt could have said more, could have talked about how after a week of Geralt constantly wearing the scarf just to tease him, Jaskier had declared it was too ugly to be worn and had told Geralt to get rid of it. He could have told Jaskier about how even as he nodded, he had known he would never throw it away, instead putting it in a box where Jaskier wouldn’t look. He could have told him how occasionally he still took the scarf out of that box when Jaskier was too preoccupied or too far gone to notice how Geralt smiled at the feel of the scratchy but warm wool.

Taking the scarf out of the box and laying it around Jaskier’s neck had almost choked Geralt. He had wished with every part of him that Jaskier would scoff indignantly that he still had the scarf or make a joke about Geralt being sentimental.

Instead he had gotten no reaction at all, until now. The small displeased frown on Jaskier’s face was more than he had dared to hope for.

Geralt couldn’t supress the shudder than ran down his spine. He needed more. He needed so much more from Jaskier, but nothing he had any right to ask for and nothing Jaskier would be able to give.

An arm found its place around Geralt’s middle. He startled, when Jaskier pulled him slightly closer, rubbing his arm as if wanting to warm him, his free hand tracing a pattern on Geralt’s thigh. It took Geralt a moment to realise what it was. The shape of igni.

Geralt felt something break inside of him, though he couldn’t tell whether it was his heart of glass or a dam that had held back everything he hadn’t allowed himself to feel. Either way, he felt warmth spread through his chest all the way down to his fingertips and to where Jaskier was touching him.

“Thank you,” Geralt said tightly, almost choking on his words. “I- thank you. I didn’t get to tell you during the summer. No, that’s not true. I had my chance. I missed it. I won’t miss it again.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You said we should tell each other what we were thankful for to have that be a light for us. The thing is – I don’t know how. The memory of what I’m grateful for can’t be enough. It can’t replace you.”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, dreading that he wouldn’t find the right words again. All that Jaskier was couldn’t be contained in mere words. He was laughter and dances and songs in the night and dandelion seeds flying off with the wind.

And yet, Geralt’s mouth was able to form the words that hadn’t left his throat in summer when the birds had sung and the flowers had bloomed. It was easier to find them now that the bitter wind bit into his skin and the thought of home and family made him ache. It was easier when the only beautiful thing he had left was the man curled into his side.

“It can’t replace you,” he said again, firmer this time. “Because the Path is a cold and lonely road and it is unbearably dark. And then you had to find me and smile at me as if you were the sun, making it your mission to single-handedly light up the Path. And you did.” A laugh that might just as well have been a sob escaped him. “You fucking did. And you continue to do it. Every time I think I am alone in the dark again you pluck a single lute string or you listen to me or you smile at me the way you do, even when you don’t know who I am, as if I was good and worth your smiles.”

Geralt’s voice broke off. He ran a hand down his face, though no tears came. Maybe he did it because of the lack of tears, because he should be crying but for some godsforsaken reason he was unable to.

“A memory of you can’t replace you. I don’t want it to replace you. But…” the words didn’t want to come, but they needed to. Jaskier deserved to hear them. He would have wanted to, even if they might not reach him now. He needed to know that he had done enough for Geralt. “but I am thankful, more than anything, that I you gifted these memories to me. They won’t be enough, but at least they will be there, when…when you aren’t anymore.”

The last words were spoken so softly, Geralt wasn’t even sure they had ever left his tongue at all.

A gentle touch on his arm had him lifting his head again. Jaskier still wasn’t looking at him, but his face was sombre. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful like this; wrinkles and thin hair and eyes that often didn’t see him anymore, all basked in the soft glow of the fire that held his attention while Geralt was baring his soul.

Geralt released a shuddering breath and waited. Jaskier didn’t say anything, but he did lean his head against Geralt’s shoulder, once again tracing igni into his skin.

Jaskier’s silence for once was something precious. Geralt relished in it, closing his eyes to better hear all it left unsaid.

The wind dimmed down and the bonfire started to crumble, when Geralt began to hum one of the traditional songs Jaskier would always sing for the solstices.

His voice was bad, wrecked from the dry sobs and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had heard Jaskier sing it. The melody didn’t come right to him, and yet, Jaskier recognised it or at the very least recognised the intention behind it, for after the first verse, he joined in.

Jaskier’s voice, too, was bad, rough from disuse and the cold air and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had sung it as if he had been the one to write it.

As the festivities in the distant town died down, two voices on the edge of the sea drifted into the night like flames, reaching towards the stars. They went unheard by anyone except maybe the few seagulls who weren’t yet asleep and who to anyone but themselves might sound like they were croaking, when to themselves the seabirds’ cries made music sweeter than any nightingale.

Maybe not even the seabirds heard them, their voices drowned out in the wind, cracking of the fire and sounds of the sea.

They sang nonetheless.

The people of their village still knew that they were there. People all over the continent might spent the night and any day to come telling each other tales about the witcher and the bard who had found their happiness in each other.

Geralt didn’t care about such tales. He didn’t care if his name would live on in tales and songs, for he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jaskier’s name would live on in him. All he cared about in this moment was the man in his arms, leaning against him despite everything and singing as he had always done.

Jaskier had sung while Geralt had fallen for him and while Jaskier had fallen for him in return. He had been a lark, soaring into the sky belting his songs into all corners of the continent. Now, as Jaskier was falling slowly from the sky, tumbling down with Geralt at the bottom ready to catch him, he still sang, broken and out of tune and his voice mingling with Geralt, more beautifully than he had ever sung before.

44 notes · View notes

vaire-gwir · 3 years

Text

I find you all Unwoven

I was sad, and then I decided to make myself even sadder writing this...yay me?

Geralt is outside Oxenfurt for a contract, something attracts his attention. Meeting Jaskier for the first time after the mountain scene doesn’t go as he expected.

English is not my first language, I wrote it in a rush so it probably sucks a bit more than usual, let me know what you think!

***

There was music coming from inside the tavern, it was not Jaskier's voice hitting the notes but the lyrics were his, Geralt recognized them. It was a weird experience, more so because he knew Jaskier was here. He recognized the unique mix of flowers, lavender and honey that made up the bard's scent, he'd never get that wrong, it was hard to forget. So Jaskier was here, and so was the music, how strange he was not playing it.

If he were asked why, Geralt couldn't explain why he decided to enter. Last time he saw the bard was almost a year ago, and too much time passed to try and mend something he broke. And yet, he couldn't resist. The moment he caught that flowery scent he knew he had to see him, even from afar, even just for a second or two. It's been so long since the last time he saw him.

It took Geralt no longer than a minute to find Jaskier in the crowded inn, but something was off. Everything was off, to be honest. The black trousers and grey shirt were a weird sight on the bard. No colours or frilly shirts, no silk pants or lace doublets. He was sitting by himself, eyes lost in his mug, it almost seemed like he was trying to appear smaller, inconspicuous, invisible.

He was not singing or playing, he was not talking with anyone, he wasn't trying to strike a conversation or catch anyone's eyes, he was there but he wasn't really there. That was not his bard. Something must have happened to him. That was not the man he used to know. 'You. You happened to him.' A cruel voice inside Geralt's head quickly supplied. Also, not his anymore.

Jaskier was like the middle of spring, when all the flowers start to bloom, the air is warm and filled with their scents, the nights are lighter and everything seemed a bit easier to bear. Now his eyes showed the end of autumn, when all the leaves fall from the dead trees, the nights are endless and even the days grow darker. There were no more flowers or light or sweet scents, there was nothing left. It physically hurts somewhere deep inside him to see Jaskier like that, it was painful for reasons he didn't know how to put into words.

Geralt was familiar with guilt, he knew its smell and ache, he knew how to bear it, but this was hitting him differently. He used to know a lively and bright person, chatty and quick, in love with life and everything in it, fierce and bubbly but whoever was sitting on that stool at the end of the bar was the very opposite of all that.

He observes from his corner at the back of the tavern, it's been months since he left Jaskier on the mountain after their stupid fight, and of all the times he wanted, needed, to see him again, this seemed almost unnatural. He's the last person the bard wants to see and yet Geralt feels compelled to call him, he's itching to say his name out loud and see the shadows dancing in the endless pool of ocean that were his blue eyes, he's craving to be close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and hear him say his name, just once. Just once, like he always dreams about, like the dragon hunt never happened.

He spent so many days regretting the words he said on top of that cursed mountain, wishing for forgiveness, cause he could deal with Yen leaving, but losing Jaskier hurt in a different way. On the way back to where they set camp Geralt secretly hoped until the last minute to see him waiting with Roach at the edge of the woods, pouting and cursing at him, but all his things were gone.

The guy wearing Jaskier's face murmurs something to the maid, slips a few coins into her hand, and gets up. He wraps a thick cloak around his thinner frame, he has probably lost some weight, Geralt can't tell for sure. When he walks out of the tavern, he has to fight every instinct screaming at him to follow him. He sits still for a grand total of a full minute before losing that fight and rushing out, following the faint trace of lavender in the air.

Jaskier is just crossing the square when a dark shadow looms behind him. "Why did you follow me, Witcher?" He whispers softly while turning around. He slowly takes in the black-clad figure in front of him, the white messy hair, the golden eyes, the frown on his face and the fine layer of dust on his clothes. Geralt is exactly how he remembers him. Jaskier feels his betrayer heart jumping in his chest.

"How did you know...."Geralt begins to ask puzzled.

"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." Jaskier lowers his eyes and Geralt can't help but notice how tired he looks. The dark circle around his eyes threaten to swallow the sunlit blue sea with their purple hue, and he's so pale, his skin so white and washed out Geralt would almost suspect he was sick if he didn't know better.

"I... You were not singing.” He knows it's stupid to say, but he can't ask any of the other questions on the tip of his tongue.

Jaskier adjusts the cloak around himself, trying to keep the cold at bay. Geralt is yearning to trace the contours of his face, trail his fingers over his sharp cheekbones, or over his jaw, anything, he just needs a small touch, but he knows he can’t. "I don't do that anymore," Jaskier says.

"Why not?" His yellow eyes seem to widen for a moment at the implications of those words and he sees the pain flickering over the bard's beautiful features. Pain that Geralt put there himself. The ache inside of him burns fiercely. He wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know where to find the right words. He’s not even sure Jaskier would listen,

"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Jaskier sighs, he feels drained and exhausted. Geralt was the last person he expected to see today. and the last he needed to see. Too long he spent trying to sew himself back together, too many tears were shed at every dream and every memory of their time together, too many little pieces of his heart were still refusing to stay put and make him whole. It all seemed in vain now that the Witcher was in front of him.

"That's not true," Geralt mumbles under his breath, clenching his hands at his side, resisting the urge to reach out for him. There must be something he could say to make Jaskier forgive him.

"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Geralt hears it in his voice that if Jaskier had enough strength left in him to be mad, he'd be furious. He briefly wonders how long he stayed angry before he gave up.

"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier’s laugh is bitter and hollow, empty as his eyes.

"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I’m in the mood to have my heart broken again."

Geralt knows he's right, but it still hurts to hear it from his voice. It takes him a moment for the words to sink in, it’s like his mind refuses the real meaning of them. He steels himself before saying "I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier." And it’s harder than slaying any monster he ever encountered. For some messed up reasons, he thought Jaskier would be willing to talk to him, to give him a second chance he knows he hasn’t earned. It’s only fair that he doesn’t.

"You were right." Geralt freezes in his spot when blue eyes search for his own golden ones. "You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands, But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."

Geralt doesn't miss how his voice breaks, he can taste the salt in the air from his unshed tears and he can't help but wonder how many times this precious human he loved cried because of him. Loves. He still loves him, even if he never knew how to show it. He stares at the black cloak trailing tiredly behind his companion, his best friend, his lover, and he knows he deserves the pain he feels for what he did to him. He whispers his poor apology to the wind, but nobody answers. He really wishes Witchers couldn't feel emotions.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fandom #fanfiction #post-mountain break up #sad jaskier #just pain I guess #idiots in love #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic

39 notes · View notes

batgurl1989 · 3 years

Text

Running With The Wolf

Summary: Geralt and Younin leave the Inn at the Crossroads, heading out on their adventures

Word Count: 1100

Warnings: Spoiler for the Witcher 3 video game

A/N: This is one of those fill in chapters that has to happen between the action, but I promise action is coming. I also felt I should mention that Dandelion is Jaskier's name in the books and games, in case anyone was confused. This is the start of a new set of chapters that starts with We Meet Again Chapter One now that the intros have been done.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Taglist: @rmtndew @princesssterek @djinny-djin-djin

Chapter One

Geralt decided to explore some of Velen, heading to a few of the smaller villages to see if they needed a Witcher's help. You spent the days he was gone selling off the supply you couldn't travel with, and buying a horse. You didn't want to burden Roach too much, and it would make more sense to have your own horse for the quick getaways you inevitably would need to make. You lucked out finding a travelling merchant who wanted to plant some roots, and sold your house for a healthy profit.

You saved most of the coin you gathered from selling off your things, but did manage to buy a new bedroll and some other essential travel supplies. The horse you bought, Marabelle, wasn't an old nag either. And after getting new shoes and new tack for her, you still had a coin purse bursting with crowns. Intending you save it for when you were on the road, you stitched a secret compartment into your travelling clothes to hide it.

Geralt returned 5 days after you made the decision to go with him, a smile on his face and a pocket full of crowns. You figured he had found some success with a contract or two.

It didn't take long to get the horses packed up and ready, and after saying goodbye to Glinda, you and Geralt were heading out of town. You gave the barmaid an enchanted coin so she would always be able to contact to if it was an emergency.

"I figured we could head to Novigrad, stop in at the Chameleon." Geralt shared his plans with you when you stopped a crossroads to decide the best route. He didn't miss the look of fear that flashed through your eyes. "Don't worry. I have a letter that will get us into the city without them questioning you. There is a blacksmith on Glory Lane that I need to see about repairing a sword he made for me."

You felt better after hearing about the letter, but it didn't completely put you at ease. Giving your head a shake, you had to trust Geralt knew what he was doing. After all, he was welcome in less places than you, and he couldn't disguise himself as easily thanks to the process that made him a Witcher.

"Lead the way." You offered him a confident smile, gathering the reins in one of your hands.

Geralt turned Roach onto the road leading to Novigrad. Clicking his tongue, he urged his mount into a steady lope. You followed, a feeling of happiness blooming in your chest as the wind blew through your hair. You patted Marabelle's flank as she easily caught up to Geralt and Roach.

"Not a bad horse you got there." Geralt grinned as you rode beside him.

"She was worth every coin I spent on her." You grinned, patting her flank again. Geralt's eyes flicked over your face, searching for any regret you might be feeling, but he found none. "What trouble do you think you will need to save Dandelion from this time?"

"I'm hoping none, but knowing him, he owes someone something." Geralt shook his head. The last time he had seen the bard, Geralt had had to rescue him from some thugs that tried to control the streets of Novigrad. "Priscilla seems to keep a good eye on him."

"I'm sure you will want to check the noticeboards while we are in the city. 'Giant rats' can cause quite a panic." You rolled your eyes. Townsfolk never knew exactly what to call the monsters they saw. Their minds didn't seem capable of grasping that they were more likely looking at a Ekimmara than at a giant rat.

"I might glance, but that doesn't mean I will take a contract." Geralt shifted in his saddle. You watched him closely; you had never seen him uncomfortable like this before.

"Geralt." Your gentle voice still carried to his sensitive ears. You waited until he looked at you. "I knew what I was signing up for when I accepted your offer to travel with you. If you want to take a contract, go for it."

"We will see." Geralt cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the road. You stated at him for a moment longer, before doing the same.

You would let it go for now. But you didn't want the Witcher to change just because you were now traveling with him. As far as you were aware he hadn't retired, and until he wanted to, you swore to yourself you weren't going to get in his way.

You rode for most of the day, resting the horses a few times by the streams and ponds you came across. It wasn't until late in the day as the sun was setting that Novigrad could be seen in the distance. Geralt pulled Roach to a stop, resting his arm across the pommel of the saddle as he contemplated what to do.

"Are we stopping here for the night?" You asked quietly. The distance didn't look like too much, but the horses were probably tired, and your legs felt jelly after being in the saddle most of the day. It had been a long time since you travelled like this.

"That depends." Geralt gave you an unreadable look. You knew he was seeing something you couldn't.

"On?" You encouraged, your eyes searching the land that lay between you and the Free City. There was a marshy area, so maybe he was sensing some Drowners. Looking to the sky, you didn't see any Harpies or Forktails.

"If you want to sleep in your bedroll tonight, or in a bed after some hard riding." Geralt didn't take his eyes off a stand of trees.

"Are you going to tell me what is in those trees, or should I just start guessing?" You found yourself whispering, though you didn't know why. If the being in the trees could hear you, it would have already.

"Its a group of bandits." Geralt blinked as though coming out of a trance. Witcher Senses were something you envied. "But they have horses, and ours are tired."

"So really we have three options." You raised an eyebrow at Geralt as you smiled. He frowned, trying to discern your meaning. "Well, we could camp here, ride to the city and possibly get chased by bandits... Or we could raid their camp. We would probably still have to camp under the sky, but at least Velen will have a few less bandits."

"Lady's choice." Geralt chuckled as he went back to scanning the area.

#geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt x reader #geralt x ofc #henry cavill fanfic #witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfic

28 notes · View notes

whitecrowapothecary · 3 years

Text

Bottled Delights (3)

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

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

Read it on AO3 here!

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

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

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

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

“You could get hurt. Or recognized.”

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

“Why do you want to see nekkers?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you get here?”

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

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

“You’re hurt.”

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

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

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

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

“I am not-”

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

“Jaskier-”

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

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

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

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

“A higher vampire.”

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

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

“How old are you?”

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

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

“Jask-”

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“Already lost too much.”

“No. No. I can-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t he?”

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

“Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Geralt. I was just-”

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

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

“Jaskier- hold on-”

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

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

“You don’t-’

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

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

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

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

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

-*-

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

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

“Magnetism.”

“You mentioned it in your journal.”

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

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

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

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

“Precisely.”

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

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

“You aren’t using it now.”

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

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

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

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

“Does that carry over to your music?”

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

“I have another question.”

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

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

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

“Then, when you uh, licked my wound?”

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

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

“Then we’ll have to empty the house.”

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #higher vampire jaskier #chapter update!#gore #depictions of violence

28 notes · View notes

ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 4 years

Note

hey u know the fic where the reader was upset cause she was in love with Jaskier and he gets a girlfriend and she ends up sleeping with Geralt? Could you write a part 2 maybe where she realizes that she wants to be with Geralt all along? Only if you want to lol it’s your story haha

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt x Reader Word Count: 1,478 Rating: T Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mycat-is-mylove @mynamesoundslikesherlock @kemmastan @magic-multicolored-miracle @writingstudent @mlleecrivaine @coffee-and-stories @amirahiddleston @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @astouract @your-not-invisible-to-me @daydreamer-in-training @morelikebyesexual a/n: Here you go! xo

Time does not heal all wounds but it can ease the pain.

Your unrequited love for Jaskier went from a deep gash to a scabbing, aching thing and you found more and more than it felt more like a scar. A remnant that you forgot unless you glanced at it sometimes. Your friendship grew less strained, though he’d hardly noticed it in his infatuation with his new conquest, and you found that you didn’t wince at the sound of her name as you once did. Sometimes he was look over at you and the sun would hit him just right and you’d be a little taken aback by how handsome he was and the scar would be seen, but you didn’t feel the same sense of agonizing longing that you once had. You attributed a large part of this to Geralt.

Since that night, Geralt had remained a steadfast friend. He’d always been your friend but he’d been more open and checked in with you more since that night. He never initiated anything physical with you, save for the time he saw you brushing Roach’s mane. You’d been singing to her softly, not even noticing that he’d arrived until he was next to you. There was a soft intensity to his gaze as he took the brush from your hands, quickly chucking it aside, and pulled you into a kiss that made you feel like you were drowning in a torrent of unspoken need and left you gasping for air when you pulled apart. He’d found the brush and handed it back to you and then wordlessly left. That night when you came to him it had been different. The sex was good, always good, but it had grown softer and more and more time was spent just pressing your hands against each other’s laughing at the way his totally encompassed yours. You laughed more with Geralt in bed than you had ever laughed with another anywhere else. You grew to learn that he was funny. He had an interest in history and he began to teach you Elder. You found yourself turning to Geralt first when you heard some exciting news or if you told a joke you looked to Geralt for his reaction before Jaskier. The feeling that began to grow inside of you was familiar, but foreign all the same. Like hearing a song you knew sung in a different language. You’d loved Jaskier, truly loved him. But your love for him had turned into a genuine, close friendship whereas your friendship with Geralt grew and bloomed into something more. Something you recognized by tune but the language was different.

You went through the little village where six months earlier you’d thought your world was ending, and maybe in some ways it had. But it hadn’t been an end, only a new beginning to someplace you felt happy again. You and Geralt got a table while Jaskier went to fetch his beloved.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” Geralt asked once the bard was out of earshot.

“I am,” you said decisively with a smile. Geralt smiled back and you held each other’s gaze for a moment until you saw Jaskier returning out of the corner of your eye. Alone.

“Where’s your lady fair, Jask?” you asked brightly.

“She… will not be joining us,” he said, eyes looking askance. You shared a worried look with Geralt.

“Jaskier?” you said, not needing to finish the question as his blue eyes, filled with hurt, met yours.

“She no longer requires my company,” he said, a bitter note to his voice as he recited the words. You felt Geralt look over at you but your face grew warm with anger in your friend’s honor.

“That’s her loss then,” you insisted fervently, “There are other, better women who would love to be with you.”

“Perhaps,” Jaskier said glumly, “In any case if it’s all the same to you I’d like some time alone in the room. Might work on a ballad to capture my heartbreak. Or to entice another lover. We’ll see what happens when I get there.”

You waved him farewell and when you looked back at Geralt you saw he was still watching you, a strange, assessing look on his face and if you didn’t know any better some sadness as well.

“There you have it,” he said simply.

“That’s such bollocks,” you sighed.

“Well as you said, there is another woman for him,” Geralt replied, giving you a meaningful look.

“Of course. Jaskier will never struggle to find partners. He’s far too handsome and talented,” you agreed, nodding as you took a drink of your ale and considered sending one to the room for Jaskier.

“I give you my best wishes, then,” Geralt said as he rose and before you could respond he’d walked out of the inn.

-----

Geralt brushed through Roach’s mane slowly, willing himself to calm down and be reasonable. He knew he’d been a distraction for you. He knew that it was temporary and that he shouldn’t let his feelings run away with him. He knew these things, and yet.

And yet he couldn’t get the feeling of your skin beneath his hands and mouth of his mind. He couldn’t shake the sound of your laughter, as beautiful as the moans he could drive from you. He could stop noticing things that reminded him of you everywhere whether it be a plant that held nearly the same hue as your eyes or a glimpse of a pastry he knew you’d like or even the damn brush in his hand. He chucked it across the stable in a fit of frustration, feeling more and more like a fool with every passing second.

“What do you have against that brush?”

He whirled to find you standing in the entrance to the stall, arms crossed over your chest and your mouth quirked up in an amused smile. He turned his attention back to Roach to unhelpfully shook her mane in his face.

“What you said back there, about giving us your best wishes, what did you mean by that?” you asked, crossing the stable to stand in front of him so he couldn’t keep shutting you out. You knew what it sounded like but you needed him to say it, needed him to be open with you before actively giving him your heart. As if it was still yours to give and not fully owned by him already.

“I’ve done what I said I’d do. I supported you as you waited it out and now you will receive your reward. Jaskier is available to you. I only want you to be happy,” Geralt replied, though he couldn’t bring his eyes to meet yours.

“Gods, where to start,” you muttered under your breath, pacing in front of Roach as you thought. “Alright well first of all, Jaskier is a human being with autonomy and just because he is available now doesn’t mean that I’d have him automatically. He has a say in it as well.”

“Of course he’d want you,” Geralt scoffed, as if the idea of anyone not leaping at the chance to claim you as their won was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard.

“Secondly,” you charged on, “I meant what I said. I’m ok. I don’t harbor any feelings for Jaskier anymore. Not like that, at least.”

“You don’t love him?” Geralt asked disbelievingly.

“Of course I love him!” you cried. Geralt flinched and turned around, ostensibly to look for the brush but your hands rested on his shoulders before he could move, stilling him instantly. Even through the layers of his armor and clothing your touch could be felt as clearly as when he was bared to you. You walked around in front of him again, using one hand to cup his cheek and gently tilt his face to meet yours.

“I love him as a friend. I do not love him as I have come to love you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt’s eyes filled with confusion and a flicker of hope. You rose up on tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips. He faltered for just a moment, uncertain if he should trust this, but then his arms encircled you, pulling you in close and returning the kiss. When you broke apart you rested your forehead against his, stroking the curve of his jaw and the silver hair that threaded through your fingers.

“You don’t have to say it back, you don’t have to say or do anything, but I hope you will accept my love,” you said, murmuring the words softly like a prayer. His hands rose to your wrists, gently moving your hands before his lips so he could gently press a kiss into each palm before the amber eyes sought yours.

“I love you too.”

#your-not-invisible-to-me #Geralt x Reader #Geralt imagines #Geralt fluff #reader request

216 notes · View notes