(This fic was written in honor of this embroidery piece made by the talented @flowercrown-bard. Hope you like it my dear! <3)
Read on AO3
The mouse keeps following Geralt.
It’s a tiny little thing with brown hair and round eyes, squeaking like any other mouse slithering in and out of roadside bushes, and it keeps following Geralt.
With Roach tired from a full day’s travel, they only walk slowly side by side, with Geralt holding her reins. The sun hangs low above the horizon, lazily casting warmth on Geralt’s skin.
The tiny mouse stays by his feet, running on his little paws to keep up his long strides. Geralt could speed up the pace and make it so much more difficult for the creature, but his mood is too good when the sun is kissing his eyelids.
“That your friend, Roach?” Geralt asks absently.
The mare snickers, and Geralt chuckles to himself.
“Of course not. You’d never befriend someone so stubborn.”
The mouse squeaks as if offended.
“Don’t take offense, little guy. It’s not a bad thing to be.” Geralt muses to himself, slowing to look at the mouse who, somehow, looks confused. Maybe it’s because his face is covered in mud.
The mouse follows him until the night sets in, refusing to be left behind. The sense of déjà vu makes Geralt’s chest swell with something inexplicably warm.
“I have a friend who would have liked you,” he says. “He can teach you a trick or two about following a witcher.”
~~
The mouse is still there when Geralt makes camp. He starts the fire with Igni and realizes that his spot on the log is rudely overtaken.
“Not giving up, huh?” Geralt spreads his palm and leaves a few berries next to the mouse, who looks down at them and then up at him again. “It wasn’t a small feat, keeping up this far. I thought you’d be gone at the first chance.” He pauses. “Hmm. You truly remind me of him.”
The mouse makes another tiny noise, before picking up a smaller berry and biting into it. For a mouse, he looks too careful with his food.
“Eat well, then. We have a lot of miles to cover tomorrow, don’t we, Roach?”
The mare has wandered too far into the woods to hear him, and Geralt shakes his head in amusement. Gods know why he expects the tiny mouse to be there tomorrow. He’s fed now; he should disappear in no time.
It’s good, Geralt thinks, he can’t keep them as pets. Unlike a certain someone, he will never try to sing harmonies with small rodents.
“Good luck, little guy, wherever you may end up,” he says to the log where the mouse perches quietly. “And good night.”
Only silence answers him.
~~
The next morning, Geralt wakes up with dew in his hair. He packs away the equipment and runs a hand down Roach’s mane. The mare greets him but remains still.
On top of her head is the tiny mouse. He’s curled into himself and buried into Roach’s hair, and he’s sleeping soundly.
Geralt takes the horse’s rein and begins his journey with a smile.
~~
They pass a stretch of meadow by midday. The ground is peppered with wildflowers, and Geralt inhales the fresh smell of early spring.
“Don’t you want to go?” he says to the mouse, who has now woken up and sitting on Roache’s head. “You should. You belong in the wild. Life on the path is not for a fragile thing such as yourself.”
The mouse turns to the sunlit meadow and jumps right off Roach’s head. He runs straight into it, and Geralt only catches sight of a tail before he disappears into the grass.
“Oh,” Geralt says, blinking. “Alright.”
It’s only natural. Wild animals are no travel companions. Geralt has been saying it all day.
It’s just that he wasn’t expecting the mouse to actually leave. He curses himself silently, feeling ridiculous about the emptiness inside his chest.
“It’s just us now, Roach.”
Geralt takes a step forward, and then another.
The meadow is almost out of sight when the little guy catches up with them, with a broken stem of buttercup in his mouth.
Geralt laughs and picks up the mouse in his hand, catching the flower in his palm. The little guy stares at him as if anticipating something.
“Why thank you,” Geralt answers gently.
The mouse keeps staring.
“I said thank you.” Geralt frowns, confused. “Do you understand me?”
The little guy lowers his head. Geralt would say he’s disappointed if a witcher is one to believe mice could have emotions. He places the mouse on Roach’s saddle and journeys on.
~~
“What’s with all the flowers?” Geralt takes the half-bloomed dandelion from the little guy’s tiny paws, and adds it to his collection of six buttercups and three cornflowers. “A romantic, are we?”
The little guy squeals, jumping up and down before Geralt begins putting away all the flowers in his pack. There’s dandelion fluff sticking to his back.
“What?” Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather I held them all day? I need my hands, little guy.”
The mouse dives into the bush and, within a few heartbeats, emerges with another buttercup petal.
“More buttercup?”
The little guy squeaks, his round eyes fixing on Geralt expectantly.
Geralt pauses, before breaking out into laughter.
“Oh, that is a good one,” he says, cheeks sore from smiling. “I’d name you buttercup, little guy, but he isn’t here to appreciate the joke.”
The mouse squeaks sharply all of a sudden before running away from Geralt to sit on top of a rock. With his back turned to Geralt, it almost looks like he’s sulking.
“Hmm, I was right.”
Geralt wipes the grin off his face. Thankfully he’s alone; no one should know he just considered naming a mouse after Jaskier and the thought of it made himself giggle like a young maiden. What would it do to his reputation?
“Jaskier would like you,” he adds. “He’d make something for you with all these flowers, and he’d give you all these sweet names. Shame I can’t do either.”
When Geralt walks away, he peers over his shoulder to watch the mouse, who follows after a beat, although he now seems slower, somehow dejected.
Geralt slows down a little, just enough for the little guy to keep pace.
~~
“I do miss him,” Geralt brushes down Roach’s coat and turns to the mouse at his feet. “It’s been a while since we parted, so he must be in some trouble again. No, I don’t know how he does it either.”
The little guy chirps.
“He fills the silence.” Geralt takes in a deep breath. “He talks on and on so I don’t have to, and I…I just got used to it.”
He crouches down and lays his palm flat on the ground so the mouse can perch on his gloved hand.
“Too used to it. Now the silence is lacking.”
The little guy makes a sad little noise in response, and Geralt feels the corners of his lips tug upward.
“Thank you. You help, you know? Never thought I’d be so alone I’d start talking to a mouse.” Roach snorts in protest, but Geralt goes on. “But I am alone. Didn’t know that until he swooped into my life with his lute and songs and incessant chatter. Not having him hurts now, but he doesn’t know. I’ve never told him this.”
The mouse squeaks, grabbing at the laces on Geralt’s glove.
“You think I should?” he asks softly. “Perhaps. There are too many things I should have told Jaskier, things that he deserves to hear. You are right. I just wish he was here with me. It’s spring, after all.”
He lets the mouse rest his tiny head on his thumb and makes sure not to squish him.
“Guess we know where to next. Have you seen Oxenfurt? It’s a nice place. I’ll even introduce you after I tell him all these important things.”
Geralt thinks about the way Jaskier’s eyes light up at the sight of him and feels his cheeks heat up. He places an arm around his middle, imagining the hugs Jaskier gives him at every reunion, those strong arms squeezing tightly and lifting his feet off the ground.
“Maybe not all the important things,” he says wistfully. “Just that I missed him. If I told him the other ones, I think… I think he might leave. I shouldn’t risk it, right?”
The mouse stays still.
“Yeah, I agree. If he knew, I’d lose him, and I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do.” Geralt swallows, his lips pursing. “I’ve never said it out loud, so you’re lucky, little guy. You are the first to know that I…” he sucks in a shuddering breath. “I love Jaskier. I love him so much that I lose all the words when I look into his eyes. I love him, because he’s my best friend. Because he sees me, and I wish I could see him.”
Geralt’s heart aches for the briefest moment before his medallion begins buzzing against his chest.
His turns around in alert, holding the mouse closer to his chest. His senses sharpen immediately, but there are no threats near them, no monsters, no beasts.
Only the tiny mouse in Geralt’s hand vibrates with magic.
“Little guy?” he asks, eyes round.
The mouse lets out one last squeal, and a puff of smoke blinds Geralt, making his eyes water before it recedes.
Suddenly, Geralt finds himself with an armful of bard, the newly transformed human weighing heavily in his embrace. Messy brown hair sticks into Geralt’s nose, almost choking him and knocking him off balance.
“Hey, there,” Jaskier says after a second of disorientation, his eyes sky blue and full of mischief. His face is impossibly close, and he licks his lips teasingly. “Did you mean it?”
Geralt is still processing the fact that he’s holding Jaskier bridal style in his arms, not his little rodent friend.
Oh.
He’s holding Jaskier in his arms, who is very much naked.
Geralt’s throat dries, and he can only let out one quiet word.
What should Geralt pick to tell him, out of the myriad of reasons? He swallowed hard.
“I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”
It was the closest he would ever get to a confession.
Jaskier didn’t say anything. He just let his suddenly tired eyes rest on him, until Geralt finished untying the reins.
“We have to go,” he said, and helped Jaskier into the saddle of the stallion, careful not to touch the wounds on his back. Then Geralt sat up in front of Jaskier, just like when he took him to Rinde. He rode out from the castle, leading the other horse by her reins, while the ceiling of the main building crumbled with a roar under the unrelenting flames.
Jaskier was holding onto Geralt’s waist gingerly and rested his cheek on the witcher’s shoulder, his hair tickling Geralt’s nape. Jaskier’s body rocked into him as Geralt kept the horse walking at a comfortable pace.
Lambdert and Aiden get bored during winter in Kaer Morhen and decide to start a contest over who can get Eskel to kiss them first 🥺
Kaer Boring it is!
Jolf, my dearest, I couldn't resist writing this right this exact moment! An it got more spicy than cute, I must confess, but that is the way of the Lambert.
Please enjoy the silly boys!
Warnings: uh... frisky boys? Nothing explicit but fade to black adult times. Swearing, blink-a-you'll-miss-it-somft tummy Aiden.
On Ao3
Winter at Kaer Morhen can be peaceful. A time to enjoy the quiet, recovery and reflection.
Meaning:
“BORING.”
Lambert lies on his bed, head hanging down on the edge so that the world is upside down.
“I’M SO BORED. BORING BORING BORING BORING BORING BORING--”
“Oh for fuck’s SAKE shut up, Lambert!” Aiden says, sprawled on his back on the floor, arms spread wide and one foot stuck up in the air and balancing a pile of books.
“Hmm. Let me think about it…. No. BORING BORING BORING BORING BORING--”
“Are you twelve??” Aiden turns his head, the books shifting precariously where they are perched. Were they to fall, a certain set of balls would have seen better days, so to speak.
“Twelve inches? Absolutely.”
The books do fall this time, but in a surprisingly controlled fashion. Aiden lowers his leg, catching the books mid air and throwing them at Lambert.
“Ouch. Fuck you, Kittycat!” Lambert complains, twisting around on the bed to avoid the worst impacts of the heavy tombs.
“You did that, yes, and it was not twelve inches, sweetie.” Aiden stands up and dusts off his legs.
“Worst boyfriend ever.” Lambert complains, rolling onto his stomach.
“You love me.” Aiden says, before flopping onto Lambert's back, squishing him good.
“You have gained weight, that’s for sure.” Lambert mutters, but does nothing to dislodge him.
“And you love that too.” Aiden smirks, leaning down and kissing Lambert's neck.
“Fuck yeah I do.” Lambert agrees, angling his head to the side to give Aiden more access. “But I’m BORED!”
Aiden sighs and rolls off, and they start a play fight with their legs.
“So what do you propose we do to fix that?” Aiden asks.
“Hm. What would you do in the winters when I wasn’t here? To spice things up?”
“I don’t know? Tease Geralt? Try to provoke Eskel? He’s a hard nut to crack, that one.”
“Alright. So wanna tease Geralt?”
“He is so mopey now, no fun at all. Pining over the bard, like an idiot. He is no fun at all.”
“Fine. Cracking Eskel then?”
Lambert is silent for a while. Enough to make Aiden just a little bit suspicious.
“What about… a bet?” Lambert asks, lips curling in a smirk. “Who can make Eskel crack first?”
Aiden squints at him.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Did you know Eskel is really stingy with showing affection? How about this? The first one to make Eskel kiss them wins.”
“You just want to kiss Eskel, you little shit!” Adien rolls on top of Lambert again, squishing his cheeks.
“Like you don’t want that!” Lambert shoots back, pinching Aiden’s sides in revenge.
“Fair. Alright, sure. What are the rules?” Aiden asks, but doesn’t let go of Lambert's face. “I just get our Esky-boy to kiss me and I win?”
“If you manage to crack him, yes. But he’s gotta kiss you, not the other way around.”
“Hmmm, that shouldn’t take too long. Promise you won’t get jealous, pupper?” Aiden teases, tracing a thumb under Lambert's lower lip, who catches it in his mouth and bites it.
“Thought that was your thing, kitten. Didn’t treat Keira all that nicely.”
“Don’t like her. But right you are. I like to show others that you are mine.” Aiden purrs, and then proceeds to thoroughly distract them both from their bet for a while.
~
Many kisses, and a lot less clothes later, they lie panting together.
“I‘ll give you a headstart.” Lambert tells Aiden graciously. “On the bet.”
“Why is that?”
“I have known him longer. Got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“You telling me you kissed him before?” Aiden deadpans. “After we just settled I’m possessive.”
“I’m telling you I know him. Meaning, he also knows me, and is likely to notice we are up to something. So I’ll give you a head start, before he gets suspicious.”
“I’m suspicious. But alright. Just because I love you, and I don’t want my little pupper to be bored.”
~
And true to his promise, Aiden made sure Lambert had no reason to be bored in the next few days. He tried drinking Eskel under the table, hoping he would be a loving drunk, but ended his night throwing up out of a window.
Another strategy was mistletoes, having just passed the winter solstice celebration. Eskel only kissed his goat, Geralt on the forehead (which all found very amusing, and Geralt grumbled even louder for the rest of the week) and even a mirror.
Not Aiden though.
Even Lambert found it hard to resist when Aiden wore his best tunic, combed his hair, and managed to get some cream on his upper lip. No such worries for Eskel, he merely used the sleeve of his arm to wipe it off. Charming, that one.
~
“Fine.” Aiden concedes a few days later, as they are laying in bed. “He is hard to crack. Doubt even getting naked would help with that one. Unless, maybe, I grow horns….”
“No naked business, you are still mine.” Lambert says, snuggling up to the Cat witcher's side..
“When are you going to start trying?”
“Hm, tomorrow? Look closely, you might learn a thing or two.”
“Prick.”
~
True to his word, when morning comes Lambert walks up to Eskel by the breakfast table.
“Eskel?”
“Hm?”
“Can I have a kiss?”
Aiden gapes. That little piece of shit.
“Sure.”
Eskel pecks Lambert on the lips and goes back to his porridge. Lambert looks at Aiden victoriously.
“Wait. What the fuck.”
“You never asked.” Lambert says happily.
“That’s what you've been trying to do?” Eskel asks, still all bleary from sleep. Clearly not a morning person, that one. “Alright.”
Then he stands up, stool scraping against the stone floor, and leans over the table to peck Aiden on the lips too.
Flabbergasted, Aiden just lets it happen.
When Eskel sits back down and continues eating his breakfast, Aiden fixes Lambert with a glare.
“You knew!” He accuses, and Lambert just smirks and shrugs.
“I told you that was what they were trying to do.” Geralt says to Eskel, who just hums around his food. “You owe me a gwent card.”
“Wait.” Aiden says. “You were betting on our betting?”
“Maybe.” Eskel says. “And a card of my choosing, Geralt, you are not getting my general.”
“Fuck the fucking Wolf school, and fuck all of you.” Aiden swears, truly cross at all of them. He even combed his hair, damnit!
“You want another kiss?” Lambert asks, still smirking as he walks around the table.
“Yes you fucking wanker, come here.” And Aiden pulls Lambert into his lap and kisses him, just a bit more than a peck.
“Get a room.” Geralt complains.
“Only if you kiss your bard.” Lambert fires back, and that shuts him up for good.
Maybe they can have a new bet next year. Maybe the bard wants in.
for the cliche tropes, 27. Help me I’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second with geraskier, if you please <3
Thank you for the prompt! 🌼 Sorry it’s quite late but please enjoy this tiny piece of pining on this fine Friday.
(1.3k, geraskier, slow dancing, drunk jaskier, protective geralt, no warnings.)
“Oh, Geralt! Fancy seeing you here!” Jaskier exclaims, as if they didn’t come to the banquet together.
The bard reaches Geralt’s table and sweeps away his ale in one swift motion before chugging it all down. When he finally puts down the tankard, Geralt finds himself the recipient of the bard’s most charming and yet most performative smile.
Jaskier is nervous.
“Phew!” His hands flail dramatically. “Fine evening, isn’t it?”
Geralt hums, waiting for the catch.
“Let’s dance!”
Without getting a reply, Jaskier is already dragging Geralt up from his seat. With all the wine and ale in his system, Jaskier’s hold is not strong enough to manhandle a bulky witcher, but they end up at the edge of the dance floor anyway.
Jaskier’s warm palms rest flush against Geralt’s waist, and their faces are only a hand’s breadth away. Geralt can feel the heat on the bard’s flushed cheeks and hear the pounding of his heart in the din of the room. They sway to the gentle music.
It’s…close, too close. Geralt needs a distraction.
“What’s the catch, Jask?”
The bard scoffs, almost offended. “Do I require a reason to dance with you? Or am I not allowed to just enjoy quality time with my favorite witcher?”
Geralt simply lifts an eyebrow.
“All right. You are too smart for your own good.” Jaskier chews on his lips, again, nervously. “There is this one gentleman, who may have been too eager for my…company, despite my explaining of the situation.”
“Which is?”
“That I’m in love and thus unavailable?” Jaskier says as if it’s obvious. Geralt frowns with worry.
“Still?” the witcher asks quizzically. “Valdo left nearly a year ago, Jaskier. It isn’t healthy.”
That is the wrong thing to say because Jaskier flinches at the name. Hurt flashes across those cornflower blue eyes, and Jaskier looks too dejected, too similar to how Geralt found him at his worst, in pain and alone and roaring drunk. He never wants to see Jaskier like that again.
“Well, no matter,” Jaskier chuckles tightly. “It’s not like the guy took the hint and left me alone, so I had to improvise. Now, before you give me another lecture or something, you need to know that I had no choice but to—”
“What did you do?” Geralt lets the music and the crowd lead the two of them around the dance floor, careful not to bump into another couple.
The bard regains his balance, looking contrite.
“I may have implied that, um, the person I’m in love with is here tonight.” He pauses before continuing reluctantly. “Or I may have said plainly that he is…a certain witcher.”
“Jaskier…”
“I know. I know! But he was relentless and I couldn’t get away!” he pleads.
“Hmm.”
Geralt’s hands tighten on Jaskier’s shoulders protectively. The bard is too drunk to even keep up with the dance, let alone fight off some unwanted pursuer. In truth, he’s only relieved that he is here with Jaskier, even though the lie is hitting a bit too close to home.
Holding Jaskier like this, swaying with him gently, is once again reminding Geralt of what he isn’t allowed to dream. He no longer dares these days. Not when he’s the one pushing Jaskier away time and time again, not when he’s the one who let Jaskier slip through his fingers and end up with Valdo, not when he’s the one who inadvertently caused Jaskier’s broken heart.
“Oh fuck.” Jaskier hisses, his body tensing. “He’s coming towards us. Okay, act natural! Wait, what is natural if we were together? Oh…um… Just roll with me, will you?”
Before Geralt can reply, Jaskier’s mouth is on his. The kiss is as chaste as it can be—Jaskier is only pecking at his lips gently, never pushing in. Geralt only remembers to close his eyes after a moment, and forces himself to respond as such. To keep up the front, he tells himself, lest the guy is watching.
And he is. Deliberate footsteps are circling the dance floor, not far from them. Geralt concentrate on identifying the man’s heartbeat and his movement—
Jaskier sucks on his lower lip once, twice, before letting go. He buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, his body still taut like a statue.
“Is he gone?”
Warm breaths ghost over the skin of Geralt’s neck and he struggles to open his eyes. The man is not gone. In fact, he’s observing them intently, just shy of stepping into the dance floor himself. Through the moving crowd, Geralt can make out his golden hair and slim shoulders, almost a spitting image of one Valdo Marx, only a little taller.
Geralt hates this man immediately.
Perhaps it’s those too piercing eyes, or the way his presence is making Jaskier nervous like this, or just the look of him. Geralt narrows his eyes dangerously.
“He is not,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s ear, mimicking a lover’s murmur, all the while not breaking eye contact. He’s heard so many times how his yellow eyes are monstrous, and Geralt is thankful for once. It takes some balls to not cower under a witcher’s glare, one that projects predator from afar. This one crumbles within seconds.
With a triumphant smirk, Geralt moves one hand up to cup the nape of Jaskier’s neck, the other one still pressed between his shoulder blades. He’s laying claim. Hopefully, the light can catch a glint of his fangs, but either way, the man is soon running off, tail between his legs.
“Now he’s gone,” Geralt’s voice comes out deeper and rougher. He clears his throat. “Should be out of the gate by this point.”
They are standing impossibly close. The anxious rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest slow to normal and they separate. Geralt misses the contact. He now has a harder time keeping Jaskier steady on his feet. Yes, that’s the sole reason to miss holding Jaskier.
“I—” Jaskier’s gaze is still fixed somewhere far away behind Geralt’s shoulder, oblivious of how reluctantly the witcher is retracting his hands. “Sorry I did that.”
“Hmm. It worked.”
The bard lets out a dry laugh. “Thank the fuck you are here. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“You can take care of yourself.”
Geralt only has one hand at Jaskier’s elbow, holding onto him with a featherlight touch. The music has come to an end and the quiet intimacy dissipates.
“Can I?” Jaskier says half-mockingly. “One look at that guy and I could barely breathe, Geralt, and he doesn’t even look that much like Val—him.”
Jaskier bites his lips in contrite, his eyes dimmed. Geralt dips his head to meet Jaskier’s gaze, the ocean blue so lost.
“Hey. I’ll be here if you need me,” he adds way too quickly, almost spluttering. “—to get rid of unwanted attention, that is.”
Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness. Instead, a soft smile stretches across his face. Wordlessly, the bard leans forward to place a small kiss on Geralt’s cheek.
Geralt has to hide the gasp, his eyes wide. He doesn’t know why he’s more affected this time. Is it because it’s real? A voice at the back of his head asks. The last time—even with Jaskier’s lips all over him—was only a show, but this one is full of Jaskier’s heart.
“You are sweet.” Jaskier wipes at the spot with a thumb. “What would I do without you, my friend?”
“Hmm.”
Friend. It’s one little word that Geralt has rejected time and time again, and just when he begins to want for more, he finds himself trapped in the very same word. The irony would be laughable if Geralt is not missing the warmth of Jaskier against him so much.
How the turntables.
Geralt lets Jaskier retreat into the crowd, and if he turns to smell the lingering scent of Jaskier on his shoulder, nobody needs to know.
“Please, just call me Jaskier. I never cared for the name Julian, or the title Prince for that matter. Sounds rather formal between friends, don’t you think?”
The prince leads Geralt to a bench in the royal garden. The night sky is clear. Moonlight softens Prin—Jaskier’s fond expression, reflecting off of the delicate golden embroidery on his pale-blue doublet. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet Geralt’s gaze.
“Friends? Is that what we are...Jaskier?”
A grin spreads across the prince’s face. Geralt’s heart picks up when Jaskier reaches out to cradle his face, caressing his skin there gently.
“I hope? Or maybe I can hope for more. My father did hold this royal ball just so I can select my betrothed.”
“You don’t even know my name.” Geralt desperately wishes to stay in this moment forever, with Jaskier so close and his cheeks rosy in the night chill.
But alas, he’s only allowed into the royal court because of the disguise—one of magical nature that only lasts temporarily. It is the reason he looks like an ordinary human lord right now, without a witcher’s white hair, or freakish eyes, or sharp fangs. It even came with a full set of royal attires made out of silk.
“I don’t need a name. I feel like I’ve known you forever.” Jaskier’s eyes darken as he leans in, his other hand flush against Geralt’s chest, against the silk that will only exist for a night.
The crisp night air is mixed with the fresh smell of grass in the garden, but on top of it all is the floral scent that is only Jaskier. Geralt lets his senses be overwhelmed by the presence of the prince, by his soft breaths ghosting over his skin and those enchanting lips well within reach.
Tonight is all he’ll ever have. Smiling sadly, he meets Jaskier halfway, their lips only a hair’s breadth away when—
The bell strikes. Once, twice...
Geralt startles at the piercing noise, pulling back from the prince. Is it midnight already? It can’t be this fast...fuck, he needs to get out of here before the magic expires.
Jaskier stares at him, confused. “What is wrong?”
“I need to go,” Geralt splutters, “I—ah, I need to leave right now. I’m so sorry, my prince.”
Jaskier’s face dims at the apology and his vulnerable expression tugs at something in Geralt’s heart, making him ache beyond imagination, but he can’t afford to linger. The bell is still counting down his sentence.
He takes Jaskier’s hand and presses a kiss there and turns to leave, only to be pulled back by the prince’s insistent tug.
“Wait, you don’t have to—”
“Please believe that I wish to stay, Jaskier, more than anything...but it’s important that I leave right now.” Panic bubbles up in his throat as the other man continues to ignore his plea. Instead, Jaskier only stills him by his shoulders with the steadiest look in his eyes.
“Stay,” Jaskier whispers, and it’s all it takes.
Geralt can break free easily, but somehow is unable. He’s too weak in the face of his dream, so close to touch yet still so far away.
To his horror, the magic starts fading as they hold each other’s gaze. Geralt can feel his hair change and his teeth sharpen. Chaos stings his eyes which are surely turning back to their monstrous yellow. His face crumbles out of shame.
And yet, Jaskier never wavers.
If anything, the soft adoration in those baby blue only grows, ever so beautifully, as the swirl of magic circles around Geralt and returns his clothes back to his usual raggedy dark fabric.
The bell strikes twelve.
The sound still echoes in the air as slender fingers return to Geralt’s cheek. He lets out a surprised gasp. Steadily, with the utmost determination, those same fingers thread through what is now silver-white hair. Tears glisten in Jaskier’s eyes.
“You think I wouldn’t recognize the man who saved my life? That I’d forget the witcher who gallantly jumped in between me and a dozen enemies, who offered me comfort afterward.” Jaskier lets out a wet chuckle, his heart picking up in response to the witcher’s. “I’d know you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia.”
The witcher can only stare as Jaskier continues to trace the shell of his ears, the tiny scar under his eye, and then, the pad of his thumb falls to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. It’s not often that his breath is taken away, least of all by a prince who's only supposed to be a fantasy that can never be.
“So you know it’s impossible for us." Geralt’s voice cracks. “I’ll always protect you from afar, Jaskier. Always.”
At those words, tears are now falling freely down the prince’s cheeks, which Geralt carefully wipes away. Under the stars and the moonlight, Jaskier presses his lips to the witcher’s, tasting of salt and heartbreak.
“Ridiculous witcher. Nothing is impossible.” Jaskier pulls away flushed. “As long you are here with me.”
Under the stars and the moonlight, the witcher might just get his happy ending.
---
I heard ocassional fluff is good for you health or something, so this happened ;))
hello my dear!! how about hugs 11 + kisses 27 for the prompts?? 💞💞
"Clinging to each other" and "desperate kisses" from the touching prompts. Thanks my dear! Here’s some cursed Jaskier + pining Geralt.
The kissing is slightly dub-con for both of them because of magic.
Read on ao3.
---
“Jaskier, what—”
The bard has thrown himself at the witcher, clinging as if his life depends on it. His arms are squeezing Geralt’s ribcage so tightly that anyone else would have been suffocated by the sheer force of it.
“Hey, what is wrong?” Geralt tries to pry himself away but when his hand comes up to the side of the bard’s face, he finds the skin there way too hot and almost burning with a fever. “Gods, what did she do to you?”
Letting the bard go with the mage might have been the worst idea he’s ever had, now that he realizes in the way Jaskier refuses to let go. Trusting her—or any mage, really—is always bound to end up a disaster.
“Geralt,” Jaskier mutters, his voice shaking, but not with fear. “You are here.”
“I’m here.”
When Geralt inhales the bard’s scent, the faint trace of magic is unmistakable. Underneath it is Jaskier’s floral perfume, the only one he uses since Geralt mentioned that it’s the only one that doesn’t bother his sensitive nose.
But apart from it all, there is the overwhelming surge of sweetness, thick like honey. It’s the same smell that he’s always associated with Jaskier, one that drifts into the air whenever the bard is purring with contentment.
It’s love.
It’s the same love that Jaskier carries for everyone and everything. The smell is so omnipresent that Geralt has longs since registered it as… just Jaskier.
But it’s ten times more.
“It’s a love spell, Jaskier,” Geralt says into the bard’s ear, worry churning in his stomach. “She put a lo—”
The sentence is interrupted by soft lips pressed against his.
The bard is intoxicating like this, nibbling and sucking urgently with his hands coming up to thread into Geralt’s hair. His fingers scratch at the witcher’s scalp and his legs almost melt under him. The love is so heady between their breaths and in each touch of lips that Geralt finds himself opening up for Jaskier, letting him in, letting him take more—
“Wait,” Geralt inhales weakly but is silenced by another bruising kiss. The burning heat on Jaskier’s skin, ironically, sobers him up like a bucket of ice water. “Wait, you are not in your right mind.”
Geralt cups the soft line of Jaskier’s jaw and keeps him away. There are only a few inches between them, the distance so easy to close but there’s no way he can ignore the unhealthy amount of love in the air.
Jaskier whines and desperately tries to lean in again.
“We can’t. Her love spell is making you want this.”
“No. No, it’s not her.” Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s hand on his cheek, holding it in place before turning to press a kiss in the witcher’s palm. Gods, can a witcher’s heart skip a beat? “I’ve always wanted it, Geralt, believe me when I say I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
Geralt shakes his head at the magic-compelled lie.
“Not according to you, Jask. You’ve never expressed any—”
“I was only afraid,” Jaskier says with so much conviction in his eyes, those cornflower blues are darkened with desire but it only serves to make his gaze more piercing. The flush of his cheeks deepens. Even his hairline is now soaked with sweat. “I’m not anymore. She helped me stop being afraid. Can’t you see?”
The bard bites his lips, his kiss-bruised, swollen lips, and Geralt’s resolve cracks, just for a second.
A second is all it takes for those lips to return to Geralt’s skin, peppering across his cheek, then neck, everywhere Jaskier can reach.
“I’ll show you,” Jaskier mumbles before sucking a bruise right over Geralt’s pulse point, drawing out a moan from the witcher. “Let me show you if you can’t see how much I love you.”
The passion in Jaskier's confession punches all air out of Geralt. He doesn’t know how he would have reacted in a different situation—probably frozen to the spot while jumping up and down on the inside—but now, those three words only fill Geralt with horror.
Pulling away from the bard for the second time might just be the hardest thing he’s ever done.
“No.” It takes everything in Geralt to say. “I can’t.”
Everything is so wrong.
It’s wrong that Jaskier’s eyes are brimming with tears because of Geralt’s apparent rejection, because gods know how much he wishes to never wake up from this dream. If only he can stay like this, with Jaskier in his arms forever.
If only Jaskier truly loves him.
“Why?” the bard chokes out a whimper. “I thought you wanted me, Geralt. I can see in your eyes. The way you look at me when—when you listen to my songs, and when I’m with someone else. I—I thought…”
He trails off, heartbroken, and Geralt doesn’t know how to make it better.
“I’m sorry.”
Geralt’s hand traces the familiar sign of Axii and Jaskier’s slack body drops at the same time as his tears.
Lifting Jaskier up makes him ache with how well their bodies fit into each other’s, with the bard’s curve pressed against his chest so comfortably, so easily. It’s only made worse when Jaskier nuzzles into his neck and slurs his name again.
“Of course I want you.” Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s, feeling the magic burning under his skin. “But not like this.”
He will put Jaskier in the safety of their bed and he will keep guard until the spell passes.
He will never let anyone take advantage of Jaskier in this state.
Including himself.
“Never like this.”
---
This is also heavily inspired by star trek: voyager. Sorry (not sorry) for the angst.
Jaskier slams Geralt against the wall and brings their faces close together, his nose and mouth nearly inside the Witcher’s hood with him. With the bard this close, Geralt can feel and smell and see everything. The sweat beading on Jaskier’s brow, the way his gorgeous blue eyes are flitting up and down the street anxiously, the way his heart is beating hummingbird fast in his chest...
“What’s wrong, Jaskier?”
“I’m being chased.”
“By?”
“The city guard.”
“Because?”
“I am an idiot and a fool. Now quick,” he grabs the Witcher’s face between his hands and brings them close together. He whispers the next words only a hair’s breadth from Geralt’s lips and the Witcher can practically taste the honeyed wine Jaskier had drank with dinner. He wanted to taste it. “Kiss me so they don’t arrest us!”
So what if Geralt’s performance was incredibly enthusiastic and passionate? It was really only half a performance, anyway...not that the bard needed to know.
