I've seen fics where people try to woo Jaskier, and the bard is very polite about it.
Where are my fics where Jaskier, seeing that this person just wants to use him, is a *nightmare*?
Flowers? Fed to a goat. Romantic boat ride? Shoves love interest over the edge. Gods forbid anyone tries to use music or poetry to woo Jaskier. He channels his inner Professor Pankratz and RIPS them apart.
Geralt is jealous, but he's also kind of impressed with the endurance of the courters.
Geralt had been very jealous of the man at first. Until Jaskier had maced him in front of a large crowd while screaming "Mad pervert!"
Geralt wasn't so jealous of him after that.
He had been trailing Jaskier for weeks now, trying his best to "woo" him. Geralt knew better. He could smell the lust and see the lack of affection in his eyes.
Overhearing him brag about wanting to pump and dump the bard also helped.
And Geralt was... Admittedly a little surprised that Jaskier believed him so readily when Geralt told him. But he knew he shouldn't have been. After all these years together, why wouldn't Jaskier trust Geralt? Especially with something as important as a potential lover.
Jaskier had poured salt into his drink, stepped on his toes, tripped him into a river, shoved him out of a moving carriage, threw his poetry into a fire in front of him, slapped his hands away, and regifted a bouquet of flowers to an entirely different random person on the street.
And yet still he man remained. Just for the chance of fucking Jaskier?
Geralt hates that he kinda gets it.
tw: Geralt’s canon-typic self-loathing, misunderstandings with a happy ending
---
“I don’t want to meet him,” Geralt hears the stranger yelling. His words echo down the long hallway that separates the royal family’s private living chambers from the rest of the Southern palace. Geralt’s fanlike fins are trembling with nerves and he tries with all his might to make them to stop; the young Prince of the Northern Sea doesn’t want to appear cowardly before his betrothed, whose tone seems imperious even from such a distance.
The voice grows louder as the speaker comes closer and Geralt feels the ripples of two approaching figures as they flow through the water to batter gently against his skin. People here in the Southern Kingdom have different movement patterns than his own people and Geralt focuses on that singular detail as he hears the voice continue: “What if I simply refuse to accept the marriage contract and leave before the wedding vows are spoken? It’s not like Papa can make me go through with it if I really don’t want to.”
He must have heard the rumors, Geralt frowns, his head lowering of its own accord until he’s staring at the ground, his arms crossing self-consciously over the front of his chest. He knows about my hair and the strangeness of my eyes. He’s heard that I’m cursed, that I’m the bastard son of the King and Sycorax the sea witch. He’s heard about my strange scar and my impulsivity. He’s probably already terrified of m-
Geralt’s self-effacing thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a sharp inhalation. The Prince of the Northern Sea flinches at the shocked gasp, his tail wriggling uselessly in a vain attempt to distract from his shamefully pink face. The voice from before speaks again, but this time it chimes sweetly, sounding more like song than conversation. “Nobody told me that my husband-to-be was so lovely.”
Geralt’s blush only grows darker and he wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him, fins and all. He can’t bear to glance up at his betrothed now. He doesn’t want to see the mocking look the Southern Prince is no doubt wearing. He wants to raise his hands and cover his ears, sure that the next words from his future husband’s mouth will be sarcastic remarks about his appearance.
“Are you mute, dear heart? If you are mute, or if you choose to be mute, I can learn to speak with my hands as I have seen others do. If you are simply overwhelmed, nod once, and I shall cease speaking immediately.”
Geralt nods gratefully and allows his eyes to flicker up a bit, taking in the gorgeous, deep royal-blue of his betrothed’s long and heavy tail. It curls in the water around them, shimmering and nearly iridescent in the filtered, wavy light of the midday sun. His fins are sharper than Geralt’s, pointed at the tips and only half a shade lighter than his scales. It’s lovely, and the Northern Prince wonders if his own tail, a deep green that verges on metallic, is pleasing to his betrothed’s eyes. His fins are fanned like those of betta fish and their contrast is markedly fascinating.
The attendant that had been following the Southern Prince down the hall disappears in a flash, no doubt to summon the kings, leaving the two young mer-royals unchaperoned.
“Are you afraid of me or something?” Geralt’s future husband finally asks, breaking the awkward silence.
Geralt shakes his head. “Just… nervous.”
“Ah, I see,” his betrothed swims closer. “Is it because of the rumors you’ve no-doubt heard about me? That I am pompous and fanciful and insincere, that I would rather sing that plot wars, that I am witty but otherwise empty-headed. Let me assure you that they are all mostly incorrect. Except for the battles one, I do prefer music to war.”
“Huh?” Geralt’s head snaps up in surprise. He finally meets the other Prince’s eyes with his own and hears another soft gasp. He flinches back, away from the pretty brunette before him, and moves to turn away. Before he can, however, the other man catches him by the arm.
“Wait! Your eyes-” the stranger pulls him close and Geralt feel his cheeks practically glowing “-They’re even lovelier than your hair, and I thought that was the most gorgeous detail I’d seen so far. Truly, dear heart… you’re gorgeous. How did I get so lucky?”
“Don’t tease me!” Geralt cries, pulling harshly against the grip on his arm. “Please! I can’t take it!”
“No! I’m not teasing! I’m being quite serious, uh…” the Southern Prince releases Geralt’s arm and tangles his hands together anxiously in front of his abdomen. “I don’t even know your name; no wonder you think I’m being insincere. I’m Jaskier, Crown Prince of the Southern Ocean Kingdom. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m, uhm… I’m Geralt. Second Crown Prince of the Northern Kingdom,” he bows shallowly. “It’s very nice to meet you… Jaskier.”
“I like the way it sounds when you say my name,” Jaskier grins, closing the distance between them again, this time on friendlier terms. “It sounds like a caress.”
Geralt’s cheeks must be on fire. Oh, how they burn.
“You’re sweet when you blush. Your face almost matches the color of your Father’s tail.”
“You’ve met my Father?”
“Only once, and very briefly. I saw him passing the library on his way to make our marriage arrangements.”
“Oh,” Geralt was smiling a little bit now, “Well it is nice to meet you. And you are very pretty, Jaskier.”
“Would you like to get to know each other better?” Jaskier asks. He sounds incredibly earnest and Geralt raises a curious eyebrow.
“Did you mean those things you said about my hair and my eyes?”
“Every word.”
“I don’t think you’re pompous or insincere, Jaskier. And I’d love to get to know you better. First and foremost, I must know if we are to be married, what’s your favorite book?”
“Oh, my dearest future husband,” Jaskier winds his arm through Geralt’s, grinning brightly. The way the word husband rolls so easily from his tongue sends the Northern Prince’s heart racing. “We are going to get along swimmingly.”
A treat inspired by a discussion in the BLiKM server— I don’t usually write Veskier, but we were talking about the boys fighting for Jaskier’s love by giving him things in the hopes that they’ll be chosen, and my brain wandered to “I wonder how Vesemir is involved.”
Jaskier’s a bit older here, maybe in his mid-late thirties, so Vesemir isn’t completely out of his league. Sure, Witcher aging and stuff but, just as an added note.
—
Jaskier has always shown affection with giving gifts, a form of affection he responds best to when given to him. He would pick up many trinkets on the path for Geralt, or his family and friends back home. So when he comes to Kaer Morhen, and each of the younger wolves start offering him gifts, he’s not going to turn any of them down.
Eskel must have worked so hard to make their picnic right, it’s okay that it’s below freezing outside where he wants to sit— Geralt usually listens to Jaskier ramble about his music, a little help with composition in the form of poems is just a nice added touch, and while the odd special treatment from Lambert is strange, Jaskier holds suspicions that he’s done something that will upset him, and it's his way of making up for it.
And yet, the wolves still looked so dejected when he met with them in the evenings for meal time. Where was the spark of enthusiasm they each had while spending time together before?
It shouldn’t have taken Jaskier as long as it had to figure it out, but once he does, he’s even more lost.
“Vesemir,” he says one night, finding the old wolf in the library. He’s alone with a book, which Jaskier knows is how he prefers to spend his evenings, sipping a glass of what appears to be a lovely amber brandy. “The boys are fighting.”
“Over what?” Vesemir grumbled. Jaskier must have caught him in a good mood, if the calm body language he projected was any indication. Vesemir seemed to be having a fairly steady amount of good moods as of late. “The last scrap of deer?”
“Er, no,” Jaskier said. “I think they’re… competing for my affection.”
“Are they now,” Vesemir replied, sounding interested. He closed his book and set it aside, giving Jaskier his full attention. “Does it bother you? Come sit. Have a drink.”
Jaskier sighed and settled in the chair across from Vesemir gratefully. “It doesn’t bother me, if you mean the attention. I. Like men.”
“I suspected.”
The sudden confession makes Jaskier feel awkward, and he shifts his position, subtly clearing his throat. He’s pleased to have something to do with his hands when Vesemir passes him a glass with brandy in it, and once he’s taken a sip, he goes on. “Their affection doesn’t bother me. But the way they’re going about it seems… barbaric. I’m a noble, but I’m not some princess in need of wooing. And I can take more than one partner.”
“I pulled elven poetry from the shelf tonight, if you’d like to read,” Vesemir cut in, passing a book into Jaskier’s hands.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Jaskier said. “See this, this quiet setting with good conversation? That’s all I need from a courting gift. Just simple respect with some nice company. Ah, and,” Jaskier pauses to sip his drink. “The brandy helps.”
“Brandy always helps,” Vesemir rumbles in agreement. “I can attempt to talk some sense into them, if you want me to.”
“Well… Just don’t make it obvious?” Jaskier requests, placing his hand on Vesemir’s arm lightly. “I don’t want to make them upset.”
Vesemir touched Jaskier’s hand to reassure him. “Gentle as a mouse, little lark.” Satisfied, Jaskier relaxed in his chair. Vesemir downed the rest of his drink and stretched, long and luxurious. “If you’d like to, perhaps…” he scratched his chin, looking mildly anxious. “I could get your mind off of them, and onto things more… pleasant?”
Jaskier recognized a proposition when he heard one and... it would be nice to think about something else. Besides that, the old wolf was fascinating, and had a certain charm to him. “Well, if you’re offering,” Jaskier said, swirling the brandy in his cup. “Wouldn’t want to wear out your old bones though.”
“Cheek,” Vesemir huffed a laugh. “These old bones have life left in them, lark. And a clever dog has to have their tricks.”
Jaskier laughed pleasantly, finishing his drink and cradling the book of elven poetry to his chest. “I’ll leave myself in your surely capable hands, then.”
“Capable,” Vesemir grumbled as he stood, “I ought to knock that sass out of you.”
Jaskier sprang to his feet and sidled neatly against his side, pleased when Vesemir’s arm curled around his waist. “I’d love to see you try.”
—
I hope you liked it! Sassy Jaskier and indulging Vesemir are a fun pair. Also, Vesemir definitely tries to keep the fighting going— he probably started it in the first place, just to distract the boys from his own, much more successful attempt to sweep Jaskier off his feet. Hence his good mood.
Ohhhh for that prompt list you just reblogged... could you do either 82 (about valdo lol) or 88 (with as much angst as possible?) I absolutely love your writing!!! You’re too good to us!!
88) One of them stumbling to the other’s front door after getting hurt/beaten up etc.
Oh baby we’re in that hurt/comfort zone tonight
tw: injuries, joke about dismembering
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Geralt answers the knock on his door and jumps back in surprise when Jaskier falls into his apartment, clearly not steady enough to stand on his own. There’s a large purple bruise forming on his left cheekbone and his shirt is ripped to fuck. Geralt can see blood in a few odd spots and begins to take inventory of his boyfriend’s battered torso and face.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Geralt slides one of Jaskier’s arms over his shoulders to use as support and guides him from the entryway to the small bathroom of his one-bedroom apartment.
“I was following up,” Jaskier explains as his boyfriend begins to tend his wounds. “I didn’t think I’d get close enough for anyone to see me.”
“That drug bust?”
“Yeah.”
“You have to be more careful. Fisstech dealers on that side of town can be merciless,” Geralt chastises. “Please take someone else with you next time. I don’t want the next knock on my door to be from the police, letting me know they found part of your dismembered corpse in a trash can.”
“I talked my way out of it, I’m fine,” the journalist pouts. “Anyway, you’re no help. You just stand at a distance and use the zoom function on your camera to get the good, juicy shots. I have to be close enough to hear and record.”
“You’re an idiot,” Geralt sighs, putting away the first aid kit when he’s finished. “Now let’s get you into some pajamas, feed you some cereal, and put you to bed. It’s nearly two in the morning.”
“Fuck, I have to teach a class tomorrow.”
“You aren’t going anywhere tomorrow,” the older man glares. “You’re going to sit on that couch with your boyfriend and watch an entire season of Gilmore Girls while we get stoned and eat popcorn.”
“I demand that we also order a pizza.”
“I was going to suggest some Temerian takeout from that new place down the block.”
“You’re a fucking genius,” Jaskier decides, giving his nurse a kiss on the forehead. “Now, I believe you mentioned cereal?”
