Radovid tasted sweet. Somehow, Jaskier knew that he would; that it wouldn't matter what he'd been eating or drinking before they kissed – that his own tongue would ultimately register something pleasant. And just as intrinsically, he knew that they would kiss, sooner or later.
But the prince tasted like crushed mint-leaves and honey and spiced wine, and in the flat-line fog that enshrouded Jaskier's brain, one thought registered a pulse: had Radovid known, too?
Gods, was he that transparent? Vespula had even figured out something before he had. A 'crush', she'd called it, and Jaskier had dismissed her. Now, with fingers entwined in wheat-coloured waves as the prince greedily licked up the heat of his mouth, he was loathe to bestow such a flippant title upon the matter.
True, Jaskier had flings and flirtations. He had dalliances of mutual fleeting interest, lazy lovely afternoons that turned into early morning exits, not to be repeated. Occasionally he'd settle into a comfortable tryst that lingered for weeks, months – but his partners knew how he wandered, physically and mentally. The Continent boasted rich rivers of love, and Jaskier was a thirsty man.
At the crux of it, Jaskier knew he was far more likely to be crushed than to have a crush. His true loves, those he found a family and the deepest solace with – the both of them destroyed him and remade him. Geralt, with his penchant for silence and rage. Yennefer, with her divine hunger and venom. At their hands, he was little more than a glad lump of clay for the moulding. But oh, the fires of their kiln!
Radovid's breath hitched as Jaskier nipped at the bounce of his lower lip, slung an arm 'round his lower back, and urged him closer. Did the prince taste like the divinity Jaskier had been imagining because he'd come prepared? For a moment, his chest ached.
What did he taste like to Radovid?
Jaskier broke away to rasp his tongue along the slant of the prince's jawline, to find the heartbeat at his neck and suck a sharp, bruising claim. Radovid moaned lowly. Ground his hips against Jaskier's. Gods help him, Jaskier wanted this too badly, he wanted—
“Please... don't ruin me.”
“Fuck, Jaskier, I—what was that?”
“Please keep—keep doing that,” Jaskier whispered, “I need you.”
A/N: For those interested, this was the original horror short I wrote and submitted to Watcher. I swear I didn’t write a ‘murderers lick hands’ story -- the Watcher folks added that in, as was their right (I signed a waiver). I wanted to keep it more ambiguous, but perhaps it was too subtle! TW for animal abuse, mild gore, horror themes.
I was walking home from work after a long shift, counting the pale pools of streetlight as I slumped through the cold, when an ancient pickup wheezed to a stop behind me at the side of the road. I glanced over one shoulder, my interest evolving from mild curiosity to concern as the driver shoved something from the passenger seat onto the gravel.
Whatever it was, it was bound in burlap and wriggling.
I shouted, but the bastard floored it, and in the low-light of the evening I could not make out his scuffed-up numberplate. I ran to the squirming lump, feeling my heart sink into my stomach. My frenzied hands tore at the sack.
Two terrified, cocoa-warm eyes met mine. The dog was whimpering, visibly emaciated and covered with lacerations. I felt hot tears prick my vision as I lay a gentle hand upon its head.
"Hey, buddy,” I whispered, “hold on, now. I'm gonna help you."
The taxi driver who picked me up minutes later was kind enough to take me to the emergency vet without giving me grief about having an animal in his car. The whole way there, the dog laid its head on my lap and shivered.
Three hours later, I stood in the treatment room with this lost soul that had tumbled into my life, stroking his massive ears as he rested. A German Shepherd crossbreed, the vet said. Probably used for illegal dog fighting. No broken bones, luckily, but he'd need intensive nutrition, wound care and antibiotics, not to mention flea and worming treatments. His stay at the clinic and the subsequent aftercare was going to cost me somewhere in the area of three thousand dollars.
But when he opened those clever eyes and nudged his nose into the palm of my hand, sweeping his tongue across my fingers in a grateful lick, I knew the money did not matter.
And that is the story of how I met Bear.
When he was well enough to bring home, I was worried that my neighbours would not take to him. What if he made too much noise? Would he adjust to suburban life in a small cluster of villas? But as he recovered, and as he spent more and more time outside, he blossomed into a sociable, loving dog. Every person he met had a kind word for him, a pat behind the ears, a rub for his ridiculously fluffy tummy. Bear relished every moment of attention. I think he knew he was finally safe.
He fit in just as well inside my villa. It wasn't huge, a two bedroom place built in the mid-seventies; it boasted a kitchen finished with orange tiles, popcorn-style ceilings, and an adorable oak-panelled wine cellar that I used to store my bits and pieces in. Once Bear moved in, it became dog storage – a place for his bulk pack of dry kibble, old toys, and the expensive orthopaedic bed I had bought for him that he'd utterly rejected.
You see, Bear had a habit of sleeping in one place, and in one place only. Once I climbed into bed for the night, he'd flump across my legs, and within minutes I would be serenaded with soft doggy snores. I'll admit that at first this arrangement was almost insufferably uncomfortable, but I actually quickly got used to it. I found that after awhile I couldn't sleep any other way. He made me feel safe, too.
My accident at work happened about two years after Bear moved in. I'd been working with chemicals for a long time, processing samples for various mining companies, and I guess I'd grown kind of complacent. Accidents always happen to other people, right?
I wasn't wearing my safety goggles when I tripped on the lab floor. The acidic solution I was carrying sloshed out of my test tube and splashed up across my eyes. My contact lenses softened, the plastic fusing to my exposed sclera.
I remember screaming as my colleague shoved me beneath the chemical burns tap. I remember the feel of the water on my seared flesh. I remember how it smelt.
In the hospital, post-operation and heavily tranquillised, I was visited by a specialist optometrist. She advised me that in all likelihood, my eyesight would return in time. Whilst I recovered, I was to wear bandages and patches over my eyes, take strong doses of penicillin, and analgesics for pain when required. And my god, believe me, they were definitely required.
I was given time off work to heal, assured by HR that the incident would be thoroughly investigated. I was scared that they'd find out about my negligence and I'd lose my job. But most of all, I was scared that my own stupidity had cost me my eyesight.
When I got home, I was lead to my front door by one of the hospital's social workers. She had me sit down at the kitchen table whilst she prepared my house for me. I was lucky, she told me, that everything was neat and linear and easy to navigate. It was a mercy that I kept a tidy home. I should have no problem getting from my bedroom, to the bathroom, and to the kitchen.
She put out some high nutrition food packs for me -- stuff that didn't need cooking, like protein bars and liquid supplements, as well as packets of chips and pretzels and dried fruit. She gave me a buzzer to carry around with me; should I fall, or get into any other trouble, all I had to do was press the button on a cord around my neck, and help would be minutes away.
"I think it would be a good idea to give your neighbour a copy of your key and ask her to check in on you once a day. I will also come by daily to make sure you have everything you need." She patted my hand, and despite the pain and the misery of the situation, I felt reassured.
"Thank you." I sighed, fumbling with the bottle of water she handed me. I cracked it open and took a few sips, before throwing back some of the glorious painkillers at her behest. "Where's Bear?" I felt around beneath the table – he liked to make camp there, sometimes. "Sorry, I mean, my dog. Can you see him?"
The social worker clicked her tongue. I heard her footsteps as she wandered towards the living room. "Hmm, no, I don't see a dog in--" But she was cut off by the sound of a single boisterous bark coming from the direction of my bedroom. She laughed. "I guess that answers that, then. Sounds like he's taken up residence in your bed."
"Yeah, that's pretty typical." I chuckled, gingerly standing, feeling the edges of the table as I made my way towards the hall from memory. "Look, thank you so much. I'm sure I'll be fine. This all sucks, but I'm a tough cookie."
"Yeah you are!" She agreed, gently touching my shoulder with a kindly squeeze. From the kitchen, I heard a beeper begin to chirp. "Damn, I've gotta get that. I'll let myself out. Remember, you have that buzzer, and I'll be by tomorrow morning. Those pills are going to make you pretty tired, so I suggest you get yourself to bed. You're gonna be fine, cookie. I'll see you tomorrow!"
I heard her collect her bag and leave, as I felt my way towards my bedroom. She was right – the pills were already taking the edge off, making everything feel soft and far away and warm. I slid beneath the covers, and almost immediately felt the heavy weight of Bear across my legs. Sleep found me quickly.
I awoke later, not knowing how much time had passed, or whether it was day or night. The first thing I became aware of was the lack of weight upon my legs; at some point, Bear had moved. The second thing was the sound coming from the kitchen. It was a scuffling noise, like claws being dragged down the wall.
Bear, I groaned inwardly, and rose to attempt to investigate. I felt my way towards the kitchen, using the walls to support myself, judging every step with a careful foot.
He was at the wine cellar door, scratching at the wood. Every scrape was slow and deliberate, and I heard his panting coming in fitful bursts, a low growl riding the edge of his breath.
"Bear, it's just a mouse or something. C'mon, quit it."
He stopped right away. Good dog, I thought.
"Let's get back to--" And then I felt his teeth on the fabric of my pyjama pants, pulling with an insistent tug. This was new. I humoured him for a moment, carefully stepping as he guided me, my hands out in front of me. I felt them hit the smooth grain of the wooden cellar door. Then I heard the scratching again, methodical and slow, coupled with that primal snarl that had woken me up. I grew irritated.
"Bear, I said no. Leave it. Bad dog."
The noise stopped. I reached out blindly to grip his collar, to forcibly bring him back to bed, but my hands met with empty air. He'd probably slunk off to sulk. I rarely scolded him.
"Whatever." I grumped, and fumbled my way back to my room. After a half hour of laying in bed, sleepless, I finally felt the dead weight of him across my legs again.
I managed a half-smile. "Yeah, alright. I'm sorry, too." My words were a mumble; I was asleep again within minutes.
The sound of the doorbell startled me out of slumber, and I sat up alone in my bed, disoriented. I heard a key in the lock, followed by the voice of my closest neighbour.
"Hello, dear?" She called out. Her voice sounded thin and shaky. I pushed myself out of bed.
"In here!" I called, hastening to stand, to greet her.
"No, no, dear. Don't-- don't get up." I felt her warm hands grip mine, and I could tell by the quiver of her breath that she was trying not to cry. I was confused.
"I know my face is a bit of a sight, but surely it's not that bad!" I joked, trying to ease her discomfort.
She squeezed my hands tighter.
"No, dear. It's not that. I'm-- oh my God, I'm so sorry. They found Bear."
I began to tense. "What do you mean found him? He was just--"
"Bear was hit by a car sometime yesterday afternoon. He must've gotten out when that nice hospital worker dropped you off. My dear, I'm so, so sorry. The driver hit and run, the coward, because the poor thing was only just discovered, and it was far too late..."
Her voice became a distant hum, a blur of apologies and sympathy. I did not really hear it. There was a noise in the kitchen.
I held my breath and trembled as the scratching at the cellar door began again.
So uhhh holy shit, my story got chosen for Watcher!
I wrote it six or seven years ago as an exercise in horror shorts, then submitted it six months ago. They did add in the hand licking, but when you submit your story, you agree that it's okay for them to make edits. It did make it less subtle, but I loved it anyway! What an honour.
Not sure I'm gonna forgive Shane and Ryan for doing Bear dirty with the peanut butter tho, lmao.
A/N: This is a fic for my befroggled birthday beaut’, @a-kind-of-merry-war ! It features two lads generally being shit at existence, but doin’ their dang best. Geralt x Jaskier angst to soft fluff. I rated it teen for mild violence, alcohol mention and SWEARS but I promise it’s quite tame. 6k+ words on AO3. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MERRY, I LOVE YOUUUU
gif by Ray!
Jaskier placed his hands upon his hips, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He popped a shoulder forward, checking his back. Like an out-of-work ballerina, or perhaps a puppy chasing its tail, he spun in a slow circle, critical gaze roving his own form. Then he sighed.
“No, not this, either.”
“S'wrong with it?” Geralt asked, sprawled on a chaise, only partly paying attention. He was making the most of the nibbles that the tailor had provided; decent wine, dried fruits and cheese. Jaskier was a very valued customer.
“It's...” Jaskier frowned, and clicked his tongue. “You know. Schmeh.”
“'Schmeh' isn't a word, nor will it help your tailor.”
“It's just not quite making the statement that I want it to make!” Jaskier exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “The sleeves make me look boxy.”
“You like puffy sleeves.”
“These aren't the right puff. One must have the correct amount of puff, Geralt.”
A/N: Trying to fight the writer’s block monster. Just some Geraskier fluff, very tame. CW for drinking. Enjoy! 2.1k
Never in all his many, many years alive on the Continent had Geralt seen a pout as tremendously pronounced as the one that painted Jaskier's features, simultaneously pathetic and guilt-inducing at once. One would think that Geralt had poured ink all over Jaskier's favourite doublet, or snapped the strings of his lute. Instead, Jaskier had merely been forbidden from shadowing Geralt on the last leg of his leshen hunt.
“I've never seen a leshen, though!” Jaskier whined, not for the first time.
“Good. Should keep it that way.” Geralt buckled the strap of one of his saddlebags closed.
“But the songs! You're robbing me, dearest, you truly are. I swear to be good, I swear to Melitele that--”
“No. For the last fucking time, Jaskier, I am dealing with a young leshen. Doesn't know how to control its powers, or what it really wants. Even if you're standing two hundred yards away, the damned thing can command a wolf to go for your neck, and what will you do then?”
Jaskier looked down at his boots, scuffing the hay on the stable floor. “Prob'ly die. A bit.”
“Exactly.” Geralt mounted Roach easily. Jaskier didn't glance up, but he did sidle out of the way. All Geralt needed to do was squeeze his thighs, urge Roach into a trot...
Instead, Geralt sighed deeply. “Listen. After the hunt, there's sure to be a feast. I usually don't stick around for them. The clans each have their traditions, speciality dishes, that sort of thing. If I say we can attend, will you stop fucking moping?”
“Ooh!” Jaskier blossomed immediately, all wide blue-wash eyes and clasped hands, grinning in a way that made Geralt feel warm in his middle. “I'd so love that. Yes, please, Geralt. I'll wait for your return. What to wear? What does one wear to a feast on Skellige? That nice herbalist – what was her name? I'll go talk to her--”
“I'll see you soon, Jaskier.” Geralt said, smirking. “Be good.”
“And you be safe! Come back to me!” As always, Jaskier stood and waved until Geralt was out of sight. It was an odd ritual, Geralt thought, but it never failed to bolster his spirits. He didn't completely understand why.
-----------------
Staring up at the plume of smoke, Geralt wondered if a bonfire could reach up so tall that it'd scorch the sky. It was that simple thought that made him realise that he was more than a little tipsy, courtesy of the plum wine, strong as the Skelligers liked to brew it. He also noted that he felt content and sated for the first time in weeks.
Across from him, Jaskier was chatting animatedly with a pair of warriors, no doubt learning lore first-hand. Or perhaps they were discussing the intricacies of Geralt's hunt. Truth be told, Geralt was rather proud that the leshen hadn't needed to be killed; if the village honoured a yearly sacrifice, then the forest would protect them in turn. It was the best outcome. Leshen fights were brutal, and in place of death and waste, now there would be prosperous life.
Sounded a bit like romantic nonsense, actually. Geralt was clearly spending too much time with Jaskier, or at least absorbing more of his never-ending monologue. Glancing over the clearing again, he watched the firelight stroke shadows across the bard's sun-tanned skin. He drank more wine.
“Master witcher?” A small voice interrupted his reverie, and Geralt glanced at the girl who had approached him. She was flanked by two of her friends, all of them visibly nervous. Out of habit, Geralt hunched his shoulders down, shrinking into himself.
“Yes?”
“We were wonderin'... that is, if you've had your fill of roasted pork, we was wondering if you wanted to make bison grass rings with us?” The girl smiled crookedly, fidgeting.
“Rings, huh?” Geralt returned the smile. “What does that entail?”
“Weavin', and you thread special beads on 'em, if you want. We can teach you!”
“It's real fun!” The child to the right of the leader found her courage.
“Well, you'll have to go easy on me. Take it a bit slow. I have big, clumsy fingers.” Geralt held out his hands. The girls giggled over the size of them, and then grabbed at them, pulling him up. He allowed himself to be puppeteered. Their enthusiasm was sweet.
Geralt had always had a soft spot for kids; those too young to be truly frightened of him, or those who could sense the gentle truth of his disposition. Soon he found himself surrounded by youths, bossy and noisy. Geralt laughed with them, and began to weave as he was taught.
--------------
Jaskier was capable of listening to his companion's triumphant tale about an ice giant – or was it a troll? – and staring doe-eyed at Geralt at the same time. He was talented that way. As a child poked daisies haphazardly into Geralt's long, loose hair, Jaskier sighed into his wine.
“...and thwack, his head fell to the ground. Hah! It was a great fight, bard. You should make a song out of it.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, quite. It has all the makings of an epic.” Jaskier turned back to the two men, hiding his fluster by picking at some grapes on his plate.
The warrior who had been telling the story chuckled lowly. “Does he share your affections?”
“Who?”
“Who, he says. As if we are blind.” The man nudged his friend, and the two of them guffawed. Jaskier felt his ear-tips redden.
“I am rather obvious, aren't I?” Jaskier said, running a hand through his hair. “Can't help it. Specially when he's like this, all... relaxed, kind. People just see the swords. They don't know him, not truly.”
“Sounds like you're in deep, little bard.” The other warrior smirked, clapping Jaskier on the back so hard he spilled some wine. “Do not fret. I think he's getting there.”
“You do?”
“Oh, aye. Has a look about him, you know? As if he's trying to figure out a puzzle, but he can't make the pieces fit. So close.” The man drank from his flagon.
“Huh.” Jaskier said, and then glanced back at Geralt.
“Perhaps he'll give you one of his rings.” The first warrior spoke, his voice light.
“I very much doubt that.” Jaskier tripped over his words, blushing deeper, eyes darting between the men. “He may not have an academy education as I do, but I am certain he's familiar with your customs. Declaring his love in the middle of a feast is, uh, not his style.”
“If you say so.” Both of his company rose, one after the other. “Wonder why he's coming over here, then?”
“What?” Jaskier squeaked, whirling around. Geralt was indeed wandering over, new mug of drink in hand. Jostling him good-naturedly, the warrior duo departed, leaving Jaskier with nerves in his mouth and fiddly fingertips.
“Good feast, yes?” Geralt said, sitting heavily down on the empty log beside Jaskier. “You having fun?”
“Lots of fun.” Jaskier flashed a quick smile. “These are good people, and they do like to chat. And the food, food's good, as you said. They do like a strong drink, don't they? Whoo!”
Geralt laughed, and swallowed some of his own beverage. “Told you you'd like it.”
“You were right. Just this once, though.” Jaskier couldn't look at Geralt for too long, not flower-crowned and glossy-eyed as he was. It made him ache. “So, uh, what were you doing with the young folk?”
“Hmm? Oh! Yes, that reminds me.” Geralt fumbled with his pocket.
“Geralt, what are you--”
“Under the eye of the Gods, I ask you, Jaskier, to be my companion. To uh--” Geralt squinted at the girls some distance away, and they gesticulated. “Right, yes. To fight with me, to walk with me. Accept this small token?”
Opening his hand, Geralt offered the band sat there; it was clumsily woven, threaded with one yellow bead and a reddish stone. Jaskier stared at it, and realised that around them, silence had descended. Those close enough to witness were watching this exchange.
Fuck. Jaskier had given Geralt more credit than he deserved, apparently. In this clan, the gesture was one step away from a life-bond. Geralt, the drunk numpty, was claiming Jaskier as his before the heavens, witnessed by descendants of Freya.
“Geralt, I'm not sure--” Jaskier whispered.
“I think I made it a lil' big. I'm sorry.” Geralt fixed his gaze with Jaskier's, lazy-hazy gold halos around rounded-out pupils, and Jaskier's heart did something odd in his chest.
How could he refuse? It'd sully Geralt's reputation, make him look foolish in the eyes of those he'd just saved. Jaskier would simply have to explain things later, and hope that the rumours would not spread too far.
“Of course.” Jaskier said, his voice shaking. “Under the eye of the Gods, I accept.”
“Oh, s'good, thank you.” Geralt said. Then he took Jaskier's right hand, and slid the grass-ring onto his middle finger. Around them, people raised their mugs and cheered. Geralt only grinned, and Jaskier couldn't help but desperately adore him – Geralt, drunk and accidentally idiotic, his lips plum-stained, his hands dirt-streaked.
The only thing left to do was drink, and Jaskier sank gratefully into the task. The feast blurred around them. He didn't want the awkward dawn to come.
-----------------
Obnoxiously, the sun did rise upon the pair of them, huddled under furs in a room spared by the baker's wife. It was cramped, but it was warm and soft, and the perfect place to wake up to a malicious hangover. Jaskier reluctantly unpeeled himself from where he'd been draped across Geralt's chest, groaning. Geralt made a sound of discontentment.
“Fuck.” Jaskier cradled his head in his hands. “Jug of water on your right. Pass it, would you?”
Geralt obliged, and then stretched, luxuriant and cat-like. Jaskier drank and side-eyed him. He felt something brush against the jug, and—oh.
The ring was still on his finger.
“I don't envy you.” Geralt purred. “Human-made liquor isn't strong enough to ruin my day, but witchers aren't immune to hangovers. Lambert makes the most disgusting and potent vodka.”
“What? Um.” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as if he could clear the headache that way. “Geralt, we have to talk. About last night.”
“What about it?” Geralt accepted the jug, took a few gulps.
“The ring you gave me. I am not sure what the girls told you, but, um. It's rather important. I couldn't say at the time – too many eyes upon us – but you... well, you essentially declared your intentions to me. To, uh, keep me. Court me. That sort of thing.”
Geralt blinked stickily at him.
“I know it was a mistake, so we'll just... fuck, we'll hope nobody speaks much of it. If we're lucky, the word won't--”
“Wasn't a mistake.”
Jaskier whipped his head sideways, saucer-eyed. “I beg your pardon, what did you just say?”
“The girls that taught me. They said you give a ring to someone you want to stay with, always. Someone you trust, and who trusts you. Someone important. I knew the colours – yellow for promise, red for protection. And I knew who I wanted to give my ring to.”
“Really?” Jaskier's voice pitched an octave higher.
“But if, if you think it's a mistake, I understand. You're the best man that I know, Julek, and I wanted to know you more. I'm better at actions than... words. I thought maybe you'd think it was a bit romantic.” Geralt looked down at the fur, picking at it.
“I just—I never thought—”
“You're right. It's stupid. I'm sorry. I hope you weren't embarrassed. I'm sorry.”
“Shut up, would you, darling? I never hoped, that's more accurate. Geralt, we've been friends for years, but I knew there was more there. I just didn't think you were ready, or perhaps that you even wanted to change things.” Jaskier gently cupped Geralt's chin, chasing his eyes.
“Really?” Geralt whispered.
“Oh, if I could go back in time with this knowledge! Geralt, dearest, I'd have leapt at you like the lovesick man I am, kissed you stupid, right in front of everyone. I wish I had.”
Geralt smiled slowly, revealing a hint of pearly fang. “You could... do it now. If you wanted. No one's watching, but I'll enjoy it the same.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
So Jaskier did, carefree and besotted, laughing into Geralt's sweet mouth, crushed daisies caught between his curled fingers.
A/N: This prompt was from awhile ago, but I wanted to write today and something came out. Thank you for sending it, anon! CW: Some blood, minor injuries, knives/daggers. Platonic Geraskier. 1.4k
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, grandly, “I'd like to introduce you to Malice and Mercy.”
“Why would you name a pair of letter openers?” Geralt barely looked up from where he was sat on the bed, mending a join in his armour.
“Letter—I'll have you know that these two daggers are made from the finest Temerian steel, forged with dragon's breath, and inlaid with perfectly cut emeralds. They are deadly, and they are my new babies.”
“That what the blacksmith told you?” Geralt asked, setting his spaulder down. “Give it, bard.”
Jaskier handed one of the blades over. Geralt inspected the weapon, weighing it in his grasp, twirling it with ease between clever fingers. He hefted it from one hand to the other. Then he handed it back.
“Well?”
“Temerian steel, definitely, but made in a regular forge. The emerald at the hilt has an inclusion. It also makes it back-heavy, unbalanced. Best for close-range combat only. Wouldn't hit a target reliably if thrown.” Geralt began to pack his sewing supplies away.
“Oh.” Jaskier visibly deflated.
Geralt sighed imperceptibly. “But they are sharp, and certainly as... flashy as you are, bard. Learn how to use them and they may yet serve you.”
“Yes!” Jaskier smiled, perking back up. “You're right. Just have to practice, that's all. Anyway, I can't see the inclusion. No one else will, either. Especially if it's covered in their blood, hah! You and I, back-to-back, facing--”
“They are steel, not silver. Buying an expensive pair of weapons changes nothing, Jaskier. You are still to watch any fights from a safe distance – if I think it's suitable for you to join my hunt.” Geralt raised his chin, eyes lit luminous in the inn-room's low-light.
Jaskier felt himself pouting. Arguing would be a pointless venture; he knew the expression on Geralt's face all-too well. This was the end of the discussion.
“Fine.” Jaskier huffed. “I'm still gonna learn to use them, you'll see.”
---------------
The first thing Geralt smelled when he returned to camp was the crisp iron tang of Jaskier's blood. Startled, he dropped the siren's head onto the ground, eyes whipping about for the bard. He drew in sharp breaths and scented no threat – just the earthy smell of Roach and the roasting meat over the fire – but he knew from experience that did not mean there wasn't one.
“Ah, Geralt!” Jaskier chirped, appearing from behind a large tree, “You return triumphant. Dinner is just about--”
“Where are you hurt?” Geralt barked.
“What? Oh, um. I tripped, that's all.”
Geralt narrowed his gaze at the other man, eyeing a neatly torn section of Jaskier's trousers. Blood soaked the edges of the fabric. He smelled alcohol, and knew Jaskier had been suturing a wound.
“Tripped right over a sharp blade about, oh, six inches long?”
Jaskier squirmed visibly. “No. T'was, uh, a rock. Or something.”
“You and those fucking daggers.” Geralt growled. “How many injuries is that now? Seven?”
“Only six!” Jaskier protested, limping over to the fire, sitting down with a groan. “I am getting better, I swear.”
“You were throwing them again, weren't you? Even though I told you they're not designed for that--”
“But I almost hit the tree once!” Jaskier glared right back at Geralt, turning the spit. The meat sizzled, the coals spitting fat. “I can do it.”
“It's not a question of your ability, it's a question of...” Geralt hissed, sitting opposite the bard. “They are not throwing knives. Stop messing around with them. You're going to seriously hurt yourself.”
“Am not.”
“How many stitches, Jaskier?”
Jaskier tossed his head like an indignant filly. “A few.”
“How many?”
“...Eight.” Jaskier's mumble was barely audible, even to Geralt's ears.
“Right, that's it. Give them here.” Geralt held out his hands.
“What? No! Geralt, that's not--”
“Bad bards don't get daggers. You can have them back when I think you're going to treat them with serious respect. Come on, give them over.”
“I'm not a child! You can't just--”
Geralt glowered over the fire-pit, palm still upturned. Jaskier was practically wriggling with the urge to rebel, to throw a tantrum, but doing so would only prove Geralt's point. With theatrical contempt, Jaskier produced both daggers, and dropped them into Geralt's grasp.
“Fine. There, take them, you absolute bear. When I am left with nothing to defend myself and I am summarily eaten by a warg, I am going to haunt you. No, no, I shall haunt the greatest tavern in the Continent, and continue to compose from beyond the grave. My first ballad will be called 'The White Wanker'.” Jaskier sat back down and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
“Y'want any numbing salve for the cut?” Geralt asked, ignoring the soliloquy.
“No.” Jaskier sulked. He kicked at the dirt, fiddled with the fire, and then sniffed. “...Yes.”
-------------
It had been the last bottle that had done him in, Geralt thought. Fuck, he shouldn't have drunk so much, but it was such a nice evening, and Jaskier's performance had brought more than enough coin in for good meals and plentiful liquor. The establishment didn't boast shitty ale and watered-down wine; they actually had a decent selection of vodka and dwarven spirits.
So maybe they'd let their hair down a bit. Jaskier had tottered off hours ago in the arms of a buxom maid, the tip of his stupid nose pink with drink, calling after Geralt not to 'wait up'. Rolling his eyes, Geralt had engaged the tavern owner in conversation, and then several rounds of gwent. His tankard never emptied.
Now, with a purse full of bet winnings, he was relieving his desperate bladder into a bush around the side of the building. Around him, everything was fuzzy and pleasant. As he pissed, he sung bits of an old sea-shanty he'd once learned from a group of Skelligers.
The sword-point at his jugular came out of nowhere.
“Woah, hey,” Geralt slurred, putting his hands up; he might have peed on his boots a little, “wha's this?”
“Give us your purse, freak.” The blade pressed harder. Geralt knew that if he made one foolish move, it'd sever the artery with ease. Fucking damn it.
“A'right, a'right, I'm... reaching for it, 'kay?” Geralt slowly lowered his right hand.
“That's it, nice and easy. Nothing funny or I'll--” The voice cut off, and Geralt felt the pressure jerk against his neck unpleasantly, barely nicking his skin, before withdrawing.
“Did you know,” Jaskier's cadence was warmly conversational, “that there is a special squishy space between these two vertebrae that I have my dagger pressed to, my dear thief? Why, I hardly have to apply effort to jut my blade forward and sever your spinal cord.”
The would-be bandit tittered nervously. “Fuck off, mate.”
“I hear that victims of this method of execution have enough cognitive function remaining to understand that they are to die from this one swift jab. They fall to the ground, lungs failing, heart stuttering, but their eyes are open. They can still see and hear the very sound of their own demise. Ghastly, don't you think?” Jaskier chuckled brightly. “Unhand my friend and I shan't doom you to that fate. How does that sound?”
For a tense second, nobody moved. Then the sword was lowered. Geralt pressed a hand to the small, dribbling wound on his neck, already coagulating.
“Very good, very good. Now be on your way, sir, and hope that you don't cross our paths again.” Jaskier took a large step back.
Understanding that he no longer had an advantage, the varlet fled. Jaskier grinned at his retreat, sheathing the dagger. Geralt gaped.
“Y'alright? Oh, he made you bleed, the swine--”
“Jaskier.” Geralt blurted. “How? You? Upstairs with that woman? And I took your daggers!”
“That you did, but I took one back. Mercy. She's just too pretty. Sometimes you're not very observant, actually. Case in point – getting held up whilst you are taking a leak. Your cock is still peeking out, by the by.”
Geralt flushed, fiddling with his trousers. “Could—could’ve happened to anyone.”
“It could have, indeed. As for my fair company, the maiden was too tipsy to be making good choices. I bid her goodnight. Was having a snack in our room when I noticed your predicament through the window.” Jaskier shrugged.
Now sobered (although if pressed, Geralt would claim he was still heavily under the influence), Geralt reached forward to gather Jaskier in a tight hug. The bard squeaked in surprise, laughed, and returned the embrace.
“Good, good bard.” Geralt whispered. “Keep Mercy.”
A/N: This is part of the 'Eskel and Geralt working it out' series. Geralt learns to ask for what he wants, and how it feels to be in Eskel's position. They *gasp* actually talk a bit! But mostly it's just smut. Check the tags on AO3 please! And you can ask about the title but I am not gonna tell you. ;) Enjoy!
Eskel would have said, if asked, that witchers shared the peculiarities of a cat's eyesight, but that was where the similarities ended. The fluffy creatures couldn't even be persuaded to approach a witcher, sensing the otherness about them, and Eskel didn't really give them much thought. Impeccable self-preservation. Perhaps that was another common trait.
Funny how he shook his empty potion bottle, the one that would have let him see with more detail in the cave, and mused over the name of the concoction. Cat. He had no business in the small mountain-side hideout, but curiosity had drawn him in. The ironies piled up without his knowledge.
His exploration was not fruitless. Using the faint echo of light from outside, Eskel leapt gracefully down a ledge, narrowly avoiding the unfortunate skeleton of a long-deceased traveller. The person would have no use for the pouch of florins still dangling from their belt, and so Eskel pocketed them. Breathing through his mouth, he focused his senses on the vast space around them, for the faintest sign of danger.
A/N: This is my 69th AO3 fic, so I’ll be quitting writing forever now. No but really, you’d think I’d write something fitting, but instead I wrote this absolute crack fluff failure at sex humour AU nonsense, with a heavy dose of love and trust. My thanks to @a-kind-of-merry-war who I often chat to about this modern AU.
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are taking things slowly. After a mishap involving a Wiimote and a horse figurine, they both get a lesson on the value of communication.
Absolutely unbelievable. Jaskier exited the charity shop with his coveted find clutched tight-fisted to his chest as if the cashier might chase after him at any moment, demanding more than the two quid he'd paid. He didn't stop grinning all the way to the bus stop, and only once seated did he relax.
Just Dance: Best Of, for the Nintendo Wii.
With reverence, Jaskier traced his fingers over the words 'including two brand new tracks', eyes shining. Yeah, maybe it had been released eight years ago, and maybe Geralt preferred the elf sword man game on the Switch – which Jaskier enjoyed watching – and the cowboy game on the PS4 – which Jaskier enjoyed watching far less – but when Jaskier was in the zone? When he was pulling off flawless combos, beating his high score for 'California Gurls' by Katy Perry as he leapt and twirled around the living room? He was untouchable. He was a fucking king.
With one leg bouncing, Jaskier watched the scenery blur past him, eager finger ready on the bell to stop the bus once it neared his stop. A small child pressed it before he could. As he disembarked, he bit back the urge to whisper, “Santa isn't real”, because he was in a good mood.
“Geralt?” Jaskier called out once home, shrugging his coat off at the front door. The house was dark and quiet. He made a squeak of joy, and headed straight for the television.
It wasn't as though Jaskier was pleased his boyfriend wasn't home. Thinking upon that set Jaskier's skin alive with a whole new wave of goose-bumps. Boyfriend. The label was very new to the both of them. After being housemates for a year or two, they were taking romance slow, frightened to quash the flame of attraction that had sparked between them. Geralt was more skittish than Jaskier, unwilling to sacrifice their friendship, but Jaskier was patient. He didn't want anything that Geralt was not giving freely and without caution.
