please give me the comments and the sweet, sweet validation, my dears; today was rough
poem used here is “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by Keats
---
Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed even further together every time Jaskier coughed. Eventually they’d knit into one long line over the bridge of his nose. The thought made Jaskier laugh, the laugher made him cough, and the coughing wrinkled his caregiver’s eyebrows even closer to touching each other.
“Darling, please,” the peasant boy rasped. He laid his cold, clammy hand atop Geralt’s overly-warm one and the Witcher flinched; “Stop scowling so darkly, my love. I’m not going to die.”
A low, angry growl erupted from somewhere deep in Geralt’s chest and filled the spacious chamber. The sound almost echoed. It was protective and primal; animalistic in the sweetest way. He blanched a shade paler than normal and narrowed his golden eyes, “You cannot die, Jaskier. I won’t allow it.”
“I know,” the brunette smiled. “You always keep me safe, my Beast. I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two with such an attentive nurse at my every beck and call.”
“Are you comfortable?” Geralt questioned. He was perched on the side of Jaskier’s mattress, his hands folding and unfolding anxiously in his lap. “Can I do anything to make you happier?”
“Geralt,” Jaskier half-coughed. The Witcher’s hands reached out to steady his shoulders against the pillows he’d been propped up against. “Really, I’m alright.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Geralt frowned. Jaskier knew his Beast wanted to feel useful; being helpful was what Witchers had done best, apparently, when they had still roamed the Continent freely.
“How about you go make us both some tea and find us a book from the library to share? I’d really love it if you held me in those big strong arms and read me some poetry.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier’s gentle Beast stood, pressed a swift kiss to his sweaty forehead, and strode from the room.
---
Jaskier’s fever was beginning to really worry the protective Witcher. The younger man was pressed up against him, the gentle curve of his spine matched with the slope of Geralt’s chest and abdomen. The brunette was tucked in the vee of his fiancée’s legs and the poetry book Geralt had found in the library was propped carefully open in one of the Witcher’s massive hands.
Geralt murmured the words softly and sweetly against Jaskier’s temple as he read each line aloud. The boy was trembling like a leaf, too weak to even open his eyes and read along with the Witcher’s gently lulling, grumbly voice.
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing!
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
“I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.”
Geralt paused to press a reverent, nervous kiss to Jaskier’s damp temple. The young man spoke softly, his eyes still closed against the candlelight that gently warmed the stone room. “Are you alright, my Beast?”
“Hmm. Just worried. Your fever isn’t breaking.”
“I’ll be fine. Keep reading,” Jaskier ordered. He snuggled further down into the soft duvet and let his head fall to rest against the spot between Geralt’s collarbones. He felt incredibly safe and well-cared-for here, especially when his betrothed wrapped one strong arm around his midsection to hold him close.
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
“I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
“Am I as pretty as the faerie queen?” Jaskier asked, voice low and sleepy. Geralt ran his fingers across the overheated skin of his lover’s waist and took a moment to calm himself. Jaskier would be fine. He really would be.
“Far prettier,” the Witcher nodded. “Sleep, my love.”
“I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
“She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
“She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.”
Geralt pressed four possessive, lingering kisses against the crown of his consort’s head. The sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat was evening out into its regular sleeping pattern and for that the Witcher was grateful. If his betrothed fell asleep then Geralt could cover him up completely and add more logs to the fire. He could get the younger man to sweat out whatever illness had taken hold of his fragile mortal body.
“And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
“I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’
“I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
“And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.”
Jaskier’s chest filled and released several shuddering breaths, but at least he was asleep.
Geralt held his darling close, pulled up the blankets, cast Igni into the hearth to strengthen the fire, and sighed. “I will keep you safe until your fever breaks, my love. I will keep you safe forever.”
Jaskier snuggled even closer and made a soft, sleepy noise. “G’ralt. Love you.”
for my darling braincell bae @thecomfortofoldstorries and her love of purring witchers
---
Geralt was definitely purring. There was no other word to describe the sound rumbling out from the center of the Beast’s broad chest as he laid with his head on Jaskier’s lap. The deep and happy vibrations grew even louder when Jaskier carded his fingers into Geralt’s silvery hair and began to pull them through in gentle, careful tugs.
He started singing softly, running his hands through the Beast’s soft hair over and over as he did. Geralt nuzzled his face into the crook of Jaskier’s hip and gave a happy hum between purrs.
“How cold the rain does blow, sweetheart
And gently falls the rain.
I never had but one true love,
And in Greenwood he lies slain.”
“Jaskier,” the Beast mumbled, nuzzling again. “Your voice is lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“You really are a little bird.”
“Hmm,” the young man nodded. “And you are my soft and gentle Beast.”
A little Ever After (1998) crossover because I am a SLUT for the Renaissance Aesthetic and also for Drew Barrymore and Dougray Scott’s performances.
This one’s for you, @221bsunsettowers and @thecomfortofoldstorries
tw: mentions of past abuse, forced servitude
---
“Friends and honored guests, it gives us great pleasure, on this festive occasion, to not only honor Signore Vesemir...who seems to have disappeared; but also to tell you of a long-awaited decision,” the King began his announcement.
At the back of the party, gossamer wings spread wide behind his shoulders and sparkling blue eyes surrounded by rhinestones, Jaskier stood in terrified silence. This was the big moment. The one where he would bare his soul and his true status in life to Geralt. Hopefully his sweet, caring, introspective Prince would be able to accept him. To love him still, despite his position in life.
“Breathe,” he told himself quietly, “Just breathe.”
“It is my great privilege to announce the engagement of my son, Prince Geralt, to-”
But Geralt cut his Father off, stepping forward and away from the dais where the royal family had been standing. He rushed down the short staircase and across the red velvet carpet to where his darling Julian awaited, his hand outstretched and his breathing shallow. “My Father said you were getting married.”
“He was misinformed.”
“Then you are not engaged?” the Prince gasped, beaming. The servant in noble’s clothing shook his head and laughed wetly.
“No, I’m not.”
“I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.”
Geralt had assumed that the watery-eyed smile Julian gave him in reply was one of happiness, or else he would have stopped right then and asked the younger man what was wrong. He would have saved them both the heartache of the following hour. The following week. The following month, even.
But the eager Prince was too absorbed in his own excitement; he didn’t stop to ask. He only saw his ethereal love, his Julian, wrapped in the white silk-and-velvet doublet. He saw the lace at the Viscount’s neck and wrists, so teasingly sweet, and the delicate pearl buttons that ran along his wrists and throat. He saw the matching white velvet breeches fastened below Jaskier’s knees, holding up a pair of fine silk stockings. On his beloved’s feet were a pair of embroidered blue-and-white dancing slippers in an old style; the style of Julian’s parents, probably.
“I’ve even invited the troubadours,” Geralt smiled, gesturing at the colorful troupe of guests off to one side.
“That’s lovely, Geralt, but I need to speak with you for a moment before anything else transpires.”
“Whatever it is, the answer is yes!”
“Wait-”
Geralt took the man he hoped to marry by one trembling hand and led him back up to the dais without letting him finish his sentence. Surely the Viscount was shaking with excitement. Surely the willowy brunette knew that Geralt intended to wed him and make him Consort. Didn’t he?
Yet when the handsome Prince looked down into the Viscount’s eyes he saw only raw terror and guilt building there. Like a terrible blue wave about to knock him off his feet. The horror hit full-bore when, a moment later, the Baroness Marx grabbed hold of Julian’s left wing and ripped it from his doublet, throwing the torn gossamer appendage to the ground and stomping on it with her expensive leather dancing shoes. Jaskier cringed; Vesemir would be heartbroken.
“Madame, contain yourself!” the Prince demanded. The Baroness wilted under his glare but only barely.
“He is an imposter, Your Highness. His name is Jaskier Pankratz and he has been a servant in my household for ten years!”
Everyone froze. Jaskier’s heart stopped beating entirely, he was sure.
“Julian,” Geralt swallowed thickly, his golden gaze turning to his one true love. “Tell them the truth. Tell them…”
“He is a devious, grasping little pretender and it is my duty to reveal his lies to you, Your Majesties,” the Baroness continued her speech, curtseying deeply, still standing atop Jaskier’s crushed wing. “I am sorry that he forced me to reveal it so publicly, but I couldn’t let you make so grievous a mistake, Your Highness.”
“Julian?” Geralt whispered. His voice was hoarse and low. Disappointed and tinged with anger. “Please?”
“It’s true,” Jaskier sniffed. A pair of twin tears made their way slowly down over his grimacing cheeks, dropping to the carpet below. “Julian de Lettenhove was my Father. I am what she says.”
“The apple,” Geralt realized. “That was you?”
“I can explain!”
The King interrupted with a growled, “Well someone had better.”
“First you’re engaged…” Geralt breathed carefully, still trying to control his boiling fury. “And now you’re a servant?”
“Geralt, please!”
A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd and the Prince’s posture tightened visibly. His body language changed entirely in the span of a second; he pulled away from Jaskier and straightened to his full height, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin to glare down the length of his nose. The younger man flinched back as if struck, the wing still attached to his doublet shuddered and shimmered in the air.
“Do not address me so informal, monsieur. I am the Prince of Kaedwen and you...you are just like them.”
Jaskier heard the impossibly loud crack of his heart shattering to pieces in his chest. He gasped sharply, feeling an ice-like stabbing sensation echo through his ribcage, and backed away from the dais slowly. His feet tangled with each other when he tried to turn around and he dropped to his hands and knees with a cry. Geralt jerked instinctively as if he was going to help him up but caught himself just in time, going still as stone.
His eyes were still narrowed and his nostrils flared with righteous fury. He couldn’t believe that Julian...that Jaskier would lie to him. The man who rescued him from troubadour bandits and spoken to him openly about philosophy and went swimming in his underclothes in the wilds of Kaedwen and debated life and love with a famous artist as easily as breathing…
The Prince watched as the thin brunette struggled back to his feet and took off at a sprint for the exit. His sobs echoed across the open-air dance floor and filled the torchlit space with the sound of pure anguish. The troubadours were looking on with open disgust written across their features. Just as Geralt was about to break down and go after Jul-Jaskier, the Baroness’s hand closed around his upper arm like the cold iron of a manacle.
“Such a sad day, Your Highness,” she sighed.
Geralt could only nod and wrench his arm away, turning and running in the opposite direction as quickly as his legs would take him. He needed a moment alone.
---
“He is your match, Geralt,” the artist argued. He gestured in the direction of the Baroness’s estate and glowered at the Prince, who sat crouched in the castle shadows, hiding from his Father’s wrath. “Do you have any idea what that boy went through to get here tonight?”
“He lied to me.”
“He came here to tell you the truth,” Vesemir snapped. Geralt looked up; he’d never heard the old man sound so angry before. His thick grey eyebrows were drawn together and his tone was thunderous and low as he spoke again, “He went through Hell to come here. He was beaten. He was whipped. He was locked in a root cellar by that horrible Marx woman and you fed him to the fucking wolves.”
“You walk on water and you make flying machines, yet you know nothing about real life,” the Prince replied. He suddenly remembered last week, when he’d tried to hug Jaskier and the boy had cried out. It wasn’t surprise; it was pain. Jaskier had been...he’d been in so much pain and Geralt had been waxing poetic about politics and love and...Jaskier had suffered to be with Geralt. And what the Prince done in return?
“I know that a life without love,” Vesemir sighed, placing Jaskier’s lost shoe in the Prince’s line of sight. “Is no life at all.”
The old man wandered away, whistling a familiar song as he went. It was the song Jaskier had composed for him in the woods that day, as they’d ridden back to the Marx estate with the rescued painting. Geralt shook his head to clear it; this wasn’t the time for reminiscing.
He had to pledge his heart to the Princess of Redania. He had to do what all Princes had to do: give up their dreams in the name of their country.
---
Geralt burst from the side of the church and ended up running directly into Jaskier’s step-sister, Margaret. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Margaret raised an eyebrow.
“Jaskier, where is he?” Geralt begged. Margaret shook her head sadly and filled the Prince in on everything that had happened over the past few days. At last the royal pulled away, his face twisted in guilt and pain, “Sold?”
“The Baroness didn’t want him around distracting you in case you came to propose to Valdo, Your Highness.”
“Speak of this to no one,” Geralt begged. “And you shall be greatly rewarded. Jaskier spoke kindly of you, Lady Margaret.”
“As well he spoke of you,” she replied. The affirmation of Jaskier’s seemingly endless trust in him only served to pierce Geralt’s heart further; he had betrayed the only man he’d ever loved. He really had fed him to the wolves. And the wolves had sold him to a fucking weasel.
---
Geralt rode up to Count DeStael’s manor and was shocked to find Jaskier already making his way through the garbage-scattered courtyard. He looked completely different than when Geralt had seen him last; or ever. The noble’s clothes were gone. The pearl-knit snood was absent. The velvet doublets and high leather boots were absent. The air of easy confidence that usually swirled around him was also gone. Making his way slowly across the dirty yard in only a tattered blue chemise and dirty brown trousers, a pair of cheap leather slippers laced around his feet and dirt smeared across his face, Jaskier looked incredibly small and fragile.
He somehow managed to shrink even further in on himself when he glanced up at last and set eyes on the Prince. “Hello,” Geralt greeted, swinging down off his horse to approach.
“Hello.”
There was a pregnant pause before Jaskier spoke again.
“What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I came to rescue you,” the Prince admitted.
“Rescue me?” Jaskier scoffed, stepping past Geralt, “A commoner?”
“Actually I came to beg your forgiveness,” Geralt blurted. His heart leapt hopefully in his chest when the brunette man paused walking away. Slowly, Jaskier turned back to face him. “I offered you the world and at the first test of honor, I betrayed your trust. Please, Jaskier…”
“Say it again,” Jaskier demanded. Geralt could see that tears had sprung to his eyes. The blue of his irises somehow seemed darker, now.
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” the younger man shook his head emphatically. He smiled sadly and sighed, “The part where you said my name.”
Geralt huffed a laugh and stepped carefully forward. Jaskier had every right in the world to reject him right now. He could spit on the Prince’s face and run screaming into the woods and Geralt would want to follow with all his heart, but he wouldn’t. He would let Jaskier go if that was what the other man wanted. But the brunette didn’t move, so Geralt took another careful step. “Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s eyes closed and his chest lifted with the force of his gasped breath. He had never felt so alive before this moment. Hearing Geralt say his name, his real name, even if it was just this once, was heaven.
Even...even if it was just this once.
Jaskier slowly opened his eyes again and let them settle on the Prince’s face.
Geralt pulled his missing dancing slipper from the back pouch at his belt and held it out as if in offering, “I was actually wondering if you could help me find the owner of this rather remarkable shoe.”
“Where did you find that?” Jaskier asked, his hands fluttering out to touch the rhinestone-studded material of his Father’s antique dancing slipper. He thought it had been lost to him forever in his moment of foolishness, a constant reminder of all the loss he’d ever faced. And here it was, safe and sound with Geralt.
The Prince stepped forward until their chests were nearly touching and began to speak in a low, careful tone. Jaskier heard the love in every syllable, “He is my match in every way. Please tell me I have not lost him.”
“It belongs to a peasant, Your Highness,” the servant bit his lip and turned away, stepping over to the low stone wall and leaning heavily against it. He couldn’t support his own weight; he was going to swoon. “Who only pretended to be a nobleman to save another servant’s life.”
“I know,” Geralt smiled softly. He knelt before the commoner and Jaskier gasped, his hands flying to cover his mouth. He shook his head, disbelieving. “And the name’s Geralt, if you don’t mind.”
Jaskier leapt forward and slammed their lips together, kissing his beloved Geralt for all his foolish royal ass was worth. He threw his arms around the Prince’s strong neck and melted when Geralt’s arms encircled his waist in return. Neither man was sure which one of them was holding the other closest and neither wanted to let go. Eventually the Prince stepped away and knelt again. He had to do this right.
“I kneel before you today not as a Prince, but as a man in love.” He slid the cheap, poorly-made leather boot from Jaskier’s foot and replaced it with the bejeweled silk dancing slipper. “But I would feel like a King if you, Jaskier Pankratz, would be my Consort.”
Jaskier burst into happy tears. Real happy tears this time. Tears that ran in rivers down his pink, smiling cheeks and into the dirt below. Tears that Geralt wiped away with the pads of his thumbs, as reassuring and careful as any Prince had ever been when handling great treasure.
Jaskier was overwhelmed with the love in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in Geralt’s broad, strong chest and never come out again. He would build a castle between his lover’s arms and find no need to leave. He would, if Geralt would let him, claim the Prince as his home forever.
Never unwanted.
Never a nuisance.
Never a pebble in anyone’s shoe.
He nodded and flung his arms around his Prince once again. Jaskier allowed himself to be swept off his feet and swung through the air. Geralt was kissing him the entire time, wherever the Prince’s lips could reach. His nose, his closed eyelids, his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, even down his neck and in his hair. Jaskier laughed and laughed, the happy sound ringing through the dark courtyard of the Count DeStael’s grim-faced manor house.
“We, my love, are going to live happily ever after,” Geralt asserted.
ok 007 prompt: turns out jaskier's not the only one in our duo with enemies...(stregebor, it's stregebor and he kidnaps geralt) ((but obviously jask rescues him and its fine))
I’m always here to put Geralt in a little bit of peril.
tw: horny, 1 backhanded slap
---
Dearest Mr. Pankratz,
I believe I have stumbled upon something rather important to you. If you’d like to get it back, please meet me at the Palisade nightclub tomorrow evening at ten. I’ll be at the bar.
See you then,
Stregobor
Next to the carefully scrawled note was a polaroid photo of Geralt. His upper torso and wrists had been bound tightly to an ornate gold-painted chair. His eyes were wide and frightened, his snow-white hair was wild around his face and he’d been gagged with a strip of shiny red silk.
Jaskier ran his hand through his hair and grabbed the phone off the bedside table, dialing urgently. “Fuck, fuck, fu-hey! Q! We have a situation.”
---
Geralt wasn’t exactly sure where he was. He knew that Stregobor had drugged him at the club and hauled him off into the back of a stretched limo. He knew that Jaskier would’ve certainly noticed his absence by now. He knew that it was dark and that the windows had been covered with heavy drapes to keep him out of the loop.
“Domino,” the villainous mage/drug dealer chuckled. He entered the room and closed the door behind him, draping the furniture in twisted shadow once again. He crossed the small space and ran the back of his knuckles along one of Geralt’s cheekbones before pulling his hand back to deliver a rough slap. The captive man grunted as his head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, the sound of the impact still ringing through his ears. “It was foolish of you to think that you could evade me for so long. I’ve missed you; I’ve missed looking at you.”
There was nothing Geralt could do but breathe heavily around the gag and brace himself for the next potential strike. He watched Stregobor’s every movement with narrowed eyes but the mage had grown seemingly disinterested.
“Your precious 007 will be coming for you shortly, I’m sure,” the bearded man continued, pacing the length of the dim room at a leisurely pace. “And then I shall take my revenge on both of you. Until then, my sweet -” and this game with a venomous grin “- I suppose we have some alone time.”
---
Jaskier gathered Geralt into his arms, pressing kisses to whatever undamaged skin he could reach. The white-haired beauty was draped across his lap in the back of their escape vehicle, unconscious and disastrously pale. The snazzy silver car Q had hooked him up with was driving itself back to headquarters while 007 tended to his lover’s wounds. They were nasty-looking on the surface but were mostly superficial, thank the gods.
“Oh, my sweet,” the secret agent murmured softly, “I should have gotten there so much sooner. I’m so sorry, love.”
“Jaskier?”
A pair of golden eyes fluttered open and 007 nearly sobbed. He buried his face in Geralt’s chest and bit back his tears. The wounded man gripped weakly at his shirt; Jaskier cupped the back of Geralt’s neck to better support his weight, settling him gently in his lap. “I was so worried that they’d killed you. Or worse.”
“They barely roughed me up,” Geralt chuckled. “I’m much tougher than I look.”
“You look rather dashing, actually,” Jaskier smiled. It was wan and thin but it was better than the panicked look he’d been wearing when he first came to Geralt’s rescue. The white-haired man grinned sleepily and let himself relax into the secret agent’s strong, firm arms. “Go to sleep, darling. I’ll keep you safe.”
