#post-mountain

[spilledbutter]

something something geralt thinking

i will bring you ruin in everything i do. it's never my intention but it happens all the same.

about jaskier post-mountain

[samstree]

Jaskier wakes with a start. It takes him a second to realize he’s not standing on top of a mountain. The air that fills his lungs is warm instead of cold. There’s no wind in his hair.

The dragon hunt was years ago.

He heaves out a sigh before squeezing his eyes shut. The shaking won’t stop, even with the nightmare gone. The sweat is sticking to his nightshirt and it feels awful—

“Bad dream?”

Jaskier turns to the source of the question but can’t see Geralt in the pitch-dark room. He knows his witcher is there, roused by the noise he must have made in sleep. Without a moment of doubt, Jaskier inches closer and buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, his leg thrown over the other man’s hip. A tremor runs through his body again, and a large hand soothes it away immediately.

“Shit. You’re so scared,” Geralt murmurs, subtly sniffing Jaskier’s hair, his voice low with sleep. He moves his hand up and down Jaskier’s back before resting it on the small of his back, steady, safe. “Nilfgaard?”

Jaskier feels a kiss pressed to the scar at his hairline. It’s almost faded now, the pain long gone. It is not what plaguing his dreams tonight, so he shakes his head in silence.

Geralt wraps his other hand around Jaskier’s chin. “You are worrying me, Jask.”

Jaskier can only hug Geralt tighter with a suffocating force, and the witcher pulls him even closer. The silence stretches. Jaskier threads his fingers in the long, soft hair that he’s put so much attention into caring. He isn’t sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort.

“It’s…the mountain,” finally he says.

Geralt goes stiff in his arms. It doesn’t take a witcher to sense the uptick of the languid heartbeat against Jaskier’s ribcage.

“Jaskier, I’m—”

“No. No, don’t apologize,” Jaskier adds. “Not again. You don’t need to. I’ve forgiven you, my love, completely. It won’t be fair if I still hold it against you.”

Geralt doesn’t respond. Even without looking, Jaskier can imagine the guilt in his eyes and the furrow between his brows. So he searches in the dark and presses a kiss there, and another on the tip of Geralt’s nose before capturing his lips.

“But you’re still hurting.” Geralt whispers breathily as they pull apart.

“Sometimes my mind plays this trick on me,” Jaskier smiles sadly, dropping back onto a solid embrace. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“What can I do?”

Jaskier rests his temple against Geralt’s cheek, reveling in their closeness. He shouldn’t be this shaken over a dream, and yet just an echo of that day, one moment of believing the venom in Geralt’s words, is enough to leave a gaping hole in his chest. He already dreads the next time when it happens.

“Be here. Just…be here.”

The plea is a desperate thing, but Geralt catches the hidden meaning anyway. His sweet witcher, who has more than made up for his mistake by choosing to stay at Jaskier’s side over and over again, always hears what’s left unsaid.

“Oh, Jask. Don’t you see? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says. “I promised you the rest of our lives, and I intend to keep my promises.”

Jaskier’s shoulders sag in the warm cocoon of their bed, surrounded by the love that he’s long recognized as safety and home. Sleep pulls at him once again.

“I know, darling. I promised the same after all.”

[jaskierswolf]

He Had It Coming

Also on AO3

Geraskier - Chicago inspired Fanfic. Rating: E. Word Count: 2165

Warnings: implied weapon kink, masturbation, general spiciness

_________

Geralt scowled as he peered up at the building in front of him. On the outside it just looked like an ordinary house but the rumours about town said something different. Brothels weren’t unusual in a town like this, but for some reason that Geralt couldn’t quite work out, this one was talked about in hushed tones, whispers in ears, and flushed faces. He hummed and tugged at the strap holding his scabbard in place on his back. His medallion was still on his chest but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of danger. 

He sighed and shook his head. The rumours said that a certain bard had taken up residence at this address. Geralt had been chasing Jaskier around the Continent for months, heading south from the mountains, weaving across the map getting ever closer to Cintra and to the looming threat of Nilfgaard. Geralt’s heart felt tight in his chest, worrying about the bard that he’d tossed aside. He had a remarkable talent for getting in trouble, but this time Geralt wasn’t around to protect him. 

With one last sigh he knocked on the door.

A lady answered, the door ajar, but even through the small gap Geralt could smell the scent of sweat and sex, barely masked by the familiar incense of a brothel. She had short dark hair cropped above her ears, dark skin with thick muscles, more than he would have expected from a whore or a madam. She had silky black bands wrapped around her biceps, a lacy black corset and her skirt, if you could call it that, was shredded. It wasn’t completely unusual for a whore but… there was a dangerous glint in her eyes that put Geralt on edge.

“Yes, witcher?”

Geralt frowned. “I’m looking for Jaskier.”

“Funny place to come looking for a flower,” she narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t close the door. 

“I’ve been told he’s here.”

“The interesting thing about buttercups, witcher, is that despite their pretty appearance… they’re toxic,” she hissed, dark brown eyes challenging and strong. 

“I know, I’ve come to apologise.”

She laughed and pushed the door open. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, Geralt of Rivia. He said you’d come for him.”

Geralt hummed but moved inside. It was dark inside too, barely lit with candles. The air was thick with incense and he grimaced. He’d never enjoyed the stronger perfumes preferred by whores in places such as this. Now he was inside he could see why his sense had been alerted him to danger. Every one of the whores had daggers sheathed in holders on their thighs. They were all draped in lace and silk, some corseted some not, and high heels that could easily be used as a weapon in the right hands. 

Geralt swallowed, looking around the room for his colourful bard amongst all the black lace, but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. 

“He’s getting ready for his performance. Take a seat near the back, witcher, and don’t touch my darlings, they bite.”

Geralt did as he was told, watching her as she glided through the room with enviable grace. The whores, if that was what they were, were of all different races and gender. He noted a pretty blond elf sat in the lap of a client on the opposite side of the room. He had fishnets covering his arms and long hair covered a sheer chiffon chemise, embroidered with flowers, his underclothes were tight and leather, barely covering the man’s cock as he moved sensually in the client’s lap. Geralt tore his gaze away, he wasn’t here for sex, he was here for Jaskier. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think of anything that could distract him from the heat pooling at his core. 

He was so deep in thought that didn’t notice Jaskier appearing on the stage, not until he started to talk. Geralt’s eyes snapped up, Jaskier was partially hidden in the dim light by a set of prison bars. He gripped the bars, one long leg stretched out above his head…

Geralt’s breath hitched. Jaskier was wearing long high heeled boots, and like the elf, he had fishnets covering his arms. Geralt had seen Jaskier shirtless countless times but this… this was something else. His forearms looked like they would rip the netting apart as he gripped the bars. Thick, dark chest hair disappeared into a silky black corset, tied at the front. Geralt adjusted his eyes so he could see better in the darkness of the brothel, and he was not disappointed. There were buttercups shimmering on the black fabric and the corset cinched in his waist. His hair had grown out, now just tickling his chin and he looked… he looked like a nightmare; Dark, dangerous…. perfect.  

“My witcher, Geralt and I had this double act,” Jaskier’s soothing tenor took command of the room in an instant. The background hustle and bustle faded to silence, and Geralt heard a steady rhythmic beat of heels, tapping against the floor. The performance had begun. There was a quiet soft chanting in the background, from the performers all around the room; he had it coming. 

Jaskier’s leg slid down the bars and he sauntered out from behind his cage, hips swaying, blue eyes lined with dark kohl. Geralt’s cursed under his breath as Jaskier’s eyes met his in across the room, and the bard winked, licking blood red lips that took Geralt’s breath away. 

My witcher

Geralt hardly deserved that title anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s witcher, he was alone… as he deserved to be. 

“And this sorceress, Yennefer, traveled round with us,” Jaskier’s blue eyes watched his audience carefully as he strutted around the stage. It was only then that Geralt noticed the holsters strapped around Jaskier’s thighs, twin daggers sharp and lethal, jewelled hilts glittering in the candle light. 

“Now, for the last contract together,” Jaskier tilted his head and smirked as two performers joined him on the stage, the blond elf and a pretty young girl with long raven hair, a silk ribbon tied around her neck. 

“We were summoned to join a terrible hunt. There were knights,” Jaskier put his hand on the blond’s shoulder, “dwarves,” one hand landed on Jaskier’s waist, “Reavers,” legs interlinked,”monsters,” the fake Yen put her hand on her hips “dragons,” the elf’s hand linked with Jaskier’s above his head, and the bard’s eyes closed, his head tilting back, bearing his neck… and it took every ounce of Geralt’s self control not to fight his way to the front of stage to claim Jaskier as his own. 

“sword fights, Hirikkas, mages, one right after the other,” Jaskier turned back and smirked at Geralt. 

Jaskier gently pushed the two dancers away and strolled casually to the edge of the stage, hands sliding down the inside of his thighs as he dropped seductively, shimmying back up again, fingers toying with the hilt of a dagger. Geralt couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away, this was Jaskier; his bard. There was no use fighting the arousal anymore, he was hard in his pants, and his growled as he palmed himself through his trousers, never taking his eyes off Jaskier.

“So this one night before the hunt we were sitting around the campfire, the three of us, drinking, having a few laughs, until it was time for bed, so.. I settle down on my bedroll,” Jaskier slowly ran his hand through his hair, lips parted, he pulled one dagger from its holster flipping it expertly in his hand. “When I woke up, I went to Yen’s tent…”

He crossed the stage, the flat of the dagger pressed against his cheek carelessly, the elf and the raven haired beauty were in shadows behind him but Geralt could see they were close, his heart dropped. He knew what was coming… knew by his own memories and the ice in the bard’s eyes. 

“And there’s Yennefer and Geralt, in each other’s arms, fucking around!” Jaskier’s voice was like thunder; harsh and unforgiving. 

Geralt winced, looking away from the stage, guilt surging through him. He’d known Jaskier loved him, the bard hadn’t been subtle, and yet… he hadn’t allowed himself the chance to be happy with Jaskier, choosing the icy embrace of the Djinn wish instead of listening to his heart. 

The dagger in Jaskier’s hands brushed the bard’s throat in a clear threat. “Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out, I can't remember a thing,” the dagger returned to its holster and Jaskier turned around, as a dancer crossed his path, when he faced Geralt once more his fists were clenched. “It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead.”

Red ribbons fell from Jaskier’s hands, a sinister grin on his face. The chanting got louder and Jaskier joined the song. “They had it coming!” He growled as he sang, and fuck it shouldn’t have been so hot. Geralt knew he should feel bad but all he wanted was to drag the bard from the stage and fuck him until neither of them could remember their own names. 

The dance routine was like fire in his blood, hands were all over Jaskier’s body, in his hair, on his arse, hips, thighs… It wasn’t fair. It should be Geralt, but he’d missed his window. All he could do now was stroke his own cock to the sight of his bard dressed like sin, confident, calculating, deadly. He bit his own hand as he came, the candles in the brothel extinguishing as Jaskier returned to his ‘cell’. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growled as he wiped his hand on his trousers, grimacing at the mess. This was not why he’d come to the house… how could he face Jaskier now?

“Oh dear, witcher…” Jaskier’s voice whispered, light and teasing, in his ear. He shivered and closed his eyes. 

“Jaskier.”

“Why are you here, Geralt? In case you hadn’t noticed… you aren’t exactly welcome.”

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Not dead either,” he groused. 

“Hmm, true… but that’s hardly a good story,” Jaskier chuckled, his hands brushing along Geralt’s shoulders before he straddled Geralt’s lap. “You never answered my question, witcher.”

Geralt swallowed, unprepared for the lapful of bard. He’d expected Jaskier to keep his distance, but this was more torturous, to have what he wanted so tantalisingly close, and yet out of reach. “I came for you.”

Jaskier laughed. “I can see that, Geralt, but why are you here?”

Geralt snorted. “To apologise, I, I miss you.”

“Go on then,” Jaskier cooed, his hands wrapping around Geralt’s neck. “apologise.”

Geralt tried, he really did, but Jaskier was rocking against him, soft moans falling from his lips. Geralt groaned and buried his face in Jaskier’s neck, hands gripping the bards arse. He could already feel himself getting hard again as Jaskier moved so delightfully in his lap. “Jask,” he hissed. 

“Yes, darling?”

“I need you,” he panted “I need you in my life… but right now, fuck. Have you got a room?”

Jaskier laughed and brushed his lips along Geralt’s jaw. “I do, do you deserve an invitation?”

Geralt moaned and shook his head. “No, gods, I fucked up, Jask. I don’t deserve you, want you though, need you.” 

Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his, never quite kissing him. He smirked and pulled away with a tilt of his head, sliding from Geralt’s lap and extending a hand. “Come along, witcher. We will talk about this properly in the morning, I want a full apology or else we’re done. Is that clear?”

Geralt nodded as he was pulled from his seat.

“But, I have been dreaming about this since I was eighteen, so I’m allowing myself one final night of self-indulgence,” he winked. “then it’s judgement day, witcher.”

“One night?”

Jaskier laughed, fingers wrapping around one of the daggers strapped to his thighs. “We’ll see, darling, depends how good your apology is,” the teasing glimmer fell from his eyes. “I loved you, you know that?”

Geralt nodded glumly. “I knew yeah.”

“Good, I wanted you to know,” Jaskier shook his head. “bit masochistic of me, but I needed you to know someone loved you, without destiny or magic, without any expectations.”

Geralt hummed, unable to say the words that were stuck in his throat. So instead he pulled his bard into a kiss, pouring his love into it, hoping Jaskier would hear the words hidden behind his actions. Jaskier seemed startled but soon kissed back, moaning as the kiss deepened, pulling Geralt towards the stairs without letting them break apart. A warmth spread in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier had said he loved Geralt, but he knew now that he still did. It wasn’t too late, it should have been but someone somewhere thought that Geralt deserved a second chance, and it would try his hardest not to fuck it up this time.

________

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[planetesastraea]

Just Light and Noises, Dear

Read on AO3 - "It's always like this. When the sun shines, you can’t be stopped. When flowers bud, you flirt your way up to the shore and when they wither, you ride back inwards on paths covered with leaves. You find inspiration in these dying things. Thunder, though - thunder brings regret."

Written for Witcher Writers' June prompt: Thunderstorm.

-

Watching the coast line from the inn's doorstep, Jaskier shivered. Another flash broke the sky into two and he closed his eyes, counting out of habit  1, 2, 3, 4,  before thunder made itself heard again. It growled from afar as a warning, a second sooner than before.  I am coming.

The rain was beating the cobblestones at a ferocious rhythm. If the few steps leading to the inn's front door were probably responsible for more than a few drunkenly twisted ankles, their existence made entirely sense at the sight of the puddles growing fast on the small street.

In the early morning the good people of Rochelle had risen from bed and started working. The wind was turning, they said. The storm will hit today.

Every week since the beginning of the season a group of townspeople had gone off to check on the dykes. Around the small town any shallow ditch had been dug deeper, any fallen tree moved away from the rivers, all to ensure that the rain would find its path back to the ocean.

Cattle had been secured, wobbly windows had been boarded, and the people who could not help outside had spent the day hard at work so that everyone would get a hot meal tonight - and so that none of the children would wander off.

Now everyone had settled in, gathering the youngest and the elderly by the hearth of their homes for tales and songs over the sound of thunder.

Under the porch at the back of the inn, Jaskier could still hear the music going. He was thankful that he wasn't the only one in town capable of telling a good story. The last few days before reaching Rochelle had rather been on the quiet side and performing every night to pay for his stay had been an abrupt change of pace. His voice was grateful for a moment of rest and the tip of his fingers welcomed the cool droplets of ale slipping down the side of his tankard.

"Don't worry, bard!" the innkeeper said as she stood next to him on the threshold. "It won't flood forever. Give it a few days and you'll be back on the road."

Marga wasn't technically the innkeeper; her daughter was doing the actual innkeeping work. The inn had been passed on from one generation to the next for longer than people could remember, welcoming lost sea crews and wandering travellers.

Marga didn't do much of the housekeeping anymore, her bones aching too much for washing dishes, her back too bent to deal with the sheets upstairs. But she was keeping the inn - quite literally, keeping it alive with her wits and keeping it safe from idiots and drunkards who would try and disturb people's peace when they needed a hot meal and a roof.

"I'll be staying a bit longer actually," Jaskier answered. The elderly woman watched him from where she stood. She was two heads smaller than him and yet it felt like he needed to look up to reach her eyes; as if she was surveilling the world from the height of the many years that now were behind her.

"Didn't you say you were staying until the new moon?"

Jaskier’s eyebrows raised and he smiled carefully. “I did."

"Maybe you forgot to look at the night sky, bard, but that was a few days ago," she said, eyes piercing.

Straightening against the doorway, Jaskier tried making himself stand a little more decently while still keeping his shoulders relaxed and his stance casual. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his hand and the whole thing ended up feeling terribly awkward. He cleared his voice. "Have I overstayed my welcome, Marga?"

"No, no," she said, waving off the thought. "I'm just wondering. What does a young man like you find attractive in staying in a small town like ours."

"Ah," was all he could answer.

"You're always singing about adventures, travels or court matters. One would think you’d miss these. Or that they'd miss you."

Jaskier hummed, his eyes finding focus on the smallest bubbles in the foam of his ale.

"I don't think they do," he said quietly.

Marga sighed. "Ah, you, poets. You’re like birds, aren’t you? Always moving with the weather!"

"Pardon?"

"It's always like this. When the sun shines, you can’t be stopped. When flowers bud, you flirt your way up to the shore and when they wither, you ride back inwards on paths covered with leaves. You find inspiration in these dying things. Thunder, though - thunder brings regret."

Jaskier laughed, startled. “And how do you know so much about poets?”

Marga eyed him from the corner of her eyes and he might have seen a playful light in them. “As you may have noticed, I was not born yesterday.”

Jaskier smiled at her, the pressure of the air closing in on his chest. Maybe she was right. Maybe thunder brought regrets.

He felt an urge to take a step outside in the wind and let the rain wash over him.

"Maybe I was just thinking of the people out there,” he said instead, shrugging. “In the storm, I mean. There must be some. I just hope they find shelter somewhere."

"Right,” she said. “As I was saying.  Regret ."

A sudden flash lit up her profile, obscuring her deeper lines and drawing shadows on her grey-pale face, making her a sight of horror tales. Jaskier took a sharp breath in, refusing to acknowledge a startle, and shook his head as he looked away.

“I’ll tell you what I tell the children,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “It’s just a storm, dear. It’s wind and rain and hail and clouds, nothing we’ve never seen before.”

“And thunder.”

“What?”

“You forgot the thunder.”

Marga huffed, her fingers clenching around his arm.

"I'll tell you what thunder is. Once in a while, hot wind comes up from the south and cold wind descends from the north. And when they meet-" Thunder clapped and a voice at the back of Jaskier’s head envied the perfection of Marga’s timing. "-a thunderstorm happens! The winds start going insane, light shatters through the sky and that noise booms through the continent!” Her tone softened. “But that's all there is, dear. Lights and noises. A performer like you should know. It's just a big show. You wait long enough and it dies down."

Jaskier sniffed and nodded.

“And then it’s water under the bridge, uh?”

“Quite literally, yes,” she said.

“And what if- what if it isn’t?” A wave of anger washed over him. “What if it floods and- and- what if the thunder hits a forest and everything catches fire? What if homes get destroyed and roads disappear and friendships of twenty years get broken, what happens then?” he stammered.

Marga waited a moment before she answered. The wind caught one of her white curls and made it dance against her cheek.

“Everything can be fixed, dear. And everything worth fixing should be.”

Jaskier sighed and closed his eyes against the mist. His eyes returned to the horizon, the dark blurry line of the coast barely visible through the night. Steady, the rain kept going.

“Maybe I’ll leave in a few days. Once the roads are clear.”

Marga hummed. “Get back inside before you catch death, will you?” she said and disappeared through the doorway.

Jaskier watched her leave and fought a shiver.

A flash of light appeared again and he counted.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

The storm was moving away.

Maybe he’d leave in a few days, once the roads were clear.

Or maybe a bit before that. His boots had walked some muddy paths, they could go through some more.

-

Tagging a bunch of peeps for a lil boost, let me know if you want to be on / off the list :)

@oxbridge-quality-fanfiction-co @lovelyrita1967 @teresa-of-ficwill @whispered-story @fangirleaconmigo @myidlehand @alllthequeenshorses

[skai6]

It is uncanny to fall in love at the flicker of a gaze when they tell you it is lust, not love. Though you had your fair share of the two.

It is strange to be told witchers are monsters, when each time you catch his stare, it shines, and the tenderness of the world is reflected back at you.

It is futile to express yourself in riddles, when romance is as simple as the bumping of shoulders as you pass each other by.

The grazing of fingers. The curve of a smile. The lowering of a gaze.

The crimson of lips you wish you could try.

It is bitter to condemn yourself to thoughts of love unrequited, when yours are words that had never seen the day.

And it is bittersweet to walk away.

Though I wish I could stay, Geralt.

I wish I could —

(The rest has been smudged by tear stains)

[vaire-gwir]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Additional Tags: Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Heartbroken Jaskier | Dandelion Summary:

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

  Geralt is going to Oxenfurt for a contract, he stops by an inn when he recognizes a certain song. His first meeting with a still heart-broken Jaskier doesn't go as planned.

[corancoranthemagicalman]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Title: Lay Not Your Lips To Ease His Roar

Author: CBlue | corancoranthemagicalman

Media: Netflix Witcher

Word Count: 4,241

Rating: T+

Warnings: None

Day: 4 Hurt/Comfort

This was supposed to be posted a week ago (aBOUT A WEEK AGOO) but family and drama and life I suppose. Either way, super late finishing the prompting of @geraskierweek but I’m gonna finish the prompt days (slowly but surely). Maybe next year I can do them on time :, )

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Love (I Can’t Forget)

Pairing: geralt x jaskier Warning(s): minor jaskier x other Rating: mature

Summary: Jaskier is quite enjoying his morning with the innkeeper's daughter when he hears the cry of a golem. He knows a contract has been put out for a Witcher and that everything should be perfectly fine. Only the contract put out was for a rock troll.

There are few things in his life that Jaskier regrets as much as his extensive knowledge of all things monsters. And not even the majority of the time, just right now on this particular day at this particular time.

He's been stuck in Hamm for three days on his way to Cintra to check in on Ciri. But there's a rock troll that's been blocking the only safe route out, chucking rocks at travellers and being a general nuisance. Rock trolls aren't much trouble otherwise, but this one is affecting trade and travel, so the town has put out for a Witcher. Judging by the chatter in town, the witcher arrived this morning. So, unable to leave and unwilling to go out and get involved with the Witcher and his business like everyone else, Jaskier has holed up with the innkeeper's daughter Penelope and he's quite enjoying himself.

Or, he was, until he heard the cry.

Because right now, he's quite happily trapped beneath layers of lace and silk, pinned between soft thighs, and all he can think of is that the contract was put out for a rock troll and that sound? that was a golem. Which means that right now, there's a Witcher thinking he's going up again a calm and peaceful creature and is very much not prepared for what he's about to find. And Jaskier is torn.

Because on the one hand, he doesn't want anyone getting hurt, especially due to miscommunication - intentional or otherwise. But on the other hand, the likelihood of Geralt being the Witcher called to deal with the problem is very high. And Jaskier doesn't want to see him.

It's been months now, close to a year since he last saw Geralt, having received no apology or even acknowledgement since the dragon hunt. Which is fine; Geralt's an asshole and he can travel alone if he likes, but if that's the way it's going to be, Jaskier simply does not want to see him. Ever again, if he can help it. But he also doesn't want to see him die.

"Fuck," he mumbles and Penelope giggles as he drops his head, hair tickling her thighs.

"Mmhm, I hope so."

Jaskier crawls out from under her skirts, running his hands up her thighs and doing his best to look apologetic. Because he is; he'd rather spend the entire afternoon making her come than face Geralt for even a second, but he can't sit idly by when the man he, regrettably, still loves could be in danger.

"I have to go," he says softly and she frowns. "I'm sorry and believe me, I would much rather stay here with you, but an old friend is in danger, I can't leave him alone."

"The Witcher?" she asks and Jaskier nods. She must have heard the cry too. "Isn't it his job to fight monsters?"

"Yes, when he's given the correct information, but that's not a rock troll out there." Penelope sighs but pushes her skirts back into place, tidying them.

"You'd better go find him then."

Jaskier dips down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips before gathering his things quickly and hurrying off to find the Witcher. He prays under his breath that it isn't Geralt, but even as he does, he finds himself looking for traces of the man. He knows Geralt's habits, knows where he'll set up camp - the people here aren't friendly enough to welcome a Witcher into their homes or even host him at the inn - and so Jaskier heads for the woods.

It takes him a remarkably short time to come across the meagre camp. Roach is tethered to a tree just a few feet from the fire pit and Jaskier's heart aches to see her. She dances excitedly and he swallows back a lump in his throat.

"Hey, girl," he whispers. "I've missed you too, but I can't stay, okay? Geralt could be in trouble." He gives her a quick pat, regretting that this will likely be their only chance to see one another.

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt's pack, rummaging through it. He finds the satchel of oils first, pulling them out until he recognizes the bluish hue of elemental oil. He sets it aside and continues looking for potions. Immediately, he finds swallow and thunderbolt sitting neatly in their sheaths and his heart clenches. He grabs them both and a third vial he hopes is white rafford's and tucks them all into his pockets, turning to hurry in the direction of the fight.

It's not hard to find them. The golem is loud and Jaskier follows the sound of its roars until he almost stumbles over a log in his urgency to get to him. Geralt rolls in his direction, dodging a blow from the beast, and when he sees Jaskier, his expression sours.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier?"

Jaskier stiffens, immediately defensive. He has to bite his tongue as he crouches down next to Geralt, still keeping one eye on the golem. It seems to have lost its target for now, but Jaskier knows that won't last long.

"Rude," he retorts, "considering I'm here to rescue you." He empties his pockets, listing off the supplies as he pushes them into Geralt's hands. "I thought you might need the assistance since a golem is a lot harder to talk down than a rock troll."

He's seething now, all the anger and hurt of the last year bubbling to the surface and it takes everything in him not to cry in front of Geralt. He's always been an angry crier and he hates it. But Geralt's head jerks up and a little bit of pride peeks through the anger. Because he does know what he's doing. He pointedly ignores it, eyeing a scrape on the side of Geralt's face that will need tending to later.

"Take the thunderbolt now," he says, "don't risk going at it again without it."

Geralt scoffs but he makes no attempt to take control of the situation, letting Jaskier continue. Jaskier focuses on the golem; there's no way Geralt can get the jump on it from here, so he'll have to distract it once he's ready.

"Oil your blade," he says and Geralt eyes him suspiciously, but he's already got the rag in hand.

Once he's finished, he keeps his eyes on Jaskier, no longer waiting for a command, but skeptical of what comes next. Jaskier knows he's realized something is up or else he would have just gone after the golem again, but he's waiting, he's letting Jaskier help.

"You're not going to like this," Jaskier says, rising to his feet, "but know that I'm only doing it for you."

He darts away through the trees and he can hear Geralt yelling after him, but it's too late. He ignores him, pushing on until he hears the golem turn its attention on him. This is closely followed by an angry fuck and Jaskier knows his plan is working.

Geralt still isn't at full strength, but with a distraction, he shouldn't have trouble taking the golem down. He just needs to keep it away from him without being killed until he has the chance. It's only then, that he realizes he didn't think his plan through all the way; once again, he was too concerned about Geralt's safety to consider his own and that's proved ill for him in the past.

He trips over a root - a root! - and fumbles backward to keep out of the way, but he's expecting this to be the end. He shuts his eyes and braces himself, but just as he can feel the golem's breath on his skin, it lets out a cry and whips around to turn its anger on Geralt.

Jaskier cracks an eye open to see it swinging at Geralt, now caught up and wielding his silver sword. Jaskier sighs in relief and scrambles to get up, ensuring he hasn't lost any of the supplies he brought with him. He doesn't stick around to watch the fight, heart still hammering in his chest, instead finding himself a safe spot to look out for Geralt until he takes the golem down.

And he does, shortly now that he has the right supplies, dodging its blow and pirouetting around behind it to deal a deadly blow. The golem collapses, shaking the ground beneath it and Jaskier holds his breath as he waits for Geralt to emerge from the pile of rubble.

But he doesn't and Jaskier can stand the wait any longer so he rushes out to him. Geralt's eyes are open when he reaches him, but his eyelids droop and his breath comes in hot heavy puffs. Jaskier drops down next to him, careless of the mud and blood that soaks into his trousers.

"'M fine," Geralt mumbles, but he doesn't sit up or make any attempt to move and in Jaskier's opinion, that's not fine.

He hauls Geralt up into his arms, propping him up against his chest and pulls out the remainder of the potions he brought with him. Geralt scowls and bats his hand away.

"I didn't come all the way out here to watch you die," Jaskier tuts, "I was having a very nice morning and I'd appreciate it if I wasn't interrupted for no reason. Take the potion."

Geralt rolls his eyes like a petulant child and takes the vial from Jaskier's hand, downing it like a shot of liquor.

"See," he says, "fine." Jaskier wants to smack him.

"Get up."

It's a struggle to get Geralt to his feet and Jaskier suspects his physical injuries are worse than the exhaustion, a prospect that has his heart racing, much to his chagrin. Geralt shouldn't mean anything to him anymore and yet he can't keep himself from feeling sick at the thought of anything happening to him.

Geralt uses him for support, leaning on Jaskier's shoulders as they make their way slowly back to the camp. Geralt complains about getting the necessary proof that he killed the golem and Jaskier does his very best not to call him a fucking idiot about it. He promises, with as little irritation as he can manage, that he can return for it in the morning.

He sits Geralt next to the fire and as he crosses back to Geralt's bag to collect spare linen and salve, Roach nibbles at Geralt's hair, nudging him with her nose. Jaskier smiles softly at her worry, he can understand it well; Geralt all but left him for dead, and here he is pulling him out of danger and bandaging his wounds like nothing has changed.

When he returns to him, Geralt has two of the clasps on his armour undone, but he can't reach the third and he's frowning at it. Jaskier sets the linen down with the rest of his supplies and sighs softly.

"Let me."

Geralt remains silent as Jaskier unstraps his armour and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's bruised mostly, but there are a few fresh wounds including one that spans nearly his entire stomach. There are a few scars he doesn't recognize, too, and Jaskier doesn't want to think about what caused those.

He cleans his wounds first, then wipes down the rest of his torso, relieved to find most of the gunk on him is not actually blood.

Once he's finished his work, he leaves Geralt to get dressed and gathers more wood for the fire. He lights it with bits of flint from Geralt's pack and while the smaller branches begin to crackle, Jaskier sets about finding something for them to eat. He's never been very good at hunting - that was always Geralt's job when they travelled together - but he knows his plants and with what he still has in his pack, he fixes something up for them. Not that he feels much like eating.

It's not until Jaskier is about to leave that Geralt finally speaks. Jaskier is just on the edge of sleep, exhausted from worry and the effort it takes to be so close to Geralt right now and he very nearly misses it.

"Why did you do that?"

"What part?" Jaskier asks.

"Risk your life. For me."

"I had to. I couldn't just let you die because someone was too stupid to know the difference between a rock troll and a golem."

"I'm impressed that you knew."

Jaskier's stomach does a little flip-flop and he curses himself for being so weak. "I learned from the best," he quips. "But you should sleep. I'll come back to check on you in the morning."

There's a long silence as he gathers his things and then, "Stay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier's heart clenches.

He wants to. Gods, he wants to. To lie down next to him and look up at the stars like he always has and to fall asleep to the crackling of the fire and the faint sounds of Geralt breathing next to him. But he shouldn't. That part of his life is behind him now and Geralt made it very clear that he doesn't want him around. This was just a means to an end; he couldn't with any good conscience, let a Witcher die on bad information. Even if that Witcher is the same one who broke his heart on a mountaintop so many months ago.

"I miss listening to you sing while I rest," he says and Jaskier's legs shake under him.

"You.. do?"

"Mm, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone."

Jaskier stands still, unable to think through the rush of blood in his ears. He was angry and hurt and spiteful for a long time, but maybe it's time to let go of all that.

"Alright," he breathes.

He tries to remain calm as he can because he knows Geralt can tell when he's not. He can hear the sound of Jaskier's traitor heart and the way his breath comes just a little too fast. And he'll know what it means, the insufferable git. But in the end, it doesn't matter because Jaskier will always choose him over anyone.

He lays down in the dirt, folding his arms back to rest his head on - he's already covered in muck and Geralt's blood, what's a little more dirt? - and he sings. It's not an active choice, but he sings a love song. It's a lovely little tune, not one of his own, but one he's always been fond of, and as he sings, he closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the fire wash over him, remembering the nights when this was a common occurrence. Geralt is quiet, apparently genuine in his desire to hear him sing and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that.

When he finishes, he thinks Geralt is asleep and he settles as well as he can against the rocky ground. He's tired enough that he could fall asleep anywhere, but then Geralt goes and opens his mouth again

"I looked for you," he says, "at first." Jaskier doesn't know how to respond, but Geralt doesn't seem to want a reply and he continues. "I knew what I said was wrong and I knew I'd hurt you so I tried to find you. You must have made it down the mountain before me. I was angry about what happened with Yen, I didn't mean it."

"I know," Jaskier whispers and he does. He realized a long time ago that he was not the intended target of Geralt's rage, but it didn't help to heal the wounds and it didn't bring him back. He's not sure what else to say and his heart beats too fast.

"Come here," Geralt says softly, shifting slightly to make space for him under the blanket.

Jaskier moves to lie next to him and Geralt pulls him close, wrapping an arm around him. Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt's shoulder, burying his face so Geralt can't see the emotion it betrays. He smells off, tangy, like blood and it makes Jaskier's chest tight.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"I'll be fine."

It's not a good answer, but Geralt tips his head down, burying his nose in Jaskier's hair and it's good enough. Jaskier presses closer, allowing himself this small bit of comfort.

In the morning, he wakes with Geralt's cloak over him, but Geralt himself is gone. As he rises to his feet, Jaskier realizes that Roach is still there, grazing happily at the edge of their camp and that means Geralt couldn't have gone far. He doesn't know how welcome his company will be, so he waits for Geralt to come back, but when he doesn't Jaskier starts to worry and he goes after him. It doesn't take long to find him.

Geralt is sitting on the edge of the forest, looking out over the town though they're far enough away that no one looking would notice them. Jaskier drapes his cloak around his shoulder and sits down, just slightly behind him.

"I thought about you," Geralt admits, "just before you showed up."

"Oh."

"I didn't think I'd see you again. I didn't want to die knowing you hated me."

"I don't," Jaskier says a little too quickly, "hate you. I can't, I tried. I was angry at you for a very long time and I was hurt for even longer, but I could never hate you." I love you too much for that.

"I have a... habit of saying things to you that I regret. Twice now I've nearly lost you for good and our last words would have been unpleasant."

"Twice?" Jaskier asks.

"Mm. The djinn."

"Right." Jaskier doesn't remember much about the djinn incident - it was fairly traumatic for him - but he does remember Geralt wishing for peace and quiet and saying some awful things about his singing voice. He mentions it, a little of the bitterness bleeding through.

"I didn't mean that either," Geralt swallows, "you have a beautiful voice." That voice fails him now as his stomach twists into a knot.

"Why now?" he asks because that's all that will come out.

"I miss you. I miss your company and seeing you again," he sighs like it's the most difficult thing he's ever had to say. Jaskier forgives him for that because this is already more than Geralt has said to him in a long time. "It makes me realize I was wrong before." He pauses again and Jaskier waits, nearly breathless. "I didn't actually expect you to leave."

"Then what did you expect?" he snaps, "Geralt I've put up with so much of your shit and I've stuck by you despite it. But you told me you didn't want me, that I was a nuisance, that I-" he turns and Geralt is right there. His words stick on his tongue and his throat goes dry.

"You're not a nuisance," he says and Jaskier nods dumbly. He looks at him and he can see how hard this is for Geralt to even get out this much and it's better than he was expecting. Anything else they can work out later if Geralt was genuine about wanting him around. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak to offer a compromise, but Geralt interrupts him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says, "I didn't want to, I wasn't thinking."

"Geralt-"

"You're important to me, Jaskier. And you saved my life yesterday," his lips quirk just so and Jaskier stares for a moment, trying to figure out if he's really seeing this.

"You never were very good at taking care of yourself," Jaskier shrugs. "You should have someone to look after you. Someone who knows something about these monsters you hunt."

Geralt huffs a soft laugh but says nothing, meeting Jaskier's eyes and holding his gaze. He tips his head to one side and Jaskier can feel the breath catch in his throat because Geralt is so close and it's been so long. He doesn't move, afraid to disturb the peace between them, but Geralt leans in, closing the space between them and cupping Jaskier's face in his palm. Their noses bump together, then Geralt's lips brush against his own so faintly he thinks he imagined it. But when he doesn't pull away, Geralt kisses him properly, leaning into it. Jaskier lets himself be drawn forward, lost in the press of Geralt's lips against his own. He hums softly as an arm winds around his waist, bringing him closer, and when Geralt breaks the kiss, he presses their forehead together.

"I know it's not fair," he breathes, "to ask you to come back after the things I said to you, but I want to make amends. Tell me how to fix this."

"Come back to the inn with me," Jaskier breathes, "I'll talk to the innkeeper, get you a room - or you could stay with me?" he's still a little hesitant, but this is Geralt. "We can talk about what comes next after a bath and some supper."

"Will you join me?"

"In the bath?" Jaskier stutters and he can see the flush that creeps across Geralt's cheeks.

"I didn't mean -" he starts, before glancing down at Jaskier's muddy trousers. "But if you want-?" Jaskier barely remembers to breathe, but he settles himself.

"Supper first," he says, "then we'll see about a bath." Jaskier smiles at him and Geralt smiles back, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself looking forward to whatever comes after.