bard boy.

Sideblog to americanasitgets. Jaskier of Netflix's The Witcher. Book and Game influences. Written by Gabe.

[strumthelute]

||| @shelassos | one-liner for you that you didn't ask for.

" By the gods, aren't you a VISION. "

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​

❝ it happens. once in a blue moon. ❞ he read that in a book of poems when he was a boy and has used the phrase ever since. whether or not blue moons actually exist, geralt has yet to discover but it feels appropriate for the moment. a very rare thing ; his kindness. or is it ? the witcher often questions himself twice, or thrice, at the consequences of good deeds but when the decision is staring him in the face, being harsh comes even more unnaturally than being nice. ❝ but i’m not dying. at least not yet. ❞ at least not now he almost promises - though they’re dangerous for surely their only purpose is to be broken. at least his heart won’t give out with tragedy this moment or the next and, if it does, then his last waking memories will have been worth all the horrors he’s seen and committed over his long life.

     though every sin is soon washed away, cast to some foreign wind and the witcher’s body - and soul, too - cleansed. all with something as uncomplicated as a kiss. trust jaskier to be the one to deliver such a devastatingly effective gesture with such humility. it takes geralt’s breath ; closing his already tight throat just that little bit more, giving rise to a heightened sense of both panic and elation. he’s frozen there, unblinking, as physical manifestations of the bard’s love for him show themselves once again, all too clearly. ❝ jask— ❞ he’d duck his face down low enough to meet those blues if he could but, instead, geralt has to resign himself to the very obvious fact. jaskier doesn’t want to be seen. 

     at least that’s the impression the witcher gets until soft, plump lips lay claim to not just his wrist but his forearm, the soft crook in his elbow, followed by rock hard bicep. every motor skill has slowed in the advance and geralt has to remind himself even to breathe, feeling like a spectre - merely watching the scene as he gradually lets down jaskier’s hand and lets his touch roam up the bard’s own arm, to his lean shoulder, somewhat padded as it is by his now dulled blue jacket. here geralt’s fingers tighten with consolation - it’s a sad tale when someone as bright and beautiful as his bard ends up alone, rejected by all those who should have wanted him close. 

     ❝ i want you back because you’re important to me. ❞ mind flashes to the quiet conversation in which he’d told yennefer the same thing and, for a moment, geralt can’t help but also remember how bitterly that ended. one day, maybe he’ll be healing the rift between himself and the mage in much the same vein but that is far from the witcher’s mind now. hand once again takes up and lays itself, hefty enough, at the juncture between cloth and skin at jaskier’s neck. warmth gathers there and, after a moment, cool palm dares to touch. 

     short hairs catch, running against his fingers and jaskier’s absolutely right, of course. it has been anything but easy. in fact, geralt would rather fight any kind of beast, from this plain or the next, than go through such a thing again anytime soon.yet, he can only hum as his heart aches with want to make things right. with the bard’s acceptance, however, a great weight sheds itself from his broad but tired shoulders. finally. it’s done. 

     and, instinctively - and with quiet elation - the witcher leans forward, nose burying itself in the crown of jaskier’s hair, lips inadvertently pressing into the brown mop. he inhales deep and satisfied ; somewhat whole again.

Fall rain brought with it the prospect of change it had seemed. Rain forgiving the bitterness of summer’s end, bard forgiving Witcher. By that very window of the attic room of the Red Daggen tavern, with that very rain as witness ----- a pact had been made, and one Jaskier would fight to the very death for. Intimacy settled into both of their bones, shocking each with the admission of acceptance and something much more.

Jaskier had his Witcher again, his, with any wretchedness between them washed clean as if by tears alone. Tears that thankfully shed with little repercussion. Trails were made down dusty cheeks, and unseemly redness ringed blue eyes. Puffy skin to the touch ------- never a more sad expression, yet he was truly elated. Heart thrumming to life a new song, one of goodness found in the autumn’s pouring. Friend finding friend….if he were to lie to himself more. 

Spin the narrative that he didn’t, in fact, harbor such a love for this man that it crushed his soul into devastating fragments. Pieces glued together again by the forgiveness he gave, and had gotten. Pieces melting back into one at the lavishing of his lips he’d offered him. Drawing his love along cold skin until it met just at center of that rounded bicep. He had every means to keep going, and where he’d stop? Not even he pretended to know. But the stillness of his companion left him wary as well as eager; stillness meant shock, which was either good or bad ----- but the lack of lashing out or removing himself entirely from his comforts seemed for the better, so he’d hoped. 

Geralt spoke, and of course he’d listened. Such a rarity it was, or once in a blue moon as his friend had put it ---- this kindness and near submission. Giving in to Jaskier’s whims. His need for this out-weighting rationality or the respectability of either’s sake. Damn everything to fire, he wouldn’t care so long as he’d always have this moment.

Breath forgets him, as does the stammer of his heart. Words like that were soft and gentle, but resonated throughout every bone as if standing amidst thunder. He wanted him back, and not for easier access to coin and marketing --- no. But because Jaskier had been just as important to him. Oh, how this fool had fallen harder. Cheeks feeling warm and no doubt it showed it too --- all pink despite the wetness to them. 

❝ Oh, my Geralt... ❞ Intention had been made to further explain his affection. To tell him just how much that meant to him, after all this time. After how it felt to be so alone, so heartbroken. But words mattered not when Geralt lent forward, after the stroking of his hand against Jaskier’s neck. How the cold palm settled against the shoulder, and soon after the crook of his neck. Icy, but delightful. That touch felt cosmic. Felt like the cusp of seeing beyond stars ----- and then stars shone, dimly but there, at the brush of nose to hair and the lips there too. The inhalation, the way Geralt longed to have the scent of him in his lungs. He couldn’t lose this journey. This near grasp of stardust...not when it was close. So dangerously close.

❝ I am a fool. Such a terrible one, ❞ and as it was muttered in shaky breath, the hand that clasped the WItcher’s wrist found it’s new home just at the collarbone. Warm hand sliding up like a masterful art; hand gracing  beautifully crafted marble until palm settled up the man’s throat, fingers finally curling. Just below the jaw there, thumb fitting nicely below the earlobe just to caress. Space between them had been little as it were, but even now there was less. Closeness to encourage the forward lean and tilt to his own head, so that lips met jaw. One, and then another ----- before he felt the whirlwind in his stomach call him to cease or action.

❝ And now I ask that you forgive me as well... ❞ And no further time did he waste before a true kiss was given. Lips nearly chaste, though he begged that it linger.

[strumthelute]

Starter call for later <3

[strumthelute]

Just a casual reminder for folks following me here that this ugly naked blog is a sideblog. So if you’re wondering why I haven’t followed back that’s why. I follow you back on my main blog thO ;) americanasitgets. I’ll try and fancy this one up soon.

[betterbard-deactivated20200913]

❝ firstly, may VALDO MARX, the troubadour of cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die! ❞

valdo marx ( @betterbard ) of the witcher lore.  hc based with netflix and the wild hunt influences. loved endlessly by bunny.

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​

     wolf medallion sits flat against his breast bone as geralt watches jaskier’s inspection with some interest ; subtle turn of his head, a little dip in what feels like shame when his own words are served back in all-due revenge. they sting but it’s absolutely deserved, of course, the witcher can’t argue with that. even if the realisation shocks him at how spiteful the choice of phrase is, especially coming from lips other than his own, he remains stock-still until initial examination is completed. ❝ i wouldn’t say it was venomous but i’ll keep them on. just for you. ❞ the humor is flat and sounds more akin to some of the better times they’ve had in the past - those that geralt is hoping to replicate in future, too. 

     if that’s not a far-flung dream.

     hands stay by his sides as the curtains are opened fully, minuscule particles of dust, too small for the human eye, spring into the air and geralt looks away for a moment, allowing for the slits in his irises to readjust. once accustomed, the scene is set out before him. and it’s a wonder. exactly how he’d expect for a romantic like jaskier, despite the fact of their current surroundings and situation. what he wouldn’t give to’ve gone to the coast when he had the chance, for all of this to be simpler. instead, geralt takes another deliberate breath, the air making his nostril tweak, and waits a few heartbeats before joining. 

     ❝ i’m not a dog, jaskier. ❞ though he feels like one and his infamous nickname of the white wolf would speak to the contrary, geralt obeys once more, taking up what little space remains against the bard, one leg extended while the other bends underneath him, thigh resting on ankle, knee poking out, almost pressing through the leather of his trousers. but it’s comfortable. he’s comfortable. and this is the safest he’s felt in weeks. ❝ so i’m not eating just because you told me to. but i’ll have the smaller portion because i didn’t pay for it. ❞

     stubbornness returns to him as every bite he takes is half of what it could be. not that his belly isn’t ravenous but, having gone without much more than crumbs for a while, geralt’s loathe to want to gorge himself. even if this means incurring more of his companion’s soft ire. soon though, the tankard is what he seeks and not missing a beat, he reaches for the wooden cup too fast to control the touch of fingers. he stops chewing the gristle of the meat and thinks about letting go. but he doesn’t. and he’s staring. he swallows but nothing goes down. 

     a clap of thunder breaks the moment and geralt uses it as an excuse to look up at the sky he can see from where he’s sitting, hand dropping away to rest on his leather-clad thigh again ; safe home. soon after, drops begin to patter against the pane of the window and geralt smiles, head still tipped up, watching the falling rain. several quiet minutes pass, or at least they’re quiet for geralt for his mind is overtaken suddenly with need to do something he knows he should have done immediately after saying what he said on that mountain. 

     without bringing his attention away from the sky, he apologises. says the ❝  for what it’s worth, i’m sorry ❞  he knows should have come right along after the harshness - the balm for the burning anguish he laid out so savagely after yennefer left him. whether or not jaskier recognises the gravitas behind it, geralt feels some relief in having broken his silence on the matter, having owned up to the fact that he went that step too far. he looks down then, into his lap, soft pout on his lips. 

     doesn’t even mention that something’s itching under his arm because he doesn’t want to take away from a conversation that he’s finally ready to face after all this time. 

 ❝ Well you certainly smell like one.❞ 

Not a dog, not by any means ---- a wolf, if any animal justified or fit. But Geralt was no beast of the wilds, not like the stories told. Not that he would believe anyway. He was flesh and blood, same as him, even if biologically different. Mutations were a hell of a thing. A thing Jaskier did not pretend to have comprehension of. Not human might have been a phrase the Witcher uttered once upon a time, captured in mountains by Fillavandrel and his elves but Jaskier knew he was more man than monster. 

It had been questioned only once before, as the bard stumbled down the mountain pass, heartbroken. 

The man here and now was vastly different from what he’d seen back then. Grief in his eyes, the sort even someone like he could see. Pain. Pain masquerading in righteous anger. Pain he wanted to endure all alone, as it so happened. Was that the case still, and this a mere fleeting moment together that dawn’s fresh light would burn away? 

❝ Just shut it and eat. ❞

Geralt sat beside, and he ate. Little bits of everything to leave more behind for him; a sweet gesture, but one that only offered ire. It was all angry chewing, the way he’d bit into the meat after. Crunched on the bread. Squashed the fruit. Sought the ale and ----------

Touch collides in the simplest of ways, but it felt like thunder on its own. Lightning striking between skin of two different types; harsh and cold, pink and warmer. Both gold and blue bore witness to it; neither of them moved, not yet. Not until the first loud crackle of thunder to break them free of a timeless bind. Sensation he would have fought to keep had Geralt freed himself first. Telling, truly. Always so telling. 

The one to pull away. Toss you out. Close himself off. 

Fingers curled against the tankard and by the gods did he quench a thirst. It wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t be, after something so dreadfully monumental and simple all the same. Jaskier he would think, my gods how you’ve fallen. For he had. Fallen in the good graces of himself, let alone the crowds. Fallen into despair and hardships. Into uncertainties and hopes he prayed would be not false. Fallen in heart, too, for the bastard beside him. Eating not enough to sustain the size of him. Looking out into the rain like he’d asked for ------ at least the Bard could give him that.

And then he said it. Words he had longed to hear.

An apology. 

That fucking asshole.

❝ Ooh, gods...❞ heavily poured the words, and paired with a sigh. Tightly squeezed eyes just to lessen the whirl of momentum. Of disbelief where there should have been relief. Nausea, funnily enough, as his stomach fluttered so wretchedly. Heart hammering while cheeks pinkened as if to spread the word. Affected was an understatement, yet here he was. Overwhelmed that shadowed the thankfulness, but thankful he was. It was there. Joy, too. So many things that Jaskier could only stretch out his hand to settle on the Witcher’s knee, just shy of his hand. 

❝ My friend, you’ve no idea the many times I’ve thought of this moment. Played it all out in my head like some cheap show. Sometimes it ended in a comedy. A damn riot ---- the two of us with our back’s to the sun, riding off. Romance, and a tale of regret. Tragedy. I’d thought of it all ---- and to my impression of you? Spot on. You’d never know the difference. Yet here you came, into my town to ruin everything. Every painful parting of ways; of excuse I ever had for you. Just to...apologize.❞ Scoffed wildly he did, while the touch of his hand to one knee grew firmer; fingernails pinching into the fabric of his trousers. 

❝ Reality being the tyrant she is, made sure to make this nothing as I’d imagined. And you know what? I cannot tell if I am angry or elated. If I’ve even forgiven you. But...for what it’s worth, Geralt of Rivia...I am quite pleased you’re here, with me.❞ And where his hand once clawed for contact, he softened himself. Opened his palm to slide away his touch. 

❝ I am not unaware of my burden. The great agony of Jaskier ----- believe me, I know. But. Well...thank you, Geralt. ❞

[strumthelute]

Me: when will i get this blog set up??

me: idk who cares. ON TO REPLIES.

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​.

     a beggar most certainly cannot choose and geralt knows that fairly enough, having given several of his last coin pouches to children with their hands open and extended toward him, despite the scorn from their elders. they don’t care where the gold comes from, only that it can be used to fill their small bellies with food for another day. that’s something he misses when travelling in the larger cities and now that he’s involuntarily become one of those needy hands, the witcher can appreciate the limited good that doesn’t involve killing. 

     all this from the simple act of grasping the hand of a dear one. strange. but not unwelcome at any rate. jaskier’s teaching him, subtly - for the first time in twenty-two long years - how to reconnect. ❝ mm, ❞ he hums again, weary gaze saying nothing, and everything, of the way hearing his name from those lips makes him feel, no matter the context. if anything is clear now, it’s that losing touch would be fatal.

     so geralt holds on. and on. and on. traversing the steps is almost automatic, the creaking of his leather armor sounding in time with the thud of worn boots, embracing tired feet. but each sensation is drowned out by that which he couldn’t ignore, even if all the world wished it. that hold. he’s tempted to lag on behind, see how jaskier would react to the possibility of being without it but, deep down, the witcher knows not to be cruel. not to push him away again. not to make that mistake for a second time. 

     eyes only rise from their joined limbs at the soft reassurance and geralt nods, silent, trusting. though if he has to go much farther, there might be a comment about how he doesn’t really like hay lofts. too many rats. he keeps that to himself however, not wanting to break the illusion of some kind of grandeur that awaits. and so it is that when they finally enter jaskier’s room, the full extent of his stay here in brugge is revealed. 

     smells to geralt like he’s been here for a while. a little too long, in fact, but he says nothing about the gathered number of tankards and clothes thrown, careless so it seemed, into a corner. how much it reminded him of his room at kaer morhen. ❝ paradise. hmm. ❞ he ducks his face, features caught with the light seeping in, and the twinge of a smile comes to rest on his lips for a short moment before a more neutral expression takes its place. ❝ i’m sure nobody misses them, jaskier. ❞ not like i’ve missed you. ❝ and even if they did, they won’t come looking now. not with me here. ❞ it’s his own way of letting the bard know that he, too, is protected in the only way geralt is sure he can protect anyone - with the brutal force of will. 

     but whatever he could say about the room, about how the damp is bad for jaskier’s lungs, or how he’d rather like to try that theory about the bed for himself - though, he imagines he’ll be sleeping at the foot of it, like the dog that he is - is pushed out of mind and replaced with nothing but a want to obey.

     jaskier wants to see all of him and who is he to refuse ?

     ❝ you couldn’t put me through that window if there were five of you. ❞ he makes it plain but tilts his head none the less, giving jaskier’s hand a quick squeeze before inhaling and letting out the breath slowly. then, he does as he’s told. layer after layer comes off and geralt pauses briefly, when his shoulder guards hit the floor, to rub his neck, letting out a sigh of satisfaction at finally being rid of them. he’s aware of the bard’s eyes and, if anything, that only encourages something of a show. yennefer would have expected one so why not jaskier, too ? though there is something more genuine there that cannot be ignored as simply lust to see what lay beneath.

     without more delay, the witcher slips out of his black tunic and allows it to drop onto the pile at his feet. like a great beast, he’s bared from the waist up and his jaw clenches, feeling the cold oddly as goose - flesh prickles over his chest. revealed, too, are the wounds of the past. the talons of a wyvern, swipe of a leshen - as well as the countless scars from steel in the numerous attempts on his life made by human hands. 

     ( what he doesn’t notice, of course, is the small puncture beneath his right arm, folded safe where his bicep rests against his broad pectoral. 

     the sting of an endrega warrior. )

     ❝ anything else you want to see ? should i take off my trousers too ? ❞ it’s a lighter challenge, gaze holding as his hand had done. 

Terribly shy of any lavish design, and it lacks the warmth that it should have. Stench is tolerable, but the dampness worries even he. Beggars cannot be choosers, and that is the fact of life. His life, and Geralt’s it would seem. Though none could argue that the Witcher was worse off in all affairs ---- nature of the beast. The way mankind was and likely would ever be, as far as Jaskier was concerned. Unfair, even for a coldhearted prick.

Coldhearted seemed the furthest from him in this moment. The sincerity of his appreciation is evident in lack of word or gesture, but his eyes told it all. Eyes so honest in this moment, Jaskier preferred the suspicion. Lies. To feel a sense of hopefulness ---- intimacy tied to those hands, to their silence...It left him wanting only what he knew he didn’t deserve. 

Destiny bestowed many things, if one so believed in such a thing. Mayhaps Destiny intervened here, bring both weary back together. Two fools cut from a different cloth, but fools all the same. A fool for thinking a reunion would have been met with more mirth and grouse. Putrid disgust. And where the bard had offered solitude in food, drink and rest --- the white wolf offered him assurance. Protection. He couldn’t not scoff. What a pair…

❝ No doubt they’ll avoid us with a ten foot pole, on your account. ❞ A harsh half truth, but it’s said with humor at the least. Humor forged from emptiness.  ❝ The state of you has me feelin’ up for the challenge, should you test me, ❞ the snort of his indignation. Yet here he softened, swallowing the tom foolery he’d made his life’s work of. Beautiful ballads and songs of adventure, though most were more keen to the humor and peculiar. Except for tales of the White Wolf. ❝ I know I can’t. Wouldn’t be much use for me to try, you’d have me on my arse sooner. Besides, any use of mine is reserved for adding shit to shovel.❞ 

Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's YOU shoveling it?

❝ Now off with it all ----- ❞ To which the man obliges. Worn hands unfastening the hold of armor just to cast it aside, much like the tunic the bard found so familiar. Dark, dirty and seen no good wash in quite some time. A mind to express that he had, but wit fell on mute tongue when eyes found the barren chest. Scars so familiar --- puckered and pink, some faded with hues of tan. Most color Geralt ever wore were that of wounds. Some things new, but most memorable, whether from tale or first hand witness. 

It was him, his friend. His Witcher. All pale and cold. Muscle, the kind only a man such as himself could ever dream (whether to have or to worship). Every curve was meant for combat, but it left the same feeling it always had with Jaskier. Want. Unprecedented want. Eyes raked over every inch exposed, and then some; one cannot blame him for admiring the weight of his thighs and the poor leathers that clung to them. Hairs upon his chest and, if he were brave enough to get closer ---- was that gooseflesh? Prickling at his skin. How Jaskier would like to rub them out. Bring him warmth. Even he shouldn’t be that greedy, nor kind.

Thickly clear of the throat before he’s taking steps to the side, rotating his view of him. All things familiar and sorely missed; broad shoulders and a tight waist. A genuine slayer as he’d often told, and fiction did not stray far from the truth. 

Naughty of him to tease like that, words perking him up with intrigued if not surprise. A harsh brow and a demanding eye, though it slowly drew a line from golden stare to the very fastenings of his trousers. Lips quirking, damn him honestly, before excitable hands settle at his own hips in feigned irritation. 

❝ Oh, aren’t you so clever. Unless you’ve got some venomous snake slithering beneath those abhorrent play at trousers, stitching to be sewn, or a bite need mending ------ I do think they’ll be just fine where they stay. Of all the time to joke, Geralt. ❞ No more ogling nor fretting as the Bard’s attention sought out the refuge of the food he’d settled upon the makeshift table. While the show Geralt had offered was appeasing enough, standing shirtless in a damp room did not meet the WItcher’s needs, so he made quick work of himself. Throwing dusty blinds back from the large window they concealed, illuminating the space all the more, if but barely. A tug at the latch and it swung open with some force. Creaking, sticking, but soon enough there was air ---- fresh air. Rain on the wind, and thunder just barely audible. Next came a few pillows dragged from the bed. All of them settled at the base of the window where Jaskier pointed with conviction and ordered him to ❝ Now sit. ❞

Food came along with him, ale too, once he followed pursuit of this window side dream. Crossing legs and patting the pillow to hurry his friend along. 

If life could give me one blessing…

He fixated himself on a sip of the bitter flat ale. Cringing at best, but it helped pave the way for food that should have tasted like royal delight. God, he missed money. Missed hot, expensive baths with oils and perfumes. The satin covers to pillow and bed. The extravagant carving of architects who dedicated their lives to the making of beautiful things. This...was none of it. But Geralt, he was here. Safe. Soon with food in his belly and...someone to watch over him again. Though he have need of it. 

It would be to take you off my hands.

❝ Eat, for if you waste this food I’ll...well, you’ll be waiting awhile before your next meal. That’s what. ❞

[strumthelute]

geralt. @voluntadfuerte​

@strumthelute​ bc i can

“One single note and I’ll hang you to the tallest of trees by the balls.”

“Ooh, I see. It’s one of those days is it? Alright. Well. Whatever it is that’s crawled up your trousers, I hope it doesn’t make home there. Do we need to stop for a nap? Is that it?”

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​.

     ❝ mmm. ❞

open to mutuals !

pat. pat. pat.

Jaskier always did consider himself quite the gentleman, well, if it served a greater purpose. Such a considerate wack of palm to the Witcher’s bare chest. Thrice for good measure, and to distract him from the shit-eating grin worn.

❝ Mmm, yes. Terribly sorry my dear friend, interrupting such a riveting dream. No doubt the vision of supple breasts at lips delight and the oh so formidable lilac hues. ❞

Jealousy? Him? Never. A sigh, and one as long and dramatic as ever. Tuchus settled on the edge of his dearest friend’s cot, with one hand delicately prying the quilt downward to gaze at the gentle red peaking through white linen. 

❝ But! Bandages do not change themselves, not for us lesser folk. That stitch to your side looks as useful as a lame horse in battle. So. Wakey, wakey. I haven’t all day. Besides. You owe me. Breakfast, actually ----- lunch too.  ❞

[strumthelute]

you guys are so sweet to follow. even if this blog is still butt ass nekked. you’re the real mvps and I love you.

[demivampirew]

[wolvesasleep]

Joey Batey └ MAKING OF THE WITCHER (2020)

[goldenornstein-deactivated20251]

“I just want soft fingers in my hair and a voice calling me love.”

— thoughts #420 | r.m (via rmeisel)

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​.

     ❝ mm, ❞ he hums, instead of saying another thank you. this kindness is overwhelming and any hint of a shake in his voice would be so easily recognisable, especially to someone so close to him, someone who knows him well enough - is trusted well enough - to rub chamomile into his bottom. should’ve expected as much, he supposes, and yet, it’s still reminding him that not all of humanity is willing to allow those who protect them to starve. in fact, this relative boy, this young man, seems bent on protecting him for want of a better word and even as the witcher can see the hand moving towards his own, it remains an otherworldly experience when they touch after all this time. gone is the casual pat to his naked shoulder or the way it felt so lacking in intention when geralt had all but carried him to yennefer’s chambers in rinde. this ? no, this is touching with intent and, for a witcher, nothing is more important when it comes to intimacy. 

     his bard is making a very clear message with that touch and the words only confirm what geralt already suspects but can’t quite grasp. forgiveness feels like a foreign concept. especially when he knows he should’ve had to work far harder to earn it.

     he stares down at the very spot where skin meets skin and the initial reaction is to close his eyes but, instead, he finds them flashing up to meet jaskier’s, wanting to savor the simple feel of being touched again with something that didn’t immediately resemble hatred. ❝ just so then. ❞ he repeats, nodding, fingers wanting to close around the softness of the palm on his but, all too quickly, it’s receded and geralt knows the moment’s passed. his other hand, however, has to drop beneath the wooden table top to clench into a fist out of sight. it’s shaking. perhaps he is getting sick somehow. perhaps something has stung or bitten him along the way from his last kill. not that he would notice now, with jaskier so near and seeming so placid in what could have been a far bigger show of resentment towards him.

     but perhaps that’s what’s sad about this. the way that jaskier has given in so easily. he can’t imagine it would be like this with yennefer so, what, is it more like himself then ? a resigned sort of relief to see that things might not stay as they were forever ? all this thinking about the subtleties of humans could become exhausting but, luckily, there’s distraction. ❝ maybe in the next town, your posh life could’ve afforded a bath. ❞ a little off - hand, perhaps, but there’s no spite in geralt’s voice. yet, not much humor either. he’s just tired and the mere suggestion of getting away from the bustle of the tavern is more than enough to have him agree to go just about anywhere. 

     ❝ it’s nothing, really, jask. ❞ already the shortening comes and geralt thinks it’s too soon, too fast to be doing such a thing but with that touch earlier, he can’t help but believe and hope it might not be. ❝ i’m just wet through from days ago and — ❞ he stops when the bard stands and comes to him, so close that, with his enhanced senses, geralt can practically feel the warm from his body, even through the clothes. the scent lets him know he’s safe and the offered hand more - so. ❝ fine. you lead then. i’ll follow. ❞

     following is not usually his style but, with the bard, he’s made all kinds of exceptions in their two decade relationship. gathering up his blades, the witcher - if somewhat tentatively - takes jaskier’s hand and holds tight. not squeezing so much as simply … holding. tightly. as though his life were in the balance. and he pulls himself up, rising to stand taller and far bigger than jaskier, even after the hardships of the last few months. all of which are quickly melting away now in favor of hard bread, rain and his humble bard. 

Geralt had luck on his side it seemed, for the dig at his expenses left not but grin upon the man’s face. Humorless perhaps, in his own way of things, but he neither chose to argue nor sneer. “Beggars can't be choosers, Geralt. I certainly can’t be,” that is how he would leave it. Whatever context or struggle he’d faced himself over the months ---- it was a tale for a different time, if at all. His friend likely felt the same in regards to his own trepidation. 

Poor attempts to tease or press seemed to neither dampen his spirits or vere him from his goal in mind. A goal very simple: get the Witcher somewhere private. Safer. A space where friends...perhaps, could reclaim the fractures from the mountain top and start anew. That had been the hope of all hopes, but prepared he was indeed for the lesser, if not worst. Getting him well, if he were indeed ill --- and Jaskier couldn’t quell the feeling of it being so. “Soaked through,” reciting fact, and the click of his tongue offers some past remnant of the flamboyance he possessed. It served as a fair distraction for himself more than Geralt; necessary after ‘jask’. Damn him. Damn him entirely. “Right. Well, I can smell that for certain --- but whether I remain to believe you is up for debate. Now rise, you big dolt.” 

Rise the Witcher did, and by the gods had it been missed. How months apart seemed to bring back the awe in the man’s size alone. Broad shoulders, long legs. Lean, but big. Comparatively of course, to the much more standard stature of Jaskier. A wild thought had occurred to him, though he doesn’t know why...but even at his height, Geralt somehow seemed....smaller. What had happened, between then and now ----- Did he even want to know?

“Good man,” is the less than respectable encouragement he could offer, and he’s thankful it did not require more on his part just to get the man to rise with him. To leave and let lead. Geralt gave no fuss, provided no hesitation before hands met. “Gods, Geralt…” words secretly spared at the secured squeeze of hands, and not merely of the frigid chill to his palm but in the devastation of the hold. The tightness so alarming, the bard felt as if it were vital. A true lifeline though he couldn’t understand why. He’d waste not a moment more in the crowd of onlooking strangers. Men who’d judge the Witcher harshly, haze him too from association. So on his heel again, he turns just to swipe up the plate he’d paid for and drag the tankard at the handle with a capable finger on their way through. 

Jaskier, the beacon in the shadow. A ridiculous idea but one he’d toy with out of habit. He’s a composer after all. If it were not him to think of such poetic and grand visions ---- then whom else? A shining knight to trudge the wounded warrior through fields of battle. Man made monsters with thirst for blood, trailing behind until the flat grounds of war turned into steps to heaven. One after the other, until peeping eyes disappeared beneath the second floor’s landing. “Not far now,” was the reassurance, as if the burden above had been so great for the warrior. All fantasies die in the end, whether on paper or lost to the void of mind, and it did so now as the hallway stretched less and less, dingy doors on their right and left. A little further, toward the end. It was no door he’d taken him to, though. Just an opening that led to much smaller stairs. A short trip to a third level and there, yes --- away from the usual paying tenants, was the only room. The one he’d afforded. 

His own boot stretched forward to kick in the shabby door. In it creaked, moaned, and the smell of rain and moldy wood was heavier there than below. Dark, dreary really, but the moment his Witcher was securely inside the room did set the plate and ale down upon a makeshift table if only to drag him around long enough to light some candles and move the curtain from the large window on the outer wall.

“Welcome to Paradise,” was the running joke, though he imagined to his friend it was certainly less so. Still, light dimly lit the space which provided more warmth if only to show the homely appeal. An old wooden bed frame was placed near the window --- books stacked underneath the one broken leg. The mattress itself was mostly various cushions and quilts. Papers littered the floors, most of them torn to pieces or crumbled up. Clothes shoved in a corner. Remainders of many tankards he’d yet to return. A small vanity and a cracked mirror with a basin and rags on the floor beside it. Nothing grandeur. Nothing exceptional save for the size and access to the large window that looked out passed the city with mountains faint behind. 

“The bed is surprisingly wonderful, even by my standards. Though partly because of the pillows I’d stolen, Geralt ---- but you didn’t hear that from me.” Whatever casual nicety he’d attempted for, it faltered soon after. Then, it was merely the two of them standing together still hand in hand. Jaskier’s smile forged near into a frown, eyes battling the depths of golden spheres he’d remembered so well.

“Well. First thing first --- strip down. I won’t believe a word you’ve spoken until I’ve seen for myself. I smell no blood, but that doesn’t mean much on account of my poor sense of smell. Don’t make me ask again, Geralt. If you lie to me I’ve the mind to shove you out this window and be done with it. At least you’d get clean then, with the rain….” He swallows back whatever else he’d meant to say. Biting tongue as punishment for the biting words and the doubt. Temper eases into what it really is that he feels for him now, and that feeling is resounding worry. Worry that all of this...this moment was for naught, if his friend is to suddenly die here. A bit of an extremist but...Witcher business is nothing but brutality and the hard truth of loss.  All things Jaskier was not familiar with, or at least refused to be ever again.

“Please, Geralt. Just let me make sure. You’ve soaked through anyway. It’ll do you no good, unless that’s another thing you Witchers prevail at. Aversion to illness.”

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​

     compliments don’t come often with him - as he’d had jaskier for that very purpose, by his side, so many times in the past. but now, as he almost wills the bard to sit, to perhaps share in his ale, geralt begins to realise just how large of a hole he’s been trying to fill with monsters. both those belonging to other people and his own. still, he chews as he watches jaskier, apparently deciding what he’ll do and, though the witcher won’t admit it, his heart is beating out of its usually controlled rhythm. when his body reacts this way, how can geralt pretend there’s nothing there ? his eyes, blown, and his heart coming to meet the speed of a man’s - it’s unnatural for him yet, with the mere thought of jaskier denying him this small mercy, his only emotion is turning out to be nerves. 

     inevitably, the bard wants to leave. after feeding him and giving him some shred of hope for their reconciliation ; the world wants to piss on him again. this time, though, and without second thought, geralt almost stands up - makes a move to, anyway - but he’s hindered by the proximity of the bench to the table. mouth almost forms jaskier’s name before the vision himself is acquiescing, sitting across on a chair far too small for him. it’s almost comical and geralt can’t help the minute tug at one corner of his mouth at the sight. though, it’s short - lived as the expression is soon replaced by one of something quite different. 

     ❝ it’s true. i’ve got two contracts to collect but, right now, i don’t even think i have coin enough to pay for this. ❞ he gestures lamely to the tankard of warm ale, nudging it as the bard had done with the plate - indicating that it was for them both. ❝ but you’d have me stay with you ? just like that ? ——— jaskier …  ❞ head tilts, mostly out of confusion and the need to seek truth, viewing the bard’s face at a slight angle to see if the validity of his offer changes. surely he must remember how cruel geralt had been ? surely a few words wouldn’t be enough to settle the rift between them, wider even than any geralt had seen, physically, on the continent. how can he offer such a thing with a straight face ? he doesn’t understand.

     looking down at himself, geralt smiles though, relief setting into his weary frame. not that he dreams he’s been forgiven but sleeping on jaskier’s floor is better than facing the elements. ❝ i’m fine. under here. ❞ not entirely true - his heart is reacting. ❝ a little cold which is … unusual. a graze here and there but nothing’s broken. perhaps if your room has a window, we might catch the rain later. i could smell it on the ride in. won’t be too long, now. ❞ he’s not sure how that was supposed to sound but certainly it is a romantic notion, now that the witcher thinks about it. there’s something innocent about sitting on a window ledge, watching rain. he remembers doing it at kaer morhen and once again, the thought of taking jaskier there fills his mind. maybe one day he’ll see geralt’s home.

No sort of confirmation was necessary to illuminate the state of his affairs. Broke, broken - though not quite physically so much as something deep inside having softened him just enough to meet Jaskier without the same mirth he had upon the mountain. No disdain or need to search for solace that did not include that of a lute. This here, at the table, was a very different sort of Witcher ---- one Jaskier believed had existed, somewhere deep down. And now, it blossomed. Or bled. Whatever the catalyst, he feared it had little to do with him personally and more about the comings of his life and the life Witcher’s lived.

He could hope, however. 

“It’s paid for,” as quick as it were casual, this response. “Same as the food, the room. You’re welcome,” and that was a little more himself, spiteful a little bit egotistical. It died down in favor of simply watching him; picking more at the bread than eating, than speaking. Eyes bright, sad in some ways, that loomed over the varying shades of dark that covered the Witcher. Skin he’d seen. Touched even, if only to briefly. A wash was only as intimate as one allowed it to be, and with Geralt ----- he’d imagined none at all. 

Teeth take to the corner of his lip with a hard press to express the conflict inside. Nothing’s broken he reassures, but somehow the description of his wellness and the expressed longing of lounging by an open window for rainfall strikes him as sad. Concerned. Not quite himself, but...maybe Geralt never truly gave him the chance to know him until now. 

What a jest, he’d found himself thinking. Even to his own mind, assuming that sort of self importance seemed doubtful. Unkind to both of them. He’s hesitant to reach out for this supposed shared ale, but when he does it meets nowhere near his intention. Rather the bard stretches over the table just a bit, cool palm resting on Geralt’s as he chips away at the larger piece of bread. A tremble before it's steady and confident, as he always was. So rich with charm and life, if not aggravatingly so. There lied the flicker of it; a reminder. 

“Just like that, Geralt. Just...so.” 

The exhausted exhale returns his hand, and both sit stiffly in his own lap. He should be angry with him. Not a soul he’d bore the tale to, if he had --- which he didn’t, would have agreed. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn't matter now, not with them together again. Old times flaming in memory, warming his blood and softening the edges of heartache he’d harbored since the start. 

“I’ve never once heard you complain of the cold, Geralt. That alone makes me question your definition of fine. And ------- of course my room has a window, Geralt! I require a nice view and plenty of sunshine when I’m at rest or composing. I’m a professional. I live a posh life now, my friend. You’re VERY welcome.” Fine. Fine he said, as if fine had ever been softness like this, or the open acknowledgement of a wish so delicate it should have been from Jaskier’s mouth, not Geralt’s. Settle by the window and listen to the rain. Romantic in vein, but he knew better than to accept that. 

“You seem...uwell, Geralt. And nevertheless, fine or otherwise, you may sit at the ledge of my window to your tiny heart’s content. But I think for your sake, and mine, we finish this drink and meal upstairs. What do you say?” Already he, himself stands. Moving into the small space between the Witcher and the wall - offering his hand. 

“Let’s leisure in favor of the rain.”

[strumthelute]

geralt. @utternocries​​.

     music ceases and geralt listens carefully to those very particular footfalls that have been etched into his mind for all time. certainly as long as his memory holds out. and if all he’s going to get for the rest of his long life is the image of jaskier leaving him then so be it - better than nothing, he supposes. as the steps move away, yellow eyes lift and the witcher grips his tankard tight, stopping the tremble of a hand. it is him. it is his bard. jaw clenches as geralt stares, legs wanting to push up and follow him but the strength of courage fails. for a creature most consider to be emotionless, this is breaking all the rules. 

     short, sharp breaths drag in through his nose and the scent from before is stronger now. amidst the filth of the populous, it’s there. chamomile and something so distinctly jaskier that geralt has to force himself to blink, lest his eyes brim over with reddening sting. he remembers everything - the day they met, that bath before the banquet in cintra, the way he’d conceded to jaskier’s request not to put those islanders in their place. how easy it had been to control the great white wolf with simply a look. was that weakness on geralt’s part ? or something else ?

     not that he has time to think of the answer, with jaskier coming back - something the witcher did not expect. face falls again, too cowardly to let his emotion be seen for what it is ; open and bare, like a wound, his pupils blown with ecstatic affection. 

     he hears the plate and sees the food ; stomach rumbling beneath layers of leather armor. it smells, well, not the best but not the worst either and trust jaskier to be the one to think of him this way. to offer him sustenance as a means to reach out because he knows what he looks like when he’s not taking care. still, geralt doesn’t move, just listens. 

     i can tell you haven’t. there’s something overwhelmingly reassuring in that phrase and geralt softens. ❝ i see that. thank you. ❞ for ? both ? it feels right to say. he does look like shit and the food is welcome. slowly, hands come away from the cup that’s been occupying them and he picks at the bread. it’s hard and plain but he doesn’t care because there are more pressing matters running through the witcher’s mind. ❝ you look — ❞ he has to lift his head, ever so slightly, to see. ❝ exactly the same. ❞ and it’s only after he’s said it that geralt realises just how that sounds. ❝ jaskier. ——— i … why don’t you sit down ? ❞

Soft admission is quite the alarming contrast in his Witcher. Where he expected gritted teeth and infinite grouse, the bard received none. Not a scowl, snigger or wild brow to exude displeasure. It was tame in every sense, this exchange between once friends. Thank you, he’d said, and for all its sincerity was it really that wrong of Jaskier to hold suspicion over it. Was this his poor taste in humor? Some unfamiliar new tone to snide or sinister? The more he’d replayed it in his head, the lack of anything but honesty remained. Honest. Geralt of Rivia...why, he never.

Maybe, just maybe this very weary traveler ventured the same path of regret, loneliness in the absence of each other. It was hard to say, but oh did Jaskier want for it. Want for it so badly that his feet could have melted there upon the disgusting floorboards. He was right to agree, he thought, for even to the likes of him it must have been obvious --- how dreadful of a state he was truly in. This poor fool would let himself wither or waste away, or accept death by tooth, claw and terror before acknowledging the piss poor effort he’d pour into himself. Well, until now. Whether it was all self inflicted or a symptom of a world that hated Witchers near as much as that which they fought --- it was hard to tell.

But here he was, his Witcher. Beaten by the road’s tragedies. Huddled in a seat in a smelly tavern in some vassal kingdom. Brugge could burn to the ground, for all Jaskier cared. Only...once he’d taken himself far, far from here.

Tenderness warped and brittle so quickly, whether it was a flaw of Jaskier’s or that of Geralt’s, maybe both. But the blunt observation of his ‘sameness’ hit like one of Geralt’s fists to his nads, and in every way --- it did not feel all too nice. Whatever ease of harsh lines Jaskier had forgotten, it quickly returned in a frown and flare of nostrils. An unappreciative, humorless laugh before turning on his heel, and yet...stopping before he could settle on which direction he’d disappear to.

The question was important, or rather his response to it was. Would he swallow up every loose breath of forgiveness and interest until his breast was full and he walked away without another word. Without another glance. Begotten this Witcher forever, however dramatic…. Or would he breathe out the months of self-loathing, of anger and feeling of betrayal just to break bread with the only person he’s ever genuinely missed and longed for?

Stubbornness and pride were such the fall of his family, and often of him. It was easy to turn back, but instead...instead, thank the gods, air parted his lips in exhale and he pulled back the opposing chair with a dreadfully loud groan of wood against wood, before dropping himself heavily into the tiny seat.

“Here I am. Sitting.” He’ll keep the pettiness for just a moment longer, before reaching over and splitting a small lump of the hard bread from the plate and picking at it the same. “You…” he meant to say you’ve been terribly missed, Geralt, but that is not the words leave him. “Have you a room or something? If not - don’t bother. You’ll stay in mine. You clearly can’t afford one even if you’d mean to. Slaying is difficult business, these days more than usual I take it?”

While the words are spiteful, spite in itself seems to disappear by sentence end. More concerned, really. “You’re not, uh, bleeding out beneath the dark and mysterious robes I hope? I’ve funds, but not enough to indulge in pleasantries and a bath for you, clearly...and medical aid.” Why, gods, must he fold so easily. Want so terribly to mend the rift between them. Geralt of Rivia, a fool, a slayer - but his all the same.